I’ve been taking a break from my novel. The one I’m writing, I mean.

There’s a part of me that feels like I shouldn’t write about the novel at all, until the thing is wrapped up (and, heck, while we’re at the daydream, sold & printed!). How cliché it is for the unpublished novelist to be forever going on about some manuscript that might never see the light of day? Answer: very. Still, part of the reason why I’ve been taking that break is to be able to step back and reflect. (Also to bring a fresher eye to the word-and-phrase-level of revision and editing. But most of all, to remove myself from the middle of it so I can see more clearly.)

There’s another part of me that wants to say “the novel I have written,” because I have, after all, written its ENDING already. But phrasing it so would be cheating, because there’s a weak stretch in the story arc, a missing chunk before the ending. (It’s a smashing ending, if I do say so—but the rest of the story still has to EARN that ending!)

Since it’s already at a hefty 550 pages or so, I don’t want to add a whole lot more length to the thing. I’m actually looking to tighten it up, even as I aim to fill in the squashy storyline-gap.

It is, however, close enough to “end-in-sight” that I’ve started reaching out to see if I can’t land it an agent. And I’m just as glad I started already, because that is not a quick process. Submit your query and a sample, wait a couple months, hear “no thank you.” Revise the pitch because now it’s a chance to do it better. Submit your query and a sample, wait a couple months, hear “no thank you.” Revise the pitch…

The evidence suggests that I should revise the pitch, wait a couple months withOUT sending it, and then take a look at it. So far (round four), every time I’ve come back to revise the pitch, I’ve thought to myself that it was terribly done and no wonder they said no. (I guess I should just be glad I haven’t felt that way about the book, when I’ve come back to it after a hiatus. But my reactions to my own pitches are enough to make me a little nervous on that score anyway.)

Take-away: it’s harder to write the pitch than it is to write the BOOK.

I will say that there’s an art to the non-crushing rejection letter, and I have seen three fine examples of that art! Yesterday I went for Round Four, completely rewrote my Query Letter and my pitch, and emailed the lot off to another agent.

It did occur to me, this time, to mention that the story’s narrator/protagonist fits the label of “BIPOC” (Black, Indigenous, People of Color. She’s half Native Hawaiian). I’m so dense, it didn’t occur to me as a salient point until I realized (reading through the “wish lists” of various agents) that agents are actively looking for that. (For her? One can hope.)

For all my failure to land a “yes” thus far, there are a couple things I’m learning to do.

Choosing the agent to query. Wow, there are SO many agents out there. (And worse, there are SO many writers out there, bombarding those agents with their hopes…) It’s overwhelming, trying to figure out what agents to start with, so ultimately I just picked an online list and started (from the end, thinking maybe fewer people get to the end of the list), looking at them one at a time. I have a couple mild preferences (a female agent, an agent on the west coast instead of New York), and since there’s such an overload of options to choose from, I let those parameters stand, to rule some out.

I took the time, in each case, to read about the agency, and what kind of work/writers they represent. (I was all cued up to send to one agent, for example, until I caught the fact that the agency “specializes in Canadian authors.” That would have been a waste of my time!) And most agents give, at the very least, a list of what genres they are willing to represent. I’m learning to look for agents who give more specifics, though—who write in more detail about what they like and what they’re currently looking for. The more I know about what they want, the more I know about whether my book might be a match. It also gives me good material for a “hook” in my query letter, if they talk about something they want (specifics about voice, or setting, or BIPOC characters, or…) where I can say Here, I have that thing. Doesn’t hurt to let them see I’ve done my homework, but more to the point, imagine if I can make them see how my book might be a match for what they’re looking for!

As I look through the details of what a prospective agent says she’s looking for, if I’m not 100% sure my book fits her parameters, I’m moving on to look at other agents.. I don’t want to waste my couple-months-of-response-time on someone who doesn’t even want this type of book.

