My Story, For Sale

I admit I have a strange sense of what 'public' means. Like I can make something public over there, but not over here. I imagine this to be a residual effect strengthened by my series of surprises over the past five years.

Nevertheless, I publicly made this so I suppose I should publicly share it here. 

(And damn you, Ben Arment for pulling this out of me...)

My Story, For Sale

I blame Anne Lamott. It was her, after all, who used rather impassioned words at STORY 2012 demanding we share our unique stories. She explained the delicate dance of selling a book proposal - how the author enters a contractual agreement never knowing if the book will turn out. I believed that.

She admitted the thought put into writing the book taught her nearly as much as the actual events which inspired it. I believed that, too. So I pulled together what guts I had, crafted my narrative, found an agent, and my book is currently - as in, right now - available for sale.  

The proposal is pretty good. I begin with terminal cancer and it’s quickly approaching five-year deadline. I included the heartbreaking divorce from the love of my life, and finished up with a surprise ending of a near-miracle baby. It’s straight-forward life, death, and resurrection stuff. The story carries its own jokes and won’t lack on tears. I even go into detail on the locations my cancer caused me to pass out, including conference centers, showers at the gym, my favorite restaurant in Grand Rapids, and 35,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean.

But now I’m the lonely participant watching this parade of “no thank you”s.

The soul-sucking responses keep coming in, but allow me to share my favorites:

“I loved the book, but couldn’t sell it to the team. They thought it colored a little too far out of the lines of the evangelical constituency.”

“I loved the title and I thought David’s story was really dramatic and interesting. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure his platform was big enough yet to make this really stand out in a big way.”

“It’s still an in-process story. Thank you, but I’ll have to pass”.

Constituencies? Platforms? Stories still in-process? Goodness gracious, my story - my actual life - has become another contestant on American Author Idol. I feel stranded, strung out on a wire, drawn as thin as can be. I watch acquisitions editors, very kind people I’m sure, walk past and offer their lovely one-paragraph sentiments of refusal.

How on earth did Ms. Lamott convince me it was a good idea to perform self-surgery on my painful memories, and, as T.S. Eliot said, “turn my blood into ink”? It’s been nearly two months and no signs of life, yet.

But this moment is that moment, right? The one everyone blabs on and on about. The moment where I’m supposed to reach down deep to see if I have what it takes to survive the rejection of my first proposal. I respond with a deep breath and repeat the scrawled out words of Ernest Hemingway placed above my green writing desk, “Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters.”

Well, this story matters to me. And I honestly believe it must truthfully be told, if not for me than for my miracle kid (who is six weeks away from being born). I must finish this book if it takes the rest of my life. However, should that be the case, I’ll make an early amendment to my will and have a copy sent to Anne Lamott. I know she won’t read it, but I’ll die proud of myself and, most likely, still blaming her.