Waiting is the hardest part of writing. And there's just so damn much of it. Let's examine the sequence of events. In September 2005, I finished The Average Girl's Guide to Getting Laid. As it was a rough draft, I proofread and got feedback from my crit partners. Then I expanded the novel because the first draft was a little lean at 66K. The revisions placed the word count around 82K, which seemed about right.

Around January 2006, I started sending out e-queries. I had made the decision not to query anyone who insisted on snail mail for a whole lot of reasons. I wanted my agent to be smart and techno-savvy. My idea of a good time involves a pitcher of Sangria and the beach, not standing in line at the post office.

The waiting begins.

Depending on how good (or how bad) your (e)query is, you may hear back within 24 hours. The quickest response I had was ten hours, a request for a partial. Next closest was twelve hours, another partial request. It may take much longer, though, depending on how hungry the agent is for new clients and submission backlog; two to three months is possible. Some agents don't respond if they aren't interested so you can take their silence for "no thank you" and tick them off your list.

I found it helpful to stagger my e-queries, sending them out in blocks of five. Obviously (and I shouldn't need to say this) each agent gets a separate, specific and personally tailored e-mail. Never CC or BCC agents the same query. The reason for querying in shifts -- even if I got five rejections, I still had hope from the e-queries I had sent recently. This went on over the course of three months. I got requests for partials, some rejections, some silence.

April 6, around midnight, I sent out the last round of queries. I hadn't been sending them out every week or anything. I sent a total of twenty five queries over the course of three months. You can work out the averages if you think it's helpful; that's not my thing. And on April 6, 10:45am, I had a request for a partial. That was the single fastest response I ever received. The darling woman asked that I e-mail her the first 50 pages. Others had asked for partials. I think I had three out at this juncture, but they insisted on using the postal service, the bloody Luddites. Of course I complied and sent them along but it's slow. This agent devoured my 50 pages and asked for the full manuscript on a two week exclusive, also via e-mail. I heard angels singing.

I sent her the full manuscript on April 13th and offered her the exclusive she wanted. Ordinarily I wouldn't recommend that, but she put a finite (and exceedingly fast!) time limit on it, so I knew she wouldn't sit on my work for eight months, ultimately to pass on it. On April 24, I heard back from her. She told me she loved the book but felt it needed a number of revisions. She told me specifically what those were, but made no guarantee of representation.

After reflection, I decided I agreed with her thoughts and committed to making the revisions in the interest of making it a better book. Ultimately that was to my benefit whether I signed with her or not (although I wanted to desperately). Maybe three days later, one of the agents who had a partial requested a full manuscript. I suspected that would happen, and I was lucky the other agents were slow-moving. But the exclusive I'd offered had expired, so I felt integrity demanded I should let the first agent know I was going to send someone else the novel while working on the revisions. I wasn't sure how that would work out; I didn't want anyone to feel like I was stirring up competition but the fact of the matter is, there was competition to sign me. What happened next made me squee in girlish glee. This is the beginning of the letter I got from Michelle, shortly thereafter.

Thanks for your e-mail. I wrote this whole mature, professional e-mail response about how of course since I didn’t offer a contract at this time you are free to send the manuscript elsewhere, etc. but the truth is by the time I got to the end of it, I was feeling some serious agent envy.

I have felt, from the very beginning, that you have a very commercially viable book here. From the title to the topic to your writing style—I think it’s a great project. I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t offer to represent you and then suggest changes, but I would like to do so at this time.

I did the dance of joy and then wrote a calm, professional response. I don't think I squee'd once. So don't be afraid of a little competition. If there's demand for your work, let the agents know it. You might stir up the desire to get you signed because if X doesn't, Y will. At least that's how it worked for me, as all the ladies on my A-list would have made a great choice. Of them, Michelle was the fastest, the friendliest and the most techno-savvy.

Then I wrote my "rejection" letters: "Thank you for your interest, but I have accepted an offer of representation elsewhere and my work is no longer available." That's, like, the best feeling in the world. I received three e-mails back from agents, who expressed regret and wished they'd been faster, another nice feeling.

I teleconferenced with Michelle on May 1 and we came to an agreement. She sent me contracts that week and I went to work on revisions. I got those to her on June 22, and she loved what I did, felt like I addressed everything and brought the book to top potential. We teleconferenced about that around mid-July, and she had me work up a cover sheet with a write-up about the book (what I'd call a sell sheet) and an author bio for me. I unearthed a photo and sent it over. She started working up a submission list. Week before last, she subbed Guide to 9 editors.

Now I'm waiting again, almost a year. And that's the timeline of this novel, thus far. Your mileage may vary, but feel free to ask questions in the comments section about my agent search, like how I drafted my query letter or how I compiled my top 25 list of agents who would've tickled me pink with an offer. I'm here to help.