Can you hear that? That is the sound of my literary clock ticking.
It took me two years to write The Truth About Parallel Lines, which, in transactional real estate lawyer years, is a lifetime. Once I’d finished it I was eager to do something with it. I was anxious for something to happen. Right or wrong, it felt like time was slipping away, like I was sitting on the bench, tying and retying my laces, while all the other runners had already taken off, were already hitting their strides.
With the help of friends and family, I reached out to a small number of agents and editors. In retrospect, I was overly confident here. I figured I’d done the hard part. I had written a book that I was proud of. All of the feedback I’d gotten was positive. I knew lots of people in the business, and I was ready to allow my connections to open all the doors for me.
A bit of history. In high school, Wesleyan University was My College of Choice. I was absolutely certain, as only a 17 year old can be, that if I went to Wesleyan, all of my dreams would come true. It was a reach, but not completely out of the question. When it came time to apply, I was encouraged to ask an old family friend, someone who had known me my entire life, a famously successful Wesleyan alum, to write a letter of recommendation. But I was stubborn, naïve and trying to be fiercely independent, and it just didn’t feel right. I wanted to get in on my own. I thought that if I sought and received this assistance, I would never know if I’d legitimately earned my place there. So I declined to make the request. And I went to Clark University. You do the math…
All these years later, though still stubborn, still naïve and still trying to be fiercely independent, I had come around. I was over it. If my connections could provide any assistance, bring it on. If my last name could open any doors, I was ready to waltz right on through.
It was slow going. Weeks and months ticked by. And nothing much happened. I continued to receive positive feedback, but no bites. No offer of representation. No big (or even small) advance. No deal. I could have cast a wider net but frankly, I was impatient. I just didn’t want to wait any longer to see if something, anything, was going to happen.
There have been moments when the decision to self-publish has felt like failure, defeat. I imagined that others would see me as I sometimes see myself – a dilettante, writing checks to support a hobby, a vanity project. But then another side of me remembers that I wrote a book. A book that I am proud of. And I remember, too, that I already have a job that pays me well, where my skills are recognized and my experience valued, a career in which I have been successful by any standard.
I didn’t write this book with any expectation of becoming rich and famous. I wrote it because I had a story to tell, one that I hope people will read and enjoy. Tick tock.
