I tried to be strategic in my query process. Send out a few, see how they land, revise and send out a few more.

My first response was a partial request. That partial turned into a full request a couple of weeks later. That was followed by another full request.

I officially had an equal number of requests to rejections with a handful still out in the ether. So I did what any confident writer, drunk on the promise of representation would do: I sent out more queries. A lot more. Not like, a LOT, but a dozen or more.

At the same time I decided to take on querying, a new book, and general survival in the midst of a pandemic, I also decided to quit my job. It had been taking a big toll on my mental health, and we all agreed it was the best course of action for me and for my organization. My last day will be December 30.

So, throw in a job hunt.

This is what I’ve done for myself: I’ve created avenues for rejection in every possible professional path.

That first couple of weeks after I started jobhunting, I had four interviews lined up. Two were very strong initial interviews where I connected instantly to the interviewer. One was a bit odd, but went well and I had some connections that might help in the process. And, because those other three were so strong, I opted out of the last one because I wasn’t as interested in it, or the pay cut I would have to take to work there.

Then the rejections started rolling in. One very soon after that first interview, another after several rounds of interviews where, if I say so myself, I performed exceptionally well.

At the same time, I started getting more query responses. Three rejections in two days. All form, of course.

And, today, one of those full requests turned into a submission rejection. And a form rejection, at that.

So if you’re keeping track, that’s two rejections for my professional self and four for my passion project.

Ouch.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been doing the job hunts and the trying and the failing long enough to know that rejection is often a blessing. It comes from an acknowledgment that fit isn’t quite right. And fit? Fit isn’t personal.

I think that fit is something that is undervalued when you’re jobless / unpublished and hungry. Fit can mean a lot of things. In the world of jobhunting, it might mean that your skills weren’t the right fit. It may mean that there’s something about the company culture that wouldn’t quite work out.

I know there’s that desperation piece — but I could make it work. I can grow those skills, or I could put up with that piece of the culture. But then I think of my jeans.

I had a baby almost a year ago. Breastfed him for five months. Then the pandemic happened.

I don’t fit into my old size. And yes, technically, I could squeeze into them. But would that be the most flattering look for me? No. So I bought a pair of jeans in a size bigger. I look skinnier in them. I look good.

With literary agents, it has to be the same thing, right? I don’t want someone who looks at my book and thinks, “Eh, this is pretty good and I could probably squeeze into it. I could use the work, too.”

I want someone who loves and believes in my book. Someone who will fight for it — and for me. Not someone who will shed me the moment they get home for a comfortable pair of sweats.

Every time I’ve gotten a heartbreaking rejection in my life — and I’ve had a lot of them, believe me — things turned around for me eventually. It just takes a little time, a little patience, and a lot of grit.

And you know what? I’m a millennial who graduated from college with a degree in CREATIVE WRITING into the WORST ECONOMIC RECESSION OF OUR TIME. And I’ve still managed to cobble together a good career and a happy life for myself. So if there’s one thing I have, it’s the patience, will, determination and grit to find the right place for me — and my book.

I have a lot more waiting in my future. A couple of job interviews in the week ahead, many more queries floating out there in the ether — and that means that I have a lot more rejection in my future.

I really thought that rejection would kill me. When I was younger, it terrified me so much that I refused to ask the duties in elementary school if I could go inside and use the bathroom during recess. But as I’ve grown into myself — a confident, capable woman of 35 — I know that rejection isn’t no. It’s not yet. And as long as I’m willing to put in the work and wait, I’ll get my shot. I know it.

In the meantime, you’ll find me listening to “The Waiting” by Tom Petty on repeat.