1.4 Living in the Query Limbo
I've been writing seriously since I was about 14. I'd discovered when I was 12 that I enjoyed it. As time went on, I realized that I couldn't live without it.
Writing is a strange beast. You don't always know how much it becomes a part of you until you try to stop. That's what happened when I was 23. I went almost a whole year without writing. I didn't stop thinking about it, I didn't stop wanting it, I didn't stop needing it. Writing is in my bones. I spent years etching it there.
I never went anywhere with it. All the worlds of authors and publishing were miles away while I was growing up. I was learning how to craft my voice. I was learning how to be a good author; not just a popular fanfiction writer. Honing the craft; refining that elusive self as an author. Until I could write a story that I liked; that was the image in my head, on paper.
At 23, I felt that final veil pull aside. I found the etchings of my voice. I had been writing seriously for a long time and the author was there. But she wasn't going anywhere.
I gave up university to get a full-time job and earn enough money to put food on the table. Being a writer didn't require a degree in creative writing and I found the university courses had little to offer me in the craft. Most of what they were teaching I had learned myself; I was, afterall, pretty serious about it.
Since resuming my writing five years ago, after I realized I could no more stop than cut off a limb, I knew that it was only a matter of time before I got to the point I found myself in August.
For anyone who hasn't ever sent out a query letter; I cannot begin to describe how terrified this 'serious author' suddenly became.
Statistics and messages about inevitable rejection made my palms sweat and my throat dry.
I was physically shaking when I sent the first letter.
There are enough hurdles to getting published in any country, but genre writers like myself have a brick wall in Australia. It boils down to something very simple; Australia's publishing industry want true-crime and general lit fiction. As someone writing urban fantasy/paranormal romance-- about as kitschy as it comes to the Aussie editors and agents-- there's a tiny niche interest in the population to read it-- but not much desire to produce it from the agents and publishers.
That's a pure money and numbers game. Certain markets sell more than others; full stop, end of complaint.
So getting published in Australia, for me, was out.
Instead, I rely exclusively on finding a way out of the slush pile overseas.
That is a dark, murky miasma of pain. Being in the slush pile is a bad place to start- most opportunities in life are about who you know, not what you know. The publishing industry, according to blogs and advice columns, is no different. Being in a genre that most consider pulp and trashy narrows down my chances even further. Being in the wrong country, makes my window to jump out even more terrifyingly small.
I've sent out close to thirty-five queries now.
I thought it was bad when I misread a rejection and thought it was an open dialog. In my defense, they were way too polite. It was a 'I love it, but I thought you wanted an agent and we're a publishing house so we're probably not for you' - it took me days to realize this was just a polite rejection, not a chance for me to assure them I didn't mind skipping the middle-man.
But nothing is as bad as looking at my list of agents I haven't heard back from.
Nothing is as twisting in my gut as the stories about waiting four months and then finally hearing the good news.
Wondering if in four months I will have good news, or just more rejections. Some rejections will never come- plenty of agents say no response means no after 2 weeks.
But every day that passes; where decorum screams 'don't email, ring or bother these people or you'll go on some sort of black-list' is agony. I check my emails twice, three times a day. I live ten hours out of whack from most of these agents- I will see most of the rejections in the morning if I am going to get them.
I read a lot of blog posts; by agents, by authors, all telling me that I should hold on, keep trying, eventually I'll get a request for the full book, or an offer.
Meanwhile, I sit here; wondering, doubting, clawing at anything to distract myself.
The waiting is the killer.
Writing is a strange beast. You don't always know how much it becomes a part of you until you try to stop. That's what happened when I was 23. I went almost a whole year without writing. I didn't stop thinking about it, I didn't stop wanting it, I didn't stop needing it. Writing is in my bones. I spent years etching it there.
I never went anywhere with it. All the worlds of authors and publishing were miles away while I was growing up. I was learning how to craft my voice. I was learning how to be a good author; not just a popular fanfiction writer. Honing the craft; refining that elusive self as an author. Until I could write a story that I liked; that was the image in my head, on paper.
At 23, I felt that final veil pull aside. I found the etchings of my voice. I had been writing seriously for a long time and the author was there. But she wasn't going anywhere.
I gave up university to get a full-time job and earn enough money to put food on the table. Being a writer didn't require a degree in creative writing and I found the university courses had little to offer me in the craft. Most of what they were teaching I had learned myself; I was, afterall, pretty serious about it.
Since resuming my writing five years ago, after I realized I could no more stop than cut off a limb, I knew that it was only a matter of time before I got to the point I found myself in August.
Sending out query letters.
For anyone who hasn't ever sent out a query letter; I cannot begin to describe how terrified this 'serious author' suddenly became.
Statistics and messages about inevitable rejection made my palms sweat and my throat dry.
I was physically shaking when I sent the first letter.
There are enough hurdles to getting published in any country, but genre writers like myself have a brick wall in Australia. It boils down to something very simple; Australia's publishing industry want true-crime and general lit fiction. As someone writing urban fantasy/paranormal romance-- about as kitschy as it comes to the Aussie editors and agents-- there's a tiny niche interest in the population to read it-- but not much desire to produce it from the agents and publishers.
That's a pure money and numbers game. Certain markets sell more than others; full stop, end of complaint.
So getting published in Australia, for me, was out.
Instead, I rely exclusively on finding a way out of the slush pile overseas.
That is a dark, murky miasma of pain. Being in the slush pile is a bad place to start- most opportunities in life are about who you know, not what you know. The publishing industry, according to blogs and advice columns, is no different. Being in a genre that most consider pulp and trashy narrows down my chances even further. Being in the wrong country, makes my window to jump out even more terrifyingly small.
I've sent out close to thirty-five queries now.
What no one really managed to get into my head was how horrible the waiting would be.
I thought the worst part was getting rejection letters- two or three a day. Just simple forms saying 'sorry but it's not for me.'I thought it was bad when I misread a rejection and thought it was an open dialog. In my defense, they were way too polite. It was a 'I love it, but I thought you wanted an agent and we're a publishing house so we're probably not for you' - it took me days to realize this was just a polite rejection, not a chance for me to assure them I didn't mind skipping the middle-man.
But nothing is as bad as looking at my list of agents I haven't heard back from.
Nothing is as twisting in my gut as the stories about waiting four months and then finally hearing the good news.
Wondering if in four months I will have good news, or just more rejections. Some rejections will never come- plenty of agents say no response means no after 2 weeks.
But every day that passes; where decorum screams 'don't email, ring or bother these people or you'll go on some sort of black-list' is agony. I check my emails twice, three times a day. I live ten hours out of whack from most of these agents- I will see most of the rejections in the morning if I am going to get them.
I read a lot of blog posts; by agents, by authors, all telling me that I should hold on, keep trying, eventually I'll get a request for the full book, or an offer.
Meanwhile, I sit here; wondering, doubting, clawing at anything to distract myself.
The waiting is the killer.
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