I've been riding the crest of triumph from my full MS request from the Angry Robots for...going on two months now. Then today, the 'high' wore off. Just like that. I didn't get a rejection from the Angry Robots (yet), but I did get 4 query rejections this week. I get on the Writers of the Future page and see they've posted the 1st quarter finalists/semi-finalists. Of course, I'm not one of them, and I didn't even get a rejection letter (later I realized I'd entered for the 2nd quarter, but the emotional damage had been done). Then I was talking to the assistant dean today and she told me that one of the student employees (who also writes fantasy) just signed a 3-book deal with a major publishing house, and her only pearls of wisdom on how to get published consisted of, "It's got nothing to do with talent. It's all about who you know."
Great. I know no one.
All the air went right out of me . Back into the dark and slimy pit of self-loathing I go, chanting endless mantras of "I'll never get this piece of $%#! published, I'm a talentless hack," blah, blah blah. You know what I'm talking about.
I know I shouldn't let it get to me. I know plenty of people get published regardless of who they know. But I also know that I've read awful, awful books with writing so abyssmal and plots so hacky and cliche that I suspect the people who wrote them don't even know how to read. Which makes me think, is that why these hideous literary abortions make it into the bookstores? Because the 'authors' know the right people?
Even if I knew these unearthly beings with the power to make my book spew forth from a printing press like flyers dropped from an airplane, I'm no schmoozer. I'm a socially awkward and sarcastic troglodyte. I like my cozy little virtual world of emails and texting, where I don't have to touch anyone or think of anything clever to say on the spur of the moment.
My book is good. I know it's good. Except, you know, I think it sucks. Today, I hate it and the space it's taking up on my hard drive. Maybe I'll get a partial request tomorrow and I'll love it again, but right now depression has me by the throat and I lack the gumption to pry its cold, pointy fingers from my windpipe.