rejection dejection
The sun is shining; my heart is heavy. Four months ago, I emailed my memoir, the memoir I've been working on for 3 years or possibly longer and have paid to have professionally edited several times, to a successful, well-known editor I'd met socially, who was friendly and nice and said he'd be happy to take a look.
So then you wait, and of course, you fantasize. He's one of the most high profile editors in the country, but maybe this small book will appeal, you think. So, hardly daring to dream but doing so anyway, you wait some more.
You know what's coming, don't you? Today, he wrote. "You do write very well," he said. He called the ms. "well-crafted," "enjoyable," "readable." Well, "readable" - talk about damning with faint praise. BUT he cannot market a book with "its beautiful but gentle import," he said, "and your modest profile. This is not about the worth of your memoir, but more the sales mandate I have to reach with every title."
What that means is: Sweet little book, but who the hell are you? How can I sell this gentle little story by an unknown author? Thanks but no thanks.
Which was what I was expecting, but still, it hurts.
But there's sun today.
Further to my letter of the other day, some funny fallout - I got a reply almost immediately from a name I recognized. He wrote that he'd been a student of mine some years ago, had loved my course and gone on writing. He is also the partner of the man who bought my neighbour's house and evicted her tenant, and so is co-owner. And he went on in a much more unpleasant tone with his take on events, which was very different, as you can imagine, from mine. Fake news, I'd call it, a deliberate obfuscation of what actually happened, to let him, his partner, and the landlady off the hook from admitting their heartless behaviour. Amazingly, the 3 of them are blaming and demonizing another party entirely! However, we ended agreeing to disagree.
He was a nice person, as I recall, and a good writer. Too bad.
And, I've been told, I am a nice person and a good writer. Some days it doesn't help.
What is happening in this province defies belief. At least, it would defy belief if we hadn't lived through the past few years with the vile buffoon to the south. Now we have the vile buffoon of the north, destroying everything decent, every single thing. Including speed limits.
More importantly, the rise in fascism worldwide. I remember many summers ago walking home along Carlton Street and coming upon a meeting in the basement of a house. There was a big black and red flag looking like a swastika and 7 or 8 white men in on a roomful of chairs listening to someone speak. I realized, this is the house of Ernst Zundel, Canada's most famous Nazi. These people are Nazis.
The scene was almost laughable if it weren't so creepy. But last night I realized - Ernst Zundel would be in his element now. There are fresh new Nazis everywhere.
Heartsick today. But there's sun.
PS. A few hours later: no more sun and increasing drizzle.
So then you wait, and of course, you fantasize. He's one of the most high profile editors in the country, but maybe this small book will appeal, you think. So, hardly daring to dream but doing so anyway, you wait some more.
You know what's coming, don't you? Today, he wrote. "You do write very well," he said. He called the ms. "well-crafted," "enjoyable," "readable." Well, "readable" - talk about damning with faint praise. BUT he cannot market a book with "its beautiful but gentle import," he said, "and your modest profile. This is not about the worth of your memoir, but more the sales mandate I have to reach with every title."
What that means is: Sweet little book, but who the hell are you? How can I sell this gentle little story by an unknown author? Thanks but no thanks.
Which was what I was expecting, but still, it hurts.
But there's sun today.
Further to my letter of the other day, some funny fallout - I got a reply almost immediately from a name I recognized. He wrote that he'd been a student of mine some years ago, had loved my course and gone on writing. He is also the partner of the man who bought my neighbour's house and evicted her tenant, and so is co-owner. And he went on in a much more unpleasant tone with his take on events, which was very different, as you can imagine, from mine. Fake news, I'd call it, a deliberate obfuscation of what actually happened, to let him, his partner, and the landlady off the hook from admitting their heartless behaviour. Amazingly, the 3 of them are blaming and demonizing another party entirely! However, we ended agreeing to disagree.
He was a nice person, as I recall, and a good writer. Too bad.
And, I've been told, I am a nice person and a good writer. Some days it doesn't help.
What is happening in this province defies belief. At least, it would defy belief if we hadn't lived through the past few years with the vile buffoon to the south. Now we have the vile buffoon of the north, destroying everything decent, every single thing. Including speed limits.
More importantly, the rise in fascism worldwide. I remember many summers ago walking home along Carlton Street and coming upon a meeting in the basement of a house. There was a big black and red flag looking like a swastika and 7 or 8 white men in on a roomful of chairs listening to someone speak. I realized, this is the house of Ernst Zundel, Canada's most famous Nazi. These people are Nazis.
The scene was almost laughable if it weren't so creepy. But last night I realized - Ernst Zundel would be in his element now. There are fresh new Nazis everywhere.
Heartsick today. But there's sun.
PS. A few hours later: no more sun and increasing drizzle.
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