The Journey To My New Novel, Part 6
I will tell you this: the darkest hour is just before dawn. Or whatever.
I’m going to shorten this part because 1) I am trying to make this series NOT go on FOREVER and 2) I will go into more detail about the actual writing of the novel in a later post. But for now we will just say that all through 2021 I worked on the book, preparing to submit it to agents. When I submitted, I did so with the same positivity and enthusiasm I’d brought to the writing, which was a lot. I was convinced this would be the best book of my career and that everything I’d worked for had brought me to this moment in time.
<Cue all the inspiring soundtracks from all the inspiring films>
For those who aren’t familiar with the process of submitting to a literary agent, this was how I did it: I came up with a list of agents (my list was of agents who’d agented books that in some way complemented my book’s theme/style/content and also some agents who represented friends of mine, which was a nice benefit to having been in the writing community for a while.) I then used google to find the agents’ contact info or my friend made the connection. I emailed the agent a query letter to see if they’d be interested in taking a look at my book. (Query letters are the worst, by the way. They make my stomach hurt and I am by no means an expert on writing them, which will become more evident as this post goes on.)
I then went through what is known as “the query process.” Which means, for anywhere from several weeks to several months (it varies), you are submitting to, hearing back from, hopefully submitting a portion of the book or the whole book (they request what they want), then, ideally, waiting for an offer of representation.
I will not belabor this part of the story or try to build the suspense when I tell you that I did not receive an offer of representation. Everyone told me no, and the reasons why were as different as the agents themselves. So I had no real handle on what I had done wrong, except that obviously I had done something wrong. This was novel number 10 for me. And I had just struck out. Across the board. No one wanted to buy what I was selling. I had, clearly, wasted my time.
<Cue the needle scratching across all the soundtracks of all the inspiring films>
And so, I did what any self-respecting writer would do. I quit. I gathered up all my toys, went home, crawled into my bed, and pouted. (This is metaphorical, but also literal.) I puzzled over what I’d done wrong, and what I could’ve done differently. I came up with no answers except to continue to sulk and tell all of my friends and family who would listen about my woes. (If you are reading this and you were there for me then, thank you.)
The first query process (because you know there had to be another one or we wouldn’t be here) went from fall of 2021 into the first quarter of 2022. As it became clear that no one was going to take this book, I sat with the thought of no longer being a writer anymore. What would that look like? How would that feel? There was a lot of soul searching going on, without a lot of real answers. So I continued to kvetch. I got quite good at it, if you want to know the truth.
And then in April 0f 2022 two things happened. I went to a writer event for an old friend who came through town on tour and a dear friend dealt a low— but necessary— blow. I’ll tell you about that next time.
What a cliffhanger! 😁