I started writing in July, 2001, after reading Stephen King’s great book, “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” and taking several months to digest it.
The first draft of the first scene of my first book, the one that never sold, opened with the hero and heroine meeting at a black-tie event and involved, as I recall, a lot of “declaring” and “flouncing.” That, I think, is enough said about that dark chapter of my writing past.
Thereafter followed three long years of writing, rejections, revisions, more rejections, contests, more rejections and eventually, as my writing improved, nicer rejections. Flying blind, with only the strange source of inner faith that blesses writers to guide me, I kept querying agents and wondering, as the rejections piled up, what I would do if every known agent in the world rejected my manuscript. I consoled myself with the thought that, by that time, another generation of agents would have graduated from agent school and therefore be ready and eager to reject the work.
Some agents wrote the ubiquitous and demoralizing “I just didn’t love your book enough to represent it.” Other agents took the time to write me a nice letter saying what they liked about the manuscripts and where there was room for improvement. Those kind words kept me going, especially during long periods where I wondered what the heck I thought I was doing trying to write books.
Sometimes I followed up on one of these kind rejection letters with a phone call. Under the guise of thanking the agent for her time, trying to get a better handle on the constructive criticism, yada, yada, yada, I would secretly try to charm her into representing me anyway, thinking that if I showed her what a lovely person I am she would cave in and offer me a contract even though she didn’t love the book. This never worked, of course, but I kept trying it. Love, shmove, I thought. I just wanted an agent.
But then, on Thursday, July 8, 2004, a sunny and otherwise inauspicious day, as I recall, my future agent sent the e-mail that changed my life. It said:
“Thank you for submitting 'Trouble.' I am loving it. Could you please send the full manuscript? I would love to have it as soon as you can so that I can finish reading…”
I couldn’t believe what I read. I blinked but the words didn’t disappear. Rubbed my eyes, checked the resolution on the computer screen. Still there.
Was this a joke? Was Ashton Kutcher punking me? Was there really someone—both a non-relative and publishing industry professional—who LIKED my book? Who was actually ANXIOUS to read more of it?
No, no, yes and yes.
Oh, she wasn’t offering to represent me just yet. Major, and I mean MAJOR, revisions were still needed to make the book sellable. More about that in a future post.
But guess what? At that moment I was so thrilled that major revisions hardly mattered. I discovered I really didn’t just want any agent. I wanted someone who loved the work. Who would go to bat for it. Fight for it. Nurture it.
The call, it turns out, is worth waiting for—especially if it comes from someone who loves the work and is willing to slog down that long, hard road to publication with you.