Dearest readers,

I had hoped to have an entry before conference got underway, but my daycare is closed today and conference starts tomorrow. Please check back for a conference follow-up next week.

Thanks!

Writing, as they say, is 1% inspiration, 99% sussuration? — no — usurpation? — no — constipation? … perhaps I should look it up … aw who am I kidding, I’m too lazy to look it up. Besides, the quote is probably not even about writing. It’s probably about cooking or origami or that type of genius typified by the invention and occasional theft of new and exciting technologies related to sound, light, projection, and flouroscopy. The point is … I’m too lazy to remember my point.

Still waiting on word from the publisher…. My agent tells me the editor who wants to acquire my book is getting second and third reads — a process that apparently takes infinity. In the meantime, I’ve enjoyed being reminded by friends and loyal diascribe readers (both of them) of all the many rejections other writers have received. So, in the spirit of celebrating the way the publishing industry has so often failed to embrace greatness on first read, I present the following tales of rejection.

NOTE: Instead of conducting careful research and then artfully crafting these stories into a cohesive whole, I’ve gone ahead and just cut-and-pasted willy nilly from Wikipedia. I hope this is legal. If not, please address all complaints to my attorneys, Chris Mandeville and Bill “Papa Bear” May.

#1:

“The novel was rejected by twelve publishers. It was finally accepted by the Bobbs-Merrill Company publishing house, thanks mainly to a member of the editorial board, Archibald Ogden, who praised the book in the highest terms (”If this is not the book for you, then I am not the editor for you.”) and finally prevailed.^[23] Eventually, The Fountainhead was a worldwide success, bringing Rand fame and financial security.”

#2:

“It was then rejected by nearly twenty book publishers before finally being accepted. One editor prophetically wrote back “I might be making the mistake of the decade, but…” before rejecting the manuscript. Chilton, a minor publishing house in Philadelphia known mainly for its auto-repair manuals, gave Herbert a $7,500 advance, and Dune was soon a critical success. It won the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 1965 and shared the Hugo Award in 1966. ”

#3:

“In 1995, Rowling finished her manuscript for Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone on an old manual typewriter.^[34] Upon the enthusiastic response of Bryony Evans, a reader who had been asked to review the book’s first three chapters, the Fulham-based Christopher Little Literary Agents agreed to represent Rowling in her quest for a publisher. The book was submitted to twelve publishing houses, all of which rejected the manuscript.^[29] A year later she was finally given the green light (and a £1500 advance) by editor Barry Cunningham from Bloomsbury, a small British publishing house in London, England.^[35][29] The decision to publish Rowling’s book apparently owes much to Alice Newton, the eight-year-old daughter of Bloomsbury’s chairman, who was given the first chapter to review by her father and immediately demanded the next.^[36] Although Bloomsbury agreed to publish the book, Cunningham says that he advised Rowling to get a day job, since she had little chance of making money in children’s books.^[37] Soon after, in 1997, Rowling received an £8000 grant from the Scottish Arts Council to enable her to continue writing.^[38] The following spring, an auction was held in the United States for the rights to publish the novel, and was won by Scholastic Inc., for $105,000. Rowling has said she “nearly died” when she heard the news.”

#4:

“For two years, Butcher floated his manuscript amongst various publishers before hitting the convention circuit to make contacts in the industry. After meeting Butcher in person, Ricia Mainhardt, the agent who discovered Laurell K. Hamilton, agreed to represent him, kick-starting his writing career….Six months after Butcher was signed by Mainhardt, Storm Front, the first novel in The Dresden Files, was picked up by ROC for publishing. It was released as a paperback in April of 2000.” (For those of us who attended last year’s PPWC — we know that it took several unsuccessful novels before Jim Butcher got The Dresden Files underway. What I don’t recall from his speech last year was that he was only 25 when he wrote Storm Front. Bastard.)

#5:

Okay. I’m bored and disillusioned now. While I’ve found several other rejection stories over the last five hours I’ve spent reading Wikipedia instead of working on anything productive, none are quite as compelling as those above and there are a great many famous authors who did just fine without being repeatedly rejected. Perhaps being rejected is not as sure a sign of success as…say…success. Perhaps I should consider the hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of authors who ONLY receive rejection letters. And what about those writers who get published and even get a nice advance, but then fail to sell out their advance and then fail to get another contract? Ever. Or authors who publish book after book, year after year, and yet never make enough to commit wholeheartedly to writing, instead needing to work as janitors or customs officials? Yes, what about dear Herman Melville who died penniless and ignored on my birthday in 1891 and whose obituary in the New York Times named him Henry Melville?

Which brings me back to my original point…perspiration. When good ole’ Thomas Alva Edison, or–as I like to call him: Thomas Alva Edison–made his quote about genius being largely a function of perspiration, he was probably referring to exertion-related sweat–the pure and manly kind that comes from hard work and dedication. But what about the cold, sticky, slimy wetness that comes of fear and trembling, disillusionment and disappointment. Perhaps Thomas Alva Edison should have said: genius is 1% inspiration, 90% manly perspiration and 9% flop sweat — or 1% inspiration, 2% manly perspiration, 17.3% stick-to-itiveness, and 437% holy-crap-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life- I-have-two-kids-and-a-mortgage- and-I-don’t-even-really-want-to-be-a-writer-when-I-grow-up- because-I-can’t-take-the-godawful-loneliness- oh-the-terrible-loneliness- besides-I-feel-a-call-to-do-so-much-more-with-my-life- such-as-becoming-a-Unitarian-Universalist-minister-or-maybe-even-a-taco-barker-at-the-state-fair sweat.

