My Real Life

typewriter-crumpled paperIn my other life, (this is assuming I have one)  I try to be a published author. All of you wannabee writers who plan to write the great American novel, be warned, this is NOT an easy path. In fact, that road to hell your church has been preaching about is a 4-lane super highway compared to the road to an agent or publisher.
Of course anyone can be self published, but sales from such a venture are very limited. Just how large a family do you have? How many friends owe you a favor?  If your are related to the Duggars (19 kids and counting), your family is listed in the Guinness book of records as the largest family on earth, or your family is headed by a godfather, you might sell 200 books, but this will not bring you fame, fortune, or a chance to be on Oprah.
Becoming traditionally published gives credibility to your work, but succeeding at this is bike-flatlike riding a bike with a flat tire uphill and against the wind while 8 million wannabee writers pursue you on hungry alligators. Limited alligatorfun to say the least unless you are a masochist.
The poor Sicilian must listen to my moaning about receiving another rejection on a regular basis.  Just to torture myself, I keep a record of every agent and publisher I have contacted about my novel, The Strength of Secrets. Being a Type A person I need to do this to prove to myself I am trying, or perhaps I am that masochist I just mention.
This past week I received yet another email rejection. I retrieved my submission journal preparing to  write “REJECTED” by the agent’s name, but I could find no record that I had ever submitted to this agent.
“I just got an email rejection for my novel from someone I never submitted to,” I said.
“So,” the Sicilian said, “you are now being rejected before you can submit. That’s progress.”
“This just proves everybody hates me and I’ll never be published again,” I moaned.  After a few minutes I opened another email. “Listen to this. My play has made the final cut in the one-act play competition. I’m one of the five finalist!”
“Thank, God. My prayers have been answered,” the Sicilian.
And this from a man who questions God, faith, and miracles.  If  the Sicilian  is now praying for me, God better listen. . thank-god

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