My Family’s Curse

I believe that families have curses; however, what I mean by curse is a way of thinking, believing, or acting that hinders coping, relationships, and outlook. For example, a family that keeps trauma bottled up creates a dysfunctional habit that will pass from generation to generation.

My family’s curse is a killing of joy, a pervasive belief that joy is dangerous because good things never happen. For example, suppose there is a child who is looking forward to their birthday. Their grandmother says in a sepulchral voice, “Don’t look forward to anything; you’ll only get disappointed.” The child integrates this world view and passes it to their optimistic children so that children strangle their joy and grow up with the dreary world view.

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I have only partially internalized the curse; I feel elation every time I write queries for a book of mine. And then the family curse wakens in my mother’s voice and version: “My grandmother said you should never look forward to anything, because you’ll only be disappointed.” Her version of the curse invokes a matriarch whom I have never met, but stands as the forgotten fairy at the christening delivering the curse.

The faulty curse wobbles around in me — I feel hope and elation, followed by guilt I should feel this way, and caution in my mother’s voice: “Don’t look forward …” I do not hug the family curse as a reality I should adopt, but it has not died in me either.

Working on Optimism

I got another rejection today; that makes four out of 25 on Apocalypse. I might have to accept the fact that I get through this querying cycle without any offers, or even nibbles, again.

I’m not sure what to do. I suppose I can wait and query my novels again, to see if the climate has improved. Or I can self-publish, and I’m still very opposed to doing that. I don’t know if there’s an editor that can help at this point.

I’m going to try to stay optimistic, mostly because it feels better that way. I am going to let this adversity strip me down to gold, and I don’t know what that version of me will look like, but I’m willing to go there.

optimism and waiting

Apocalypse is ready for querying, but I’m going to sit on it for a while, until I know what’s happening with Prodigies. If Prodigies gets accepted by either DAW or the remaining agent on my list, it changes the whole dynamic.

I’m thinking positive. My good Germanic role models on my mother’s side of the family would discourage my positive thinking. The Koenig family motto is “Don’t look forward to anything; you might be disappointed.” The problem with this, though, is that all that time I’m not looking forward to a positive outcome doesn’t make the rejection any easier, and in fact, prolongs the misery.

Optimism always makes me worry that I might be hypomanic; as someone with Bipolar 2, this is not an idle worry. But I’m not being kept awake by disparate thoughts linking with each other like boxcars in a railyard, so maybe this is true optimism.

So I wait.

About Waiting

Sometimes, all you can do is wait for something to happen.

You’ve put out resumes, or queries, or submissions to a literary magazine. You put yourself out there, and then you wait.

While waiting the interminable wait, how do you look at your venture? Do you assume the worst hoping that you’ll be pleasantly surprised? Do you bask in a glow of possibility, entertaining the fantasy of success? Are you one of the few who can go on as if you haven’t handed your heart and soul out to strangers?

I myself wait impatiently to hear results, giddily checking Submittable and Query Tracker and email too many times. This is how I know that it was exactly 113 days (or 9763200 seconds) since I submitted Prodigies to DAW.

I have three other submissions out (two short stories and a poem) and one query out (Prodigies again). I know from the conference that rejections may not mean one’s work is not good, but that it doesn’t match current consumer demands. The odds are high given the number of competitors that I will get rejected all the way around. But I remain optimistic, because I need that vision of a change, of the possibility of bursting out of a cocoon having remade myself into an author, to season my days with sweet cinnamon and success.

Pessimistically optimistic

I miss the boundless optimism of hypomania, that magic feeling when I step out of the house in the morning, and the sun shines just so, and I just know something magic will happen, because I’m blessed that way.

I don’t miss it enough to go off my meds, because without the meds my moods shift from elation to irritability to despair within a few hours. I have rapid cycling bipolar 2, so moods develop fast, like a volatile weather pattern. And that optimism could crash into suicidal ideations with the smallest speed bump in my life. The meds help, but anything from lack of sleep to a major stressor could derail my balance.

As a counter to my hypomanic pixie dream girl optimism, I have how I was brought up in a repressively Germanic family. The motto of my family was “Don’t look forward to anything, or you might get disappointed.” So normal me without the buoyant giddiness or the crushing despair hides in a coccoon of “This enterprise is doomed.”

I have to learn how ordinary people experience optimism. I have a manuscript out to a major science fiction publisher. It’s been there for three months. I expect to hear about it any day now. Because I’ve put so much work into the book I think it has a chance, I feel optimistic — but I don’t trust it because it looks like mania. Because I’ve gotten a number of rejections from this iteration of the novel from agents, I feel I should be pessimistic, but pessimism takes a lot of energy to maintain and optimism feels better.

