The Pest Complex: A Cautionary Tale For The Author Who’s Afraid To Ask

By Rachel Stone

As far back as I recall, I’ve suffered from what I call the Pest Complex: a paralyzing fear of being a bother, asking for too much (or anything, ever), or taking someone else’s precious time. And friends, I have it bad. Server gets my order wrong? I say nothing. It’s good to try new things! Car goes in for an oil change and comes out with a dent in the hood? I mean, close your eyes and turn off the lights and it’s barely noticeable!

So naturally, I ended up an author—a gig that promises blissful solitude in a garden of your own words, only to condemn you to a perpetual state of pestering the moment you decide you’d like anyone to read them.

Querying the unpublished manuscript nearly broke me, and that turned out to be Little League tryouts compared to the Pestlympics that was marketing the finished book after going indie. Pitching media outlets/book clubs/bloggers, seeking endorsements, reaching out to bookstores and libraries, asking about signings/talks/ events. So much putting my hand up when I’d much rather have used it to slap myself unconscious.

Most of the time, I received no reply (truly, the ghosting never ends), and that was the end of that. Obviously they hated my book, and me, and wished I’d hadn’t burdened them with my pathetic existence, which left me no other option but to slink quietly from their radar in shame.

This felt especially true given how well-versed I was in querying etiquette by then (which typically dictates that no answer means no, and no means please don’t ask again).

Then one day (sans pestering), an editor at a well-established industry publication (which I’d received a favourable review from) reached out asking if I’d like to be interviewed for their upcoming issue.

Does the Easter Bunny like chocolate?

I said yes. They sent the questions. Turnaround was three days (the entirety of which I spent agonizing over my answers). I submitted on time, to their exact specifications.

And I never heard from them again.

The issue came out, then the next, the next. My interview was nowhere. I stopped expecting to see it, but did I follow up? Heavens, no! Clearly my answers sucked, I was the most boring interviewee alive, a boardroom full of people in Manhattan were laughing at the newbie from Toronto and kicking themselves for giving her a chance.

Months later, I came across the thread while looking for something else. This time, I was…irked? I’d dropped everything to work hard on those answers, amid a jampacked launch schedule no less. I may have botched it, but after reaching out to me in the first place they could’ve at least thrown out a “got it, thanks.”

And then, a wayyy more distressing thought: what if they never DID get the answers? What if my email is still floating around in cyberspace, and they think I’m a FLAKE?

My pest complex and my inner overachiever started brawling so hard, the desk nearly fell over.

In the end, I chose pest over flake and sent an email. I was polite, concise, explained I was cleaning up my inbox and wanted to be sure they received my answers (which I reattached, along with the original thread to spare them digging). I thanked them again for the opportunity and let them know I was available should they need anything further.

The reply came within minutes. The editor was appreciative, apologetic. Shortly after sending me those questions, changes came down the pipe and they ended up not running all their planned segments for that issue—but, she assured me, my interview had just been slotted to appear in the next one. And appear it did.

As the cover story.

Moreover, it ran inside the print and online editions of their esteemed parent magazine.

The moral of my mini-saga? It’s three-fold:

Assuming you have the same Pest Complex I do, sometimes you have to get a little more pest-adjacent than is comfortable, especially where you’ve already had traction. There’s a bigger gap than you perceive between being an actual pest (we all know one) and politely circling back (once, after a reasonable interval, without being anywhere near pushy, while making it super easy for them by re-including all pertinent info). Personally, I’m glad—or at least, in no way annoyed—when someone I meant to get back to does this for me.

As authors, our books consume our focus, but for nearly everyone else they’re one in an ever-growing stack on a crowded desk (or nightstand), amid a busier-than-ever life in a constantly changing world. Doesn’t it stand to reason that if someone doesn’t get back to you it’s more likely they forgot or got sidetracked than found time to thoughtfully render a verdict that you, and all three hundred and fifty of your pages, collectively suck?

By the time our books launch, many of us have grown so used to rejection (and so practiced in the language of manuscript querying) that it’s easy to either give up asking altogether when it comes time to market, or assume every non-answer is a definite no—which it might very well be, all I’m saying is: not necessarily. And if you never pester ask, you’ll never know.

—

RACHEL STONE writes stories of hope and redemption, set against vibrant Canadian backdrops. Her debut novel THE BLUE IRIS has won multiple awards, and her acclaimed lyric essays have appeared in international journals, magazines and blogs. She lives near Toronto, Canada with her family. Join Rachel on Substack for The Launch Diaries: Reflections, Lessons, Real Talk and Confessions from a Debut Author.

https://linktr.ee/rachelstoneauthor

IG: @racheystone FB: RachelStoneAuthor  X: @rachestone

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