One More Time
I was frothing with surprise and delight for a while today.
The morning’s email brought interest from three agents. They wanted to see more material from April Showers 1921, a surprise. I thought that all interest from the first round of submissions had died (accomplished in October, 2019). I was regrouping for another round of submissions.
I also thought how odd it was that these agent things happen in clumps. But then, I submit in clumps, and the agents describe similar processes and response times. It shouldn’t be a surprise when they respond in clumps.
What WAS a surprise was an agent expressing interest in Four on Kyrios, the first novel of the Incomplete States series (five books). I submitted to her in February, 2019, ten months ago.
(A pause to consider that I’d finished writing a five novel series last year (Incomplete States, 430,000 words), and then wrote a novel earlier this year (April Showers 1921, 180,000 words), and now I’m finishing a third book (To Begin, 73,000 words so far). And yes, that does please me. Plodding along at about five pages a day does start adding up. Especially when I remember that Incomplete States and all of its support documents (side stories, character, planet, and cultural histories, etc) added up to one million words.)
Although it’s exciting to receive the emails from the agents, after reflecting, I thought, well, I’ll do my writing session today, and then try to respond to these agents tonight. I wasn’t being contrary or sabotaging myself, but in thinking through where I was and who I am, I enjoy the writing process, I’m enjoying writing the current novel, and I have momentum. (The muses are being friendly and I don’t want to alienate them.) So, although my goal is to find publication for those previously written novels, writing the current novel entices me more.
It’s a curious sensation. Yeah, I seek publication beyond the self-publishing of the four novels that I’ve already done. The agent interest is validation, in one sense; someone is interested! In another sense, I shrug; I’ve always written for myself, creating mysteries and logic problems for me to solve, building and expanding worlds in my mind, and discovering characters who emerge as people to me.
I’m also a tinge jaded, reconciling myself, yeah, you’ve been shown interest by agents and editors before, and it’s come to naught. (Really, are you so cynical, Michael?)
Yes, I am. More than cynicism, in the course of writing novels and following a quest to be a better thinker, story-teller, and writer, I’ve fallen out of concern about what others think about my writing. I can argue that some of that is self-preservation (and perhaps a tincture of imposter syndrome). See, if I don’t get excited, then I’ll be less dejected if the agents decline my project. That’s the theory.
It’s also short-sighted; being in a bubble of my own thinking, reading, writing, and criticism means that I don’t receive feedback that could help me grow.
Yes, true.
So, being cynical, jaded, short-sighted, and dubious, writing, with all of its challenges and frustrations, is more immediately rewarding and satisfying. Solving these self-made issues generates a sweet dopamine infusion. Perhaps that’s the lesson — and warning — that I should really find in my response today: I’m a writing addict, looking for a quick fix.
Today’s news does want me to treat myself to a scone or muffin. Comfort food, I believe, to help cope; the potential for advancing also carries the angst and burden of failure. Have something to eat, right? It’s a humorous pattern.
Yet, again…there was that time when I came across a woman reading my novel at a Starbucks here in my town, a cool experience. I’ve received feedback from readers about how my they’ve enjoyed something I’ve written, which was a powerful jolt to the ego. Multiple those intangible rewards by the potential that being published on a larger scale could bring.
Also in passing, though, I do enjoy reading my own work. It’s fun to read what I’ve written, and it often surprises me. I understand what that says about my process and being in the tube. What was originally conceived and written (in my methodology) frequently evolves under editing, revising, refinement, and polishing. I write to know what I think, and I rewrite to clarify it and deal with loopholes in my thinking (and plotting and problem solving).
As a final piece, of course; this is me, today. Me, tomorrow, or yesterday — or even later today — might respond differently. Moods (and the hopes and expectations related to them) are dynamic. Hence, I needed to write all of this out just to think about it, a prelude, perhaps, to discovering how I feel.
Well, it’s all thinking fodder. Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Got to feed that addiction, you know?
Bang Bang Bang
I had three agents interested in April Showers 1921. Bang, bang, bang, all three came back yesterday and this morning, and said, “Thanks, I’m passing.”
Bang.
Conspiracy, I thought. They’re all conspiring against me. Then —
Rejection.
Dejection.
Frustration.
Depression.
Shrug.
Reset.
Go on.
