"Dropped"

Edit: I was going to proofread this post for spelling and grammar. Then I thought about the content of the post, and decided against it. So spelling and grammar mistakes have been intentionally left. 

I want to be a writer.

I'm not talking about 'being a writer' as 'one who writes'; if that's the accomplishment I'm looking for, then I've been that since I was old enough to pick up a pen.

No. I want to be an author. A published, read, known, and liked author.

For years I've been writing the various stories that simmer to life in my head. There are literally dozens of them, hundreds of thousands of words, recorded on blogs and external hard drives and clouds and Livejournal (yeah, I've been writing since Livejournal was a thing). Some of it has made it into this blog, some of it can be found on Cut and Dry, my creative blog. A large part of it has never been read by eyes other than my own.

I do it because I've always believed in honing my craft. I do it because I like it, and I've always considered it baby steps toward my dream.

Last year, I hit a milestone. I signed my first publishing contract for my young adult series, Who Was Veronica Dawson? Yes, it was a small market publisher. Yes, they specialized in cheesy romance novels. Yes, they wouldn't be able to give me quite the reach I wanted. But they wanted to publish my work. After all, it was my first publication; how could I expect to be picked up by one of the biggies (Penguin, Scholastic, and their ilk) right off the bat?

I received an email very soon after explaining they'd passed my manuscript off to an editor. Seeing as I'd edited the thing a dozen times myself over four and a half years, I was pretty sure my editor was going to appreciate the breather from the rest of the pile in his or her inbox.

Months passed with no word from my editor or publisher.

Finally, in January, I received an email from my publisher saying they'd assigned my manuscript to another editor.

Fine, I thought. Publishing is a "hurry up and wait" business, anyway. 

On Friday, March 6th, I received an email from my publisher saying they'd fired my editor (whether this was the original editor or the new editor, I wasn't informed). Because of this, they had decided to release my manuscript, cutting all ties with me.

I read the email on my phone, while I was in a McDonald's drive-thru.  And, at first, I didn't think much of it. I'd suffered rejection in my writing "career" before (hundreds of times before, as a matter of fact), so one more wouldn't matter. I got my cup of coffee and went about my day.

As things tend to do, the situation began to look more grim the more I examined it.

I started writing the prototype manuscript for Who Was Veronica Dawson? more than five years ago.

It's current, finished incarnation is more than three years old.

 I've received hundreds of rejection letters from agents, publishers, and the like.

My blogs, where I post my writings for free reading, have a reach of only a few dozen.

The more my mind simmered on the facts, the more I began to doubt myself. All this time, I've told myself that the problem lies in those who have rejected my work, rather than with me. But what if I'm wrong?

What if I am simply not a good writer?

I guess everyone, while pursing a dream, encounters seasons of doubt. It's probably normal. I've definitely had moments like this in the past, when a wave of rejection letters returns after I've spend days sending queries. But it feels different this time. The rejection, and my position relative to my dream is more stark than before.

Because, no matter how I try to paint it, years of trying has yielded no progress toward my dream. Today I am, quite literally, at square one.

Somehow I'll muster the confidence to find more agents and publishers. Somehow, I'll compose a new query letter, research their websites, and try to say all the things I need to say to convince someone that my manuscript would be a good "fit" for their organization.

There's a voice that follows anyone who pursues a dream. It's the voice that tells you your time would be better served doing something, anything, else. The voice that tries to keep tally of the countless hours you sink into the dream, wondering if anything will come of it. The voice that reminds you how else you could have spent that time, instead of throwing them into the endless pit of said pursuit.

The next time I send out query letters will be different than the others.

This time, the voice will be saying, "Maybe it's time you quit."

And this time, I won't be certain it's wrong.