As rain began to patter across my
windshield, I listened to a teacher in New York who was fired from
his job because he has Tourette's Syndrome. His distress and grief
came through and I felt for him. What,
I thought, a story.
Obviously,
it isn't a good story,
in that it isn't a story about good things. But it was a good story
because it had merit. It had worth. And I thought that it'd be so
nice if my life had that, too--a story of worth or merit.
That
isn't to say that my life is bereft of anything dramatic or
interesting. It's just that my life is so simple, so padded, so
convenient that I hardly notice the bumps as bumps--they all feel
like mass potholes when, in reality, they're mostly just pebbles.
I
guess a large part of it is that I spend so much time talking about
writing and teaching others about writing and thinking about writing
that I never sit down and hammer out sentences, putting one letter
after another until the page is blank.
Part
of this feeling comes from a couple of milestones: One, I started
revising Writ in Blood
a while ago and have tucked away just over a quarter of it. It hasn't
been easy; the story is stale to me, having gone through it so often.
I'm ready to be done with it, but only my own pigheadedness is
letting me push through.
Two,
in a week or two I'll be 'celebrating' my anniversary of having
finished the book. I was without quidditch back then, so my Saturdays
were filled with writing. I still remember--quite vividly--the
feeling of wandering around UVU trying to finish the book once I got
kicked out of the library. Now I'm wandering around, wondering how in
the world I can balance everything I want--while knowing that I
can't.
Three,
I did submit to an agent in New York.
Four,
I did get rejected by an agent in New York.
Five,
I talked with Brandon Sanderson for about an hour and a half this
week, listening to him share his experiences about publishing. He
read over the first page of my book (which was really exciting,
though for me, when I'm really, really
excited, I'm rather calm and collected--unless it involves roaring at
dinosaurs). I thought he'd have dozens of small recommendations on
how I could tweak it and slim it down.
He
didn't have one.
In
fact, he called it dense, poetic, and contemplative--which he meant
neither as a compliment (which is how I took it, since that's what my
book's about) nor as an insult. His point was that the writing was
good--it just might have a hard time selling. There's nothing wrong
with starting books out with dense, poetic, and contemplative prose,
but that's going to be hard for others to jump into. It's worth it (I
like to think), but it isn't easy. And, since I have no brand name to
lever, it's a majorly uphill battle.
He
told me to write another book.
Six,
we're expecting our third kid this July, and I always seem to start a
new book when a new kid is born--something I had mentioned
before--and he said, jokingly, that I was going to do it anyway, so I
may as well.
So I'm
at this really distinct point at my life: I may have pushed this book
as far as I can get it (except for the final revisions, of course),
and I may have enjoyed my quidditch life as long as I can. With a new
baby on the way, a thirtieth birthday celebrated, and another school
year (almost) down, I can't really see the pathway forward.
As the
rain came down on my car, I almost envied the man who had lost his
job to Tourette. I guess it feels like my life has writer's
block--but at least he still has something to say.
Comments