Five years, five thousand miles, and at least five drafts later, I had finished Just Maria.
My wife liked it. My mom did too. But I didn’t want them to be the only ones to read it.
It was time to get published.
A longshot, I knew. I had never published a book, and had published precious little at all in the last twenty years. The field is crowded. Words proliferate. But I had to give it a shot.
I could have published it myself, easy, with a few bucks and some chutzpah. There are plenty of ways to self-publish these days, from print-on-demand services to the so-called “vanity presses” that will turn your words into a book for a fee. Many writers use these services, and walk away satisfied.
But that’s not what I wanted.
I wanted a book, in print, from an established publisher. I wanted a physical object to have and to hold, to place upon my shelf (and yours, too, if you weren’t looking). I wanted my name on the spine, my bio on the back, the whole mess. But more than that, I wanted someone to say yes to Just Maria.
I wanted a gatekeeper.
When I was younger, I felt different about the gatekeepers. They were the ones who kept telling me no, after all, and that was a tiring word to hear. Then along came the Internet, the barriers to publication fell, and all of the sudden there were more gates than keepers. Anyone with half a notion could post their words online, for free or close to it. Many, many people have. Some of it is great, some middling, and some dreadful, but you have to appreciate the egalitarian spirit of it all.
(I do. This site, this blog, these words you are reading right now depend upon it. No gatekeeper, no oversight, no editor. Just a few bucks a month to a web-hosting service, and voila!: I have my own little corner of the Internet.)
So, sure, I could have posted Just Maria online, in less than a day’s work. But as I said, I wanted someone other than my Mom to tell me it was good. Someone I didn’t know, who didn’t know me and didn’t care about my feelings. Someone in the field who saw in Just Maria enough promise to want to publish it, to use their own time and money to see this little book to print. I wanted a gatekeeper.
Of course, I’d wanted that before. And like I had with previous books, I set a Rejection Goal. For Just Maria, that goal was 20: if I could just get 20 rejections, I could shelve the project without remorse, and get on with my life. At least I tried.
I was doing good, too, piling up rejections at an impressive clip. Two, five, ten, twelve.
I was sending Just Maria to agents and small presses, to people whose names I found online. Some responded and some didn’t, and those that did mostly offered the perfunctory pro forma kindness of the standard rejection letter: doesn’t meet our needs, not the project for me, best of luck. A few included some gentle words of encouragement to soften the blow. Every writer recognizes this as standard operating procedure. No offense was meant, and none was taken.
Then came Query #14. On November 12, 2019, I submitted a cover letter, synopsis, and fifty-page writing sample to Regal House Publishing, via their online platform. I paid a $5 processing fee and moved on. I expected nothing, save another rejection.
Seven days later I received the following email from Jaynie Royal of Regal House Publishing:
Thank you for your recent submission. We enjoyed your excerpt and would like to read the entire manuscript if it is still available.
(Still available? Why yes, yes it is!)
I sent the full manuscript.
Then, on December 2, 2019:
Thank you for sending a hard copy of your manuscript to our office. I have now completed my read of Just Maria and found it deftly written and utterly engaging. I would like to discuss next steps regarding our upcoming acquisitions meeting – if publication with RHP and Fitzroy Books remains of interest to you.
(Does publication remain of interest to me? Why yes, yes it does!)
Jaynie sent a longer questionnaire for me to complete prior to the acquisitions meeting—biography, marketing strategy, comparable titles, and the like—and told me they would meet on January 15th. I sent her my pitch and waited. January 15th came and went, without a word.
Then, a few days later, I got the phone call I’d been waiting to hear since I was a much younger man: we want to publish your book.
I don’t remember the details of that phone call, but I do remember the feeling: incredulous, cautious, and a little bewildered, sure, but most of all I was thrilled. Happy. Downright giddy.
I’m sure I asked a few questions, perhaps even relevant ones, but my response, in a nutshell:
Where do I sign?
Next post: Contracts, Edits, & Acknowledgements: In Which I Sweat the Small Stuff