wait. they don’t love you like I love you
I’d rather be an agent. I’d rather be selling and reading someone else’s work. Then I’d know.
With my work, I’m too close. I never can tell. Sometimes, I think its really fantastic. Other times, I think its horrible. Most of the time, I think its just what a book should be. Its just what it’s intended to be.
But when I read about the books agents are looking for, and I hear the way they talk about them, and the way I try to talk about mine, it doesn’t sound like any book is that amazing. At least not any one that I’ve read, let alone one I’ve written.
So I don’t know how to tell anymore. Today is a Debbie Downer day. It’s my last day of vacation, and I’ve felt the sting of rejection today. Sending off queries is so exciting, but then the rejections come, and I start feeling vaguely suicidal and like destroying everything I’ve written.
I know I need a thick skin, and sometimes I really do pull it off. And in my heart, I think my books are good. But today, I’m not sure if I’ll ever find an agent that feels that way.
Tomorrow I’ll feel more optimistic. But today, I don’t.