How to Handle Rejection from a Literary Agent

I waited two weeks to react to my first rejection letter from a literary agent.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I went through a whole range of reactions over the course of two weeks. And then I went public with it today, on Day of the Dead, by doing something that scared the shit out of me. Read on…

When I saw the email notification, I ignored it at first.

I already knew it would be a rejection. In my gut, in my heart, I knew my manuscript was not the best it could be. But there was 5% of me that was hoping this literary agent would see the potential and maybe write something like: “change this, change that and then I would love to represent your project!”

And then I held my breath and read the rejection 100 times.

Hi Melanie, 

Thank you so much for giving me a chance to read The Nine Lives of Maria La Gata. While I loved reading about Maria La Gata’s life, as she relates it to her grandchildren, unfortunately, I feel the manuscript still needs work. I would recommend slowing down the pacing of your writing and the plot — both of which often felt a bit too rushed. You may want to consider removing some elements of the plot so that you can spend more time developing each part in full. With that in mind, I feel it best to step aside at this time. 

Please don’t be discouraged though, as this is a highly subjective industry and another agent may feel differently. 

And then I cried. Bawled. Baby style. Got on my bike. Rode around and cried. Thanked God profusely for this amazing, detailed feedback from a really, really successful literary agent. No one introduced us. I straight-up cold queried her and I am SUPER duper lucky to get feedback from her. So, I need to say to her publicly THANK YOU!!! I am lucky I even got this close! Not everyone gets even close to this close. Maybe I’m good at writing query letters and not good at writing novels? God gets annoyed when I write defeatist phrases like that.

Then I decided to ride my bike to Tic’s bike shop so I could tell him in person. Realize he’s not there yet cuz shop isn’t even open. Oh yeah. He’s swimming at the pool. He has become a long distance swimmer. Maybe he would write a better long-form story than I would. He swims 4,000 yards in an hour.

The way you swim is the way you write?

I’m all over the place doing a sprint here and a different stroke there. Adding in some Syncro in between. Such a child I am. The agent was so gentle with her feedback. But really, what it all translates to is: “Grow up. Commit. Steady your pace. Get wise. Stop rushing to the finish line. Enjoy the journey.”

As I watch Tic swim, he is doing just that. Back and forth. Then he sees me. Wonders what I am doing, kneeling in front of his lane.

I’m all dramatic. Tears in my eyes. “I got rejected. She rejected me. I mean, no – they say not to take it personal. She didn’t REJECT me. She gave great feedback and said she could not represent my novel…at this time.”

“Aw babe, I’m so sorry.”

He was so bummed for me. He believes in my story. Listened to me read it while driving from North Carolina in August. And actually liked it. Said it made the time go by so fast. Maybe I should convert it to an audio book? Hmmm. For me, it felt like there was magic surrounding us during that drive. Like my bisabuela was right there, telling us her story.

He hugged me. He is so supportive. He is so good. Again, how lucky am I?

Gratitude. Learning how to be grateful is what got me here in the first place.

Being thankful is how I learned to stop striving and start thriving.

Tic has a way of reminding me to be grateful without saying anything. Just being in his presence makes me a better person. So I tell him, “I think maybe she wants me to rewrite it and send it back to her. She wrote ‘at this time.’”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. You can’t get back on the horse if you don’t fall off,” he says. So cute.

“But maybe I should clarify that’s what she meant. Maybe I’m in denial by reading into her feedback. Maybe ‘stepping aside’ is a hard no.”

“Better idea. Do that. Clarify before you assume.”

He is so good at spit-balling with me. And so I ride my red bike with a quicker pep and excitement because maybe I misread the whole thing.

Uh. Yeah. It turned out to be denial.

So I reached out to my editor next. “Please help me cope.”

The thing is, I would be leaving for LA the next day. The timing of this rejection…is it to open the door for a possible script adaptation? I think of the Bob Marley song on my running playlist: “Why do you look so sad? And forsaken?”

When one door closes another one opens.

