I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately as it
pertains to my writing. I sit in a place where I have years invested in a
novel, the first of a series and a good draft of the second book. But my agent
has had ‘the talk’ with me. The market, as it stands, isn’t ripe for my book or
for me, as a debut author. My genre, urban fantasy, is ‘mature’ and,
apparently, the big houses aren’t really interested in investing in new talent.
They’d rather bet on the sure thing, the established author with eight books
out in a series that’s doing well. That’s solid business advice. I’m a business
person, and I’d take that bet over a start up any day of the week.
But I’ve invested, too. Invested years in this book. Not just writing and revising, but investing
myself in the idea of being a ‘published author by a major house’. Coming from
a girl with no contacts and a barely-there manuscript in 2011 to gigantic leaps
in the direction of publication. Landed a great agent. Made revision upon revision, some for
the agent, some for editors. Had promising emails from editors at the major
houses indicating they’re taking the book to their team. Only to be shot down
time after time. Except this time,
the shot appears to be fatal. It’s done. The only chance is a hail-Mary
resurrection when (if?) the market turns more in my favor. That could take
years more.
The fatal shot rang out in late January. It echoed through
my universe and it burned, stung and nearly bled me dry of words. I didn’t want
to write. It was the last thing I wanted to do. And that hurt. Writing is a solace to me. It’s one thing that gives me
more joy, causes my soul to stir in ways nearly nothing else does. So not only
had I lost the investment of the idea of a traditional publishing career, I’d
lost the joy of writing.
Talk about your gut-wrenching one-two punches.
Some time has passed and now I find myself thinking a whole
lot about what it really is I want from this writing gig. This foray into
traditional publishing peaked open a door, and I saw what lays behind it. Most
newly minted writers believe the other side of that door holds rainbows,
unicorns and the proverbial keys to kingdom. But read enough stories of traditionally
published authors and you will see that is in no way, shape, form, color,
context or any other variable even remotely accurate. The truth is, writing is
hard. It is always hard. The challenges just flex and contort with each new
project. Got a publishing deal? Fantastic! Your sales weren’t great? Oh, well,
try and get another contract…ever. Did great on that first novel? Awesome. Now
you get to write the dreaded ‘second book’. Gee, hope that one does well, too. Or, well, you’re out on your butt. Your books
did pretty ok? Well, time to pitch the next idea. Your editor doesn’t like it.
Come up with a different one. Nah, not that one either.
And on. And on.
Don’t get me wrong. I 100% get it. As I said, I’m a business
person. I built a pretty successful dog training business from me and a truck
to a seven-figure operation. I didn’t do that by making unsound business
decisions. So I do. I get it. First and foremost, publishing is a business.
So I’ve been wondering…Is traditional publishing worth the
sacrifice? Because, let’s face it, it’s not all rainbows and unicorns on the other
side of that door…there is something profound I’m giving up by trying to please
the big publishing house gods.
What could I possibly be giving up, by pursuing the dream, you ask?
Well, right now, it feels a lot like I’m giving up my love
of writing.
Until the call came in—the one where my book was pronounced
dead on the table—I had a pretty good momentum going. I was excited and I was writing,
had just finished up my Nano project, completing a draft of the second book,
something I’d struggled with for three years (because I was focused on editing,
revising, and editing and revising the first book, trying to get it big-house
approved.) But after that call, it was amazing how my desire to do something I
loved virtually evaporated.
You see, in my mind, writing and publishing became two
halves of a whole. The joy of crafting a story became intrinsically linked to
specific people telling me that story was a good one. No… a good enough one. Good enough to pass through that
very fickle door.
You could argue ‘that’s my problem’, not being able to
separate one from the other, writing and publishing, and you’d be right. But in
my mind, writing and publishing were two sides of a coin. It had always been my
goal to be a traditionally published author. Hadn’t it?
Wait.
Hadn’t it?
The thing is, it wasn’t.
When I was first overcome with the idea and the characters,
I wasn’t thinking about publishing deals. When I feverish with plot twists,
when I was making myself chuckle at a witty one-liner, or when I typed ‘the end’
and felt overcome with accomplishment, I wasn’t thinking about who was going to
make an offer on my book.
And that’s when it hits me: I didn’t write to get published.
Not at first. I wrote because I loved it. Felt driven to do it. And somewhere
that got perverted into something else.
In fact, in the beginning, I had assumed I would
self-publish. I’d read enough to know traditional publishing was a long shot.
Tons of talent, few spaces available. But I was encouraged and pushed by a few
key individuals who were in the business and thought my stuff was good enough
to make it. Encouragement like that is heady stuff. And I thought, you know what? I’m going to try this thing.
And then I did. And then I went to conferences, learned more. And then I got an
agent. (Hey, you know what? This might actually
happen.) Then we edited. (Hey, this book is
better with her ideas.) Then we submitted. (Oh my God, editors are liking this!
Sending it to the team!)
It seemed like it would happen for a while there. It really
did. And somewhere in there I lost my compass, set to true north, the joy of
writing a compelling story.
What was the goal? It was never money. I mean, read anything out
there, and you’ll know a six-figure advance for a debut genre author who isn’t
a celebrity is a like a winning lotto ticket. That rare. Hell, the odds may be
better for Powerball, I don’t know.
When pursuing traditional publication, the goal for me, and
many aspiring authors out there, is validation. It may not be unicorns and
rainbows on the other side of that door, but it’s something just as magical. You are good. You really can write. It’s not just your sister and
her friends who were riveted by your book. Real people were! People who matter!
Editors, agents, book people!
It’s hard to underestimate the power of that validation.
I’d gotten a taste of it several times, probably like
tasting heroine, instantly addictive. When my agent loved my book. When three
different major house editors loved it. When an intern compared my book to a
best-selling favorite author of mine. Ohhh…the smell and texture and taste of
that… it’s intoxicating.
Intoxicating, yes. Root word: Toxic.
Like heroine.
I’m not saying traditionally publishing is toxic. I’m saying
the pursuit of it, to the exclusion of everything else was. For me.
Here’s the kicker: the high isn’t even real.
Through all of this, here is what I’ve learned: validation
from the outside for your work is a lost cause.
Why? Because someone is going to hate your book. And if all
that matters is that validation, you’re ultimately screwed.
There’s a reason why they tell published authors not to look
at their reviews.
I mean, these are people who made it past the unicorn-gated
doorway, their book is OUT IN THE
WORLD. They have been paid money. And still…some weirdo is going
to post a one star review and murder their book baby. Stab it repeatedly, blood
and carnage dripping off every page. Probably more than once.
That can’t be healthy.
If you’re focused on the validation of other people, even
really highly educated ones, like agents and editors and MFAs, you’re going to
crash at some point. It’s just physics. They can’t hold you up if you aren’t
willing to lift yourself of your own power.
These are things I’m exploring right now.
Is continuing to pursue traditional publishing worth the
risk of losing my love of the craft?
Would I be happy to share my stories only with loved ones
and friends?
Would being an indie author, taking on the job of cover art
and copy editing, and all that, but deciding what and when I publish be a better
option?
What’s more important to me? A publishing career or a hobby
that brings me joy?
And hey, along the way things will change. They will ebb and
flow. The tide will come in and it will slip away again.
I’ve found my answer.
It took a while to get there. But I found it.
And it didn’t come from outside of me.
