So, I just fired the opening salvo in attempting to market Little Miss No Name; having made sure her little burlap dress is properly pressed, her knife is suitably shiny and she has a PB&J (with the crusts cut off, of course) in her new Twilight Sparkle backpack, I’ve sent her toddling off to Tor.com‘s submission’s department.
I’m of mixed opinions on this. I understand it’s a necessary step, and know that in all likelihood it’s merely her first stop in a long series of way stations that may ultimately only land her back on my doorstep, crying and broken, her knife dull and the PB&J long since gone to mold. But LMNN is, in many ways, the first thing I’ve written that I am genuinely happy with, most proud of. Probably stupid; I’ve written 4 full length novels and numerous shorts that all took a great deal more work and that have received great comments and reviews from the people who’ve been gracious enough to read them. But my little darling is, in some ways, a new beginning.
I’ve changed a few things about my writing style and technique lately. I’ve also been trying to change a few things about myself and my way of thinking. Little Miss No Name is the child of those changes, the first project begun and completed under the new mental regime, with the new mental and emotional approach to my combined work and art. She’s symbolic in more ways than “killer doll substituting for morality play about abuse.” I think that’s part of why I want one of the dolls to put on my desk, so my metaphorical daughter, product of the changes I’m trying to make, can watch over continued progress. I know it’s crazy. But I’m one of those people who needs physical markers, something I can pick up and hold, for those mental and emotional concepts. Somewhat ironic, given my self-destructive impulses and the number of things of import that I’ve quite literally just thrown away.
There goes that diarrhea of the word processor. Got to babbling and waxing sentimental. Anyway. Like the original paragraph stated, LMNN has begun her journey, which leads to two forms of agony; one, the waiting. She can’t go ambling off to anywhere else until Tor decides what they might want with her, which of course can take months. I’m not a terribly patient person, especially with my health issues and the looming birthday to remind me that I’ve already missed many a time sensitive marker. I know it’s necessary, and I know that unless I’m ridiculously lucky, there’s going to be even more waiting down the road, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Second is the agony of wanting to share.
Like I said, I’m proud of my little girl. I’m happy with her story and how it came out, and, dare I say it, I actually like it, which is so rare as to be nonexistent for my previous work. I want to see if others like it. Or if they hate it, so I can test out my attempts to develop a bulletproof psyche. Or just to know that somebody has read it, because I think it’s a story that needs to be read. But, alas, most editors and submissions managers want to make sure that what they’re seeing is “eyes only,” so on the off chance they decide to take it for a spin, they’re not just rehashing something that dozens have already seen. I can understand it; perfectly fair. Still drives me buggy.
So, to those reading; cross your fingers and wish my darling luck, if you would. She’s going to need it. Or maybe some extra sammitches.