Slush

I worked in (non-fiction) publishing for almost five years at two different publishers. One of the things that I did at both places was manage the “slush pile”: the unsolicited manuscripts/proposals that came through the door. In other words, I did what the agents I’ve solicited do every day.

It doesn’t make the waiting any easier, nor does it make it easier when I get a no.

Many years ago (2005? 2006? Whoa, yeah, many years ago!), I read one of these unsolicited manuscripts. And I loved it. I would have read that book a hundred times, memorized sections of it, recited it back to people.

However.

There’s that word again!

There was an extremely limited market for this particular book. I happened to be part of that market, but I understood (as did my bosses!) that it simply wouldn’t sell, not in the numbers that a publishing company needed it to.

It was hard to tell the author no. I’d carried on a back-and-forth conversation with him for some time, and I was always up front. “I love this book, but.” And we didn’t end up publishing it. I think about it every once and a while, whether he found a publisher or self-published the book, or if it simply died, which would be a shame.

And I think about it right now, when I’m essentially at the end of my agent search – I have a few query letter hard copies to send out next week, and I’m waiting to hear from the agent who has my full manuscript, but otherwise I’m done. I’ve gotten one hundred rejections. Well, actually 113. I knew the number was up there, but it hurts to look at it. 113 people don’t think it’s good enough. Sure, there are still 60 others that I might hear back from, but I’m a ways into this, and it’s not been good.

But that doesn’t mean that the book isn’t good. Like the manuscript I read at work, it might be a great book that for whatever reason won’t happen.

I’m working on figuring out my next steps.

And keeping my fingers crossed in the meantime.

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Original Draft

This novel that I’m working on has gone through many iterations. I originally wrote it in 2008 for National Novel Writing Month, and I’ve spent a lot of time and effort tweaking it since then. This is the original opening, which no longer even exists. I think all the characters are still part of the current (end?) product, but the scene bit the dust somewhere in the edits I made after comments from my writers’ group. I hope you enjoy reading it, even though it’s kind of a mess.

“Do you have any children?”

Ugh. I hate that question. Is there ever a point when it is socially acceptable to ask such a thing? The questioner, a slim redhead who could not be more than thirty years old, had run through a series of other, more appropriate questions already. She knew I worked, and what I did. I had hoped it would cut off the kid question. Sometimes it worked. You tell people that you have a demanding full time job, and they just assume you are a “career woman” rather than a “mommy.” Despite the leaps and bounds towards equality for women, people still seemed to draw this distinction.

But mostly, I had hoped people had learned that asking others about their reproduction was a private question. We had plenty of relatives who did not know what we were going through. Why did this woman feel like she had the right to know?

“Uh, no,” I stammered. “We do not have any yet.”

“You should hurry up!” she squealed. “Having kids is the best thing that can happen to you. I have two.” And then she placed a hand on her belly. “Well, two and a half.”

And then I noticed that she was holding a glass of ginger ale, rather than the cocktail most of the partygoers held. She was still so thin that her belly curved in rather than out, and yet she was blabbing the news to a near-stranger.

I cringed inside, wishing I was anywhere but stuck talking to this woman. Nothing in the world pained me like talking to newly pregnant women who were telling everyone. She had probably peed on a stick that morning. And already shouting to the world that another baby was on the way.

Some women in my position are put off by new babies. Others cringe whenever they see the protruding belly that screams, “Baby on Board.” But for me it was the optimists. The women who are one day late, and get a positive test, and tell everyone they know. I had been them, once. I had lost my first pregnancy at twelve weeks. I had seen my baby, watched his heart beat on the ultrasound screen. I told everyone I knew, I even told strangers on the street. I was so excited to let the world know that I was finally having a child. And then he was gone. Because I had been so naïve, like this woman at the party, I had had to deal with questions about my baby for months. My son, Daniel, who was “chromosomally normal” according to his post-mortem exam. A few months later, when I became pregnant again, we told no one, deciding to be more cautious this time. And when I lost that baby too, only six weeks along, there had been no one to tell, and no questions.

