By Michael A. Black
First books are kind of like first loves --- Somehow you always remember them.
By the time I’d finished grad school I’d had a couple short stories published in various magazines and anthologies. I decided it was high time to try my hand at writing a novel. I got busy, dusted off all those old false starts and unfinished books that I had in my writing closet, and started churning out the pages. I wrote a novel-length manuscript and began sending it out to agents and editors. After making the rounds numerous times, it kept coming back with the certainty of a boomerang along with those “Thanks but no thanks” rejection letters. Undaunted, I figured I’d try different tactic and wrote a second novel. This one was harder edged and a bit different in tone than the first one had been. I started sending this manuscript out too, hoping for the best. I thought it contained my best work. I had a writer friend of mine read it and he agreed. It was the best thing I’d written. He was certain it was going to get picked up.
As time went by I met an agent at a mystery writer’s conference and gave her my elevator pitch. We sat and talked and she seemed impressed. She gave me her card and told me to send my manuscript. Feeling particularly encouraged, I did. A few weeks went by and I kept checking the mailbox every day. Nothing arrived other than the usual assortment of bills, solicitations, and junk mail. The closest I came to hearing anything about the publishing business was one thick envelope announcing I was a “finalist” in the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes. (Needless to say, I didn’t win.) I tried to remain optimistic, figuring, what the heck, no news was good news, right? (I would later come to realize that no news is only no news.)
In the meantime I got an idea for a new novel and longed to start writing it. The story kept rolling around in my head every time I drove to work or went for a run. Finally, I decided it was again time and I had to start.
I sat down at the keyboard and wrote that first line: They say if you don’t like the weather in Chicago, wait a minute and it’ll change. I reread it and thought it was a pretty good one, as first lines went. So I added a few more. It was early October and the temperature was doing its usual bounce back and forth between winter and summer. Hot one day, cold the next. Sort of a reflection as to how the whole year had gone for me. Ups and downs.
I paused to take a break and decided to check the mailbox. This time the postal service had delivered. Along with an assortment of letters, the mailman had left the package leaning against the door. I knew immediately that it was the SASE that I’d included with the manuscript I’d sent to the agent. I also knew in my heart that she most likely wouldn’t be sending it back to me if she liked it. But, still clinging to the last vestiges of that eternal optimism that drives mankind, I tore it open.
As expected, her rejection letter was polite and almost unbeat, saying how my manuscript wasn’t “quite right” for her, but she was sure I’d be able “to place it elsewhere.”
Elsewhere?
I felt totally crushed. I had really believed in this manuscript and thought it was my best work. What was that old Louie Armstrong song? “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”
Slowly, I went back to my desk and sat in my chair, staring at the keyboard and the partially filled screen.
I had to ask myself: Did I really want to keep doing this?
I sat there wondering if I had what it took . . . I’d been so convinced that that manuscript was the best I could do, only to be told once more that my best wasn’t quite good enough.
Maybe the writing was on the wall instead of the screen. Maybe I just didn’t have it.
How many times did I have to get knocked down?
Then I remembered getting floored in a kickboxing match years before. I’d gotten up and summoned all my strength so I could finish on my feet. I’d lost the match, but I’d maintained my dignity. And I’d proved something to myself. I’d learned from the loss too. There was no shame in getting knocked down. The only shame was in failing to get back up if you’re able.
I stared at the partially completed page on the screen once more. It seemed to glare back at me in defiant confrontation. Metaphorically, I was on my knees. Above me, an imaginary referee was tolling off the numbers in a ten count. I gritted my teeth as I reread those last lines.
Sort of a reflection as to how the whole year had gone for me. Ups and downs.
I made a vow, a promise to myself, that I was going to finish this novel and I was going to make it my best effort, even if I was the only person who ever read it. So I continued writing.
More downs than ups, it seemed.
And I kept going, pounding out the pages as the story unfolded before me, tempered with the knowledge that I’d beaten the count, rising out of the fire of defeat . . . I eventually completed the manuscript with a sense of satisfaction and the knowledge that I’d given it everything I had.
This manuscript eventually turned into my first published novel, A Killing Frost.
Like I said, first books, first loves --- You never forget them.