Following their Submission Guidelines. ALL the details of the guidelines. I was the kind of teacher who took points off for people not following instructions! I wouldn’t expect any less from these agents. I imagine they’re getting hit all day long, every day, with queries from hopeful writers, and I imagine what they think when one of those queries stands out for NOT doing what they asked. I think they’d toss it before they even read it.

Different agents have different instructions (and not all agents are even accepting submissions at any given time). So far, all of them have included the basic components of query letter, book-pitch, and sample pages, but the details vary on how to submit them (email the agency, email a specific agent, use an online submission form), how they want the information formatted (specific wording for email subject line, etc.), how many sample pages they want (5, 10, 20), and what specific information they want from you in that query (including “submission history” for the manuscript, in one case. Yikes, like I want to tell them that someone else has already turned it away?). All four times, I double-and-triple-checked that my submission met every one of the points they’d laid out for what they wanted, and how they wanted it. If they’re going to turn me down, I want it to be because the book or my writing isn’t a fit, not because of something dumb. I don’t want to be wasting my time or theirs.

I’m marking the calendar when I submit. So far I have at least gotten responses (albeit negative ones) from each agent I queried—so I knew for certain when it was time to try again. But some agents say outright that they may not respond. (Really? You couldn’t even email me your form-rejection-letter?) I skipped over the agents who said this, especially the one who said she might take as long as six months, and still might not actually respond. If I don’t get a response, though, I want to know when it’s time to go for the next round. I’m giving them two months.

I don’t know whether it’s fair to take heart from the fact that it has taken a couple months, in each case, before they decided against me. Maybe it really just takes them that long to get to a given submission. But I’d like to think it means that it wasn’t an immediate, knee-jerk “No.” I’d like to think they actually considered it, for a minute, or even a month.

Truthfully, I would be pleased with a rejection letter that showed signs of not being a form letter, one that contained useful intel. That may seem like a low bar, but it would be my second choice, if I’m not going to get an acceptance. I’d like at least to get an indication that it’s coming close. Or an indication of why it’s a “No.”

Here’s the thing: I know it’s good.

What I don’t know is if it’s good enough.

I’m operating on the assumption that it’s a matter of finding the right agent and getting my query right—but I don’t actually know that. And even if that’s the case, I might be at this game for a while.

I’m thinking of framing my rejection letters—a rejection “wall of fame.” I’m all in, I’m doing this thing!

And it’s just about time to take up editing again, and see about filling in that last missing piece of story-arc. Soon, not yet. For now I’ve been reading—and writing here.

Here’s the beginning of my query letter, with my current pitch. I’m hoping this time I won’t come back to it and cringe in two months’ time…

Greetings—

I offer for your consideration a work of (mostly) historical fiction, set on an American whaleship, with a BIPOC narrator/protagonist in the person of a young Native Hawai’ian. TIME & TIDE throws a Millennial woman—with her modern sensibilities, vocabulary, and frames of reference—into the gritty, salty world of 19th-century whaling. (To make the pithy comparison: this is Outlander meets Moby-Dick.)

“I couldn’t know my own future—except the part of it that lay in the past.” When a visit to a whaling museum turns up the impossible fact of her own presence in a previous century, Gayla Davis is forced to redefine ‘impossibility,’ and to face the reason why she has to go through with it. With still more questions than answers (how does one pack for time travel?), she lands in 1841 with an essential mission to complete. But having immersed herself in daily living aboard a working whaleship—and a marriage to its captain—what began as a checklist evolves into a life… and her two-year timeline begins to feel like a ticking time bomb. Gayla finds herself wondering about the nature of time, the nature of love, and (if there IS a God) the nature of God’s sense of humor.

This is, above all, an adventure story—with overtones of love-story and undertones of spiritual awakening, and all the details of a working wooden whaleship. (Richard J. King, author of Ahab’s Rolling Sea, finds my depth of research impressive, and has promised a book-jacket blurb.) The manuscript is 150,000 words.

Fingers crossed. We shall see!