Things I Thought Were the End of the World – Querying

There are many things no one prepares you for when you start querying.

Not the spreadsheets.

Not the waiting.

Not the emotional gymnastics required to open your inbox without flinching.

But the real gut punch?

Realising you may have sent your book into the world too early—and being absolutely convinced that you have personally, irreversibly, catastrophically ruined everything forever.

Welcome. Pull up a chair.

1. Submitting to a Dream Agent Too Early

Let’s start with the big one. The thought that still occasionally taps me on the shoulder at 2am like: hey bestie, remember this?

I submitted to a dream agent before my manuscript was ready.

Not terrible. Not unreadable. But not what it is now. And the version it is now? Oh, she is stronger. Sharper. Smarter. Structured. She has stakes. She has teeth.

The version I sent back then was… trying her best.

At the time, I thought I was being brave. Proactive. Bold. In hindsight, I was enthusiastic and slightly undercooked.

Which—apparently—is a crime punishable by lifelong self-flagellation if you’re an aspiring author with an anxiety disorder.

2. Realising After Querying That Your Manuscript Wasn’t Ready

There is a very specific kind of horror that comes with improving as a writer after you’ve queried.

Because improvement should feel good. It should feel like progress.

Instead, it feels like discovering security footage of yourself doing something embarrassing in public and knowing someone important saw it.

Every edit after that felt like betrayal.

“Oh. That fixes it.”

“Oh. That makes it better.”

“Oh. Why didn’t I do this earlier?”

Cue spiral.

3. Thinking “I’ve Ruined My Only Chance”

This is the lie that really digs its claws in.

I convinced myself:

• That you only get one chance with an agent

• That timing matters more than growth

• That querying early somehow disqualifies you forever

• That I had wasted my shot before I “deserved” it

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I catastrophised with Olympic-level commitment.

I didn’t just think this was a mistake. I thought this was the mistake.

The one you don’t come back from. The one successful authors warn you about in hushed tones.

(They don’t, by the way. That was my anxiety freelancing.)

4. Believing Agents Remember You Forever (In a Bad Way)

Let me be vulnerable for a moment:

I genuinely believed agents would remember me forever as “that author who wasn’t ready.”

Like there’s a secret wall. With photos. And a red stamp that says DO NOT REPRESENT – QUERIED TOO EARLY.

This belief has no evidence. No logic. No basis in reality.

And yet? It felt true.

Because when something matters deeply to you, your brain will invent consequences where none exist.

5. Assuming Improvement Doesn’t Count If They’ve Already Seen It

This one hurt the most.

I told myself that growth didn’t matter retroactively. That becoming better “too late” somehow didn’t count.

As if writing skill has an expiry date. As if improvement is invalid unless witnessed live.

I thought:

• “What’s the point of fixing it now?”

• “They’ve already seen the bad version.”

• “The better draft doesn’t undo the earlier one.”

Which is wild, considering the entire point of writing is learning how to write.

6. Spiralling Over Which Version of My Book They Read

This spiral is… advanced.

You’re not just spiralling. You’re time travelling.

You reread the draft you sent and think:

• Why is this scene still here?

• Why didn’t I cut this?

• Why is this character motivation vague?

• Why didn’t I trust myself more?

You start narrating the agent’s imaginary reading experience like a live commentary.

Oh god, they’re at chapter six now. Oh god, this metaphor again. Oh god, why did I think this worked.

This is not productive. This is not helpful. This is emotional self-harm disguised as reflection.

7. Obsessively Re-Reading the Submitted Draft in Horror

At some point, I had to stop opening that file.

Because every time I did, I found something new to hate. Something new to “fix.” Something new to regret.

It wasn’t even that the draft was bad.

It was that I wasn’t the same writer anymore.

And instead of celebrating that, I punished myself for not having arrived there sooner.

8. Convincing Yourself You Should Never Query Again

This is where shame tries to take the wheel.

I told myself:

• “I should wait years.”

• “I clearly jumped the gun.”

• “I can’t trust my judgement.”

• “I’ll only embarrass myself again.”

The fear wasn’t rejection anymore.

It was repeating the mistake.

9. Feeling Like You “Used Up” Your Shot Before You Deserved It

This is the cruelest framing of all.

Because it assumes:

• You need to earn permission to try

• You should somehow know everything before starting

• You’re only allowed to be seen once you’re perfect

It turns learning into something shameful.

And it forgets a vital truth:

Every author you admire was once someone who wasn’t ready yet.

What I Know Now (That I Couldn’t See Then)

Here’s the part where I don’t invalidate the feelings—but I do challenge the conclusions.

Submitting too early did not ruin me.

It did not brand me.

It did not erase my future chances.

What it did do:

• Taught me how seriously I take this

• Accelerated my learning curve

• Clarified what “ready” actually means

• Forced me to confront perfectionism head-on

  
  

I didn’t break the rules. I participated in the process.

The Quiet Truth About Querying

Querying feels final because it’s vulnerable. Because it’s the first time your work leaves your hands. Because you’re asking to be seen before you’re fully confident.

But querying is not a verdict. It’s not a prophecy. It’s not a moral judgement.

It’s a moment in time.

And moments pass.

If You’re Spiralling Right Now

If you’ve submitted something and now feel sick about it—If you’re convinced you’ve ruined your future—If you’re replaying decisions with the benefit of hindsight—

Please hear this:

Nothing is ruined. Especially not you.

You are allowed to grow after being seen.

You are allowed to learn publicly.

You are allowed to try before you’re perfect.

Your story is not over because you panicked.

Your career is not defined by one decision.

Your worth as a writer is not determined by timing.

This stage counts.

Even if no one’s watching.

Even if it’s messy.

Even if you wish you could redo it.

You’re not behind.

You’re not foolish.

You’re not finished.

You’re just becoming.