Query blues

The other day I sat down to look through the notebook I used as a planning and idea book for when I was writing Keystone Calamity.  The date was right at the top, staring back at me.

2014.

I can't believe it's been over seven years since I wrote that novel.  On top of that, it's been about two and a half years since I worked on my query letter, hoping to get representation for the first novel I actually had faith in.  I wonder if that's been the source of my anxiety over the last couple of days.

Earlier this year, I woke up early (pretty unbelievable, I know) to an apartment that was quiet and calm: the solemn silence before the day explodes with to-dos, chores, attempts at relaxation, and general tomfoolery.  The cats were still slow-blinking their drowsiness away, not quite cognizant to the fact that I was actually up and about and free to be pestered.  I curled up in the corner of our sectional, a cozy blanket burrito and mulled over the thoughts that had stirred me from my slumber.

I decided it was time to work on my book again.  It was time to revisit the query letter and make a proper go of it instead of having it simmer on the back burner.  It had taken me months and months and months of struggle to even get some words on paper that mostly resembled what I wanted my query letter to be and how I wanted it to sound.  So precarious and fragile was the composition that I locked it away and went on to celebrate that I'd finally gotten through the beastly task of just getting something down that I didn't hate.

I honestly think I'm scared.  I've written a few books now, but by the end, I was always a ball of despair, loathing every sentence I had conjured and hating myself even more.  Keystone was the first book I wrote that actually felt like it meant something.  It was the first manuscript I was able to show people and get feedback from beta readers that made it a better book.  It went through four drafts, maturing all the while, finding its voice and footing among my embarrassing purple prose.  I scrubbed until that thing shone like a diamond, and it actually shows.

I have a problem with being ashamed of my writing.  I often feel so sheepish reading about other writers and their doings and advice.  At first, I feel like a complete imposter: a pseudo writer, living a horrible lie.  Eventually, as I read more and more about other writers and their struggles, I nod my head along to their blog posts or articles, saying to myself, I am a real writer!  This is exactly how I feel too! or I do this stuff too!  I am validated!  Eventually, I eke the tiniest amount of confidence from these readings and decide I'm not terrible.  It's at this point I decide to read something I've written recently that didn't completely mortify me.  Commence the unending shame spiral that ensues and I fall back into my hole of feeling like a total fraud.

I re-read my most recent draft of Keystone just the other day.  For about the first half of the book, I had similar feelings to the above cycle.  I floundered with my disappointment.  I remember it being so much better than this, I thought to myself, completely stricken at the state of the story.

And then something happened.  About halfway through, it got better.  It became a good novel.  It said everything that I'd wanted it to say, evoked the right emotions, hit all the right notes.  I finished it and I felt pleased and complete – the actual sentiment I always seek when I go down that road of trying to remind myself that I actually am a writer and have written some meaningful things.

That's when the panic started.  I guess maybe it was the realisation that it's actually still not ready.  I've been on the cusp of querying probably about four times now and each time, I finally have to admit that the manuscript still isn't there yet.  It's getting so close that I almost get over the hump and seek representation, but I still haven't.  I know in my heart of hearts that it's not a diamond yet.  It has not been completely excavated yet.  This is not the foolish endeavour of perfection in a subjective personal craft, but the deep knowledge that it still needs a bit more polish to make the first half as captivating as the latter.

Thus, I've decided to put my other projects on hold for now while I get out my pen and put on my editing hat again.  I can only hope that my cat hasn't completely messed up all the settings on my printer.  She has a habit of walking all over it and printing her blank manifesto.  Sometimes when I'm in another part of the house, I'll hear the beep, beep, beep of her dainty paws smashing the LCD into gods know what menu.  I guess I'll find out momentarily.

I want to leave you with something I wrote mid-2018 when I was still struggling to put my muddled query feelings together.  I did a lot of exercises, wrote a lot of lists, and studied hundreds of other queries to help me find my voice and the right words to be the condensed representation of everything the novel was.  I read this after finishing the book recently and it struck something like truth in me.  It meant something.

Why do I love it?  Why do I think it's good?  Why do I know it's good?  It's fun and lighthearted, but tackles a personal beast: self-doubt.  For those of us who are afraid we don't know what we're doing – sometimes we have to trip a few times whilst climbing up that hill called life.  The scary struggle of the unknown, the challenge of our own knowledge and personal truths.  Fighting through the gloom of uncertainty to find the faint glimmer of hope.

Gwyn's not really angry with her sister; she's angry at herself for being afraid and full of doubt.  She's supposed to be better, stronger, up for any challenge.

So many fantasy books are about the quest and strong warriors who can do no wrong, but what of their minds and hearts and feelings?  What if you've trained your whole life to be strong, but realised you really don't know anything at all?  Am I doing the right thing?  How can I go on when all of these people depend on me?

Gwyn is not the chosen one or the last so-and-so of the Ancient Organization of X.  She's just a girl who has a feud with her sister who then has to go out and save the world – all by chance.

It's the tale of friendship when you didn't realise how badly you needed someone.  It's about making peace with yourself before you can make peace with the world.  It's about moving past the doubt to face the challenge – whether you want to or not.  It's about being the hero – when you're just trying to go home – when you'd rather just be at home, minding your own business.