On Giving Up

So many things I’ve haven’t bothered with. So many things I can’t be arsed with. I’ve just finished writing a fanfic and that elation of completing the first draft has given way, as it always does, to being back on this planet and I’m just so disappointed.

Couple this with my reminder that went off a few days ago; it tells me to check my most recent wave of agents off the list of people who don’t want my novel because (a) they’ve already emailed me back and have politely declined, or more likely (b) they haven’t got back to me at all and their recommended waiting period is up.

Too bad, so sad, move on.

Except I don’t think I will. Not this time.

A long time ago on a continent far, far away, I wrote a space opera consisting of 7 novels. This, as you can imagine, took many years and many more in proof-reading, honing, polishing, etc. I then sent the first one out very carefully to agents - for 5 years.

When I couldn’t find an agent to take it I instead took one agent’s advice: write a one-off, a stand-alone, a bit of fun to get you published. When you have a name, then you can sneak in your sci-fi saga. It worked for Jim Butcher, after all, as he really wanted his fantasy books published, but when he wrote a short about a bloke called Harry Dresden he got both feet successfully in the door.


So I did. I wrote a book. It took me just over a year, and then another one in rewrites, changes, polishing - the usual. And that book is the one I’ve been trying to get published since 2012.

This is where a lot of soul searching comes in.

This is where I realise I’ve been the only one who hadn’t seen something up until now.

This is where I decide it’s not a day to get out of bed.

This is where I give up; I’m done.

You see, everyone telling you one thing for so long, and you soldiering on because you’re bloody-minded with your eyes on the prize, and you believe you can make it happen, and it will happen if you just keep trying - you can only do it for so long. And then one day you stop and wonder why.

Why do I bother? Agents who rely on selling good books to publishers pass on my novels. People in the industry who know what sells and what doesn’t pass on my novels. And I understand that agents and their readers are humans, and all it takes is a bad trip into work on public transport, or an accident with a pet over the weekend, or anything at all that stops a human from feeling the sunshine, and - bam - grumpy bastard is not in the mood to read, let alone like, anything they see at the office that day. And I don’t blame them for it - I really can’t.

But for every agent that’s had a bad day, there must have been one who didn’t. There must have been one who was in a really good mood and picked up my sample chapters when they got in and thought, “Hey ho, what’s this? Let’s give it a try.”


These, I believe, are the agents who got back to me and declined. All the ones who never got back to me? Well if you can’t say anything nice then don’t say anything at all, right?

So it’s come to this: me realising I’m just not that good, and not worth publishing. I should stick to fanfic, where I get poor traffic but at least people press a ‘kudos’ or ‘like’ button from time to time. Sometimes I even get reviews that tell me I made someone smile today, and that’s when I don’t feel completely useless.

And so it goes.