Sent my book to a potential agent. Got rejected. This is fine. It’s what I was expecting.
However. I’m having a moment.
How does one know that their book is terrible?
I realize that if you have to ask, you already know the answer.
People used to ask me, “How do I know if my kid is good enough to earn a sports scholarship?”
Honest answer: There’s no way in Hell your kid is good enough.
The fact that you asked tells me everything I need to know. If your kid was *that* good, believe me, you’d know it already.
But this begs the question of when it’s socially acceptable to continue writing just because you enjoy it. I mean, I would never tell someone not to swim just because they’re not as fast as I am. No one is as fast as I am. So what? But then, is it okay to ask your friends to read your stuff? Is it okay to self-publish? At what point does all of this become embarrassing?
Like, I can accept that I’m a good writer in the same way that the captain of my high school football team was good. Not playing at Alabama good, but y’know, good. Better than anyone at that high school, anyway. Just not good enough to play for the Chiefs or whatever.
This is not a problem. This is almost everyone’s experience with sports.
But writing isn’t exactly the same thing.
When I was a cadet, I used to write in notebooks. Fill one up, throw it in the trash, start a new one. I have always wondered if this wouldn’t have been the better long-term play.
Reality is that there was probably not ever anything that was gonna stop me from self-publishing my book. In many ways, that’s actually preferable.
I know how this works. Ten people will read it, six will like it, three will fucking LOVE it, and one guy will send me an email listing fifty reasons why it sucks. I got it.
Really, I’m just wondering how much I’m imposing on my friends’ patience these days.
No comments:
Post a Comment