Guest Therese Walsh, Author

Give Up or Sell? Here’s What I Did.






Welcome, Thesese Walsh. I know the ladies here will find your first sale inspiring, too. I did!

In June of 2008, I finally—after years of working on a story concept—found an agent. In July, she sold my book, The Last Will of Moira Leahy, in a two-book deal to Random House.

That’s the happy ending.

But as we writers know, every happy ending is preceded by a dark moment, when all seems lost. I had such a moment, and I’d like to tell you about it.

In March of 2008, with a finished manuscript in hand, I started seriously searching for an agent. I had done my research, had my dream list before me…you know the drill. I was hopeful but nervous. I’d been working on my manuscript since 2002, in one form or another. I say “one form or another” because Last Will started as a traditional romance and then morphed into something Other—but not before I finished it as a romance and had it rejected as a romance, after two years worth of work. One agent, the fabulous Deidre Knight, gave me some advice: “You should be writing women’s fiction.”

In 2005, I started writing the story over again. In 2006, after realizing I *still* hadn’t gotten it right, I scrapped most of a full third of the novel and began a third time.

It’s hard to persist for so long on a project, especially when you’ve already been rejected, especially when you’re not yet published. So now you know why I was hopeful but nervous.

I wrote my query letters, wrote my synopsis, and sent my first batch of submissions. One of the agents to whom I submitted my work was a Big Time Agent. This agent knew what he was talking about. Being picked up by him would mean fabulous things for my future.

He requested the full.

You can imagine my excitement, my almost uncontainable glee!

And then he rejected. He was nice about it. He gave me some tips. He wished me well. I, being a pushy girl, asked him if he knew of others within his agency who might connect with my work. He wasn’t sure, but he mentioned one female agent. “She’s very busy, though,” he said. Not a lot of hope there, but I, being a very pushy girl, decided to give the busy agent a try.

I wrote a new query, printed a new synopsis, mailed a new submission to this other agent. Soon after, I was asked by an assistant to this agent for a partial, and then the full.

And then, the strangest thing, I was contacted once again by the Big Time Agent.

“You’ve made our assistant cry with your story,” he said. “I’m going to reconsider. Stay tuned.” Later he emailed me, “Call me later. I’d like to talk.” He gave me his number.

I kind of knew this wasn’t the way things were supposed to work. When agents loved and wanted to represent you, they called *you* to tell you, right? But this was Big Time Agent. Maybe he did things differently. I was nearly bursting with hope. But you know what happens with things that want to burst.

When I called he said, “I’m probably not going to tell you what you’re hoping for. Really, I have a lot of questions.”

Pop.

“Okay,” I said, and opened my ears.

He did have a lot of questions, but he also had a lot to say—about what he felt wasn’t working in the story. And there was a lot that wasn’t working, in his estimation. Large chunks of and even critical elements in the story were not only “not quite right,” they were plain “wrong.”

If ever there was a time I wanted to quit trying, toss my manuscript in the trash and pretend I’d never dreamed a dream, it was when Big Time Agent told me that my story wasn’t publishable. I couldn’t see it. I’d believed the story was finished and that it rang true, and that it was ready. I’d felt that it was ready in my gut. If he was right, and my story was that flawed, then my gut was flawed. Very flawed. And I believed that if you can’t count on your gut, it’s time to hang it up.

But the weirdest thing happened. Somewhere from deep inside my little old self, a voice peeped up, shy at first, weak, then stronger—like the stale and tiny heart of the Grinch swelling to life inside his otherwise vacant chest after he had a realization. And my book—it was like Christmas. It was there, and it had come, and I believed in it.

I remember telling my husband in our kitchen: “No, he’s wrong. Big Time Agent is wrong. The book is ready. You’ll see.”

My husband didn’t need me to tell him this, because he believed already; he was just proud and thrilled that I finally did, too.

And you know what happened next, because I’ve already shared my happy ending with you: I wrote a new query, printed a new synopsis, mailed a new submission to this other agent—an agent named Elisabeth Weed. And she asked for the partial and asked for the full, and then called me herself on the phone to tell me she loved the book. She became my agent, and she sold my book to Random House in a preemptive two-book deal. And I don’t tell you that to brag. I tell you that to say, “See now. The gut knows so much more than a mere mortal agent—even a Big Time Agent.”

What is your gut telling you about your work? Listen to it, especially when it tells you your story is worthwhile and that you are a fantastic writer. Never, never quit on your gut, yourself or your dreams.

Write on, all!

Thanks again, Mary! Today is my daughter’s birthday. Sounds like a lucky day to me. :-)

All best,

Therese Walsh
Author of The Last Will of Moira Leahy
(Random House, October 2009)
http://ThereseWalsh.com
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