My manuscript, A Real Bad Burn, is officially dead.
I tried. Oh, God, I tried so hard to keep it alive.
I worked on it for two straight years, along with shorter, more viable pieces.
The CPs didn't like it, but they gamely kept reading, making some good suggestions to make it better.
But the bottom line was, no one liked it. In fact, it's pretty much universally hated. There were a handful who didn't straight out say so, but the ones who did were pretty vocal in their dislike of the story.
I had a brief glimmer of hope when I went to see Linda Howard, and had the opportunity to talk to her, and she told me to write it. But the truth is, I'm not a NYT best seller, who could write their name over and over and people would buy it.
Recently, a friend sent me a blog post from a new writer who had some of the same kind of thoughts, and she did publish her book.
At first, I too hoped that what I was writing was different enough, and had strong enough characters that it would propel me out of the slush pile. That there was an agent of editor out there willing to chance something so dark and desperate.
But the outcry against my ms was so loud and so really vicious at times (I got a 50 in a contest, along with comments that were not only hurtful, but down right damaging to me as a writer) that I don't think I can overcome it.
Oh, I got suggestions. Change this, change that. Take out what bothers us so much (incest), but to me, that destroyed the very essence of the story. It took away the motivation of the villain. Made him ordinary.
So, after the latest round, I have finally given up. I have quit. A Real Bad Burn is officially dead and buried.
And all I feel is numb grief for a story I loved.