How I Got My Agent


I am beyond thrilled to have accepted an offer of representation from the amazing Jessica Alvarez of BookEnds Literary.

I wish I had some wisdom to impart on the subject of how to go about getting an agent. But, beyond “Write a book, submit it to respected agents who represent your genre, and hope you find someone who loves it,” I’m afraid I’ve got nothing.

How did this happen? I only starting querying the manuscript in July.

I don’t send out big batches of queries. I research each agent until I’m pretty sure I would love to work with them. (Obviously you don’t know how well your personalities will mesh until you interact a bit.) So, in that three month period, I sent out a total of three queries. Of the three, one agent sent me a lovely, encouraging rejection, saying she really liked what she’d read and urging me to keep querying. The second response was Jessica’s. And she wanted to call me.

I can’t tell you how it felt to read those words. All aspiring writers long for The Call. Was this it? The email said she liked the manuscript but a call from an agent isn’t necessarily the call. I know because I googled it.

Then I visited Jessica’s twitter which I’d been stalking for ages and saw this tweet:

Could she be talking about my manuscript? Could she have liked it to this degree? And if she had, did that mean she wanted to represent me?

Because it was half-term and my 6 year old was home, I suggested we talk in the evening, which meant I had to wait hours to find out. And as you can imagine, it was all I could think about.

I’m happy to say the call was The Call.

I already knew I wanted to work with Jessica and the fact that she was lovely on the phone made me even more certain. She seemed to be offering representation. She even said point-blank “I’d love to work on this with you.” You’d think at that point, I’d have believed her but after we’d talked for another ten minutes, it still hadn’t sunk in.

“So, just to clarify,” I said, “Are you offering representation?”

There was a short pause during which I suspect Jessica questioned my sanity.

“Yes,” she said.

Reader, I’m not sure – I was bright red and shaking at this point – but I think I might have actually said the word “Hooray.” (I sometimes channel Emma Thompson when I’m nervous, or at least I like to think so.)

I asked for time to reflect because all the advice says you should. But I wouldn’t have queried Jessica if I didn’t think she was wonderful, and it was so hard to keep that ‘yes’ in. I made myself think things through seriously but I confess I only managed a couple of hours before I emailed to accept her offer.

Now, four days later, I’m still walking on air.

Writing Contests and Their Wily Ways.

All You Need

Contests are funny things. Writers differ as to how useful they find them. Personally, I think they’re a good way of getting feedback. It’s a way of testing yourself against other writers and their work. How good am I compared to my competition? Obviously they’re subjective … but then so is reading.  You’re never going to write something that everyone loves, so with contests there’s an element of luck of the draw. If I have the good fortune to be matched with judges who like my voice, I’ll do well.

Recently I was a double finalist in the 2017 Romance through the Ages contest. As if that wasn’t thrilling enough, when the preliminary results came back, I found that I was entering the next round with a perfect score. Which meant that at least three people (who are not my mum, husband, or friend) absolutely loved what I’d written. This was prize enough in itself, to be honest.

Unfortunately for me and despite how much the initial judges loved my story, the final round judge liked it least of the three finalists, and I came in third. You would think I’d be disappointed and I was (because who doesn’t enter a contest hoping to win?) but only a little bit. That particular judge had truly loved my first manuscript and so I’d had high hopes she would connect with my second, but them’s the breaks. I reasoned that, even in the case of my absolute favorite author, I don’t love every single thing she’s written.

So I didn’t win and the world didn’t end. The fact is, rejection can be good for you if you use it to help toughen your skin.

Anyway, months prior, I entered the Golden Heart contest. While of course I’d love to win the Golden Heart, the competition is so fierce that I didn’t expect to final. And I didn’t. I shrugged that particular defeat off instantly, but then, a few weeks after the Romance through the Ages results came out, I got my Golden Heart scores back. It’s such a massive contest that it takes them a very long time to get the results back to everyone and I’d honestly forgotten that I was supposed to be waiting for them. I opened them up with only mild curiosity.

