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...