Check on the other places where I’ve submitted. Remember that three out of the original twenty (which later turned out to be eighteen) were interested, not a great percentage (let’s not do the math, okay?), but still, somebody. Hey, I’m a writer. I’m required to be moody, temperamental, pessimistic, optimistic, and stubborn. At least, that’s what my muses insist.
Meanwhile, there are other agents. I’ll submit to them.
Meanwhile, there’s another novel being written, and it’s a lot of damn fun.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Wednesday’s Theme Music
Today’s song popped into my stream as I was walking and remembering my dreams. It’s a fitting rebellion song for teenagers, husbands, wives, dejected voters…whatever.
Dredged up from 1984, here’s Twisted Sister with “We’re Not Gonna Take It”. Sing out, dance out, flex, break out.
What do you want to do with your life?
A Topsy-Turvy Dream
Last night’s dream dragged me through a gamut of feelings — uplifting, frustrating, enervating, and energizing. It was just like writing a novel.
Here’s a little set-up. This dream was apparently a sequel, or part of a series. In a previous dream, I’d driven an exotic high-performance sports car. I had a great time with it, but while cutting through traffic, I lightly clipped another car. I need it in the dream, but I was having too much fun to care. I thought, who cares? It’s a dream. Enjoy it.
My dream last night began with me with my wife in our home. I received a document in the mail. Opening it, I found a letter from my previous employer, IBM. It was signed by like sixteen people, including a senior VP. The letter had a photograph of me in the car in the previous dream. A video played when I pressed on it, showing the moment when I clipped the other car and drove away. It had a clear image of my dismissive grin. The letter said, “Is this you? Please call.” A phone number was provided.
Shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit. My wife was going to be pissed. I figured that I’d damaged something that belonged to IBM, they found out, and know they wanted me to pay. It’d probably be a substantial amount, and that’s what I thought would piss my wife off.
So I didn’t want her to know. Concealing the letter from her, I called the number. A cold female voice on the other end confirmed who I was, that it was me in the photo (or video), and told me the senior VP wanted to talk to me. An appointment was set.
I went in like I was being sentenced to death. IBM HQ was huge and busy. I stumbled around, lost, until I managed to get to where I needed to be. After I identified myself, the woman behind the desk left and came back with a man. Here it comes, I thought.
He confirmed who I was and that it was me in the vehicle, and then said, “We want to give you a job. The elan you demonstrated in this vehicle was just what we’re looking for. My boss will be out to talk to you about your pay, benefits, and the project, and then we’ll see if we can make a deal.”
Hot damn, I was so surprised and excited. I couldn’t believe it. What good luck. I was looking forward to telling my wife.
But a few minutes later, the woman came out and said, “Sorry, there’s been a change of plans. We’ve decided we don’t want to hire you. Have a nice day.”
Talk about flipping me over. I tried to talk her into another chance but she dismissed me and walked off.
Hurt, angry, and bitter, I left. Instead of walking, I took a train to my car. The train was packed, and I seemed to be in everyone’s way, which was like an anchor on my soul. Arriving at my stop, I left the train and trudged up the steps from the platform into the parking building. Thick burgundy carpeting covered the steps. I was the only one going up them. As I reached the top steps, I discovered a heavy burgundy overcoat. It was obviously expensive. Picking it up, I thought, I need to turn this in or find its owner.
I stepped into the upper level. Burgundy carpeting covered the wide, broad room. A group of men hustled toward me. They were talking about a basketball game. One of them, a short, bald man, seemed to be senior, as they obviously deferred to him. All were carrying briefcases, but he was dressed in a three-piece burgundy suit.
Stopping him, I said, “Excuse me, is this your coat?”
Surprised, he said, “Yes, it is. Where’d you get it? I’ve been looking for it.”
“I found it on the stairs,” I said.
“My goodness, well, thank you for finding it for me. I really appreciate it.”
He reminded me of the proctologist in the Seinfeld Ass Man episode, officially called “Fusilli Jerry”. “You’re welcome,” I said.
He then went to put the coat on, but his hands were full with bags. I said, “Here, let me help you.”
As I helped put him put his coat on, he laughed and said, “Well, thank you. You’re a fine young man.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. He and I turned to go in our separate directions. As we did, one of the other men called to him. Hearing the name, I realized that it was the senior VP that I was supposed to meet, who never met me.
Turning around, I watched him walk away, and felt better, because I thought we were going to meet again.
The dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 