The last book I wrote was rushed and came from a spur-of-the-moment idea. It was a short YA distopian. I didn't find anything remotely attractive about it after I'd finished. It had a great premise and title going for it--that was all I thought it had going for it. I was much prouder of the four previous books, and the detail, multiple viewpoints, lavish descriptions, diverse characters and unique concepts.
I only sent out the distopian as a lark to only two publishers. Just to see if anybody gave it a snappy salute. The first publisher gave me a R&R on the full, telling me they were pulled instantly into the story, and they'd like me to clean it up a bit.
The second publisher said that the editorial board loved it and sent it to the final round judges, as it was definitely a contender for first place in the contest. The contest offers an advance and publication.
What the hell just happened here? The book I thought nothing of has just come out of the starting gate a few strides ahead of the pack. My other books are kinda getting the finger, and by that, I mean dozens upon dozens of rejections.
It just goes to show me that I'm the WORST judge of my own work and have NO clue as to what is perceived good-great, and what is considered mediocre or bland.
I'll never, in a million years, figure out this mysterious industry. Every time I think I have it figured out, publishing flips me bass-ackwards and head over heals in the opposite direction, reminding me that I don't know shite about anything.
Tri--dazed, confused, bewildered and bedazzled.