Trials I Can't Do Without

Everyone has trials, those rough patches in life that make us groan or cry or wish we had an unending supply of chocolate. For writers, many of those trials are, in a sadistic way, self-inflicted.

Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.

And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.

If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.

Which means no.

But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.

Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!

The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?

Wrong.

But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.

Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.

But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.

Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.

Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.

Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?

Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.

No matter what.