The journey, finding an agent, and all that

Some of you have inquired a bit about the journey to finding an agent and it occurred to me that I've been somewhat quiet here over the years about this part of the process, when, in fact, it has been a larger, nagging presence in my life than I've let on.  

So here's the story, and I apologize, in advance, for the length of this post.  Get a drink, kick back, skip to the end if you're bored.

Technically, I sent my first query letter in 1992. I was eleven and I had written a poem and, since I spent most of my mornings reading cereal boxes and whatever mail my parents left on the kitchen table, I read one of those weekly free community news circulars and discovered they had a very small poetry section.  I wrote a handwritten letter that said, 'I wrote this poem. I hope you like it!'*  And a month later, my poem appeared in the circular.

Since then, I have spent years sending short stories and novels into the universe. But that was the first and last time anyone has ever published my fiction.

In April 2010, I was serious about publishing a novel inspired by two sisters I had met long ago when I worked at school for children with special needs.  That story was really important to me and I queried it, slowly, for about a year.  Because I had done a lot of research about querying, I actually received a lot of requests to read the book but, in the end, I received around sixty rejections and about twenty of those were rejections of the actual material.

At some point during that process, I actually received a rejection from a reputable agent for a book that wasn't mine. As in, she gave me all kinds of feedback regarding a character named Logan (there was not, has never been, a character named Logan in the manuscript.)  She later apologized that there had been a mix-up but, at that point, having then received, not only my own beautiful stack of rejections, but, also, in some cruel joke, the rejection of someone else, I made a very difficult decision to shelve that novel and move on.

I wrote RABBIT ISLAND, a young adult novel inspired by the historic Dreamland fire of Coney Island. It's about a burning amusement park, a young singer trying to find her voice, and an abandoned amusement park ride and group of siblings she discovers underground.

In January 2012, I queried it. Over time, I received many rejections. A few agents, however, gave me very encouraging feedback.  One of those rejections was so incredibly kind and encouraging that I actually cried in my grey cubicle while at work, on the phone with a very confused IT person in India.  I cried because it felt as if I had come close.  I felt that maybe it had been good but not good enough, and, sometimes, it can be hard to always feel not good enough.

After querying some more agents, I decided to put that manuscript aside. I was trying to change some things in my life, gain career experience I wasn't getting at work, and plan a wedding. Somehow, I managed to write 15,000 words of a novel, then, one day, discovered that a very reputable young adult writer had already written it. Sigh.

But, in the summer of 2012, in a rather surprising string of events stemming from some words I had written about a treasured friend's book, on this very blog, I met with a real-life editor who reached out to me about my work (color me floored.) I explained some of my projects to her and her enthusiasm for RABBIT ISLAND made me think it might be time to re-look at it.

So I did.

I rewrote it. I changed third person to first, brought characters back to life, sent others to their rooms with no dinner, re-imagined an underground world I thought I knew, and discovered the motivations and the past of a mother I had not understood. I sent it to critique partners and received amazing feedback.  I revised again and sent it to others, then to an amazing friend who I did not know, when I first sent it, but later learned, was the one person I needed to read this book.

Then, last month, in mid-March 2013, I felt ready to send it out. I felt that if no one loved this novel, it wouldn't matter, because I had done all I could.

I was in conversation with a freelance editor partnering with an agency about my work but, beyond that, I queried just one agent. The one who had sent the kindest rejection. The one who, yes, had made me cry (because the rejection was so kind.) The one who, last Wednesday told me she loved the book and Thursday offered representation.

So here we are.

*For the record, I firmly believe all query letters should only consist of the words 'I wrote this. I hope you like it' because, what more is there, really, than that?**

**If you're new to querying, don't do that. Email me.

Words on a Page

It's been a while since I've updated you all on my writing projects and it's come to my attention that some of you may care, which will never cease to amaze me (thank you).

Spared sits and awaits a rewrite. After years of working on it, I realize the story is still not where it needs to be. A painful discovery but a discovery just the same. So it sits and waits. It is not quiet about it. In fact, it's somewhat impatient and rowdy and a bit of a nuisance. But I do feel the physical manuscript is in the proper place right now (Sitting. Waiting.)

I am nearing the end of the first draft of Rabbit Island, which has been an eventful ride. There have been some painful moments-- I got lost for something like...oh....50 pages and had to trash them all-- but, in the end, I thought it was a good experience. I had no idea things would end up where they are and I look forward to editing it.

And, below, Rabbit Island's first time out in public (ignore the bad hair and the poor outfit choice and the stammering. It has spent the last 6 months alone with me...which isn't good for anyone.)

Reagan stopped walking and the smell of hotdogs, the rising smoke, hung in the stale, hot air. "Don't worry. You're going to figure out the way you want to love someone," she told Adelaine. "And when you do, you're going to hatch grand schemes."

Adelaine laughed. "Let's start with you and Eric Brown and see what happens."

"What? It's a done deal."

Adelaine looked up at the entrance. Two tall tree trunks, whose branches stemmed into a giant arch. The trees were white, like everything at Dreamland, as if the entire place had been trapped inside a winter storm. The leaves sparkled, silver and glass, and the tangled branches twisted together to give the impression of a woman's face outlined with wild, flowing hair.

And when she walked inside, it felt as if she had been swallowed whole.

I hope you'll tell me what you're working on (writing or otherwise) and let me know how you are spending your days.