I’ve Had a Few

Sometimes, I wish I had been rejected more.

It was a peculiar thought process that led me to this peculiar thought.

See, I’ve been busting pieces of my various anatomy to finish The Skybound Sea.  It’s been going quite well, considering the size and scope of the endeavor (not to say that The Skybound Sea is going to be huger than anything else I’ve written, but more that I really want to make sure it’s the best I’ve written).  But still, before I can perfect it, I have to finish it.  Thus, persistence has been taking a front seat in my psyche while the flowery, elegant element of my persona who is responsible for the musing, the humming and the delightful prose (I’ve since named him Pietrov) goes to quietly nurse a bottle of splieux (a wine I have invented made out of fermented fertilizer; very artsy, it’ll make you go blind) in the back.

Thus, I spent three days slogging through a chapter culminating in the end of Denaos’ and Asper’s arcs.  Three days of feelings explored through conflict, bloodshed and a demon wrapped in a statue (because this is a Sam Sykes book).  After some time, I began to realize that the chapter wasn’t everything I wanted it to be.  This was Pietrov stumbling drunkenly into the forefront of my mind as he searched for the bathroom (splieux goes right through him) and I found it easy to push him back and finish the chapter.

But it wasn’t so easy to push him out entirely.

And so three days stretched into five, one of which was spent in quiet contemplation that turned to quiet desperation that turned to quiet fear…and then that turned to wine.  And that’s about the time it hit me.  I hated the chapter.  I hated the way Asper cowered in it.  I hated the way she let Denaos solve everything.  I hated the way she trembled before Xhai.  And that’s when I realized that the chapter was actually all about her, what she was doing, why she couldn’t cower, why Denaos couldn’t solve this problem.

Five days, in a moment in which I felt largely like an imbecile for not seeing before, were largely wasted.

And I was ecstatic.

Because things were moving in a direction I wanted.  Because what I wanted was to do better than each previous iteration.  Because I wanted to be great at what I did.  And when I realized that five days were wasted, it only occurred to me that five days was what it took.  We can talk about persistence and deadlines and how it’s a business first and an art second, but that can’t be true.  The art always finds a way to shine through.  The art is always first, especially when it’s inconvenient.  The art is what counts.  Everything else is secondary.

And sometimes, I think if I hadn’t been in a mad rush to get published, I might have come upon this idea a little sooner.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t at all feel I’m undeserving of where I am, I feel nothing but pride at what I’ve done, I don’t think I’m anything but good.  But am I good enough?  Will I ever reach that point?  Would I have been better if I had been rejected more, if I had taken the time to hone my craft, if I had been tempered by failure before I took a flying leap into whatever I hoped was beyond?

Maybe.

But I don’t regret things, so I can only wish in fading moments.  And only sometimes.

2012 is coming up and if it doesn’t destroy us all (and if Hollywood is to be believed, 2012 will be so awful we will yearn for the days when M. Night Shyamalan was still relevant), we’ll be crafting New Year’s resolutions.  They don’t tend to sit well with me, really, because I can’t help but think we view resolutions as regrets we choose to acknowledge and, hopefully, improve upon.  The fact that we do it in hindsight is what gets me.  We look at last year and said: “Well, that sucked, but this time, I’ll get it.”

Maybe you, as an aspiring author, are thinking the same thing.  Maybe your resolution is to get published (because your regret is that you aren’t).  Maybe your resolution is to be a bestseller (because your regret is that you once said to yourself “this’ll never sell”).  Maybe your resolution is to handle rejection better (because your regret is that you saw too much of it).

Maybe.

But let me propose to you a new resolution: don’t make one.  Don’t look at something as a regret that you should fix.  Don’t look at it as wasted time.  Don’t even look at it, if you can help it.  Look at what’s there in front of you.  When you get rejected, look at what it means to you at that moment.  When something doesn’t work, look at it so you can figure out how it does.  When someone else does well and you don’t, look at it for what it is: something that doesn’t affect you.

Because I’m almost certain we’ve all been in the same position as I was: the desire to get published burning inside you, linking your progress to the size of your contracts, thirsting after the idea of fame and fortune and if you happen to have written something good along the way then that’s good, too.  If you do that, you may reach it.  But you may reach it in a way that causes you to look back on it with regret.

Apologize for nothing.

Feel no shame.

Acknowledge that there is no success without failure.

Figure out what it is that you want and then get it in a way that you won’t ever have to look back and say: “I wish.”

Happy New Year.