Behind every story, is the story of how it came about. This is the story of how Redemption Song came about...
When I see the envelope, I know what it says without opening it:
Dear sir and/or madam,
This letter is to inform you that we at ConglomCo Publishing have reviewed your manuscript and found it wanting, and not suitable for publication in any way, shape, or form. The world of publishing is very subjective, so please do not let this complete and utter rejection of you and your life's work discourage you.
Yours, the current submissions editor.
I have sent out over a hundred queries to agents and publishers. The responses have ranged from the encouraging, the generic, to (in one case) a large "NO" scrawled on my cover letter. What no one has said is "we think your novel has merit and want to publish it." No one except for me, that is.
The last time I had any serious aspirations of being a writer was in high school. I loved to read, so it seemed logical that I should be able to write. Empirical evidence quickly proved me wrong, and I put the notion behind me.
For years I only considered myself by the label Engineer. That is who I was, at the core of my being. However, after a decade and a half of submitting to that identity, I realized that if I didn't let something else in, then I was going to burn out on the vocation I had dedicated myself too. That was when Photographer entered the mix. At first has a hobby, and slowly earned the capital letter. This seemed to sate my desire to expand my horizons. So, it was something of a shock when I found myself writing a novel.
It started as a thought: How far would you go to redeem yourself to a friend? That thought dragged with it and unexpected guest. A story, nearly fully formed. I played with it in my head, this story of a man arriving in town to find the one he was looking for had vanished. It stuck in my head and wouldn't go away. For the first time in my life, I had to write, in the same way I have to write code, or take a picture.
First I wrote a treatment- hanging around disreputable film types was paying off in ways I hadn't expected. I had to get the bones of the story down, and make them all fit before I went to the pain of molding the flesh. I wrote on the train during my commute -- an hour to work and an hour home. It took two weeks, and when I read it back to myself my fingers itched to write the actual narrative.
One of the first books on programming I ever read had the line "How do you move a mountain? One rock at a time." It is just as true of writing as it is of programming. I now knew where I was going. I just had to write one word after another to get there. Momentum grew quickly, and just over three months from that initial idea, and days before Christmas, I had finished the first draft.
This was somewhat embarrassing. I seemed to know, or know of, any number of people who considered themselves Writers (with the capital W), who were still working on their first novel. Some were years into the process. This only reinforced my most basic fear and suspicion: it was complete and utter crap.
I decided to pick one person to show it too. I sent a copy to the one person who I trusted to give me the unvarnished truth, but knew me well enough to give me the truth in the least... soul crushing way possible. Then I waited, trying not to be too much of a pest, while worrying about the answer.
While I waited, thoughts started to form in my head about what was wrong with the draft. I started making a mental list of things I would change. Then I got the first bit of feedback: "It's not crap, but it needs a lot of work."
This was the first time I did what I choose to describe as the happy-dance (and it is best not to elaborate). That was the best possible answer I could have been given. I already knew it was rough, but at least I knew I was heading in the right direction. Second draft had the same reviewer, and more positive feedback.
Between each draft I would take a break. It was hard not start right away, but I needed distance to be objective. I used my commute to read again, and restart a love affair with puzzle games. When it was time I would reread the last draft, and annotate it with notes. Then I would go back though and make the changes I had listed. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The third draft was the first one I considered fit for human consumption. It was still rough, but I needed to get outside prospective before I could do any more. Being asked to read the draft of a friend's novel must be similar to being asked to attend the piano recital of a ten year-old. It might be good, but you say yes more out of duty.
Between January and August of 2004, I produced 5 drafts. At the fifth draft, I reached a point where I could either refine it forever, or say it was ready for the cold hard light of day. Up till now I more or less knew what I was doing. A little stumbling and clumsy, perhaps, but I could see the path from the beginning to the end.
Trying to engage the interest of a publisher or agent reminded me of the worst parts of finding a date for the prom mixed with applying for a job. It's largely anonymous, filled with rejection, and you are never quite sure what they want to hear.
Consider the barriers that are in the way. If you have no contacts in the publishing world, then you are working blind. You run down to the bookstore and buy a copy of the Writer's Market . You carefully go though and pick the agents and the publishers you think are likely. Much like a Penuts movie, where Snoopy is constantly confronted with signs that say "No Dogs Allowed" there is a lot of negative comments to read: No new submissions, Works only trough referrals, Does not accept first time authors.
But still you make your list. You do your research. You make your submission packet. You get to know the people at your post office by name. It's hard to imagine what the other side looks like. You are a junior editor, or agent. You have a mountain of submissions to look at, most of them bad. The world is littered with novels that should never see the light of day.
However if you talk to anyone in the publishing world, they will admit that not everything they pass on should be committed to the compost heap. Publishing a book is an investment, and the publishers want to make their investment back. The agents only get paid if they can sell your manuscript. There is an inherent conservatism. It is easer to sell what has already sold. It is easier to publish someone who has already been published. There are only so many books they can market in a year.
The strikes were against me. My book is a bit of an odd duck -- neither mystery nor straight general fiction. I'm a unknown author with little more than a TravelBlog to point too. I tried to grab the brass ring on the first try. Still I was luckier than most. Two agents and one publisher asked to see more. That is more that most people get their first time out. In the end however, all decided to pass. Statistically unsurprising but a profound disappointment to the statistic in question.
It was time to rethink my strategy, and I kept returning to one thought: I wrote the book to be read . I began to toy with the idea of self-publishing. When two friends both suggested the same thing to me within hours of each other, I decided it was time to act.
In the past self-publishing was an expensive and foolhardy move. It required a large outlay of cash, and there were few ways to get your book into the hands of readers. Like so many things the net changed that.
I already had a website for my photography. I could serialize the chapters there. I could return to active blogging to announce the new chapters and publicize the book. With print-on-demand publishers, I could offer printed versions for sale, without any up-front risk. I could take the expensive part out of the foolhardy venture. When you have nothing to loose, you have everything to gain.
I had all the means to get the book out there, to get people to read it. If I could prove there was a market for it. Prove that people wanted to read it, then maybe publishing industry would want to come to me. If they didn't then, I would still have accomplished my first goal, and people would have an opportunity to read it.
This is an unfinished story. As I write this, the book has been serialized onto my site. It is available on Amazon. I have a small and slowly growing body of readers. I have sold a handful of copies, even to people I don't actually know. I've gotten a couple of fan letters. There is a terrifying air of legitimacy to it all, and too real worry of the happy-dance...
