I'm now fully convinced my novel is dreck. While I was writing it, I was actually engrossed. Maybe I just have bad taste. Or maybe the journey is the only reward. At least I felt productive and alive while I was doing it.
The rejections have been swift. I've tried a few different versions of my query letter, and my only conclusion is that it's my writing sample that's bad. Well, too late to change that. I write how I write.
I've already begun pondering self-publishing, but that's truly a dead-end. Truly. I've done it (under a pen name) and I don't recall selling one single copy. Perhaps if one has a fat wallet, they can promote the hell out of their book, but I have a wallet with perhaps a single dollar bill inside.
I can say definitively that the dream supersedes reality. "Oh, they'll really like this," I told myself after I wrote a particularly well-crafted passage. Dreams are fun.
So, what now? I started a new project this week, but my heart's not really in it. My only goal is to build up my library so when I set up my imaginary online bookstore I'll have more than one novel to push. I wish I was a faster writer. I could have three of them ready in the time it took me to finally finish one.
To anyone who's landed an agent, BIG KUDOS. You've accomplished the near-impossible. I would read your book, but then I'd only feel worse about my own writing, if that's even possible.
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