On Querying and Rejection

I wish I had some amazing, flamboyant, simply enlightening advice for those of you on the journey to landing an agent and getting published - I really do. But this isn't that kind of blog. This is more a "I know what you're going through if you've been rejected more times than you can count" kind of blog.

Yesterday I received yet another rejection. I tried to count in my head, to find a number for how many that adds up to, now. It was impossible. I've been querying this one book for two and a half years now. I know that some people say, "Just shelf it and move on to the next" but I simply cannot do it. I believe in the book I have written that absolute much! Is that insanity? Not to me and it shouldn't be to you, either. You should believe in your work enough that you will take a thousand rejections with grace and then prepare for a thousand more. Keep writing, in the meantime, of course. Write your heart and soul and brains out. Write until the keys fall off your keyboard. Write until your fingertips become calloused. Whatever you do, write! But also, keep querying.

If I can get rejected as many times as I have, and still have complete faith in my work, and keep seeking out representation, then you can as well. There isn't any magic formula that makes rejection feel okay. It's basically just, Suck it up buttercup! LOL! Not what you wanted to hear? I know. I don't want to say that even to myself. But that's the truth. Keep in mind that you aren't the first to get rejected more times than you can track. There are plenty of people in the world that can fill the slot of giving up easily enough. Don't be one of them. Be one of the persevering writing god or goddesses!

Here's my bottom line, because I am going to keep this short: if you don't believe in your work enough to keep learning, keep trying, to keep researching and seeking ways to be better, then why should you deserve to land an agent and ultimately a publishing deal? You need to be so certain of your work that you can take rejection for as long as you have to. That's being a writer. That's having a story to tell that you just have to get out to the world. If it doesn't mean enough to you to try even when others say stop, then it won't mean much to anyone else out there.

Oh! KEEP WRITING! You don't have just one story to tell.

Just Keep Keeping On

We all have something we are working towards in life, something that we reach for only to have it seem to take several hasty steps further away from us. This can be discouraging, disheartening, and downright frustrating. To think, "There! I can just touch it!" and suddenly our end game seems more distant than it ever was. What to do? Abandon our dream, pick a new one, find a different goal? Don't give up!

Anything worth having is worth working for. Sometimes, more often than not if you are me, the thing worth having means more work than ever dreamed of. It doesn't matter. Look at it this way. Every fumbling step you take is just a building block of experience in life. Take myself for example. I have three huge goals in life. 1.) I want to get fit again, like I was when I got married. 2.) I want a Master's degree in English Literature. 3.) I want, so very badly, to find a literary agent that will look at my writings and say "YES! I can get you published!"

I spent the past 10 years fighting what seemed to be a losing battle against constant weight gain. And then two years ago I re-assessed and looked at everything I had done WRONG. I didn't look at what I had done right. To be truthful, I hadn't done much correctly. But what am I saying? Sometimes we get so wrapped up in what we think we are doing right, that we don't even realize everything we are doing wrong that is pulling us down, down, down.

Now, this is not always the case, but let me assure you, we, as a human beings, are proud creatures! To admit we might be wrong is to admit a weakness that can be scary to face. And yet, we must look at the downside as well as the upside. The downside tells us how we can improve, where we can improve. If we are only ever right then shouldn't we have succeeded in every area of our lives by now? Yes. But we haven't (unless you are perfect and then, of reader, please let me meet you and learn from you!).

I wasted three years taking inconsequential classes as I pursued a basic bachelor's degree. Oh, I told everyone around me that I was excelling and pursuing and getting closer to my dreams, but in reality I was scared to fail and so I danced around getting down to business. This is the next thing I want to bring up.

Don't scare yourself or intimidate yourself into believing that you could possibly fail to reach your goals. It's easy to say we don't do this, but quite often, if we look deep inside, we will find that the reason our goals always seem so far away, is because we have been sabotaging ourselves. It may be unintentional, but there it is; lurking beneath the surface, so close to our skin, that we have become used to it and no longer see it for what it is. It's okay to be scared. I don't think I would want to chase something so boring that it never frightened me at least a little! Be frightened! Let your dreams and goals be that big. Just learn to control that fear.

For those of you who write, who wish to be but are  not published, who create worlds in your minds and characters that keep you company, those of you who dream of one day having your hard work acknowledged, keep on keeping on. Re-assess what you have been doing up to this point and look at the things that DO NOT work for you. Don't look at what you've done right so far. What you've done right up to this point hasn't taken you to where you hoped you'd be by now, has it? If it has, please disregard this. I am speaking to myself and to those who are still chasing that publishing dream.

