The First Ten Pages

Sometimes you have great days at work, perched in your dark, cramped, oddly damp work nook like a small bird, typing away merrily. Then again, sometimes you must leave your work nook, pace the floor for hours like you’re the heroine in a Gothic novel, and eventually fall to the floor and writhe around for a while because of the impossible, gargantuan nature of the task you must complete.

For me, that impossible, gargantuan task is The First Ten Pages.

Before I explain, here’s a very short primer on Getting Published in the Traditional Manner (i.e. by a publishing house, as opposed to self-publishing):

  1. Write a book

  2. Send it to agents, along with a query letter and the first however-many-pages/chapters they request (commonly ten pages)

  3. If they like the query letter and first pages, they might request a full manuscript

  4. If they like the full manuscript, they might agree to represent you

  5. HOORAY! A MIRACLE!

  6. Make major edits to your already-majorly-edited book

  7. Wait while your agent…performs the rituals? Makes the sacrifices? This part is mysterious to me, as I have done most of my research on simply finding an agent and less about what happens afterward. Is the writer expected to perform a portion of the rituals, herself, like marketing?

  8. After waiting for months or even years, receive word that your book has been accepted by a publisher

  9. Celebrate! But only for a moment. Because now the real work begins.

As you can see, this whole operation sort of hinges on the query letter—basically a pitch for your book—and those first few pages agents read. Which is why I have been softly rocking back and forth for weeks now, staring at those pages, convinced that they sound trite and amateur, and also why, whenever anyone asks how writing is going, I get a slightly manic crook to my face and whisper, “Why? What have you heard?”

Because this limitation—just ten pages—is agonizing. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, or if you know me in person and I’ve ever written you a letter, you’ll know that I like a lot of space to express myself (which is why I never did well on Twitter). This puts a lot of pressure on less than four percent of the book to entice and intrigue a reader.

THERE ARE SOME FUNNY BITS ONCE IT REALLY GETS GOING, I want to explain, EVEN IF THE BEGINNING ISN’T THAT STRONG. But you can’t say things like that in a pitch. You have to be CONFIDENT.

(Even though I am not confident.)

You have to be SURE.

(Even though I am not sure.)

You have to be ALL THE THINGS YOU SECRETLY FEAR YOU AREN’T AND NEVER COULD BE, LIKE SMART AND TALENTED AND INTERESTING AND WELL-SPOKEN AND CAPABLE OF WRITING AN ENGAGING BEGINNING TO A STORY THAT DOES NOT COMPLETELY SUCK.

(Even though, as you may have guessed, I secretly fear that I am none of those things.)

And so I sit here in the oddly damp dark and stare at these pages, not even reading them anymore, rocking softly back and forth. This is my life now. At least until I get so downtrodden and tired of looking at my own words that I say “Screw it” and send it off—imperfect, exposed, waiting to be judged.

So, yeah, writing is going super well, thanks for asking.