Two years ago I sat down and began to write.
Two months later I had a first draft of a novel.
Eight months later I participated in a Twitter pitch contest and got three favorites. One got rejected within five pages; one got rejected after going to the publisher’s editorial board; the other–a bonafide literary agent–asked for a full. I never heard back. I gave up and kept writing novels. I am doing this for myself, I tell myself. Query letters and querying agents is bullshit and I’d rather be writing new stories.
Ten months later the request for a full writes me an email, completely unexpected, saying she thinks it has a good chance with a major publisher. But I need to rewrite the first couple chapters because they’re slow.
I signed with her. She’s newish at being a literary agent, and it’s sort of a side gig with her, but she has contacts within the business and sold 12 project to Big 5 imprints in her first year. She is on many novelists’ to-query list.
Cue several months of rewriting. New opening to the book. Tweaking details. A line-edit. Yep, she’s an editorial agent. And now I think the revising is over and she is writing a pitch letter and preparing submissions.
And I’m listening to Morrisey and singing “I wanted to go on submission then I went on submission and Heaven knows I’m miserable now”. Because once we have submissions out there, things will get really scary.
But seriously. When I’m a NYT bestseller and HBO makes the novel into a miniseries and I sit next to GRRM at ComicCon, you can all say you knew me when