Lights! Camera! Action!

The internal dialogue of a writer:

“It’s going to be a bestseller!”

“No one will like. It will bomb.”

“No—an agent will snatch it off the slush pile, and say, ‘Eureka!’”

Have any of you experienced this internal dialogue? I’m a lousy judge of my own work. As easy as it is for me to judge others’ work, I can’t fathom my own. Critique group feedback may improve a script, but is no indication that a manuscript will sell. Even those who have won prestigious contests fail to garner book contracts. Endemic to the writing life, I careen from extreme optimism to extreme pessimism.

So often, neither extreme happens. I imagine most agent personnel reviewing first chapters or the first fifty pages conclude that most manuscripts are ho-hum. Not without merit, but not enough merit to garner any deal. The manuscripts will go the road of most others—a copy saved on the author’s hard drive, a hard copy placed forlornly by the author on their shelves. Some may opt to self-publish those manuscripts, but if unacceptable to an agent or publishing house, how could it be good enough to self-publish?

If the experts haven’t bought it, why would I presume to know better than those with vast experience in the industry? I dislike arrogance. It is unacceptable to me because within arrogance are self-important pufferies—lies, and I’m much too old to lie to myself. There are exceptions to the rule in self publishing. The other day I heard about a kid who published a YA book on Amazon and sold 450 thousand copies immediately. I don’t know if the kid even tried to get an agent—I think not, knowing that most kids are eternally optimistic and naïve. But then, the kid’s dreams came true, with just a little faith. As I said, it was an exceptional experience, which will be replicated by few.

I remember writing my second novel. I kept thinking of it as a movie. Shirley MacLean portrayed one of my leading lady characters. I saw her in the role, and may have subconsciously written the character based on her. By chance, I ran into Shirley MacLean at a cosmetics counter in a mall. Her family is from the Northern Virginia area near where I live. (Her stage name, although not spelled the same, is a tony Virginia suburb of D. C.) At first, I didn’t realize it was her because who the heck anticipates running into someone like that two weeks after Christmas in a shopping mall? We joked about cosmetic packaging. No, I didn’t have the nerve to tell her about my book. Afterward, I took it as an omen, a good omen. I was sure that my book would sell and Hollywood would grab the screen rights, and Shirley would take the role. It was all fantasyland. But then, I write fiction, why wouldn’t I script a winning role for myself?

Because of that experience, perhaps I am overcorrecting to guard against disappointment. I’m focusing on the process and not the result. As a professional (a suit I wear even if I’ve yet to garner the status or profit) I’m distancing and emotionally detaching. I’m writing the best book I can. If it succeeds, so be it, and if it fails, so be it. Will I self-publish if it fails with agents? No.

Internal dialogue:

“Get on stage. It’s time to sing.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t get out of the dressing room.”

“Why?”

“I must have gained weight. I’m stuck.”

“But you’re supposed to be the fat lady who sings.”

“That damn writer fed me too many chocolates. I can’t fit through the door.”

“And how long will it take you to lose the weight, so you can sing, fat lady?”

“I don’t know. Leave me alone, these truffles she bought are great!”