I had a discouraging day yesterday.

I don’t expect anyone to keep track, heck, I can’t keep track half the time. But I got another rejection of my book from another editor with another publishing house.

I’ve read the stories of how long it has taken well-known authors to sell their first novel. A publisher has to put a lot of money into a new book, and the odds are slim that a writer’s first book will ever earn that money back. Publishers know this and so they are understandably cautious.

You would think I would be used to rejection by now. Before I was even able to have my book read by publishers, I had to find an agent, and they are swamped with letters from writers who want the same thing I do — to see their book out in the world.

Now that I have my wonderful agent, Annie, she is putting a lot of time into editing and working to sell my book, and she makes no money at all until the book sells. It is a long process. Everything takes months and months, and in the meantime, I keep writing, because that is the only part of the process I have any control over at all.

So, when I got an “update” from Annie yesterday, I knew from the subject line of the email it would not be good news. The note read:

“Hi Annie,

Thank you for the opportunity to read Carrie’s work. She is a talented writer, and I love the premise for this, but I didn’t connect with the characters quite as strongly as I’d hoped. It is with regret that I am a pass, but I hope you land the perfect home for this (or perhaps already have!).”

I added this rejection to a file I keep with the previous rejection letters. Sometimes I read the comments later and, generally, I don’t get too discouraged. But yesterday I did.

I was grumpy, and I felt more than a little sorry for myself. So I took a day off. Instead of writing, I went for a long walk.

And, as I was walking, I suddenly thought of my best friend who died seven years ago. She was only 50 years old when she died, and I never met a person who was more alive. I thought of how she would chew me out for wasting even part of one day feeling sorry for myself.

“Take a teaspoon of cement, Princess, and harden up!” she would have said.

She was very good about saying things like that whenever I complained that what I was doing was too difficult. I missed her no-nonsense advice, her never-ending encouragement.

“I sure could use you now,” I thought.

And at that moment, I realized I had lost sight of a really important thing. Of course, I write because it makes me happy. But the reason writing makes me happy is because I think the stuff I write might be useful.

Maybe my writing will make somebody smile. Maybe someone will feel less alone. Maybe it will be used to line the bottom of a birdcage. But whatever happens, I’m hoping it will be useful in some small way.

It’s not really about me. Or, as my beloved friend would say when I got too full of myself, “Buy some lumber, build a bridge, and get over yourself!”

She was good at that, as I mentioned. She was good at reminding me of what matters and, seven years later, she is still so very useful.

Till next time,

Carrie

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