A Bit About Me... Part Two
Securing an agent. Ahhhh… Every aspiring writer’s dream. NOW, things will really get going, you tell yourself. And for many, that’s exactly how it goes. My agent was really good — young, smart, with best-selling authors to her name. She was excited about my work and got right back to me every time I sent in a revision. We worked together, brainstorming ideas. I enjoyed this, although sometimes, I wondered if I were losing some of my own vision for my books. I would encounter things like, “I’m sorry, you can’t have a middle grade novel with chapters from an adult’s point of view.” Really? So I rewrote it from my main character’s point of view. I didn’t like it as much, but hey, I was going into the big leagues! Compromise, schmompromise (that sounded better in my head).
(Spoiler alert — read Vasilisa when it comes out in February and find out what the chapter sounds like from the father’s point of view!)
My agent and I worked through Vasilisa, getting it ready to be submitted to editors. I have her to thank for my character Evelyn, who was originally a boy named Freddy. In fact, when I was first subbing the manuscript around to agents, she asked me, “can you rewrite Freddy as a girl?” I did, and it was that partial revision that convinced her to take on the project. Things proceeded apace (I just wanted an excuse to use that phrase), and out went the manuscript to all the big houses and the little imprints they’ve gobbled up over the years. Macmillian, Hachette, Harper Collins, and so forth, and the boutique houses like Candlewick. I waited with bated breath (perhaps I should have baited it?).
Here’s what I hadn’t bargained for when I set out on my publishing journey. I knew that I would need to secure an agent — and that meant convincing an individual reader to fall in love with my work. But I hadn’t realized there was an individual reader at the doorstep of each publishing house as well — with their own tastes and predilections, their own interpretations of the collective, industry wisdom. Vasilisa got lots of praise, but each editor had a different consideration. Was the voice firmly middle grade? Would it be able to reach a wide enough audience? Was it too old fashioned? One editor had already acquired a Baba Yaga inspired novel, go figure. There was a trend to industry thinking, but also an idiosyncratic strain. Each editor had their own personal tastes. The “industry” was confident it had figured out who the reader was and what she wanted, but the individual editor had her own take on that — and she had to love the book enough, personally, to want to work on it for months.
In the meantime, I had written Believe, which is a mash up of my own childhood. I wrote the first draft in twenty days — it just poured out. And then I went back and layered in another ten thousand words. My agent loved this one too, and we made the rounds again. In the end, we had secured requests to see a revision on both Vasilisa and Believe, but no sales on the first round.
I waited for the other shoe to drop (ouch!).
Perhaps it was the whiff of desperation that led me to start another project. After all, this was how I’d always dealt with setbacks. Start something new! As I was busy revising the first two manuscripts, I set to work on the first installment of the Canary House Mysteries, set in 1931 and featuring twin, female sleuths. I entitled it The Starlet Letter. My agent liked the first few chapters I sent, and yet — what was it, exactly? Not quite middle grade, nor YA, nor even adult. Once again, my voice had flummoxed the system. It’s a talent.
I got the email a few days later. I don’t think I’m the right agent for you. I knew what this meant. It had been incredibly hard to secure an agent the first time around. Who wanted someone else’s sloppy seconds? But at a deeper level, I knew I just didn’t fit in those industry boxes. Oh sure, there are spectacular voices that break out of those boxes all the time. But I sensed that wasn’t going to be me. My path lay a different way.
I cried a lot about losing my agent. She represented my long-held dream of “making it.” This dream came with a lot of strings attached. For one thing, I was dependent on other people to make or break me. I had given away my power so much over the years, I no longer noticed it. But now, I had to take a good look at myself. Did I believe in my work? Yes, I did. My friends had been urging me for years to try self publishing, but I had always looked down on that as something for people who couldn’t “make it.” But here I was, having been down the traditional road. I had discovered, for myself, that getting through that door wasn’t just a matter of talent and perseverance. The gatekeeper system in necessary, in its way. But the end result is that the taste-makers become, not the creators of the work, but the gatekeepers themselves.
With self-publishing, it was a wide open field. My fellow writers were not competing with me for the gatekeeper’s approval. They were my colleagues, sharing insights into what had worked for them. There were enough readers for everyone. And most importantly, they weren’t courting the agents and editors — they were courting the readers themselves, directly. Who were my readers? What did they want? How could my book be as good as possible?
And it was all up to me.
