The Numbers Are In

A literary agent reported his/her numbers for this year:

Queries read: 36,000

Sample pages requested: 839

Full manuscripts requested: 98

New clients signed: 9

Holy ass-crap.

Multiply those numbers by the hundreds of agents out there, and that is what I'm up against. Forget the fact that I don't have a MFA degree, a single publishing credit, or someone on the inside who can put in a good word for me. The numbers are ridiculous on their own.

I feel like a contestant on American Idol for writers. Thankfully, there aren't any cameras rolling, and Simon isn't sitting in front of me telling me how bad I suck. Form rejections do that all on their own.

You know what I say? Fuck it. Numbers don't scare me. People have been defying the odds ever since Snooki received a personalized tweet from Senator John McCain regarding the taxation of tanning beds. I feel like I'm only a half-step behind. This agent may not represent my genre, but somewhere out there I am one of the "98 manuscripts requested."

Numbers, schnumbers. I'm making 2011 my bitch.

If Only For a Moment

Seven days ago, the agent that is reviewing my manuscript tweeted that it had been a long time since she read a manuscript she loved and was happy to report she found one.

Yep. I sure did. I allowed myself to think it was my manuscript.

My insides went from feeling like a calm lake to a hurricane over an ocean. My body shook from the inside out. I, along with the other authors who have manuscripts submitted to this agent, believed.

Twenty minutes was all I could handle. With nothing but my own hope--so little to go on, really--assuring me it was my manuscript, I had to stop. That level of emotion was proving to be dangerous. What if it wasn't my manuscript? At the height my emotions were flying, finding out it wasn't me would have been the equivalent of dropping a plane, cruising at 30,000 feet, out of the sky.

It's been seven days. All I hear are crickets. My email inbox is empty. The phone hasn't rang. But it was pure elation to know that a stranger--a stranger that can make things happen--loved my manuscript, if only for a moment.

Waiting

I'm working on sending out more queries.

Just because an agent requested to see my manuscript is no guarantee he/she will want to represent me. I read recently that an agent requested to see 125 manuscripts in a single year. He/she ended up representing two. So I continue to move forward as if nothing has happened.

When I think about it, nothing really has happened. Waiting for something to happen feels strange and exhilarating and depressing all at the same time.

The numbers will never be in my favor. But still, an agent's eyes are/will be reading my words and that still feels oddly incredible. If I could convince my heart to stop trying to climb up my throat and right on out of my mouth so it can get a better view of what's to come, I think I would feel relatively calm.

Somebody Pinch ME!

I'll be spending most of my day constructing a synopsis for my novel, so this might be it for today's posting. Why, might you ask?

Hold on to your fucking hat.

An agent has requested to see my FULL manuscript!!! But along with it, I need to send a synopsis. And unfortunately, I have yet to write one of those.

I feel like I want to pass out, flip out, or tag out.

Is this really happening?

Query Hell

I am trying to keep my wits about me.

I am doing my best not to stand up and scream.

I just spent the entire morning researching an agent, perfecting the introduction to said agent, only to see, far too late, that the agent is closed to queries until December!

Am I embarrassed? Perhaps.

Do I feel foolish? Oh, yes.

Do I know better? Hell yes, I do.

Did that matter? Apparently not.

To anyone out there who is getting man-handled by this roller coaster of querying, you are not alone. Always make sure you read ahead and find out the agent's submission guidelines before you start perfecting their query. That's Query 101, really.

And, considering the last query I sent out I made the grave mistake of not checking the spelling of the agent's company name and sent it out misspelled (OMG!?!? I'm so embarrassed I could crawl into a hole!), I'm going to go on record and say it's not been a great week for me. I might as well have flipped the agent my middle finger and told him/her to suck it. I can only imagine that's exactly how he/she feels about it too.

But, still, I forge ahead, knowing that if this doesn't happen, I'll feel more foolish than I do right now.