People, I am in trouble.
A couple of years ago, I started writing a novel about a deeply personal family experience. I added a ghost to the novel although there was none in my personal life, unelss you’re talking about the kind of ghost that lives in your memory. The novel has made the rounds of three publishers in the last 18 months, and I have steadily revised it based on their feedback (and the rejections that followed). I’m now nearing the end of the umpteenth revision, and Nathan Bransford posts this.
I know that there are exceptions to every rule. Just because my story has a ghost in it does not necessarily mean that it’s a dud, but after rejections from three major houses, including the woman who published my first novel, I am seriously quaking in my boots. And here’s the next thing. The other novel I’ve been writing? It has a full cast of supernatural creatures.
I’m doomed. At the moment, I actually want to cry. It may be the added fact that someone rear-ended me today in stopped traffic, or that my mother is having neck surgery next week to stave off a stroke. But even without those things, a feeling of dread has been creeping over me for the last few weeks, rendering me completely incapable of feeling enthusiastic for my own work. And now Bransford’s doom-riddled, though entertaining, post casts the final pall.
Could it be as bad as I think? Will I have to return to the dreaded day job? Sweet Jeevis. I’m going to drop dead and haunt myself.