11 years, 3 agents, 14 almost offers.
I used to feel pathetic writing those numbers out. Now I just feel matter-of-fact. Or maybe it’s numb.
No, it’s matter of fact. This is me. This is my path. For whatever it turns out to be worth.
In some ways it was easy. It took me 8 months to get my first agent, and I naively thought that was a long time. I got two offers, and I got to choose whom to sign with. The next time I signed I got to choose, too. And the time after that.
I haven’t gotten anywhere near as many rejections as some writers have. I know some who have racked up triple, even quadruple digits before finally breaking through.
My hats are off to many of my friends who have kept going and going in the face of being told their work wasn’t good enough.
Obviously, as the end result shows, it was.
My situation, as many of you know, is a little bit different.
And it is unique in one way: I don’t know of one single writer who has been this close for this long, stuck at this exact same point.
I’ve been lucky enough that agents, authors, and editors have recognized something good in my work for over a decade. Good enough to publish.
But for some reason that recognition hasn’t translated into an offer.
I don’t know why.
Because the perfect offer is still out there, about to be made?
Because I’m meant to go another way, take an alternate route?
Or because there’s no real reason and this just happens to be the way things are going?
I can’t take this, anymore
I guess I’m not the only one that’s keeping score
I can’t change this hangin’ around,
I’m sick and tired of always being
Fed up with this crowd
So what to do now?
I don’t exactly know.
But I think it will happen soon.