Saturday was my Writers Conference. I submitted 20 pages in March, to be critiqued by an agent.
I’ve got good news, OK news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?
I’ll give you the OK news first.
She thinks I write beautifully. In fact, I think she might have used the word “flawless” — though perhaps I’m inserting that term into my memory to inflate my ego. The pages she handed back to me were essentially clean. There were no major suggestions for revisions/rewrites, most pages had nothing written on them at all, aside from a compliment.
Here’s the bad news.
She won’t represent me because she doesn’t think there’s a market for my book.
If I had written on a different topic, she said she would have signed me on the spot. She gave me her card, and said to contact her if I wrote anything else. She was quite nice and sincere when she said this, so I think she really meant it.
But honestly, I would almost have rather she ripped my writing to shreds, but then told me that it was a very marketable book. Because at least then I could work on it, and possibly sell it. It’s almost worse that she likes my writing but doesn’t like the topic.
Since the proposal is mostly finished. I’m going to just try to get an agent anyway. I don’t doubt that it’s going to be a tough sell, and that I probably won’t be successful. But I’ve come so far, there’s really just no point in turning back. (Also, how hard is it to email a bunch of agents a proposal? I don’t even have to leave my home.) I’m also going to try to submit to small publishing companies, unagented.
I came home from the conference exhausted and truly bummed out. I fell asleep at 9, and moped around the first half of the next morning, uttering such overly-dramatic phrases to my husband and children such as, “I don’t know why I kill myself doing this!” and “I’m never doing to get anywhere as a writer” and “I should just give up and go back to law.”
Then, when I was putting the baby down for a nap, I got an idea for a children’s picture book. I came downstairs and spent the rest of the day writing.
By late afternoon, I had outlined most of the book, and had a few pages written.
I don’t know that I’ll ever finish it. I don’t even know that I like the book. But that’s not really the point, is it?
Because the good news is, is that which doesn’t kill me, keeps me writing.