Perseverance

We know where babies come from—storks. But where does perseverance come from?

I was asked this at a book club meeting.

The woman was referring to A Reluctant Spy, my debut novel, which in theory took me 16 years to write. Well, not exactly…

A Reluctant Spy was actually my seventh novel, after I produced six thrillers and tried—unsuccessfully— to get each one published. It was a long process.

But I never thought of those many years as “perseverance.” They were just a game I played, called the writing life, which is what I switched to after the teaching life. (No overlap there. Teaching was too all-encompassing.)

The writing-life game was ostensibly simple: write a book, send it to agents, get rejected, rinse and repeat. At first, it hurt like the devil. Not a cut finger kind of pain, but like someone nicked a piece off my heart.

One time I suffered through 25 requests for a manuscript, followed in short order by 25 rejections.

I wasn’t dumb. I figured out pretty quickly that the premise of my novel was great, but the book was crappy. I needed writing lessons.

Side rumination: have fewer middle-aged protagonists that look and sound like me.

So I went to New York City to Mystery Writers of America University, the first solid step to a happier life.

A lesson that impressed me was Hallie Ephron’s advice to cut out the first two paragraphs of every scene in my novel! Seriously? Why would I voluntarily kill the “bruised storm clouds” and “mellifluous chimes of the great-grandfather clock?” I confess that I caved. I pulled the plug.

I discovered some astonishing things, like no, it wasn’t a misdemeanor to use cynical contrivances to hoodwink my readers. It was simply called learning the craft.

Since I was still unseasoned in the writing game, I expected that it was a matter of time before I wrote a rock-crushing thriller, had agents falling all over me, then the Big Five queueing up. And of course the mighty $$$ would come rolling in.

With the passage of time, the game and I evolved, namely, I grew a buffalo hide and became less stupid. There were writing conferences, with fellow wannabes clutching our fragile manuscripts to our ever-yearning hearts. More and more writing craft came with those years. The delicate pleasure of lacing a protagonist’s voice with syrupy poison. Etching their dialogue in acid. Killing off the “fifth crew member,” the expendable character you’d murder in cold blood, creating emotional trauma in your readers. Oh, the evil skill of manipulating those precious readers. In the frosty confines of a lecture room, I studied how to make my readers cry. With furrowed brow, I took note of the 3-step process to make them laugh. (Are you laughing yet?)

The writing life could be cruel.

It included serious feedback from critique groups who weren’t my relatives. People who killed my words and ideas (babies and brainwaves) without blinking.

I started getting rejected by agents at a higher, more personal level. “Sorry, we’re taking a pass on your thriller, because it isn’t thrilling.”

I made the mistake of expecting success when I landed an agent who seemed perfect.

Beware of the writing game when visions of sugarplums dance in your head.

After failing to sell my book, my perfect agent dumped me without letting me know. Being ghosted by an agent was like having blood drawn by a phlebotomist who’s never been able to find the vein.

Fed up with agents and waiting, editors and waiting, publishers and waiting, I stepped away from all the broken promises.

I created my own publishing company called Graveyard Press. I hired a narrator with a golden voice. And, in the cool light of a late-March day, I self-published A Reluctant Spy. I went the whole route: paperback, Kindle, ebook, and audiobook.

It was my party, and I called the shots. Finally.

Success when it came, was sudden. My thriller took off. It won the 2025 NYC Big Book Award in the category of Suspense.

I got to stick a shiny gold seal on my book that said WINNER.

Now, back to that book-club lady who asked where I got my perseverance.

No, don’t you go saying you got lucky, she berated me. Tell people you stuck with the writing life and it rewarded you.

Okay, fine. That’s what I’ll say. But here’s a sneak peek at how I got lucky: I found a hyper-kinetic publicist, a star of an audiobook narrator, and a writing guru who sprinkled fairy dust on my paperback at a magical book festival. I know in my heart of hearts, you always need luck.

It all went down like a miracle.

Now, five months after publication, I turn my face to the sky and dance on a bubble of air, because that too is part of the writing life.

Perseverance.