I’ve been under the humungous naïve preconception that the writing of my book was going to be the hardest work out of all hard-works in the entire process to publication. Hence my highly premature and over-excited recent posts. Well look, I’m allowed to celebrate that part, it is exciting. But I just thought the greatest toil and turmoil was over…
How wrong I was.
My purchase of, subsequent thinking-of-when-to-read, followed by my starting-to-read Fifty Shades of Grey, has coincided with the research of all things that will get me on the road to getting published.
As I stared at the book on the coffee table, thinking I should read it when I finish my King one, I was in the midst of looking into agents/publishing houses/solicited manuscripts vs. unsolicited manuscripts: and I didn’t feel good about what I was reading at all.
Then I would go back to staring at the Grey book, and the thought of it made me sick. I couldn’t work it out. Why was the thought of reading it making me feel wrong, unhappy, unwell, repulsed even? It had nothing to do with the content of the book – hell I thoroughly enjoy sex and think it an exceptionally vital part of life. It wasn’t that, I was very well aware of the content, as advised by Blonde.
No, it was something else. When I was reading Twilight, I was thinking of writing, thinking of what to write and where to start, however I still allowed myself to be absorbed in the story and become captivated, even a bit obsessed by it.
This time, I’ve started reading Grey following the completion of my story. Following Hubbie having read the 1st four pages of it, and having Mum read the entire thing (in one go, see previous post). Also following the fear of seeing it in hard copy, following the antagonism of realising I can edit more of it, and following Hubbie telling me “look, I don’t read, but there’s a lot of explaining in here…” … following from comments like that, intense DOUBT creeping in.
I was so consumed in the world of my book for such a long time. Hearing about Grey's author supposedly earning 1 million a week for her series, hearing about the book continuously on the radio, and having people I know read and like it, and recommend me to like it, has left me feeling…
Crap. Sick. A bit jealous? Gosh I hate that emotion. And a little part of me is scared. Terrified even.
Why?
Because I don’t want to get obsessed about another’s work… even though finishing chapter 3 of Grey last night I feel I well and truly am on my way. Getting obsessed in another's world, when I should be in my own… does it mean my world’s not good enough? Who will be enthralled by the world I’ve created, when so many are currently consumed by Grey?
Ahhhh! I hate the way I’m thinking! I HATE IT! But unfortunately, I can’t stop the feelings.
I coach myself. I say “Miss S., you can’t compare your book to Grey. It’s a completely different genre.”
“Miss S., there are no limitations in this world, only the ones you impose on yourself. There are enough authors and stories to go around.”
“Miss S., you don’t over explain. It’s called establishing. Hubbie would know that if he read books.”
But none of those arguments hold any weight. I know that because the same sick, heavy feeling remains. Unmoving, just sitting, THERE, in the pit of my stomach.
Deep breath.
Throwing oil on the flame is the fact that apparently:
Many publishers don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Many agents only accept writers with a contract (which you get through a publisher) or writers who have been published before.
And the ugly circle of being screwed in the middle with no place to go begins.
I have neither of the above. The only light I get from the above info - which I gained from another blog - (which in its sum was actually quite positive about the publishing process, inspiring hope and all) was the operative word in both statements. Most. There are publishers that accept unsolicited manuscripts, and there are agents that are looking for new, raw, undiscovered talent. And every undiscovered writer in Australia wants to be that one needle in the haystack, that unpolished gem that’s found by a hard-nosed and passionate agent/publisher.
I’m part of that passionate (desperate almost, even?) bunch of undiscovered writers that wants to be published. Fuck yeah I am. I’m freaking shitty with myself now for even writing the previous doubt-inducing, sad, woeful sentences that came before this.
Mofos, I will do this. I will succeed. Yes there is work to be done, research to be had. Yes there are no rainbows shooting out of my book to catch the expectant and hopeful eye of some passing agent/publisher. But if they’re not shooting now, I will make them shoot, and shoot far and wide they will.
And I refuse to belittle myself with jealousy games. I will read ALL 3 Fifty Shades books, and I know I will enjoy it. I will not reduce myself to stupidity because I had a momentary moment of feeling threatened. I’m NOT threatened: Grey writer deserves the success, the attention, and the money. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.
She WON’T be the last. Because I’m coming mother-fuckers.
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