Well, it happens, eventually. A couple of months ago I would have said I could write, had two novels under my belt etc.
Today I would say I have a completely hopeless first novel and a draft of a second novel that needs a significant re-write that I wonder if I am capable of.
There are reasons for this change of heart, firstly the fact that I haven't been able to write for weeks. Secondly the fact that another two agents have turned me down, perfectly nicely "considered carefully" "just not quite right for our list" - but rejected none the less.
Thirdly, and rather annoyingly, I have had feedback from the wife of a member of the SoA group - he described her as an editor - but I think "proof reader" might be more correct. I felt unsure whether I should impose on her, it was her husband who suggested it, her workload is clearly heavy - and his adding to it can't have been encouraging. "Well-written and interesting" - but then she said a number of things which indicated she hadn't read it properly and suggested it would work better as a short story ("What?"). However, receiving this critique the day after the exhaustion and stress of the Summer Squall was a bit of a coup de grace to my self-esteem. I suppose I was nurturing a fantasy that she would say "how interesting - one of the editors I work with would rather like this - may I show it to her?" I did know that was a fantasy.
Somehow, from these not very major setbacks I have extracted all the discouragement possible, I feel that I will never be published and I might as well give up now. I feel intensely sorry for myself. I also feel vaguely humiliated. I have been writing for a long time - and no sign of anything really. Interest from an intelligent agent seems to have been a blip... The humiliation is because I have been so confident for so long. Why didn't I just shut up about it? Do it quietly? - but I had to justify my existence. What was I doing? Why wasn't I working or cleaning the house or bringing my children up properly? So the writing needed to be mentioned, to explain why I wasn't doing all these other things, why we were so poor - with only half an income coming in, etc.
In the last few months I've been gradually becoming more depressed - and the idea of giving up writing has been nudging me... I won't stop writing any more than I will stop breathing - just stop hoping to get published, just stop hoping eventually I will make a successful submission... I don't know. I will not self-publish, but if I don't have the discipline of submitting then I might lose the necessary rigour to improve my work. God, I feel sorry for myself! Hope I've snapped out of it by Friday.
Today I would say I have a completely hopeless first novel and a draft of a second novel that needs a significant re-write that I wonder if I am capable of.
There are reasons for this change of heart, firstly the fact that I haven't been able to write for weeks. Secondly the fact that another two agents have turned me down, perfectly nicely "considered carefully" "just not quite right for our list" - but rejected none the less.
Thirdly, and rather annoyingly, I have had feedback from the wife of a member of the SoA group - he described her as an editor - but I think "proof reader" might be more correct. I felt unsure whether I should impose on her, it was her husband who suggested it, her workload is clearly heavy - and his adding to it can't have been encouraging. "Well-written and interesting" - but then she said a number of things which indicated she hadn't read it properly and suggested it would work better as a short story ("What?"). However, receiving this critique the day after the exhaustion and stress of the Summer Squall was a bit of a coup de grace to my self-esteem. I suppose I was nurturing a fantasy that she would say "how interesting - one of the editors I work with would rather like this - may I show it to her?" I did know that was a fantasy.
Somehow, from these not very major setbacks I have extracted all the discouragement possible, I feel that I will never be published and I might as well give up now. I feel intensely sorry for myself. I also feel vaguely humiliated. I have been writing for a long time - and no sign of anything really. Interest from an intelligent agent seems to have been a blip... The humiliation is because I have been so confident for so long. Why didn't I just shut up about it? Do it quietly? - but I had to justify my existence. What was I doing? Why wasn't I working or cleaning the house or bringing my children up properly? So the writing needed to be mentioned, to explain why I wasn't doing all these other things, why we were so poor - with only half an income coming in, etc.
In the last few months I've been gradually becoming more depressed - and the idea of giving up writing has been nudging me... I won't stop writing any more than I will stop breathing - just stop hoping to get published, just stop hoping eventually I will make a successful submission... I don't know. I will not self-publish, but if I don't have the discipline of submitting then I might lose the necessary rigour to improve my work. God, I feel sorry for myself! Hope I've snapped out of it by Friday.
