As most of you know, and for those of you who didn't, I've been querying my manuscript Wilson Mooney, out to literary agents that represent young adult novels (Well, if you call 15 submissions, querying). Anyway, out of the 15 I sent out, 9 have come back with a polite, "Thanks, but no thanks" response. That leaves 6 still out with no response yet.
I've been pretty upbeat about the whole process. As the first couple of "no thanks" came in I told myself that was okay. Hell, I still have out bunches that haven't responded yet. When I reached 7 rejections, I still was feeling okay about it. There are a lot of good writers that get rejected all the time. Besides, this was the first time I've ever ho'ed out my work. But now that I have 9 out of 15 telling me no thanks, I'm starting to let that seed of doubt creep into my mind.
I know, I know, there are a lot of good writers that had hundreds of rejections before the one yes, from the right agent, that made a difference. I totally get that. I also have to believe there is an agent out there, willing to take a bet on me. I still hear the booming voices, with all the different accents, telling me, "this is your first sets of submissions, don't be so hard on yourself."
But there's that small voice—you know the one, which we all try and stuff down into the darkest corner of our psyche, the one that finds a way to poke at you with its filthy, insidious doubt until you pay attention to it. You know what I'm talking about. Like a flea bite that starts out tiny, then festers to a full blown infection. Simply because you scratched it until it bled.
That is what I am working so hard to avoid. I don't want to let the infectious ick of doubt take over my positive thoughts and ruin what I've worked so hard to accomplish.
So I tell myself, keep working, keep writing, keep busy, so when the day comes, when the skies part and the goddess of everything wonderful waves her massive wand and my manuscript is accepted for representation, I can beat down the festering glop of doubt that nefariously tried to take over my optimistic thoughts and rain on my one woman parade of self acceptance.
The time has come to covet the long sought after- peace of mind and keep chipping away at the long list of naysayers that hold my dreams in their hands. It is they, which I have come to realize, who are as personal and unique as the underwear I choose buy in the store. Every one is a different color and each one with their own way of covering my ass.
I just ask one thing—God please let me find one that fits.