Breaking Point
Four years ago today, I received the email that broke me. I know the agent did not intend to ruin my life, but the stress fractures had already formed after years of writing and querying and getting close but never quite landing where I wanted to be.
The email read:
You have written a solid manuscript that was a delight to read. Unfortunately, I am reluctantly going to have to pass.
I could say, possibly, that any rejection I received at that point would have been the one to break me, but this one was special in that it told me I’d done a great job… and still wasn’t wanted. I’d held up my end of the bargain by writing a solid book… but still couldn’t progress any farther.
Other agents showed interest in the manuscript, too, but eventually passed, telling me things like, “This kind of book is a hard sell right now.” (It was The Ghosts of Marshley Park, and sure enough, not long after I saw big-name authors publishing ghost books.)
I ended up self-publishing GoMP, and… in yet another tiny cut to my wellbeing, the agent who sent me that email signed the artist I’d hired to do GoMP‘s cover art. Not that I begrudge the artist, but Jaysus. I’m already on the ground, why keep sticking knives in?
After that, I never queried again until last week, when I submitted some poetry and short stories to various outlets, only to be rejected within hours on each. I thought I’d healed, but those old injuries have just started aching again.
It’s true you need thick skin to be a writer, or any kind of creator, really. But even those of us with the thickest of skin have soft spots. And with enough hacking, our armor can and does eventually fail. Four years ago today, that is what happened to me. Critical hit. And though I thought I had recovered, it turns out some injuries leave not just scars but permanent damage.