Teetering on the edge of losing my grip feels like holding my breath. I continue to move forward even so. I am ripe with agitation since most days end with so little complete. So little under my control. Not enough of me nor time for what I love on top of what I must do. I know at some point I will have to breathe. That breath may be in the form of anger, however, never in the form of giving up. I will continue to hold my breath until I break into the literary market.

The first time writing made a difference in my life was in first grade. I wrote a fictional story about my father and me couples skating in the Olympics. The symbolism of our togetherness was the opposite of reality. The Olympic reference I now see as the need for his, or anyone’s, adoration. Regardless, I won first prize in our school’s writing competition with the piece. Sadly, not an award that will get me very far in a bio for my current queries.

I spend most minutes of every day hoping. Hoping for agent representation. Hoping my invention takes off. Hoping our new business idea soars with success. So much of this hope is dependent on waiting and working. Waiting on other people, hearing their “No,” then moving forward–repeat. Always chasing the dream. Always on the edge. It’s exhausting.

I am doing all of this while maintaining a full-time job. A job I must keep. I am an expensive person. I went to hygiene school and have worked in dentistry since 1988. I wrote my first book during one of many sad parts of my life in 1998–Fiction, young adult. I lost the manuscript and found it in 2012. I wrote my second book in 2018–Adult, Female-Driven, Commercial Fantasy, and my third during my two-month COVID furlough–Memoir. Besides my maternity leave, the furlough was the happiest two months of my personal-professional life. After all, writing is an artful-personal-profession.

I say to myself, “I cannot do it any longer. I can no longer hope and wait.” But, I do. We all do. All writers and dreamers who want something more, do. Resting idly is not our thing. Static existence lacking in forwarding momentum also is not our thing. There are thousands of us. I have met over three-thousand in only two months on Twitter. We tweet about our passions to write, our quest for publication, and our sadness with how difficult it is.

Writing is an art form like music or painting–it’s done truly for the love of it. But, we cannot expect others to love it the same way the creator does. This fact is so difficult to understand. Afterall, we know how it makes us feel. We want to share those feelings. We want others to be blessed with our offerings. But, so does everyone else.

I have decided that holding my breath must not be in vain. I will Indie-Publish in 2021 if 2020 proves absent of agent representation.

Just before embarking on writing this blog-piece, I saw an email response to a query. I couldn’t open it. So many no’s has geared me toward self-preservation in the form of evading them. I will check the query response later when I have the courage to handle another no.

I often assume agents hate us. Us being: unknown author’s queries. Especially queries from people who don’t know how to write a query. I’ve taken two courses on it now and feel like I have a handle on it. But, every agent has their own wants–unique expectations on topic, genre, and query format.

In desperation, I have often been heard wishing there was an agent I could hire to help me. One that would tell me the truth. One that would help me get to a place where I have a sellable book and then help me sell it to a traditional publisher. Alas, there is no such agent. It’s a shame.

No more procrastinating. I will take a break from this right now and go check the query reply. I’ll come back and tell you what it said.

Dear Tina,
I have read your query for THE AMIRAH DIAMOND and found it interesting. Please follow the instructions below to upload your full manuscript. I’m looking forward to reading it.

Thank you,

OH MY GOD. GOTTA GO.