San Miguel Editorial Services

Writing and editing for impact and sales.

Archive for the category “Services”

The Ambiguous Loss of (Probably) Not Selling My Novel

Danielle Lazarin on Life and Art in the Liminal Spaces Between Grief and Hope

By Danielle Lazarin, September 2, 2021

For years, I’ve posted a dog photo on social media for every writing rejection I get. I post my nos because they are regular, ordinary; it’s the yeses that are flukes and outliers. I want to be transparent about the ratios for the yeses, particularly for earlier-stage writers who might believe once you reach some point in a career it’s a Slip N’ Slide of yes, of opportunity. I want them to see that we all work the same grooves, hoping it will end differently just because it might. As for the dogs, they’re the only things that can reliably turn a mood for me.

Yet, in the sixteen months since my novel went out on submission to publishers in early March 2020, I haven’t posted a single dog for it. Not because there haven’t been any rejections, but because then I would have to explain that I’m trying to sell my novel. When your book is on submission, there’s a pressure of silence till you know the end, a secret you keep, assuming there will be a time when you can recount the story of how it all worked out. You imagine that sheepish and giddy post, never the one saying it never happened; most people, it appears, let that sort of secret dissolve into the ether.


I tell the secret to my friends, of course. In January of 2021, I’m walking the woods near my apartment while on the phone with Brian, one of my oldest friends, an artist. When he asks about the novel sale I say, as I often do, that nothing is happening, that nine months in, I’m reaching a point of despair. He tries to cheer me up by naming books with long histories of rejections, noting that many ended up being the masterpieces of our times. I don’t love a lot of the books he mentions, but what I truly hate is the larger narrative about art and rejection.

It’s toxic, I tell him. It seems a distinctly American story to believe it’s a mark of greatness to be rejected, that a narrative of struggle makes the art itself more worthy. When a book has endured a gauntlet like this, a coda has been added, a footnote about its almost non-existence that can carry more weight than the text itself. Perhaps the very reason we hold up these long-rejected books is not for the stories they tell in their pages but because we’re drawn to a redemptive narrative, because that narrative makes sense of what doesn’t have transparent logic: why some art makes it to public consumption and some doesn’t.

I ask Brian to consider the books we don’t know because they never were. Who’s to say they weren’t masterpieces? If my book doesn’t sell, doesn’t this narrative reinforce that it wasn’t good enough, after all? I don’t like this measure of worth.

I want to pause here to say for the purposes of this essay, I need you to imagine my novel is a perfectly good book: well-written, timely, ambitious. Good enough for my agent to put on submission during 2020. I need you to take my word that there is nothing consistent or fixable in the passes I’ve received. That it just hasn’t sold yet. This is the part where most people get uncomfortable.

I think of all the stories we don’t know about what wasn’t, what was wholly imagined but not, in the eyes of others, realized.

I think of all the stories we don’t know about what wasn’t, what was wholly imagined but not, in the eyes of others, realized.

The people in my life further from publishing urge patience. They find it hardest to take in that publishing is not a meritocracy. “Someone will buy it,” they keep saying, refusing to believe that when I say it might not sell, it’s not self-deprecation but realism. These people—the ones who have loved me the longest, usually—believe I can just wait for the good ending, the plot twist they want to believe is coming because it would make a better story, one they want to believe in for my sake. I know it’s out of kindness, but it makes me feel invisible.


Some writing friends express their well-meaning disbelief that I—not a debut author, “well-positioned,” in the words of many in-industry people, to sell a book—am enduring so much rejection for so long. I recognize this as projected fear; I understand why they don’t want to imagine themselves in my place when it’s their turn to sell their books, that they want to deny it’s happening, even if it is solely with incredulity via text message.

Anna, a writer friend, says it sounds like what’s bothering me is this lack of public acknowledgement. I tell her about therapist Pauline Boss’s work on ambiguous loss, the fraught space of what no longer exists but isn’t concretely gone, how we don’t know how to mark or mourn it, cannot wrap our brains around grief in this scenario because we don’t know it’s grief. I think of my friend Priscilla, whose pandemic puppy escaped from her side yard, went missing for weeks, and how she didn’t know when she could say it was over, if she should at all. How do you declare the end without a body? The dog resurfaced after six weeks with only a few broken nails. I’d assumed the dog was dead, but never said that to Priscilla; she was still carrying, rightly so, the hope for the other outcome. How can you say such a thing to someone when the possibility still exists for life?

