Got a Demonic Muse?

After I finished writing my beloved romantic comedy (aka, BRC), my demonic muse was so entranced by my characters and their journey through the world I had created for them that I knew without a doubt the master race of editors and agents from New York to California would be burning up the phone lines to get me to sign with them. This frenetic story worshipping would logically result in the biggest bidding war in publishing history, and my life as a full-time Lamborghini owner would commence. The Day J.O.B. was but a breath and flipped bird away from becoming history. My friends were about to start fawning over my new bestseller status, and I could afford coffee at Starbucks. My family would actually introduce me as a real published author (versus a part-time writer molding like old grueyere in front of her computer). I had all the extended vacation spots lined up, where I would not only immerse myself in the culture and pour money into the poverty-stricken economy, but there beneath the swaying palms, cooled by salty ocean breezes and margaritas, I’d write the second most excellent novel ever to land ink on a page. My plan was working perfectly!

Then, one by one, the people who held their fingers on the pulse of my future country club membership and frequent flyer miles epistolated words to the following effect: 

You are obviously a great writer, but I’m afraid:

• it didn’t do as much for me as I hoped.
• I didn’t feel strongly enough . . .
• I wasn’t enthusiastic enough . . .
• it’s not right for our line.
• the book is too long, and I don’t have the time.

‘k. So that’s a no?

Months went by, and after my BRC was poo-pooed by the entire master race (and a few missing links in between), I gave up writing for a time. Oh, I never ventured far away, as my determined inner red pen demanded center stage. Over and over she insisted I edit the BRC and “get it right.” This so I could start the submission process all over again. I edited a bit more and sent three shiny new chapters to an agent I had previously passed over. Now, not only was I shot down by the mother of all oxymorons: a nice rejection, but a second stringer too.

Not to be deterred, my inner red pen set to work once more and changed up the first chapter, added a prologue. My critique group then reviewed it for the umpteenth time and handed it back with the enthusiasm of one of those New York agents. “Looks okay to me,” they said. “What have you got to lose?”

So I shampooed again, rinsed, and repeated until my manuscript was scrubbed clean, and I submitted a new version yet again. Finally one agent gifted me with these immortal words: your main character is incredibly unlikeable.

‘k. So that’s a no?

Point is, I changed things up too much, hedged away from my original concept, sank into emotional chaos and self-pity, followed by complete devastation (I took to biting my nails and refusing to sand the dead skin from my heels), and finally to quitting writing altogether. Horror or horrors, I began to think I would be better off looking for a stressful Day J.O.B. where I could climb to greater responsibility and earnings, one that left me no energy or time to pursue any kind of creative writing. One that would ultimately quash my life-long dream of being a published author. But maybe then I could get it out of my system.

Ten months have passed now, and no amount of ladder climbing or neurosis has driven the demonic muse from my system. On the contrary. The bitch is back with a vengeance. So I am back at it again. If you have had a similar experience, please comment, and let’s commiserate on our writerly afflictions.

‘k?