After coming out the other side of a long consideration period with a well-respected literary agency, the search for the right agent continues. In many ways, it feels like walking over the same ground–passing the same trees and bumps in the trail, even–as last year at this time. Tempting as it might be to embrace that logic, I think that attitude reflects a very close-minded view of the process. While it has taken a bit longer than I might have suspected to reach this point, the gains from the journey have been considerable.

For starters, I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback about the project, the sort that could only happen by thrusting the manuscript in the wild. Crossing the threshold also led to several really good contacts. Additionally, I now know two great proof readers who I can trust to find every fuck up, and gained tremendous insight on how others with no emotional investment in the project view my writing. Reaching out has forced me to become a better listener, which has improved my writing in ways I could never have imagined. A lot of people have great ideas for improving a story. Plenty of those ideas are better than anything I might have mustered.

And there were less obvious, yet just as welcome benefits, too.

Despite the fact that every agent I pitched to lives in the fast lane of the publishing world, only two out of what is a considerable list were . . . well, I guess rude is the charge. Honestly for all I know, those few words of bile might have come not from the agent at all, but rather via the mouth of a embittered assistant. So the legend of the sharks of New York and Los Angelos eating the unagented writer alive seems to be a fallacy. And for any missives to the contrary, I’ve got a paper shredder and a blow-torch.

Perhaps a few other legends–surely those tales are true, the Internets tell me so–warrant a second look, too. For instance, the time from manuscript to market. Reviewing the origins of the most successful commercial writers, the amount of time each invested in placing their novel later deemed their breakout work varies wildly.

Here’s a few numbers I consider relevant:

Stephanie Meyer and John Grisham drew fourteen rejections apiece before placing their work. William Kennedy’s Iron Weed got slapped down thirty-four times, by well regarded editors. Stephen King had three unsold novels circulating between publishers in addition to Carrie, whose success brought enough interest in the first three books to net sales.

Regardless of the time, place, and author there is one intrinsic problem every writer faces when wooing someone to pick up their novel: figuring out how many desks a manuscript must land on before it reaches the right set of eyes. One writer tries thirty-five times, another two. Yet another, one hundred and twenty-two times.

Ah, but what if there was a mechanism to get a project onto a lot of desks at once? To end run the hordes of assistants and interns and even the agents themselves. Get right at the decision maker. What might happen to a project then?

If obstacles provide a means for someone to prove how bad they want something, I just may have found a solution to the problem. Check back in a few weeks for a Randy Pausch inspired announcement.

Thanks to everyone for their kind emails, texts and phone calls about Rocket Ships. Based on the volume of notes, a lot more people might have commented, but considered the post too personal and thus stayed on the sidelines. Though their rationale is a bit curious, since this a site available to the entire Internet, I understand. Lurkers are generally the most polite of netizens. Small correction: samhilliard.com might be blocked in parts of Asia; that’s due to the Great Firewall of China rather than a design plan.

Monday begins week two of the post-divorce life and things are going well. Work is quiet. Krav Maga is on hold for a few more days, while I nurse my rib back to one hundred percent. Officially I was back in business two weeks ago, and had resumed training. During some stick disarms on the 21st, I fell on my elbow. Unlike in May, this time the rib is merely bruised. Once I can cough without wincing, I’ll be back in class.

Still in the running at one literary agency. I anticipate an answer shortly after July Fourth. Fiction is a very tough sell these days. Towards that end, I’m considering another project that will lead in a different direction.

On the non-fiction front, I’m in discussions with a woman who has an incredible story about escaping a bloody civil war that killed her entire family. We have tons of details to sort out, but I’m hopeful we can reach a compromise that works for everyone. It’s the sort of book that needs to be written, and I’d be honored to help translate her experiences into a compelling narrative.

Been a crazy month at work and without the benefit of exercise–weights, Krav Maga, running–I’ve got a wicked case of cabin fever, despite the great weather. However, the sun is about to shine in more ways than one.

For starters I’ll be training again soon. Second, graduation is next week, which means the students disappear for three months. Third, a note arrived this afternoon:

Thanks for checking in; our apologies for the delay in response. XXXXX is still in the process of reviewing your manuscript. Unfortunately we cannot promise an answer by a definite date, since projects from our clients, which can come in at any time, must take priority. However, XXXXXX will respond as quickly as she can.

There’s really one reason to mention the correspondence and that is this particular agent’s interest in the project is wholly unexpected. For years they lived at the cutting edge of chick lit. Anyone who has read my stuff will attest to one thing: I’m as close to chick lit as Stephen King is to Celtic fairy tales. I could live with being branded as dick lit, wherein my male characters act like and recognize that they have, in fact, a penis. Shocking talk, I know.

And there is another odd point about this development. This agent wound up on my radar screen by mistake.

When compiling the initial “hit” list, there were several criteria. The agent needed substantial and verified sales in the last twelve months. Over the course of their career they needed at least one project that had been optioned for film. And the clincher: they needed to like thrillers. ‘Cause scratch away all the polish and that’s what my book is.

Every entry on the list satisfied the above criteria to various degrees. Occasionally I had trouble finding a recent sale, but uncovered some from prior years and a film option. Or maybe they had no film option but had landed huge bucks for their client, world rights, etc and thus earned an exemption. I was however unmovable about the must like thrillers thing. Someone shopping for a Mercedes does not want to hear a BMW is a viable replacement, so it made sense to work with the grain and their tastes.

That course I plotted before demand for the chick lit segment began waning, and I’m considering revising my criteria. I recently learned despite all the media attention and films based on books in the genre reaching the big screen, the past two years have been a much harder road for the Bridget-has-sex-with-a-shopaholic-in-her-Pradas folk. As is the classic sign of a literary tide shifting, editors are now asking chick lit agents “what else have you got?”

In reviewing the list again when their request arrived, it became clear while they had sales and film deals under their belt, this agent had never indicated any preference for thrillers. Which means they were contacted because of my oversight.

And maybe, just maybe, they responded because they are looking to place something new.

A happy little accident . . .