The query process includes being ghosted, ignored, and forgotten—and it's called “industry standard."

But is it acceptable?

Seven years.

That’s how long my manuscript has owned me. Not the other way around—owned me. Every spare moment, every vacation day. Three hundred weekends. Writing, editing, re-editing. Every dinner conversation circling back to “but what if her motivation is actually...” Seven years of my life poured into thousands of words that I know—know—are good.

And then what? Then I send it to dozens of literary agents, because that’s what we do. We don’t query one agent and wait for a response. We query a long list—because some might respond. Or, one. Probably not right away. Possibly not ever.

This is what querying looks like for most writers—and it’s treated as normal. We’re told “that’s just how it works.” We’re told to be patient. We’re told to keep querying.

They call it “industry standard.” I call it “The Three Horsemen of Query Hell.”

Horseman #1: The Ghost

You spend three hours researching an agent. You read their wishlist (”I’m looking for complex psychological thrillers with unreliable narrators!”). You stalk their Twitter. You note which authors they represent, which deals they’ve made, what they said they wanted at that conference in 2025. Your manuscript fits. It fits. You craft a query letter that’s been revised seventeen times and workshop-critiqued until it gleams.

You send it.

Then... nothing. For 30 days. 60 days. 90 days. 120 days. QueryTracker finally times out your submission and marks it “rejected—no response.” The agent never opened your email. Or maybe they did, but you don’t actually know because they didn’t click “respond” (not even on their template rejection). Your seven years of work weren’t worth even a brief response.

This is “industry standard.”

Horseman #2: The Bullshit Template

Maybe you get lucky! You get a response! It says: “Thank you for querying. Unfortunately, your project doesn’t fit our current list.”

Come again?

I queried you because it fits your list. I didn’t pull your name out of a hat. I didn’t throw darts at QueryTracker. I researched you specifically because you represent exactly this kind of book. But sure, it doesn’t fit.

“Industry standard.”

Horseman #3: The Phantom Opportunity

This one’s my favorite. An agent requests your first 50 pages. You’re elated. This is it! They’re interested! You send the pages with trembling hands and then...

Nothing. Again. For weeks. You check your spam folder daily. You wonder if you should follow up (but the internet says don’t be pushy, don’t be that author). You start sweating. Wondering if they will ever respond. They requested material so they should. Makes sense. But every day that goes by without a whisper and you feel it in your bones. You’re going to be ghosted (like a bad Tinder date).

They requested your work. And then silence. In what other professional relationship is this acceptable? If a consultant, editor, or recruiter treated a client this way, we’d call it unprofessional—not …

“Industry standard.”

This isn’t a pity party

I’m not writing this from a place of sadness. I’m not curled up in a blanket, eating ice cream, and wondering why nobody loves my book.

I’m writing this from a place of frustration. (Pent-up and bursting at the seams.)

Frustration that writers are expected to accept being ignored or strung along because “that’s just how it works.”

Agents are bombarded with manuscripts. I get it. But ghosting people… ignoring people… because you have a lot of… work? emails? manuscripts to read? This isn’t about agents owing detailed critiques—it’s about basic acknowledgment and closure.

The system is broken.

Why the system stays broken

The current system works perfectly fine for the people who benefit from it.

Agents can ignore 95% of their queries because they’re busy and there will always be more writers. Publishers can take their time because publishing is a process and writers will wait.

The power imbalance isn’t a bug—it’s a feature.

When one side holds all the power and the other side has been conditioned to “just wait in silence,” there’s no incentive to change. No incentive to respond to queries promptly. No incentive to provide meaningful feedback. No incentive to treat writers like the professionals we are.

We’re told:

• “Agents get hundreds of queries a week” (so accept being ignored)

• “Publishing moves slowly” (so accept waiting months with no update)

• “It’s a subjective business” (so accept form rejections with no explanation—and by the way, it’s not personal)

• “Don’t be difficult” (accept the treatment we get)

Yes, this dynamic will continue to work if we keep accepting it.

The standards we abide by

I’ve read the articles— “How to query your novel.” “How to properly query your novel.” “How to really REALLY properly query your novel.” “What agents wish writers knew about querying.”

They’re everywhere. Full of very helpful advice, too.

Like:

“Personalize your query to each agent.”

We do. We read their Substack. We scroll through their posts on X. We study their wishlist like it’s scripture. We don’t just say “I see you rep cozy mysteries.” No, we go deeper: “I enjoyed reading your client’s novel, The Bakery Detective, and my manuscript also features a morally grey chef navigating small-town chocoholics.”

We personalize. We research. We spend hours on each query.

And if we’re lucky, we receive a single sentence rejection. And if we’re not, we receive nothing at all.

“Make your story easy to visualize.”

Right. But also don’t brag. And keep it under three paragraphs because they’re very busy. Paint a vivid picture of a 90,000-word novel in 250 words or less, make it compelling enough to stand out from the other 500 queries in their inbox this week, but don’t oversell it. Simple!

“Be aware of current trends.”

Don’t write to them, but know them. Understand what’s hot in the market right now. Be fresh but familiar. Original but marketable. Think outside the box but don’t leave the box.

“Make your query stand out with a snappy tagline.”

Yes. Best suggestion. One hand up, we’ve revised that opening line forty-seven times trying to find the perfect hook that’s clever but not too clever, intriguing but not confusing, unique but not weird. We even signed up for a workshop on this very thing.

