Blog 104 - Write On!

Blog 104 - Write On

January 2026

Indulge me for a moment, I'd like to talk about the curious, chaotic life I lead as an Unrepresented Novelist. There’s a particular moment in a writer’s life that feels a bit like standing in a doorway: one foot in the world of “aspiring,” the other in the world of “professional,” well, that's where I am right now and I have absolutely no idea whether the door is about to swing open or slam shut on my toes.


I’m talking, of course, about the period after you’ve written a novel — a whole novel, with characters who’ve kept you awake at night and plot twists you’ve argued with in the shower — but before you’ve secured representation. This for me is a strange little purgatory. A literary waiting room. A place where hope and delusion hold hands and skip in circles.
I was one of those people who assumed that once you typed The End, the universe would send a congratulatory email, perhaps with a voucher for discounted stationery. However, what actually happened was that I suddenly realised I'd only just completed the first stage of a very long obstacle course. I'd climbed the wall, yes, but now I was staring at the mud pit, the rope swing, and the bit where I would have to crawl under barbed wire as agents watched from a safe distance, sipping coffee and deciding whether I looked like someone worth rescuing.

I realised that what I needed was some way of attracting their attention, in short what they were waiting for was a Query letter. And I soon found out that Querying is its own psychological experiment. I set about the task with absolute optimism. I'd written something good — maybe even great — and I was ready to share it with the world. So, I diligently crafted a query letter, so polished it could double as a reflective surface, and sent it out. I felt powerful. I'd fulfilled the need and was sure the response would be swift and emphatic.

Then I waited.

And waited.

This is when I discovered that time moves differently when you’re waiting for an agent to reply. Days stretch. Hours elongate. I started to wonder whether my email had fallen into a digital ravine. I refreshed my inbox so often that I began to suspect that I was developing a repetitive strain injury.

Eventually, a reply arrived. my heart leapt, oh joy of joy, my work was being acknowledged! I was about to receive what I truly believed was rightfully mine, representation at last!. Then I opened it. It was a form rejection. Not even a polite rejection with sound reasoning, something I could work with and use to improve my craft. No, just a simple auto-generated reply "Thank you for considering us. However at this time we will not be following up on your query" I mean, what bloody use is that!

Breathe, don't get disheartened, I told myself, it’s fine — because it is fine — it's a numbers game. Unfortunately, I couldn't help spending a moment staring into the middle distance like a Victorian poet contemplating the sea. Being unrepresented requires a level of emotional flexibility that would impress a yoga instructor. You have to believe in your work fiercely, while simultaneously accepting that other people may not recognise its brilliance immediately. And so began the Emotional Gymnastics of Staying Sane. You have to be confident enough to keep going, but humble enough to revise, rewrite, and occasionally delete entire chapters that you once defended like a medieval knight. You also become intimately familiar with the phrase “It’s not you, it’s the market.” The market, apparently, is a fickle creature. It wants vampires. Then it doesn’t. It wants cosy crime. Then it wants dystopia. Then it wants cosy dystopian vampire crime but only if it’s told in second person plural. I've learnt to nod politely at the market and carry on writing the things I believe in, because trying to chase trends is like trying to catch smoke with a sieve. Of course, my initial enthusiasm had got the better of me, and I'd told everyone who would listen about my new novel. Unfortunately, this now meant that I had to face the barrage of well meaning questions from Non Writers such as Friends and family. They mean well. They really do. But nothing tests your patience quite like the questions that inevitably arise when you mention you’re 'between' agents.

“So… when’s the book coming out?”

“Have you tried sending it to that big publisher? What’s their name… Penguin? I’m sure they’d like it.”

“Couldn’t you just self publish on Amazon? My cousin’s neighbour’s dog groomer did that and now he’s a millionaire.”

I smiled. I nodded and patiently tried to explain, once again, that publishing is a process. A slow one. A labyrinthine one. A process that involves many steps, and none of which included sending your manuscript directly to Penguin with a hopeful note attached like a literary carrier pigeon, or venturing into the eternal money pit that is self-publishing.

Here’s the thing, though: being unrepresented doesn’t make me any less of a writer. It doesn’t diminish the work I’ve done or the novel I've written. If anything, it’s a testament to my resilience. I'm still here. I'm still writing. I'm still sending my words out into the world like little paper boats, hoping one of them reaches the right shore. And while I wait, I'll keep creating. The choices I have are still there, I could start a new project, revisit an old one, I could even write a Blog post to remind me that the joy of writing isn’t solely in the validation — it’s in the act itself. It's in the moment a sentence clicks into place. In the thrill of discovering what my characters will decide to do next. It's in the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’ve made something out of nothing, something that will transcend time and live on long after I have moved on.

Representation will come. Or it won’t. And if it doesn’t, I’ll find another path, because writers are nothing if not resourceful. We’re so used to navigating imaginary worlds that the real one can’t be that much harder.
So here I am, a writer with a finished novel and no agent (yet). It’s a peculiar, hopeful, occasionally maddening place to be. But it’s also oddly exhilarating. Because this is the moment before the moment — the inhale before the leap. So, if you’re here too, in this same doorway, know this: you’re not alone. The waiting room is full of us. We’re all clutching our manuscripts, refreshing our inboxes, and quietly believing that something good is on its way. Remain a believer, stay the course and if all else fails, write on my friend, Write On!