Rejections # 3 and 4

Over the course of a week, I received two rejections. The first fell under the category of standard form letter fare and while disappointing, the disappointment was manageable. The second hit a lot closer to the bone and in tandem, those two rejections did a pretty decent job of taking the wind out of my sails.

When I launched 100 Rejections, I made a commitment to transparency which meant that I was also committing to being publicly vulnerable—a challenge for someone who has spent the bulk of her days hiding behind a curated, professional veneer. But if the mission of this newsletter is to try and be of service to others, then I have an obligation to write honestly and openly about the process—including how soul-crushingly dreadful it often is.

So, in the spirit of cards-on-the-table vulnerability, here goes…

Rejection # 3

Dear Diana M,

Thank you very much for thinking of me and XXX for representation. Due to the large volume of submissions that I receive, it is impossible for me to answer every query individually, however I assure you that your material was carefully evaluated. After consideration, I regret to say that your project is not right for my list at this time. As you know, this is a subjective business and another reader may feel differently. To that end I wish you the best in finding enthusiastic representation.

Warmly, X

This rejection carried a little bit of a bite, but not too bad. It came in the way of a form letter which I nevertheless appreciated, because receiving a rejection is so much better than not hearing anything at all. (Which is the case the majority of the time.)

To explain why Rejection #4 hit me as hard as it did, I need to begin with a little backstory. Before I pitched this agent, (let’s call her Agent Y) I spent a good month caught in an endless loop of “should I or shouldn’t I” equivocation. Agent Y was—to quote a friend of mine---“a swing for the fences” caliber agent. Someone I’d pitched to years before (but never heard from) when neither the manuscript nor the query letter were as polished as they currently are. Eventually, after a little more “Oh, what the f do I have to lose?” consideration, I decided to press send. To my great surprise, Agent Y got back to me within minutes requesting the full manuscript.

Hi Diana, 

Wow, tricky territory but very interesting.  I’d be happy to take a serious look.

“Tricky territory” refers to the complexity of the plot and the inherent difficulty of pulling it off well. (Don’t I know it.) But the fact that Agent Y was intrigued enough to request the full manuscript was both a data point (affirming the query letter had done its work) and of course, a thrill.

But that thrill was fairly short-lived and here’s why: I KNEW she would pass. And not because of an over-arching lack of self-confidence, but because of my increasing capacity for clear-eyed pragmatism. Let me explain what I mean:

One of the most indecipherable aspects of publishing is trying to figure out what category your work falls into. (Indecipherable because I swear everyone in and outside the industry has a slightly different interpretation.) But for illustrative purposes, I’m going to keep it simple and give you a few examples so you get the drift.

Literary Fiction is the stuff of Pulitzer Prizes. I love literary fiction. I read literary fiction, but I know I don’t have the skill to pull literary fiction off. The people who inhabit this space are the best of the best: Colson Whitehead, Lauren Groff, Julian Barnes, Ann Patchett, and the list of my favorites goes on and on.

Commercial Fiction is what I’ve always thought of as “beach reads.” The sorts of books that are less about the language and more about page-turning storylines. (Think: Dan Brown, James Patterson.)  

Then there’s Genre Fiction—Mysteries, Sci-fi, Romance, Historical Fiction. (And the question I still can’t work out is whether or not these are also subject to literary versus commercial categorization.)

There’s also a bucket for Book Club and Upmarket Fiction—sometimes referred to interchangeably. In simplistic terms, from what I gather this is where the stuff that falls between literary and commercial fiction lives.

It took me a minute, but I think this is probably where my novel fits—perhaps leaning more into the commercial side of things versus the literary. (And based on Agent Y’s response below, I’m guessing I’m right.)

Here’s why I knew Agent Y would pass: I think my Query letter is written in a way that gives the impression that my novel is more literary than it is. Because Agent Y reps highly skilled, Pulitzer Prize winning novelists, she was probably the wrong kind of agent for me to pitch in the first place.

