Work Text:
You stared at the rejection letter. It shook softly in your grasp. Each reread of it was another little needle stabbed into your soul. Funny, how it still hurt. You figured after the fifth, or the eighteenth, or twenty-fourth one you would grow numb to it.
Pick up, move on. Learn from the rejection and grow. Never stop trying. If you really believe in it, then someone will share your passion. That's what all the forums said. Just keep going. Someone out there will give you a chance. Someone will love your book.
Someone already did love it - you did.
Every single beta reader you sent it to loved it.
The professional editor you sent it to loved it.
Yet, no matter how many query letters you sent to agents and publishers, it was all the same. They didn't love it. You knew your cover letter was immaculate. The manuscript format had been painstakingly perfected. The story was crafted with care. You put everything into it.
Yet it wasn't good enough.
Your work wasn't good enough.
Surely that meant, simply put, you weren't good enough.
Months upon months of late nights and early mornings. Piles upon piles of drafts, edits, and outlines. Half finished, abandoned sketches of your characters to help you visualize. A whole wall in your office dedicated to your story, plastered in sticky notes and taped up index cards.
And for what?
Downstairs, the front door opened and shut. A soft grunt traveled up the steps, follow by some clattering. Then the thump of heavy equipment being set on the entryway credenza. A softly said curse, then another sigh.
Your husband was home.
You didn't need to be there to know exactly how he moved. Each meticulous placement to ensure all of his work items were where they needed to be.
It had been one of those mornings. Where he was up and out the door before the dawn broke. You had flopped into bed beside him barely an hour before. He never complained, only ever throwing an arm over you and pulling you flush to his warm, broad chest.
You'd hidden the other 27 rejection letters. Drying your eyes, you hid this one as well. They all fit neatly in a small, ordinary brown box. You had it stuffed in the back of a drawer in your short filing cabinet.
If Leon could save the world, you could do this.
You checked your face in the bathroom mirror. Your eyes were red. Maybe you could pass it off as allergies. It was that time of year, after all. Just to be safe, you put drops in them.
"Anybody home?" called Leon.
You blotted your eyes, then made your way to the top of the staircase. Your husband stood at the bottom, one arm leaning on the rail. Looking just as rugged and handsome as the day you had met. Though that was over a decade ago now, your stomach still fluttered. It didn't help that the fitted shirt and work pants got you every time. What could you say? Who didn't love a man uniform?
"Welcome home, my love," you said, meeting him halfway down the steps. He put a hand on your upper arm giving it a gentle squeeze, a soft signal for a kiss. You never hesitated to answer the request.
"For a minute, I thought you were going to be my next rescue mission."
You avoided his gaze. "Sorry, I got…absorbed."
Leon made a soft noise, somewhere between a grunt and hum, then moved around you. You followed as he headed to the bedroom. You always flinched a bit when he took his shirt off. Not that you didn't admire the view. But the scars from his missions - they always reminded you just how dangerous his job really was. How lucky you were that he had gotten a long fine so far. Although you were always aware, especially the times when they sent him away, that one day that phone may ring with a call no body wants to answer.
"How are things with your book coming along?" he asked, back still to you.
You hummed half-heartedly and picked at the fraying hem of your shirt. "Still haven't heard yet."
"Really?" Leon swapped his dark blue work cargos for plaid pajama pants. "Those publishers are sure taking their sweet time."
"Yeah."
He tossed his clothes in the hamper in the corner of the room. Then came to you, pressing his lips against your temple. "You're already a best seller in my book."
That one stupid line had warm butterflies swraming in your belly, lightening up the sadness. If only a little bit. You didn't have the heart to tell him you were up to nearly 30 rejections now. You wouldn't be a seller of any kind at this rate.
That night, you went to bed when he did. Once you felt his breathing even out against you and the light snores started in your ear, you let some more tears fall. They gently lulled you into the darkness of sleep.
Leon often told you that many of his dreams were nightmares. Recreations of the things he lived. But, more frequently, you were always in peril in them. Being chased by Mr. X, where you were constantly caught and thrown against walls and through windows. Or waiting for him just on the otherside of a wall, yet he couldn't get to you. Or locked away somewhere dark, alone and afraid, with the threat of being jabbed with some new virus if he couldn't find you in time.