Ok. Duh. The lessons of Labyrinth, which I just re-watched with Tic and Belle. Oh, David Bowie and Bob Marley. Thanks, for the wisdom. The focus of my trip will be pitching this story to potential producers. Yeah!

I fly to LA. I have done this before. I hate this shit. I think of Brand New Cherry Flavor. The vultures of Hollywood. Ugh. Call my lawyer to ask for copyright protection. He says he will file it. And hey I can connect you with a colleague who is a literary agent. Yay, cool. But my mind is feeling haunted about this whole marketing and selling process. So I put it aside. I hike up to the wisdom tree with Tic and his true friend Graham. And the wisdom tree tells me what I need to hear:

“Friendship is the root of all good people.”

The wisdom tree also tells me to stop climbing. Be a good friend. So I try to do that. I put my ambitions aside. I congratulate Tic because he just got accepted to display his art in Orlando’s Corridor Project on I-4. Yes! This is good news. This is amazing news! Maybe now my fiancé is going to be rich and famous and I can retire from my constant spinning. Hmm. That is a separate celebration. As much as I am happy for Tic, my work is my work and has been my work for 25 years. I ain’t no desperate housewife.

So I try to listen. I try to be a good friend.

But my friends don’t know me. They know fragments of me. Why do I feel like I can’t be myself around my own friends? Am I fake? Do I need to be real with my friends before I can be real with my writing? I do have one friend like Graham. Marie is my Graham. I always feel like me with her. And Tic, God bless his soul. He is probably only man I have ever felt like I could show the real me. Maybe I’m just scared to be me around my other friends. Because me is pretty weird. Erratic. Opinionated. Fragmented. Uneven. And sometimes an asshole.

Then my editor calls. Walks me through next steps. Sign up for a writing workshop. It may take another three years to get it in shape. Stare out the window at the Hollywood sign. Deflate. Sign up for novel writing workshop that starts next week. OMG. Another three years? Eat a gummy. Talk to a headhunter at the airport because it looks like my glorious career as a writer is still an un-paid gig. Read “Jazz” by Toni Morrison for my new writing class.

When we return from LA all I want to do is write. I don’t want to go back to work. Isabelle Allende spends 10-12 hours writing. Well, at least in the early years. So that’s what I will do.

I re-write all day for two days straight.

Go to my first writing class via Zoom. Act like I am special cuz a literary agent gave me feedback. Who cares? Feel like a jerk. Go to a local friend’s wedding and dance like a maniac. Try to connect with the friends here. Go trick or treating with Tic and Belle and Tristen. Dress up like Beth Harmon from “Queen’s Gambit” to channel her strategy skills. Talk to my mom and she tells me keep going, keep writing, I loved your book. Dad reminds me that it’s the signs on the bulletin boards that help us navigate our paths. Oh, my wise dad. But I don’t feel good. I feel frantic, like I have missed the window. The window was wide open. I jumped through unprepared. Like I did when I was 14.

And then the disconnected feeling starts. Fear. A sense that I am still a child trying to grow up. Agitation begins. I can’t focus on work. I submit first 50 pages of my rewrite to my new writing group. Then I start adapting the novel into a script. And read about self-publishing.

Then I do the thing that scares the shit out of me most.

Remember that thing I mentioned at the beginning of this post? I sent the original manuscript that I sent the literary agent to 13 friends to celebrate my bisabuela, the inspiration for this novel, on Day of Dead. That feels good. Cuz bro, the whole point of writing this novel was to celebrate my badass great-grandmother, especially during this time when people are struggling to survive in a pandemic. She came up during the Spanish Flu, WWI, Earthquake of 1918, Prohibition, Depression, Ponce Massacre.

Not only did she survive it all – she thrived. Managed to raise her family until they all flocked to New York, which is why I am able to sit here at my tablet whining about a rejection letter from a literary agent at 2am.

Editing. Search engine optimizing this post with headers. This is manic behavior. Perhaps this means:

I am now fully embracing the insanity of the writer’s life.

No one said it would be easy. But this is how I am handling my first rejection from a literary agent.