I'm revising Scrap. I'm going to start sending it back out. What an awful prospect.
Revising is an exaggeration. I'm editing it as per my editor's (from Pugilist) suggestion.
I started this edit shortly after I got the comments from her in July -- or, at least, I read them through, and opened up my computer -- then the press shut down; we all know this.
I had a look at them in September and again in October, twice in November, and I vowed not to leave the house in December until the draft was complete -- that didn't work at all. But now I've completed the draft and I'm sending it out.
Sending out damaged goods.
When I sent out the ms. in 2009 and 2010, I felt fucking fantastic about the work. I was dumbstruck each time a press declined, each time I did not win a contest. Unbelievable . . . who wouldn't want to publish this work?
Today, I'm dubious. I've lost confidence. I've never faced this crisis as a writer before. As a high school athlete, sure. As an engineering major, of course. As a lover, bet your ass. As a grad student, every day for five-and-a-half years. As a writer, rejection always saddened me, but made me want to write more, and, more to the point, to write better.
But there's something about losing a book after eight months of feeling pretty sure I had a book that has really wrecked me psychically.
I doubt myself. I doubt my work.
But I'm sending it out. I guess a really good way to get over this for-shit feeling would be to get a book published. So, of course, that's floating around in the front of my mind -- it was good enough already for what looked to be a really great press, it will happen again -- as long as rumor hasn't gotten around London yet that Scrap isn't virtuous.
Bad place for a Downton Abbey reference? I suppose so. Even as my metaphors gather in strength, my allusions huddle in the basement of some other master's servants. Crud, it sounded good, but it doesn't mean anything.
Hell.
I'm sending it out, and would like for it to get published, but would like, also, to be rid of it. Even in early August, I had 80,000 words of an historical novel written. 80,000 words which were, in fact, the basis of my post-doctoral fellowship application. I tried to enter into that text after the bad news from Pugilist, but it was futile. Not just the novel, but the pursuit, the writing. I had my most serious doubts of walking away from creative writing entirely. I'm pretty good at teaching lit classes, and I love comp. Who needs to bother with writing fiction, impossible, after all, as it is?
But I'm healing. I've spent this past week revising and preparing submissions. I'm ready to jump back into my Pithole with my pen blazing. I don't have a timeline, but I am going to reread what I have, dive into my research, and finish this book.
I'll keep us all updated on my progress.
Revising is an exaggeration. I'm editing it as per my editor's (from Pugilist) suggestion.
I started this edit shortly after I got the comments from her in July -- or, at least, I read them through, and opened up my computer -- then the press shut down; we all know this.
I had a look at them in September and again in October, twice in November, and I vowed not to leave the house in December until the draft was complete -- that didn't work at all. But now I've completed the draft and I'm sending it out.
Sending out damaged goods.
When I sent out the ms. in 2009 and 2010, I felt fucking fantastic about the work. I was dumbstruck each time a press declined, each time I did not win a contest. Unbelievable . . . who wouldn't want to publish this work?
Today, I'm dubious. I've lost confidence. I've never faced this crisis as a writer before. As a high school athlete, sure. As an engineering major, of course. As a lover, bet your ass. As a grad student, every day for five-and-a-half years. As a writer, rejection always saddened me, but made me want to write more, and, more to the point, to write better.
But there's something about losing a book after eight months of feeling pretty sure I had a book that has really wrecked me psychically.
I doubt myself. I doubt my work.
But I'm sending it out. I guess a really good way to get over this for-shit feeling would be to get a book published. So, of course, that's floating around in the front of my mind -- it was good enough already for what looked to be a really great press, it will happen again -- as long as rumor hasn't gotten around London yet that Scrap isn't virtuous.
Bad place for a Downton Abbey reference? I suppose so. Even as my metaphors gather in strength, my allusions huddle in the basement of some other master's servants. Crud, it sounded good, but it doesn't mean anything.
Hell.
I'm sending it out, and would like for it to get published, but would like, also, to be rid of it. Even in early August, I had 80,000 words of an historical novel written. 80,000 words which were, in fact, the basis of my post-doctoral fellowship application. I tried to enter into that text after the bad news from Pugilist, but it was futile. Not just the novel, but the pursuit, the writing. I had my most serious doubts of walking away from creative writing entirely. I'm pretty good at teaching lit classes, and I love comp. Who needs to bother with writing fiction, impossible, after all, as it is?
But I'm healing. I've spent this past week revising and preparing submissions. I'm ready to jump back into my Pithole with my pen blazing. I don't have a timeline, but I am going to reread what I have, dive into my research, and finish this book.
I'll keep us all updated on my progress.
Of course, you'll send this big-essay out too.
ReplyDeleteHey Fella, I've read it, which you know, and I offered some comments, which you know, and I hope those were useful, so shut up and do what must be done...
ReplyDeleteHmmmm, Nik, I hadn't even thought of this writing as something that might end up some other place. I'll keep my eyes open, though. That would be fun.
ReplyDeleteMeanwhile. Dear, Rock, if that is your real name. You wanted a more vivid setting to begin with . . . well I wrote these new first three paragraphs for you:
ReplyDeleteFirst shifts crowds around the time clock waiting to punch out while the rest of us hope maybe a meteor will touch down or, at least, nuclear war will break out. The hottest part of the day just passed outside, but these walls of steel and stone hold the heat, push it back against our bodies in this cramped break room with its half dozen picnic tables, twenty guys smoking cigarettes, a tiny radio playing fuzzy Garth Brooks. Weaver flicks a peanut at Lager a few tables over, the last bits of play before the twelve hour shift sets in.
A couple of the guys talk quietly about past and future fishing trips, but those things don’t exist. The only things in our world are our steel-toed boots and whatever kind of crap we shove in ourselves to get through the shift. The day outside is bright. The overhead lights are bright. The mill hums and rests for fifteen minutes in between shifts, and everybody in here feels every second go by. Everybody in here anticipates and dreads the start of the work day. Equal parts let’s get this over with and please, god, not now.
Stan tromps into the break room and waves away the smoke. “Jesus Christ,” he says, and I’ll bet a million people or better have taken up smoking just to piss off a boss. I blow a steady stream in the air and snub my butt. Stan reads off stations, calls out even the names of the set-up guys who work different machines less often than quarterbacks play tight end.
*Also I killed some of the academic speak -- in short, your feedback has been very helpful.