The Nearly Almost Next Best Thing

There is one thing held high in the mind of a writer as an ideal long awaited and one day to be obtained, pursued with endless perseverance and a hope that will not be quenched. For this is necessary to the aim of the writer, which is to share his work with the world. That thing of which I speak is the word of acceptance: the contract.

The next best thing is to receive a request for revision and resubmission, giving the writer hope that his work was appreciated and might be considered publishable. He knows already that his work is not perfect, and if he has been given suggestions for improvement and invited to rewrite accordingly, he will delve in with renewed enthusiasm and discerning eye, ready to bring his work one step closer to perfection. He knows too that he has received a chance that comes to very few.

The almost next best thing is to receive a personal rejection—one written by hand and signed by the editor in charge of submissions—with suggestions for improvement and even other possible markets that might be interested in the work. This is the one that says that the work was read and well-received, and that the editor cared enough to take the time to comment, even if he was not able to accept it for publication. This is also rare in the modern day where the editor has a mountainous slush pile to wade through and insufficient time, especially in a big publishing house.

The nearly almost next best thing then is to receive a swift rejection, even if it is only a form letter signed by the editor. These form letters can even be encouraging to some extent, recognizing that just because it is a rejection, it does not mean the work lacks merit. It is well to note that it is difficult for a new writer to begin his career.

I could go on, of course, but since yesterday placed me firmly in the latter category, I may as well stop there.

I am ready now for the next step: the return to the research stage. I must consider once more the relative merits of the various publishing options, choosing again which risk to attempt, trying to guess which road holds the most likelihood for success.

If it were not for the sake of my distinct lack of funds, I would be tempted to go with the self-publishing route, for I am fairly certain that there are other readers besides myself who seek such a tale and hence I would find no difficulty in finding a readership base—after all, who does not like a good fantasy pirate tale? Also it would give me the opportunity to travel about in pirate garb and promote it.

Yet that is not possible with my current paltry resources, so unless I decide to commandeer a ship, pick up a crew, and then pillage, plunder, loot and otherwise gather a suitable treasure, I must hold for the moment to the traditional publishing route.

Then it will be time again to await what oft seems akin to a miracle...

The Manuscript

The other day I received at last my postcard returned with one word scrawled across the back—"Arrived"—and an initial. That one insignificant word spoke more than it contained, carrying with it one of the great joys of a writer: knowing that the precious manuscript has safely reached its intended destination, the hands of a publishing company.

This was no mere dashed-off work of a month as some novels ar

e, but the work of several years and several revisions. Begun with a dear writer friend of mine as a round story, it soon stalled. Enthralled by it, I continued the work on my own until it grew far beyond its paltry beginnings, although lacking still cohesive plot and substance. Years more I poured into it in ragged rhythm: a time of revisions and a time of critiques, a time of rest and a time of rewriting. Until at last the time came that it was ready to send off.

I sent it first to a small publisher—Twilight Times Books—with whom I had spoken through an online writers' conference. When I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript the publisher, she asked me to submit the whole manuscript, and so I did, waiting for a response as I continued with other projects. At last—three months or so later—I received my rejection, for she had decided that it did not fit with her current line of books.

The work began all over again: first a further polishing, and then the work of researching publishers, and more polishing before at last I deemed it ready

to send off again. This time I decided I would aim high, sending it to one of the foremost publishers of fantasy. My decision meant also that I could not submit electronically as I had become accustomed to doing, but rather by mail, as did all writers of old.

There is such satisfaction in gazing upon a printed manuscript waiting to be sent off to the publisher, and in hefting its nearly eight-pound weight. It is the joy of accomplishment—of a work well done.

It means a great deal more to a writer's heart to send off such a weighty manuscript, understanding with a twinge that the pride and joy of his efforts is soon to face its test of worthiness. Only the writer who has poured so much time and so much of himself into his work can know the depth of meaning in that sending-off and the risk he takes—that leap of faith.

And yet I found that my heart was strangely unmoved. It rested solely in a peace that cared not whether the leap of faith had been in vain insofar as the world judges; it was enough to have done it, accomplishing thereby the duty of the moment.

There have been times when I was much discouraged by my lack of success in publishing and in the feedback I received from others, but now no longer. My worth as a writer stands unshaken—for it is built on the solid ground of my own hard work and perseverance, and a confidence in the skill given me. Let the tempests of the world blow as they will, the waves of discouragement wash against my rocky fastness, I will stand firm, letting my words shine like a beacon of light in this dark world, trusting that they will find their suited place and time where they will touch the hearts they are meant to touch.

St. Francis de Sales, patron of writers, pray for us!