Two years ago, I completed my fifth novel-length manuscript, The Last Girl. The story was special to me, and I continued to work on it. When I felt the book was ready, I sent queries to various agents; a long list, over fifty. The response was harsh in its coldness; the sound of crickets chirping. Most of these agents didn't even bother with a standard rejection from themselves or their assistants. Nothing. Zip. The agents who asked for pages promptly rejected the book. One agent commented that the main character, Sonya, was too far removed from the action, the book lost its momentum after the first chapter, and Sonya's interaction with the adult characters was dull. This agent had asked for the first one hundred pages, but I doubt if she read more then ten. When does an agent have time to read one-third of a manuscript when they already represent many other clients? The rejection was starting to get me down, but I was willing to consider other avenues. There are many wonderful writers who publish independently, making very little money for their work, if any at all. Karma House, my first published novel, was printed through an independent publisher, James A. Rock and Co. Snobbery dictates that only 'real' writers or 'good' writers make the cut with the big agents and publishing houses, but times have changed. The mid-list quality can now be found on the Web, mixed with the lesser quality stuff. A writer can spend hours searching for ebook publishers via the Web and get published that same day. Their work, rejected by agents and publishers, can now reach millions. I had been through the wringer with my five manuscripts over a ten year period but, at the same time, I had learned how to write a good query letter and work my way through the e-mail query process. I also attended my first writers conference, where I met live agents willing to answer my questions. However, self-doubt was drifting in. I started to wonder if The Last Girl was really any good and this depressed me. This book was an emotional investment, and I felt hurt and beat up. I didn't write anything new because I couldn't concentrate and this depression was leaking through other aspects of my life. Trying to get started, I'd make it to ten pages or so, then run out of gas. I had ideas, inspiration, at work and home, but no desire to run with the fire. The gods had a right to punish me, I was a failure.
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