What dreams may come...
Two nights ago, amidst a fitful sleep in the quaint Wisconsin town of Lake Geneva, I dreamt I had signed with a literary agent. I will spare you the details of the whole dream, as there were the standard-issue monsters, slow motion scenes, and horrible dialogue, but for one ephemeral moment, all was well in Orbon.
...I walk into a room. The dim light and fancy furniture suggest its origins lie in the Victorian era. Lots of red and orange and candles and people fill my otherwise clouded view. A line forms in front of me, and I am suddenly carrying a packet of papers and forms. "Next!" and I am standing face to face with a balding, middle-aged gentleman and his young republican assistant. They both recognize me from my submission, and while I explain that I have no idea how they received my manuscript, the assistant politely begins a hushed conversation with the middle-aged man. An eternity slithers by. The young republican thanks me for my time, says they are not interested, but that the young woman over there might be. I turn and spot a 20something woman with reddish curly hair and black rimmed glasses sitting at a table near the farthest corner. She motions me over, and in the span of a brief interview, I am brought into the wonderful world of writer representation. Thirty minutes later, I am standing with my "signee class" (an older woman, a 30something blonde, and a mustached man). We are applauded by an unseen audience, and the lights go out.....
Obviously not true to life. Yet, as I reflect on it, I am reminded of my grade school days, getting picked over constantly for basketball, tackle-the-man, and baseball. For any young kid, those are watershed moments. I remember getting cut from the JV basketball team my sophomore year in high school; it was horrible. I fought back tears as I watched my friends suit up and head off to practice. I remember thinking, "When will it ever be my time?!"
Writing is a lot like that. You write and edit and write some more. You submit, spit, and polish all that you can. You research, print, and study the market over and over. Then, with a shaky hand, you open the mailbox and discover you didn't make the team. Your work isn't good enough. Better luck next manuscript. Better find a new job. Rinse, repeat.
Like the dream, some fall into the rainbow of fortune and streak off towards success. Others are met with closed doors, cold shoulders, and years of form-letter rejection. Some of these will make the signee class; some will not. The difference, I believe, lies in constancy, persevering until the bitter end. The belief that I will make it, that my stories are worth someone else's time, shall be the only explanation necessary when, 50 years from now, I am found shriveled and spent on the steps of Random House, clutching a freshly edited copy of the Orbon series.
So, let these dreams continue on into the night, and each morning I will awake and hope to find the reality much finer and the future much brighter.
...I walk into a room. The dim light and fancy furniture suggest its origins lie in the Victorian era. Lots of red and orange and candles and people fill my otherwise clouded view. A line forms in front of me, and I am suddenly carrying a packet of papers and forms. "Next!" and I am standing face to face with a balding, middle-aged gentleman and his young republican assistant. They both recognize me from my submission, and while I explain that I have no idea how they received my manuscript, the assistant politely begins a hushed conversation with the middle-aged man. An eternity slithers by. The young republican thanks me for my time, says they are not interested, but that the young woman over there might be. I turn and spot a 20something woman with reddish curly hair and black rimmed glasses sitting at a table near the farthest corner. She motions me over, and in the span of a brief interview, I am brought into the wonderful world of writer representation. Thirty minutes later, I am standing with my "signee class" (an older woman, a 30something blonde, and a mustached man). We are applauded by an unseen audience, and the lights go out.....
Obviously not true to life. Yet, as I reflect on it, I am reminded of my grade school days, getting picked over constantly for basketball, tackle-the-man, and baseball. For any young kid, those are watershed moments. I remember getting cut from the JV basketball team my sophomore year in high school; it was horrible. I fought back tears as I watched my friends suit up and head off to practice. I remember thinking, "When will it ever be my time?!"
Writing is a lot like that. You write and edit and write some more. You submit, spit, and polish all that you can. You research, print, and study the market over and over. Then, with a shaky hand, you open the mailbox and discover you didn't make the team. Your work isn't good enough. Better luck next manuscript. Better find a new job. Rinse, repeat.
Like the dream, some fall into the rainbow of fortune and streak off towards success. Others are met with closed doors, cold shoulders, and years of form-letter rejection. Some of these will make the signee class; some will not. The difference, I believe, lies in constancy, persevering until the bitter end. The belief that I will make it, that my stories are worth someone else's time, shall be the only explanation necessary when, 50 years from now, I am found shriveled and spent on the steps of Random House, clutching a freshly edited copy of the Orbon series.
So, let these dreams continue on into the night, and each morning I will awake and hope to find the reality much finer and the future much brighter.
posted by GB Miller at 12:37 PM
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