I was so excited in May when a huge agent requested my full. I was delighted two weeks later when her assistant praised my novel and sent me two pages of editorial notes. I was determined to get to work when she said my take on the underlying issues and possible solutions seemed fine.
I spent the next 3 months revising. I incorporated all the things I’d laid out in my reply to her feedback. I felt so excited. This was the best book I’d ever written. My crit partner loved it. I loved it.
And then I sent it off last week. The waiting began, but I was relieved to have time to devote to chores and finding a part-time job. I was on a mini-break from writing. Three days later, the agent wrote me back.
I saw her email in my inbox and thought OMG, 3 days–she must like it.
She didn’t like it.
In fact, she listed new issues she never touched on in her previous letter and made it sound like I ignored them. No. This was the first time she ever broached the topic.
All her previous emails had exclamation points and were so positive. This one was business-like and cold.
Like I was called to the principal’s office. It was humiliating.
All the hope drained out of me.
I reached mile 25 in a marathon and was told to start all over again.
It all feels completely pointless.
Like I will never be a published writer.
Like I’m the stupidest most delusional person in the world.
Like this was the dumbest undertaking of my existence.
My stomach devours itself. My heart aches, like an invisible hand is squeezing all the blood out of it.
I’m scrambling to process this.
I had a plan to start revising my next book, but that has to be delayed. I can’t approach it with anything resembling hope. All hope has fled. And until it returns everything I do is pointless.