Seeking a Literary Agent Diaries Chapter 2: The Sting of Rejection(s)

It’s been approximately a month since I officially began querying literary agents in the hopes of finding one for my debut YA fantasy novel, which I’ll henceforth refer to by TSB (the first letter of each word of the working title).

To date, I’ve queried 14 agents. Despite initially planning on querying 15 all at once, I took a more staggered approached. I found the very act of researching and submitting to agents to be more emotionally taxing than I’d anticipated.

I’ve received 7 responses so far which is actually quite fast for how sluggish this industry I’m trying to break into can be. All 7 responses were form rejections, meaning they were the standard, not personalized, rejection the agents probably send out to everyone. To even get a response at all isn’t guaranteed as some will simply never respond if they aren’t interested. They’re simply too busy to and they have to prioritize their current clients as well as potential ones whose manuscripts they have requested (either partially or fully). So, odd as it sounds, I’m thankful to have gotten responses at all because it allows me to move forward rather than feeling like a girl who got ghosted by a boy she liked.

The first rejection stung but didn’t hurt anywhere near as bad as I’d anticipated it would. Then this past Tuesday I received 3 rejections in one day and this past Thursday I received 2. Today I received 1 so far. Thursday night was when I finally broke and cried for the first time. It wasn’t the individual rejections so much as it was having so many come so close together without reprieve. It’s like being punched in the gut repeatedly. My skin is bruised and I’ve retreated to lick my wounds.

I want to be as open as possible on this journey, so I’ll confess that I had thoughts of giving up. I have loved writing and dreamed of being a published author since my childhood. Yet I never seriously pursued it previously due to how arduous and soul tearing this agent hunt process can be. I knew I wasn’t strong enough before but this time I went it with more confidence in myself and my manuscript. I truly believe that TSB is my best work to date and I want my S-girl (my protagonist who I will refer to henceforth as such) to be the one I cross the finish line with.

I didn’t really mean it when I was crying and telling my mom I didn’t want to do this anymore. Well, that’s not entirely true. The truth is I DON’T want to do this anymore, but this is also the path I’ve chosen. If I want to be traditionally published then I HAVE to do this.

Something that’s incredibly frustrating about this industry is that there are only so many agents. Among those only so many of them are looking for YA fantasy manuscripts. And among those, many of them work at agencies that have the same policy; once you are passed on by one agent you cannot submit to another agent in their agency with the same manuscript. There are only so many agencies and so my already limited pool of agents to query grows significantly smaller with this policy. Not every agency has this policy, but I’ve encountered quite a few who do. Of course, I respect that they are entitled to run their businesses however they choose. I am simply venting here because from a writer perspective it’s like wandering a maze with dead end after dead end.

This chapter hasn’t been too optimistic, but that is the reality of this process. I wrote a poem to help me process my own feelings. I’m going to share it below. I hope that my next update will be a more positive one proclaiming I’ve gotten my first manuscript request. Until then, if you’re also on a literary agent hunt, then I wish you the best of luck in finding your own. Remember, the first person to believe in your manuscript has to be YOU.

 

Haley Lynn Thomas

 

 

Doors

 

I’m walking down an endless hallway

with countless doors on either side.

I try to open every one

but the handles break off in my hand.

I search in my pocket for a key

but I come away emptyhanded.

 

I feel this certainty in my bones

that behind one of these doors is my home.

But the ones that do open

have all been slammed in my face

and I think I’m coming to hate this place.

 

I try to hold back the tears.

I don’t know if they’re frustration or grief.

But I know it’s too early on

to release my belief

that one of these doors is mine.

 

When my feet grow tired

and my heart becomes weary,

I’ll take a rest here on the floor

until I’m ready to try again.

The only clock ticking in this hall

is the one inside of me,

afraid that if I fall one more time

I won’t get up again.

 

I tell myself I’m stronger this time.

I can see the light at the hall’s end.

There’s a key already in the lock.

All I have to do is turn it,

and when I step inside the room,

that’s where this story truly begins.