This is not a universal opinion, but I honestly believe that every publishable book can find an agent and then with an editor with relatively little stress.

If the writer doesn’t screw it up. It is surprisingly easy to screw it up.

First, you can be under the impression that just because your manuscript is good, it is automatically publishable. That’s just not the case. Preparing a publishable manuscript requires knowing your market intimately enough to see holes and niches in what’s out there. You need to fit in and stand out at the same time. You have to be relevant. You have to follow the rules, send query letters, network, format your manuscript appropriately. You have to understand that you are not the exception to the word count rule, and just because Harry Potter is a billion words long doesn’t mean your manuscript can be. Your first draft is not perfect. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. Listen to your beta readers. Listen to agent feedback. Revise revise revise.

And don’t give up. Keep a fine balance in your head. Think that you are simultaneously good enough and not nearly there yet. Continue tinkering with your manuscript until the bitter end.

Write something else.

A publishable manuscript will find a home.

The reason I don’t write the sex scenes full-out, though, isn’t because I think sex is inappropriate. It’s that I think it’s boring to read. I don’t write details of sex scenes the same way I don’t write details of the kisses I write. It doesn’t matter whose tongue, teeth, and lips are where. It matters why they’re kissing, or sleeping together, or whatever they’re doing. It matters what happens afterwards. What actually happens in bed is rarely as important as the implications.

That said, if I needed someone to burst through the door with a gun during a sex scene, I’d write the thing out, no question. Nothing is inappropriate as long as it’s appropriate for the book.

Something always comes around. The book I’m working on right now—first draft, ugh—is the product of a ridiculous dream I had. (God, that sounds like it’s going to be dreadful and full of ponies and symbolism and stuff.) I’m twenty five thousand words in at the moment, wondering how on earth I’m ever going to get it to novel length. Everything feels impossible until you get to the second draft. For all I know, this thing might turn out dreadful. A least it doesn’t have ponies or symbolism. Okay, maybe a little symbolism.

I rarely want to give up. I frequently think “Thank God I have X or I would give up right now.” Thank God I have a finished manuscript. Thank God I have two finished manuscripts in case the first one doesn’t sell. Thank God I have an agent. Thank God I have a book deal…but somehow I didn’t give up even before I had any of those things.

I think it makes my parents worry about me, since they’re never quite sure what their daughter’s doing. Especially since I don’t keep them in the loop as to what I’m working on, so they have no way of knowing if I’m hammering out a second draft of a novel or playing endless games of internet hearts (both of which frequently inspire me to stay up for all hours).

So writing does detract from my ability to pretend to be a normal person. On the other hand, writing anywhere and everywhere means I’m rarely bored after a test is finished. I also have insane multitask skills—the majority of my books were written in front of House and Friends and Queer as Folk. Blasphemy against Serious Writing, I know.

A few of my friends, also, are immensely supportive. My best friend reads every word I write as soon as I write it, never offering anything harsher than “it’s perfect, I love it,” and my darling boyfriend, who’s finished about five books in his entire life, is an angel about sitting quietly and not bothering me when a scene just. Isn’t. Working.

So I don’t think writing’s lost me any good friends…and I think all the people who would like me if I were social and/or fun still like me even though I’m crazy. But how would I know?