I expect every writers group has their own shorthand–a vocabulary able to sum up mountains of meaning in molehills of words. In my writers group, there are some very efficient phrases like 1) “good point,” 2) “I see” 3) “okay, I’ll get right on that,” and 4) “thanks,” which mean, respectively 1) “lousy point,” 2) “you totally missed what I was trying to accomplish with this clever twist on convention and yet, based on how monumental a task it would be to correct your glaring imbecility, I’ll pretend I actually appreciate your foolish critique,” 3) “I’ll change that when the sun has blistered the anguished recognition of your own foolishness off the shriveled-up face skin on your corpse” and 4) “I hate you.”

But there are others we use that are slightly more instructive. Two of these come from a writing professor that 3 of us had in college and 1 from the fertile brain of Todd Fahnestock who, as with everything he creates, stole it off another writer.

1) The Pig (courtesy of Todd Fahnestock with thanks to Ken Follett): After reading “The Pillars of the Earth,” Todd noted that the first eighty pages or so are primarily concerned with a man trying to reclaim a lost pig. Todd went on to note how Follett makes the reader care tremendously about this particular pig, flipping pages in rapid succession to see if the man will get his pig back. In the process we get sucked into a very richly detailed world and get hooked by a plot that has exactly nothing to do with said pig. Giles Carwyn, (Todd’s writing partner for the wonderful Heartstone Trilogy), would point out that the pig is what is technically known as a “bridging conflict” in which one is caught up by an immediate but short-lived danger/problem/adventure in order to get from one major part of the book to another (or from the opening into the principal action). The point of this all is that whenever I hit a lull in my dramatic arc I start rooting around like a pig in pig poop (in a Todd&Giles sex fantasy–for those of you who’ve read Heir of Autumn) for a pig of my own.

2) The Raft (courtesy James Yaffe, formerly of The Colorado College) I don’t even remember the precise context any more, but Yaffe often critiqued stories by telling us whether he was or was not “on the raft.” Perhaps he was referring to Huck Finn and how even when the only action in the story was two guys floating on a raft down the Mississippi, Mark Twain made damn sure we were right on the raft with them thanks to the humor, poetry and evocative nature of the language. In our group, being “on the raft” means that you’ll keep turning the pages and enjoying the sights just so long as the writing and storytelling maintain the same quality.

3) The Bus (again, courtesy James Yaffe) I think I remember the context for this one. Yaffe always told each class about this very nearly perfect story he once read about two star-crossed lovers who were brilliantly fleshed out by their author such that the reader was completely transfixed wondering if and when the two would finally get together. Everything is flush with building tension until the final scene when the guy walks out of a coffee shop ready to risk everything to win back his love and…he gets hit by a bus. To Yaffe, this was pure laziness on the part of the writer and Yaffe could not abide laziness. He would have been perfectly happy if the couple made it or didn’t, just so long as the resolution grew naturally from the set-up. He would have also been fine with a surprise twist at the end, as long as the twist had some basis in the reality of the story. Throwing in a random accident, however, was the ultimate evil. In my own writing, I have often struggled with endings, and even despite Yaffe’s warning have still managed to muck things up. But then I learned the ultimate truth that made all of my writing exquisitely flawless in all ways. All you have to do is … Ohmigod! What’s that! Oof!

…

Didn’t like that ending?

I see. Good point. I’ll get right on that. Thanks.

It’s been roughly five weeks since I got the wonderful/agonizing news that my book was being presented to the board at Harper Collins for possible acquisition. Since then, I have never been more than a few feet out of range of my phone. I monitor my email by the minute. And yet…no news is still just no news. I realize I need to be relaxed about all of this. What ever will be will be. It’s not easy, though. If the decision from the board goes in my favor, it will be, arguably, the single most life-changing piece of news I’ve ever received.

Well…there was the bit about my wife getting pregnant. Twice. But while that was life-changing (both times), it was also something we were expecting. And the only comment it made about my general worth as a person was that I was, like the vast majority of men, not infertile. Getting published on the other hand means that a lifetime of dreaming and aspiration has not been (entirely) ill spent. It means that I’m not a fool to be pursuing a career that most of my family considers reckless, silly or just plain dumb. It means that a door will open, maybe just a crack, but enough for me to begin shoving myself through.

I’m not imagining I’ll haul in a massive advance and be able to quit my day job or that Oprah will be calling me  to discuss my place in her book club–I simply imagine that I’ll be able to walk into a bookstore in a year or so and find my work in the company of that of so many of my heroes. I’ll be able to hold my book in my hands–to see my name on the cover page–to run my fingers over the text and know that ten years of work has had a tangible result. I can call myself a writer, or author, or novelist, and then back that up with something I’ve actually gotten published. I can be what I have always dreamed that I am. That probably sounds horribly maudlin and reeks of pathos, but it’s the best way I can describe this yearning.

Alas. For now, the waiting continues.