Navigating the Query Trenches

I've always leaned toward autonomy. Maybe it's because I'm an introvert. Maybe it's because I'm an only child. I like to tackle projects on my own, making decisions as I go along, and finding a creative zone that's separate from everything around me.

But, as I began to near the end of writing my manuscript, I knew what was looming. The long, winding maze of querying literary agents. Undoubtedly, it would replace autonomy with vulnerability, momentum with waiting.

Of course, it was also exciting to reach that next stage of the publishing journey. Writing a full-length novel was something I'd dreamed about for decades, so the fact that I had revised and edited it enough to share it with literary agents was something worth celebrating. And I did. I literally squealed when I sent out that first batch of queries in June of 2023, after spending two years writing my manuscript.

I had heard enough about the query process to know that there would be many, many rejections. Still, it stings to receive rejections, no matter how kindly they're written. Agent after agent stepped aside, as they do for authors all over the world. Occasionally, I'd receive a full manuscript request, and I'd have to hold myself back from dreaming about all that that could mean.

Unknowns are universally difficult, and I've never been one for surprises. I like to know, to anticipate. There's that autonomy sneaking in again. So, I entered a near-constant state of wondering what was happening in all those agents' inboxes, and what might eventually happen in mine. I started a new work-in-progress to distract me and remind me why I love this writing world in the first place, which felt so freeing. I threw myself into family vacations and other summer fun. But I also continued to learn about querying, revising my strategies each time I heard back from an agent. It became a sort of independent study, as though I were back at school.

I dove into resources like QueryTracker and Manuscript Wish List, using their search engine to track down agents whose interests lined up with mine. I made lists and spreadsheets (and secretly enjoyed getting to organize amidst the murkiness). I scoured Publishers Marketplace for past deals and combed through Instagram for agents' advice on querying. I revised my query letter dozens of times, being careful to send it out in small batches so I didn't close all the doors before receiving feedback.

By November, I started making a concentrated effort to query newer agents, in the hopes that they would be building their client lists and open to debut authors. That turned out to be the best thing I could have done: my agent is newer to the industry, but very well-informed, and she's just as eager to dive in as I am.

When I got her message asking for a Zoom call, after "thoroughly enjoying" my manuscript, I burst into tears. My poor husband thought something awful had happened when I came into the kitchen, but I managed to croak out the wonderful news. I spent the days leading up to The Call researching as much as I could about the relationship between literary agent and author, as well as which questions to ask. There are countless resources on this topic online, and I eventually narrowed my list of questions down to a dozen. I highly recommend the series of YouTube videos released by BookEnds Literary Agency (ironically, an agency that rejected me. No hard feelings, I promise!).

In the end, despite my increasing nerves on the morning of The Call, it only took about 60 seconds for me to feel completely at ease with my agent. She felt like someone I'd known for a long time, and the conversation flowed beautifully. We even laughed at times. I suppose it was an interview, technically, on both ends, but it didn't really feel like one. The best part is that we both genuinely love this book and want to share it with the world. To have poured myself into something for so long and receive that kind of feedback was surreal. Giddily surreal.

After we ended The Call, I burst into a second set of tears. When I told my husband every detail of what had transpired on Zoom, I couldn't sit still. I paced back and forth in our living room, and he patiently watched me, cheering at all the right moments, as I narrated it all in a sort of manic state.

I'm still an autonomous person. I'm pretty sure that's an unshakable part of me. But I'm discovering that I'm just fine sharing the load of these next unknowns. The submission process will be another waiting game. Another exercise in vulnerability. And it will be so gratifying, so reassuring, to have someone else by my side who's invested in the outcome and believes in the value of this story.

(I'd be happy to do a Q&A at some point about the query process. If you're not sure what a certain term means or you're wondering about anything else related to querying, let me know in the comments! It's a constant learning process for me, too, but I've gathered a lot of info in the last six months!)