If you think you have an excuse not to write, I have little doubt that today’s guest post by bestselling author Jean Kwok will disabuse you of that and send you to your writing chair. I’ve known Jean’s writing since the fabulous success of her first novel, Girl in Translation, an award-winning New York Times bestseller which has been published in 17 countries and taught in universities, colleges and high schools across the world. She’s back with a second novel which has already been named a Best Book of 2014 by Woman’s Day and Real Simple. Mambo in Chinatown is the story of a young woman torn between her family duties in Chinatown and her escape into the world of ballroom dancing–a story which may sound a little familiar after you read her post. – Meg
As a child, I did not dream of becoming a writer. I was a working class Chinese immigrant girl growing up in the slums of Brooklyn. I dreamed of leaving our grueling life working at the dust-filled garment factory in Chinatown. Many of the workers entered the sweatshop as children, like me, helping their parents as much as they could. When they became young women and men, they took on the most demanding and dangerous jobs on the sewing machines and steamers. As age weighed them down, they graduated to the slower and less-paid tasks until they hobbled to the factory as senior citizens to clip thread off of the finished garments.
For most of my life, my desires revolved around escaping that life somehow. I loved books and reading but concentrated my energies on becoming a scientist, which was a real job unlike being a writer. I did most of my homework on the subway or during breaks at the factory. Fortunately, I had a talent for school and with this ability, I tested into a high school for gifted kids and went on to study at Harvard. In college, I worked four jobs at a time to pay my own way and often had to stay up all night in order to do my schoolwork. During one of these all-nighters, I was trying to finish a paper and wrote a poem instead. I was as astonished as if I had laid an egg.
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider becoming a writer. After graduation, I was looking for a day job to support myself while I embarked on this writing insanity, and came across an ad in the paper that said, “Wanted: Professional Ballroom Dancer, Will Train.” Miraculously, they hired me. After waltzing by day and scribbling by night for three years, I went to Columbia for an MFA in Fiction.
I published a few stories before I finished my degree and suddenly, editors, a film company and agents were taking me out to lunch. It seemed like an instant success story but it wasn’t. I signed with a smart, thoughtful agent and then, because I’d fallen in love with a Dutch guy, I moved to the Netherlands. I dropped off the face of the literary world and struggled to write my first novel while I was adjusting to a whole new culture and language.
It took me ten years to complete my debut novel. By then, I was married to the same Dutch guy and had a toddler and a baby. I took care of my kids all day, then when they finally went to bed, I’d race to Leiden University and teach evening classes in English. I got home at 11pm, caught a few hours of sleep interrupted by crying children who woke up for the day at 6am, and then I’d do it all over again. I only had a few hours in a week to write.
When I finally finished my book, I sent it to my agent, who had encouraged me through all those years. His response was worse than my most paranoid nightmares. He said, “Jean, there is no market for this book. And if you need any help finding a new agent, I’d be happy to help you.” Not only had my most beloved and respected mentor in the publishing world just told me that my book was worthless but he’d dumped me at the same time.
At that moment, I had to seriously consider the fact that I might just be a stinky writer. It happens to the best of us; we can’t all be talented. I had a family to take care of and with my working class background, I’d always worried that I’d made the wrong decision when I chose writing. I made a desperate phone call to a dear friend who told me to give myself some time, to give my book a bit of light and air.
I took her advice and a month later, reread my whole novel from beginning to end. I thought, “I love this book. Whatever might be wrong with it, I can’t write a better book at this moment in my life.” I needed to find a new agent. I decided to make a list of the biggest, most powerful agents who represented work like mine. My plan was to start with the top ten agents, who would all reject me, then I’d move onto the next ten, who would reject me too, and so on until I got to number 500 or so. If everyone rejected me after a year, I would reevaluate my life choices then.
I finished writing the query letters on a Thursday night in the Netherlands. Some agents accept e-queries, some only paper ones, and I had the first batch of e-queries ready. I knew I would wind up in the dreaded slush pile along with thousands of other query letters. I looked at the name at the top of my list – Suzanne Gluck, co-head of the Worldwide Literary Department at William Morris Endeavor Entertainment – and I started to shake. An agent like this is not going to take an unknown from Holland who has no connections, no recent publications or prizes, I thought. This was ridiculous. I needed to rethink my entire strategy. Well, my hands were trembling so much during this panic attack that I clicked on the mouse and – whoosh! The e-queries were sent.
It was approaching midnight in Holland but still working hours in New York City. Twenty minutes later, Suzanne’s office emailed me to request the full manuscript. I almost fell off my chair. On Friday, more requests for the manuscript came in. On Monday, the first agent phoned to offer representation and on Tuesday, Suzanne called… and she is my agent today. I was so terrified while she was on the line that I started wheezing like a fat, asthmatic cat but luckily, she did most of the talking.
I had not changed a word of the manuscript after the rejection from my first agent. Not because I thought it was perfect but because I had no idea how to improve it. I think this whole experience taught me to trust my own gut feelings. Of course, it’s important to be open to criticism but in the end, a writer creates something that he or she is passionate about. It’s essential to keep the heart of your writing alive, and to believe in yourself, no matter who is telling you otherwise.
That same novel, the one for which there was no market, sold to a wonderful major editor within a week and went on to become Girl in Translation, which has been published in 17 countries, won many awards, hit the New York Times bestseller list, and is now taught in schools across the world. My second novel Mambo in Chinatown has just been published and I’ve recently returned to the Netherlands after completing a great deal of national and international publicity.
Nowadays, when I’m facing a blank page, I still worry that I’m a stinky writer. But I’ve learned to move forward anyway. – Jean
