Before and After Getting a Literary Agent: My Candid Story and the Lessons That Stuck

Follow my story of getting—and eventually parting ways with—a literary agent, and the empowering lessons I learned about finding the right creative partner for your book.

By Julie Tyler Ruiz

CONTENTS:

• Beyond the yes
• Part one: the dream
• Part two: the drift
• Part three: the tough decision
• The most important lessons

Beyond the yes: a candid look at getting (and saying goodbye to) a literary agent

Getting a literary agent is a dream for so many writers. For years, it was mine too.

I’d bought into the idea—common in many writing circles—that traditional publishing was the way to be taken seriously, to reach readers at scale, and to prove I was good enough. I wasn’t actively investigating other publishing avenues. I had, in many ways, brushed them aside.

In the years leading up to signing with an agent, I’d test-pitched dozens of agents in person at conferences. In almost every case, they expressed interest and personally invited me to query and send sample pages. So by the time I went all-in with my novel and began querying in earnest, I felt I had a strong shot at getting a great deal.

When I finally got the offer of representation, I imagined it would mark the turning point for my writing career. The novel I’d worked so hard on would finally have readers, beyond the handful of trusted folks who’d seen early drafts.

And in some ways, it was a turning point. Just not in the way I expected.

In this article, I’m sharing my experience of getting—and eventually saying goodbye to—a literary agent who ultimately wasn’t the right fit. While she brought industry knowledge and thoughtful editorial feedback to the table, our working relationship lacked the alignment and momentum I needed, as a fast-executing, vision-driven author, to move the book forward.

I’m not here to dramatize, complain, or assign blame. I’m here to offer a clear-eyed, behind-the-scenes look at what these real publishing moments can look like. This is my chance to examine, after the fact, how things unfolded, to name the green flags, the red flags, and what I’ve come to believe is the most important question of all: not can you get a literary agent, but who’s the right creative business partner to help bring your book into the world?

My intention is for this story to offer clarity, encouragement, and a bit of hard-won wisdom to support you in finding a path that fits, so you can fully claim it.

Part one: the dream

In 2021, I had a pitch-ready novel. I'd worked on it for years: refining, rewriting, testing out agent responses at various conferences while also coaching writers through StoryBold. I'd even hired a developmental editor bring out the very best in my novel and myself.

I was all in.

The novel itself explored a unique combination of themes: professional and personal. On the professional side were academic ambition and the ethics of research. On the personal side were cross-cultural love and the long shadow of trauma. 

I’d designed it to be a true page-turner—character-driven and emotionally rich—while inviting deep reflection and conversation. In publishing terms, it sat squarely in the “upmarket” space: blending the intellectual satisfaction of literary fiction with the entertainment value (and sales potential) of commercial fiction.

When an opportunity to meet agents face-to-face at an online conference arose, I registered and prepared to pitch. This time, no tests; I would pitch “for real.” Every agent I met invited me to send a query and samples, which I did with great excitement and a little trepidation. I'd poured years of work into this story, invested time, money, and emotion into every sentence.  

A few weeks later, one of those agents requested a call.

She offered representation.

Finally. After all that work, I got the yes.

The agent expressed genuinely enthusiasm for the novel and offered strong suggestions for a final developmental edit before submitting to publishers. I took the weekend to think it over, reached out to the other agents I'd pitched to see if they wanted to bid; they passed. So I signed the contract and officially had agent representation. 

It felt like the beginning of the rest of my writing life.

Over the next seven to eight months, I completed revisions. My agent and I Zoomed every few weeks to check in. These were productive conversations that helped us clarify the story's shape in a real time rather than over long email threads.  

All the while, I kept coaching writers through StoryBold and creating content professionally for another company. I was fully immersed in the writing world, earning money with my words. 

When the manuscript was ready, my agent and I went on submission. 

She shared her process, gave me access to a document to track publisher responses, and I stepped back to let her do her job.

Meanwhile, I kept coaching, kept writing, and worked on the next novel in line. It was a full season in the best way: meaningful creative work, mentoring others, a strong professional rhythm, revenue flowing, and the sense that big things were finally in motion.

I saw green flags and had every reason to feel confident: 

• The agent offered detailed editorial suggestions before going on sub

• She had a clear submission process and tracking system

• She showed initial enthusiasm for the book and its potential

But what came next gave me pause. Nothing dramatic. Just the subtle signs that something wasn’t quite right.

Part two: the drift

I knew traditional publishing could be slow. But after those initial months on submission, the silence started to stretch.

Some rejections from publishing house editors trickled in. A few “almost-yeses.” And this was information I received as second-hand paraphrases. My agent did not forward the editors' exact words, verbal or written, except in one instance. 

In general, my agent and I didn't communicate much. On one hand, it was okay. I had plenty of work to do and I assumed she did too. But on the other hand, we didn't have any check-ins on the responses and what they meant, like "This particular editor didn't bite and here's why," or "This one liked the novel, but didn't feel like it was a perfect fit."

I saw this as a clear sign to mobilize. I reached out and requested that we Zoom about it. My agent didn’t explicitly decline these requests, but she didn’t schedule them either.

Through the vague, second-hand feedback and back-and-forth of email with my agent, I deduced that two things kept surfacing: issues with the narrative POV and with the main character’s actions. Both of these seemed to be keeping editors from saying yes and moving the novel onto a publication track.

