A behind the scenes post on getting my a## handed to me by an old school editor, a bit of perspective on this process for all writers, and an open mic 🎤 prompt
Welcome:
I caught Kim in the office that evening and working late as she often did. Being single in NYC enabled her to do that kind of thing, though she had told me she was dating, too, and hoping to find “the one.”
Hearing my report from the afternoon, Kim tapped on her computer keyboard and looked up the agents I had met. “Anna might be best,” she said. “Carole’s too commercial for you. Too pushy.” More tapping over the phone, and I imagined Kim in her high-rise office with a floor-to-ceiling shelf of Simon and Schuster titles. “Rita looks okay, too,” Kim continued, “but more academic than what you’re writing. Still, it’s a good sign she wanted the rest of the book.”
And that was true. Rita did want the entire manuscript as soon as I could get it to her. Kim said she would make the copy and send it, but it might take a couple of days.
“That you’d send it all is a gift,” I said though inside kicked myself for not having brought a full back-up copy.
The key-tapping sound went quiet. “Ugh,” Kim said. “I’ve got some more bad news.”
Like a feral cat having just heard a branch snap in the night, I went still.
We don’t like your book anymore, go away.
I’m quitting this job.
Someone died.
“Our publisher has a conference on the upper east side Wednesday afternoon,” she said, “so you can’t meet her here at the office, but I was thinking…if you are game…we could hustle up there and try to say hello? What do you think?”
I exhaled slowly, life returning to my limbs. “I have to catch a flight at seven.”
“Totally doable,” Kim said. “It’s at five, and you can bring your stuff, and we’ll pop you in a cab after.”
I thought about this image. Me, with my luggage, crashing a conference to be introduced to a publisher while dragging my wardrobe bag and overnight case along.
“Okay, if you think it’s important,” I said.
“I do! Call me tomorrow and tell me how it goes at Penguin and Crown. I’m waiting by the phone.”
The next morning, I sat in the office of an upper-level editor at Penguin—let’s call her Ms. Wize.
Ms. Wize was an elder stateswoman in a trim dove gray skirt and navy blouse who was razor-sharp after her many years in the business, perhaps starting in the mail room and clawing her way to uber-executive-boss-lady-on-top. If this were a high school, Ms. Wize would be the principal, and I, sitting in a chair on the other side of her wide desk, would be the pain-in-the-neck sophomore about to be sentenced to a month of detention, or worse…expelled. 😳
“This is not how it is done,” Ms. Wize said from her side of the desk, fingers interwoven and elbows splayed wide. “This,” she said and nodded down at a shipping box positioned in front of her, “is unacceptable.”
Hands in my lap and legs crossed at the knee; I was once more frozen like that feral cat.
Moments earlier, my dear friend from the PR department had met me in the lobby of Penguin, where we hugged and kissed cheeks. It was all excitement and “Let me know how it goes” from that friend. But now, in this office where two walls were filled—floor-to-ceiling—with published books by authors who did follow the rules, Ms. Wize unlaced her fingers and nudged the shipping box toward me, her expression like someone pushing away a dead cat.
Blinking my eyes back to life, I saw it was the sealed shipping box topped with the label I had painstakingly addressed to my friend weeks earlier.
Ms. Wize sat back, the wood of her chair creaking, and I knew I was supposed to take the box. I also suspected she wanted me to say how sorry I was—not because she would relent or soften—but because it would give her the satisfaction of knowing I had been dispatched to my proper place.
I unclasped my hands, leaned forward, and lifted the box off her desk. Inside, the good weight of my completed manuscript shifted, and I was taken back to the time and tears invested in writing every page. This wasn’t a sticky pile of fur and bones to me; it was my life turned into art: a sick mother, a detached father, a bully brother, and a child who couldn’t fathom the world she'd been born into but trying like hell to figure it out even as the ground crumbled under her feet. I was nothing to Ms. Wize. Less than nothing. But, I had never loved my creation more than I did at that moment. I hugged the box against my chest. Held it close.
That Ms. Wize hadn’t opened it and had been waiting all this time to rip into me said more about her (and this business) than my jumping the fence and breaking a few rules.
“Thank you,” I said. “I needed this.”
And I did.
I left that day, not stopping to chat with my pal because if I had, I certainly would have cried. Instead, I traversed the labyrinth of hallways and eventually made my way back into the lobby of the arty building, windows shot through with javelins of light. I pushed out a set of double doors and stood facing a street packed with cabs, limos, cars, and a sidewalk of fast-walking New Yorkers. I was only thirty-six years old, but I felt older than that, and tired, and resigned. This was the world. The good, bad, ugly, and beautiful world. All of it happened at the same time. And then I missed Spencer, Steve, Slovka, and my dog. I wanted to go home, sit in our backyard, and be quiet for a long time.
The thwap of a helicopter passing overhead brought me back to the moment, though, and looking down; I realized I was still hugging the box. I laughed because that was funny for some reason. Funny and sad and true. Okay, I thought as if my manuscript were a living force, let’s get you back out there to someone who might appreciate you.
Seeing a stand of pay phones next to a guy selling “dogs and pretzels,” I tucked the box under my arm and dug into my bag, pulling up my wallet. Inside, I found change and Rita’s business card. I still didn’t understand the city's layout but if I had the neighborhoods worked out, her office was close-ish to Penguin.
“I have a full copy of the book,” I said when she answered her phone. “I’m happy to bring it over in the next hour if that’s okay.”
“Oh,” Rita said, tone still chilly but slightly warmed by surprised. “That’s great. You can leave it with the doorman.”
(Go directly to the next post on the Blackbird journey now).
Perspective:
“This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address’. Just keep looking for the right address.”
~ Barbara Kingsolver
We’ve all heard the stories but let me add a few here: Kathryn Stockett, who wrote The Help, was rejected by sixty agents over several years. Elizabeth Strout, who wrote Olive Kitteridge and so many other fine books, struggled for so many years she kept a shoe box filled with rejections under her bed and stopped telling anyone she was writing. In the early days, Stephen King nailed a stake to the wall, and on this hung his many rejections. When the stake was full, King nailed up another one.
🎤 Think about your own life and experiences with rejection. Which ones have slain you, and which ones have lit you on fire? I’ve shared a story of what I did with ass-kicking rejection at Penguin. Tell your story in the comment section.
~ Jennifer, 🍎
🎤 Think about your own life and experiences with rejection. Which ones have slain you, and which ones have lit you on fire? I’ve shared a story of what I did with ass-kicking rejection at Penguin. Tell your story in the comment section.