Multiple friends, when I describe this feeling of unacceptable grief for what lives fully and silently in a liminal space say it’s similar to fertility struggles or pregnancy loss, the private carriage of what doesn’t work out but nearly did. I think of all the stories we don’t know about what wasn’t, what was wholly imagined but not, in the eyes of others, realized.

I wanted to write this essay before the book’s fate was sealed, from the mucky and often-silent middle we like to skip over in favor of how it ends, as if we are only our results and not the waiting for them, which is its own complicated story, the one we live in longer than the moment of knowing if we should celebrate or mourn. A small part of me doesn’t want the bio line on this essay to say this novel is forthcoming. Of course I still want the book to be published. But even if I get this ending myself, I also need you to bear witness to the time where I had neither the grit nor optimism that might become part of the narrative when someone else—or myself, even—tells the story of my redemptive ending.


In March 2021, I go to a residency in Massachusetts. I see my friend Rachel, another writer. She posits that the pandemic has either been a fast forward or a pause for most of us. She is in fast forward: an interstate move, a baby, now 8 months old, whose face I am seeing for the first time but who I cannot touch. The previous spring, when we’d talked by phone, each of us describing the sky from our respective New York City roofs, the farthest outside either of us were venturing then, I said being pregnant that year must feel like a waiting inside a waiting, an unknown inside an unknown.

I wonder if I can ever escape this cycle, if the shame of having hope will undermine the very thing—making my work—that is supposed to carry me forward.

I wonder if I can ever escape this cycle, if the shame of having hope will undermine the very thing—making my work—that is supposed to carry me forward.

I reject pregnancy metaphors for writing. The act is not gestation, which is mostly passive, nor is it labor, often less under control than we prefer it and, in the scheme of things, rather speedy. In truth writing a book is more like raising a child, who you hope one day you can stop paying bills for but who will return to visit, happy in the world, engaged with it in their own way. Distinct from you but still of you. You’ll think you’ve done good work, proud of your eventual healthy separation.

In March, I’m still waiting, but here is Rachel’s baby, outside of her body, undeniably real. He has the sweetest face. A happy face, and how that moves me, the beauty of him not comprehending what it’s taken to get him, any child, here, to a moment they can look across the table at someone meeting them for the first time and smile, make gurgling noises, try to communicate with them. Rachel, when I share the early draft of this essay, sees it razor-sharp, how I’m pulled between mourning the loss of the readers who could imagine my novel alongside me, and like those who wish me well, carrying the hope for a different ending. In Rachel’s scale of pandemic life, I am on pause.


Some days, I get close to asking my agent to pull the book from submission, but there’s no good reason to beyond wanting, as everyone else does, to just get to the end already. Though I’ve had my share of self-doubt in the past, I’ve always managed to find the smallest shred of faith and let it carry me through; now I think, with the most seriousness I have mustered in over two decades of writing, about giving up all together, which feels more reasonable than writing more books no one else will read.

I try to work on a new novel, but can’t get my grip on it. I work on short stories, thinking a different mode might return me to firmer ground. One, mockingly, overlaps with characters from the unsold novel. When I work on it, I get a sickening feeling, like I do when I have a big, toothy idea, that I could write an entire novel from this new vantage point. Maybe, I consider, I’d done it wrong, that this was better, the “real” version of that book.

I, too, am desperate for a redemption narrative, to have this time pay out in some way. I start to imagine all my vindicated endings. But what would make them good enough to obliterate how bad it feels to doubt the larger project of my own work this much, the shame I feel for having hope? If I get lots of money for my next book? If an editor who said no says yes next? Literary prizes publicly declaring me a genius? I wonder if I can ever escape this cycle, if the shame of having hope will undermine the very thing—making my work—that is supposed to carry me forward to a chance at another kind of ending.


Home from my residency, I decide to finally count my passes and come up with 22. I describe this process to my therapist as “swallowing swords,” an act of bravery and insanity that I feel palpable relief at having completed. The next day, I’m in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, trying to find the exit, but keep taking wrong turns. I look up from the map on my phone to find myself before a display case of swords. Alone in the room of arms and armor, I laugh out loud, take a photo.

Writers are supposed to carry on without external validation, build a thick skin to cover up our fragile egos. But I wonder, doesn’t it hurt underneath the armor itself, to simply carry that layer of protection that still isn’t immunity? Doesn’t armor allow, every now and again, the tip of the sword in? Even a published work is full of wounds we are encouraged to hide, and as I understand it, armor is quite hard to move around in.


