IN OCTOBER 2020, I received an e-mail from a literary agent named A. who I believed would transform my life as a writer. Her message arrived after I’d spent two months querying literary agents regarding an autobiographical middle-grade novel about a twelve-year old named Maggie. She wrote:
I am so glad to have had the chance to read this story. I instantly fell in love with Maggie, and watching her grow into her voice was a treat. The bones of the story are here, but there are ways to tighten up the pacing and plot, strengthen character development, and implement the ‘show, don’t tell’ rule. By playing up these elements, you’ll bring this story to a whole new level, and I could see this book being at the top of every middle-grade reader’s TBR pile. Should these notes make sense to you, I would absolutely love to reconsider the novel.
I read and reread A.’s words until my vision blurred. I couldn’t believe this was happening. At age forty-three I’d been querying agents off and on for eight years. I was lucky to have gotten many full requests for my different manuscripts, but I hadn’t yet landed an agent. As the years passed and I received rejection after rejection, I began to question if I had the mettle to continue the pursuit of publication. When A.’s e-mail showed up in my inbox, it felt like proof that I shouldn’t give up. I believed my hard work was about to finally pay off.
I started writing when I was eight. As a little girl I had a stutter so severe that I struggled to
