I’ve been working quite hard to get literary agent representation for two novels. There’re non-erotic novels, of all things, and they’re not written by Jerusalem Mortimer. Or they are, but under another name.
I have sent them to about forty agents now. The pitch is pretty good, I think. And when I check them, even in discouragement, I have to admit that they’re good books. Beta readers have likewise liked them. They’re funny, scary, sexy, dark novels, the kind I like reading.
Still, I’m getting no love.
Many literary agents don’t even write back. A writer just has to assume, after hearing nothing for three to four months, that that agent must have rejected their books.
I must admit that the level of disrespect that comes with not even bothering to fire off a standard rejection notice just amazes me.
It’s a kind of arrogant, lazy contempt that makes me wonder why those agents are even in a business that has anything remotely to do with books.
So… I’m still plugging away. I’m writing a third non-erotic novel right now. But just at this moment, a certain amount of joy and hope has run out, like sand out of a toy octopus. I will send the sample chapter, pitch and synopsis off to a new agent today.
But right now, my life is not joyous or triumphant. It’s an endurance event.