PenteKing’s BodyBlog

As you may or may not know (it really doesn’t matter), I fancy myself a novelist. I’ve completed five (count ‘em, boys and girls - 5!) novels of varying lengths. They are titled (in order of completion) - Graves’ Tomb; Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children; White Rabbit; Venus in Sackcloth and The Garage Sale.

Like any wannabe novelist, I’ve polished and rewritten, and then polished and rewritten some more. I’ve showed them to friends and family. I’ve shared them with members of my writers’ groups (many during the course of the years). I’ve written and written and then written some more.

Today, I received another rejection. I can’t tell you how many of these things I’ve collected, because I’ve stopped counting. (And that’s a good thing because otherwise I’d become suicidal.) It’s been more than twenty years now since my first submission, and I have to face the fact that the publishing world simply does not give a rat’s ass about my work. I’ve been weighed in the balance and found wanting. I’m not the literary genuis I imagined myself to be. I’m a hack, stringing together words that NO ONE will ever see in the solitary confines of my home office.

Twenty years. You know what the worst part is? All that time I spent churning out those novels that no one will ever read - those are minutes I’m never going to get back. 

This entry was posted on Monday, March 17th, 2008 at 8:20 pm and is filed under Training. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.