The classic rejection letter from a literary agent comes with the phrase, “I’m sorry but I just didn’t fall in love with your work,” prompting many writers to guffaw and say, “who was talking love, just cop a cheap feel and I’m yours!”

Perhaps this is gauche to write about, but I can’t help it. After having written five novels, two of which were represented and shopped to publishers with no success; after going through graduate school (MFA) which was as discouraging as it was sublime (so much competition!); after struggling to write something that other people would want to read and staying true to my own creative sensibilities, I can finally say: An agent is in love with my novel. Her words!

But you want to know something? I am in love with my novel too. This is the first novel I’ve written that I think about during the day the way I thought about my husband in the throes of first bliss (actually, I still think about him like that, but don’t tell). But don’t think me just narcissistic; we writers have to fall in love with our own work. The same way you fall in love with a mate, which is to say, you see all the flaws, potential, complications, and you STILL love it. Not because you think every word you write is a gem, or because you think you are somehow guaranteed happiness, wealth and admiration, but why would you spend every day slaving away at a creation that you hated? What would be the point in that? There will be plenty of other people to hate it for you.

JPR