What Tinder taught me about finding an agent
How getting ghosted on dating apps prepared me for the publishing world
The message stared back at me from my screen.
“I’ve been really enjoying your words and would love to connect. Are you free this week?”
My heart—that tender little trained seal—sat up and barked. A squeal wrenched from my throat, the kind that would have been embarrassing had I not been alone.
After months (years and months) of carefully crafted introductions, painstaking research, and countless rejections, I’d finally landed the one.
Not a soulmate—something just as elusive: a literary agent.
The Similarities Between the Dating & Querying Game
Online dating and querying have a lot in common. Both involve putting yourself out there in mortifying ways, enduring interminable stretches of waiting, ghosting, and disappointments, and both involve pretending to love Murakami1.
But as the sportsing adage goes: You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.
So it is with love and writing. Both require a special kind of masochism—polishing yourself (or your manuscript/proposal) to a high sheen and hoping someone will notice that you’re a rare, sparkling disco ball of talent and potential.
Most won’t. Most won’t even read the thing. And that’s fine.
You’re not trying to woo the world. You’re looking for the right one.
We curate dating profiles to highlight our best selves. Every photo is carefully chosen, vetted by friends, and positioned to hide the weird Terminator-eye thing that happens at certain angles. Every prompt is engineered for wit, humor, and originality. All in service of answering the (somewhat rude) question: Out of all the fish in the sea, why should I haul you up?
I did the exact same thing with my query letters.
The opening paragraph? That was my profile photo—the one designed to stop a literary agent’s scrolling thumb.
The synopsis? My “About Me” section, except instead of confessing my unironic love of IHOP and The Bachelor franchise, I was crafting intrigue around my fictional characters. Answering the question Why should I care? with every word.
And then came the first message. On dating apps, I obsessed over the “perfect” opener. (Spoiler: It doesn’t exist.) But there were still good options: a clever comment about their profile, a surprising question that wasn’t How are you?
With agents, I took the same approach. Instead of "Let’s cut to the chase: Which Spice Girl are you bringing home?"2 it was "Dear Ms. X, I read in Publishers Marketplace that you're seeking LGBTQ+ romance with a strong voice..."
Different dance, same sentiment.
But the real overlap between dating and publishing? The waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
That special purgatory after hitting send or swiping right. The familiar surge of hope when a notification chimes, only to discover it’s just Gmail, reminding you to upgrade your storage.
Or the heartbreak of those emails with those generic subject lines: Re: Your Submission.
Which usually meant another form rejection was about to join my collection.
Rejection Protection
Like most people, I don’t love rejection. I’m not remotely thick-skinned. My self-esteem on a good day is the consistency of flan.
And yet, rejection is unavoidable in both dating and publishing. Actually, no—it’s not just unavoidable; it’s guaranteed.
As I joked recently:
Being a writer is: 10% talent, 30% delusion, 80% stubborn perseverance, and 17% being bad at math
As with any dream, be it love or a book deal, you need a certain amount of wishful thinking to succeed in this crowded market/sea. But mostly you need to keep going.
So how do you carry on in the face of persistent rejection? I’ll tell you what worked for me.
The Six-Message System
When I was online dating, I followed a rule: Every time I logged on/engaged in a swiping sesh, I’d try to message at least six people at a time.
This wasn’t always possible—you often have to match before you can message someone, and sometimes I just didn’t match with that many people. But six was the goal. Why six? Because I am an obsessive person and with six potential matches, I wasn’t pining/planning my future wedding with someone I hadn’t even met yet, (which, yes, I have done) and I was sufficiently distracted from the inevitable silence/rejection to follow.
On average, five out of the six would not write back or would fizzle out rather quickly. Six was the sweet spot—just enough to keep my heart from getting tangled up in any single thread of hope or despair.
When Jen the Poet criticized my haiku book for “not really being haiku, but senryu,” I still had conversations with Reality TV Tuck, Rock Climbing Rachel, and three other potential disappointments to cushion my fall. It was like emotional bubble wrap—sure, things might break, but at least the landing wouldn't shatter me.
