My first published novel started with notes about a man learning about a woman who lived a world in-between reality and fantasy. Before I knew it, I had names, places, a plotline and subplots. I never intended to write a series. Yet, I had. My initial draft was penned on unlined printer paper. When I finally sat to type it, I needed to learn how to format a manuscript. Title page, slug lines, double spaced true type font all stuffed into a tidy package. The easy part was over. I had to write query letters to agents who I thought might want to represent my baby. The hook was written and re-written. My author bio drove me crazy. The synopsis haunted me. Still, I wrote them. And out they went. I waited and I waited. Some had the courtesy of sending a reply, even if it was a canned one. Many did not. The noes poured in. The most heart wrenching replies were the ones who said that they enjoyed my work but, it wasn’t a good fit for them. Onwards I pressed. I believed in my wo...
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