being a first-timer again

Thanks to the invention of the internet and global population growth, every market is flooded and the creative sector is not immune to being drowned with content. With this in mind, and a very plain background, being a first-time novelist makes me a guppy in the deep blue. But that’s true of doing anything new.

So after two or so years of labouring over my first novel, I wanted to get it published. Unfortunately, big reputable companies rarely look at unsolicited manuscripts and I suspect often have quotas pre-filled by pre-established authors. (I also have a hint that there are quotas for diversity and as I identify as a white, middle-class, educated, bisexual woman, I tick few boxes.) I set out regardless. For one of the rare times in my life, I actively chased a goal and was willing to pay for it — my dad always said there was no such thing as a free lunch. I was excited to have it accepted into the publishing world eventually. Thrilled, skipping and telling everyone about it. I was (and still am) very proud of myself. Admitting that, still really rubs against the tall poppy syndrome of Australian culture that plucks its head up sometimes.

The road was longer than expected. I am not sure if it was COVID-19 or just the way this company works but it took almost more than what I imagined the contracted time would be. However, Rome wasn’t built or demolished in a day. It was important to remember the dream; a stranger finding and enjoying my work, while I never know. Dreams sustain us and I don’t really aspire to be famous. I aspire to be good, to connect with people so that they don’t feel alone and have somewhere to go. If we killed God and invented meaning then I guess there is no reason not to keep writing. Even if our screens and heads are already filled or I feel like a guppy or this is a simulation or I never finish all of my various to-do lists.