Something tells me she’s not interested.

Still, I thought about sending yet another follow up query, just in case she somehow didn’t get the first two, but then I thought that would just be really, really annoying and lump me into the category of “Writer Without a Clue; Therefore to Be Mocked as well as Rejected.”

I’ve been rejected, plenty of times. But I’d rather not be mocked.

So I kept my follow up query to my follow up query to myself.

Which means it’s the end of the line, folks. Agent #17 was the last agent I queried about my novel before deciding that a) I would do another round of revisions before sending out another query and b) now is not the time for me to be trying to find an agent anyway.

I started this agent query process just over a year ago. When I began, I honestly thought I’d have found an agent by now. I was so naive–despite the fact that I’d been reading agent blogs and knew the odds were against me. But for some reason I thought I’d beat those odds. I figured if I behaved professionally and presented a polished project, how hard could it be?

Hmm. Let me think about that for a second. Here’s the answer, braniac: hard. Very, very hard.

Now, I’m probably still naive, but at least next time I go to start this process up again, I’ll know to expect it to take several dozen queries and probably several dozen months, too.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep practicing my craft and revising my novel. Eventually, something will give. Someday.

You have to be a genius of compression, of making one word say three things, of conveying a whole lot in a few words, just to query this agency.

And unfortunately, I’m not. It takes me a lot of time to reign in my verbosity and “write tight” as the saying goes. I should have taken that time. I should have written less about my story (um, really?) and more about how I envision marketing this book (it’s a pretty awesome marketing plan, though it might kill me to implement it, introvert that I am).

Perhaps I should even have pointed out, “hey, in case you didn’t get it, weaving together two stories about saints and dragons is what makes my book unique!” But I thought that might be insulting their intelligence, so I left it out. I figured they’d get it without my telling them.

Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. Either way, they rejected me – whoops! Freudian slip there, folks! I mean, they rejected my manuscript by non-response. The month it takes them to respond is more than up, and I’ve not heard. Honestly, I’d rather get a super formy rejection.

Finding appropriate places to send my writing—especially my fiction—takes a lot of time and is a lot of work, and I just don’t have the energy for it these days.

And I know that once the babies come, I’ll have even less time and less energy. And whatever time I do have, I won’t want to spend it researching obscure journals that might or might not be interested in publishing what I’ve written. And even if they were interested, they wouldn’t pay me. The privilege of a byline is all most those magazines offer by way of payment.

Since that’s the case, and since the thought of writing in a vacuum, with no one beyond my critique group reading what I write is, well, depressing, I have decided to periodically publish the short stories that I think are publication-ready on my website. At least this way, a few people might read the stories, and that feels a heck of a lot better than having them sit unread on my hard drive for the next who-knows-how-long.

So I’ve set up a new fiction page (in place of the old Speaking page—because let’s face it, I’m not going to be doing any public speaking for the foreseeable future) and have posted my first story, “Rose at Dawn,” a little romp of a fairy tale/romance that I wrote last fall.

I feel sheepish asking this, but I’m going to anyway: If you like the story, would you please send the link to a friend whom you think would enjoy it, too?

And, of course, I’d love to hear your feedback—the more specific, the better, as that’s what will help me learn what I need to work on in my storytelling.

Our pastor began his meditation by mentioning that the word Maundy comes from the Latin mandate. Though you pronounce it like it’s Spanish—mon-DAH-tay—when you see it written you realize right away what it means: mandate, law, command.

The command to which this word refers is from Jesus’ words to the disciples at the Last Supper:

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. (John 13:34)

Jesus’ love was wide and long and deep. His love took Him to the cross and the grave and the pit of hell.

His love was costly.

And it came to me, as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud, that the “one another” whom I am supposed to love in this costly way are my children. I knew, too, that the cost for me would be my fledgling writing career.

The next day we found out about the twins, and I realized my Maundy Thursday revelations were meant to prepare me.

A few days later, my writer friend Lynne emailed me and her words confirmed what I already knew: she said she knew having two more babies was going to be hard for me because it would mean I could not write as much as I would like to.

I emailed back: “Letting go of my dream of writing another book, of finding an agent for my novel, of being a multi-published author is my little cross to bear, my act of self-sacrificing love. I know you will understand and not think me melodramatic for calling not being able to write a cross to bear. It’s a small cross, I know, but it’s hard for me.”

