When do you stop trying? When all the agents signing everyone you seem to know reject you? But what about those three fulls still out there? Nah. Do you then send to all the rest of the agents on the planet, hoping some poor schmo just getting started might like you? Nah. That’s like taking the guy with the pocket protector to the prom, AND having to ask him.
Do you even spend postage on sending your sexy paranormal romance to TOR, when the acquiring editor doesn’t pull punches about your slim-to-none chances of emerging from the slushpile? Nah, not an exciting prospect.
Do you go BACK to the book, and make it better? Can you stand to read it again? Submit it to one of a dozen small pubs now going to trade paper? Let your cat use it as litter? I’m always reading little spunky “I kept my chin up” bits by authors who have “made it,” describing the dozens of rejections, the many books still in the “drawer” they’re so glad never saw the light of day. Don’t you just want to slap those people, honestly? I think one of the biggest problems aspiring writers face are the aspirations of those around them. They mean well. The doting aunts, the proud brothers, the clueless friends. “When can I go to Barnes and Nobles and buy your book?” It’s the same f-ing question every time. From now on, I’m just going to scream at them. “NEVER. You’ll NEVER, EVER, be able to do that. Go to my website, click on a cover, and buy the freaking book. I’m not writing to meet your expectations any more. If you don’t understand how tough this is, it’s your problem. I never asked you why you work for Acme Plumbing instead of running your own business, did I? I never asked why you can’t lose that ten pounds! Did I nag you about your inability to join a rock band, to sell that groundbreaking invention, to buy that shore property? Get off my back! I’m doing the best I can!” Oh, wait, who am I really yelling at? Is this more of that inner child shit? I’m going to be very mad if it is!