THE ONE THAT PROVED THEM WRONG
Cat/genre: YA contemporary
Here’s the story of a girl and her two babies. One book. And one . . . actual baby. They collided in a hospital room, and only one came home with me. (Don’t worry, there’s a happy ending. Both babies make it, I promise.)
Okay, let’s back up.
I am not an overnight success story. Hell, I’m not even an over-a-few-years success story. I was shocked—shocked!—by the realization that I wanted to write fiction in 2006, and after fighting the urge and squirreling away little notes on story ideas, I started “writing” in 2007. It was awful. Let’s move on.
By 2015, I’d finally bumbled my way into some decent writing after three manuscripts that went nowhere (or, at least, went nowhere good). I’d found a way to marry my voice (seriously the only thing I had going for me for a super long time) with an actual plot, and I had an offer of representation. Two offers, actually!
Hooray! I’d made it! Friends ordered me a cake, that’s how much I’d made it!
Oh, past me. You sweet summer child.
You can probably guess where this is going. My book didn’t sell. It never even made it to an acquisitions meeting. My agent (let’s call them Agent 1) would send me my rejections in batches, which is a fun Friday email to get, let me tell you. For nearly two agonizing years, Agent 1 chipped away at an evolving list of editors, until we were left with a pile of rubble and zero book deals.
During that time, I joined a listless author-on-sub support group on social media so we could cheer each other on. I mean, we tried, but come on. There’s only so much cheering you can do while in the middle of an existential crisis.
So instead, I started working on another book while also gestating another baby. I gave myself a to-agent due date of two weeks before my other due date. I don’t know if I was riding the high of prenatal yoga and weekly acupuncture or what, but I got the draft done with a couple days to spare and lumbered over to my laptop to send it off to Agent 1.
Ahhh. Time to kick up my (grotesquely swollen) feet and relax.
But oh! Agent 1 wants a quick chat? Maybe they’ve already blasted through my manuscript! That must mean they love it, right?
No, reader. No. Agent 1 was leaving the business. I harbor no ill will toward them for their decision. Seriously, I can be a petty em-effer, but I completely understood. My new manuscript—my new shot at making this author thing work—was suddenly without a home.
A week before my baby was due, I sent off this new manuscript to the other agent who had previously offered rep and hoped for the best.
I was in the hospital recovering from my second c-section, awash in new baby love and a whole lot of pain and all those fun hormones that throw a real rager in your system after you give birth. (Okay, quick aside: I am incredibly, eternally grateful for the existence of c-sections and never for a single moment regret that I delivered my children in a way that kept everyone healthy. But yeah, c-section recovery in your late 30s is a real asshole.)
My phone pinged with an email, and in that hazy, new mom way, I opened it and gave it a little look-see in between the cluster-feeding.
It was from the other agent, and they didn’t mince their words. They’d read my new manuscript and couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever care to read about this character or her story.
No one. Would ever care. About my story.
Now, that agent couldn’t have known I was literally still in the hospital post-birth. They couldn’t have known that because of their (un)timely words, I put down my phone and decided I was done writing. It was obviously not gonna happen. I have always been a pragmatist, and I convinced myself that I was D.O.N.E. I could no longer justify the time and money investment.
But, come on. We’re writers. We’re never really done.
When my younger child was a little over a year old, I decided on a whim to enter a mentorship program for that manuscript that was apparently unlovable. I didn’t tell anyone because—as established—I was totally done. Writing who? I didn’t know her.
Fast-forward one mentorship, multiple agent offers, and a bananas spreadsheet that had a column for “gut instinct,” and I accepted an offer of representation from Agent 2. When I began this weird journey of mine, they hadn’t yet started in the business. (Yes, when I cough, grave dust puffs out of my mouth.) But we just clicked and they totally got my story. We went on sub in March of 2020 when there was . . . [checks notes] . . . nothing else happening in the world. I had two offers within a matter of weeks and signed a two-book deal with a major publisher not long after.
This second time around, submission was fast and easy. But I know that’s not the norm because it wasn’t for me the first time. And I know I may have a hell of a time with books 3, 4 or 5. This business is unpredictable, fickle and sometimes cruel. But it can also be exciting, affirming and damn near incandescent when things line up.
So if you’re in the middle of the slog, take my advice and keep on simply to spite those who’ve wronged you. Lol, just kidding! Keep going because we’re writers and the world needs our words. (But yeah, also the spite thing.)
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The stories on this blog are posted anonymously so that authors can speak candidly about their experience. If you have a sub story you’d like to share, drop me an email at: katedylanbooks@gmail.com
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