It’s been a tough few weeks here in House Trinacostadad. (Not sure if I’ve ever mentioned here on the blog that’s what we’re called…)

To get ahead of everything to come, this isn’t a cry for help. This isn’t a sob story blog where you’re meant to feel bad for all the parties involved so I can farm clicks for the growth of the site.

No.

This is a reflection. A way to process, to let the feelings do what they are supposed to, then move on.

January was good. My new notebook system had me on top of all my work, I was nearing the end of Project BIANCA’s pitch document, and I received some positive feedback/manuscript requests on Project NESS.

Then my son got sent home sick from school.

I’ve started working at my sons’ preschool as a teacher’s aide, a way to bring in funds without disturbing my wife’s schedule. She works from home, while also taking care of her mother, who has ALS. I’m the Stay-At-Home Dad, so when Baby B got sick I had to provide care and call the other boys out from school since no one else would be available to watch them. It was to be the three of us, in lockdown, for hopefully only a few days then we’d all be right back on routine. I’d be writing again in no–

And then I got sick.

Then it all fell apart from there.

His lasted for about three days. Mine was about four.

And within that sick time, my other twin son, Baby A, got pink eye. Then after that, my wife and other other son, Baby C, got the flu. She’s still dealing with it. They’re calling it a 90 day cough. That’s fine. Not too bad.

Then Baby A got an ear infection. Then Baby B needed to go to urgent care for a split eyebrow. Then, and then, and then…

I know being a parent while trying to be a creative is tough. I know it’s all we can talk about sometimes, but I try to limit myself on the “Woe is me, look at all the beautiful children I have weighing me down, wah” stuff unless it leads to some positive insights, because it can if you’re open to it.

But this wasn’t that. This was day after day of exhaustion, trying to rest but being unable to, letting things slip by, feeling bad about letting things slip by, and overall, feeling like a failure of a father.

And then the rejections came.

I’m no stranger to rejections in the querying space. I’m actually rather proud of the thick hide I’ve grown over the years, as I know it’s not personal. Agents, like casual readers, have preferences. They know within the first page or two whether or not a book is for them. Nothing against me, or my life, or my style, but they need to move on. I get that.

But, man, this was one after the other after the other.

Which, again, wouldn’t be so bad…

If these weren’t all full manuscript requests. (To understand this a little better, you can check out what I mean by that here.)

The first agent I’ll talk about is one I’ve been doing this dance with for nearly four years now. I submitted Project GREY to them, which they liked, but they suggested a series of changes I could make which I could then resubmit for. I took all of 2021 to rewrite it, submitted it, waited several months, and then got a rejection. That’s fine, but then they opened back up to queries. I sent them Project NESS. They liked it, and wanted the full manuscript. This was near the end of summer 2023, right as we moved into the new house to start taking care of April’s mom. They just got back to me in February with another rejection. Four years. The story is done.

The next agent I submitted Project NESS to liked the first ten pages so much they requested the next 50 pages with a few days. After I submitted that, they requested the full manuscript the very next day. Then, after a few weeks, they sent the rejection.

Finally, the last agent did a full manuscript request for Project NESS last year, but ultimately passed. That was fine, I thought, because one of the books on their Manuscript Wish List is one of the comp titles I used as inspiration for Project BIANCA. I thought, “Perfect. This is going to hit the right spot!” And it did! They acknowledged the similarities…

But, again, passed.

All of these close, close, CLOSE rejections came within a 5 day span of each other. While we were dealing with the swarm of illnesses.

A kick to the chest. A kick in the stomach. A kick in the face.

Things got dark in this time, I’ll admit. I was sleeping in late, unable to rise at my preferred time of 5:30a to get the work done I know would have helped me combat these dark thoughts.

But, no.

Just sadness. And a feeling I’m in the wrong space. Clearly I’m not cut out for this, and I’m not getting any younger, and my relevance to the world and the space I want to write in is drifting away and suddenly my head is throbbing and I’m chomping on cinnamon Altoids to combat the panic attacks I was having…

There’s nothing wrong with leaving this all behind and going back to teaching full time. I’d lose out on time with my boys, but maybe that’s what I need to show them.

That it’s okay to fail…

Maybe it’s more important to show them it’s okay to fail so long as you get back up.

It was one thought, a little diamond in a sea of black I was swimming through, lost in, and it spoke to me. Wouldn’t I rather be the kind of dad who failed and tried again than the dad who failed and stopped? Wouldn’t that be the kind of dad I wanted to be in my dreams when I was younger?

And doesn’t the fact that I still, deep, deep, deep down know I’ll never stop writing, scribbling, doodling, and designing characters and scenarios and stories no matter what kind of job I get into mean I should try this forever?

Because that’s all I had to hold onto to pull me out of the dark.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get an agent, let alone sell a book, but I know I can’t try. And when I die, if all that’s left of me in my boys’ minds is a series of amazing memories and stacks of notebooks with half-baked ideas they can look at and go, “Hey. Maybe dad did the best he could.”

I’m still in this.

Thanks for reading,

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