Query Letters

Query:  n - A question, an inquiry. Mental reservation, doubt.

  v - to ask or inquire about. To question as doubtful or obscure.

Mental reservation, doubt? To question as doubtful or obscure? Is that why I’ve got this odd queasiness in my gut as I sit here trying to write query letters to literary agents? Is that why I’m putting the writing of said letters off and off and off, treating it like one of those household tasks I loathe so much (aka, anything domestic).

It’s not like I haven’t done this before. I mean, the first time I thought my book was finished, I rushed into the submission process - too soon I might add and obviously, without the desired outcome. I sent the thing off to several publishers. Some responded (negatively of course, else I wouldn’t still be here). Others didn’t bother to respond at all. Sort of reminded me of a poem I’d once written for an assignment in Composition and Rhetoric: either write a story about a poem or a poem about a story. Being the “Hermione” of the class, I’d done both. But rather than turn both in for the assignment, I decided to submit the story for publication and submit the poem for a grade.

The poem got an A. The story got . . . well, here’s the poem:

Off to the Great Black Hole

Journal in hand, I took up my pen

and it knew just what to do.

Mind blank, hand in charge

over the paper it flew.

Page after page a story emerged

from imagination gone wild.

a dad and a witch in a city ~

a small and innocent child.

And as the tale unfolded 

my pen, it grew more bold

wrapping the oddest twists

around the story that it told.

A great bond it did build

‘tween father and his son.

And my pen, it burned through ink

‘till at last our story was done.

Then, setting aside my weary tool

I sat back, gazed in delight

Oh, so proud I was the creator of

this wonderful thing I did write!

And off to the great black hole

of publishers it went

without the faintest hint

of how dear to us it meant.

Then long my silent pen did wait

while I bore it company

both in rapt anticipation

of what our fate might be.

First one week, into a month

still silent for a year

our hope all but abandoned

then alas, long waited fear.

Letter in hand, I took up my pen

and it knew just what to do.

Mind blank, hand in charge,

and together we started anew.

So here I am again, getting ready to put myself out there, to expose my soft underbelly to the literary world. This time I’m querying agents rather than going straight to the publishing houses, although I’ve heard it’s just as difficult to get one’s foot in the door there as it is a publishing house.

And I’m hoping that my refusal to follow “the rules” will be embraced for the risk-taking it represents, rather than shunned like a diseased mutant. 

New writers should avoid vernacular. But, how else will my bagpipe playing, kilt wearing, pipe smoking, Scottish gypsy find her voice? 

New writers should stick with one point of view and never mix. Okay, but what about that recent debut novel - the one that’s on the NY Times Best seller list and is written in multiple first person with a single omniscient chapter plopped right smack dab in the middle? 

Middle grade novels should be no longer than 60,000 words. Okay, mine’s a little longer. But I’m willing to kill some of my darlings if someone really, really wants it bad enough.

So I guess I’ve taken enough time writing about querying rather than actually doing it (and yes, I have written about the avoidance of domestic chores, too). But, I suppose it’s high time I donned my asbestos underwear and sent out some letters. 

Wish me luck!