It’s been a while, and things haven’t gone exactly as I hoped.
My first book was never published. From what I’ve heard, this is hardly a unique experience. Some part of me fully expected that I’d be different—a savant—to defy the odds and not only write a good book on my first go, but a best-seller.
It was impossible to see something I’d worked so hard on as anything but beautiful. But now, having written another novel, after editing and editing and editing, and after slowly getting a little bit of distance, I’ve realize that my first, beautiful little baby might have actually been a troll. And my query letters—it’s impossible to read them without cringing.
All that to say, maybe the agents were right to reject me.
Recently, someone told me: Your first few novels will stink, but they aren’t the final product. You are. With every book, every line, every edit, you become a better writer. So, when one book fails, the hours you spent writing weren’t wasted. They set you up to write what you’ll write next.
At the risk of repeating myself, I wrote a second book. And edited and edited and edited.
It’s a good book. I think so, anyway. I’m querying it now, all polished and perfect. And one day, I wonder if I’ll look back and see a troll.
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