Shelving The Novel
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I may have to shelve the novel.
It sucks to consider, but it may be the reality. It’s been rejected (in quiet polite ways) for months now. There have been moments of hope, and so, so many hours poured into it. And at this point, it feels like it may be a sunk cost.
Maybe I’m not a good enough writer to write a novel. Maybe the subject matter of my novel is not what people want to read. It is a book about masculinity, and not many men are reading (fewer and fewer each day) so maybe the market doesn’t want this book. Maybe it’s all rigged. But maybe, I’m just meant to be doing something else.
Other avenues of creativity are lifting for me. They’re going well. So maybe I’m not meant to be a novelist. Maybe the books I write and publish are meant to create connection, not tell a story. Because all my works that have been published haven’t been novels. And getting the novel published feels so much like forcing it that maybe I’m trying to make something work that was never meant to work.
And maybe, right now, I’m just fed up. Having a moment of doubt and having a good moan about it. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s persevering. Not letting the fear of striking out prevent me from continuing to play.
When it comes to creative work there is a massive cavern between our own belief in the work and what the business end of publishing feels about it. Publishers don’t really care about how we feel about our own work, they only care if that thing can make them money. Which isn’t a judgement – that’s just business. But I’m always hoping that there’s someone out there who will care about it as much as I do.
Anyway, we’ll keep tipping away with everything else. I just might have to shelve the novel. And that sucks. But there are other things afoot.