The Brutally Honest Truth

I can't believe how impossible it's been to tell the whole world, but I think it's about time. Maybe just for my own sake. Or maybe it's just so you know- in case you're still convinced I'm some kind of superstar... ha ha ha... so kidding.

First, let me tell you that I acknowledge how teeny tiny and not universally important the following is. Whew. Glad I got that out of the way.

In April my little bubble of my writing career popped. My agent, who I had signed with nearly a year previous, decided she was no longer interested in representing YA. (As a small consolation, I have reason to believe she gave the same news to her other clients. I received collective e-mails addressing her former YA writers.)

So there I was, standing with finished manuscripts in my hands and no one to represent them. I thought I had been patiently waiting for the process to work. I know how busy agents can be and for that reason I tend to leave people alone to do their job unless something important comes up.

I have to admit that I felt like a complete idiot when she said she thought she dumped me six months previously. SIX MONTHS. Uhm, she didn't. The beauty of e-mails. I read every single one she sent me, and nothing remotely referred to this. But I had left her alone for six whole months, busily writing the book she had given her enthusiastic blessing on, the whole time thinking that any day, a contract would magically pop out of the ground like a tulip.

Do I take any of the blame? Yes.

I learned that if I don't hear anything from my agent at all, I should check in at least once a month via e-mail just to be sure we're still on the same page.

Other than that, I think the hardest part has been getting over my own reaction to the hit. All I could think was that my writing wasn't good enough. Which of course equates to- I'm not good enough. And if my writing and me aren't good enough, what the heck do I think I'm doing in the book industry?

And then, after nearly two months, I've finally come to a new conclusion. People are willing to give me more chances. I have to be willing to take them.

The light went on. I was trying to convince myself that I didn't need writing, that it wasn't worth the pain I felt because I couldn't be happy unless I aspired to the career I knew I wanted. That I still want.

But in the process of trying to leave it, story ideas have tracked me down and followed me around like Marley's chains. The only way I can ever feel free is if I write.

And now- I am in love with it all over again. I still don't have an agent. I don't know how long it will take to get one. I may end up having to write a whole new story and start over with the queries.

But now I know that I will.

Not so much that I can, but that I will.