“Don’t break the query rules.”

But also... stand out! Be memorable! Just not in a way that involves breaking any of the query rules. Got it.

Agents give us a list of red flags and querying sins—ways we can fail before we even get started. Which we appreciate. But what isn’t appreciated is the one-sided process. Once we make contact, once we send our query, we're expected to wait in silence—for weeks, months, or forever.

So who has the power?

We write a knock-out novel. We hire professionals (editors and, sometimes, readers). We turn out a perfect query. We know the market. We study the market. We pitch the story perfectly, grow our social media following (demonstrating platform), show comp titles that prove there’s a market, AND we prove we’re unique...

We comply. We do all the steps.

Still, from my seat, it looks like we’re doing the work (if we could read it to the agent, we probably would), yet we have no control. They hold the power. And we’re subjected to silence, generic templates, and “industry standard” excuses for behavior that would be considered unprofessional in literally any other business relationship.

What power actually looks like: Andrew Bridgeman’s story

I’ve been following Andrew Bridgeman’s newsletter for a while now (The Briefing). He shared his publishing journey in a piece for Publishers Weekly, and his story illustrates exactly why the traditional path isn’t the only path—or even always the best path.

Andrew’s story started like a fairy tale. He sent one query to one of the best literary agents in the world. She signed him. She called his novel “our big book of the year.” At the Frankfurt Book Fair, publishers in Hungary and Germany picked it up. Foreign deals secured. Best agent in the business. All that was left was the inevitable U.S. publishing auction.

Except the auction never came.

60 days of waiting became 90. Then 200. Then 365. Two years later? Still nothing. No deal. No apparent interest. The golden key didn’t unlock anything.

But Andrew didn’t give up. No, he didn’t. He didn’t wait around for traditional publishing to decide his fate. He went indie. He self-published.

Suddenly, he had the power.

He learned the business. He figured out marketing. He connected with readers. His debut novel is tracking for 20,000+ readers in its first year. He’s got Book 2 out and Book 3 in progress. He’s building a career on his own terms.

The most important thing is, he’s not waiting for permission anymore. Hoo-Rah! (I’m not military, but that just fits!)

What power actually means

When Andrew talks about his self-publishing journey, he’s honest about the challenges. Credibility concerns. The grind of finding readers. The trial and error of marketing (including, apparently, an “unfortunate for all involved” attempt at BookTok with his daughter).

But he said something that sticks with me: “As an indie writer, you see everything: the wins, the misses. You experience the joy of selling a book or two in far-flung countries such as India and New Zealand. And you also waste money and time on things that don’t work. You’re the boss. There’s no buffer between you and failure—but there’s also no buffer between you and success either.”

No buffer between you and success.

Think about that! In traditional publishing, there are so many buffers. The agent who might not respond. The editor who might not acquire. The publisher who might not market. The bookstore that might not stock. Each one is a gate, and you’re on the outside hoping someone opens it.

Self-publishing? You open your own gates.

Yes, it’s more work. Yes, you’ll need to learn things you never thought you’d need to know. Yes, there will likely be investment that is required.

But you won’t:

• Live 120 days in silence

• Pretend that ghosting is “professional”

• Think about your seven years of work sitting in someone’s inbox, unread

• Hope that someone, somewhere, decides to give you fifteen seconds

What are the options?

Option 1: Keep querying strategically

If traditional publishing is truly your goal, keep going—but with your eyes open. Set boundaries. Decide how many queries, how long you’ll wait, what success looks like. Don’t let the system gaslight you into thinking their silence is your failure.

Option 2: Explore hybrid publishing

Work with a reputable hybrid publisher that offers editorial support, distribution, and legitimacy while you retain more control and rights. (Do your research—there are good ones and predatory ones.)

Option 3: Go indie

Self-publish. Build your platform. Find your readers directly. Invest in professional editing, cover design, and marketing. Control your timeline, your pricing, your everything.

Option 4: Walk away

Sometimes the right answer is to write for yourself, for the joy of it, without the pressure of publication. That’s valid too.

I’m not saying traditional publishing is evil

Traditional publishing works for some people. If you land a great agent and a great deal and a publisher who promotes your book, that’s fantastic. Genuinely. I’m not here to trash anyone’s path.

But I am here to say that the system—the one that expects you to sit quietly while agents ignore you for four months, that tells you to be grateful for template rejections, that promises opportunities and then ghosts you—that system doesn’t serve writers.

It serves gatekeepers.

And writers deserve better. We deserve professional communication.

The heart of this article

This isn’t about traditional publishing versus self-publishing being “better.” This is about agency. It’s about deciding that your work, your time, your career is worth more than hoping someone else decides to give you a shot.

Andrew Bridgeman got the golden ticket and it still didn’t work out the way he expected. But instead of giving up or endlessly querying, he took control. And now he’s building something real.

Me? I’m wondering...

Should I keep waiting for someone else to open the door?

Should I send 100 perfect queries? 200?

Or am I done pretending that this system—this “industry standard”—is something I should be grateful to participate in?

I know my answer. What’s yours?

If you’ve been through query hell, hit subscribe—this conversation isn’t over.

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Side note: As a professional book editor, I’m shifting my entire approach. I’m not editing manuscripts so they’re “agent-ready.” I’m editing them so they’re reader-ready. So when my writers decide to open that door—whether it’s the traditional route or the one they build themselves—their novel is polished, professional, and ready to find the readers who’ve been waiting for it.