The weather is beautiful today. Sunny, over 60 degrees, and the trees are beginning to bud for Spring. The day lends itself to a sunnier post, but I’ve been thinking about this, so I’ll just go with what I’ve already outlined for today. To wit…
While enduring the misery of rejection after rejection, I started considering hanging-up this whole “writing” thing. I mean, it’s hard enough without the emotional rigmarole. And while it’s true that I could have a decent career self-publishing, and that self-publishing really is the future of the publishing industry, part of me still believes that the whole self-publishing-wave-of-the-future bit is something self-published authors tell themselves so they feel better.
I’m a snob. I can’t help it. I was raised to be ambitious, and I am naturally driven. Plus, I didn’t get into this business to be mediocre, which is where I seem to be stuck at the moment. I got in this to do well. Really well. Maybe not Stephenie Meyer well, but Christopher Paul Curtis well, which is well enough that people would know my name, or at least my books, and that my peers would respect me.
Well, that is definitely NOT what’s happening. So I’m left considering sucking it up and dealing with what I’ve got, or just calling it quits. And it brings to mind the snobbery I encounter sometimes at writer’s conferences from other writers. The you’ve only had ONE book published kind of snobbery.* A kind of snobbery that I hope I NEVER subscribe to.
In some ways, I kind of understand it. Having more than one novel published is a major feat. Hell, having one novel published is akin to winning the lottery, and having two or more is like having lightning strike you in the same spot on consecutive days. So it might behoove me to call it a day. I’d be in good company. Other one-book wonders include:
Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird), Margaret Mitchell (Gone with the Wind), Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights), Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray), Anna Sewell (Black Beauty), Boris Pasternak (Doctor Zhivago).
Angel’s Grace isn’t a classic like the ones above, all of which I’ve read, except for Zhivago, but it is a classic to me, because it’s mine. And at the moment, it stands alone.
(* I realize I have had more than one book published, but here, I’m talking about my fiction, the stuff I’d write even if no one was paying me to write it.)