Risk
“I give it 50/50.”
I rolled my eyes and took another sip of coffee, playing it cool. F. and I are blunt and sarcastic East Coasters stranded in fluffy-ass Portland. We love to talk tough. But inside, I felt a familiar clenching.
“Look, he told me it looked really good,” I protested. “Nine out of ten. And his pitches almost never get rejected.”
“Yeah, I give it 50/50.”
F. is a writer too, a damned good one. She’s also more experienced than I am, having published two novels with a third on the way. And what she was telling me was that even though the editor had said such great things about my book—things a first-time author would kill to hear—I shouldn’t count on him actually getting it through the gauntlet of the monthly pitch meeting.
I felt the sting. Beneath the thrill—finally, some traction!—was the slithering suspicion she was right: That if I put my faith in the editor, it would only confirm that the carpet was about to get yanked out from under me. That it was all a hoax, a cruel joke. That I shouldn’t risk exposing myself.
I’ve been hypervigilant to this threat, ever since preschool. The attack that leaves me suddenly pantsless—figuratively and, at least once, literally. And it explains, in part, why I gravitated to punk. I mean, yes: The first time I heard The Clash’s “Janie Jones” it was the shock paddles to my chest, jolting me to life. But punk was also my armor, the promise that if I looked and acted a certain way—pretending I didn’t care about anything when, really, all I wanted was to care and to be cared for—I would be safe. Safe from my classmates’ scorn, safe from feeling left out. Safe from these painful sensations.
Punk is friction, shock, confrontation: Corrosive guitars and machine-gun drums, righteous lyrics lambasting the hypocrisy of late-stage capitalism. But punk is also the excuse—the demand—to stay small. When I played in punk bands, “making it” wasn’t cool; it was far more honorable to play to a dozen diehards than a packed house. At least that’s what I told myself, night after night. And so while none of my bands made much of a splash outside the excruciatingly insular punk scene, that wasn’t the point. Mission accomplished!
But every once in a while, they did: A gushing review here, a “pick of the week” there. A circuit completed: Finally, I felt seen! These tiny sparks ignited a thrill that was nearly painful in its intensity. The discomfort should have been a signal urging me ahead. Instead, I ran from it. When you’ve spent a lifetime trying to ignore such feelings intensely sensational. It can suddenly seem as though your body is under attack.
Why did the possibility of success feel so threatening? I thought of that hoary self-help aphorism: “People don’t fear failure; they fear success.” All those dreams of “doing something big” and “having an impact”? They felt a lot safer when they were only distant points on the horizon. Now—just maybe—my bluff was being called. Could I manage it?
A week or two after my coffee with F., I spoke with the editor again. The numbers had changed: “Three out of four. It’s literary, and that’s not really our thing,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. By now I’d spent some time with the publisher’s catalog, and I knew he was right: Though they tend towards mind/body/spirit stuff, some of their releases are pretty wacky. One is a book that promises to “expose the alien plot to enslave humanity and exploit our planet's resources.” Nonfiction! Supposedly, it’s one of their best sellers.
Sigh.
But here’s where it actually got interesting. Alien plots aside, the publisher is actually trustworthy and well-respected. And so I allowed myself to get excited about the book’s chances, formulating a game plan to research potential freelance writers to review the book. I’d even gotten a grant, so I wouldn’t have to do all the gruntwork myself.
But when I contemplated the possibility that the publisher might pass, allowing myself to stay with the sinking sensation, I recognized something had changed: I wasn’t the same person as I was when I began writing the book. That person was allergic to risk. He believed that if he only kept my head down and did everything perfectly, he might slip past the gatekeepers and the checkpoints. He’d closed himself off to the inevitable hurt that comes when you offer the world something and, well, nothing happens.
Instead, this new me had tried something different, calling on friends for guidance and the occasional favor. That’s how I’d ended up with the editor in the first place: A friend forwarded my manuscript along with some kind words, and suddenly I had a shot.
So, what did F. know? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe my book wouldn’t get bought by this publisher. Maybe it wouldn’t get bought by any publisher. I wasn’t in charge. Instead, I recognized that I was merely being asked to feel this new atmosphere, to acclimate to these depths. My body felt strangely activated, like the air pressure around me had changed. But I saw now that this wasn’t a problem. It was just an intense sensation.
You know what else? It felt pretty great.
This morning, I got a call from the editor. “I don’t think it’s right for us,” he told me. “At least not as it currently stands.”
I felt that clenching again. I recognized those well-worn pathways, the invitation to reanimate the same old stories of failure. And just like that, I released it. “Okay, I said. “Tell me more.”
He did. We spoke for a half hour, and while I didn’t agree with everything he said, I listened closely and took copious notes. He’s been at this a while, and he’s seen some of the aspects of the story I’d missed (or hoped would just fade into the woodwork). He even suggested he pitch it to a different publisher, one with a more commercial bent. I’m not sure I will, but I appreciated the offer.
No matter what happens, the book needs work. And while there’s a part of me that wishes things were different—that I could have skipped forward to the happy ending—I know better. But of course, I’ve been at this a while too.
Does this sound grim? It shouldn’t. Am I hopeless? Far from it. But I thought the challenge was writing the book. Now I see that the real work has only begun.
Onwards.