Disappointment and Perseverance

PS--turns out, neither of the words in the title of this post are ones I can spell correctly without help.

Got a rejection yesterday. From an agent who I'd done two revisions for, who had my MSS exclusively for ten months.

It stung.

She didn't give lots of reasons, other than she didn't feel it was competitive enough. Or, strong enough to be competitive. And I can respect that, as a reason. I have lots of other conflicting emotions about the way she (and, to be honest, I) handled the whole process. But the bottom line is, she didn't love my book. It wasn't what she thought it could be. Is she right? I wish I knew.

The adrenaline rush of bad news was pretty productive. I revised my query and sent out a new batch (and got a rejection--with a nice PS!). It feels good to have it out there with other agents, even if just queries are out there. Meanwhile, I need to work on my WIP, and I am so much more motivated than yesterday.

So, I'm not giving up. Not on writing. Not on Webs. But...

What if she's right? What if it isn't competitive? What if...

And its always the what ifs that'll kill you. In writing. In life. And, I've decided, oh well. I mean, what? I fail? Isn't that the point I'm at right now? How will continuing to try make it more true?

I'm simplifying. The tricky bit about writing is it takes time. Time you're not cleaning, playing with kids, or doing any of the hundreds of other things I've got on my plate. People suffer. Okay, mostly my husband suffers. Is it fair to him? To me? How much time do I dedicate to something I may not get anything out of.

So I've decided to (drumroll) cut off (or at least way, way down) the tv. I mean, if its time I'm worried about what sucks more time than that? And no more web surfing. No MSN Entertainment. No Yahoo! OMG. And, maybe, for a bit, no more twitter? We'll see. Time is a funny thing. Some people cross-stitch. Not that I have anything against needlework, but I'm not sure eighty hours on an I-love-you-beary-much picture is really a more productive waste hobby than writing something maybe no one will ever see.

So I write. More. And I'm kind of happy again. It is nice not to have a feeling like the other shoe is about to fall. You know what? It fell. I survived.