Hooray! I might not suck!

Every person who has tried to write will tell you that there comes a moment when you question the worth of your efforts. Perhaps after the twentieth form rejection arrives in your inbox. Perhaps when people who don't write tell you that you're doing it wrong. Perhaps when two-thirds of the people who asked for access to your novel never follow through on actually reading the thing. "Well, maybe I just suck," you say.

Then... then some small thing--- or a big thing--- changes the equation.

That happened for me last week. After one hundred and thirty days of silence, I finally heard back from the first agent I queried with Last Song of the Leviathan. Back then, the book was ten thousand words longer than its current (objectively better) incarnation, and my query letter was still raw, unedited by any professional person. Since then, I have trimmed the book down to ninety-six thousand words and run my letter by a professional editor who helped me make it more palatable for the agents that would be reading it.

This agent was my "first choice." I took a shot at the person who, in my opinion, would be the ideal representative for the book I'd written and the world I'd created. The downside was that I understood he was incredibly busy and unlikely to take a chance on an unpublished author's first completed novel. Moreover, he already represents superstars in the fantasy genre; in fact, he represents the most prolific and arguably best author currently writing fantasy today.

So, given that I'd queried in early September of 2023, and had still not heard back by the end of February 2024, I figured it was safe to assume that he would not be replying, and I could scratch him from my list. Which I did.

And then, like, ten days later, he replied. I received it right before I left school for the day, and I cracked the e-mail with a touch of surprise but sighed inwardly, knowing that I would be reading another rejection.

Except, it wasn't a rejection. He had requested the full manuscript.

After I finished screaming and hopping up and down, I began to process what this meant for me. Up to this point, only one other agent has shown interest in Last Song. She read fifty pages and rejected it after ten days. That was a blow. That blow did, however, lead me to revise the manuscript, as her rejection was personalized rather than a formulaic response. Since that time, I've been rejected by more agents who weren't even interested in the idea of the book. Yet, this agent, my first choice agent, was. The man representing some of the biggest names in. my genre liked my idea (and my pages) and wanted to see the whole thing.

So, maybe I don't suck?

Don't misunderstand. I respect my own talents and skills; I think I've written a worthy novel. Nonetheless, this process chips away at that confidence. Your friendly, friends-y readers boost it a bit when they tell you they successfully immersed in the story and enjoyed the book, but a part of you also understands that they're not professionals and that the people attached to the industry who will determine whether or not your work sees traditional publication want nothing to do with you.

And yet, the agent at whom I first took aim has validated my efforts. Even if it comes back a rejection, I can keep that grain of worth and add it to the logos side of the equation when the negative pathos erodes my ethos.

Make no mistake: I understand that it is The Lord from whom my true value flows. I'm just talking about the petty things of this world.

Oh, and my new novel, The Immortal Cobbler of New Palermo is now 33% written, and has crossed the hundred-page mark. So, there's that, too.