How to Shelve a Heart Book

Can I tell you a secret? I’m not sure I believe in heart books.

At least not in the sense that there’s one story that you were just born to tell. Kind of like I don’t believe in soulmates, the idea that there’s one person you’re just meant to be with. But maybe I’m just a cynic because it’s never happened to me.

What I do know is that some books are special in some way. I did write one of those.

I had already written 11 other full books and countless partials when I sat down to write a YA contemporary romance. It was my second stab at this genre with a character I hadn’t been able to get out of my head for weeks.

Right away, this book felt different. I flew through the first draft and subsequent revisions. I’m a messy drafter normally, but this one came together more effortlessly than anything I’d ever written. My betas loved it, breezing through it practically overnight with minimal comments. And with over a decade of writing and industry experience under my belt, I knew this one was good enough.

It’s also the first and only book I’ve ever cried while writing. I was coming into my own with my asexual identity and this book dove into all the fear and hurt and beautiful of that experience. I was writing experiences I had never seen in print before.

Querying actually started well, with two of the first three I sent turning into full requests. Querying was going great until it wasn’t. And as you might guess by the title of this post, ultimately I shelved the book. I won’t dwell on that process. I’ve already talked about it elsewhere.

The thing about this book being different is that mourning it was different too.

When I shelved my previously queried books, I was really fine with it. I loved those books, but it was easy to see them as stepping stones. I knew I could write a different, better book that would be my ticket to publishing. I didn’t feel that way with this one.

The first thing I did when I got the full rejection that was the nail in the coffin of this query journey was sob in the shower. Then I are brownies with a fork straight from the pan.

I reread the book. I reread it again. I tried to find a reason.

I stopped listening to the songs that were on my writing playlist for the book. I still skip them every time they pop up.

I wrote more books. Got mad when I couldn’t recapture the magic of the one I shelved. I mostly stopped reading books, especially other YA contemporaries.

When I do read, I look for those things I put in my book that I had never seen in print before, wondering if someone else was telling the stories I wished for in the world. I never found those stories.

The hurt lingered in a way I had never experienced in the other books I’d shelved. I’m still sad. And angry. And confused.

I sat with my characters. I said, “I’m sorry I failed you.”

I wrote more books. I tried to find that magic missing ingredient from the shelved book that would prevent the next book from suffering the same fate. I didn’t find it.

I started to feel ridiculous for still feeling bad. Didn’t I know writers had to have thick skin? Didn’t I know there were a million other dreamers just like me? Besides it was just a book, right?

Can I tell you another secret? There is no fairy-tale ending in this post. There is no cure-all for a heart broken by publishing.

All I know is grief, and sitting with it, and doing the best I can to move forward.

Some books are special. Some hurt more.

Some shatter your heart.

What I do know is my heart is big. There are a lot of pieces. There are enough pieces to put into another book and another book and another.

I reread the book again and think that my characters must understand that life is unfair after everything I put them through.

I think they’d understand that sometimes the only space we get is the space we give ourselves. But that within that space is a world of possibility where we can feel our hurt and scream our anger and wallow in all our insecurities. Where we can remember that we deserve the stories we’ve fought for.

And maybe, just maybe we can pick up the pieces of our broken heart and weave those pieces into our stories of tomorrow.