Burning Bridges

I’m nervous. I reached out to some potential editors. I probably need to brush up on etiquette and social skills. I have a meeting with one person tomorrow about editing. And I’ve sent two samples off to two other editors.

But I probably blew it with one who seemed like a good editor based on her website. Until I filled out the form for inquiries. One of the required fields was “subgenre”. Genre was not required, but subgenre was. I barely know what genre my stories fall into, much less the subgenre. She had a, *cough*, helpful list of 114 subgenres to choose from. Not one of them seemed to fit my story. Not even a little.

I hate labels. I hate being boxed in. I hate the stereotypes labels inherently bring with them and the expectations they set.

I chose two subgenres, the closest two I could find. I then proceeded to tell her why the question made me uncomfortable and asked why this was so important to her. I know the answer will be all about marketing and finding the right niche and knowing how to reach that particular audience. I didn’t need to ask, because I know the answer.

I don’t give two cents about any of that, though. The whole idea of marketing and networking makes me itch, uncomfortably, as if I have hives. This book will not get any normal kind of marketing, and I’m okay with that.

So that editor and I are probably not a good fit and I probably should’ve just crossed her off the list and not sent in the submission form. But it made me so agitated and got me so riled up. I sent the form off with my small rant in the comments. Burning bridges right and left, I guess.

I’m nervous. I’m on edge. And I’m super stressed at work on top of all that. I need some time off.

I’m forgiving myself for having sent the form. I can’t recall it, I can’t take it back. And it’s okay. Mistakes happen. Keep moving forward.

Peace, all.