Following that Labor Day weekend in 1994, I continued writing and submitting my work. My high school buddy Sam and I finished our Rumpelstiltskin novel. I wrote a YA fantasy—my first full-length novel I had ever finished on my own.

Writing on my own was surprisingly hard. Sam and I had written a full screenplay and a novel together. We worked well as a team, in part because we could be totally honest with one another. If I had a really dumb idea or wanted to add a line of dialogue that sounded cheesy, she’d say so.

But facing the computer screen without her to keep me in check was scary. I had no idea if what I was doing amounted to crap.

During this time, I submitted mywork and got several positive responses that still amount to rejections. (“We love the concept! Now send us sample chapters! We loved those, so send us the full manuscript! We still love it, but it’s not quite right for us; good-bye.”)

In the middle of all this, I started querying magazines with article ideas. One editor eventually contacted me after seeing some of my queries and gave me a small assignment in an upstart newsletter that the magazine was launching.

That assignment led to several more, and more and more, with made more money with each assignment. At the same time, a fledgling newspaper needed a writer, and the religion editor happened to know me, so I ended up doing articles for her, as well as book reviews and some other articles, some of which landed on the front page.

In the meantime, I kept writing novels, attending local writers groups and going to conferences. I read books on writing. I joined a critique group. I entered contests. During this time I took my "apprenticeship" very seriously, working hard on learning all I could about the craft of writing. I even served on my chapter’s board of the League of Utah Writers, including one as chapter president.

My most proud moments were taking second place in the League's statewide novel contest—two years in a row. I submitted both of those novels for publication, and received very encouraging responses—including one rejection that actually put me in a good mood it was so glowing—but yes, rejections to add to my growing file.

A third year I entered another novel in the League's contest, hoping for a repeat award. This time I didn't even get an Honorable Mention. To make things worse, the judge all but shredded my work. The comment form was littered with every cliche about bad writing. He might as well have scrawled, "Do you speak English?" across the top. The only strength he found in my writing was the fact that I had actually completed a full manuscript, so I must have some perseverance.

But this wasn't my first manuscript. It was, counting the fairy tale I wrote with Sam, my seventh completed manuscript. I was already a published writer with a couple of dozen articles under my belt, which had won a publication award from the League. I knew I wasn't a complete amateur.

A writer has to have a thick skin, and over the years I had developed a pretty thick one, especially since joining that critique group (the best thing I ever did for my writing). But something about this judge's comments cut deeper than any other criticism I had ever encountered, leaving me paralyzed.

My husband sent flowers the next day, and I sobbed over them.

I couldn't write for two months. I questioned my ability. I questioned my sanity and almost threw in the towel. But my sweet husband refused to let me do anything of the sort. He let me cry in his arms more than once, but he never let me seriously entertain the notion of quitting. He knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

During this grieving period, I couldn't see how I could possibly keep going. I considered submitting to tiny publishers where my chances would be much better. But I knew I would never be satisfied if I “settled.” I had to aim for the top of the market I wanted to be in. That pretty much meant getting in with one of three publishers (at the time; now two of those three have merged).

I licked my wounds and decided to take a hard look at the book I had entered into that last contest. It simply couldn't be as bad as the judge had said, I figured, but obviously something was wrong with it, and I was determined to find out what.

My next rejection came while reworking that book, when I tried my hand at resubmitting one of my first novels under a new editor. Instead of a blanket rejection, they requested that I revise and resubmit it.

At the same time, Valerie, one of the editors at the same house, contacted me. She had seen my work cross her desk over the years and knew my history well.
In an e-mail she invited me to lunch to brainstorm why, since she felt I had talent, I had come so close to acceptance so many times and never quite made it. We would also come up with ideas on what I could do to push my work over the edge into publication.

To say the least, I jumped at the chance.

The next few days were spent feverishly writing synopses of some of my books to send ahead of time so Valerie could read them and give me feedback. We met over Chinese, and I came away with fabulous ideas and a better understanding of what the company was looking for.

My biggest problem? The books I had submitted, while well-written weren’t as marketable as they needed to be, and publishing must, unfortunately, account for the bottom line.

When she described the types of books they had published that had sold the most, a light bulb went on in my head. Ahh . . . so if I tweak X, Y, and Z, this particular book would suddenly appeal to a broader audience. I get it!

I also asked Valerie which book I should submit next: should I rework the one just rejected as I had been told to, or should I submit my most recent book?

She thought my new one—which the judge had hated, but which I had since done major surgery on—had a great shot, and told me that I could submit electronically to her when I was ready instead having to do the snail mail thing. She said she looked forward to helping me break in, because I would be an asset to the company.

I did mental Toyota jumps all the way home.

A couple of months later when the book was polished, I e-mailed her and asked what format to send it in.

Surprise! That very day was her last at the company.

I felt like hitting my head against a brick wall.