You will receive four full requests on your manuscript. Three agents will send you a form rejection within 48 hours. You will never hear back from the fourth, in spite of working up your nerve and nudging them once every three months for an entire year.
Put down the drink. It won’t help the chapter arc like you think it will.
Your critique group actually is stealing your brilliant ideas. You are not paranoid; you are accurate.
Landing an agent? ahahahahahahahaha
You sent queries cc'd en masse bearing the salutation “Dear Agent Homeslice.” Did you actually expect a response? You won’t get one.
Memoir is not hot right now. Sorry.
No one cares about vampires anymore. Or dystopia. Or zombies. Or words. Sorry.
You will receive kind, praise-filled rejections. Your writer friends will tell you this is amazing, that this is progress even if you don’t think it is. These same writer friends will land multi-book, six figure deals within the next two weeks.
Do you remember that girl from Calc? The one you teased because she chewed on her hair? No? Well, she remembers you. She now works at your dream agency. Good luck with that.
The market is flooded with Capricorns right now. Have you considered a major retooling of your day of birth?
You landed a book deal with a small but reputable press. Your book comes out this month. Oddly, three other books with similar plots and characters, all by renowned authors with bigger houses, are released the week before yours. Your novel’s pages are not absorbent enough for your bitter tears.