“Everyone wants to be read. But what do you do when they only read between the lines… or don’t read at all?”
Writing is like sex: you do it best when you’re on your own and not thinking about anyone else. But publishing? Publishing is like a poorly planned party – full of people you don’t even know why they’re there, yet everyone pretends to enjoy it.
Last week, I got a rejection from a publisher where I actually know the technical editor. Not the chief editor, not the PR person – the technical editor. He sent me a letter starting with “Dear Author” (of course), cold and templated, but he added one sentence with a smile:
“Your style is provocative, but unfortunately does not fit our current line.” Translation: “You’re too alive for our literary graveyard.” After that, I drank wine. Straight from the bottle. In the bathroom. I remembered the words of a poet from a reading in Capanna: “If you’re not someone’s protege, you become someone’s alibi.” Of course, she already has three books. And a permanent seat on a jury. The question haunting me is this:
How many rejections does a writer have to receive before she’s invited to the launch party where everyone pretends they’ve never rejected her? Maybe writers are the new lovers: used, needed, but only backstage. Or maybe I just haven’t used enough metaphors about war and trauma to make it into this year’s literary canon.
After another glass of wine (and a quick reread of Margaret Atwood), I decided on one thing:
I will keep writing. I will keep submitting. And when the time comes, I will laugh the loudest at my own launch party. With or without their “line.”