failing to get the magnum opus published, then writing another, worse novel anyway
In the query letter for Don’t Worry About It, I said, on its potential impact: This novel takes a complex, unflattering look at how the world views women, and a complex, unflattering look at how women view each other and themselves. It is a novel about the damage women do to each other, and the lateral societal structures that encourage them […] DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT is an adult novel of 110,000 words that combines lesbian erotica, literary fiction, and romance into thought-provoking social commentary. This novel is meant to titillate body and mind, exploring female and lesbian desire in a way few other mainstream works have. It is meant to be a challenging story, encouraging debate and word-of-mouth discourse.
I didn’t oversell its themes, but I absolutely oversold the number of people who would be interested in reading such a thing. And yes, I sure did lean on the erotica aspect in the spirit of how much everyone wanted to gawk at 50 Shades back in the day, despite the fact that 50 carries with it an entire airport’s worth of cultural baggage, and also, aside from that, just sucks. This novel is not like 50 shades at all, but there is a lot of sex in it, which is a whole other blog post all its own.
My point is that aside from the usual stink of eau de Buy My Book Please that pervades all query letters, what I say in mine holds water. To me, anyway. I believe this is an important story with a lot to say, and I didn’t pull my punches when it came to critiquing our cultural and political moment, specifically as it relates to (a subset of) women. I was well aware while writing this novel and falling in love with it that it would be an uphill battle to catch an agent’s interest, and that’s before even discussing the current state of lesbian fiction (bad). Even finding comparative titles was really hard, both because I don’t read lesbian fiction (mea culpa) and because, for better and worse, Don’t Worry is fairly unique in its genre.
But I followed my heart anyway. I pushed aside what The Man asked, expected, nay, demanded of me, and pursued my art in an as pure, as unadulterated, and as authentic manner as I could. This isn’t to say there wasn’t more I could have done. I am sure there was a way, or even many ways, in which I could have moved forward with this manuscript— whether that meant getting back on social media and soliciting interest there, or digging deeper for agents, or paying a professional editor/querying service to ensure my submissions were up to snuff, and so on— but I didn’t. After a year, I threw in the towel, in the sense that I accepted mainstream publishing wasn’t interested in Don’t Worry and likely never would be, and the ratio of blame as it pertains to my writing abilities vs Society will always be up for a debate that can never be resolved, and that’s just how it is, regardless of if I can reconcile those feelings or not.
And that’s hard, emotionally. Anyone who has put their art out there only to have it rejected—for whatever reason, whether it’s a result of their own skill level, market forces, or other factors— will feel the sting of your Most not even being enough to pass the first hurdle, let alone the finish line. And the response to that is, like, wow, okay, so I put my heart and soul into something and now my feelings are hurt and my heart is crushed and i flayed myself open, every sticky crevice on display, the most vulnerability i have displayed in my time on this earth so far, and i didn’t even—
—profit off it.
did you hear that? that metallic popping sound? it’s the can of worms i just opened.
We all want to be seen, we all want to be understood, and how we are seen and understood is often through the art we create. But the art we create cannot exist independent of profit unless you’re already independently wealthy and you have endless time, resources, and physical/emotional availability. Sure, you can make crafts or visual art or do any other type of creative activity in your spare time as a hobby, even though sometimes it feels like hobbies are dead and everything is a side hustle now, but I’m referring to making art for a living. If you create as a hobby, well, the money you have has to come from somewhere, y’know?
On paper, I despise the monetization of hobbies. In practice, for years I wrote fanfiction for free, which was a hobby, and now I’m writing original fiction, and I want money, please. I would like to monetize my hobby, please.
Nothing about marrying these disparate streams of thought is easy. In the past, I’ve been asked once or twice about how someone can give me money in exchange for fic i write (always with kind intentions, I don’t begrudge these people at all) and have received many comments about how the commenter would like to purchase a book I write someday, or wish they could compensate me financially because they enjoyed the fic, stuff like that. Toward the end of my time in fandom, it became common for people to write a threadfic (is that still a thing in fandom?? do people know what that is??) and then put their ko-fi (is that still a thing in fandom?? do people know what that is??) at the end. with the passage of time and my exit from the fandom world I feel like I can admit I always judged this choice (funny, considering how easy I accepted the concept of people taking fanart commissions/selling prints… is there a difference or is this just another instance of me demurring and undermining the concept of writing as a skill that deserves compensation?? should anyone in fandom make money off their peers?? sweet, merciful jesus, can anything ever be simple??). And then i wrote Don’t Worry, and while this is an original work, I also originally claimed that I didn’t want to “monetize my audience” when I first had the idea of publishing it on ao3 or self-publishing if the mainstream avenues didn’t work out. And, y’know, here we are. I have a donate page ready to go on this site and the only reason I haven’t activated it yet is because I have to upgrade my squarespace subscription for it. I mean, they do say you have to spend money to make money. Money I will soon be asking you, my audience, for. haha.
