Which means one of two things:
1. It was poorly written. I can see the holes in it. When I submitted it, I thought it was a strong pitch. And there are things about it that I can see are strong. But there is also no indication of time or place. The whole thing was an experiment in working speedily, and now that I am at my leisure, I can polish it.
2. They were lukewarm about the material. That I can do nothing about. Morons.
Still, this is not the end of the world. Especially when I listen to my new power song to help me get through:
In fact, this ire that fills me is actually good. It is better than believing this is the be-all, end-all. It is better than despair since it leads to action, to thinking of all those times I've read or been told the advice to be persistant, even in the face of so many, many "nos". There are other immediate options:
1. Polish pitch, send out to agents. Tor has opened themselves to submissions. Send it to them.
2. Self-publish on the interwebs.
I plan to do both. But now I have to edit, edit, edit.
Since Writing the Above
Since writing the above, I have to admit that I did indulge in a little despair. It's difficult not to when one has pinned all one's future fulfillment on the coming true of a long-held dream. But after a good cry, I am back at it. The ideas in the book are dangerous, the story does not fit into received genres. Or rather straddles them: a sort of Sci Fi for the book club set with a pinch of Dan Brown. Never thought I'd say that about a book I wrote. But it is what it is and I am looking down the barrel of self-publishing. A daunting affair that might turn out to be more rewarding than anything else could be.