The Istoriaphile’s Corner

I guess it’s no secret I’ve finished writing a book.  Well, up till last week, I thought it was finished. After 5 years of slaving away on paragraphs and polishing each sentence, I thought The Plucky Orflings was complete.  I liked it, my sister liked it, and my friends loved it, so I figured it was just a matter of time until some agent agreed.  Well, if so, that time isn’t now. Now, I suspect most agents are decent people.  They work incredibly hard in a difficult industry that gets more challenging by the day.  And, so far, not one of those that turned me down has said the dreaded words, “You can’t write.”  But none of them are interested in representing my book.  They say, it’s “not right for us” or “not what we’re looking for” and then they wish me well finding somebody else.  Since I only write to agents who work in the genre my story falls within (Historical Fiction for Middle-Grade readers), I had no idea why my book was wrong.  It’s like being told you aren’t some guy’s type when you resemble his last three girlfriends.  Okay, what am I doing wrong? Last month, my rejected novel…