I Give Up!

“I kind of did.”

December 2019

Of all the lessons that struck and stuck while chasing publication was the harsh reality that landing a traditional publishing contract was about as likely as winning the lottery.

In the early evening on December 31st, 2019, while in my basement surrounded by family and friends under the soft festive glow of a roaring fire in my hearth, my cell phone’s screen lit up beside me. I glanced down to read the title of my book on the subject line of an incoming email, drawing my attention away from my childhood best friend’s funny story. Half-listening, I casually opened the email and scanned the all-too-familiar introduction sentence:

“Thank you for your submission, but regretfully blah blah blah…”

I thumbed the email closed, took a deep breath, and turned my full attention back to the party.

A couple of hours (and a few drinks) later, as we all cheered “Happy New Year!” this intrusive thought popped into my head:

“What kind of asshole publisher takes the time on New Year’s Eve to send out a rejection email?”

With bad news? On New Year’s Eve? I could understand emailing good news to bring in the new year—but pressing send on bad news?! Seriously?

I was officially kicking off 2020 with my very first rejection—cheers to that! Even if it was some cold, auto-generated, pre-scheduled email, didn’t that soulless son-of-a-bitch still have to choose the exact date and time? I muttered (okay, slurred) a few choice curse words in the direction of that faceless, heartless bastard.

“Where the hell’s my phone?” I asked the couch cushions, who offered no assistance. My guests had just left, and I was now elbows-deep in upholstery, on a mission to wish that publisher a very special Happy Fricken New Year—and maybe include a helpful suggestion on where they could stick their poorly timed rejection of my carefully crafted, obviously brilliant novel. 

Thankfully, I chose not to hit “send” on my alcohol fueled—yet surprisingly witty—reply to that publisher’s insensitive holiday-crashing, dream-crushing rejection. When I tossed my phone on the coffee table like a mic drop of defeat, the foggy idea of giving up suddenly crossed my mind—albeit my slightly inebriated mind.

A few weeks (and a lot of sober moments) later, I decided to do just that—give up.

Not on my publishing dream, but on When a Crow Flies. Deep down, I knew it was time to move on. Physically, I shelved my oh so brilliant, much too wordy fiction novel. Silencing the characters I had created—possibly forever. Mentally, having to force myself to let the book go. Oddly, it felt like I was grieving Erin, Mathias, and the mysteriously handsome Jeremiah as if they were real people.

After the appropriate mourning period had passed, I did what wannabe writers are supposed to do: I started all over again. 

This time, I would write about something that happened during my formative years. This book would be based on my personal experiences living in the diverse north when—without realizing it—I was growing up to become racist.

“Wait a minute…Turn the TV up!”

Coming up next: Living My Dream! (spoiler alert: Or was it a nightmare?)