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In 1995 my book-doctored historical
romance was being actively marketed by my agent, the sequel
was completed, and the final book of the trilogy was in the
outline stage. I joined RWA and WRW to network the business
side of things. I made contacts with other authors, smugly
smiling to myself because my writing career was taking off.
Life was good.
When I was soundly rejected in every market,
my agent announced a new side business of printing books and
offered to print my book if I was interested. Having been
through the self-publication process with a family history
several years earlier, I declined.
My analytical brain took
charge. I have two college degrees and the necessary connections
through my romance author's association, so why did I need
an agent? From this brilliant insight came the Year of the
Editor. Valiantly I marketed my second historical. Whenever
a rejection came in, I mailed out a letter to the next publishing
house on the list. One year later, I had three unpublished
historical manuscripts.
At the next yearly WRW meeting I chanced
to hear a passing remark and almost forgot to breathe. The
time period I had selected for my historical stories (1900-1920)
did not count in the true historical market. I met with polite
editors at the conference who hesitantly agreed to look at
my work. But, the setting problem worried me.
The next year
was the Year of the Rewrite. I moved all three stories to
an earlier time(1860 to 1880). This was no small feat due
to all the period research involved. My romance author friends
supported me through e-mail, and my family assumed I was receiving
nourishment from the computer because of my umbilical-like
attachment to the thing.
As I was launching my writing career,
my daughters were graduating high school, my house and yard
work stacked up, my husband's understanding wore thin, and
of course, there was my day job as a scientist. My rational
side began to war with my artistic side. I didn't even know
I had this split personality kind of thing until I began attending
writer's meetings. Was I an author? It didn't feel like it.
Out of the blue I discovered another way to get professional
feedback. The next year was the Year of the Contest. I judged
contests. I entered contests. Rejection reached a whole new
level of pain. My motivations weren't strong enough. My characters
were too melodramatic. But where was this place I was writing
about? My peers all wanted to go there.
A future writing travel
brochures was not what I had in mind. I needed help like a
junkie needed a fix. Wasn't I an author? Where would an author
get help?
Along came the Year of the Critique Group. Actually
the Critique Group only lasted six months but I got two strong
leads out of the group. First off, our goal was to target
a line and write a story that met all of that line's requirements.
It sounded so easy, so rational. Why hadn't I thought of this
before? Secondly, three other romance authors were quite certain
that my writing voice was contemporary. I argued that I loved
reading historicals. They countered that reading and writing
were two very different things. Understanding dawned. I could
change. I was an author.
After trying for two months to rewrite
one of my historicals as a contemporary, I went on to craft
a new category romance. The feedback for the outline and opening
chapters of the book from my critique partners was positive.
I slogged on through the chill of winter creating my marketing
masterpiece.
Rejected again. And with a story that was unique
to only one market. How could I have been so shortsighted?
Would a real author have made such a mistake?
My brain chugged
to a start. The problem must be that I didn't know enough
about what I was doing. Lucky for me, the national meeting
of RWA was in DC that year. The Year of Education brought
smiles to my credit card company. I bought every book known
to man about writing, several on police work, the Merck Manual,
reference books on personalities, herbs, and Maryland. I had
no idea where I was going, but I wasn't going to be stupid
again.
My next contemporary manuscript was set in my oldest
daughter's college town. I did on-site research at Parent's
Weekend and through the Internet. I knew the names of all
the roads, restaurants, hospitals, and hotels. This story
was peddled to agents, editors, and went through a contest
or two. Rejections abounded but something interesting happened
with my contest scores. Instead of getting mediocre marks,
I was now getting very high and very low marks. My writing
friends said I was an author and not to let the low marks
bother me.
Working with a therapeutic riding center gave me
my next book idea. This story meant a lot to me and I felt
quite strongly about the subject. This spawned the Year of
the Query Letter. I set about writing the most interesting,
most provocative, most compelling query letter of all time
to market my completed horse story. Ten out of eleven publishing
houses weren't interested. But one house, and I reminded myself
that it only takes one, said it was a very promising romance
and if I'd be willing to change this, this, and this, they
would like to see it again.
I was stunned. Voices whispered
in my head: I am an author. I might even be published if I
get this right.
I reread the personalized response twenty
times and wondered if it was appropriate to frame the letter.
It wasn't an offer, but it was validation. And I would apply
myself wholeheartedly toward reaching this new goal.
After
all, I am an author. Life is good.
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