These two elements were revision-worthy, the way I saw it. We were so close! 

So I emailed back: Should we revise and address the elements that seemed to be a barrier? At least do the work to remove these barriers to entry and continue on? See if this improved the novel's chances? 

She didn’t seem open to it. Her response was brief and included no invitation to brainstorm or consider alternatives. 

That’s when the questions started piling up.

Why weren’t we acting on the feedback? Why not pitch more widely to smaller or newer presses who might champion this book? Why the hesitation? Had she stopped believing in the novel or did she have other work on her plate that took priority? Did she want to avoid the work of overseeing another developmental edit with me?

I wanted to know what her real thoughts were and where I stood. 

To my agent's credit, she asked about other projects I might be working on. As it happened, I had three or four works-in-progress in various stages of completion and I sent her a description of each. She pointed to one she thought had the most commercial potential and suggested I develop it.

That was at least something concrete and productive we could do amidst the stall on the first novel. I felt a brief surge in energy and I gave the project some attention. 

But my heart wasn’t in it. It was a good story with some intriguing elements, I thought. I still think that particular story could do well. But it just wasn't the right time to work on that one. 

The fact remained, I had poured years into the first novel my agent and I partnered on to get published. I  believed in that one. I still do. And I wanted to do everything I could for that one, including yet another round of revisions, if that's what it took. I didn't want to leave it in the dust. 

I started to see red flags:

• Communication slowed to a crawl, with little proactive engagement.

• There was no real discussion of revision strategy based on editorial feedback.

• Submission was limited to a small number of publishing house editors, with no plan to expand.

• Interest in my next project was based on marketability, not mutual vision.

Then, I started asking hard questions, not just of my agent, but of myself.

Should I leave? Would that mean I’d failed?

Or would staying mean giving away my voice? Going in a direction I didn't feel called to pursue? Leaving my first novel to flounder? Never getting to have a face-to-face conversation in real time, and instead, being relegated to the back and forth of emails?  

Quietly, without any big dramatic moment, something shifted. I started to realize this partnership might not be what I thought.

Part three: the tough decision

So there I was, with all these questions—and to be honest, frustrations. I was starting to believe the best thing to do was initiate a conversation with my agent about going our separate ways.

But before I made any big decisions, I gave our working relationship one last try—while we were still under contract—to see if we could move my first novel forward.

I sent a final round of questions. Could we revise the novel based on the feedback we’d received? What was the idea behind the small submission list?

From her response, I got the sense we wouldn’t be revising together. Same stance as before. And as for the submission list, those were the publishing houses she preferred. I got the sense we wouldn’t be expanding our outreach.

So be it. 

Next, I brought up a nonfiction book idea that had taken root in me, a project inspired by early motherhood and my training in nutrition. I was passionate about the book’s subject matter: helping pregnant women and mothers nourish themselves in a world where it’s increasingly difficult to get the nutrients, support, and care necessary to thrive. I knew I was the person to write it. And I wanted to know if my agent was on board.

She wasn’t. She was supportive in theory, offered smart advice, but the topic just wasn’t on her agent wish list.

And that was totally fair. But it clarified everything.

There’d been too little transparency during submission. No plan for revision based on what I believed was actionable feedback. Minimal outreach to editors. No enthusiasm for the next big idea.

I had to face facts and take action.

So we parted ways. It was amicable, respectful, and mutual. No drama. Just honesty.

Of course, I felt disappointed. And yes, annoyed. But more than anything?

I felt free to proceed with revisions. To pursue my new nonfiction project and any other stories that inspired me, without waiting for permission. To explore publishing potential outside of the narrow path my agent had laid out and that had gotten us nowhere.

I was free to execute faster.

The most important lessons

Getting a literary agent is a big milestone, but it's not the final destination on the publishing journey.  Publishing a book means you have to think beyond the initial offer of representation and the book deal. It means you need to trust your own creative instincts and stay true to your vision. The right partnership can further your career and even get your story into more readers' hands, while a misaligned one could create roadblocks. 

Here are the lessons I learned. Let them serve as a reminder to choose a writing life that fits:

• You hold the real power: the stories, the vision, the work. Authors and their stories are the reason publishing houses and literary agents even exist.   

•  Questions like "How do you get a literary agent?" and "How hard is it to get a literary agent?" are valid, as this process can feel mysterious and like your whole career rides on getting representation, especially if you're seeking a traditional book deal. A better question to ask is, "Who's the right business partner to help you get your book where you want it to go?" 
• Traditional publishing, frightfully slow and perplexing though it may be, is still a viable path, but it’s not the only path. New technologies and platforms emerge all the time, making it easier for talented writers to build loyal audiences and sell more books. Whatever path you take, let it be one you choose with clarity and courage.

• It's better to look for the right yes, rather than any yes. Because a “yes” from the wrong person can slow you down more than a thoughtful no.

• It’s okay to walk away from a misaligned partnership. While the separation may initially feel like a loss or setback, it can bring better opportunities into your field of vision sooner than you might anticipate.  

Want help getting a literary agent?

If you know that traditional publishing is for you and you want to find an agent who’s truly aligned with your vision, I made something for you: The Complete Guide to Literary Agents and How to Land One (+ Alternatives That Work). This is a step-by-step guide to help you research agents strategically, pitch with clarity, and make empowered choices along the way.

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