It is exhausting

On artistry and submission.

Hi Folks,

First, I would like to apologize for my absence, which also ties into today’s newsletter topic. If you don’t follow me on social media, you won’t know that I spent the last four days rewriting the 100K word draft of the book I have been working on the last two years. Why do this, you might ask, and you would be valid in that question. The main answer is that an idea came to me Thursday that solved a good portion of the problems I was having narratively. The other part of that answer is that it is very hard to pitch a project when you do not absolutely love every part of it. If you don’t feel that way, it is almost impossible that someone else will.

When I finished this draft, I knew I loved the last half. I knew that if I could get someone to read it to that point, it would work out. I believed in the potential.

Agents and publishers don’t have the resources right know to look for potential. I know that. I have known that. Still. When you’ve lived your entire life with the feeling that you are meant for just one thing, it’s easy to hope that it will work out. I accepted last week that it might not work out, at least not with the original version of the draft. So we revised.

I don’t know of any other career that requires the emotional resiliency like that of an artist. It is exhausting. Every day it feels I put myself— and with that, everything I think, feel, and believe in— on the line. Very little does it actually work out. In the last five years— while studying in one of the top programs for writing and working in the literary field— I have had only one single acceptance. Even yesterday, right after I had finished this new draft, I opened my email only to find yet another rejection on a story I had been sure would work out. If you have ever lived in this kind of creative spiral, then you know what it is like. I do not know how many more words I have left in me.

Growing up and wanting a career in the arts, it always felt possible. Challenging, sure, but possible. I have built nearly my entire identity around being a person who writes things. I almost never doubted that this was who I am, that this was what I was meant to do.

The older I get, the more I wish there was anything else I felt passionate about. The more I wish I could just walk away from this entirely.

A few years ago I began to follow the sage advice of shooting for one-hundred rejections a year. If you exist in the literary world, you are likely familiar with this philosophy. The general idea is that if you aim for a high number of rejections, you are certain to get a few acceptances along the way. What we don’t often talk about are the psychological implications of that much rejection. In almost every performance review I have ever had, my top-ranked skill is often grit. I used to think that made me tough— the ability to hide how I was feeling and show up every day as if it didn’t hurt. But I don’t want my work to be shrouded in grit; I don’t want my art to have to be tough to survive. I want my writing to stay rooted in connection and empathy and hope. I just don’t know how to make others see that there is importance in those things too. (Incidentally, the largest award I ever won was for a piece exploring my own depression and suicidal ideation. None of the pieces I have ever submitted about healing have ever won anything).

Beyond just the conversation about what we consider “good art” lies the conversation about who even gets to make art. Having worked on both sides in the publishing world, I know how much success happens simply by knowing the right kinds of people. For someone who does not have access to the stronghold cities of the arts world, how are you ever supposed to make it? Most agents take on 2-3 new clients a year. A large portion of those clients are found through literary conferences and referral. Getting an agent does not even mean your book will get published. Plenty of works go out on sub and don’t make it. Imagine these odds if you are living in a rural community with little tech access and no ability to travel. Imagine how many stories are lost in this process.

Even still, if you are able to start putting your work out there, finding the kind of people who will believe in is a whole new challenge. In the pitching process for this book, I have spent countless hours searching for agents with any kind of tie to the South, or even just a rural community in general. I have nearly given up on finding an agent who is not currently living in Brooklyn or Manhattan. (And as a side note, if you are one or know of one who would be interested in a story exploring rural queerness and the rise of digital cult-like communities, please email me).

This is also a process that most artists must take on on the side, operating around full-time jobs, families, and responsibilities. Writing— and then submitting— work is a new job in an of itself. If you don’t have the time or emotional capacity or access to internet or knowledge of places to submit, where do you go from there?

I know this struggle isn’t unique. I know that every great artist goes through rejection after rejection until they get to a point where they believe in their work more than anyone. I know that belief is necessary in order to share your work with the world and not fall apart. I know that what I have to say is important and meaningful and that the right person will see that. I know all of that. It is still exhausting.

Instead of a prompt, this week I have a challenge, for you and me both. Send your work out somewhere. Just submit it. Apply for something.

Additionally, if you have any recommendations for places to submit work, please share them below. Finding good magazines and websites is a process in and of itself.

I like this quote from Roxane Gay about the why of art: “I used to think I didn’t have triggers because I told myself I was tough. I was steel. I was broken beneath the surface, but my skin was forged, impenetrable. Then I realized I had all kinds of triggers. I simply had buried them deep until there was no more room inside of me. When the dam burst, I had to learn how to stare those triggers down. I had a lot of help, years and years of help. I have writing.”

In the end, we have the ability to put the words on the page. And I think that’s really all that matters.