“The wonderful thing about writing is that there is always a blank page waiting. The terrifying thing about writing is that there is always a blank page waiting.” ― J.K. Rowling
“You’re having a panic attack. Write your way out of it.”
“Thank you so much for your query, but I am going to pass at this time. Unfortunately, the concept didn’t connect with me as much as I’d hoped, and your word count is currently too high. Due to this, I don’t believe I’m the right agent to champion this piece. Thank you for considering me for your work, and I wish you luck in your writing future.”
“I found it floridly overwritten.”
“Top 10 Overdone Tropes in Fantasy”
The drumbeat of “No’s” from agents in response to the pitch for my novel, Circle’s Call, finally gets to me. The feedback from a friend that my short story, “Phantasmagoria”, was “floridly overwritten,” was tough to take. Doubts about the novel gnaw away at me. And now a writing prompt for which I can think of nothing to write. In the space of eighteen hours, I’ve entered a writing tailspin.
The novel is at the heart of it all.
The seeds were planted on a trip to South Dakota many years ago, a trip that included spelunking by lantern light and nights spent in the wilderness of the badlands. After multiple versions over the years, I finally got a handle on it, dedicating a year to writing it followed by months of revisions, feedback from beta readers, and many long, fulfilling nights at the keyboard.
Now it’s been out with agents who focus on fantasy novels and those who have bothered to reply have said the same thing: “It didn’t connect with me.”
Why? Is it not good? Is it not interesting? Is it not written well enough? Do they even get beyond the pitch letter? The responses are all polite, all form letters, all saying the same thing. Is there an agent’s handbook that advises all of them to say exactly the same thing, like the most clichéd breakup?
“Dear prospective author. It’s not you, it’s me.”
I know they must be receiving hundreds of submissions and a form response helps them cope. That’s why yesterday’s decline letter, with the first hint of any additional detail, was such a breath of fresh air even as it was another moment of frustration and disappointment.
So now I wonder, is it solely the length? Do they see the word count in the pitch letter and automatically bin it? Is that why no one is asking to read more than the first five or ten pages submitted with the pitch? I’m left freaking out about how I can cut fifteen or twenty thousand words from the novel, all while knowing that every piece in it is part of an intricate puzzle.
But is it even more than that? The agent who just turned me down had been interviewed on a YouTube series about publishing and agents. Yesterday, I listened to one of the other episodes, entitled “Top 10 Overdone Tropes in Fantasy.”
Well, shit.
My book checks the box on three entries from that list. However, I wrote it knowing that I wanted to play with those tropes and the readers’ expectations, and let them make assumptions that I’d prove to be wrong. Now I wonder, do the agents simply see my book as a trope-riddled trifle?
Is this why, after four months, I’ve received nothing but silence or “It didn’t connect with me” brush offs?
Then I really begin to panic. My stomach churns.
Is it bad?
All of my beta readers, including my friend who hates fantasy and declared “Phantasmagoria” to be floridly overwritten, claimed to have loved it, said “Circle’s Call” really needed to and deserved to be published. Conveniently for future book sales, they also all wanted to know when the sequel would be done.
Now I wonder, were they just saying that? I don’t think so but maybe there was a subjective bias going on. They know me, they want me to get published. Still, in the eyes of an objective reader like an agent who sees tens or hundreds of these a week, is it overdone, too familiar, not well written enough?
Am I expecting too much? Have I wasted my time? I know that, technically, there’s nothing wrong with self-publishing but that’s never been my goal. Am I going to need to settle? Am I going to need to rework it from the ground up? Is it just not good enough?
I need to stop thinking like this. I’m on the verge of a cold sweat.
Deep breath.
Another deep breath.
I can handle this. I can deal with this. Stop whining.
Someone will like it, want to read it, and want to publish it. I keep telling myself that.
And then Kirsten sends the prompt for our weekly writing group:
“You’re having a panic attack. Write your way out of it.”
Shit. Thanks. Timely AND agonizing.
I see it early in the morning and begin to fret, begin to panic. I have no idea what to write. If I have no idea, how can I write something worthwhile that isn’t a waste of time for the group? I always like to be polished and at 10:15 AM, with forty-five minutes to go, I have no fucking idea what to write. And then I see the other things going on around me, in the world. Coronavirus. Shelter at home. Friends and family losing their jobs. Friends and acquaintances getting sick. What’s my worry about publishing my novel compared to health and employment and friends struggling to save businesses that they’ve sunk their lives into?
It’s manageable. That’s what it is.
“I’m going to write about having a panic attack about writing about having a panic attack,” I suddenly declare.
“How very meta of you,” replies my wife.
I have no idea if I’m writing my way out of it. I just know that writing, whether the results are good, bad, or indifferent, is a lifeline for me. Always has been. And I know I can write some real crap. The sci-fi novel I wrote freshman year of college will NEVER see the light of day. Talk about trope overload and a derivative plot! But even that effort had value, showing me that, yes, I could write a three hundred-page book if I put my mind to it. Now I look at the bound draft of Circle’s Call on my desk, and I know that it isn’t crap. I believe that. I have to believe that.
Can I buckle down and figure out how to make it better? Yes.
Can I shorten it a bit by stripping out some sections that are clever and interesting but that don’t move the plot along? Yes.
Maybe the pitch letter consultation with the agent will help make that initial letter more effective. Plus, the latest email declining the manuscript did point me to another resource or two, so that’s something.
OK, I’m not panicking. I’m writing. That’s good. That’s what I need to be doing. There’s a path forward.
I guess Charles Bukowski had it right when he said, “Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
Deep breath.
Another deep breath.
Fingers on the keyboard.
Finishing my meta therapy session with three minutes to spare.
Thanks, Kirsten. Timely, agonizing, AND helpful.
I can do this.