The Novelist’s Due – #5

Calling it

I’m calling this one.

portland ferris wheel The submission guidelines indicate that if the agency is interested they respond pretty quickly, otherwise they don’t bother.  Six weeks is outside the limits of ‘pretty quickly’, even by publishing industry standards, so I’m adding another red streak to my collection (see Hugo at the right »).

One step backwards, 3 forward

I did manage to write another story featuring my humorous curmudgeon (RAPTURE, a companion piece to RAVENOUS) and have begun shipping it out for consideration. It’s new on the Rejection Counter, as is the latest submission of RAVENOUS, which I sent off to a reputable contest. Wait and see…

Happy trails.

Beyond waking, astonishment

“After having been disturbed, he will be astonished” (Thomas, 2)

At 5 am is when I discover that the universe is far too complex for my simple soul. I set down the heretical Gospel of Thomas and turn the light back off, trying unsuccessfully to rest in the darkness.

Then later, with yesterday’s David Byrne tune shrieking across synapses like a torment set on infinite loop, I rise later than the sun, head to the computer, and discover that someone has absconded with my career.

bookshelves

bookshelves

A Scoundrel and a Gentleman

Andrew Sean Greer was born in the same city as me. He moved to San Francisco like I did. He went to Brown, which is where I longed to study. He has published 4 books to acclaim—about the number I should have published by now. He has won a PEN/O’Henry Prize for Short Fiction—one of many of his awards, to which both of us should be equally entitled. (For the moment we will disregard all my unpublished kilo and megabytes; disregard the quibbles over styles and capabilities.)

ASG, as he is known to himself—scoundrel, thief of my career—has a lovely clean website. In striving to reduce my own site to only the meagerest essentials I still find it to be utterly unlike its intention: cluttered and inelegant. Its excess of information is a foil to the softer impulses of my simple soul, and it contains far too much of what I consider to be chaos.

For that awareness I am pleasantly disturbed.

Seek and you will find

Before we begin to worry that I’ve lain myself prostrate before some new religion, let us abstain from the fear of such a false deliverance.

“When you give rise to that which is within you, what you have will save you. If you do not give rise to it, what you do not have will destroy you.”
(Thomas, 70)

I’m only seeking to give rise. And to be astonished. Not by Mr Greer but by myself.

The Novelist’s Due – #4

3rd and 4th rejection of the season

At our writers’ afternoon the other day, Don C told me about walking into a publisher’s office one day. He passed by a room off to the side of the offices where sat a young scruffy college kid surrounded by stacks and stacks of manuscripts, like Aladdin in a cave of jewels—except what he was surrounded with wasn’t all gold. “The one who rejected my manuscript…” Don remarked of the kid.

My latest bad news (rejection #3) came from The Paris Review while Arvin and I were in Hawaii back in April. I had someone checking my PO box while we were away, and when he called to say that there was an indistinguishable bit of mail—something handwritten, addressed to me, from me—I was pretty sure I knew who it was from:

rejection: paris review 2009

rejection: paris review 2009

The more things change…

I’m tempted to finish that phrase with the obvious “the more they stay the same” but that would be disingenuous. The truth of the matter is, eleven years ago when I was writing poorly they wanted to see more of my work; now, when I’m writing well, they’re seem to have lost interest.

rejection: paris review 1998

rejection: paris review 1998

Love hurts

I have nothing but respect for editors. After I quit writing book reviews in San Diego, years ago, I moved back to The City with a box full of unread books and galleys. There’s only so much ink (or bytes) that can cover all the pages of work that are produced in this country in any given year, and only so much time to read it. I can imagine the heaps of unsolicited dreck and lunatic ramblings that must come through the pipeline at the New Yorker each day. And there sits that bleary-eyed son of the editor’s acquaintance sifting through yet more paragraphs of strangling prose…

One suspects the folding of the rejection note and slipping it into the SASE are quite automatic:

rejection: new yorker 2009

rejection: new yorker 2009

Rejection. It’s all part of the effort; all part of the novelist’s due.

-jmh