Querying does something strange to writers. We can spend months, sometimes years, writing and revising a book until we finally reach the point where we believe it's ready. Then we send it out into the world, collect enough rejections, and start wondering if we were wrong all along.

That's the part of querying nobody talks about enough.

Rejection doesn't just sting. If we aren't careful, it can slowly change the way we see our own work. This agent doesn't want my book becomes Nobody wants my book, which eventually becomes the much more dangerous, Maybe my book isn't very good.

I'm about to test that theory firsthand.

It has been twelve years since I queried a book.

Twelve. Years.

The last time I did this, I was at a completely different place in my writing career. Since then, I've published seven books. I've won awards. I've worked as a developmental editor. I've spent years helping other authors figure out what isn't working in their manuscripts and, more importantly, how to fix it.

You'd think all that experience would make querying easier.

It does not.

Apparently, the tiny voice in a writer's head that whispers, What if everyone hates it? has an impressive shelf life. The anxiety I felt twelve years ago when I hit “send” on my very first query is back. And this time, I might actually have more to lose.

Because I really, really believe in this book.

Which means before I send a single query, I've had to decide something important:

Querying gets to help determine what happens next with my book. It doesn't get to determine what I believe about it.

Why Querying Feels Different This Time

There's a strange thing that happens when you've been writing for a long time. You become much better at seeing everything that's wrong with your own work.

Occupational hazard.

Being a developmental editor has only made that worse. I know what sagging middles look like. I know when character motivation isn't strong enough. I know when emotional beats haven't been earned, when tension disappears from a scene, and when a writer is desperately trying to tell something the story should be showing.

Unfortunately, my editor brain doesn't politely clock out when I open one of my own manuscripts.

So when I say I believe in this book, I'm not saying I think it's flawless.

I've torn it apart. Rebuilt pieces of it. Questioned choices. Rewritten scenes. Stared at sentences until words stopped looking like words. I know there are things another editor could make better. There always are.

But I also know what this book is.

I know what I wanted it to be. I know what I wanted readers to feel. And somewhere during all those revisions, I reached that elusive point where I could look at the story and think: Yes. That's it. That's the book I wanted to write.

Which is exactly why querying it scares the hell out of me.

Because there's a difference between knowing rejection is part of publishing and repeatedly watching people reject something you love.

Before Querying, Decide What You Believe

The problem with querying is that writers receive a lot of answers without receiving much information.

An agent might pass because they don't connect with the voice. They might already represent something similar. They might love the premise but not know how to position it. The market might be shifting. Their list might be full. They might simply like the book but not love it enough to spend the next several years championing it.

Or maybe they just don't like it.

All of those possibilities usually arrive in our inbox looking remarkably similar: No.

Get enough of those, and it's very easy for the meaning to change. This agent doesn't want my book becomes Agents don't want my book. And eventually: Maybe my book isn't very good.

That's the part of querying I'm thinking about most as I head back into it. Not the query letter. Not the synopsis. Not even the agent list. I'm thinking about how to protect my relationship with a book I love while repeatedly handing it to strangers and asking them to judge it.

And I've realized the best time to figure that out isn't after the rejections start arriving. It's before I send the first query.

Before querying this book, I want to be able to answer one question:

Why do I believe this manuscript is ready?

Not perfect. Ready.

Those are very different standards.

I believe this is one of the strongest books I've written. I believe I've grown tremendously as a writer since the last time I queried. I've revised it. I've questioned it. I've applied everything I've learned from writing my own books and helping other authors develop theirs.

Most importantly, I believe I've written the story I intended to write.

That's my answer.

Another writer's answer might be completely different. Maybe it's the response from beta readers. Maybe it's finally fixing the structural problem that plagued the manuscript for three drafts. Maybe it's knowing you've taken the book as far as your current skills can take it.

Whatever the answer is, figure it out before you query.

Because once rejection enters the equation, it's remarkably good at moving the goalposts.

Ask Querying the Right Question

There's another question I'm asking myself: What exactly am I asking the querying process to determine?

This one changed everything for me. I'm not querying because I need an agent to tell me whether my book is good. I'm querying because I believe there's a chance it's good enough for an agent to fall in love with it, believe they can sell it, and want to build something with me.

