I’ve spent the past several months querying a novel. Everyone describes the querying process as brutal. Everyone is correct.
You work hard on a book. You research, write, polish, revise, edit, throw out entire chapters, you pull out your hair, you believe it won’t ever see the light of day, you dig deep into your reserves of sadness and trauma, you exegete your life and pour it onto the page. You make it all as good as you know how. You show it to friends and family who give suggestions for improvement. You work on it more. On the last read, you think, “This is actually pretty good, I like this story. I think it will work.”
Then you send it off.
And hear… nothing.
Roughly half of the agents I’ve queried haven’t responded at all. Those who do will reply with some Copy+Pasted form response along the lines of: “This isn’t for me.” or “This looks great, but I’m not sure where to send this.” Of the few somewhat personalized responses, the consensus seems to be, “Historical fiction is a tough genre to sell.” Which, if I think about it, is often true. At my store historical fiction is rarely on the bestseller shelf near the front door. It almost never cracks the NYT Bestseller list, and when it does it’s either an established author who has been cranking out potboilers for the past few decades or a romance between French resistance fighters in WW2. The twentieth century is about as far back as our collective fictions allow, it seems.
This isn’t necessarily surprising or unexpected. I knew all this before submitting. Agents are in the business to make money. They want your book to compare favorably to several titles that have sold well in the last couple years. Make your thing just like this other popular thing with a slight twist and the doors will open for you. Fairy smut is selling really well right now. Why don’t you write some fairy smut?
It just sucks. There may, in fact, be no market for the book I’ve written. It may be that there is some secret flaw in my query letter or synopsis or first chapters that is scuttling my chances. Could be the writing just isn’t very good. I’ll never know. It’s the self-esteem that takes the kicking the worst. My understanding of myself as a writer. I’ve been pretty low the last few weeks.
To quell my roiling anxieties I went on a hike at a local nature area. This is a sign that was posted at the trailhead.
Them: “You’re acting paranoid. No one’s out to get you. Go on a hike to improve your mental health.”
Hiking Trail: “You will literally be hunted for sport.”
Nothing like the possibility of taking an arrow to the throat to soothe the anxious mind.
Next, I’ll move on to querying some smaller presses directly to see if any of them are interested. In the meantime, I’m writing on a short project and starting research on something completely new.
What else can be done?
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About Joshua Rigsby
Joshua Rigsby runs an independent bookstore in a small southern town. His writing has been featured on Thrillist, Atlas Obscura, Southern California Public Radio, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and The Atlantic.
