I'm feeling a little like this this morning:
That's a lie. I still am. I sent it to another agent as soon as I got the reply. Yay, more fret.
Once again, I am faced with the decision. Do I pursue a traditional contract, or do I self-publish? It's really easy to get discouraged pursuing the traditional route... which makes it seem I self-publish because I'm not good enough for the traditional scene. For the record, I don't think that's the case.
It may well be the case, but I am happy in my delusion, alright? Don't wreck it for me.
The thing is, even though I really enjoy self-publishing, I still crave the that untasted thrill of of signing a publishing contract, with awesome people who know a good story when they read one. I crave validation from people who aren't my friends (and won't therefore always be under suspicion for 'just being nice'), from people who don't know me and have absolutely no stake in my dreams (until that contract is signed, then they do. MWAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH! Ahem... sorry).
It's so hard sometimes to push on when it feels like you're being blocked everywhere you turn. Of course if there is an easier way (self-publishing), people are going to leap for it. I am thinking that I might. If I exhaust the list of agents - which is a real possibility - on the awesome site querytracker.net, then in all likelihood, I will end up throwing my hands in the air and self-publishing the manuscript.
The story is good. I really like it. I really want to share it with the world. I also really want to be traditionally published. However, my desire to share my stories is greater than my desire for validation, and it will eventually win any stand-off. Whether it gets picked up or not, you will be able to read Skylark. Eventually.
With every rejection come those thoughts; those awful thoughts that plague even traditionally published writers:
I really am rubbish.
Of course no one wants to take me on, I'm shit. My writing is shit. Everything about me reeks of shit.
I'm never going to be successful.
I write worse novels than That Book I Will Not Name That Sold Millions Of Copies Despite Being Drivel.
On and on these awful thoughts go, until you feel like a puddle of failure not fit for existence. Seems melodramatic, I know, but I honestly get in these moods, and they're exceedingly hard to shake. I'm probably going to spend all day trying not to cry.
It never gets easier, even though I know I have a viable other option. It never gets easier accepting the 'no.'
And the thing is, that 'no' could be for a variety of reasons that are completely unrelated to the quality of the work being submitted. It's hard, however, to keep to that belief.
Maybe I am utter shit? Maybe I write complete drivel?
Anyway, you must excuse me for writing such a depressing post. I'm not really feeling chipper this morning. I'll be back to my usual silly self by tomorrow. I hope.
For now, I'm going to forget I'm a writer and start my Welsh lessons.