86 is the number that line cooks shout when they are out of a menu item. As I stare at the number 86 on my computer screen, memories come back to me of the restaurant life. That was decades ago. I contemplate for a moment if my flashback is me disassociating from the reality I am facing.
This time, the number 86 does not mean we are out of something, unless we are talking about fucks that I give, which I coincidentally just ran out of as I gaze upon this number.
86 is the number of agents I have queried. 86 is the number of agents who do not want to represent my book.
86 times I have written a love letter with hope and intention only to be left unrequited.
As grim as this sounds, I am finally understanding the way of the path.
At number 25, I was losing hope. At 33, I was down bad. At 42 I prayed for a win that didn’t come, but at 52 I had just taken a class on self publishing non-fiction and with that I started to notice some light leaking in through the broken pieces of my heart.
This class made me understand that the niche content of my book is perfect for self-publishing.
More importantly, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have learned as much as I have and my book would not be where it is today if it weren’t for all of these road blocks and detours.
I took each “no”, and used it to make my book better. These countless “no’s” led me to classes, meetings with editors, paid agent feedback, and continuous revisions to the manuscript. Each new version, better than the last.
So I’m back to trusting God’s timing. I’m back to trusting that I wouldn’t have been so inspired to write, if it weren’t going to go somewhere and help somebody.
I had gotten lost in my ego, but I have found myself again.
I have one more conference booked and paid for where I get to speak to five agents, and instead of asking them to represent me, I will be asking for editor referrals to start the process of self publishing.
Onward and upward.
