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Jos, NIGERIA - "Ninety per cent of writers don't make money."
Ngozi Razak-Soyebi So a good friend and mentor told me when I proudly announced that I had given up my regular job to realize my ambition as a full-time writer. He didn't stop at that, this good and wise friend of mine. He told me quite smugly that the cultural difference would work against me and that I'd be lucky to get a publisher interested in my work.
He was kind enough, though, to add that I am a determined and ambitious young lady and that these might stand me a good chance of survival.
I let him have his say. It didn't change my decision. After all, I was fired by ambition and had all these ideas waiting to pop out on paper. I didn't pay too much attention to his analysis, either. As a matter of fact, I thought he was too brutal and even wished he had kept his opinions to himself. I was like a bird, eager to fly and I didn't need anyone aiming to shoot me down before take-off. I soon realized, though, that this good friend of mine was right. The realization didn't come all at once, though. It came gradually, trickling in slowly over the next five years and taking with it each time a tiny portion of my ambition.
At the time, though, I thanked my good friend for his "concern" and "advice" and rushed off to my little corner at home, which I had carved out for myself. I polished off my first manuscript in the romance genre, which is what yours truly writes best, and mailed it off to an agent in the U.K. I sat back afterwards, pleased with my work and effort and waited patiently to hear from the agent. As I waited, I could already see my work in the market, in bookstores and in libraries. I could even see myself signing book copies for eager fans in bookstores and -- when I tried hard enough -- I could even see Richard Gere and Julia Roberts, my two favorite actors, in a film version of the book.
Little wonder then that I received a rude awakening when my "baby" bounced back with a rejection letter.
That was my introduction into the fine art of rejection letters and, in retrospect, I recognize that it was the most humane and sweetly-worded rejection letter that I have received to date. In it, the good lady ve ry politely stated that her portfolio was full and offered useful advice on how I might realize my ambition. I recognize now that if that first rejection letter had been the standard and usual type, I might never have found the courage to carry on. As it was, I took the advice she offered, shook off the feeling of disappointment and re-mailed the manuscript, this time to a major publisher in the UK.
It took a long time for my "baby" to bounce back, and in that time interval, I realized that writing wasn't just about having ideas. It was an art and a business. I realized with a jolt that I had to package myself with about as much finesse as a used car salesman. That wasn't all.
I had to learn about syntax, query letters, synopses, word count, voice characterization, grammar et cetera, et cetera. Above all, I had to keep abreast of the market trends and know at any given time what publishers were interested in. The long and short of it was that I had to be a businessman, as well.
In between learning all these, I kept turning my ideas into manuscripts and long before I received my sixth rejection letter, I had reached the conclusion that the road to becoming a published author wasn't as smooth as I'd previously imagined. It was filled with roadblocks, pitfalls and, of course, every aspiring writer's nightmare ... those dreaded rejection letters.
I couldn't go back to my good friend and tell him that he had been right after all, so I trudged on. I gave myself regular boosts by repeatedly reminding myself that even some of the greatest writers around had been down that same road. After all, thriller writer John Creasey amassed 774 rejections while Enid Blyton of the Famous Five and Secret Seven series -- my favorites as a kid -- reportedly earned 500 rejections before their first sale. Not that I could possibly live through all that, mind.
Anyway, these regular boosts helped some, but not all the time.
In due course, I began to appreciate that, in this business, one has to be like the lizard in my local folktale that fell from the Iroko tree, one of the tallest trees in the rain forests. In this popular folktale, when the lizard fell down from this tree unscathed, it was surprised it didn't receive any praises for achieving this marvelous feat and so it decided to go around town spreading the news by itself. Pathetic as it may sound, that is what I soon became ... the lizard that fell down from the Iroko tree. Every minor feat became an achievement and a boost, and I made sure my good and wise friend knew I was finally climbing up that ladder, albeit excruciatingly slowly.
Then came what I thought was my "big" break last year. After numerous -- I refuse to count them yet -- rejection letters from agents and publishers alike, I got a request from a major publisher of romance novels in the UK for my manuscript "On The Wrong side Of 30" based on the strength of my query letter and two-page synopsis.
I couldn't believe my good fortune. I took some time out to celebrate because, over the years, I had visited this particular publishers' website and learned from their interactive community pages that a request for the complete synopsis and first three chapters was a leg in through the door.
With fingers tightly crossed and prayers of divine favor daily uttered, I mailed off the first three chapters and complete synopsis. Thereafter, I visited the post office every week, eager to receive that letter requesting the rest of my manuscript.
It didn't happen that way.
When the letter eventually came, it dealt me a blow I never thought I would ever recover from ... another rejection letter. This time the editor politely informed me that-"Your material is competently written and you have obviously researched the genre. However the feeling was that your approach lacked the extra degree of emotional punch and excitement for which we look."
For days afterwards, I walked around as though in a drugged stupor. I couldn't believe it was happening again. Just when I thought I was about to stop being that lizard that fell from the Iroko tree and would finally join that distinguished category of published authors, I had been given another blow to the jugular.
I never really thought I would recover from this blow, but now, I am beginning to think that I am testimony that writers are made from much sterner stuff than the average man. I soon put my feelings of disappointment behind me, studied the letter carefully and worked towards incorporating what the editors were looking for into my next manuscript titled "Upstaged By A Waif."
When it bounced back months later with a rejection letter, I found solace in knowing that the editors had no advice to offer this time on my work. In their own words, I quote, "After careful assessment, your manuscript has not been found suitable for our lists. Unfortunately, we cannot offer any further advice on this submission."
This time around I realized it was pointless being angry or resentful. It only clouds ones focus and leaves one feeling like a victim and I had resolved early on in this career never to reduce the issue to color or race. Nevertheless, in my quiet moments, I could not help but wonder if it would all have turned out differently if I was white. Like a friend in my writers circle delicately put it, "What makes you think these white people are ready for a black romance writer writing about the feelings and desires of white people?"
My response to that has always been, "White or black, we all have similar feelings and desires." Now, I wonder.
Someone once said that writing is a very lonely profession. I hasten to add that it can kill the faint-hearted. As I write this, I purge myself of the desire to feel a failure. My ambition might have taken a severe battering over the years, but, luckily, my dreams still remain intact. I strongly believe in the revelation to look inwards and in the manifestation of promises. Nevertheless, I have made a conscious choice now to focus more on another aspect of writing, which I do rather well, too ... songwriting. Anyone out there know of a R&B producer willing to work with me? True, ninety per cent of writers don't make money but an equal percentage of individuals in other professions never truly realize their ambitions, either. So, whoever said I had to swallow that pill?
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