Jessica Weller and the Search for Probably Something Important

Once upon a time, I wrote a bunch of fanfiction.

Oh, who am I kidding? I still write fanfiction. I think the last one I wrote was a Final Fantasy X fanfiction a few years ago about Yuna’s father and his pilgrimage with Auron and Jecht.

But anyway.

I wrote fanfiction before I even knew what it was. When I was eleven years old, I wrote a twenty-something-page story about a woman named Jessica Weller who was basically a Lara Croft rip-off. I became obsessed with Tomb Raider at the ripe age of six.

I thought I would become the youngest published writer ever known to mankind. I sent that masterpiece off to a handful of publishing houses in the U.S. and awaited the inevitable flood of acceptance letters. Surely, publishers would be vying for my literary work of genius. It was just a matter of time.

While I waited for those letters to come in, I bought myself a handy-dandy professional leather briefcase and stored my stories, my (terrible) illustrations, and my publishing notes in that neat little thing. I was ready for the literary world.

I’m sure you can guess how the rest of this story goes.

Shockingly, no one picked up my novel. Not even the awesome, boxy, two-dimensional drawing of Jessica firing two pistols at the reader with a smug grin on her face could save the story. Little Me was heartbroken. Where were my adoring fans? Where was the contract offer promising me job security and publication? Where was my future?

Of all the publishers I queried, only one was kind enough to respond in detail, much less at all. He informed me that although he enjoyed my story, he could not publish it at that time. He also politely advised that I write something less violent (“Jessica should shoot (kill) fewer people”), and he concluded by encouraging me to continue my writing.

Eleven-year-old Christina didn’t appreciate this rejection letter. How could she? She knew nothing about the realities of the publishing industry. All she knew was that they did not want her book.

But adult Christina knows now that the agent/publisher/intern taking special time out of his day to respond to a naïve child was no small thing. Having worked briefly for a literary magazine, I am fully aware of the slush pile—that is, the thousands of submissions looking for publication—and the likelihood of having your work accepted and published. In the case of the lit mag I worked for, we received hundreds of short story submissions per submission period, and for every bi-annual publication of the magazine, we accepted maybe five to ten of those pieces. So for the mathematically inclined, that means that roughly one percent of pieces received are actually accepted and published.

One percent!

The actual margin for my lit mag may be higher than that, but low acceptance rates are not unusual. Just read this to get a feel for the reality of publication.

The general process goes that for any rejected manuscript, poem, short story, or essay, the author receives a generic form rejection letter. It usually says something like, “Thank you for submitting your manuscript to us. However, we must pass.” In some cases, the author may receive something more detailed explaining why the agent or publisher passed, but more often than not, the form rejection is the standard. If a publisher, agent, or magazine receives hundreds—nay, thousands—of submissions daily or weekly, they really don’t have time to stop and reply to every single submission in detail.

And here’s another nifty little truth: It is quite common for agents, publishers, and their reading staff to not read the entire submission. When I worked on the lit mag, the rule of thumb went that if you weren’t hooked by the first three pages, then let it go and move on. I can’t confirm this personally, but I’ve heard that for agents and book publishers, you often have only the first paragraph or sometimes even the first sentence—of the query letter, not your book—to hook them. Miss that opportunity and you’re already out.

No, it isn’t fair. But that’s the name of the game.

I hope all this is putting into perspective just how kind and thoughtful it was for that publisher to respond to me when I was a kid. He took precious time out of his busy day to respond to an eleven-year-old’s fanfiction. I would also bet that he worked for one of the Big Five, or one of their imprints, because Little Me probably went to the nearest book, looked up the publisher, and thought, “That’ll do.” I knew nothing!

This story is worth telling for two reasons. One, it reminds me that I have always wanted to author books. This has always been my passion and my endeavor. It proves that I was, more or less, on the right track, even if I didn’t know it at the time.

Two, it just goes to show that not all publishers and agents are fire-breathing dragons. Some of them genuinely care about the industry and those who wish to break into it, like an ambitious little girl with her very own briefcase.

Unfortunately, I no longer have that letter. I must’ve thrown it away in a passionate fit of anger. But little did I know at the time, I had already dipped my toes into the waters of the publishing industry and met its close cousin, rejection.

I think the moral of the story is that you already know what you want to do with your life even if you don’t realize it. Somewhere deep inside each of us is the thing we are called to do. We just have to unlock it.

And, in the words of Bono, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Because here I am, seventeen years later, still trying to break into the industry. It’s a long journey, but that’s what life is.