. . .Seriously?
Years before I sold my first novel, What Every Girl Except me Knows, I went to a writing conference in New Jersey. It was mostly attended by women–those conferences usually are- but one of the breakout sessions was led by a male editor at a small New York publishing house. Following his talk was a Q&A. Hands flew up.
What was trending?
"By the time a book comes out in print, that trend has passed."
Which is more important, plot or character?
"Both."
Can you tell us the most common mistakes?
"One-dimensional characters and no driving plot."
Number one thing that makes you put down a manuscript immediately?
"Endlessly pointless minutiae."
Then, someone asked the question we were all really there to hear answered, "What is the best path to getting published?" And the editor had an answer. “The chances of getting published are slim. You need to write for the joy of writing itself,” he said, “That’s what a real writer does.”
Some of the women nodded as if hearing the word of God. Others stared off, dejectedly, into space. While the ones who had been diligently taking notes the whole time started packing up their notebook in resignation.
But I got angry.
It was late. I was tired and hungry. I had a long drive back to Connecticut. Here was a man with a paying job, talking to women whom he clearly considered dilittants, hobbyist, housewives with husbands to support them. (In my case that was true and certainly not to be taken for granted. But should that really have mattered?)
I raised my hand. After all, what did I have to lose? Well, other than blowing any chance of submitting to this particular editor. He likely thought that most of us were talentless, with too much time on our hands, anyway.
“If you were talking to a room full of men,” I asked. “Do you think you’d be saying the same thing–don’t worry about publishing, just do it for fun?”
To be honest, I don’t remember his answer. He probably ignored me, but I drove home in the dark, mulling it all over in my head. What exactly was irking me, other than his patronizing, condescending tone. Was it wrong to want desperately to be published? Was I not a true artist because I wanted to be paid for my work?
In the days and weeks that followed my feelings intensified, until one day I unleashed my insecurities upon the critique group I had belonged to for over a year.
What if we knew now that we were never going to be published? I mean, it’s not like if you wait in line long enough eventually your turn comes. It’s not a guarantee. Just wanting something badly enough doesn’t mean you’re ever going to get it.
There was no stopping me.
The following week, the group called for an emergency meeting. It was suggested that I consider no longer attending.
Yes, I was kicked out.
After weeping and feeling sorry for myself for the appropriate length of time, I doubled down with renewed determination. I made a few promises to myself.
One, I would never continually send out the same work over and over and over, as if: This is my masterpiece. I won’t give up until it is bought.
Two, as soon as I mailed out one submission, I would begin working on something new.
And three, I would continue taking classes and workshops and I would read everything, both the good and the bad, believing there was as much to learn from reading poor writing— what not to do— as there was from reading great writing.
After Lunch Bunch, before my kids got home from school, early mornings, late evenings, sitting at baseball practices— I wrote. And I wrote. And I kept writing.
So in August of 2000, when Maria Modugno, a senior editor at Little, Brown & Company, said she wanted to buy my manuscript, it wasn’t because I had waited in the proverbial line long enough and my turn had finally come up. It wasn’t because I wall-papered my office with the prerequisite number of rejection letters. It wasn’t because the right editor— finally!— read the masterpiece I had written twenty years earlier. And it certainly wasn't because I had written only for the joy of writing itself.
It was because I had a certain degree of talent to begin with and, yes, a huge passion for the writing process itself. It was because I wanted to get published so badly that I worked really hard, and my writing improved and eventually I wrote a better story, a story good enough to get published. And it was because I never gave up.
That’s what a real writer does.
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