The Waiting

Like most writers, I have always enjoyed writing. My mother taught me to keep a journal since the time I could hold a pencil, and I faithfully recorded the things of my life that meant the most to me, and even the things that meant nothing. It was and is a valuable part of my life.

I didn’t enjoy reading until the summer after 5th grade. That summer I discovered worlds I had only hoped, somewhere, existed. I discovered the parts of humanity that I had never seen, the good and the bad. I discovered stories that made me feel. I discovered in myself a desire to create my own.

And I did.

Writing was a hobby I enjoyed, something I did for myself. Until a few years ago, I never dared believe that I could take my writing—No—that my writing could take me anywhere else. But then one day as I read a book, a thought, insidious in its way, took hold in my mind: Why not me?

So I did one of the hardest things I’ve done. I wrote a novel of 105,000 words in a year, and I did it during nap times and between work and familial obligations. I sacrificed sleep and professional opportunities and personal satisfactions, and I asked myself: Was it worth it?

I didn’t have an answer then.

The editing began. I laid my heart bare in my manuscript, and I subjected it to the harsh but necessary criticisms of others. It hurt. But growing beyond our current capacity, bursting that which contains us, hurts. When the hurting was done, I looked at what I had wrought, and I thought: Yes. This was worth it.

The first rejection hurt more than I thought it would. I was expecting it, you see, because most manuscripts are rejected (several times) before they are accepted. I was expecting it. But I suppose my hope was greater than I knew.

It was a good rejection. I have since learned that there are such things. The publisher told me that my manuscript would not be financially successful for them, but they asked me to send something else if I had it.

I didn’t. 🙁

I had spent five months waiting in nervous anticipation to hear “No”.

I sat on my manuscript for a year then. Tweaking it, improving it, but mostly I started working on something else. Another novel. A short story or two. I submitted my good short story to a magazine. Their auto-responder told me that, due to the amount of submissions, it would be eight months before I heard back.

That was two months ago. The waiting is not something I was ready for when I decided to embark upon the Writer’s Path. Waiting is stressful, it’s hard, but it’s necessary and understandable, and it’s annoying that it’s necessary and understandable. We all have a certain amount of time in this world, and for writers it’s inevitable that some of it must be spent waiting.

And I’m ready now. I’m ready for the waiting this time. I did my research, and I’m not taking a shot in the dark. I’m submitting my manuscript again. I hope for the best but I know what to expect.

Was it worth the waiting?

Everyone who has passed through it says yes. I’ll let you know when I’ve passed through it too.