![]() When he asks about the novel sale I say, as I often do, that nothing is happening, that nine months in, I’m reaching a point of despair. ![]() In January of 2021, I’m walking the woods near my apartment while on the phone with Brian, one of my oldest friends, an artist. I tell the secret to my friends, of course. You imagine that sheepish and giddy post, never the one saying it never happened most people, it appears, let that sort of secret dissolve into the ether. When your book is on submission, there’s a pressure of silence till you know the end, a secret you keep, assuming there will be a time when you can recount the story of how it all worked out. Not because there haven’t been any rejections, but because then I would have to explain that I’m trying to sell my novel. Yet, in the sixteen months since my novel went out on submission to publishers in early March 2020, I haven’t posted a single dog for it. As for the dogs, they’re the only things that can reliably turn a mood for me. I want them to see that we all work the same grooves, hoping it will end differently just because it might. I want to be transparent about the ratios for the yeses, particularly for earlier-stage writers who might believe once you reach some point in a career it’s a Slip N’ Slide of yes, of opportunity. I post my nos because they are regular, ordinary it’s the yeses that are flukes and outliers. For years, I’ve posted a dog photo on social media for every writing rejection I get.
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