It came Friday in the mail. My first letter from an agent.
I'd love to tell you all that the letter was full of praise for my novel along with an offer for representation, but alas, that would be a lie.
It was a rejection . . . a form letter at that.
I knew rejections were coming. Lord knows I've racked up enough of them with my short story submissions. I thought my skin was thick, but man did it hurt to read. I'm still a bit sore.
I have a few more queries floating around out there, but this agent was my top choice. Maybe that's why it hurts so much. I was hoping to at least send in a partial manuscript before being rejected.
It's terribly overwhelming. I now see why writers jump on the first agent (good or bad) that gives them a yes. I mean, how do you know if you REALLY match with an agent or not. Not very many have blogs to follow and a surprising number don't even have websites.
Don't mind me. The pity party is just about over.
I was going to work on fixing a short story I've had tucked away, and I have another one begging to be typed out, but I'm afraid both will have to wait. With the two diaper-dwarves haunting this house, finding time to do writerly-things has become very limited. I need to do a bit more searching. See if any agents (and their limited info) reach out and grab me . . . figuratively, of course.