One in six-thousand

I was in the middle of my twenty-seventh email to a literary agent.

“No werewolves, no vampires, no erotica,” the profile warned.

At least my manuscript wasn’t either of those categories. Phew. I pasted in my query letter and then tried to find a crafty way to customize the email.

“I read that you like animals and coffee, two things that I enjoy too,” I put into the introduction. I could pretend that I knew the works that they’d published, except I’d just learned their name.

A tiny cockroach scurried across the wall behind my screen. The apartment where I lived wasn’t fancy, but it also wasn’t a swamp. Not like the prior place where I had lived. Till then, I hadn’t known that black mold could make people feel like they had cancer. I watched the cockroach finish its journey.

“I poured my heart into this manuscript.” I was about to write to the agent. Then I remembered that this was meant to be a soul-crushing, gut-wrenching, adrenaline-inducing, and ego-smashing experience. Did I really want to be this vulnerable?

I couldn’t remember the exact moment when I got the idea for my novel, but I did remember the swiftness with which I scribbled down the first sentences. Time stopped but ironically flew fast, and that day I continued to write till late night, and then for four more years.

Money was tight, but I earned enough to be able to romanticize my situation. Even with the little I had, I was still sharing it with others. I’d taken on a second sponsorship through Save the Children, not because I lived a lifestyle to be able to afford it, but because I couldn’t believe that my $40 could have such an impact on someone’s future. Some people spent $5 per cup of coffee a day, and if only they could cut down eight such trips a month, they would be able to transform some child’s life. The little boy I sponsored was from Ethiopia, and the little girl from the United States. The thought that the measly sum could be such a gamechanger in a first world country seemed absurd, yet it was the correct math.

“I am an aspiring writer from San Diego, and I read that you are willing to give a chance to debut novelists, marginal too. I am almost afraid to share with you how marginal I am.” I wrote into the email, and then my eyes welled up with tears. I didn’t have the courage to share my biography because I was worried that people would judge me. I’d spent a decade trying to redefine my identity. Would anybody believe that a girl like me could write a story that could sell 100 million copies?

I tracked all the agents in a little black Moleskine notebook. While it lacked the appeal of kaleidoscope colors, it was a classic. Kind of like the little black dress that all girls keep in their closet. You’d only reach for it when you wanted to come across as sophisticated. It reminded me of the choice I’d made for my first date with Julian.

“I know, looking back at it now, this moment will forever be in my heart, and there will always be a part of me that will remain the girl waiting there.” The opening of my query letter was a sentence from the manuscript.

There were many beautiful moments in my life, but this was the one I would always replay. I would never be able to get over losing him. Time would bring a million opportunities as they all said, but not like this one.

The ding of my phone distracted me. It was my godmother.

“God told me to send you the money,” she opened the conversation.

Normally, as the proud independent woman that I was, I’d say no to all handouts. However, I had been praying for some kind of a miracle and this would fit the category of a miracle. My health bills were piling up, while my employer cut pay due to the pandemic. I'd relied solely on myself ever since 16, and everything was even more frightening now that I was battling chronic illness. It was a cunning enemy that would disappear, and then sneak back in with a sharpened sword. I faced it with courage and discipline, and it was paying off – but the financial worries could feel like two walls closing in. They could smash me any day.

“I’ve already forgotten about it,” she said.

“Thank you for having faith in me,” my voice betrayed me. I knew she could tell that nobody had ever done something like this for me.

I accepted her check for $20,000 with humbling sentiments, though it was somewhat of a consolation that for her it was not a huge sum. My godmother was one of those blessed women who’d made excellent choices throughout life, so she could afford to bail other people out at times of crisis. Perhaps there was more to it too. She believed in me and she knew how hard it had been without parents.

“I love you, and I am only as happy as my most miserable child.” She added.

When we finished the phone call, I cheered up. The stress that had been overburdening my adrenal glands waned. I would be able to pay off most of my debt, and maybe even get my dog a new collar, the artsy brand I’d put on my shopping wish list. I put the practical matters aside, though. It was time to focus on this dream.

I spent 4 years of my life writing Julian’s Rose. I knew that I would never be the same girl afterwards. I briefly smiled at the thought of a conversation that I had had years ago at an event with a stranger from the literary industry. She'd said:

“Your first novel is never the big one. You should begin writing another one if you want to be a writer.”

People will always give you advice, but the scary thing is that when you want to achieve something that’s never been done, it’s like carving a path through a thick wooden forest. It’s an enchanted forest too. Monsters live inside and they will want to stop you from going. They will whisper or roar, and both of those are equally frightening. “You’re not good enough,” the words will echo and eventually sink so deep that it may even paralyze you. Or, you may get lost and attempt to run to safety.

I hit sent. An automatic response came back.

“Hello, and thank you for submitting to our agency. Your submission is important to us. Please know that every query is given extensive consideration. If we do not respond with a request for additional material within eight weeks, we have elected to pass.”

Content with my work for the day, I slipped on a sweater to keep warm, especially because I had been trying to save on the electricity bill. I boiled some water in my kettle, and then I poured myself a cup of hyssop tea. It was supposed to help with the treacherous stomach pain that had plagued me since the morning. I then listened to the pitter-patter of rain, while I rested on my bed.

The odds of getting a response from a literary agent were 1 in 6000. One could even say that it wasn’t a prudent use of my time to look for one. I flipped through the tiny Moleskine book to see how many names I had left. Each one was a treasure of possibility. The energy coming from its pages was fierce and golden. I hid the notebook under my pillow, so the monsters couldn’t get to it.