This is the blog I publish over at Untitled Books, a literary website based in the UK that you all should check out. I’ll post all the blogs here, just in case you don’t wander that-a-way.

So here’s the kind of thing I think about: if and when I publish my first novel, it will be placed on bookstore shelves between the works of David Foster Wallace and those of Jeanette Walls. Of course, I’m making a couple of assumptions here. First, that my book actually ends up on the shelves, rather than the discount racks or the discount tables or next to Tech Stock Investing for Dummies and that year’s National Book Award semi-finalists in a pulping facility. Second, that neither Mr. Wallace nor Ms. Walls’ undergo some James Frey-like fall from grace, and their books remain in print. But if we take these two tiny details for granted (along with my getting published in the first place) I can count on the two of them serving as my bookends for years to come.

I think this is a pretty lucky break. Jeanette–I’m going to go with first names, seeing as we’re neighbours now–had a massive bestseller with The Glass Castle (technically a memoir, but her newest book is fiction). And David’s Infinite Jest is one of the biggest novels to be found anywhere in the bookstore–a definite eye-catcher. Of course, Walls’ memoir is partially about her father’s alcoholism, and Wallace suffered from a depression so severe he eventually killed himself. What if the dark themes of my shelfmates have some on effect on me? I never stood much of a chance of avoiding an addiction to booze or Zoloft by the time I managed to publish a novel in the first place, but the proximity of David and Jeanette certainly won’t help. Maybe I should change my name.

Tommy Amenorhhea, perfectly positioned between Martin Amis and Jonathan Ames, would be lumped in with them as a brilliant social satirist. Tommy Sondheim would write heavy novels about imprisonment and death and illness (as metaphor) from between the bars of Solzhenitsyn and Sontag. Tommy Bombeolachimbomba would definitely become the next Hispanic superstar author, with his prime location between Bolaño and Borges. A year ago, Tommy Nackered could’ve nabbed a killer spot between Nabokov and Naipaul; then Ralph Nader wrote a novel. (Is there anything that man can’t ruin?). Tommy Coekelicot could put some much deserved distance between the subtle genius of J.M. Coetzee and the hackneyed self-helpiness of Paolo Coelho. Tommy Wolfe would only further confuse fans of Look Homeward, Angel and The Bonfire of the Vanities. Or I could go for broke, change my name to Damien Brontë, and finally get between those smug sisters.

Do other would-be authors think about stuff like this, during those two to three hour lulls in which we sit at the computer doubting we’re any more creative than an ATM (and confident we’re far less useful to the world)? I’ve read enough memoirs to know that envy, self-doubt, narcissism, competitiveness, and hubris are to authors as homosexual impulses are to conservative congressmen. But a preoccupation with one’s possible alphabetical companions on bookstore shelves? Is that just me?

I never attended an MFA program in Creative Writing, which has nothing to do with the fact that many of them rejected me. Seriously. I mean it. Anyway, the point is that I don’t have anybody to ask about stuff like this. Every day, I go out to a coffee shop (Tully’s in San Francisco’s Cole Valley today) and put in my hours. Most mornings, the offer of a free mini-cup of peppermint caramel gingerbread mocha is the most I can hope for in the way of human interaction. I’ve got plenty of friends, and a great part-time job as a GMAT instructor, but I very seldom communicate with other writers, which is a shame, because writing is already one of the most isolating professions out there, short of lighthouse keeping and being Ralph Nader.

I conceived of this blog as a way of reaching out, in the hopes that other people might find some consolation in the similarities between my experience and theirs. I imagine the majority of people that come to book-related sites are would-be writers like myself, well-acquainted with submission guidelines, Glimmer Train contests, query letters, reading fees, agencies, contracts, payment in copies of the magazine, writing workshops, and, of course, rejections. Rejections that come like a slap in the face and rejections that come like a kick in the crotch. Boilerplate rejections and personalized rejections. Rejections with detailed explanations and rejections full of mystery and euphemism. More than anything else, I believe it is rejection that bind us all together. These rejections are the reason we need a community, people willing to listen to what we have to say (even if they won’t pay us for it).

As for my credentials, I’ve yet to publish a novel, though I’ve written five of the damn things. I’ve loved and lost two agents, and my shorter work has appeared in places like McSweeney’s and Tin House. But more important than this, I write every day. I sift through literary magazines and get annoyed at the ubiquity of Joyce Carol Oates. I submit stories and then immediately re-read them, only to realize they needed at least twelve more drafts, and now I’ve alienated the editor with my supreme tectonic badness and she’s going to spend the rest of the day telling all the other editors and publishers she knows what a twat I am. In other words, I’m in the same boat as thousands of other struggling writers–fanatical with self-doubt, fantastically pessimistic, and perpetually polishing my Nobel acceptance speech.

I hope to update this blog every week, with a riff on whatever aspect of the writerly life has struck me with particular force that week. I’ll do my best to keep it up as long as my MacBook can retain a charge, or until I take my place between David and Jeanette on a bookstore shelf near you. If anything I write about in the posts to come strikes a chord with you, please leave a comment. It may be the only communication that I have with the outside world that day.

In closing, thanks so much for your time, and for your submission. Unfortunately, we’re going to pass. This is a tough marketplace, and we can only take on projects that we’re particularly excited about. Writing is a highly subjective field, however, and we feel confident another editor may feel differently. Really. Good luck with that.

Tommy