Writing is a solitary process. It's lonely and frustrating. You never really know where you're headed as you write a book, even if you know where you're going to end up.
The only way to get through the writing of a book is to staple your pants to a chair, keep your head down and write the thing. Once you're finished, though, can often be the most frustrating aspect of the entire process. You've sweat, you've cried, you've squeezed every ounce of creativity you have in your body and bled the words onto the page. In short, you have a book. But what do you do with it? You publish it, of course. And that's the thing. There are two broad options to publishing your book: you can easily self publish it (Self publishing on Amazon is very simple), but most likely your work will end up in the obscure recesses of the internet and never be seen by more than a handful of people. The real test, though, the most arduous path, is the traditional publishing one. There are many blogs and vlogs out there that go into the incremental steps--query letters, finding agents, writing synopses, etc--so I won't go into it all, but you can do it all the right way, get so close to the finish line, and it can still slip through your fingers. That's possibly the hardest part of the journey. You query, you get your agent, you work on it some more, and then your agent submits the book to publishing houses. It's out of your hands. There's nothing you can do other than wait. And that's why it's so hard. It's like you're in a forced stasis. You've gone from typing on the project every day to emailing possible agents to receiving a few rejections to finally signing that representation contract and then, you edit and type it all over again only ... to let it go. Once your agent starts submitting the book, there's nothing else you can do. Except wait. And wait. And wait. And wait some more. You can see your goal. It's right there, just out of reach and it doesn't seem too far. In fact, it seems like a short dash--it's tangible and it's only twenty feet away--but the problem is, you're in a zero gravity environment with nothing to push off of. The only way to get there is to hope someone comes along and gives you that little nudge or a helping hand. Otherwise, you can try to swim, but you'll look more like Wile E. Coyote fruitlessly flapping his arms just after he's gone over a cliff. Only you won't even plummet. You'll just flap your arms forever, beads of sweat building up on your forehead, lungs running out of breath, until you give up or someone pulls you in.
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The weather is finally changing. Funny how it's always too hot until it's too cold and then you wish it was hot again.
Here, in Georgia where I live, the weather can change on a dime. It's a bit more gradual than in Texas where I'm originally from, but still, it was in the eighties one day and the next, I woke up shivering to 35 degree temperatures. Sweating and then shivering. It's like I'm inside the flu. 2020 has been an incredible year. One to go in the history books, I think. I'll certainly remember it as a year of momentous change and nail-biting uncertainty. Between job furloughs and school cancellations due to the pandemic, I've had so much time with my family. It's a weird mix of pure joy to be around them and debilitating dread because of the unknown. With the free time, I've been able to write and create more than ever before, but also with that extra time, I'm almost more stressed because I feel the need to fill that time with things I think I need to do rather than those I want to do. It's like if I'm not achieving something, I'm wasting the time. It's an odd paradox. Things have been so up and down. It's like the year slipped away from me one minute, but then I remember that I've written three books, taken two road trips, visited a dozen cities (always wearing a mask!) and spent countless hours with my wife and two boys. Things are good. There's also been a raging pandemic, so much social unrest, a crazed man in the Presidency and uncertain economic woe. Things are bad. Back and forth that pendulum swings. When I feel my poorest, I remind myself that at any time, I can go into the next room and pick up one of my boys and feel their warmth against me, their spidery legs cling to my sides and know that it's all going to be okay. No matter what, I'll have that. And it's good. |
AuthorI am a writer. I write. Archives
January 2021
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