Assuming my hunch is correct, then part of the problem is more easily solved and involves tweaking my query letter and revising my agent submission strategy. But those quick fixes won’t solve the bigger issue that has plagued this damn thing from the beginning: I have never loved the first 100+ pages of this book. And I have absolutely no idea what to do to fix them.  

Based on Agent Y’s response, I think my self-assessment is pretty fair:

Well, it must be said, I’m nothing if not fast.  I’ve now read 87 pages of this novel and I’m afraid I’m going to stop here.  You write with a genuine, natural story-telling fluency and that is commendable, particularly with such an ambitious plot.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t compelled quite enough by the writing to feel confident about continuing, I wanted your sentences to show a bit more edge, ferocity.

Let’s look at Agent Y’s response starting with the positive: This very much in demand, A-level agent was not only willing to take a look at my novel but was gracious enough to provide more than the usual “not for me” rudimentary feedback. She wrote honestly about what wasn’t working for her and was kind enough to couch it within some positives that helped soften the blow. (“Natural story-telling fluency” is not a bad thing.)

But as good as those things are—and as sincerely grateful as I am to Agent Y for her feedback—no writer ever wants to hear “your sentences lack edge and ferocity”—even when you agree. Every hopeful novice wants to believe that there is someone waiting in the wings who will immediately recognize your brilliance and propel your literary rocket ship straight to the stars! (I’m pretty sure we can file this in the “magical thinking’” drawer.) It takes professional wisdom and maturity to understand—and then accept—where your talents lie and also, where they don’t. There are plenty of bestselling authors who have made vast fortunes by embracing what they’re good at rather than trying to be something that they’re not. In a NYT interview from several years ago, James Paterson (who is worth about a trillion $$) pretty much said exactly that.

Nevertheless, being told that your sentences “lack edge and ferocity” is a definite kick in the pants. (Who doesn’t want to write beautiful, lyrical sentences that also pack a punch?)

But that wasn’t the biggest problem with the feedback. The bigger problem I’m left to solve is, what the heck do I do about those blasted first 100 pages? Do I hire a professional editor? Someone who has deep experience within the publishing industry? If so, how the heck do I find and connect with this person? Would hiring an editor solve the problem, or would it be throwing good money after bad? (It’s quite possible that said editor wouldn’t have a clue on how to fix what isn’t working either.)

Okay. Let’s say I find an editor who has the time and who will give me their honest assessment, do I press pause on submitting until I’ve gone through yet another rewrite, or do I pursue a parallel path?

Or is all of this hand-wringing a simple function of “playing hurt?” Overreacting to a little bit of negative feedback when I’m still too early in the game? (Which to a certain degree, it is.) But then again, might it also be true that my assessment of the first 100 pages is an ever-present obstacle that I need to address?

Which leads to the biggest question of all—the one that can easily send me spiraling down the rabbit hole of despair: Is this “getting published” dream my version of chasing windmills, and is it time for me to change course and pursue something else?  (Maybe 100 Rejections becomes 20, and then I move on.)

These are all the questions I’ve been cycling through like some mad-eyed whirling dervish, simultaneously doing my damnedest to keep positive by following my own advice. Writing in my journal, scrolling back through those Rejection Resilience Tips—reminding myself to connect with past victories, to “be joyful, though I have considered the facts,” finding ways to be kind to myself as I try and outrun that dark cloud of despair that is nipping at my heels.

And so, as I’ve tried to process these this last series of disappointments, I dutifully wrote my Rejection Resilience Tip #3, reminding myself to treat myself kindly with every rejection I receive. But given where I currently sit, that advice seems a little weak.

The best advice I can give myself now (or anyone else who is questioning themselves and their mission to such a degree that they are considering giving up), is that before I make any big, life-altering decisions, I need to reconnect with my “driving why”—to remember what it was that gave rise to this dream, and to ask myself whether or not it is still “enough.”

I’ve yet to complete this exercise for myself—to be honest, I’m procrastinating because I know it will stir up some old wounds I really rather ignore. But once I do, I will write about it here and let you know where I stand.

Until then, I’m determined to be tender with myself, and hope that anyone out there who is also struggling, will remember to do the same.