By Beth Cato
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
~Charlotte Brontë
Three terrors kept giving me sleepless nights: the economy, my parents' health, and querying literary agents.
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
~Charlotte Brontë
Three terrors kept giving me sleepless nights: the economy, my parents' health, and querying literary agents.
The first two things — well, I knew I had no control over those. All I could do was hope and pray. But the third? I wanted to control that by writing an awesome book that made agents squeal with joy. I wanted to experience that magic moment that writers dub The Call, when agents phone them and utter the words, "I'd love to represent you and your book."
My past querying efforts hadn't gone well. I had already given up on two books. I sent out a few queries only to receive form rejections in return or no reply at all. In the end, I just didn't have enough faith in my books to continue.
To me, it felt like literary agents lived in grandeur at the top of some high tower far away in New York City. From their high vantage points on gilded thrones, I was as significant as an ant. I understood that a single agent might receive thousands of queries a year, and out of that choose only two or three new authors to represent.
Basically, the odds really stank.
I was terrified of trying at all, but I knew my new novel was something special, something different. Unlike my past books, this one had been worth rewriting again and again. I mean that in the most severe sense — the last rewrite involved cutting out 80,000 words and keeping only 20,000, and completely rearranging the plot. I sent several versions through a critique group and absorbed their scary feedback. I couldn't even count the hundreds of hours I spent writing and polishing.
But now my insomnia stemmed from one big problem: My novel was done. I could have probably continued to edit for all eternity — there would always be more typos to catch, more words to fiddle with — but, deep down, I knew I was procrastinating.
I needed to start sending out query letters.
Query letters were terrifying unto themselves. A good query letter entices agents to read the enclosed pages. From reading agent blogs, I knew most query letters didn't do their job. I labored over my letter, had it critiqued, rewrote it, and rewrote it again. As I stretched out sleepless in my bed, I knew the words of my query letter from memory, and parts of my novel as well. When I closed my eyes, I could even see where the words landed on the page.
Finally, enough was enough. I had to conquer my fear. I needed sleep. I needed my sanity.
I gave myself a deadline: I had to start querying by the end of January. I only had one real shot with these agents; most of the time, a rejection means an author can't query that agency again with the same book. There were probably a hundred agents in my genre. My plan was to send out queries in batches of five. That way, if I didn't get any positive responses right away, I wouldn't have burned up all my opportunities. I could revise and then send out more letters.
I had to do this. I had to try. I had worked on my book for two years to get to this point. I couldn't stop now.
I read over my query letter and my novel. I stared down agency guidelines. I scarfed down chocolate. I read more. I ate more chocolate. My hands trembling, I prepared that first e-mail. I clicked Send.
I almost threw up.
I sent out several more e-mails in quick sequence. I stared at the screen and ate more chocolate. There. The journey had begun.
Within a few hours, I had a reply: a request for sample pages, a partial request! I screamed and danced around the house. A request, on my first query! I quickly sent off a reply, visions of contracts and hardcover books dancing in my head.
The dancing stopped the very next day as rejections trickled in, including a swift "no" on my partial. I told myself that this was all okay. This was part of the querying cycle. So, I sent out more. I had met an agent at a conference the year before, so I sent her a query. Within an hour, I was stunned at her request for the full manuscript.
I almost threw up again.
More rejections arrived. Every time I had notification of more e-mail, I was filled with dread. Some agents offered pleasantly positive feedback, even as they passed on my project, but the result was the same: no. It became harder and harder for me to muster energy to send out more queries.
Out of this quagmire of negativity, I had a surprise e-mail: a second request for my full manuscript. I hadn't heard anything from the first agent with my full book. Instead of feeling joy, though, I felt numb as I sent out my novel again. How long would it be till I heard back with yet another "no"?
A week later, that agent mailed me again. "Well, that was fast," I muttered out loud, bracing myself for the worst. Instead, I read, "I'm loving your novel. Can I call you later this week?"
I screamed, and then I broke into hysterical sobs. An agent loved my book. She wanted to give me The Call.
The agent called me. I was awed by how passionate she was about my characters, and tickled to pieces that she was so enthralled with reading that she missed a subway stop. She wasn't some snob on a gilded throne. She was a book lover, and she found a book she loved: mine.
Things became even more surreal days later when the first agent with my full novel also offered me representation. I deliberated and made my choice.