When I started querying agents, I applied a similar principle—but supersized it.
The 25-Agent Approach
Querying is partly a numbers game. But, instead of trying to find someone who would accommodate my weird desire to visit the world’s largest rocking chair, I was looking for an agent who loved my manuscript and style.
I researched 25 agents I thought would be a good fit and made a spreadsheet. My ultimate goal was to write to 100 agents—a nice round number to impale myself upon, should it come to that. Each week, I sent out five fresh queries. I had a template, but I tailored each query to the specific agent—again, similar to dating. Proof that I’d actually read their profile and respected their time.
By keeping 25 queries in circulation, I created my own rejection protection program. When a form letter arrived saying, "While your project shows promise...", I could remind myself that 24 other agents might still fall in love with my words.
It kept me from spiraling. I didn’t become the person refreshing their email every three minutes, analyzing an agent’s Twitter feed for hidden messages. Instead, I was too busy crafting my next batch of queries.
Mostly. (I still had bad days and moments of despair, but such is the life of a writer. Recall Lorrie Moore’s sobering advice in “How to Be a Writer”: First, try to be something, anything, else.)
The real reason to keep multiple irons in the fire, whether in dating or querying, is that it forces you to keep moving.
It’s like playing Whac-A-Mole, but with your genitals/dreams—every time rejection pops up to bonk you where it hurts, you’re already swinging at the next rodent.
Is that slightly mercenary? Maybe. But in love and publishing, moving forward isn’t just practical advice—it’s necessary. Publishing moves both glacially and at breakneck speed. It helps to be as ready as you can for any possible outcome.
Of course, always be respectful and professional. If an agent requests exclusivity, honor that. Though I honestly find that method unrealistic, given that many agents say it takes 8-12 weeks to respond, if they respond at all, meaning you might be able to query 4 agents a year—which at that rate your book might not be published within a decade, even in the best-case scenario.
For me, 100 queries weren’t necessary. I found my agent around the 25-mark. And I found my wife on Bumble within the first five weeks.
Neither was my first rodeo—by a long shot. (I’ve been dating online since the Myspace era, and have been querying agents for nearly as long, off and on.)
The Takeaway
By the time I sent my latest round of agent queries, I had been rejected more times than I could count. But years of dating had trained me well.
A form rejection? Please. I once had a date cancel after I’d already arrived at the bar—an hour away.
No response at all? Fine. I once had a girlfriend not talk to me for two entire months.
The publishing industry's attempts to break my spirit felt almost quaint in comparison. At least the agents weren’t hearting all my Instagram stories while confusingly ignoring my texts.
What I learned from both dating and publishing is that success is a complicated math. It’s part luck, part timing, and part sheer, stubborn persistence.
For every couple who met because someone accidentally liked a decade-old Instagram post, there’s a writer who landed their dream agent because they submitted during Mercury retrograde while the agent was hopped up on cold medicine and feeling emotionally vulnerable.
Which brings me back to that message on my screen—the one from my now-agent, suggesting we connect.
Unlike my dating app matches, she actually showed up.
And she never once mentioned cryptocurrency or asked me if I love camping.
(I do not love camping.)
Instead, she talked about my book like it was already real. Like it already mattered.
And that was all the proof I needed that I’d found the right one.
I'd love to hear your stories of unlikely strategies that led to success—in publishing, in love, or anywhere else.
Have you ever taken lessons from one part of your life and applied them somewhere completely different? Drop a comment below or share your own tale of how rejection in one arena prepared you for success in another. 👇
📌 PS - If you found this post helpful, would you please consider hearting, restacking, and/or sharing it?
This spreads the word and feeds the algo beast and keeps my little flan heart a-jiggling. 🙏
I do actually love Murakami so this is fine.
Posh, @ me
Love you and your little flan heart. I admire your tenacity. I have spreadsheets of queries. A few bites. One agent who was fancy but didn’t get me AT all. Another who loved me but mostly repped chefs (but still wanted to meet). Eventually I ran out of fuel for the game (dating & representation). You are my (s)hero.
I like you