Next time, our intrepid indie author discovers the silver lining of a global pandemic: lots of time on one’s hands to learn things like, how to typeset and create a website!
P.S. What’s the bike about? I just think it’s a cool picture! We saw this bike in Rome, parked just like this by the riverside. It makes a good metaphor for knowing when to abandon outmoded ideas, don’t you think?
(Spoiler alert — read Vasilisa when it comes out in February and find out what the chapter sounds like from the father’s point of view!)
My agent and I worked through Vasilisa, getting it ready to be submitted to editors. I have her to thank for my character Evelyn, who was originally a boy named Freddy. In fact, when I was first subbing the manuscript around to agents, she asked me, “can you rewrite Freddy as a girl?” I did, and it was that partial revision that convinced her to take on the project. Things proceeded apace (I just wanted an excuse to use that phrase), and out went the manuscript to all the big houses and the little imprints they’ve gobbled up over the years. Macmillian, Hachette, Harper Collins, and so forth, and the boutique houses like Candlewick. I waited with bated breath (perhaps I should have baited it?).
Here’s what I hadn’t bargained for when I set out on my publishing journey. I knew that I would need to secure an agent — and that meant convincing an individual reader to fall in love with my work. But I hadn’t realized there was an individual reader at the doorstep of each publishing house as well — with their own tastes and predilections, their own interpretations of the collective, industry wisdom. Vasilisa got lots of praise, but each editor had a different consideration. Was the voice firmly middle grade? Would it be able to reach a wide enough audience? Was it too old fashioned? One editor had already acquired a Baba Yaga inspired novel, go figure. There was a trend to industry thinking, but also an idiosyncratic strain. Each editor had their own personal tastes. The “industry” was confident it had figured out who the reader was and what she wanted, but the individual editor had her own take on that — and she had to love the book enough, personally, to want to work on it for months.
In the meantime, I had written Believe, which is a mash up of my own childhood. I wrote the first draft in twenty days — it just poured out. And then I went back and layered in another ten thousand words. My agent loved this one too, and we made the rounds again. In the end, we had secured requests to see a revision on both Vasilisa and Believe, but no sales on the first round.
I waited for the other shoe to drop (ouch!).
Perhaps it was the whiff of desperation that led me to start another project. After all, this was how I’d always dealt with setbacks. Start something new! As I was busy revising the first two manuscripts, I set to work on the first installment of the Canary House Mysteries, set in 1931 and featuring twin, female sleuths. I entitled it The Starlet Letter. My agent liked the first few chapters I sent, and yet — what was it, exactly? Not quite middle grade, nor YA, nor even adult. Once again, my voice had flummoxed the system. It’s a talent.
I got the email a few days later. I don’t think I’m the right agent for you. I knew what this meant. It had been incredibly hard to secure an agent the first time around. Who wanted someone else’s sloppy seconds? But at a deeper level, I knew I just didn’t fit in those industry boxes. Oh sure, there are spectacular voices that break out of those boxes all the time. But I sensed that wasn’t going to be me. My path lay a different way.
I cried a lot about losing my agent. She represented my long-held dream of “making it.” This dream came with a lot of strings attached. For one thing, I was dependent on other people to make or break me. I had given away my power so much over the years, I no longer noticed it. But now, I had to take a good look at myself. Did I believe in my work? Yes, I did. My friends had been urging me for years to try self publishing, but I had always looked down on that as something for people who couldn’t “make it.” But here I was, having been down the traditional road. I had discovered, for myself, that getting through that door wasn’t just a matter of talent and perseverance. The gatekeeper system in necessary, in its way. But the end result is that the taste-makers become, not the creators of the work, but the gatekeepers themselves.
With self-publishing, it was a wide open field. My fellow writers were not competing with me for the gatekeeper’s approval. They were my colleagues, sharing insights into what had worked for them. There were enough readers for everyone. And most importantly, they weren’t courting the agents and editors — they were courting the readers themselves, directly. Who were my readers? What did they want? How could my book be as good as possible?
And it was all up to me.
Next time, our intrepid indie author discovers the silver lining of a global pandemic: lots of time on one’s hands to learn things like, how to typeset and create a website!
P.S. What’s the bike about? I just think it’s a cool picture! We saw this bike in Rome, parked just like this by the riverside. It makes a good metaphor for knowing when to abandon outmoded ideas, don’t you think?
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