Oh my god, you guys. My preliminary round score was 9.166666667. Out of 10. Which put it well into the top quarter. Hats off to the ladies who actually finalled. They must have got perfect 10s or near enough. I was absolutely thrilled. Ironically, the contest I didn’t final in was the one that left me elated in the end.

But I’m glad I entered both.

With the Golden Heart, you don’t get feedback from your judges, but with the Romance through the Ages, I got three critiques which were helpful and also full of some truly lovely compliments, both of which are extra fuel to keep you writing.

Entering a contest is like getting on a roller-coaster. There are highs and lows and there’s a chance you’ll spew. Yet ultimately the experience can toughen you, and help you improve your craft. (Okay, that last bit isn’t true of roller-coasters but I think the metaphor stands.)

(Image found on Pinterest.)

Recommended for Acquisition: A Lesson in how not to conduct yourself.


There’s so much great advice about how to write your query, but what happens when you actually get recommended for acquisition? How should you respond? What are the pitfalls? For it is a truth universally acknowledged that all new writers make mistakes but it isn’t necessarily true that we learn from them.

Learn from me. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Allow me to tell you a story.

The Literary Equivalent of the Charge of the Light Brigade

There’s a particular publisher I won’t name. They’re wonderful and have published some of my absolute favourite romances in recent years. I sent a query to an editor there. She requested the full, read it, and then loved it. She recommended it to the acquisitions board for publication, at which point they sent me an email asking me to send anything else I’d written with a synopsis.

This is where things start to go a bit wrong. Usually, when engaging with industry professionals, I research things. I make sure each communication is as well written and well thought out as possible. But I’d just been recommended for acquisition for the first time. I was excited.

How many mistakes did I then make? Let me count the ways.

Julia’s mistake 1: I immediately responded to the email. Let me repeat that: I immediately responded. I did not take a breath. I did not stop to consider. I just answered.

What Julia Learned: At the beginning of the post, I mentioned how much information there is online to help you craft a query. I spend ages reading this advice. I wrote countless drafts. I sent my first attempt to a critique partner and then I rewrote the whole thing again. Aspiring writers spend so much time on that initial contact. It doesn’t make sense to do any less when responding to the chief editor of a major publisher. Everything you write is a chance to show your ability.

I think I was worried that if I didn’t immediately respond, I might be perceived as rude or amateurish. The opposite is true. Editors are busy people. This one was probably relieved to have dealt with me for the day. I doubt she was hopping up and down with excitement to see my name pop up in her inbox ten seconds later.

Julia’s mistake 2: About ten minutes later, I remembered something I’d forgotten to include. So, I sent a second email.

What Julia Learned: If you rush to respond, you will forget something. Make yourself wait. Even if you write your response immediately, read it over, and decide that it’s perfect, make yourself wait at least 24 hours. There were now two emails from me waiting in that editor’s inbox neither of which I’d spent enough time crafting.

Julia’s mistake 3: I then read the publishing company’s requirements for a synopsis. Turned out they like a long synopsis. I’d sent one that was two pages. So, I wrote a new synopsis which I thought was rather good, and send it to them in yet another email.

What Julia Learned: Oh my god, read the publisher’s guidelines for things like your synopsis and manuscript formatting before you send your first response. Before. I hadn’t and there were now three rushed, overly-excited emails waiting in the editor’s inbox.

Then Comes Rejection

The editor got back to me after she’d met with the acquisitions board and delivered a kind, very encouraging rejection. She said they’d all loved the manuscript and that I was a wonderful writer. She then cited market forces as the reason they were passing. I was devastated. I’m good with constructive criticism. Tell me you think chapter six needs to be rewritten from a different point of view or you think my characters aren’t behaving consistently and I’m good to go. Tell me that you love my novel but that you don’t want to publish it and I’m not sure what to do with myself. There was nothing for me to fix. Or so I thought. I trunked the manuscript while I tried to figure out what went wrong. I was uneasily aware that the barrage of emails probably hadn’t helped but I told myself they couldn’t be a major factor.

