I remember this wall. It is the agents-and-editors-are-busy-people-who-get-swamped-with-submissions wall.
I learned about this wall when, right out of college, I sent out a bundle of hopeful article submissions and they, all except for one, bounced against the hard brick surface. I finally did get published and paid.
But exhaustion dampened the thrill. The reward was not nearly worth the amount of time and effort. Aspiring writers are instructed to keep trying no matter what the obstacles are so that, eventually, they will reap the long-sought rewards of editorial approval, a proud but probably meager paycheck, and the right to say, “Look. I was published.”
That common advice highlights to me how bleak – and sometimes demeaning – the landscape of traditional publishing is for writers. Many writers will put up with almost anything because the market is so flooded with those who dream of writing for a living, individuals writers have little leverage, regardless of their talent.
But I wanted to write. Had to write. Around the turn of the millennium, I had written my first novel and was eager to share it. Someone told me about something called print-on-demand publishing, an affordable way to self-publish. The dream of holding in my hand a novel I had written was within view. The no-headache, no-waiting, and no-rejection option appealed to me. It gave me a wonderful sense of being in control.
Overall, self-publishing was a great experience and I got a lot of glowing comments. But I never marketed my book much because, not long afterward, I had a severe manic episode that led to my diagnosis of bipolar disorder.
My retreating mania sprung me into a severe depression that left me blocked for over three years. I have already written about this in my blog and my book A Trail of Crumbs to Creative Freedom but I will recap it here.
Despite being blocked, I finally decided I was going to write anyway. I was going to force what was not coming naturally anymore even if the result was terrible. This effort was tedious. I was punishingly self-critical. I stared at the clock a lot. And the writing always came with an ache for how things used to be.
One day I could not get over the feeling that I was wasting my time in a way that was doing nothing to improve my writing and that was, instead, hurting me. What I was doing, the forcing, was not working. But the inspiration that had once made writing rewarding seemed forever lost.
I could not go on the way I was. I was either going to have to give up trying to do something I had once loved, or somehow change.
I did not know how to change, so I was seriously considering quitting writing and devoting my life to video games. But that kind of loss felt like death to me.
From somewhere inside me, a protest arose. Perhaps it was a tantrum from my inner eleven year old who had loved writing, and who saw in the act of writing a treasure that exceeded payment or any kind of approval from anyone.
For whatever reason, this impulse mutinied against the obstacles that had risen up against that natural early flow: the fear of making mistakes; the attempt to please the critics in my head; and the need for editorial authorities to validate my efforts.
My sensible inner “eleven year old” knew that she had been good at writing once. She had loved writing during times of terrible stress where writing had been the best thing in her life.
I credit her with shedding the fear that was blocking me. From that point I gave up forcing my writing. I gave up trying to write how others had said I was supposed to write.
I was going to go back to writing for fun. I was going to be recklessly silly if I felt like it, use trite expressions according to my whim, wallow in self-indulgence if I pleased, and anyone who disapproved could return to their creepy attic full of rule books and sneer at cobwebs.
In a childish way, it was like saying, “Mine. Writing is mine, not theirs.” And it changed everything.
I have had many pseudo-epiphanies and few truly life-changing moments, but the shift that happened on that day endured. To this day I do not have to force myself to write, and I stopped experiencing writing-induced mood crashes.
Because I was having fun, because I owned my writing, I wrote more, which made me a better writer. I was willing to go to any length to realize a creative vision that was my own.
After recovering from block and depression, I finished my second novel and began my blog. I also did some on-line freelancing and wrote my e-book A Trail of Crumbs to Creative Freedom about my escape from being blocked. I wrote it not just to share it with others, but to make sure I never forgot the lessons that had dug me out of creative drought.
I was in such a state of bliss that I could write again, I did not mind that I was earning little from it. For the first time in years, I felt like myself. I could have been content with just that, being able to access a part of my brain that had seemed closed off from me.
But I liked getting responses from readers. On the advice of someone I knew, I began posting my writing to the media hub Reddit. I wrote about ants and free speech and agnosticism. I wrote about my block and the shift in my thinking. I wrote about what had confused me about writing advice. I wrote as honestly as I could and the responses were overwhelmingly positive.
Many told me that what I wrote inspired them. I was thrilled. All the encouragement seemed to confirm that when I wrote what I loved and was honest, readers responded strongly.
Unfortunately my blog was expelled from Reddit because I was inadvertently breaking an unwritten rule against posting only my own work. But the experience of writing for a large audience who said “I like what you are doing. Keep going” made me think I really could write for a living.
I wanted to make a career out of writing so that I could do it forever, and the same is true now. Since I am more confident in my abilities than I used to be, I am now querying for agent representation to publish my new novel traditionally.
But once again I face the editorial wall. It has not changed. My queries bounce back at me and bop me on the nose. Again I am told that editors and agents are busy people who are “swamped” with submissions, most of which are dumped into a “slush pile.”
I am told that I should do extensive research to find out how to please them; that I should make my writing conform to a certain \”editorial voice\”; that I should include a note in my query comparing my book to a previous success they admire; and that I should look at previous books they have published to better understand what they are “looking for.”
I have a problem with my writing being what anyone is looking for.
At one time no one was looking for science fiction; it did not exist. And not long ago, paranormal romance was not a genre. No one was looking for it either. At one point an agent or publisher had to say, “This is not what I was looking for but I like this enough to take a chance on it.”
I am looking for an agent or publisher who is not “looking for” anything.
Rather than delivering the expected, I want to capture in words an image I have never seen described or tell a story I have never heard. I want to write well.
But querying makes me realize how much pressure there is to fit into an editorial mold, and I have to avoid asking the question, “How do I become what the agent is looking for?”
I seem to have come full circle, returned to the crossroads that led to my fateful decision years ago, to write for myself. It was the right decision then, and I cannot imagine myself making a different one now.
I sometimes wonder if what is behind The Wall is worth playing a game built on the premise I write to make industry \”experts\” happy. The philosophy that restored me to myself and has elicited such an enthusiastic response from readers runs counter to the “please at all costs” protocol of traditional publishing.
The source of my creativity, my skill, and my focus while writing has been my determination to remain myself.
The role of a writer is not to flesh out a template that already exists in the mind of an agent or editor. The best writing fulfills by surprising.
And if I have to self-publish again in order to accomplish that, I will.