My Challenge. My Confession.

Last Thursday my first-choice book agent called me to say no. She said she loved my writing, but she was just not taking on anything in the mommy category. No momoirs. No fertility stories. Nothing. She said they just are not selling the way publishers would like them to right now (no specifics on numbers, sales, publishing runs). She mentioned a book one of her authors had done three years ago. A series of 10 interviews with celebrity moms and how they really do it. Like mine, in some ways. She said her author was on all the talk shows, got tons of publicity. The book just didn't sell the way the publisher wanted it to. I went and looked it up. It did a hardcover run and a paper back run. That's more than a lot of books. And she did get a lot of publicity. I also jumped on Amazon and read the reviews. Many of them commented on how they did not want to read about celebrity mothers, whose lives do not compare to theirs. They wanted to read about mothers like themselves. ( A book like mine, perhaps?)
I confess. I was sad. I am coming from journalism. You always feel like your editor is beating you down. But, as long as you go along with your editor--and you can fight and argue if you are on staff -- you will be published. That is nice. You can also pretend to yourself and the world that anything in the story you didn't like was a result of editing, cutting, etc. And most of the time that is true, too. The point is, you get published, and you never have to take full responsibility for what you write. Not completely. Within that framework you can be as passive or feisty as you wish.
So this is different. My idea was rejected. If I do not find someone to publish it, to believe in it, it will not be published.
But this is good for me. A break through point. On some level I know that getting this book out there is breaking down a barrier I have been fighting to climb over my whole life.
In my family things are not worth doing if you cannot do them perfectly. Not writing, not art. No credit is given to people for just doing it. Indeed, to get something painted, published or produced when it is not fantastic (and the critics will be severe) is to simply litter the world with more mediocrity. Better to do nothing at all.
This is the unspoken family philosophy. And within the family I can safely say that I am the least intellectual. I am not a mathematical prodigy (as my mother believed my brilliant brother was) I am not a talented, but tortured artist scientist--fascinating in the very depths of her depression--as my sister is. I am just pretty normal. (insert boring, here)
We were taught not to sell ourselves, or fight for ourselves, but to be, and let the world recognize our brilliance. To work quietly and perfectly, and let the admirers, the pay, the recognition come. And it probably wouldn't. Because most people--even the critics, are just not that smart, the reasoning goes. (the inferior superiority complex)
And so, to forge on with my book idea, is hard. I have been told by someone it is just something too many people are doing.
Which means, not original. Which means littering the world with more mediocrity.
So now I have to fight, and sell, and hustle, and finish this thing I believe in, even if nobody else does.
I know my book is not the most original, creative work on mommyhood ever. And yet I believe that in its very groundedness, its very ordinariness, its very focus on regular people and their very personal stories, I will be contributing to history, to anthropology, and to women themselves, who struggle to navigate motherhood in a time where the standards are high, and the help and social support are nearly nonexistent. This is not a book to show my brilliance, my creativity, my genius, or make my mark as an intellectual of my generation. This is, simply, the book I wish I had had when I became a mother, when I was trying to decide whether to work or stay home. I wanted the nitty gritty details of lots and lots of families and how they made it work. I wanted the range of emotions, of financial arrangements, and the subtle changes in ambition, love, and within relationships. I didn't want the one size fits all formula--because I tried some of those on and they weren't working. I wanted input, research, stories, ideas. I wanted my book!
And so, with my next step--to blast my proposal out to a million agents--I must overcome my MacGregorness. I must believe in myself and my idea and fight for it. I must believe it is worthwhile and will make a difference in the world even if it not the most creative, most original, most one-of-a-kind revolutionary book ever. I must forge on because I believe in it. And because I believe in myself.
I am writing this here so I can be honest. So I can record my failures and learn from them. So that when i DO get an agent, a publisher and a book published, I can remember that at the beginning it felt impossible.
After my dream agent rejected me--gently and cordially -- I hopped on-line to read the bylines of some friends still at the paper. These are brilliant friends, whose minds are curious and bright. And their stories were by and large, boring. Not because they are boring, but because that is what they are being asked to write. And I thought: I would rather fight my hardest to get this thing I care about published, than to have all the recognition in the world for stories that were not my true passion. I am trying. And having the courage to do that--to suffer rejection and not give up, because you believe you have something to offer even when no one else does--is a personal victory. It has taken me 42 years of life, five years of therapy, 11 years of daily journalism, the death of a friend and the birth of two boys to get here. But here I am. And here I go. Wish me luck!