Write Good or Die

Second, it can take several months to secure representation, and it's always a good idea to keep new books in the pipeline. Third, if all of the agencies you query reject your first manuscript, you'll have something else to shop, allowing you to maintain positive momentum.

    Brandon Massey— http://www.brandonmassey.com
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26. THE AGENT/PUBLISHER EPIC
    By J.A. Konrath
    http://www.jakonrath.com

    After my sixth novel failed to sell, I knew it was time to get serious.
    My Rejection Book was filled to bursting, slips divided into agent and editor categories. Close to four hundred of them. With the baby’s first birthday approaching and a new house recently purchased, my friends and family were beginning to wonder when I was going to give up this “hobby” and get a real job working nine to five.
    I made my living waiting tables. The flexible schedule allowed me plenty of time to write. My wife worked in the same restaurant, and I would often trade shifts with her if the muse was in overdrive. She’d always been supportive, even when we were dating and I had my BAD AGENT EXPERIENCE.
    Rewind to three years earlier. I was fresh out of college, where I majored in Television. I’d switched my major to TV from Film, because I heard it was too hard to get a job in film.
    I found out it was just as hard to get a job in television. Though I had good grades, and a killer show reel, I’d graduated in the middle of a huge recession, and was going up for entry level positions against people with years of experience.
    I tried my best, failed, and then wondered what the heck my education was good for, other than teaching me how to make my own beer bongs and how to add watermelon Jolly Ranchers to a bottle of vodka for killer shots.
    Since writing is what I wanted to pursue in both Film and TV, and since I had a love of books and had already written dozens of short stories, I decided to take the plunge and write a mystery novel.
    It took a few months. When I finished, I picked up a Writer’s Market book, picked out six agents, and sent them copies of the book, figuring it was only a matter of time until one of them called me.
    Believe it or not, one did.
    He was a respected, well-known agent with some big name clients, and I immediately signed on the dotted line. I drove to New York to meet him soon after, and he took me to a five-star restaurant and filled my head with promises of fame and riches while I fought a losing battle trying to match him martini for martini.
    Life was good.
    When I came back home, I considered quitting my job. After all, the sale would come quick, and the money would roll in.
    A week passes. A month. Three months.
    I call my superstar agent and get an assistant, who explains that sometimes it takes a while to sell a book.
    That hadn’t been what Mr. Bigshot told me over Grey Goose, but I still trusted the guy.
    Six months pass. A year. By this time, I’ve written a sequel to the first book, and I send it to Mr. Bigshot.
    A few weeks pass, and I call him to see if he’s read the new book.
    His assistant explains that he’s really busy.
    Another six months go by. Finally, I call up Mr. Bigshot and insist on speaking to him personally. The assistant won’t allow it. So I insist on getting a list of all the publishing houses that have rejected my book.
    The assistant sends me a list. A list of two houses.
    In nineteen months, he’d shown my book to two editors.
    Even though I was ignorant about NY publishing, I knew this was bad. There were dozens of publishing houses who bought mysteries. Only going to two of them proved this guy wasn’t doing a thing for me.
    I fired him, deciding to look for a new agent. After all, he was easy to get. All I had to do was buy the latest Writer’s Market , pick out a few more agents, and wait for them to call.
    No one called. I tried every agent in NY, and couldn’t get anyone interested in my series.
    This lead to a bout of depression. My girlfriend (who later became my wife) offered to cheer my up by buying me a unique gift. A tattoo.
    "That’s very white-trash of you, honey," I told her.
    But she explained that she had 100 percent faith that I’d someday be published, and a tattoo would inspire me to keep trying.
    Well, we went to Jade Dragon in Chicago, and I had them put a little frowny face on my right shoulder.
    But now, after six unpublished novels, all the frowny face did was depress me even more.
    Should I continue pursuing the dream of becoming a