So here’s the thing. The agent who was reading my book? She didn’t want it. Yeah, I’m dying inside. Every time I say it or think it which (because I’m self-deprecating and a little bit insane) is all the time, I feel like curling up into a ball and crying. Or screaming and pounding my fists.
Or drinking a bottle of tequila with a straw.
Or all three.
Or kind of like this:
And, okay, yeah, I know that literally EVERYONE gets rejected before they have any kind of success. I know that. (I mean, if you know someone whose first attempt at artistic success wasn’t rejected, don’t fucking tell me about it. I’ll want them dead. It’s not fair, it’s not right or mature, but it’s what I’ll want.) But it doesn’t make it any harder to deal with the fact that I joined their ranks. It doesn’t make me feel any less like an absolute failure with a 12 paragraph long e-mail with all the reasons my book sucks. It doesn’t make me wonder if everyone who ever taught me was wrong or if everyone who read Mack & Moira thus far was just being nice.
Because these are real feelings. These are real fears I’m dealing with all of the time. Truly every time I open my word processor, there’s this little slacker voice where my imagination used to be that kind of yawns and looks at me like, “Really? We’re still doing this? Ugh. You’re such a glutton for punishment but…*sigh* Okay…”
I also still have 130,000 unusable words that are all chanting a chorus of:
So there’s that. Am I being overly dramatic? Yes. But just dramatic? No. I’m not. And if you think I am, I don’t care, because the sheer weight of what needs to be changed about this manuscript that I just spent three years opening my veins into is just. It’s just exhausting. And of course I’m going to do it. And of course I knew I’d have to. But that doesn’t change the fact that I still feel like crying, and that a large part of my sleepy, slacker brain is wondering if it’s going to be worth it, and all of this adds up to me feeling really, really lost.
And really sad.
And having to write a “thank you for rejecting me” email that took three drafts before I could send it.
So if you see me and ask me how the book is and I either:
a.) burst directly into tears
b.) whimper and dissolve into a sniffling heap on the ground
c.) turn and walk in the opposite direction
Just remember, it’s not you. It’s me and my broken heart.
Will I get over this? Yes. Obviously. If I can survive 2008, I can clearly survive this. Because even if I don’t actually want to keep putting myself out there to be rejected again and again and again (repeat 400x as needed until success occurs), I’ll still do it. Why? Is it because I’m adorably optimistic and hopeful? Not really.
It’s more like this:
PS: Thanks to Kat Dennings for her support and wisdom during this difficult time.