That sounds like a subtle distinction. I don't think it is.

One puts an agent in the position of validating my work. The other asks whether we're the right business and creative match.

Agents aren't grading manuscripts on some universal scale of literary worthiness. They're making decisions about what they love, what they want to represent, what fits their list, and what they believe they can sell.

So, when an agent says no, the answer is: This isn't the book I want to represent. That's all I actually know. Anything I add after that is coming from me.

Know When Querying Is Over

I've also decided I'm not going to query indefinitely. I'm giving myself three months.

During those three months, I'm going to give traditional publishing a real chance. I'm going to research agents, send queries, deal with the waiting, obsessively refresh my inbox even though I absolutely know better, and probably swear more than once.

If the right person says yes, fantastic. If that doesn't happen, I already know what I'm going to do. I'll publish the book myself.

Your plan doesn't have to look anything like mine.

You might query for six months. A year. You might revise and query again. You might shelve the manuscript and write another one. You might decide traditional publishing is the only path you want for this particular book.

The important part isn't having a Plan B.

It's answering the question: What will I do if querying doesn't give me the answer I want?

Because I'll keep querying until somebody says yes isn't really a plan.

At some point, we have to decide what comes next. Having that answer before I start makes querying feel less like surrendering control of my book and more like what it actually is: exploring one possible path for it.

Querying has a job. Its job is to find out whether there's an agent and a traditional publishing path for this book. Its job is not to determine whether the book deserves to be published.

What Querying Rejection Doesn't Get to Decide

There's one final question I'm asking myself before I send that first query. And this might be the most important one. What will I refuse to let rejection convince me of?

I won't let it convince me that writing this book was a waste of time. I won't let it convince me that everything I've learned about storytelling somehow disappeared while I was writing it. And I won't let it convince me that I was foolish for believing in it.

Could I receive feedback that makes me reconsider something in the manuscript? Absolutely.

Could several agents point toward the same problem and make me take another look? Of course.

Believing in your book doesn't mean refusing to learn anything about it. There's a big difference between protecting your confidence and plugging your ears while screaming, My book is perfect!

It's not. No book is. But useful feedback is different from allowing the accumulation of no to become evidence that the book itself has no value.

That's the line I'm trying to draw before I begin.

Four Questions to Answer Before Querying

So, if you're getting ready to enter the query trenches too, maybe don't start with your agent spreadsheet.

Start here:

1. Why do I believe this manuscript is ready?
2. What exactly am I asking the querying process to determine?
3. What will I do if the answer is no?

And finally:

• What will I refuse to let rejection convince me of?

Write the answers down.

Because the version of you who hasn't received a single rejection yet might be a much more reliable judge of your manuscript than the version of you who has opened fifteen form rejections in three weeks and is eating cookies over the sink while reconsidering every life choice that brought you here.

That person should probably not be making major career decisions.

Don't Let Querying Change How You See Your Book

Maybe that's the biggest thing I've learned from being on both sides of the manuscript.

As an editor, I can tell a writer what isn't working for me. I can point to structural problems, character issues, pacing problems, missed opportunities, and places where I think a story could become stronger.

But I can't tell another writer whether their story deserves to exist. Agents can't either. Editors can't. Reviewers can't. Readers can't.

They can decide whether they want it. Whether they enjoyed it. Whether they connected with it. Whether they're willing to invest their time, money, or career in it. Those opinions matter. Sometimes they should even change what we do next.

They just shouldn't be allowed to rewrite everything we believed about our work before we asked for them.

So, before I send my first query, I'm trying to remember the writer who finished this book. The one who read the final chapters and knew she'd written the story she'd been trying to write. I want to remember what I love about it before my inbox gets a vote.

Because maybe an agent will fall in love with this book.

I hope one does.

But if I reach the end of my querying window without that yes, the manuscript won't suddenly contain weaker characters. The romance won't become less compelling. The scenes I love won't somehow disappear from the page.

It will still be the same book. And I will still believe in it.

I'm not querying because I need someone else's permission to do that. I'm querying because I already believe in this book. Now I'm going to find out who else might believe in it, too.

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kick-butt heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Photo by Buddha Elemental 3D on Unsplash