Slowly, slowly

 I am working on what may become my next novel. It is set in the late 1940s and the 1950s. The main character is a fifteen year old girl who gets pregnant. The father is eighteen and consent is questionable. She is sent to a home for unwed mothers, where she makes a friend, whose pregnancy will end tragically. I am also working on the main characters' parents and their backstory. I plan to introduce another family, a young couple who have an adopted son. The wife, to their surprise, became pregnant and is about to deliver another son.  One of these two children will develop polio. 

As of now, I don't have a title, which is unusual for me. And I remain unsure whether I have a story. I have written forty+ pages.  

Oof, rejection

My first significant book rejection came in the late 1970s when I was still a parish pastor. I had written a book of essays, poems, etc. which I submitted to MacMillan. It was accepted. I had lengthy talks with the editor about art work, etc. Being very excited, I told family and friends. Then there was silence from MacMillan. Finally, I reached the editor who told me that at a year end budget meeting they decided not to publish it. Very embarrassing and discouraging. He said, "Maybe will get you on your tenth book." I never submitted to them again, but twelve years later my first co-authored book (theme: mental health and healthcare) came out. Six years after that another co-authored professional book came out. Fifteen years later my first novel came out. In November of this year, my 11th novel will be released. 

Along the way, I had at least a hundred and fifty more rejections, but none more significant to me than the first. (When my 10th book was released, I felt a little extra satisfaction.)