Queries, Rejections, and the Like

Query letter, synopsis, and the first three chapters of Cynder have been polished until each and every little black word gleams from the page. I've been sending my "baby" novel into the great wide unknown. Hence, my silence on "Dreamland". And I wait. And wait. To be rejected. Or to be accepted.

And I feel like some sort of over-worried parent, sending my eighteen-year-old off to some massive college across the country. What if she gets homesick? Will she make friends? Will people like her?

I know, at least, my mom likes "her". I left my submission package on the counter, before I went to work. My mom warmed my heart with this text, "Planned to get the dishes done, but this story sitting on the counter completely sucked me in and I lost track of time."

And, for anyone that knows my mom, dishes are a high priority.

I'm looking forward to the day when an email from some incredible agent comes into my inbox, with the words: "I love this. Send me more!"

But, as all writers know, not every response will be that glorious. Not at first. Meg Cabot says, "Save your rejections so that later, when you are famous, you can show them to people and laugh." And James Lee Burke had an entrepreneurial approach to his rejections, "I used to save all my rejection slips because I told myself one day I'm going to autograph these and auction them. And then I lost the box."

 

 

But I have a different use for form rejection letters. I plan to use mine as a template for refusing a date: "Thank you for [asking] me. Unfortunately I don't feel I'm quite the right [person] for you. I'm regretfully going to pass. Best of luck. Due to the volume of [people asking me out] I receive, I'm unable to provide a further explanation of my decision."