She responded, “Writing is who you are, Kimberlee. I think not writing very much will be more than a little cross to bear. I think it will be a pretty big cross.”

Her words were like water, easing the guilt I felt for not wanting to let go of these words, these dreams I carry. I drank them down.

Over the weeks of Easter I have struggled to let go of what I want—to find an agent for my novel, to write another novel, to have a career as a writer. Now.

Never mind that I daily run out of energy long before the day runs out of hours, that my brain is a sieve, that I am sometimes so tired I can’t string six words together to form a coherent sentence—I still struggle to hold my dreams lightly, let alone surrender them for a time.

On Sunday at church, our children’s minister, Dianne, found me. “Oh, Kimberlee,” she said, “I was reading something this week, and I thought of you. The author was talking about vocation and how sometimes people have two vocations that seem to conflict with each other, like they’re working at cross-purposes. But he said that eventually those two vocations would flow together, and both vocations would be stronger because of the other one.

“And I thought of you, and I know it’s hard that you’re not writing much right now, but I just knew—I know—that your mothering will make you a better writer better, and your writing will make you a better mom. So hang in there. They’re going to come together.”

I carried those words in my heart all day. They gave me hope.

And I realized: that’s one of the main reasons I write—to give myself and others hope. That is the gift of good words.

Well, not quite. Once, I got a checklist rejection that looked like it had been photocopied eight years earlier from a mimeographed copy. “Dear (my name scrawled here), Thank you for your submission. We regret to say we can’t use it for the following reasons…”

Then followed a dozen reasons why a given submission might not be acceptable. Cheerily for me, only two of the 12 reasons were checked, and neither of them was “You suck.” I was a novice then and found this tawdry little letter offensive. So I threw it in the recycle bin. Oh, how I wish I’d kept it. Now, I’d frame it. It was that grand.

Anyhoo, back to Agent #15. Her formy form letter said what such letters always say. Thank you…not for us…good luck.

I wasn’t expecting a positive response from this agent (so why, I ask myself now, did I send the query? Have I become suddenly masochistic?), so my heart didn’t break when the form letter came. I’m not even surprised that she didn’t like my ten sample pages, which I obediently pasted into the body of my email per the agency’s submission guidelines.

In fact, if an agent ever tells me they like my sample pages and want to see more, I’ll probably pass out from shock. Really? You would? Are you sure?

This is why writers are seen as being rather paranoid and insecure – because we deal with rejection on an almost daily basis. After a while, even if you believe in your writing, you start to wonder if you should, or if maybe you should just check yourself into a rehab center for the severely delusional.

Clearly it was the latter. Clearly this was a stunningly difficult decision. Clearly, she would have requested a partial if…

If what? Honestly, I have no idea. When I started this whole blogging-about-my-agent-search thing, I think I assumed that I’d find an agent relatively quickly. After all, I’m shopping around a polished novel. Well, apparently a lot of other people are, too, and either their novels are better than mine or their query letters are. Or both.

(And I suppose, if I found an agent after a mere ten months of submitting queries, that would be considered quickly, since the publishing world moves at the pace of a two-toed sloth crossing a glacier.)

The strange thing is, I almost don’t care that I got this rejection. All things being equal, of course, I’d rather she asked for a partial, but when I reflected on my day to share my highlight and my lowlight with my family at dinner last night, I didn’t think to name this as my lowlight. Crazy, I know, but it didn’t even occur to me. I must be growing up. Or growing a thick skin. I suppose that’s one thing repeated rejection will do for you: you get so used to it that it no longer surprises, let alone bothers, you.

At least that’s my perky theory. We’ll see if I’m right when Agent #15’s rejection comes rolling in.

This year, instead of fasting from some kind of food (though my kids once again decided we should abstain from Girl Scout cookies during Lent), I’m going to do something really radical. I’m going to fast from blogging.

I know. Every speaker at every marketing seminar I’ve been to in the past year (and I’ve been to a lot – every other professional writers’ meeting I go to seems to be focused on marketing) would tell me I’m committing virtual suicide. So be it. If my blog writing has to die so my other writing can live, well, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

This is also an act of trust. I am trusting that whoever is out there reading my blog – and whoever you are, I thank you; I’m honored that you choose to spend time with me! – I am trusting you will come back in six weeks (Easter is April 4). I am trusting that my long absence will not mean starting over from zero readers come April. I am trusting that my other writing projects are worth the risk I’m taking.