During these months of my waiting inside the waiting, there are two places I feel good. The first is when I do manage to get back inside my work. Because the inside of work is unformed, it’s full of possibility, free from the ugliness of reality and its disappointments. The end result is a result: an answer to what it is, who likes it, what all that effort and time is worth on a market you cannot shape. Which can obliterate what it was like to make the work, which can feel, on good days, like rightness, like you are drawing a thing out into its proper light, and that it matters greatly to do so. What I need you to see, too, is that if I don’t get the redemptive ending, I won’t talk about the decade I spent from novel conception to completion as non-existent, or worse, failed, just because no one bought it. I don’t want to be erased by the bad ending, either.

The other place is in the woods, which I’ve walked nearly daily since the pandemic began. What I haven’t said about the woods is that my novel, the one that hasn’t sold yet, is set there. As I understood the rhythms and pockets of the woods more, I took mental notes for edits I might never make. It was too painful to write them down, but my brain won’t stop imagining the possibility of one day using what I now know.

Of all the essays I weighed writing about this time, I struggled most with this one, about the way art tries to live despite what we all know—that its survival odds are small. How art doesn’t care about endings, but we do, and how I will forever be suspended in that space of feeling like I am waiting, stupidly, perhaps, full of hope, which is the space of anyone who makes art. I struggle with how you might read that sentence as redemption, as reason.

With time, I’ve grown attached to the woods as just woods. I can walk them without seeing my novel in every pathway. Sometimes I do feel its ghosts—the characters you might never get to know as I have—walking with me the way my friends did, listening and sympathizing as I apologized for talking about all this book stuff, still, for saying there is nothing to say and then going on about it, though they’d asked. Though it is still happening, and not happening. Though none of us knows the ending, or will be able to make proper sense of it when it finally comes.

Danielle Lazarin
Danielle Lazarin is the author of the short story collection Back Talk. Her writing has been published in places such as Southern ReviewThe CutColorado ReviewElectric Literature, and elsewhere. She lives in her native New York City.

This essay is reprinted from Literary Hub (accessed September 28, 2021). Permission requested. To read the original publication with any updates or changes, and the comments (some of them insightful and worth reading), visit

This writing secret could change your life!

In a May 2, 2021 interview with The New Yorker, comedy writer John Swartzwelder shares how he consistently churned out award-winning scripts for “The Simpsons”:

I have a trick that makes things easier for me. Since writing is very hard and rewriting is comparatively easy and rather fun, I always write my scripts all the way through as fast as I can, the first day, if possible…. Then the next day, when I get up, the script’s been written. It’s lousy, but it’s a script. The hard part is done…. All I have to do from that point on is fix it. So I’ve taken a very hard job, writing, and turned it into an easy one, rewriting, overnight.

To read the entire interview, click here.

Want to Be a Better CEO? Work on Your Writing

Image: Getty

Strong writing skills aren’t just for bloggers, marketers, and salespeople.


By age 25, I had lived in more than six countries and bootstrapped a million-dollar business all by myself. None of that would have been possible if I wasn’t a good writer. The power of cold email and persuasive copywriting helped me create countless opportunities in business and life. Here are a few ways sharpening your writing skills can help you reach new levels as an entrepreneur, and enhance your life overall. 

Get to know your team on a deeper level.

I’ve been managing high-performing remote teams for a decade, well before the pandemic. While Zoom calls are a nice way to get to know your team, one-on-one calls are time-consuming and don’t scale. However, it only takes a few moments to send an email or Slack message. Interacting with team members that don’t directly report to you is a great way to get a better pulse on your company.  

Simply asking a few questions (which you could even automate) lets you know where there’s a big opportunity versus a potential fire to put out. If you find something interesting, you can always follow up with a one-on-one meeting. 

Become a better manager at scale.

One of my leadership secrets is great documentation. Not only does it save time with onboarding new hires, it also helps things scale with consistency. The best process documentation is detailed and thorough, but still as simple and short as possible.   

Create great morale.

Great writing is electric. It draws people to you and rallies them behind your mission, helping you make your dreams a reality. While digital content like video and images help with business storytelling, writing is the backbone of any brand. Even the marketing plans and creative strategy behind most digital media content requires written instructions. Regularly sharing positive messages (even very brief) with your team and leadership can go a long way to keeping everyone motivated and excited. A compelling email can be the difference between getting everyone’s buy-in versus having a project die in its infancy. 

Create new opportunities without a big budget.

