Put On Your Big-Girl Pants

At least the phrase “put on your big-girl pants” finally made more sense.

What does all this have to do with writing? Dearest Reader, I am heart-glad you asked.

I have been querying my latest novel for over a year. That means I’ve been sending out carefully crafted query letters to dozens of agents, asking them to represent me and pitch said novel to publishers. ’Tis a long, grueling, oft-discouraging process—but, as I said, I’ve been at it for a while now. I thought I had enough rejections under my belt to have developed some level of immunity. I thought I was already wearing my big-girl pants.

FALSE.

I recently sent out a query that seemed special to me. Perhaps the perceived significance stemmed from the fact that I had a personal referral, or that I’d done far more research for this agent than for any other, or just that—by industry standards, and by all the query tips I’ve gleaned over the past year—I had done everything “right”. 

In any case, I spent months preparing the most perfect query letter I could contrive—only to receive the briefest of form rejection letters three days later.

And, friend, it threw me. 

HARD.

I usually bounce back from difficult times with optimistic alacrity, but this time, I didn’t bounce. I landed, and sank a little, and stayed there. Days passed, and the weight in my chest refused to go away. Tears set up camp right behind my eyes, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. I even found myself entertaining seriously, for the first time, the most awful of prospects:

Maybe I should just . . . stop.

And, even more awful:

I mean, really: who would care—how would the world be any worse—if I just . . . .stopped?

I am deeply, humbly grateful for my incredibly strong support network, all of whom gathered ’round me in various forms during this time to combat the toxic pity-me lies behind these notions. I am also grateful for the space these same good folks gave me, allowing me to confront the non-toxic relevance of the questions at hand. 

Because you do have to confront them, friends.

You can’t put on your big-girl pants before you’ve made up your mind if you actually want to wear them—and endure all the training and effort they require.

I decided not to stop. 

I remembered these stories are gifts to me, first: my special children, each one belonging to me in a way it will never belong to anyone else. How could I not be perpetually encouraged—nay, delighted!—when I remember them?

I have been present at a Gathering of the Ancients.

I have received letters from Edmund Mitchell Truman.

I have laughed with Brad over his telepathic guitar’s unique brand of musical snark.

My cup runneth over with a wealth which nothing—no person, no passing emotion, no rejection email—can take from me. And more wealth is waiting, if I continue to open my ears and train my eyes to receive it.

If I keep putting pen to paper.

If I don’t stop.