My journey

I realize that I may never get published. I’m okay with that. Writing is what I love to do, and I’m having fun—most of the time.

There are days when the words won’t come. When a critique partner is a little too honest—the nerve! Those are the times when I wonder if it’s all worth it. My house would be much cleaner, and my husband better fed, if I gave up writing.

I’ve had years of rejections, honing my writing, being rejected again. And each year the number of publishers who accept unsolicited manuscripts shrinks. Non-writers, this means if you send these publishers something they didn’t request, they’ll throw it in the garbage. (And that’s a best-case scenario. Worst case, they pin your name to a big, black bulletin board so all the editors can memorize it and pass it around to other houses. Okay, they don’t really do that . . . do they?)

More than a year ago, I finally had a big publisher request my complete manuscript. At least with that rejection I got something rare and precious—a reason. But I thought this was going to be my big break, and so I felt I was at a dead end.

I began asking God if He really wanted me to write. I came to the conclusion that I should try for an agent. My little deal with God went something like this. If He wanted me to write, I’d land an agent. If He didn’t, every agent I queried would say no.

Agents have a lot less to risk by saying yes than acquisitions editors. So if no agent wanted to work with me, my writing just wasn’t good enough and I would quit. This wasn’t a frivolous test, though. After study, thought and prayer, I decided an agent was really the right thing for me if I wanted to pursue this further. (The houses who won’t accept material from authors will accept from agents.)

In June 2006, I sent out a few proposals to agents. Why think small? I sent to some of the best. It only took 3 or 4 weeks for a reply from my top pick. He wanted to see the whole manuscript. Woo-hoo! I couldn’t believe it! After a read-through, I sent it out.

He got back to me mid-August. While he liked it, it wasn't ready—needed more emotional texture. But he was willing to take another look. I was thrilled the door was still open, yes. But I had mixed feelings. And a little talk with God.

I said, “Lord, I wanted a yes or a no. This is a ‘do a lot more hard work and then . . . maybe’. What are You doing to me?”

For two months I worked on a careful, thorough rewrite, having critique partners read it to gauge the emotion. (Up to that point I’d never had a fellow writer look at it. Only friends and family.) It was the middle of October before I sent it back to this agent. And I waited.

And waited.

I kept reminding myself that a yes takes a lot longer than a no. Five months passed. I came to the conclusion that he didn’t want to work with me, and for whatever reason, simply hadn’t replied to tell me so. (Although this went against everything I knew about him.)

I polished up the beginning of my manuscript and sent it to the Genesis contest. (A contest for ACFW members in which the first 25 pages of a manuscript are judged and critiqued by people who know what they’re doing.) If I was a finalist, my entry would be judged by editors and agents. I didn’t want to query other agents without hearing from this one, so I thought this was a good way to get some attention for my writing. If I was a finalist.

Another month went by. It was now April 2007—six months after I’d sent the manuscript.

As beginning writers we’re told never to bother an editor or agent. We are nothing. We’re peons. Those important, busy people do not want our phone calls or our emails. Bother an editor or agent by phone, and your name really will be memorized in a negative way. But six months is abnormally long—at least for an agent with his stellar reputation. So I risked it and called.

I got his voice mail and left a message explaining that I hadn’t received a reply. After I hung up, I realized I’d left him my name, but not the name of my manuscript. That omission worried me. I was convinced he wouldn’t call back, that he had no idea who I was after all this time. Then I’d have to try again, and . . .

The kind man emailed me the next morning. He complimented my writing! My call surprised him because he had sent a reply months earlier saying he wanted to work with me. When I didn’t respond, he thought I’d moved on to another agent. His reply had gotten lost in the mail. Can you believe it?

You hear about mail getting lost, but how often does it really happen? And with such an important piece of mail! Of course, I have to factor in my mailman’s penchant for leaving my mailbox open on windy days.

After my initial shock, I was doing the snoopy dance. Those six months vanished in a flash, and I was about to burst. I had to tell someone! Fifteen minutes later my husband called from work—something he rarely does. He knew from my hello that I had good news. He took me out to supper that night to celebrate.

The date was Friday, April 13th. My newest nephew was born that same day. And Friday the 13th is supposed to be such an unlucky day. (Today is another one. How fitting!)

After celebrating, I had to get down to business and update my proposal, get it in the format his agency uses, and work on some further edits he suggested for my manuscript.

At the end of May, I heard I was a finalist in the Genesis contest. I felt sheepish for questioning God’s plans for me. He heaped on two healthy doses of confirmation very close together.

My agent realized that among the unusual circumstances, he hadn’t sent me an author agreement to sign. He said he’d draft one and get it sent to me. I’m still waiting for it (which is why I’m not naming my agent—I haven’t officially signed with him yet). I emailed him last week to see what was up. He said he was sure he’d sent it to me.

Maybe it got lost in the mail.

(Is there a postal black hole between his office and my house? Have I offended my mailman somehow? Is God not through teaching me patience?)

Having an agent doesn’t mean I’ll get published. But it seems God wants me to keep on writing, and it’s in His hands. I’m okay with that. I’m having fun—most of the time.