I don’t have to tell you how important your social-media brand is these days, especially on platforms like LinkedIn. Creating and sharing content online can help you recruit new hires, gain customers and business partners, and even find investors sometimes.At age 24, I started to amass a large email list, and quickly became a major thought leader in the space I was defining. My tiny, bootstrapped company was beating corporations with hundreds of millions of dollars in funding. Many of our best hires were avid readers of my writing. People loved my content because it was unique, irreverent, and genuine. I firmly believe none of this would have happened if I had just hired a ghostwriter or marketer to run our blog.

Become more agile.

The best part of building your personal brand is it stays with you, whether you stay at that company forever or decide to found something new. This is especially important and valuable if you’re a serial entrepreneur, or decide to transition from being a founder to an investor or value-add adviser. 

Inc. helps entrepreneurs change the world. Get the advice you need to start, grow, and lead your business today. Subscribe here for unlimited access.

FEB 10, 2021

Like this column? Sign up to subscribe to email alerts and you’ll never miss a post.The opinions expressed here by columnists are their own, not those of

Reprint permission requested.

Malcolm Gladwell defines successful writing

Book cover: What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures by Malcolm Gladwell

To write well, first read good writing. Any book from Malcolm Gladwell would qualify, but for sheer enjoyment, pick up What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures, a collection of essays previously published in The New Yorker.

In his preface, Gladwell says, “Good writing does not succeed or fail on the strength of its ability to persuade. It succeeds or fails on the strength of its ability to engage you, to make you think, to give you a glimpse into someone else’s head.”

Some people don’t like puppies.

Wow, it’s been a LONG time since I’ve posted, and for that I apologize. Part of the reason is that I’ve been busy working (yay!) and adapting to pandemic life, as have you. So good to get back in touch with you!

Here’s what inspired me to post today: another writer, Kate Foster, and her brilliantly encouraging tweet that all writers everywhere need to see:

Kate Foster (blue tick) @kfosterauthor
While #writing and worrying about people not liking your story and getting negative feedback, remember this: SOME PEOPLE DON’T LIKE PUPPIES. Yeah, it makes zero sense to me either but what you gonna do?

That’s it! She’s right! Keep on writing!!!



Follow me on Facebook (and Twitter and LinkedIn and YouTube and…)


One thing that bothers me about social media is that whether we’re bloggers or information seekers, we’re expected to post the same information across multiple platforms—or to follow everyone everywhere—from websites to Twitter to Instagram to LinkedIn to Facebook to Google+ to Tumblr and the list goes on.

My rule is, I’ll follow you on the medium most comfortable and convenient for me. Usually that’s Facebook or email since I’m on both of those channels all the time. If you’re only on Twitter, I may check in once in a while or set up an email alert for your posts, but I won’t be there 24/7 and that means I’m going to miss most of what you want me to know.

I understand there are programs that “push” posts from one social media platform to all the others (HootSuite does that, I think), but my brain is too full of other stuff to delve into that. So I post different content on different sites, when and where the wind (or the desire to procrastinate) takes me.

These days you can find my posts about writing, editing, and public relations on Facebook (my writer page, not my personal page), Twitter (follow @Esscritora), and LinkedIn, as well as on this site. You won’t find duplicate content, at least not very often, but you’ll be able to stay in touch on whatever platform you like best. Facebook gets updated most often, so that’s what I recommend if you’re a writer looking to commune with your tribe.

If you want to know about moving to and living in Mexico, that’s at my MOVE TO MEXICO! blog, and you’ll find more photos and commentary about life in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico, on Pinterest.

And if you’re into karaoke, especially if you plan to visit San Miguel de Allende, check out my San Miguel Karaoke blog. In fact, if you’re a music lover, check out the website I made for Latin jazz ensemble Jazzoneando.

I also show up once in a while on YouTubeInstagram, Storia and Muckrack. Maybe other places, too. My head is spinning now. So is yours, probably. Hope to see you somewhere … sometime … soon!


Yes, you DO need an editor!

why-editTwo years ago I was happy to reconnect with a former public relations agency client who sought me out to promote his glossy new hardcover book on the evolution of retail store design. Against my better judgment and to my ultimate regret, I accepted the assignment.

And then I read the book. It was awful, and my client wouldn’t admit it. On the contrary, he said he’d been told by people whose judgment he trusted that it was an excellent read. It wasn’t.

But a promise is a promise, and I sent the tome around with a press release and cover letter touting the author’s preeminence in his field and explaining why the content was unique and important (given that I couldn’t find other compilations of information about retail store design). I left out any mention of literary quality.

