This evening I spent more than five hours on the Interwebs researching literary agents and sending out query letters and the occasional sample of my work. This after a work day that included four hours of titling meetings (to which I phone in and watch what’s going on in the office on my computer screen) and four other hours answering emails and editing copy. And I must say, thirteen hours in front of a computer screen is a bit on the soul-sucking side.
And yet, here I am, writing a blog post. Glutton for punishment? No, just feeling the need to process.
As I work in marketing at a publishing house, I see the journey of a book from that end of things (which is really somewhere in the middle). As a writer, I know what goes into it on the very front end as well. But this middle ground, this nowhere, this limbo of finding a literary agent to represent my novel to publishers is a new world for me. One that involves much thought, much nuance, much typing with my elbows on the hard desk, much pain in the neck, shoulders, and back from too much, too much, too much sitting.
But I was inspired to renew my search today because yesterday my very dear husband, best friend, and fellow writer secured a literary agent of his own. I was so happy for him I couldn’t stop smiling for over an hour. And every time I think about it, I smile some more. We write in different genres and for probably vastly different audiences, so there’s no jealousy there. Though I must say, he snagged representation pretty quickly (so don’t let anyone tell you it can’t be done–it’s just that it doesn’t happen that quickly very often). And now he begins the long, slow, nervous journey from representation to a publishing contract.
I shall begin my wait to hear back from busy agents with too much on their plates. And I shall try to perfect my practice of patience in the process.