What Julia Learned: Of course it’s a major factor. If you’re writing in a genre that isn’t currently flying off the shelves (and I’m told historicals are tricky these days), everything else matters much more than it ordinarily would. That editor is trying to find well-written books that her company can make money from. An author who’s ill-prepared and unprofessional (even in my rather cutesy, enthusiastic way) is a liability. Was I going to be like that all the time? Would I always fill her inbox with a gazillion responses, obliging her to sift through them for the one that I actually wanted her to take as my final answer? Would I always be disorganised? Did that mean I’d be unreliable?

So don’t be like old Julia. Be like new Julia. Consider long and hard before you click send. Also, be like Mr. T and follow your dreams, fool.

Critique Partners (six reasons why you need one)


(Image found on pinterest. Is this image yours? If so, let me know and I’ll credit you.)

Disclaimer: Yes, now and again you meet a soul-sucking shredder who bleeds away your confidence and leaves you a huddled shell, unable to write a word. But mostly CPs are awesome, and here’s why.

1. A critique partnership is reciprocal.

Or at least it should be. It may sound like you’re onto a good thing if your partner is happy to look at your stuff, but strangely reluctant to send their own. I mean, you’re getting something for nothing, right? But actually, you get at least as much out of providing crits as you do from receiving them. Or at least I do.

Critiquing someone else’s stuff forces me to look at why I think something isn’t working, and then forces me to articulate the reason to the other person. Without that, I think it would have taken me a lot longer to understand what makes passive voice passive, or to nail down deep POV.

2. A critique partnership is company.

Being a writer is lonely, especially if, like me, your other job is stay at home parent. I can go entire days without speaking to another adult if I’m not careful. But having a critique partner means you have someone else in the same or a similar situation, someone to talk to about craft, and about all those “Will I ever be good enough?” anxieties.

3. A critique partner is free.

Okay, so they’re going to be fallible. But a good crit partner is part beta reader, part editor, part agony aunt, and you don’t have to pay a penny.

4. A critique partner is supportive.

Once you’ve been working on a project together for a while, your partner will be almost as invested in your success as you are. They won’t roll their eyes when you talk shop and they’ll celebrate with you when you win your first contest.

5. A critique partner is not your mamma.

My first beta reader was my husband. I’m not sure if that’s a step up or a step down from getting your mum to do it. To be fair, he was actually pretty good. He gave good critique and, without him, my progress would have been much slower. He was so far from worried about my delicate feelings that we even got into fights when my skin proved too thin for his criticism.

But I needed another writer to look at it. A writer can tell you when your writing’s crappy and not have to worry about you giving them the silent treatment for the rest of the night. And although my husband was great from a story perspective (he could tell me if something needed more humor or if my characters were being inconsistent), he couldn’t point out POV slips.

6. A regular critique partner will help thicken your skin.

When I look at the most successful romance writers, they’re all class acts. You don’t catch them having a public hissy fit when someone doesn’t like their story. We should all aim for such unflinching stoicism. Readers and reviewers, unlike critique partners, aren’t there to nurture our talent. If they buy your book, they have every right to voice their opinion about it publicly, and they aren’t obligated to cushion the blow. Of course, you have the right to respond with anger if you want, but that’s a bit like storming into your boss’s office and shouting him down; It’s a risky choice career wise.

A good critique partner will offer absolute honesty by way of constructive criticism. If you can’t withstand that, how will you withstand less thoughtful criticism offered by angry readers?

(That’s not to say that you should put up with a rude crit partner. Even a well-meaning critique from an incompatible partner can leave you dispondant. If you find yourself lying on the sofa, eating pizza and feeling sorry for yourself after every critique, it may be time to part ways.)

The Upshot

I love my critique partners. Once you find someone you can work with, look after them because a good CP is worth their weight in Chocolate.