In all honesty, I’m surprised I’m composed enough to be writing this right now. In most instances, I would say it’s a sign of my maturity, but at this point, I’m fairly certain it’s more reflective of the fact that I’ve lost my mind to the point where sensibility has dulled into numbness. I really feel a bit more gone mentally than I have in a while.
I guess this the part where I bring myself to write that the potential deal that was creeping closer to reality has come to a halt.
Of course, I knew it could happen. I’ve been playing with that balance between delusional confidence for the sake of motivation versus the realistic grounding for the “just-in-case” scenario, but I guess I’d let myself sway a little too far to the left. And everyone in my life has always yelled at me for my “It’s better not to get excited about something before it happens so you don’t get let down if it doesn’t” philosophy. I would say, “Who’s laughing now?” But the answer is no one.
I’m not sure what’s next. A few revisions, certainly, that I know will make the book stronger. I’m excited about them, and will be writing keeping in mind my concrete goals for the plot and characters. But here’s the issue: Even if, hypothetically, I “fix” Christian’s intangibility (setting aside the fact, for a second, that that’s the characteristic that makes him intriguing, and the book’s uniqueness would completely fall apart if he became too transparent), if the largest core of rejections are coming because my subject matter is too risky—too edgy—nothing’s going to change that. And that’s what has me absolutely up-against-the-wall terrified.
Here’s the thing. I can write. I don’t think this is an egotistical, overextension of character judgment. I wouldn’t be agented if I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be at the point with this book that I am if I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have my agent saying, “If you would just read the things these editors are saying about your prose and talent…” if I couldn’t. And with that ability, I could have written genre or commercial fiction. I could have written a PG-13 love story. I could have done anything. But I chose the challenge of getting my hands dirty, of digging into a subject that scares certain people, of exploring a mind so complex and disturbed that it took me years to understand it completely. And I did it for a reason. I guess I just have to come to acknoweldge the fact that taking on that challenge and risk opened up the path to more challenge and risk when actually faced with the opportunity to explore publishing. And I have to understand that acknowledging and accepting are two different things. I’m getting there.
For now, I have to take a couple of weeks off. Chill. Calm down. Get perspective on the book, the situation. Have a long meeting with my agent and make sure that with the many ways I could make the changes I’m picking the right approach, and making a plan with the revisions that assures me I’m not compromising the book into something I don’t recognize just for the sake of selling it. I’m twenty-three. There are more books in me. Revising to improve what I wanted to accomplish with the manuscript is worth it. Revising past that point just so someone will buy it is not.
I’m out of the realm of the magically easy, wunderkind overnight publish fantasy. Fairy tail’s snuffed. Everything about this right now is so fucking real, especially how much it stings.
M
