Yesterday, I had an e-mail from a literary agent saying that having read the synopsis of my novel, she didn't think it was for her.
That I'm rubbish. I'm wasting my time. I should just give up. Park all my dreams somewhere because they aren't worth pursuing.
BUT - by some miracle, I DIDN'T think that. What I thought was, 'That agent is not for me.'
In actual fact, I had lost my nerve a bit after approaching the top agent last time and getting closer to acceptance so, cowardy custard me, this time went for a LESSER agent thinking that perhaps I was being too ambitious. And she didn't even want to see my work.
It all goes to show, doesn't it?
I have just posted off the first fifty pages to another top agent.