The Hidden Struggles Behind Publishing: One Writer’s Battle with Infertility
Though even as one wait flowed into the next, it didn’t matter much anyway, because in books, as in babies, it’s all or nothing. There’s no chipping away, inching incrementally closer to your goal, celebrating modest wins as you close the gap. You either sell your book or you don’t. You get to hold your baby or you don’t. And to keep going, to find a way forward when your entire query column is a tally of nos, when there isn’t one remaining imprint on your submission list, when your body refuses to accept even the healthiest embryo and grow it into a baby — you require a sort of obsessive belief in what could be, what you just know is possible, even when the universe seems hell bent on proving otherwise. To be the driving force in an act of creation requires something deeper than stamina, something steelier, like an unyielding, existential urge that says: Pick yourself up. Do not stop. What else is there?
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