I wrote this book recently. It’s called Falling for the Protagonist. I had a great time writing it. The premise is that a woman gets transported into a romance novel and sends the male protagonist spiraling into an existential crisis when he realizes he’s a book character. It’s funny but emotional (Big ups to me for making myself cry at one point during a reread!), satirical of the romance genre but also an homage to it. I’m quite proud of it. I’ll copy and paste the first few paragraphs at the bottom of this post for those who are interested.
I’ve been querying this book. Got a couple rejections. No big. Except for this one that stuck out to me. Short but sweet, it said:
Hello Bex,
Thank you so much for sending your materials for our review. We really enjoyed this and can see the potential in your writing.
Unfortunately, however, despite all that we liked, we didn’t quite fall in love with this as we had hoped, so we will not be offering representation at this time.
Now, don’t get me wrong. A response–any response–from an agency is a good thing. There are many who say that you just have to wait six to eight weeks and if you don’t hear from them, that’s a rejection. The ambiguity and the… I suppose anticlimax of it… can be frustrating. Not that I blame them one bit. Can you imagine taking the time to send out what must be hundreds of rejection emails every week? No thank you. I’m just saying, when I get a negative response, I appreciate it.
But being me, I started to close-read this thing a little. What it boils down to is: Your writing is great. We don’t like it anyway. (Yes, I’m putting words in their mouth. My writing might have come across to them as merely good or adequate, but allow me the paraphrase here for the sake of my ego.)
I’ve contended with this frustration for many years. I’m not saying I think they should have accepted my book. Quite the opposite, actually. There are some people who write back or get angry or try to argue with these agents (I know; I used to intern for one). And all I want to ask them is: Do you really want someone representing your work who feels anything less than enthusiastic about it? How are they going to sell it to others if they can’t even sell it to themselves?
This also ties into the age-old question that agents and editors get asked time and time again: What do you look for in a book? I understand why people ask this question as they’re hoping to get an edge on how to find representation, but it’s unfortunately just not possible to answer as this industry is entirely subjective. The usual answer is something along the lines of, “I need a really strong voice.” This translates to what I see as a universal truth:
Sometimes I pick up a book and I like it. Sometimes I pick up a book and I don’t like it.
Happens to me all the time. I’ll start reading something and the writing will be perfectly sound, but it doesn’t “grab me” as they say. And I can’t always put my finger on why. The truth is, an agent (or editor) has to pick up your book and feel the click. No click, no contract. They can’t say “I didn’t like your book, but I don’t know why” because writers would riot. But that’s the gist.
This all brings me back to the aforementioned frustration I’ve been contending with. I think my writing is good. Some of my books are better than others, and I always have room for growth, but I’ve crafted some solid stories. I believe my writing is special and unique. The problem is, and I’ve just started to wrap my head around this, everyone is special and unique. It’s true! You are unique! But in a world that celebrates only a select few special people, that only works if everyone else fails to be recognized for their specialness. There would be no Many to worship the Few otherwise. There are thousands of good writers out there who will never get a publishing contract, actors worthy of every award in the book who will never see a stage or the front end of a camera, singers with voices like angels who won’t get a recording contract. You get it.
I know there is a very good chance that I will never see my work published (the traditional way). It’s just the way it goes. I’m special. I believe that. But I’m not special enough. LEST YOU THINK I AM GOING TO END THIS POST ON A MAJOR DOWNER…
It’s not my job to be the motivational poster on your wall. I’d suck at it anyway. Although… I did make this one.
But only because I thought it was funny!
The point is, I see no harm in trying again and again. If I lost track of Why (with a capital W) I write (i.e. because I enjoy it), that would be the real downer. As long as I’m writing, and I don’t see myself stopping, why not query? Why not put myself out there? A thousand rejections hurt, but I firmly believe you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. So go for it. If you don’t believe in your own specialness, how can anyone else?
Huh. I guess I became a motivation poster anyway.
Here’s a teaser of Falling for the Protagonist:
Chapter One
The back corner of the bar known as Bonne Nuit echoed with the jovial, slightly manic, titters and squeals that could only belong to a group of women who were two hours into a bachelorette party. Emmy Miura kept smiling as the feminine chaos surrounded her and tried to tamp down on the deep, heartfelt longing she felt for her comfy pants. They were at home all alone, probably missing her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d left them for so long on a Saturday night. Trying not to sulk, she shifted around until the strapless cocktail dress she’d bought for the occasion—at her sister’s subtle insistence—settled a little more comfortably around her.
“Deep breaths,” her best friend of a million years, Sarah, murmured to her.
“I am a bad person for wanting to leave.”
“You are a good sister for staying.”
That was one way to look at it, and Emmy did enjoy seeing May’s happiness, which was flowing more readily than the happy hour specials. Her sister, adorned with a sparkling headband that was coated in curlicues of metallic ribbon, was leaning over to listen to one of her friends. Whatever the friend said lit up May’s face.
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, absolutely. I have to tell the story. I don’t even care if everyone’s already heard it a million times. Emmy, cover your ears.”
Emmy immediately went on alert. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to tell—shh seriously, guys, this is good—I’m going to tell the story of how me and Luis met. Emmy hates this because she is a cynic and a nonbeliever, but I’m telling it anyway because it is my party!”
“Oh Jesus.”
“How did they meet?” Sarah asked.
“She went to a sex psychic,” Emmy muttered under her breath.
“Sorry. Run that by me one more time?”
Emmy gestured to her sister, indicating Sarah should listen to May, and repeated, “She went to a sex psychic.”
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