You knew Leon's biggest fear, even if he never admitted it out loud, was something from work — from his past — coming back to bite him. Going after one thing in his life he held softness for. If you ended up infected because of something he did, you were sure that he'd never forgive himself. And you didn't want to think of the self destructive path he might go on.
You, on the other hand, didn't really have nightmares. However, they were growing more frequent the last few weeks. Other than pouring over new query letters and doing endless research into the wee hours, avoiding them had been a main motivation. Even if you wanted nothing more than to be in bed with your husband.
Tonight was no different.
Another rejection letter came. This time, Leon was the one who went to the mailbox. Asking with soft eyes if he could watch you open it, since you finally got an answer. You could practically see a faint red glow from within the envelope reading REJECTED. Still, with trembling hands, you popped the seal and opened it.
Then the house shook. And the rejection letters began to flood in. Appearing in endless waterfalls from drawings and cabinets. Pouring down the fireplace, shooting from under the front door. They crashed down the staircase like a tsunami. A few even came from you. Their sharp corners digging into your esophagus and mouth, making tears prickle your eyes.
"What the fuck?" asked Leon, opening one envelope and then another. "So you lied when you said you hadn't gotten anything."
You were still choking up envelopes. Gagging and gasping as the final one came and the house went still. Drawing in ragged breathes, you wiped at your mouth. No blood. Just saliva and mucus.
"Lee…" you coughed, stumbling to him. "Please…I can explain."
"We promised not to hide things from one another. You quit your fucking job to do this." He scooped up a handful of envelopes and threw them at you. "It's embarrassing enough to admit your spouse is unemployed. I knew you were a failure. I knew you couldn't fucking do it. Maybe I should'e run off with Ada when she offered. - I can't even look at you."
Leon went to the front door. You tried to go after him as left. But the envelopes acted like quicksand. Collasping and sinking, sucking you down into a dark and lonely void.
You gasped as you came out of your dream. Bolting up and wrenching out of Leon's grasp. He was immediately awake, jolting up right next to you. His muscles coiled, eyes scanning, ready to attack anything hidden in the shadows. You panted, clenching the sheets in your fists.
It was just a dream, you reminded yourself.
Beside you, Leon sighed and cursed under his breath. Running a hand over his face then through his hair. He turned to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. You hid your face in the crook of his neck.
"Bad dream?" he asked, voice husky with sleep.
"Yeah." You nodded. "Sorry."
"We all have 'em. Some of us more than others." He rubbed your back a few times, then pulled you back down beside him. "Don't worry. I won't let the monsters get you."
If only monsters were what you were worried about.
In the morning, Leon left at a reasonable time. You'd eaten breakfast together, over which you promised to tell him if you received any sort of reply. One way or the other. Rejection letters 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33 came in the mail later that day. It seemed like you got back what you sent out in triplicate.
Some authors recieve hundreds of rejections before their book is picked up, read a post.
Top Five Tips to Get Your Book Picked Up by a Publisher First Try, claimed another.
5 Reasons Agents Are Rejecting Your Queries
I'm an Agent and These Are the Manuscript Mistakes I Reject on Sight
When Is It Time to Give Up on Publishing Your Book?
You read and watched post after post. Each one watered the seed of doubt that had been rooted firmly in the back of your mind since you first thought about writing a book. The more posts you read, the more it sprouted. Until finally you found yourself questioning everything that had lead to this point.
What were you even doing?
How could you be so stupid?
Leon had told you it was okay if you wanted to quit your job and pursue this. He'd seen how much the place was draining you, and offered you unconditional support to chase your path. Why did you do that? Surely he had just been playing nice and not actually expecting you to take him up on it.
You could talk to him when he got home. Maybe he could pull some strings and land you with a cozy desk job at the DSO. Perhaps then you'd actually feel worthy when he introduced you. Especially since his name was usually preceeded by 'the'. He'd saved the President's daughter for God's sake. Meanwhile, you couldn't even get people to look at your work.
