She forced me to see the other side, forced me to make my own conclusions without the influence of my background or parents.In Portland, opinions are liberally voiced, and it's similar in my community in Houston, except rather than an abundance of Lizzie Fletcher stickers it's "Come and Take It".
I knew the meeting had been pushed back twice already by an unsympathetic hurricane that had left downtown Manhattan under several feet of water. I had found an agent who hadn’t run away when I finally told her that I was 15, who loved my story almost as much as I did, who submitted it and lured two — Phone call from my agent. A classmate, a car out of control, a crash into a tree.
Sweaty palms and dizziness, a tap of a shaking finger to a smudged screen. A sigh and, at last, the news, that the publisher had a similar novel on her list and vetoed the editors. We used to have gym together, I didn’t know him too well, and I never would.
These essays are in addition to three similar collections from the Class of 2022, Class of 2012, and Class of 2007.
On the day my first novel was rejected, I was baking pies.
(It was, I think, our pastor’s method of drilling the meaning of temptation into heads — he always preached about Eden the following Sunday.) I sat on my couch and counted the minutes until the agony of pie-making, (almost) forgetting the novel that was currently with the acquisitions board of one of the biggest publishing houses in the world.
To be fair, I hadn’t known that the acquisitions meeting would be held that day.
Even as a young child, parents at the sidelines of my baseball games, as well as the umpire, would, in front of all my teammates, demand by birth certificate to prove my age. When I was younger, some parents in my neighborhood deemed me a bully because I was so much larger than children my age.
I grew acquainted early on with the fact that I am abnormally tall and stick out about the crowd. I had to be extra welcoming and gentle simply to play with other children.
I did know that two — — senior editors wanted to make all of my impossible dreams come true. I had slogged through the query trenches in search of an agent. After all, the next day was the beginning of National Novel Writing Month.
I knew that the marketing and sales people had already looked over my manuscript — something that usually happened post-contract. I had collected enough rejection letters to wallpaper my room. I had an outline and a story to tell: one of imaginary friends, Newton’s Laws of Motion, a car out of control, a crash into a tree. in place of a greeting, another hurricane in the answer.