Stop letting fear keep you from learning from those who have succeeded. Stop thinking that what you do right is the only way to improve. Take your faults, shortcomings, downsides, and excuses, line them up, list them out, and tackle them one by one. Eventually, you will succeed. It will be worth every hour of heartache and pain, frustration and tears, sweat and agony that you go through. I find that there is little satisfaction in easy, handed to me, success. When I succeed, I want to look back and see the trail of me I have left behind - because behind me are the parts I did not need. I shed them like an unwanted layer of faults and shortcomings and became better and stronger.

Growing and learning should be a never ending experience. So make mistakes, be scared, be humble, take advice, concede to the fact that we do not know everything, and always keep keeping on.



*I graduate with my Master's degree in English Romantic and Victorian Literature in the Fall of 2016
*I have shed almost 70 pounds in the past 16 months
*I have two academic pieces being published and am still chasing the elusive literary agent for my fiction. :)

The Terror of Trumpkin: Part One

Trumpkin. That was his name. Or, its name. Trumpkin. Two small syllables dreamed up in the mind of a nine year old girl that could strike terror into the hearts of her siblings. Trumpkin. Who is Trumpkin, you ask? Let me tell you.


Long ago, before there were ten of us, there were five, and of those five, there were three who ran through the woods behind their house. Laughter bounced off the sunlight dappled trees, and shouts of imaginary conquest sent the wildlife scurrying for cover. To one side of the edge of this wood lie a large lawn topped by our home and to the other side of the wood ran a singing, bubbling creek. We were children with no worries beyond what our young imaginations could muster up. For the most part, the limit of terrifying in our minds was nothing more dreadful than to be caught in the woods after the sun set. Why the dark trees might scare us, we could not say. But that is the thing about the dark, one can never be certain what hides beneath the black and shadowy veil. But I digress.

There ran us three, James, Jeneva, and myself. From towering rock walls that loomed to life with groans and lurches, to towers that bent low to whisper spells in our ears, to the waters of the creek that offered healing powers, all the way down the smallest animal burrow in which resided creatures known only to us, we surrounded ourselves in those woods with imaginary play. All was beautiful and exciting, bright and thrilling. Until one day...

"Trumpkin came to my window last night," whispered Jeneva as we stood at the edge of the wood.

"He told me that I had to bring you in to meet him."

Something cold tickled my spine, a sensation new and unfamiliar to me. Beside me, James had fallen silent, his ever turning mind expressed in the skeptical twist of his brows.

"What's a Trumpkin?" inquired James.

He didn't appear nervous. Never one to be left behind, I mustered up my best brave and bored voice. "Yeah. What's a Trumpkin? No one came to your window, Jeneva!"

At this point, somewhere in the woods a loud crack could be heard. Irony? Perfect timing? Coincidence? You tell me. At the sudden sound, Jeneva jerked her head to peer nervously over her shoulder. When she looked back at us, there was a hint of urgency in her face.

"Just come meet him," she insisted. "He's, uh, he's not very big. He lives in the hole by the old bush and rotted tree. He wants to play with us."

A person might consider what I am saying and convince themselves that they would never fall for such a trick. A seven year old, however, as James and I were at that time, has a harder time ignoring the excitement of a the fantasy realm. After all, we lived out our most exciting fantasies in these woods, day after day. This constant play only added to fuel our suspicions that perhaps Jeneva had met something outside her window.

Still, we chose caution. We were iron children and could handle anything but iron still bends to the new and inviting. James and I peered more closely into the woods where Jeneva had just been looking. She had looked nervous. There might be something there after all.

"Tell him to come meet us right here," demanded practical James. He folded his arms over his chest to emphasize the point of his skepticism. "If you saw him at your window then he can come out here and see us."

"No, no, no!" Jeneva was shaking her head furiously. "He doesn't like the light! It's better in the woods. He won't hurt you...he just wants to play."

