We are all familiar with the phrase ‘kill your darlings’ and most of us are quite expert at doing just that.
But what if we need to kill the entire infant novel; that one novel that means so much to us? After all, that novel is everything, right?
‘Oh, Barbara, for goodness sake, will you just stop obsessing about publishing this sodding novel. It’s not happening. Just let it go.’ The right side of my brain sighs. She always thinks she knows best.
‘Yes, yes, I know, I know, but not now.' The left side usualy feels misunderstood. 'There’re still plenty of agents I haven’t sent it to. After that, there are the various publishing houses, and a comp or two. I can’t give up. Not yet.’
‘OK, then when?’
‘After I’ve fixed the first page and the letter and the blurb and the summary. I’m sure if I get it just right, I can have one more go at it, and I’m getting tons of feedback to help me get it just right, and ... Seventy rejections aren’t that much.’
‘Seventy rejections?! Holy cow.’
And the conversation begins again.
Sounds a bit like an addiction? An obsession? Most likely. It’s easy to become fixated.
Admitting our baby isn’t for this publishing world can be difficult. We birthed it. We’ve nurtured and fed it. We’ve joyfully played with it. We’ve changed its nappies and threw out the sh*t that made it stink. We’ve even bored our friends with that one special line which our baby uttered, a line so wonderful, it made us howl with laughter (the friends never cracked a smile). Our baby grew up with our TLC. Then we made it stand on its own feet and nudged it to walk towards publication. We prodded it, pushed it forwards, sent it out across the world and …
… it fell flat on its face. Smack.
‘Oh, never mind. It’s just the first steps. Here, have better shoes. Now off you go again. Run, my Darling, run!’
Repeat above conversation.
At what point do we admit that our baby has no legs for this publishing world? How long do we keep pushing before we say: ‘OK, this particular child will never walk’? Do we let it hinder our career forever? Should we fix it to death? Nope.
No publishing deal doesn’t mean failure, and it isn’t necessarily about talent. It generally means: Not this novel at this time.
For me, it took 70 rejections. Uh-oh. Hint hint. And then, along came the pop ups and Agent Pete kindly told me to put it aside. Thank you. And I’m glad he did. I’m glad I listened because as much as I enjoyed writing this particular novel about a quirky old lady, moving on to a new project is proving to be more intellectually and creatively challenging (read: it's a bleeping headache), more fulfilling (read: no time for anything else), more exhilarating (I'm about to run through the Fens, screaming), and dare I say that this baby will hopefully be better.
So, how do we let go?
I very much believe that letting go isn’t the same as defeat. Dumping a novel isn’t the end of our writing career. (One book isn’t much of a career, now is it.) It is the beginning. It means we are freeing ourselves up to move on to the next stage in the life of a writer (in other words: a body of work), and our work will become healthier and richer for it.
I still have that old lady novel. It isn’t lost. She’s there, and always will be. Just for me.
Maybe we need to see our writing as a collection of work; a process, as opposed to that one novel that will get us to where we want to be, meaning the above conversation would go something like this:
‘Well, Barbara, you’ve given it a good old shot, but this novel just isn’t going to find a buyer.’
‘Why not? I’m sure it’s good ... Or … isn’t it?’
‘Who knows. Move on. Take what you’ve learnt from it and write the next. You never know, it might be a bestseller.’
‘Actually, I’ve had this idea for a story. There’s this guy who is a compulsive gambler, called Nick, and ...’
If we want to fly high, our wings need to be free of old rust. (Just made that up. Ought to hang it on fridge.)
So take off your old wings, attach a pair of shiny, new ones, and soar to the sky and fly.
How will you / do you let go of your rust?
But what if we need to kill the entire infant novel; that one novel that means so much to us? After all, that novel is everything, right?
‘Oh, Barbara, for goodness sake, will you just stop obsessing about publishing this sodding novel. It’s not happening. Just let it go.’ The right side of my brain sighs. She always thinks she knows best.
‘Yes, yes, I know, I know, but not now.' The left side usualy feels misunderstood. 'There’re still plenty of agents I haven’t sent it to. After that, there are the various publishing houses, and a comp or two. I can’t give up. Not yet.’
‘OK, then when?’
‘After I’ve fixed the first page and the letter and the blurb and the summary. I’m sure if I get it just right, I can have one more go at it, and I’m getting tons of feedback to help me get it just right, and ... Seventy rejections aren’t that much.’
‘Seventy rejections?! Holy cow.’
And the conversation begins again.
Sounds a bit like an addiction? An obsession? Most likely. It’s easy to become fixated.
Admitting our baby isn’t for this publishing world can be difficult. We birthed it. We’ve nurtured and fed it. We’ve joyfully played with it. We’ve changed its nappies and threw out the sh*t that made it stink. We’ve even bored our friends with that one special line which our baby uttered, a line so wonderful, it made us howl with laughter (the friends never cracked a smile). Our baby grew up with our TLC. Then we made it stand on its own feet and nudged it to walk towards publication. We prodded it, pushed it forwards, sent it out across the world and …
… it fell flat on its face. Smack.
‘Oh, never mind. It’s just the first steps. Here, have better shoes. Now off you go again. Run, my Darling, run!’
Repeat above conversation.
At what point do we admit that our baby has no legs for this publishing world? How long do we keep pushing before we say: ‘OK, this particular child will never walk’? Do we let it hinder our career forever? Should we fix it to death? Nope.
No publishing deal doesn’t mean failure, and it isn’t necessarily about talent. It generally means: Not this novel at this time.
For me, it took 70 rejections. Uh-oh. Hint hint. And then, along came the pop ups and Agent Pete kindly told me to put it aside. Thank you. And I’m glad he did. I’m glad I listened because as much as I enjoyed writing this particular novel about a quirky old lady, moving on to a new project is proving to be more intellectually and creatively challenging (read: it's a bleeping headache), more fulfilling (read: no time for anything else), more exhilarating (I'm about to run through the Fens, screaming), and dare I say that this baby will hopefully be better.
So, how do we let go?
I very much believe that letting go isn’t the same as defeat. Dumping a novel isn’t the end of our writing career. (One book isn’t much of a career, now is it.) It is the beginning. It means we are freeing ourselves up to move on to the next stage in the life of a writer (in other words: a body of work), and our work will become healthier and richer for it.
I still have that old lady novel. It isn’t lost. She’s there, and always will be. Just for me.
Maybe we need to see our writing as a collection of work; a process, as opposed to that one novel that will get us to where we want to be, meaning the above conversation would go something like this:
‘Well, Barbara, you’ve given it a good old shot, but this novel just isn’t going to find a buyer.’
‘Why not? I’m sure it’s good ... Or … isn’t it?’
‘Who knows. Move on. Take what you’ve learnt from it and write the next. You never know, it might be a bestseller.’
‘Actually, I’ve had this idea for a story. There’s this guy who is a compulsive gambler, called Nick, and ...’
If we want to fly high, our wings need to be free of old rust. (Just made that up. Ought to hang it on fridge.)
So take off your old wings, attach a pair of shiny, new ones, and soar to the sky and fly.
How will you / do you let go of your rust?
