Warning: Mild satire. This is not meant to discourage or disrespect, but to let off steam. If you feel convicted at any time, that’s something for you to work through on your own.
Why didn’t anybody warn me that querying agents is itself a full-time job? And you don’t get paid. So don’t quit your day job. But this is your new night job, so don’t quit that, either. Basically, the things that keep you alive and human, like sleep and friendships, are the first things to go.
I’ve sent out a few batches now, and my queries have grown and changed, which is a good sign. There are good resources out there, to which nobody knows to direct you, so it’s been about a year of researching on the Google to find these guiding lights. A piece of advice if you don’t have the first idea how to query an agent: go to a literary agency’s website and look on their blog. They’ll hand you the answers, but there’s a lot of information, so don’t expect to do it in an afternoon. Expect this to be a full-time job.
If I could give you a mental picture of how it feels when I’m querying agents, it’s this:
We’re in a giant room like the lobby of a fancy hotel; the ceiling goes up higher than you can see. The floor is perfect, unforgiving marble (if you haven’t picked up on the metaphor, I’m laying it on pretty thick here).
I’ve been lost in the crowd so long that it feels like I’m not even where I meant to go, and am instead just loitering in the mall or something. There are certainly enough people in my position for me to feel like it, and they’re as varied as the clientele of the Knight Bus in Harry Potter must be. I hug my backpack tighter.
Finally, our miles-long line starts to get close to the desk. Yes, there is actually an endpoint. But how few people actually make it past that gold door to the left of the person seated high above us! The door is desolate compared to the throngs approaching the desk, and if it wasn’t gold, I would’ve mistaken it for the maintenance closet for how little traffic is moving that direction. The occasional person is whisked away through it, delirious with excitement, but we never hear what happens to them. We hope they made it out alive, and that what they found on the other side was people willing to help them succeed rather than a den of vipers and a world of broken dreams. (Or maybe that’s just me.)
And if you look around, you instantly start to doubt, because there are lots of those doors in all different colors, behind all kinds of desks. Did I get in the right line? Did I just waste all that time to get here? Should I leave now? Or should I wait it out since I finally made it here, just to see?
Or can I take even one more rejection?
I decide to stay, but as soon as I do my faith receives yet another shock, for of the three people in front of me, two of them are wearing power suits. The other appears to be a hippie, whose chances I assume are laughable. However, he is approached by someone in purple, who murmurs in his ear and whisks him away. And yes, he moves through a purple door. I guess there’s a place for everyone. The first man in a suit is quickly dispatched the hard way.
The second suited man who looks like someone out of The Matrix confidently approaches the desk, and as we all mechanically jolt another place forward, I look down at my sandals. Should I have dressed differently?
But no, the ad I saw said to come as you are. And I’ve done this before where I dressed better than I was and I didn’t feel like myself. It was like my characters didn’t recognize me and were too nervous to perform, so maybe that’s why that one didn’t go as planned. That, or maybe I just suck. That’s always a possibility.
I watch the performance of the Matrix guy. With the thrilling presence of a magician, he whips out a business card from his immaculate suit (is he in the mob?) and flings it onto the counter so that it bounces and lands perfectly in the gatekeeper’s hand.
“I grew up two doors down from Stephen King,” he announces impressively, “and I’ve studied with J.K. Rowling. James Patterson is my uncle. We’ve worked together on many projects.”
The gatekeeper is visibly impressed. “And what have you brought for us today?”
The immaculate man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pristine printed copy that looks like it came off the shelves at Barnes and Noble. The gatekeeper doesn’t even have to open it to know it’s the next bestseller.
“Right this way, please.” She gestures proudly toward the golden door, and the Matrix man even maintains his dignity as he saunters through. The door slams shut behind him, and I swear I heard it click.
Oh, bugs. Now it’s my turn.
The gatekeeper has to rise out of her chair, stepping on the rungs, in order to peer over the desk at me. It’s even taller than I thought; the top of my frizzy head doesn’t clear it. Her eyebrow is already raised quizzically, but she’s trying not to be judgmental, I see.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m here to bring you my book.”
As I shift my backpack and windbreaker to take out the stack of printed papers, I dimly remember that wasn’t what I was supposed to say. Like, there was a code word they told me to say first and I just plain forgot it.
Oh, well. Security hasn’t come for me yet, so I suppose they’re going to let me stay, although it may be just politeness when I’ve already screwed my chances with them. Still, I try to stand tall, here in my denim jeans and windbreaker over a zippy-up sweatshirt. The cat carrier I’m holding draws both hands in front of me so that I look even more like someone’s misplaced little kid. If I was that other guy, maybe Uncle James would come and claim me, and save me from the look they’re giving me.
“And what’s your book about?” she asks me.
I feel an unwarranted surge of hope because she’s taking me seriously. “It’s about stuff,” I happily reply, “and lots of things.”
I realize she probably wants more detail, and I wrack my brain for the elegant, daring speech I gave last night to my family.
“There is love,” I conclude seriously. “And something about witchcraft.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. I can’t decide whether the witchcraft will scare her away if she’s a Christian or disappoint her if she’s expecting heavy fantasy. It’s neither.
“Thank you!” She throws it on the stack beside her and dings the bell. “Next!”
That was it? If she can recognize whether or not that story will sell just from what I’ve said, she’s clairvoyant!
Which means you’ve failed.
Well, maybe she’ll get back to me. They say we have a few weeks.
But I know how that goes. Marking it on the calendar and waiting for a call, hope dwindling with every passing weekend. Then the crushing realization. Maybe I’ll give them a few extra days. Surely they’re busy. But no. They’re just too busy for me.
Honestly, that whole walk around the lobby felt like it was for nothing, like getting up and braving the journey across an enormous stadium-sized cafeteria just to throw away my trash. And I still felt underdressed.
