But I was green then and I believed jubilantly in my newly discovered talent. The whole idea of writing -- as a living, as a life -- was new to me, and I was basking in its delights. I had only recently discovered that not only could I write fairly decently, but that I loved it. Until then I had never really been certain what I was going to do with my life, and then there it was: writing, reading, editing, teaching. It was a world of words and stories, of ideas and character, and I knew I wanted to stay in that world for the rest of my life. I loved, when my own life was in turmoil, to switch on the computer in the morning and spend my day with solid characters who enjoyed great loves and great conquests. And I didn't care so much that I wasn't getting published in the New Yorker because as a student I was in the process of Becoming; I didn't yet have to Be.

About a year ago I finished writing my first novel. And although I knew from the start it wasn't going to be the Great American Novel, I thought it was at least decent. And earnest. And a little daring. I had spent five years on it, and in those five years I poured everything I had ever learned about writing, craft, style, imagery, multiple narrators, life and love into its 500 pages in what I thought was a readable, entertaining and coherent way.

So I set out to find an agent. There were the established agents I had queried years earlier (prematurely) who said they would be happy to take a look at the finished product. There were the agents who had solicited me back when I was in grad school because I had won some awards and appeared in a fiction anthology. And there were the eager, young agents I knew -- or at least knew of -- from my job at a well-known magazine, agents who were reportedly "hot for fresh new talent." I sent my manuscript to about 18 of them all at once, and all of them -- in carefully phrased letters, e-mails and/or phone calls -- eventually turned me down.

Meanwhile it was the spring of 1998, and surreal things were happening in the literary market. Publishers were suddenly paying huge sums of money for literary fiction -- short stories; dense, cerebral novels -- and the reaction in the industry was electric. There were auctions, headlines. Every week Publishers Weekly ran another story on another unknown short story writer whose first book went on the block for a six-figure deal. Authors such as Heidi Julavits, Jon Billman and Melissa Bank -- all writers of dedication and talent -- were plucked from relative obscurity and placed at the crest of this wave. Agents were absolutely frothing at the mouth. In my case, the agents seemed to froth at the idea of me, at least at first. I had emerged as one of the most promising writers in my graduate program. I was young, I was eager, I had drive and I had product. Sure, my novel was a little experimental, they cautioned after seeing the synopsis, and some of the topics were almost passé, but I guess we all wanted to believe I could pull it off.

The rejection letters I received all began with a generous amount of praise and a reference to my talent. As in, "We think you're very talented, but ..." Then they would get vague. Some of the letters finished the "but" off with something generic: "this doesn't suit our needs." Or: "this is not what we're looking for right now." And because no one came right out and said it, I began to assume the very worst: We think you are talented but you are not talented enough. You're talented for an amateur, for a writing school graduate, but ...

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"