Firsts

It was inevitable; my first literary agent submission of 2024 was rejected. I'm going to use this post to outline the current status of my novel submission process, and use future posts to explore its different aspects in greater detail.

Short-form text is a terrible medium for conveying the depth of disappointment, self-flagellation and perseverance involved in handling a literary agent rejection. I appreciate that my 60+ submissions have been a learning process; every time I think I’ve nailed a synopsis that “grips” a prospective agent, every time I delude myself into “believing” in this cover letter or that the first 50 pages are engaging enough to a publisher (and not a potential reader), a rejection slams that treasure chest shut. And every time, I re-assess my submission, amend it somehow, and devote a couple hours to research of the next agent’s clients once again.

When I pitch it to friends, they tell me they'd read my novel. That's beyond reassuring, however none of them are going to represent me to a publisher.

For some context, in May of 2023 I attended the I AM in PRINT writing conference in Bristol. It was a productive weekend, in which I learned so much about myself and different tactics writers use to send their book into the “out there” so beautifully lauded by Michael Crawford in Hello Dolly. At that event, I had an Agent 1-2-1 (I could only afford one on top of the conference fees), in which the agent gave me some invaluable feedback and encouraged me to submit to them once I had applied their feedback. When I mentioned this to fellow conference attendees, including published authors, they said this was a shoe-in for representation.

Summer surrendered to fall and winter, and exceeded the agent’s expected response time. I have not heard from them at all. I took a hiatus of sorts, and devoted myself to creating a stellar submission pack. However, I was still juggling a full-time job, volunteer commitment and budding cabaret career (plus figure skating). Naturally, literary agent submissions fell to the wayside, as I didn’t want to send something half-baked and imperfect to someone who might pave the way towards a retailer's bookshelf. As my parents remind me, “it only takes one.”

And that agent’s feedback was useful. Initially, my submission pack veered towards commercial. I transformed a pitch for a literary novel into something like a crime thriller, something that deserved yellow sans-serif text and a cheap shot of a title, and prayed people would misjudge this book by its cover, pull it off the shelf and discover what I actually wrote about within its pages. 

Unfortunately, agents know when you’re insincere, and yet have little time for sincerity—the kind that over-shares at a cocktail night and begs you to believe a novel about male borderline personality disorder matters. I feel Catholic all over again, trying to discern what God wants from me when that’s not really The Point.

Dramatics aside, I also understand some agents are overwhelmed and don’t have the capacity to accept new submissions unless they’re as promising as six seasons and a movie. At my poetry reading group last week, someone who reviews plays and musical submissions told me it really depends on the frame of mind you’re in. You might toss someone’s life’s work out with a carbon-copy rejection email just because you haven’t had your morning coffee yet. And while that sounds unfair, I accept it’s beyond my control. I need to craft my pitch for someone who doesn’t care, but who could.

So I reverted back to the original pitch, embraced its literary traits and reduced the overall complexity in my submission. I know now that I cannot base my creative career on appeasement. Like prayer, changing my approach it doesn’t matter much if I don’t commit myself to it.

And this rejection is the first of many. 2024 will not see me scheduling agent submission emails at 3am, flinging my pitches across the web and hoping they stick. I need to take both myself and this process seriously. Moreover, 2024 will not be a year of despair.