Querying Literary Agents
Every writer knows the exhilarating, terrifying thrill of the treasure hunt. You scour the internet, meticulously building an exhaustive list of potential literary agencies. Yes! You click through their rosters and finally find the exact agent who is actively begging for the very genre you are pouring your heart into. YES!
As you read their manuscript wish list, you feel an instant, undeniable connection. They are your literary soul sister! You picture them standing tall in a metaphorical lighthouse, holding a blazing, welcoming beacon of light as your little manuscript dinghy safely approaches the rocky seashore of the publishing world.
Then... CRASH!
Your eyes drift to the bottom of their page, reading the four most devastating words in the English language: Currently closed to queries.
Instantly, you are drenched. You are drowning. Your little dinghy is shattered against the rocks.
But just as you are ready to sink into writer's despair, a metaphorical old, sea-wrinkled lighthouse keeper hobbles over to the shoreline with a lantern. The light flickers. Hope is still there. You scoop up the surviving pages of your manuscript, consult the next name on your exhaustive list, and live to query another day.
Or, maybe you find the perfect agent who is open. You follow all their guidelines, take a deep breath, and hit send. In that moment, it feels exactly like a submission into a dark abyss, leaving you wondering if anyone is actually on the other side of the void.
The querying process is an exercise in delicious irony. We are taught from childhood never to judge a book by its cover, yet in the query trenches, your entire creative soul is mercilessly judged by your first five pages—or, if you are incredibly lucky, your first twenty. You simply have to brace yourself for rejection galore. Sometimes it is a swift, impersonal pass. Sometimes it is the deafening, crushing silence of that dark abyss. Sometimes it is a polite or not so polite, personalized or not so personalized, but utterly heartbreaking message.
I have learned to simply take it all as a respectful pass. You have to keep going. If you paddle your shattered little boat long enough, a beautiful mermaid (or Halle Berry—honestly, I’m not picky) will eventually emerge from the depths to champion your work.
Writing requires relentless patience and perseverance. Our stories, especially diverse South Asian voices weaving through the tapestry of historical fiction, are important and deserve to be heard. So, let those squiggly red spellcheck lines be accepted, polish those first five pages one more time, and get back in the water. The right lighthouse is out there somewhere.