On top of that, there is always, thrumming just under the surface, the killer, nigh-undefeatable imposter syndrome. It seems impossible that I can objectively know I’m at LEAST a competent writer and storyteller, and yet, the thought of receiving even a cent in exchange for my work is excruciating. Other authors have written much worse books than I have and they’re getting paid for them. I used to say that the moment I receive compensation for my writing is the moment I stop writing forever. And it’s not out of some moral quandary. I’m just afraid. Of what? I don’t know. What if I’m really not that good? What if, independent of quality, people don’t care for my writing and I never publish another book because I just don’t sell? What if people care so little about women, specifically lesbians, that writing stories about them never generates enough income for me to live on even though this is the most natural, authentic shape for how I share my art with others? What if there’s a bomb strapped to the loonie and I don’t notice?
The unfortunate side effect of these posts is getting to know me at least a little, no matter how much I’d like to keep this writing blog and my personal life separate. Almost like my writing and my personality feed into each other! who knew. Anyway, I tend to overthink things, and not just once. The paths of my mind are well-trodden.
“Well-trodden”, though, is also a funny way to describe my mind, because the ultimate outcome of the woolgathering and pussyfooting and hand-wringing above is just: au??ghuughhuu?hughhh????
And still, all of this comes down to exchanging money for goods and services. I want to publish a book, and I want to get paid for it. I want to create stories and receive financial compensation in return. I want the widest audience possible. I want (my work) to be seen. I want to live my life in a way that is meaningful and fulfilling to me, and we live in a world where meaning and fulfillment come hand in hand with financial success, and on a smaller, more boring scale, I have bills to pay and only dead-end career prospects and financial mediocrity ahead of me otherwise.
Amidst this mental ensnarement and existential dread, I am writing a second book. I’ve already started off on the wrong foot because this one is also about lesbians, and gay women just do not generate the same mainstream interest as stories about straight women or gay men. However, I am keeping in mind that the current lesbian fiction scene is very milquetoast, and the narrative I’ve constructed reflects that. A fun easter egg: while constructing the story I asked myself, what’s the most non-threatening social justice issue to hinge the protagonist’s character arc on? Why, environmentalism of course! Which is not to say environmentalism isn’t a worthy cause— just that there’s not a lot of nuance to the general public’s opinions on it, and you won’t stir up a whole lot of controversy by saying, “Umm, maybe we should stop killing the planet we live on?” Scathing commentary.
It’ll be fun. And romantic. And funny. And probably, genuinely meaningful to at least a handful of people. There will be at least a few goodreads reviews for it that begin by listing the REP(resentation) stats like they’re Pokemon cards, with little to say about the actual novel itself. I’ll have a few bucks in the bank. The cover will have that god-awful paper cutout look that is so popular with contemporary romance novels right now.
And, um, all will be well?
This is so confusing and harrowing. I fear the hopelessly contradictory nature of creating art for profit will never free me from its clutches. Imposter syndrome can only be fed by a lack of self-esteem and, simply, self, both of which I can address in my personal life. Uncertainty is more likely to take hold while feeling directionless and like I’m lacking purpose, also things I can work on privately. My fears, doubts, and judgements surrounding this topic are not unique. I am barely a blip on existence’s radar, and that should free me from such earthly concerns. Art is a worthy human pursuit regardless of whether it generates profit or not. Art is a worthy human pursuit regardless of whether anyone else beside its creator ever lays eyes on it. Art is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, and what someone is willing to pay for it is often utterly arbitrary and generated by a complex and external series of consumer trends and economic factors and says nothing about the intrinsic value of the work itself, if a monetary value could even be assigned to such a thing in the first place. A soothing mantra I repeat to myself every night in bed before I fall asleep.
And then every new morning, I still wake up with a piece of me having been deemed unworthy, and a less worthy, in-progress piece of me in microsoft word waiting to find out what happens next, and if the lesbians can save the world with the power of love from evil energy drink CEO Dr. Litterman and his giant laser that is going to speed up global warming to even more unprecedented rates all so he can make a new patented formula in an effort to gain back the market shares he’s lost to all those seven year olds who are addicted to prime.
For what it’s worth, none of this negates how proud I am of Don’t Worry and how excited I am to finally share it with an audience. I can’t say much for sure, but one thing I can is that I’m at my best and my happiest and my most fulfilled when I’m crafting a story. Whether it’s serious or goofy or erotic or milquetoast or complex or just for silly fun, it’s always part of me, and I hope that part of me connects with part of you.
And with that brief preamble out of the way: saltyfeathers donation page coming soon 🥲