Spoiler alert. I am about to vent about a very first-world problem. Which is a way of saying that this “problem” is shared by absolutely minuscule numbers of persons around the world. Although, truth be told, we are an extremely vocal minority. Writers mouth off and kvetch like no oppressed minority ever has. So, if you have something better to do, like sort out your sock drawer, you might want to move on. OK? I warned you.
I can’t find a publisher. I have done, or think I have done, all the right things. Mostly I have written and rewritten and generally improved my opus to an extraordinary degree. Clearly not enough. Yes, I have approached publishers. Again and again. I have even looked for agents. And all in vain. And I would say that the book in question, a.k.a. manuscript, has been completed for two years. Which is a way of saying that the writing process, which must have spanned a decade, was finally abandoned in 2021. And after multiple refinements of all kinds by a set of paid critics and editors, here I am. Clearly, I expected to be somewhere else. And in this expectation, I was utterly foolish.
I do have one book out. But it’s 10 years older now, as is the author, and enough already. At this point in life I should be in my literary dotage. Resting on my critical laurels and occasionally throwing out a bit of literary wisdom here and there. Shouldn’t I?
Apparently not. And here much more basic wisdom should obtain. Such as the general challenges of passing through the eye of a needle. And what happens when expectations are wildly out of sync with reality. As mine doubtless are. And there is this other thing. That people, otherwise sane people, are urging me to turn to technology. Substack. That sort of thing. Seeing this as an alternative to publishing. No, I lie. Seeing this as an adjunct to conventional book publishing. Which is splendid. But I also find myself in my late 70s. This is not every additional time for leaping into Substack, Overdrive, Viperlink and so on. Not that it matters. We rise, or fall, to the occasion.
And on this occasion, falling seems like a much better option. However, there is still the problem. I am a barely published author. And this simply won’t do. And since doing all the things I’ve been doing hasn’t been working, well, fuck me. I have a bunch of videos lined up on YouTube to explain the ins and outs of online publishing. Of which this blog, by the way is not an example. This is an example of God only knows what. But trust me, it doesn’t count.
To acquire the necessary humility, and be entertained at the same time, I have always relied on show business stories. What’s an example? Well, I don’t know. But usually it’s something along the lines of finally getting your actors equity card, and landing your first professional stage job in a revival of The Sound of Music in Fresno. Something like that. And thing is, stories like this, however amusing, do not come in your late 70s, do they? Or maybe they do. For, as my wife keeps pointing out, if you have managed to get into your late 70s, be grateful. And I’m trying. But the situation is trying too. Trying my soul.
And while we’re on this self-indulgent topic, do take a look at Claire Keegan’s short masterpiece “These Small Secret Things.” And for now, thanks for enduring this blog and let’s wish each other better luck next time.