I caught the hesitation in her voice, the pause between words. But how could I say no? This Trumpkin character preferred the shadows to the light. I glanced up at the mid-morning sun: I preferred the shadows to the sunlight. Perhaps this thing, whatever it was, would not be so bad. Already my mind was gone, chasing another daydream of my perfection in a world that circled around my every whim:Trumpkin would be grey - because he could not be too appealing. His eyes would be kind and soft. I would meet him and he would choose me as his number one playmate! Why? Because I was the most fun but also because I was mysterious. I prided myself on being mysterious. Others would be scared of him and those who were not frightened, well, that would be because they had no imagination and could not see him. But Trumpkin would be my friend. My parents would hear me talking to someone late at night and yet they would never see him. He would be my friend, my secret. He had only come to Jeneva because I was such a deep sleeper. Yes! That was it. Surely it was not because she had a better thought than me? No. Never. My parents would worry I was going crazy. They would take me to doctors. Doctors would discover that I had an unexplainable connection to a second world. Soon, the government would hear of me and they would want to study me. I would have to go on the run. Nowhere would be safe! But Trumpkin would take my hand in his long, wrinkly one, and he would open a hidden door in the rotting tree. I would follow him in and there I would find..."I'm going to find him!" I announced firmly. Jeneva smiled and stepped aside.

"Just follow that trail we use for the sword fights. He'll be waiting for you down there."

This gave me pause. She wasn't going with me? "Aren't you coming?" I asked, trying to sound brave.

James laughed. "You're scared," he teased. To Jeneva he stated, "There's no such thing as a Trumpkin. I'm going to catch craw-daddies in the creek." Off he went. Jeneva called after him, "Don't make him mad! He isn't nice when he is mad!"

I later realized that these words were purely for my benefit. I had been hooked by her imagination and mine. Trumpkin was already taking shape in my mind. Only, now he was not the kind-eyed creature of my previous mental musings. Now, his eyes had become slits, suspicious and cunning. Did I really want to go into the woods alone?

Sensing my hesitation, Jeneva trotted past me. "Come on, Brook! I'll lead the way. If we find him, it will be so much fun." With that, she turned and sprinted ahead.

I hurried to keep up, but, like the bad luck of a horror movie, she rounded a bend in the trees, and when I followed, she was gone. There I was, seven years old, a puppet to whatever diabolical scheme my imagination could come up with, completely alone, surrounded only by tall trees, and thick, tangled vines.

"Jeneva!" I called. "Jeneva, wait!"

Silence. Eerie, cold, creeping silence. Not even a bird. My heart began to flutter. "NO!" I said loudly to the shadowed trees. "She's just trying to scare me. Jeneva! I know you're hiding. Come out."

She did not come out. A brilliant thought came to me. Smiling to myself I placed my hands on my hips. "If you don't come out and show me Trumpkin, then I'm going to know it's all fake!"

Satisfied with my ultimatum, I waited. And waited. All around me, the shadows seemed to grow longer, the trees taller and more menacing. Still, I waited, even as my breath came in shorter puffs. Just as I was about to call for my sister one more time, a scream broke the silence!

"Jeneva?" My voice was a squeak, barely there. That scream had been hers.

A second later, on the heels of the scream, came Jeneva's voice from what seemed to be a great distance away. "Help me! Brook. Runnnn!!!

I didn't stop to think. My imagination was free. I tore through the woods, in the wrong direction I might add, from the house, and crashed through the trees and bushes. Behind me, my imagination followed:Run, little girl. I'm coming for you! It was Trumpkin! He had murdered my sister - or taken her prisoner in his smelly, rotting, old lair - and now he was coming to steal my heart! I was sure of it. Even now, as I ran, I could hear his large, scaled, bare feet scampering behind me, drawing closer, and closer. No! He wouldn't catch me. I picked up my speed. Where was I? This was a new part of the woods. I could hear the creek, somewhere. Faster, I flew through the woods. Faster, behind me, came Trumpkin. Now he had wings like a bat, but they were torn, and rotted. His tongue was a piece of rope that lashed after me, seeking to trip me up. There! Up ahead I saw the creek. With my breath coming in painful gasps, I broke free from the cover of the trees and reached the edge of the clear waters. Behind me, the wood fell quiet, with no sound or sign of the evil that had pursued me. "Stop it!" I ordered my mind. "There isn't anything there."

There was a popping sound to my right and when I glanced over I saw, some distance away, my sister peering at me from behind a tree. Her eyes were large and she looked terrified. "Brook," she called out hoarsely. "He's in the water!" And just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

Slowly, painfully, inch by inch I turned to look down at the creek running by my feet. The water rippled and circled, dark and foreboding. No longer did the waters sing and bubble. Darkness swirled at my feet, and, inch by terrifying inch, I watched as a face emerged!

To Be Continued...


Note* This is all true. The italics indicate where I am inside my mind and I allow you, the reader, to understand how my mind worked at that particular time. The rest are actual events as I remember them from my childhood.