why did I think I can write?

Levels of Response in the Publishing Game

As I wade through the waters of Trying to Get Published, I find there are a lot of things the general public doesn’t know about the process. Since most of us start out in the general public before moving into Wannabe-Writer-Ville, we come into the process as clueless newbies.

The first thing we learn about is the query letter. That’s a tricky beast all in itself and deserves weeks of study. But with the magic of the internet (and cool sites like AgentQuery Connect), we get up to speed on how and why, and work out a query letter that’s considered ready to go.

We carefully read submission guidelines, send out a batch or two of queries, and we wait.

As a newbie, we may not know how many possible responses there are. Let’s break it down.

SILENCE
First, has it only been ten minutes? If so, chill out. (If the agent promises an auto-response to confirm receipt, check your spam folder, wait a little longer, then try again.) If it’s been a few weeks/months, there are questions to answer. Does the agent have a stated “no response means no” policy? If yes, move on. If no, and there was no auto-response, do a little digging to determine whether the agent typically responds and how long it usually takes. (QueryTracker is a great resource for this.) If it’s been unreasonably long, and the agent always responds to queries, might be worth resending.

FORM REJECTION
This can vary from a super-brief “Not for me, but thanks,” to a very politely worded paragraph that means the same thing. Don’t agonize over every syllable. Just move on.

PERSONALIZED REJECTION (on query)
This is pretty rare, but occasionally happens. Sometimes it’ll look personalized, but a little research shows it’s a form. If you really do get a personalized reply, glean what you can from it, but again—don’t agonize. Move on.

PARTIAL REQUEST
Yay, they want to read some of your manuscript! First, a partial typically means three chapters or the first fifty pages. In my experience, agents are pretty clear with what they want and how they want it. Follow their instructions. Once you send it off—don’t agonize. Your query seems to work, so send off a few more to celebrate.

FULL REQUEST
Yay, they want to (potentially) read the whole thing! Some agents go straight from the query to this point, skipping the partial in-between. Same advice goes—send as instructed, don’t agonize, and send off some more queries.

SILENCE (on requested material)
Ugh. Hold on! Has it only been two weeks? Chill out again.

Many agents state that they respond to full manuscripts within X amount of time. Wait that length plus a few weeks (or an extra month), then try a politely worded nudge. Sometimes you get an apologetic note that things got crazy and you’re next on the list, or there’s been a technical problem and could you please resend … and sometimes you get more silence.

FORM REJECTION (on requested material)
Ouch. This sucks, because you often can’t even tell how far they read. This is where I most often see the “I just didn’t love it enough” wording. Frustrating, because it doesn’t really give you something to act on, other than trying to find the agent who is going to love it enough. Check with beta-readers and critique partners to see if they have ideas about making it more “loveable” but … don’t agonize. Send more queries and get back to work on your WIP (you do have one, don’t you?).

BRIEF REJECTION (on requested material)
A little better than the form, and may give you a touch of direction on revisions. If the feedback resonates, act on it. But don’t agonize. Get back to work.

DETAILED REJECTION
This can hurt the most but be the most valuable … maybe. The agent cared enough to type up 3-5 paragraphs on what they liked and didn’t like, but ultimately, they don’t want this story. Often this type of rejection includes a statement like, “Please keep me in mind for any future projects.” Make a note of that. If this story doesn’t pan out and your WIP gets to querying stage, I highly recommend starting your new query letter to these agents with: “In (month and year), you were kind enough to read the full manuscript for (insert title).”

A rejection like this warrants a little agonizing. You need to look over their feedback carefully. Let it sit for a day or two until the sting is gone, then read it again. What resonates? What could make the story better? This may be the time to dive into some big revisions. But if the feedback doesn’t resonate at all, or contradicts what other agents have said they liked, it may be yet another occasion to move on.

REVISE AND RESUBMIT
There’s nothing relaxing about this type of R&R. This often looks a lot like the Detailed Rejection, but it’s actually a hefty step above. It generally includes the same types of feedback, but includes a clear statement from the agent that if you’re willing to revise, they’d be happy to look at it again.

Agonize. By all means, agonize.

Again, make sure the feedback resonates on some level. Come up with a game plan for addressing the agent’s “problem areas.” Take your time (but not forever) working through your manuscript. Run it through your most trusted critique partner(s) again. Polish the now-rough edges where things got cut and scraped.

Send the new version. Then stop agonizing. Send a query, write on the WIP, do something.

And finally …

CAN WE TALK?
I’ve experienced all of the above levels thus far, except this one. This is where the agent wants to talk to you in real-time, usually meaning on the phone. It may or may not end in an offer of representation. Depends on how you and the agent click, how they feel about other projects you have (old or ideas for new ones), if you both have the same vision for a working relationship and your career, etc.

