Writing Crossroads

So...A while ago, my publisher rejected my latest manuscript. It seems they've decided to publish only romance, historical fiction, and suspense now, and my manuscript doesn't fit those genres. My husband has always counselled me not to be so quick to get from point A to point B, and it seems I took his advice too much to heart, because they also said my story was "meandering." I think, when you peel back the layers to the core of it, what they're saying is "not enough suspense." There is no mechanism for rewriting and resubmitting it.

I sulked for a day---it's hard not to, when you've spent a year on a manuscript only to learn the carpet has been yanked out from under you---and then I decided to fall back on my other publisher, who put out my last book. But...drum roll...it seems they no longer want to do fiction. They're accepting non-fiction only.

I have two choices: I can either give it a quiet burial in the filing cabinet, or I can try to get a literary agent. Most publishers won't accept manuscripts "cold"; they want you to have an agent. But I'm not sure what I write is really substantial enough to warrant an agent. I don't write Great Literature, and it's probably too vanilla for a broader audience. It may be that my writing days are over.

I think I'm okay with that, except that this particular manuscript had something to say about cooperating and working with people who think differently from you. It's a timely topic, with nations being torn apart over divisive political viewpoints. We may not agree, but we can still tackle a problem together. It also featured an 87-year-old protagonist, because I feel older people are not well represented in books. And it would have brought my publishing credits to a nice round 12, which had a final sort of ring to it.

I suppose I could go with the self-publishing route, but I've never had much respect for it, to be frank, and I don't relish the idea of having to do all my own marketing. Life is exhausting enough without that. So...

I'll let you know what I decide.

Meanwhile, the world is on fire and famine is staring us bleakly in the face and refugees are standing at the airport hoping to be let into a new life, and I can't get too worked up over a rejection letter. Actually, not even anything so substantial as that -- a rejection email. It's hard to take it seriously. Life is changing in every aspect, and I guess my writing is going to change along with it. It may be the end of an era, or it may be high time for a revamp. I've been feeling the tug to focus more on non-fiction, on vital topics, on things that will build resilience and not just entertain. It may be that this is the start of something new.