Does the drifter know anything?

That’s what it says at the top of a page of writing notes (okay, scribbles) that I found in my desk drawer.

I’d give anything to find out if the drifter knows anything. As a matter of fact, I’d give anything to know who the drifter is.

The most troubling aspect of this question is that this note is definitely in my handwriting. Perhaps the query refers to my grandpa-may-have-been-a-serial-killer screenplay, since there are other cryptic notes on the same page such as Maybe Jessalyn was her mother, not her aunt, and I do have a character named Jessalyn in that story. There’s also kind of a down-and-out handyman, but he’s always been part of the community; he’s not really a drifter.

Then again, since there’s another note on the same page about designer sunglasses that I recognize as a reference to my marine-biologist-in-trouble-in-the-Galapagos mystery, maybe the question pertains to that novel. But while there’s a drifting corpse in the ocean, there’s not really a character that I would really call a drifter in that one, either.

I search my memory banks: how about the hiking-trail romance novel? The find-the-other-lover-in-war-torn-Guatemala story (CALL OF THE JAGUAR)? The missing-kid-in-national-park mystery (now titled ENDANGERED)? The earthquake-arson-is-our-heroine-committing-insurance-fraud romance (SHAKEN)? Nope. No drifters.

Perhaps I was going to add a drifter somewhere? Or perhaps it belongs in a future story. I have another note about a mystery solved due to an error overlooked in digitally altered photographs, and I don’t think it matches up with any of the six stories I’m currently working on.

I haven’t always been this way. I used to be focused and organized. What’s to blame for my current mental and physical confusion? Some might say it’s my personal problem. But I’m blaming the nature of the publishing business. It’s enough to make anyone a little bonkers.

When I first decided to turn my writing talents from “how-to” manuals and books to fiction, I sat right down and wrote my first mystery novel in about six months. Total focus. I sent around query letters.

Not taking new clients at this time.

Not distinctive enough to stand out in a crowded market.

Not for us.

Not right for us, but this is subjective; others may feel differently. Good luck.

Now what kind of feedback is that? Mostly I received no reply at all, but the ones I did receive quickly became kind of repetitive.

My client list is full.

Not distinctive enough to stand out in a crowded market.

A few wanted to see more of my manuscript. I sent chapters.

Well written, but I advise you to lose the computer stuff and focus on the outdoor adventure.

Not distinctive enough to stand out in today’s crowded market.

Excellent writing, but add more technological stuff and lose some of the nature stuff.

Not for us.

Oh, I did get a contract in the mail from an agent who wanted money up front, which seemed a little suspicious, but she was a new agency and requesting only a modest amount to cover mailing expenses, so I called to get more information. She sounded suspiciously like a ‘he,’ which was a little disconcerting, and when I queried about this person’s experience and publishing contacts, I discovered s/he was no more of a literary agent than I am, which was much more disconcerting.

My manuscript did eventually intrigue one agent from a reputable house sufficiently that she jotted down several very good suggestions for changes (bless her!) and agreed to see the novel after I made changes, along with samples of all my other work. Thank God, I thought, and applied myself to making the changes. Five months later, I eagerly mailed my much smoother novel and other samples to her. I promptly received in reply a scribbled note from the head of the agency:

This agent has quit agenting. We shredded your manuscript.

If my four cats hadn’t kept reminding me of an imminent tuna crisis, I might never have scraped myself off the floor.

I wrote a children’s book about a Kikuyu girl who wanted to save the hippos around her village in Kenya. It was a prizewinner at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference. A publisher was interested until she asked if I was African-American.

“I could be,” I told her. She didn’t buy my suggestion. Or my manuscript.

I went to screenwriting school in an attempt to revive my sagging creative spirit. I wrote my first romantic adventure screenplay, sent it around.

Not taking new clients at this time.

Client list’s full.

Not for us.

I heard an editor at a romance writers conference talking up an outdoor adventure novel as ‘exactly what we’re looking for.’ After reading the novel she’d referenced, I was a) confused, because in no way was the story a romance (the main character’s lover is dead from the get-go); and b) enthused, because the book had a tone and theme similar to my kid-and-cougar mystery. I sent off a query to said editor, noting the conference and referring to the book she’d mentioned. No response.

Meanwhile, after reading that it’s much easier to publish mysteries if you’ve got a series, I worked on a sequel to my first mystery (the aforementioned Galapagos story). Periodically, I kept stopping because, well, why was I writing sequels when the first one wasn’t published?

Not for us.

Not taking new clients. Pardon the form letter.

Not unique enough to stand out in a crowded market.

Not enthusiastic, but hey, this is all subjective, others may feel differently. Pardon the form letter.

Only looking at queries referred by my current clients.

Good luck.

I finished my romance (SHAKEN). I started to send out queries on it, while still trying to find a place for my missing child-in-cougar-country novel and its sequel.

Not taking new clients.

Got any non-fiction proposals?

Not right for us, pardon the form letter.

Agent deceased.

I started another sequel (BEAR BAIT) and won the Daphne du Maurier award with that beginning. An editor at a big publisher wanted me to finish that manuscript with an eye toward giving me a multi-book deal. Six months later when I was finished, she’d moved to another publishing house and was heading a nonfiction group. Nobody else in her old group wanted to see my manuscripts.

Another small publisher was interested. In a year, my first mystery made it through two rounds of readers—wahoo!—and after another six months, onto the publisher’s desk. Then a note from the publisher: “This is very well written, but it’s just a personal thing; I can’t abide stories about children in peril.”

Took me six weeks of sobbing and meowing and a few unsheathed claws to the cheeks to scrape myself off the floor that time.

Okay, now I’ve got four mystery novels, a romantic suspense, a romantic adventure novella, two children’s books, dozens of outlines, crowds of characters, hundreds of clever clues, and a score of half-baked plots romping through my head.

“You must like banging your head against the wall,” my mother remarked.

I’m a fast writer, and a good one, according to my critique groups and to at least a couple of people in the business. For years I thought that if I only had good feedback on what editors and agents wanted, or encouragement to run down any particular path, I’d be galloping to the kill like a cheetah chasing a bushbuck. Instead, I seemed destined to become like the Pacific sunstars I see on my scuba expeditions, a creature with so many appendages that it’s a miracle it can move at all.

In frustration, I self-published my first mystery, which I called WILD. It was sort of expensive. It was sort of time-consuming. It was sort of successful. But I am definitely not a marketer; I am a writer.

I finally landed a respectable agent who got me a three-book deal with Berkley Prime Crime, and now WILD, renamed and slightly rewritten to be ENDANGERED, will be in bookstores in December of this year. The sequels will be published in 2012 and 2013; and in typical fashion, I won’t get the final payment on my small advance for each until publication. I see articles that say e-books will kill all the publishing houses and bookstores; some ebook authors are making hundreds of thousands each year from their self-pubbed ebooks. Then there are reports that say ebooks may be the fastest growing segment of the market, but print books are still the majority of sales. Then Borders went under, leaving a lot less shelf space for print books to fill, and a lot more uncertainty among traditional publishers.

Have I signed a contract for indentured servitude or am I entering the golden gateway to published nirvana? What’s an unknown writer supposed to do? I released my romantic adventure CALL OF THE JAGUAR as an ebook novella, and now I’ve put my full-length earthquake-arson-romance SHAKEN out there as an ebook, too, along with both e-publishing and printing my new mystery/suspense THE ONLY WITNESS. But how many will find them among the thundering hoards of new releases for e-readers?

Is it still all up to me?

Does the drifter know anything?

I sure hope so. And I hope he shows up soon to share it with me.