Post-partum depression for the novelist

I devoted so much care and attention to my book.  Those final obsessive checks and minute adjustments, and now it sits, ignored, for days at a time, generating guilt and despair. I’m trying to get it published.  I’ve written three queries to agents.  They all seem to be wonderful agents, kind, wise, worldy, connected.  Two of them have a special interest in books dealing with the Middle East, and my novel takes place in Iraq.  Those of you who have been through this will not be surprised to learn that I haven’t heard back from any of the agents, not even a polite “Thanks but no thanks.”  I’ll start sending the queries out  in batches this weekend.

I entered my novel  in the James Jones Fellowship contest.  If I win that or even come in  as a runner-up, surely that would help land an agent.  In September, I’ll know how I did.  I need to keep myself busy until then.  I did manage to get one chapter published as a stand-alone short story.  I figured that might convince an agent that my stuff is marketable.  I’ve  also doctored up a second chapter, but I can only do this so often.

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