When I was a boy I read a book by Dr. Seuss entitled: "And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street". What a great book. It laid out in the most engaging terms the simplest and most obvious fact of human existence: we are a story telling animal. We can't help ourselves. It's what we do. Life occurs and we make up stories about it (and, in many cases call our interpretations of reality: facts). Well, that being said, this is my story...
Many years ago, when my son Jason (who now has sons of his own) and I would take long drives, I would make up stories about an imaginary hero whose life perils oddly enough mirrored his own (though far more dramatically and with greater flourish). The older Jason got and the more complex his universe became the more our hero had to endure; but, in true heroic fashion, he never complained (at least he never complained to me) and grew into a person both Jason and I came to know very well.
As time moved on (as it has a nasty habit of doing) Jason kept prodding me into putting one or two of of those stories into print (more for our own use than for publication). Not being one to ever want to disappoint my best friend, I agreed; and so, the Galanor Saga was born.
Of course, I had never attempted anything like that before (let's face it, writing a novel is something that only truly "gifted" people do; and, I was just a regular guy with about a thousand ideas and head full of words), so I took an adult-ed course at a local community college in how to become (and here of course I'm being completely frivolous) a world-class novelist. I never expected to learn nearly as much as I did; but, Sharon was an excellent teacher. She guided my enthusiasm into the proper channels to turn raw concept into finely crafted (and here of course I'm puffing) fiction.
After a year and a half of work, I produced my finished manuscript. I loved it! And, why not, it was mine and it was brilliant. Of course, I expected the entire publishing world to agree with me; and, so sent out my first batch of inquiry letters with eager and undaunted confidence in my bright future.
What was I thinking? What manner of hubris had infected me while I was writing my "masterpiece"? The world was not waiting for my words to grace the lives of its millions; publishers were not sitting around in high anticipation of my work; and, the universe was going to keep on going as it had for billions of years in complete ignorance of my genius.
To put it bluntly, I began to receive what was to become a constant and mind-jarringly horrendous flow of rejection letters.
I had entered the "real" world of publishing.
For two years I tried everything I could to get someone to at least open my submissions before returning them as rejected. Nothing worked. I began to lose heart. I was about to quit.