I smiled tightly at the redhead who had made me think of the worst times of my life. I clung furiously to my martini, taking a few sips as I glanced around the room, trying to find my husband. He was talking to his boss, hopefully thanking him for throwing such a nice party and telling him that we had to leave unexpectedly. When Ben caught my eye, he excused himself and began making his way across the room to me.

He took my elbow. “Hey, El. Hello, Laura.” This to the redhead. “Sorry to pull my wife away, but we need to be getting home.”

The redhead smiled and waved her fingers at us as we maneuvered our way out of the party. I felt a rush of relief to be away from her and her questions. And her pregnancy.

“Are you okay?” Ben asked gently.

“I have been better.”

“I should not have made you come.”

“It was an important company function,” I said automatically.

It really was not an important function, just a start of the semester party to welcome the faculty of Ben’s department back from the summer. But I hated to be absent from these get-togethers. People asked questions, and I hated questions.

“And you would have had to explain why I was not here,” I added.

“I could have just said you were sick.”

In a way, I was. I had failed another pregnancy test, the third since we had started IFV again after the second miscarriage. While I was not physically sick, I was heartsick. Now we had to decide whether to move forward, whether to keep up the poking and prodding and needles and…invasion. Or whether we could be happy without a child, after all these years working for one.

“I am sorry,” I said. “She was going on and on about her third pregnancy, and I could not take it. Not after everything.”

Ben squeezed my hand. “No need to apologize. I understand.”

He had been so good to me through this whole mess. I felt like a complete reproductive failure. It meant everything to me that he stuck with me, and held my hand, and gave me my shots. We moved through this as a team. And I could not do this without a team.

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This is THE WORST

“I think you have a great nonfiction hook here that will resonate with a lot of readers. And you clearly have talent,” she wrote.

“However…”

This has been so much harder than when people read only the query letter or the first chapter and passed. She read the WHOLE THING, this thing that I made, and she said, “It’s good, but it’s not good enough,” and it hurts so much more than it should.

Onward and upward, but first I will likely take a day or two to grieve this.

Requested

Trying to find an agent has been quite the up-and-down process.

Yes, I’ve gotten rejections. A lot of them. Or at least what feels like a lot.

I’ve also gotten multiple requests to read the full manuscript. I’ve gotten multiple requests for a partial manuscript. I got one “This isn’t right for us, but if you have something else, feel free to send it along.”

That one feels weird to me, because I’m sending out the best thing I have. Are there people who are sitting on their best novel and shopping their second (or third or fourth or whatever) best? Why would someone do that?

But so the process continues. Things are moving along, although I’m in a holding pattern while waiting for a response from the agent who has my manuscript. I hope she loves it, even if she passes.

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First of (Probably) Many

I got my first rejection from an agent.

I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, so it’s nice to get it out of the way. Eventually I’ll have a stack of them (or, more likely, an email inbox full of them).

There was, of course, the knee-jerk “but wait, I know this book is good, you just have to read it” thought. And then I told myself, “This wasn’t the right place. The right place is out there. The right person to fall in love with my book too, to champion for me, and for Elise and Paige and Julianne, and someday, possibly for Alex and Laina and all those other women I write.

So. Onward. Outward. To that right place.

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Putting it out there

I recently began shopping my first novel. Well, it’s not technically my first novel. It’s actually the third novel I’ve written, though the other two are, well, not for public consumption. Third time’s the charm, though, and after over seven years of tinkering, I think the novel is in shopping shape.

It’s not only my opinion. I also work-shopped my novel with a critique group, and I’ve had beta readers. The novel’s on its sixth draft. It’s been a lot of hard work, but I’ve gotten to a point where I believe its ready to be out in the world. I figured I’d get a website going so that I can keep people up to date on where things are at during this process, and get the word out when my novel becomes a BOOK book.

Thanks for coming on the journey with me!

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