I am a starving artist.
I wrote my first book at age 18, a fantasy novel that will be the first of a series. Humbly speaking, it’s an impressive storyline, a medieval world with magic, ghosts, multiple gods, political intrigue, and two immortals fighting a battle that’s lasted generations.
I was amazed when I wrote it- words flew from my brain to my computer, a world formed before me, and a stream of storytelling became an ocean. This was what I’d always wanted to do, and I knew it would, one day, be how I would make my mark. I’d be an author, I’d pass my stories onto the world and people would be as absorbed into them as I had been taken completely into worlds created by authors like Robert Jordan and Tamora Pierce. My characters would come to life for those readers, and the pages would turn almost of their own accord…
I wrote that book in the summer of 1999, finished it before autumn, and even started on the sequel. I knew, more or less, how the trilogy would go, I just needed to make it happen. The friends who had read it all agreed that it was amazing, it needed to be published. Somehow, I kept telling myself, I’d get my books out there and a publisher would read them and say what I already knew- “Yes, this is going to be the next big thing!” Before I knew it, my work would be on the shelves of stores around the country, around the world, and I’d be touring the nation, signing autographs, doing interviews, writing the next book series, and making my living doing what I loved. I would get myself a home near San Francisco Bay, and buy a boat, and life would be great. I could even see myself sailing off to be away from the world for a while, writing reclusively, and then coming back with another gem that would be another guaranteed best-seller. It was a dream, the dream, and it was going to happen.
And then, of course, nothing happened.
Life got in the way, or so I told myself. College interfered, and I was working full-time, and I was getting married, and getting married again, and then it was either law school or grad school, and then a political career and all the stressors that went with it. Then some major personal disasters ensued, and I was busy trying to keep my head above water as I sorted all of those out. I looked up, and I’d turned 40. Nobody had even looked at my book for over twenty years. I didn’t share it with anybody, it was always that thing that would eventually happen, that “what’s around the corner” for me.
So I finally set a plan in motion. I was working a job where I made decent money, I had a very low overhead, so I would save that money up. I would finally show my work to a small group of friends who’d never seen it, get their opinions, then seek out an editor, and get some professional help toward getting it published, get an agent. I was finally out of my bleak period and I was going to make things happen. I was out of excuses.
That’s when everything went wrong.
My investments tanked. I lost over 80% in less than six months. I lost my job a month after that disaster started. Suddenly, I had gone from the perfect world to launch my dream to not even knowing how I could get it started. All the people I had contacted, all the research I had done, everything kept occasionally nagging back at me. I’d get an email from a business, reminding me of the conversation we’d had, telling me “For only $1500, we can guarantee you’ll have a cover letter and proposal that WILL get you an agent, or your money back!” Self-publishers kept at me- “$750 is all you need to get started, you keep 60% of the profits, and we’ll even do the promoting for you!” On and on, it felt like they were mocking me.
Finally, after two months of wallowing in self-pity and deceiving myself into believing that, somehow, everything would work out on its own, I started considering agents.
I read every article I could find about the best way to approach, how to choose an agent to contact, how to tailor my approach to each one, and how to make sure that my email was the one they’d read and want to look into. I was sure that, with a little work, I could make it happen. All it would take was one damn agent actually reading my material, and they’d be hooked. After all, I reasoned, I’d read books that weren’t half this quality, and those authors were making a fine living at it!
Finally, that March, I started approaching agents.
“Be patient!” was the constant advice these articles had given. “Agents are approached by hundreds of authors every month, you don’t want to pitch to too many too quickly!” Other articles warned, “Don’t get discouraged! Even JK Rowling was getting shot down left and right, at first!” Still others offered some helpful suggestions. “Keep writing in the meantime! That way, you’ll already have other work ready to go once your first book gets out there!”
I followed that advice. A friend of mine had just gotten his work published, and he was touring around, doing signings in New York and Los Angeles; that proved it could happen. It would just take some work, and some time.
Well, here we are, a year later.
I have written two other books in that time frame, and created a proposal for a fourth, which I won’t write unless/until an agent expresses interest (it’s a hard and personal topic that I don’t want to put myself through unless I know there’s a future to it). I have contacted nearly 300 agents in the year since I started. I have received feedback from only one, and it was more about how I made my approach than my work itself.
Meanwhile, I kept things together until my finances were completely exhausted. I’m now working two part-time jobs in order to just stay afloat, and my landlord just informed me that, when the lease renewal comes due next month, rent is going up again (that means, in the four years I’ve lived here, rent has increased slightly over 26%). My housemate’s health is deteriorating; it may well be that, before long, she’s unable to work at all, and, given how long it takes disability to kick in, I may be the sole income of this household for a long time to come. The wolves are, indeed, howling at the door.
The rational side of my brain keeps telling me, “Hey, it’s time to get up and go be an adult. Lots of people work jobs that aren’t their dream, they do it because they have to, it’s called being responsible. You’ve tried this artist’s life for a year now and not gotten anywhere; agents aren’t picking up, you don’t have the money to self-publish. You’re out of options. Pack it up and call it a day.”
And part of me wants to follow that side of things. I even interviewed for another job last week. This is so incredibly not what I want to be doing with my life. My dream in college was to work like crazy for ten years, save up all the money I could, then put everything into my writing. I had it planned out, and, of course, my favorite movie quote (said by a character who’s also a writer, desperate to get his foot in the door; and who’s also working at a job he hates)- “You wanna see God laugh? Make a plan.”
So why am I making you read all of this long-winded tale of woe?
Because I’m not giving up.
I’ve got goals and I’ve spent most of my life doing what I felt I had to instead of pursuing those goals, and all it got me was a life of working for other people while putting my dreams on hold. And I’ve already constructed a list of ten more agents I’m going to contact today; I’m going to do a quick re-read of my approach methods, see if there’s something I’ve missed, or something that might be tweaked to make it more appealing, and then I’m going to make my approach. And, if at the end of it, I’ve still not made any progress, well, I’ll find another ten, and another, until the list runs out. When that list runs out, well, I won’t be any worse off than I am now, and I won’t be kicking myself for not at least taking that shot.
Because I surely do regret all those years before, all that time I wasted not taking my chances and seeing what might come of it.
So, as spring starts setting in, I want you to ask yourself- what is there that I want to do, that I haven’t yet because of whatever? For some, it’s a trip to a place they’ve always wanted to see, but, for some reason- finances, don’t want to travel alone, scared of new experiences- they haven’t. Others have that person they’ve been thinking of asking out, but just haven’t because they’re scared of possibly getting turned down or embarrassing themselves. Some people want to try and learn a musical instrument, some would like to try their hands at cooking, or learning a new language. Maybe it’s an idea you’ve had for some kind of invention, or a tv show or movie. And some people have wanted to write a novel, or have one that they want to get published but they just don’t take the chance because they aren’t sure they’re good enough.
Take the chance. This life is too long and miserable on its own, we don’t need to contribute more to it. And, if at the end of all your efforts, you aren’t any further along than when you started, you can at least look back on it and say, Well, I didn’t give up; I tried, and kept trying, and I didn’t settle. I fought fear and I won.
Regardless of how any other battle turned out, you can always win against fear.
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