It’s time for me to tell this story.
When my first novel came out five years ago, my publisher,
Random House, hosted a lovely reception at the ALA Midwinter Conference in Philadelphia to toast
several of us “debut” children’s authors.
It was in a large, elegant hotel room and there were crab cakes and one
of those large wheels of runny brie similar to the type Anne Lamott describes
in the chapter on “Publishing” in Bird by
Bird. Editors, agents, publishing poo-bahs, writers: all were there.
It was one of those platinum moments when one feels very
good about oneself, professionally.
At some point in the evening I was introduced to a woman, and when
my eyes lit on her name tag I almost gasped.
Let’s call her SA. For Snarky
Agent.
Several years earlier when I was searching for agents I had
sent her a draft of a manuscript (which ultimately became the debut novel we
were all toasting that evening) which she swiftly and rudely rejected. Very rudely
rejected. As a matter of fact, it was
the only rejection I had ever received which made me cry. It was mean spirited. It was unnecessarily unkind. It was unnecessary on all levels, because she
was, and is, a very successful agent with a stable of very successful authors.
And that evening, there she was, sidling up to me for an
opportunity to schmooze and lavish praise on my little book.
You dream about these sorts of moments. Not every day, but on those bitter days,
those chew-the-gristle-of-past-hurts days, you imagine what you’ll say to
so-and-so who did you wrong. You’ll
wield your triumphs in her face. You’ll
trumpet your success. “The best revenge
is doing well!” you’ll cry, as you breach the walls of past disappointment and
vanquish your enemy.
And oh, reader, how she asked for it. She looked at my name tag, and a curious expression came over her face.
“Haven’t we met?” she half-asked, half-mused. She knew the name, but from where … ? It never occurred to her it was from her
“slush pile.”
Here’s what I did:
nothing.
“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” I answered, and exchanged
some stupid small talk with her before retreating back to the brie.
Here’s why I did it, and it’s not because I’m noble, because I’m definitely not: because that’s the business. It’s an opinion-based, subjective business,
and even if you win the Nobel Prize, someone
out there is gonna shrug and say, “Oh, I really can’t get into his/her
novels.” Someone will take issue with
your narrator while someone else loves your narrator. Some will call your book “important,” while
someone else will call it a missed opportunity.
In the midst of that lovely, praise-filled party, I was
reminded, before I became dangerously pleased with myself, that there’s always another opinion. And while you can’t let the turkeys get you
down, you also can’t let the voices of the angels go to your head.
In the end, it’s just about the work. About being alone with your story, and doing
the best you can, and if you string a couple of good sentences together that’s
a productive day. If someone reads it
and likes it, that’s a good day.
My third book is set for release next week, and the reviews
are streaming in. I’m grateful to have a
wonderful editor at Knopf/Random House and a wonderful agent. I’m grateful to be reviewed, grateful for the
good reviews… and deeply miffed by the brain-addled idiots who missed the point
and wrote bad ones. (See? I told you I’m
not noble. Or mature.)
My teacher in college and at Bread Loaf, the poet Robert
Pack, asked me long ago, “Are you tough enough to make it in this
business?”
Thirty years later, I’d have to tell him: nope.
Thin-skinned as ever. Sensitive
as ever.
But every day, I return to the blank page. The hours alone, the stiff back from sitting
too long, stringing sentences together.
And strangely enough, I find that deeply satisfying.
