I had…a gutsy idea.
There was one literary agent that I had contacted many months ago. She’d said “No thanks” to my book concept, but unlike some of the other agents, she had been very kind and gracious about it. My intuition told me to circle back and pitch her again. So I did.
I told her, “I’ve revamped my book proposal. It’s better than ever. I’ve attached it to this email, just in case you’d like to review it again.” At the bottom of my email, I included a link to a video clip of Beyoncé strutting into a room in queenly attire, wearing a crown, to let her know, “I mean business.” She loved that.
“Anybody who includes a Beyoncé clip in their email is someone I want to know,” she told me. She reviewed my sparkly new proposal—and she was impressed. She wanted to talk on the phone ASAP. Less than two weeks later, the ink was dry on the contract, and I officially had a big-shot literary agent. Lifelong goal: achieved.
I know that I’m going to see my book on bookshelves someday soon. I have the manuscript, I have the agent, I have deep determination, and it’s all just a matter of time. It’s been a long, winding road to get to this point in my career, filled with so much heartache. As Oprah might say, here’s what I know for sure:
1. You’ve got to “take your broken heart and turn it into art.”
That’s a direct quote from the late, great actress Carrie Fisher. The absolute worst thing that’s ever happened to you? Most likely, that’s a goldmine of material for you to write about, speak about, and sing about. People want to hear the story of how you survived. We all need, crave, yearn for those types of stories. You story will make other people stronger when they hear it.
2. Just because someone says “No” once doesn’t mean it’s a “No” forever.
I circled back to an agent who had rejected me in the past. The second time around, she said “Yes.” Don’t be afraid to swing back to a company, client, or agent who wasn’t interested in you before. Things might be different now. You might be different now.
3. If there’s a project or goal that’s burning in your heart, begging to be completed, don’t ignore it.
Don’t leave it on the backburner forever. You’ll regret it.
And lastly, to whomever is reading this story, remember that the founder of Pandora received three hundred rejections before getting funding for his project. J.K. Rowling received twelve “No’s” before a publisher expressed interest in Harry Potter. Mark Ruffalo went on six hundred auditions before landing his first acting role.
Take courage from those people’s stories—and from mine. Dust off your shoulders and put yourself back into the ring. You’ve got to be tenacious, courageous, and willing to tolerate the temporary moments of discouragement that will inevitably arise.
Get back in there. One more letter. One more revision. One more try.
Your big break could be one email away.
* * *
SURVIVAL TIP:
Don’t be afraid to contact someone more than once. The start-up company that couldn’t afford to hire you last year might be in a totally different position today. Maybe now they’ve got plenty of funding and they’d love to hire someone like you. The literary agent who said “No” to your initial proposal might be impressed by your second revision. “No thanks” is not always a permanent decision. Be gutsy, be persistent, and try again.
Also: “Take your broken heart and turn it into art.”
The worst experience of your life can become the spark, the fuel, the inspiration for the greatest thing you ever make.
I’VE ALREADY WON.
Story contributed by: Niki Driscoll.
Author. Athlete. Nutrition and food cravings consultant.
A Note from Alexandra:
As a kid, I was painfully shy and unathletic. I hated sports. I loathed PE class. I was terrified of getting smacked in the face with a basketball. I couldn’t swing a softball bat to save my life. Running sent me into fits of asthmatic wheezing.
One time, on a school field trip, a classmate dared me to climb up a swinging ladder thingy. It was a high-stakes dare. If I chickened out or couldn’t make it to the top, then I had to eat ashes. Like, actual ashes from a campfire. (Why there was a blazing campfire, a tall ladder, and apparently no adult supervision, I cannot recall! Well, I guess it’s because it was the early nineties—the pre-smartphone era, before parents tracked their kids’ movements with GPS systems.)
Obviously, I couldn’t climb the swinging ladder thingy. So of course, I had to eat ashes. While everybody watched.
I was horrified. I kinda thought if I ate ashes, you know, maybe I’d…die? So I tried to cheat by eating a tiny speck of blackened marshmallow dust instead of real ashes, but oh, my classmate was wise to that game! He called me out—“That’s not real ash! Faker! Faker!”—in front of the other kids, who stared at me with disgusted expressions. After all, there’s only one thing worse than a non-athletic, asthmatic nerdball—and that’s a non-athletic, asthmatic nerdball who’s also a cheater and a faker.
Fortunately, shortly after that incident, someone found the word “penis” in the dictionary and then everyone was distracted by that revelation and forgot all about me.
Suffice it to say: when it came to athletics, I was a dud. The kid you picked last. The kid you didn’t want on your team because she was a liability, not a helpful addition.
By age eight or nine, I had accepted the reality of my situation: I was a useless blob. I usually found some way of avoiding PE class—excuses, feigned illness, actual illness, bribery, persuasive rhetoric. Reading in the library made me happy. Sports did not.
Then one day, a teacher encouraged my parents to sign me up for dance classes. It would be a good way for me to get some exercise, she thought. Maybe I’d enjoy dancing more than regular sports. And maybe dancing would improve my posture, make me a little less clumsy, and transform me into a beautiful, confident, graceful butterfly. Et cetera.
My parents found an after-school dance program and signed me up. Much to their surprise, and mine, I immediately loved it.
Now, let’s be clear, I wasn’t the greatest dancer in the entire world. Even after seven years of dance classes, I still wasn’t Martha Graham or Mikhail Baryshnikov. But I truly loved it.
Dancing felt like “acting,” in a way. When I was dancing, I could temporarily pretend to be someone else—a village maiden, a handsome prince, a sugarplum queen, a cursed girl cruelly trapped in a swan’s body. I could express the kinds of feelings that I couldn’t put into words. I loved training. I loved rehearsing. I loved performing. What I didn’t love was…auditioning.
Three or four times a year, my dance school would put together a big performance. Sometimes it was a full-length ballet. Sometimes it was a variety show with tap dancing, jazz, hip hop, and so forth. Each time, you had to audition in front of the teachers.
First, they’d watch you dance for a few minutes with blank, expressionless faces. Then you had to line up with all the other dancers, in order of height, facing yourself in the mirror.
