By Dana Mele 

I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer. But my path to publication was a bumpy one. I failed at being a poet, a playwright, and a screenwriter years before venturing to write my first novel. And I made several attempts before I waded into the turbulent waters of the querying process. 

The first manuscript I took a chance with was a chaotic upper middle grade supervillain origin story that I would roughly describe as a kid friendly The Boys meets The Umbrella Academy. It was absurdly ambitious but not very well crafted, and I don’t think I even received any passes—just radio silence. 

It scared me away from writing for a while. I was entering law school at that point anyway, so I took a break.

After the birth of my kid, however, I was laid off from my job and unable to work outside the home. I had no good options. My therapist suggested that I give myself one year to try writing again. 

I was hesitant because although I was doing well, I struggle with depression and was navigating the postpartum period extremely carefully. I disagree with the conventional wisdom that all writers must have a thick skin— that’s a personality trait and no one has any control over it. But I do believe we should do our best to know our limitations and take care of ourselves. 

That’s why it felt so important to have an end date. 

One year was a set period of time. It wasn’t too overwhelming. And at the end, I could at least say I tried. 

So I gave myself another year. 

I went back to the middle grade manuscript. I’d made a few other attempts since then, but I really liked this story.

Now, I had a new vision for it: aged up, a YA dystopian with themes that were personal and relevant to me. It was still pretty chaotic, but the writing was much better. I didn’t feel embarrassed to send it out. 

It bombed. 

I sent it out wide—wide. 

Form rejections all around. 

Except one. 

I got one full request. 

I had given myself a year, and the clock was running down. 

I didn’t want to get my hopes up, because all the passes so far were adding up to pretty bad odds, and I was sending out short stories at the same time with varying levels of success, racking up a lot of passes in the meantime. I collected over 100 and stopped counting. 

And then I heard back. 

Another pass. 

It was a personal one though— my first! The agent liked my writing but the story felt overly familiar (very fair). But one line at the end of the email made my heart skip: 

I’d love to see your next manuscript!

I flew to my Facebook writer’s group to help me decipher whether this was just a nicety, or a genuine invitation. 

I was exhausted. My one-year deadline was almost up. My book was officially dead, like the one before it, and I knew these were the only two that even had a shot. I had failed as a poet, a playwright, a screenwriter. I knew I had to take a step back soon, because I had set the deadline for a reason and it was a good one. 

On the other hand, what if this really was my one shot? 

The writer group consensus: 

It was a sign. 

So I wrote a polite cover letter, crossed my fingers for luck, and hit send on the manuscript I had been working on while I had been waiting. 

My writing journey up to that point had been nearly two decades of slow, painful struggle, one defeat after the next. 

But what came after I trusted my writer group and took those seven words as a sign was lightning fast: 

Offer, acceptance, book deal, author.