When I finished my first novel, I remember feeling not only a sense of accomplishment, but also that amazing sense of having something special to share with the rest of the world.  I still had much to learn about my craft and about publishing, but having that heavy stack of paper in my hands--my masterpiece--I felt like I was ready to take on the world.  But ready I was not.

I sent out queries to all of my top-list agents, and the rejections started pouring in.  Most were form letters, which were always disappointing, but a few were personal and encouraging--they saw the potential, but knew I was not quite there.

I wrote my second novel, then queried it to all of my previous rejections and then some.  Same response--no one was interested in my brilliant new book.  I was clueless.  Luckily, I was developing a thick skin in the process.

Now that I've written ten novels, it has been interesting to revisit those first two.  I recently redrafted them both, and I was surprised to see just how far my writing has come.  I have to admit ... I'm mortified that I had queried for both in their previous states, and that I had actually thought they were ready for agents' eyes, let alone all the world's.  They were good stories in dire need of more redrafts--in dire, dire need.  I'm very thankful that they did not get published as they were, as it would have done them a great disservice.

It took writing about a million words (and reading even more) for me to be able to see my old work through new eyes.  Writing, like any craft, takes time, patience, and lots of practice--and one can never stop refining one's art.  I am eager to see what the next million words will bring.
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