If/when I get to that point, this thread (and the links within it) will be my guide, definitely.

And as I wait for that phone to ring, nothing will stop me from agonizing. I’ll keep some chocolate handy.

Did I miss any? Do you have any advice on handling the various levels of response?

Speak up:

5 comments

Potential Pitfalls: Writing Blind (v1.0)

Like all great potential pitfalls, this one is tricky because it involves a balancing act.

First, my inspiration for this post.

Exhibit 1: Riley Redgate’s post on writing what you know (or not)

Exhibit 2: Allison Winn Scotch’s post on whether writers must be readers

These got me thinking about something I’ve come across, and a trap I hope I’ve steered well clear of—writing a novel with no knowledge of the genre/category.

Yes, I’ve seen writers attempting a fantasy without ever reading any. Others writing for teens without reading a single book from the YA shelves.

I’m sure if you look, you can find a handful of examples where an author did their own thing without any real knowledge of what came before, and yet was wildly successful. Perhaps I’ll do another Potential Pitfalls post on acting like exceptions are the rule. More often, the writer’s lack of reader-knowledge is neon-sign obvious.

How so? A common sign in YA is teen characters that feel like they were written by an adult. The voice is off, the actions don’t fit—either coming across as a stiff adult in a teen’s body, or falling deep into stereotype. Sometimes it’s harder to put my finger on, but I have this instinctive feeling that the writer (a) has little-to-no meaningful contact with teens, and (b) hasn’t read a YA novel published within the last five years (or even ten).

But like I said, it’s a balancing act, because there’s another pitfall right across from this one: Unintentional Rip-Off. Oh, and there’s one in front of it, too: Authorial Laryngitis (Loss of Voice).

I know some writers that don’t read fiction while they’re drafting a novel (but may read non-fiction during that time). That’s a strategy that makes sense to me. Some of us are susceptible to having another writer’s voice seep into ours if we’re reading and drafting at the same time.

I guess the bottom line is, know the conventions and requirements of your genre, but find your own voice and story. You know what they say, if it were easy …

Any opinions on reading within your genre? I didn’t discuss reading other genres, but there are benefits there as well. Thoughts?

Speak up:

2 comments

Why Writers Should Be Masochists

Want to be a writer?  Prepare for pain.  The pain of sleep-deprivation, the pain of rejection, the pain of carpal tunnel syndrome, the pain of a good face-keyboard smack when things just aren’t working … all of this and more is likely in your future.

That’s not entirely why I think a touch of masochism is a prerequisite, though.  Those things all come with the package, and we have to find ways to deal with them–like power naps and ergonomic office furniture.  The masochism comes in with the pain we (should) intentionally seek: the sting of constructive criticism.

Personally, I love getting feedback specifying certain aspects that aren’t working for the reader, but that sting still pricks me now and then.  Still, I’d rather endure that minor pain than get a inbox-full of, “This is amazing and should be published right now!”  While the latter is nice for the ego, it doesn’t actually help me improve, and even if I got a publishing contract tomorrow, I would always have room to grow.

A parallel:  In my day-job, an administrator observes my class a couple of times a year for evaluation.  I’ve yet to have an administrator with a math teaching background, so the fact I can teach calculus already impresses them.  More often than not, the feedback is something like, “You’re doing great–keep it up!”  Once in a while they remark on a small item they can tell was more because they were in the room than anything else.  (My fingerspelling skill takes a nosedive when other adults are in the room … definitely gotta work on that.)

I know I’m a good math teacher, but I also know I’m not perfect.  I can identify certain areas for improvement on my own, but for others, I could really use an outside observer to tell me if something works or not, or if I’m doing things I’m not aware of.

Same thing with writing.  If a reader isn’t feeling my MC’s emotion in a certain scene, I need to know.  If a particular section is boring, I need to know.  When those are areas I’ve worked on and think are great, finding out they might not work that well can hurt.  The biggest hurt is when someone clearly doesn’t understand my intention.  Those are the moments I doubt myself, wondering if I have any idea what I’m doing, assuming my own failings led the reader to misconstrue the concept.  But I will still seek out those opinions, weigh them against each other and against my own instincts, and try to incorporate what I learn into making my writing better.

Turning it around, then, writers should not be sadists.  When we’re offering critique, it’s important to be honest–as noted above, glossing things over won’t help anyone–but not intentionally cruel or derogatory.  Telling someone, “This sucks–you’re never going to make it,” is no more helpful than gushing why-isn’t-this-published-yet praise.

Most importantly, we have to make sure we aren’t such masochists that we lock ourselves into the editing/revising phase for eternity.  At some point, you have to decide that it’s good enough to get out there and submit … and ready yourself for those darts of rejection.

  

Speak up:

Comments Off on Why Writers Should Be Masochists