About three months and some change ago, I finished my second novel. I meant to do a post-mortem on it right away, but finishing draft five feels no different than finishing draft four or three. It’s just by draft five I’m so sick of my stupid self that I can’t take another look without wanting to gouge my own fucking eyes out.
I guess it’s also better than drafts three and four, but eh.
The last two months have been awash in sending my query package to agents along with sample pages. So far I’ve had one bite and 13 official rejections, which is a nice ratio all things considered. It’s hard to really feel positive though; the one maybe cannot outshine 13 no’s.
It’s also worth noting that about four days ago I rewrote the first paragraph again. An editor’s job is never done and an author will forever hate his books regardless of how many times he or she looks at them.
I’m pretty sure if you LIKE what you’ve written, you’re doing it wrong. Stop being so positive. It hurts me on a philosophical level.
At any rate, come Sunday I’ll get up early, fire on my PC, toss on some heavy metal, and then go through another few pages of a literary agent database and send my stuff out. Next week will be a trickle of, “go away please” whenever as I check my email when I get home from work. Rinse, lather, repeat until a year has passed.
Fun fact: This whole endeavor causes me to grind my teeth at night. I try to overcome stress with a constant stream of self doubt and loathing, but I just can’t shake the little hope I have every time I check my email when I get home. With that hope comes dread, and that usually wins.
Why the fuck do we do this, guys? Good god. It’s insane.
Failure isn’t just a possibility; it’s an inevitability. The odds of getting picked up by an agent who can then sell my fucking book are so terrible that the only thing keeping me going is blind stubbornness. Well, that and spite. There are worse reasons to do something stupid.
Because at this point, hope can fuck right off. I’m sick of that scrawny little bastard.
However, despite the above vomit of negativity, I’m feeling pretty alright. See, I’ve had this novel idea kicking around since 2012, and as of two days ago, it’s starting to yell at me again. It’s very persuasive.
Back when I had the idea, I never thought I could write a novel. I was too inexperienced and needed to cut my teeth on short stories first, which I never got around to writing because I was a lazy asshole. It wasn’t until…what, 2014? that I wrote my first book because the idea would not stop yelling at me until I tried.
Two novels later and now I know the game…well, somewhat. I know that it’s fun if I do it right and that first drafts suck. I know that it’s at its best when I give myself permission to fail.
I did not do this for my second book. That was a big mistake.
I just got done penning myself a little note in a Word document. It reads thusly:
Just so you know, future self, it’s okay if this book is complete garbage. Honestly, it will be at first. That’s how this went the last two times, remember? So please, please, please don’t stress out about that shit and just have fun. This one needs to be fun. It’ll be the biggest shame in your writing life if this isn’t fun. Enjoy. Worry about quality later.
AND DO NOT OVERTHINK EVERYTHING WHILE YOU ARE AT WORK YOU STUPID CUNT OR YOU WILL RUIN EVERYTHING LIKE LAST TIME
I mean, it isn’t poetry or even good, but it’s important. It’s the difference between me approaching this thing with my head up my ass and me approaching this thing to have a good time and maybe tell a fun story.
It’s also the difference from me stressing out about quality if things aren’t going my way. It IS okay to just stop, to scrap a bad idea that isn’t working. I’m really, really bad at that because of that aforementioned stubbornness and spite, but hey, at least I know it’s an option this go around.
I don’t know if I’ll start this next book tomorrow or not. I want to, but I’m also drowning in projects and am not sure what will need to be cut from my life to work on this. However, sooner rather than later, I’ll pledge a hundred days of writing a day until I have a shiny new turd of a first draft. I’ll then spend a year polishing said turd.
Because that’s what writing means to me!