I did succeed in producing some hits in the local business press and some national architecture and retail industry trades, and I got him a five-minute interview on National Public Radio (before which he refused coaching as it would have meant adding a few hundred dollars to my fee, and after which he complained that five minutes wasn’t long enough for him to tell his story).

My client ended up selling a pile of his books at a retail trade show but I’m not sure if he ever sold more than that. Its rating is laughable. That’s partly because the book wasn’t well marketed. But mostly it’s because it’s not a very good read—and it could have been.

The message to authors who self-publish: take the budget you set aside for cover design and HIRE AN EDITOR instead. Give yourself a fighting chance to get positive reviews that you don’t have to pay for, and then you can put a fancy cover on the second edition.

If you’re not convinced that an editor is worth the money, read the articles referenced here: Study Shows the Value of Copyediting.

“My book needs no editing” is always a fantasy.


Recently a client resurfaced from fifteen years ago and asked me to promote his new book. It had to be great, I figured—after all, this man is an industry leader and a frequent public speaker, and the company he founded has a good back-story.

I accepted the project based on the marketing materials another book promoter had written. Big mistake.

While much of the content was perfectly relevant and the cover and pages were professionally designed, the book had been in circulation four months without sales (most reviewers won’t pick up a book older than two weeks off the press); it was poorly organized and defied categorization (eBay classified it as “Books—Other”); there were dozens of spelling, grammar and usage errors that the proofreader had failed to correct; yet I had promised to promote it.

The self-edited author is as foolish as the self-medicated patient.

I was able to generate both local and national media coverage by presenting excerpts that I carefully selected according to the audience and style of each newspaper, magazine, broadcast and blog—not by asking for reviews. I decided to promote the author, not the book.

My client expressed his displeasure with my methods one day on the phone. It should be “easy peasy” to generate reviews of his book, he said. (In other words, my work wasn’t worth much because the book would sell itself.)

Then he declared, “I had a proofreader but the content needed no editing.”

He was wrong, but I didn’t tell him that. I simply forwarded the feedback from the reporters I pitched, and continued on my track of promoting the wisdom of the author, rather than arguing for the relevance of the book.

As I was wrapping up the project, I found a free PDF of entrepreneur Guy Kawasaki’s ebook on self-publishing, APE: Author, Publisher, Entrepreneur—How to Publish a Book. I sent a copy to my client.

Chapter 8, “How To Edit Your Book,” contains brutally honest language: “The self-edited author is as foolish as the self-medicated patient.” Thank goodness Mr. Kawasaki said it so I didn’t have to.

Want your own copy? You can order it here. And don’t forget to call your editor!

Registration opens for 10th Annual San Miguel Writers’ Conference & Literary Festival


Minnesota friends with Calvin Trillin at the 2014 conference.

Looking for a catalyst to start writing that memoir? Need an agent to represent the novel you’ve kept in a drawer for years? You may want to attend the San Miguel International Writers’ Conference & Literary Festival, February 11-15, 2015, in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico. Hey, it’s an excuse for a warm-weather vacation, and you might even get a tax break on the tuition!


“Life of Pi” author Yann Martel at last year’s conference.

Keynote speakers this year include Gloria Steinem, Alice Walker, Scott Turow, Tracy Chevalier, and other luminaries of the literary world.

“Early Bard” pricing is $490-$745 USD depending on the package of conference events and extracurricular activities you desire. Transportation and accommodations extra. (Check out my listing on Airbnb and opt to stay in a real Mexican neighborhood if hotels aren’t your IMG_3714thing.)

Register now if you’re inclined to give your writing a boost—the conference tends to fill early and I predict it will be sold out again this year.

WIN A FULL CONFERENCE PACKAGE PLUS HOUSING AND AGENT SESSION! Click here to learn about the writing contest (deadline Nov. 15, 2014) and be one of three writers who get a free ride.

Free e-book download through Jan. 1, 2014!

Congratulations to another successful published author and client of San Miguel Editorial Services! From Therese Pautz, author of Rain and Revelation:

With gratitude, I’m offering a free ebook download of Rain and Revelation (December 28-January 1, 2014) to celebrate its one year publication anniversary. What a great year! Rain and Revelation was named a Finalist in the 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards, over 25,000 people have downloaded/purchased the book, nearly 100 reviews have been posted and I’ve been fortunate to talk to many book clubs and business groups. Thanks to all and Happy New Year! Therese

Post Navigation