If ever you felt insecure of your place in your marraige, it was now.
Letters 34 through 41 came in the mail the following day. And you had enough. You slapped them down, one by one as you opened them, on the credenza with every intention of hiding them later. You would make up some excuse and give up on the whole endeavor entirely. Eventually, Leon would have to stop asking. Right?
Sure, he'd helped you a lot along the way. He wasn't one for fiction books, but he'd made the exception with yours. He read every draft and revision. Going through it with you forwards and backwards. He had been your seceond set of eyes, the first beta reader. He caught smalls things when he could and criticized when you asked for it. You just wished he would've told you it was a lost cause sooner.
You dumped your master manuscript into your office trashcan. It was filled to the brim with all the other drafts and drabbles you'd tossed in there. Though you'd occasionally find them uncrumpled on your desk. You began to tear down all of your outline notes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. A triology? Just who were you kidding?
You spent the rest of the day lying on the living room sofa. Something random droning in the background as you got lost in your phone. The day passed around you. The front door unlocking told you the time. You blinked, squinting at the windows to find dusk starting to settle in.
You listened for the usual sounds.
Leon taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. The thump of each boot as it was kicked off. The clicking of buckles as he undid harnesses. Next would be the him putting them down. But then sound didn't come.
You waited. Still nothing. He usually put them on — the credenza!
Shooting to your feet, you raced into the entryway. Leon stood there, a very serious expression crumpling his features. He was reading one of the letters, and had two others stacked with it. You'd forgotten to put them away…
"Babe," you muttered, his eyes flickered to you. Softening.
"I see you heard back," he replied, "Sucks. But there'll be others."
You could it see in the way he looked at you, he still had hope for this stupid project. Your balled up hands were pressed tight to your thighs. Tears burned in your eyes, threatening to spill, while a knot tied in your throat. A prickle ran up the nape of your neck, making your ears hot. The burn of shame was an old friend.
"Hey," Leon sighed, coming closer to you. He placed a hand on your upper arm and squeezed slightly, but you couldn't look at him. "Don't let it get you down. It'll all work out."
You shook your head, barely able to whisper, "I lied."
"What do you mean?"
The tears came then, and you hugged yourself tightly. "I have been hearing back. None of them want it."
"Ah." Leon pulled you in, you wound your arms around his torso while he enclosed you safely in his arms. "You could've told me."
"I was embarrassed. You're out meeting important people and saving the world! While I —" You laughed humorlessly, it was muffled by his shirt. "— I'm just at home. Writing my stupid stories. And not even being successful at it. I think I'm just going to give up on it."
"Would that make you happy?"
That thought hadn't even crossed your mind.
"Does it matter? Where's the point? It's never going to get anywhere. I'd just be better off getting a job. I never should've left my other one." You took a deep, quivering breath. "I've seen the way people look at me when I'm with you. You're the guy, and I'm just…me. I can't do what you do. — I don't want you to be embarrassed that you married me."
"Never gonna happen," Leon stated, squeezing you just a bit tighter. "You'll never be just some person. Not to me. — Sorry if I ever made you feel that way."
You sobbed into his shoulder until the tears dried up. Figuring it was time he saw them, you brought Leon the hidden box. He read through them carefully. Although you weren't sure that any one was different from another. Other than what company was on the letterhead and who signed their insincere apologies.
His face gave away nothing. But he did make you dinner and hold you a little tighter that night when you went to bed. Kissing on your neck and arms. Whispering sweet nothings and reassurances. In the morning, your manuscript had mysteriously found its way back onto your desk and the notes you'd ripped off the walls had been sorted into piles.
Leon had been called away during the night. You barely remembered his phone going off or him stumbling around half asleep in the dark trying to get dressed. However, this morning there was a note left in place of his equipment.
There is something you can do that I can't, it read, Write a book.
That little note was enough to refuel your confidence. It was short and sweet, but it was exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from him. He was right. You had done something he couldn't. Or at least something he hadn't.
And, in the days that followed, you finally received your very first acceptance letter.