Here’s to the Fools that dream: Or How I Got My Book Deal

I was driving 80 mph on the freeway, sobbing. My husband was in the back of the minivan asleep. My kids were watching La La Land and Emma Stone was singing her heart out, “Here’s to the ones that dream, foolish as they may seem…”

It was July 2017, my fourth summer querying my speculative YA manuscript. Most writers give up after four years or querying. I knew I was being foolish. But I believed in my book. And I always received just enough positive feedback to keep dreaming. Every few months I’d revise and send out a new batch of queries. By that summer, I had received five partials, four full requests and a revise and resubmit that was ultimately rejected. I had recently completed another major revision and sent out another batch of queries. The rejections were streaming in.

“Here’s to the hearts that break...”

I cried silently as I drove north on I-15. Why did I keep writing? Why did I keep querying? There were so many other ways I could spend my time. So many other good things I could be doing other than snatching every spare moment to write. I was the mother of four with demanding church responsibilities. Why did I spend so much time cooped up in the imaginary world of my head? I could spend my time serving others, volunteering at my kids' schools or helping at-risk youth? At the very least I could keep up with the laundry. Writing was such a frivolous hobby and at the same time a fundamental part of me. When I wasn’t writing I felt like a creature with bound wings. When I wrote, I soared. I was born for this. Except, I kept failing.

The destination of that tearful drive was the Wind River range in Wyoming. Despite a mild fear of bears, I went off by myself in the middle of the deserted valley of the Cirque of the Towers. Kneeling on large flat rock, I poured my soul out to God, wanting to know once and for all what to do about this whole writing thing. When I finished my prayer, I took out my notebook and wrote down all my different outlined novel ideas. I had once heard that it takes nine novels to become a published writer. When I finished the list there were exactly nine novels. “You are a writer.” That was my answer.

A couple days later, when we returned to cell service, a full manuscript request waited in my inbox.

If my life were a movie, that request would have turned into my book deal. But it didn’t it. It turned into a revise and resubmit and another crushing rejection. It actually took another year—which included several more full and partial requests and oodles and oodles of form rejections—before I was in tears again on an early December evening. I had received a form rejection from an agent. I had received so many rejections I thought I was numb to them. I don’t know why this particular one pushed me over the edge. After a good cry, I reached out to a writing friend. She told me, “Some books aren’t right for agents. Some books are better suited for a small publisher.”

I returned to my long neglected Twitter account and saw that Pitmad was the next day. At the last minute, I entered and received two requests both from small publishers. After sending my manuscript off, I researched a couple other small publishers to query. By the New Year I had two offers.

My book DELETED will be published by Immortal Works January 2020. Hurrah! Huzzah! Hooray!

What would I do differently? While I think more writers should give small publishers a chance, I don’t know if I’d change a single step in my five-year journey to publication. When I finished my book in December 2013, it was a good book. But after rewriting it dozens of times—in first person, in third person, chronologically, or not, with multiple POVS or with a single POV—it is so much better. I know my characters inside and out, plus I sorted out a few plot holes. With each draft the book improved. Besides my publisher, who has been an absolute delight to work with, wasn’t even around when I first queried. It was an emotionally brutal journey and much longer than I expected, but I’m glad I kept going. It would have been foolish to give up on my dream.