So I’m waiting for a report on Prodigies, trying to tell myself that I’m going to get rejected and being answered by a bubble of optimism that I don’t trust. My only answer is to hold onto hope and keep trying.

Day 27 Reflection: Gratitude

Everyone knows that gratitude makes people happier.

Maybe not everyone, but popular psychology instructs us to write gratitude journals, naming a magic three things per day that we feel grateful for. One can find gratitude journals in hard-bound form, in smartphone apps, and in Facebook memes. That’s because gratitude journaling works, according to research in positive psychology (Emmons and McCullough, 2003).

Some days it’s hard to write anything in the gratitude journal. Days when little things go wrong one after another, we hug those hurts to ourselves as if to use them as currency to bargain with our Maker for better luck. When we fall into negative self-talk, learned patterns of pessimism, we can’t find a thing to be grateful for. Gratitude doesn’t come to mind when we suffer from depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.

I have those days of suffering, given that I live with Bipolar 2, which I’ve been open about in these pages. I also wrestle with negative self-talk. I’ve wrangled these two into submission for the most part, but still depression and darkness pop out at times.

I challenge the darkness with gratitude:

I am grateful for my bipolar disorder, because it has made me take care of myself. I am grateful because it has given me insight into suffering.

I am grateful for getting my manuscripts rejected because it has forced me to work harder and improve my writing.

I am grateful for my struggles because they remind me that nothing is simple in life.

Struggling

I got three rejections yesterday.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take, though. It’s very disturbing to write something, work through multiple edits and editors only to find that it doesn’t connect with the agents.

I still have about 19 queries out, and I could (and probably will) write a few more. But since this is the last substantive edit I can make on the document, this will be the last time I can send it out. And Prodigies is what I consider my best marketability wise.

I go through waves of pessimism (“I’m never going to get published, why try?”) and optimism (“I still have queries out”) When I think of what I will do once I get this book and Voyageurs queried (It’s still in edit) if no queries pan out, when I think of how much time and effort and money I’ve put into what I hoped would be a second career at retirement (I’ve got a while, but …) it’s heartbreaking.

That’s how I feel right now — heartbroken.

But then I get waves of optimism, and I don’t know whether to trust them. Should I pay attention to optimism, or is it just stringing out the inevitable moment where I find I can’t go any farther? I don’t know.

I will keep trying for a while. I will probably quit if I query the new improved Voyageurs and it doesn’t succeed. I’ll send the rest of my queries for Prodigies. Then I’ll reassess.

I don’t know if the problem is my pessimism or my optimism.

Well, Tor rejected my novella of Gaia’s Hands.

The myth of becoming a recognized writer goes like this: a writer writes original work, writes what they love as their friends exhort them to, and after a double-digit number of rejections, finally gets published and makes big splashes in the publishing world. You may recognize this as the storyline of J.K. Rowling, but it’s been told about almost every big writer (“Do you know that Big Name Writer got rejected 23 times?”).

I’m not feeling very optimistic right now. I’ve been rejected somewhere over 100 times; I’ve lost count. I write, revise, submit, and fail. I cling onto the hope that this time would be the time I get published.

You’ve heard this all before. I’ve said it all before.

I’m supposed to write for just myself, and that makes no sense to me. Why would someone write several novels — 80,000 pages apiece — and edit, and polish, so that nobody will read it? If I did this all for myself, I’d write short romances with damn near zero for plots. I’d never get them published because by “romance” I would mean “romance” and not sex.

The optimist in me feels crushed for trying something new. The pessimist in me says “I told you so.” The realist in me can’t figure out how “writing for myself” justifies writing novels nobody reads.

Realistically, I may have to stop writing novels. I don’t know if I will have the motivation to write much if I give up novels, because the possibility of being heard (an antidote to a childhood of not being listened to or believed) was my major motivator, and the reason that not being able to be published is so heartbreaking.

I know I’ve come back before, but right now the thrill is gone.

The Optimist vs the Pessimist

I’m discovering that I am an optimist.

I’m waiting for a few things in the pipeline as I explained yesterday, and I feel good about my possibilities, despite all the times I got rejected before on these very same writings. This is why I keep submitting to agents and publishers. I fantasize about getting published. Again and again, I’m drunk on possibility, captured by potentiality, suspended in rosebuds, surrounded by perpetual spring.

The pessimist in me tries to shut down the optimist to no avail. Optimism provides a kind of high that pessimism can’t compete with. The pessimist in me is in its full glory when I get rejected, and feels no obligation to commiserate with me, preferring to kick me while I’m down.

I’m trying to find a way around the Pessimist’s great timing when I get rejected again, which I suspect will happen (despite the optimism), because realistically, there are a lot more of us writers than there are agents and publishers.