I will not be a complete stranger these next weeks. I have three guest appearances scheduled on other blogs during Lent, and I’ll link to those as they go live. I may also post an author interview that’s in the works.

But mostly I’m going to ignore the siren call of the internet and focus on several other writing projects that have been whispering in my mind for some time, projects that I’ve locked in the basement because I don’t feel well, don’t have enough energy, don’t have enough time to listen to them. They’re getting loud down there, beating on the door for me to let them out. And so I don’t go totally crazy, I’m going to let them out and spend the next weeks listening to them, writing them down.

And I hope to come back excited and energized, ready for another year of blogging. (Yes, it’s really been a whole year this week since I started blogging.)

So. I’ll see you in Easter!

Sounds right up my alley.

Or not. I guess maybe I don’t evoke the foreign environment of my novel perfectly. Or maybe I’m not delving into relationships with enough complexity. Not that you can tell that from the query or the first page that I sent. Or maybe you can.

Or maybe Agent #13 got 154 queries on the same day she got mine. Maybe she skimmed it. Maybe she had a headache. Maybe the query she read right before she read mine made her fingers tingle, it was that good, and mine sounded lame in comparison.

Maybe mine is lame. I don’t think it is. But what do I know? I’m just a writer sipping coffee.

Seriously, I sometimes wonder if I’m doing something wrong. I’m trying to play by the rules here, people, but the rules don’t seem to be helping me.

Oh wait.

I just remembered: Finding an Agent rule 101.26.4g stipulates that you have to send at least 35 queries and receive 34 rejections before you get an offer of representation. Well, hallelujah! I’m a third of the way there! (I hope.)

Though I confess I was at first hurt and slightly offended by this remark, I have wisely come to embrace the designation. It’s incredibly useful, you see.

When my husband asks me a question to which I don’t know the answer I can simply say, “How should I know? I’m just a writer sipping coffee.”

Or when I bungle a task that normal people could do with one hand tied behind their backs, I can shrug and give a faux laugh and say, “Well, that’s what comes of being a writer sipping coffee!”

Or when I forget to do something really important, I can tell my husband or my friend or whoever, “Darling, what do you expect? I’m just a writer sipping coffee.”

Of course, it does backfire on occasion. I just got another work-for-hire gig: a 2000-word review of four books (totaling 1350 pages) and another 3000-word essay. I’m getting paid a whopping $350. When I laughingly told a friend this, he said, “Wow. Must be nice to get paid that much!”

I just stared at him. Clearly, the writer sipping coffee stereotype is firmly etched in his imagination, and it cloaks me completely. I may as well get used to it.

I’ve decided that, to complete the picture of writerly bliss, I need a cigarette in my right hand. The coffee’s in my left. The open laptop is in front of me on the lacquered table of the coffeehouse. I take a long drag on the cigarette and slowly exhale as I stare fixedly into space. Then I take a sip of my latte (because this is Seattle, after all; I couldn’t possibly drink plebian drip).

Another drag on my cigarette. Still staring at nothing. Another sip of coffee, until inspiration strikes, and I type fast and furiously, whipping out my 5000 words of brilliant, perfect prose in half an hour.

Ah, the life of a writer sipping coffee.

Well. I’m not dancing anymore. Agent #11 sent me a rejection letter.

After 18 rejections of this project (I’ll be writing about some of the others in coming weeks), I’m getting pretty thick-skinned, so I was surprised by how disappointed I was by this rejection, by how much it shook my confidence and made me question whether my novel was any good.

So I went back and reread the 15 pages I sent to Agent #11. They were pretty good. A little stale, but I chalked that up to my having read them so many times in the past six months. And, with the possible exception of Jane Austen, everything gets stale after dozens of reads in a matter of months. Right? (That is right, isn’t it? It’s not just my writing?)

I’d revise those pages, only the rejection letter wasn’t specific enough to help me realize what would make them better. I could fiddle endlessly in a blind attempt to make the story more palatable to this agent, but that would likely only succeed in alienating another agent, so at this point, I’ve decided to leave well enough alone.

I have one more partial out and one more agent to query, an agent to whom I was referred two days after I got Agent #11’s rejection (how’s that for providential?).

Granted, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for either of these options, but at least they’re out there, providing a ray of possibility in the gloom of publishing purgatory. (Insert eye-rolling here.)