Back at the end of August 2011, I wrote "each ping of the email makes me jump." I had just begun my search for an agent. Now that it is the beginning of 2012, thirteen rejections later, the ping goes unnoticed. (The most recent was today)
Is this growing cynicism or a burgeoning professionalism? I think it is the latter. I have learned a lot more about the publishing business in the past six months than I ever did when I started out 25 years ago. No one owes me a living. New writing projects are taking up my time; I have the confidence to complete them. And I am enjoying the challenge of each and every one.
So what is a ping to me now? It's like making an online hotel booking. A tad frustrating. If one hotel is full, you just look for another one.
The trouble is, an agent is still rarer than a cheap room at the Savoy.
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