It took me years of writing to get to that high point. Months of working up the nerve to send out that first query. Weeks of frustration and tears as those rejections filled my inbox, but it was all worthwhile.
I had an agent.
And after all that, I was sleepless again, but for a very different reason: pure happiness.
My past querying efforts hadn't gone well. I had already given up on two books. I sent out a few queries only to receive form rejections in return or no reply at all. In the end, I just didn't have enough faith in my books to continue.
To me, it felt like literary agents lived in grandeur at the top of some high tower far away in New York City. From their high vantage points on gilded thrones, I was as significant as an ant. I understood that a single agent might receive thousands of queries a year, and out of that choose only two or three new authors to represent.
Basically, the odds really stank.
I was terrified of trying at all, but I knew my new novel was something special, something different. Unlike my past books, this one had been worth rewriting again and again. I mean that in the most severe sense — the last rewrite involved cutting out 80,000 words and keeping only 20,000, and completely rearranging the plot. I sent several versions through a critique group and absorbed their scary feedback. I couldn't even count the hundreds of hours I spent writing and polishing.
But now my insomnia stemmed from one big problem: My novel was done. I could have probably continued to edit for all eternity — there would always be more typos to catch, more words to fiddle with — but, deep down, I knew I was procrastinating.
I needed to start sending out query letters.
Query letters were terrifying unto themselves. A good query letter entices agents to read the enclosed pages. From reading agent blogs, I knew most query letters didn't do their job. I labored over my letter, had it critiqued, rewrote it, and rewrote it again. As I stretched out sleepless in my bed, I knew the words of my query letter from memory, and parts of my novel as well. When I closed my eyes, I could even see where the words landed on the page.
Finally, enough was enough. I had to conquer my fear. I needed sleep. I needed my sanity.
I gave myself a deadline: I had to start querying by the end of January. I only had one real shot with these agents; most of the time, a rejection means an author can't query that agency again with the same book. There were probably a hundred agents in my genre. My plan was to send out queries in batches of five. That way, if I didn't get any positive responses right away, I wouldn't have burned up all my opportunities. I could revise and then send out more letters.
I had to do this. I had to try. I had worked on my book for two years to get to this point. I couldn't stop now.
I read over my query letter and my novel. I stared down agency guidelines. I scarfed down chocolate. I read more. I ate more chocolate. My hands trembling, I prepared that first e-mail. I clicked Send.
I almost threw up.
I sent out several more e-mails in quick sequence. I stared at the screen and ate more chocolate. There. The journey had begun.
Within a few hours, I had a reply: a request for sample pages, a partial request! I screamed and danced around the house. A request, on my first query! I quickly sent off a reply, visions of contracts and hardcover books dancing in my head.
The dancing stopped the very next day as rejections trickled in, including a swift "no" on my partial. I told myself that this was all okay. This was part of the querying cycle. So, I sent out more. I had met an agent at a conference the year before, so I sent her a query. Within an hour, I was stunned at her request for the full manuscript.
I almost threw up again.
More rejections arrived. Every time I had notification of more e-mail, I was filled with dread. Some agents offered pleasantly positive feedback, even as they passed on my project, but the result was the same: no. It became harder and harder for me to muster energy to send out more queries.
Out of this quagmire of negativity, I had a surprise e-mail: a second request for my full manuscript. I hadn't heard anything from the first agent with my full book. Instead of feeling joy, though, I felt numb as I sent out my novel again. How long would it be till I heard back with yet another "no"?
A week later, that agent mailed me again. "Well, that was fast," I muttered out loud, bracing myself for the worst. Instead, I read, "I'm loving your novel. Can I call you later this week?"
I screamed, and then I broke into hysterical sobs. An agent loved my book. She wanted to give me The Call.
The agent called me. I was awed by how passionate she was about my characters, and tickled to pieces that she was so enthralled with reading that she missed a subway stop. She wasn't some snob on a gilded throne. She was a book lover, and she found a book she loved: mine.
Things became even more surreal days later when the first agent with my full novel also offered me representation. I deliberated and made my choice.
It took me years of writing to get to that high point. Months of working up the nerve to send out that first query. Weeks of frustration and tears as those rejections filled my inbox, but it was all worthwhile.
I had an agent.
And after all that, I was sleepless again, but for a very different reason: pure happiness.
http://www.chickensoup.com
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий