This is an important question. And I have the feeling it's not one we ask ourselves enough. I mean, I know we're all plagued by self-doubt, but that's not the same thing as actually stepping back and objectively taking a view: Is what I've written really any good?
We might try to give the question a bit of context. We should ground it in all that stuff about knowing our genre, our audience, and the current state of the market. And we should guard against bitterness at what we perceive to be crimes against literature that other authors get away with. The question isn't about them. It's about us: Is what I've written really any good?
If you've received a hundred rejections, it may be that luck has deserted you or that you haven't found the right agent or audience. Or it may be that what you've written isn't any good. Being able to discern the difference, it seems to me, is as important a skill for an author as any other.
I've only completed one novel, and with it I've been once through the traditional submissions process. I sent out twenty-four pitches, received three full-manuscript requests, and, in due course, was rejected by every agent I approached. One of them did take time to give me some feedback (just a little). They said, in so many words, that my characters were two-dimensional – great story, competent writing, slick plot, but flat characters. Ouch. Oh, how I raged. But then... but then I got a grip on myself and went hunting for the problems this agent had identified. And boy were they right. My characters were nothing but recycled tropes from a thousand other stories. They were painted in the most trivial way. They were plot pawns and nothing more. What I'd written was, I now saw with clarity, not good enough.
So, faced with such defeat, should we give up? No, of course not. But we should accept that maybe we're not good enough yet – that's it's not the publishing world's fault but ours. And we should strive to get better. And we should probably, honestly, for the sake of all that is good, do it by writing something new – not a sequel, not a rehash, but something genuinely new. Don't waste your life flogging the proverbial equine. Write something else. Write something new. Push yourself. Experiment. Accept that that one wasn't good enough, that it never will be. But this next one, this new one, oh gosh, this next one's going to set the world on fire.
We might try to give the question a bit of context. We should ground it in all that stuff about knowing our genre, our audience, and the current state of the market. And we should guard against bitterness at what we perceive to be crimes against literature that other authors get away with. The question isn't about them. It's about us: Is what I've written really any good?
If you've received a hundred rejections, it may be that luck has deserted you or that you haven't found the right agent or audience. Or it may be that what you've written isn't any good. Being able to discern the difference, it seems to me, is as important a skill for an author as any other.
I've only completed one novel, and with it I've been once through the traditional submissions process. I sent out twenty-four pitches, received three full-manuscript requests, and, in due course, was rejected by every agent I approached. One of them did take time to give me some feedback (just a little). They said, in so many words, that my characters were two-dimensional – great story, competent writing, slick plot, but flat characters. Ouch. Oh, how I raged. But then... but then I got a grip on myself and went hunting for the problems this agent had identified. And boy were they right. My characters were nothing but recycled tropes from a thousand other stories. They were painted in the most trivial way. They were plot pawns and nothing more. What I'd written was, I now saw with clarity, not good enough.
So, faced with such defeat, should we give up? No, of course not. But we should accept that maybe we're not good enough yet – that's it's not the publishing world's fault but ours. And we should strive to get better. And we should probably, honestly, for the sake of all that is good, do it by writing something new – not a sequel, not a rehash, but something genuinely new. Don't waste your life flogging the proverbial equine. Write something else. Write something new. Push yourself. Experiment. Accept that that one wasn't good enough, that it never will be. But this next one, this new one, oh gosh, this next one's going to set the world on fire.