2024 gave me high hopes as far as my literary career was concerned. January kicked it off with all that promise.
The ghost book (as it's called since it has many working titles) had been on submission to agents for a year. The first year was fruitless, but I entered the second year with a professionally revised submission packet.

On back-to-back days in January, I received a request from agents to send my entire manuscript for review. The first was from the same agency representing Sarah J. Maas and Neil Gaiman (which was cooler to say back then). She was a prompt no after a week of reviewing.
The second agent loved the concept and the manuscript. She was with a lesser-known agency but still had some heavy hitters. Most notably, the agency's founder was married to a long-time editor of science fiction magazines in the 1970s and won several Hugo Awards for his efforts. He helped cultivate the early career of a young writer named George R.R. Martin.
I met with the agent and we had a fantastic talk. She understood the meaning behind the story, we had the same favorite character; and she said something I didn't expect.
"I can see your faith in this."
Not faith in the book, but spiritual faith. It is the part of the interview that sticks with me the most. It's not something I bring to the forefront of projects, but something baked into the center and slathered with several layers of cynicism – much like my personal faith. Anyway, I was impressed. She offered me a contract, and I said yes.
We hung up, and the family and I had an expensive dinner to celebrate. Finding an agent was no guarantee of anything, but it was a significant hurdle to clear.
The celebration was premature, however. The contract needed to be approved by the agency head, and he was much less enthusiastic about the book. The agency primarily does science fiction, and my Appalachian Gothic literary tale did not slot into their brand. At least that's what I've deduced from the "it's not a fit for the agency" line that I got.
I was bummed. It was back to the drawing board. I wouldn't see another agent request until August (of which two happened close together again), but those were fruitless as well.
And so 2024 became the year of almost success. There are many more examples, including the constant maybes that I've gotten from West Virginia University Press throughout the year. Maybe 2025 will push things over the line.
Or maybe I'll publish the ghost book myself. The contacts I've made in the literary world have almost convinced me. More or on that later.
Maybe next year will be better than almost. It has to be. It's so little to ask, and it's all I need. There is only one step up from almost.
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