Serendipity

I've been writing and submitting work to journals, magazines, and literary agents for more years than I want to say. I've had several small successes like the non-fiction piece, "Chris," that was accepted for I Thought My Father Was God. I'm proud of that for two reasons--first, the anthology was edited by one of my favorite authors, Paul Auster, and second, someone read my essay, was moved by it, and wrote to me.

When I finished my novel, Prairie Madness, I was determined to get it published, so I began the onslaught. I submitted to agents--in the various and sundry ways they want work submitted. I sent the first two chapters; I sent the first 40 pages; I sent synopses, and proposals, and "tithes" [not really the last one although I was tempted].

Next, I began my attack on publishers. I sent several large, expensive packets containing resumes, book summaries, credentials, publications, marketing plans, cover letters on watermarked paper. When the publisher I was certain would want this novel did not respond, I did not consider this a rejection [really, I did. I was so disappointed.] I wrote a letter politely inquiring about the status of my submission. It had not been received, I was told. So I resubmitted, focusing on the reasons I was certain that this particular publisher was so right for my novel. A few days later, I received a telephone call. Yes, this company wanted to publish my book, but not Prairie Madness. They wanted to publish the short, non-fiction piece that I had self-published as a chapbook.

I was flabbergasted--really.

I signed a contract. Now I am metamorphozing from writer to author, on the verge of stretching out those fine, delicate, and oh so colorful wings. And happy though I am, I realize that I had/have absolutely no way--not The Writers' Market, not publishers' websites, not the advice of agents--for discerning what any given publishing house is truly looking for.