The Waiting Game
September...
That’s the word that has been handed down from on high. Not from God, but almost - from my publisher. And as I sit watching snow fall (and fall and fall and fall...) here in Colorado, September seems far, far away. Eons. Epics. Eras from now.
But you know how time has been flying lately. Especially while wearing masks that may or may not be effective in keeping us healthy, waiting for a vaccine that may or may not keep us from contracting a virus that may or may not kill us. And while waiting for the temperature to rise above freezing for an extended period (more than 24 hours, please) because, hey, winter is supposedly over.
Okay, scratch that: time seldom flies. As famed theoretical physicist, Stephen Hawking once said, “Time, why you punish me?” Wait, that was Hootie and the Blowfish. But they nailed it. Except for weekends and vacations, time is a fickle, sometimes cruel “nonspatial continuum.” It can, at will, take on the properties of salt water taffy left in the sun - stretching to ridiculous proportions. Here I’m thinking of zoom meetings and dental appointments. Oh, and visits to the DMV.
So anyway... yeah: September. That’s when my publisher is now saying my new novel will be released. In addition to the fact that we are still six months out (half a year!), there are three things about that announcement that have me a little concerned.
Until I’m clutching a hard copy of this book in my hand, I will remain skeptical.
First, the original publishing date was Spring 2021. September is clearly not spring. But I get it: the whole pandemic business fouled up the publishing schedule. (If it can delay Amazon Prime, it can easily screw up the book industry.) So the release date got pushed. No big deal. Maybe.
Second, I’m not holding my breath for September. It could easily end up being October... November... Even 2022. Imagine if another virus rolls into town or the earth gets struck by an asteroid or there’s a sudden shortage of coffee or some other terrible natural disaster befalls us. All bets are off.
Third, until I’m clutching a hard copy of this book in my hand, I will remain skeptical. Here’s why.
While I believe in and trust my publisher - Odyssey Books - this novel has a long, sordid history of near misses. I completed the first draft way back in the ‘90s. (Yeah, those ‘90s, the ones from the last millennium that had us going to Blockbuster for our entertainment.) After sufficient polishing, I submitted it to my agent. I had a half dozen or so novels under my belt at that point, but they were all mysteries. This new novel was more on the literary side: no one died in the first chapter and instead of being action-oriented, it was character driven. The conversation with my agent went something like this:
Agent: This isn’t a mystery.
Me: Nope.
Agent: Why isn’t it a mystery?
Me: Um...
Agent: Write another mystery.
Me: But I really like this novel. I like the story, the characters, the style...
Agent: Great. Now write another mystery.
Me: But I feel like I need to stretch myself - artistically and creatively. I’d like to try something outside the mystery genre, something more serious. Something literary.
Agent: Nobody wants literary.
Me: They might.
Agent: Call me back when you’ve got another mystery for me to read.
Unsurprisingly, we parted ways. And also unsurprisingly, she was right about the novel. Nobody wanted it. I submitted to dozens and dozens of agents, dozens and dozens of publishing houses. I received glowing rejection letters that praised the prose and described the manuscript in terms that made me blush. It was great, many of the rejection letters said, but... The “buts” piled up for years, then decades.
Along the way, one publisher finally accepted it. They raved about it and assured me that it was going to be a runaway best-seller. I celebrated. Friends, learning of my good fortune, sent me congratulatory cards, letters, emails, cheesecakes. The long journey was over! Except... before a contract could be issued, that publisher went belly up.
Not long afterwards, an agent expressed interest. If I would just change the first few chapters, he explained, rearrange some things, he would enthusiastically represent it to the major New York houses. I reworked it, but then... he... meh... changed his mind.
This went on and on and on. I refused to give up and kept querying and submitting for two simple reasons: I was convinced it was some of my best writing and I liked the story. There’s a lot of me in the book. It’s definitely fiction, but most of the characters, events, and settings are loosely based on personal experiences.
I’ve been waiting for this book to be published for a quarter of a century now. I suppose six more months won’t kill me.
They tell you in writing classes and in how-to-write-a-bestseller manuals that you should never get personally attached to projects. If a novel doesn’t sell, move on. Write something else, something new. I kept writing other things, but I couldn’t bring myself to abandon this book. It was too personal.
Last year, I finally got a yes from Odyssey and was offered an actual contract. (Coincidentally, I signed on the same day I was laid off from my job due to COVID.)
I’ve been waiting for this book to be published for almost a quarter of a century now. I suppose six more months won’t kill me. I can make it to September. Right?
In the meantime, I’ll be talking it up. And I’ve already decided that, if for some reason it doesn’t make it to print - say we’re hit by that asteroid and Gerard Butler isn’t around to save us - I’m going to figure out a way to make it available. As the world burns and everyone is scrambling for those last spots in the secret underground bunker in Greenland, I’ll be out there, handing people loose-leaf, Kinkos-copy versions - something to read while they wait for the sky to stop falling.