When Your Agent or Publisher Drops You: How Writers Rebuild and Restart Their Careers
- Jul 26
- 11 min read
Updated: Oct 8
In publishing, losing an agent or publisher can feel like a career-ending blow. Thankfully, it rarely is. Here, we examine how authors recover from professional breakups, rebuild their creative footing, and re-enter the industry stronger than before. Drawing on examples from writers such as Colleen Hoover, Andy Weir, and Madeline Miller, we examine how setbacks often lead to reinvention, independence, and lasting success. For writers facing an unexpected ending, it’s a reminder that every career can begin again with clarity, control, and the courage to keep writing.
Rejection letters sting in the same familiar way a breakup does. The type of breakup that leaves you awake, tossing and turning at 2 a.m., replaying every line, every word, wondering what you could have said or done differently. In that moment, the hard-to-swallow pill is that endings are first and foremost new beginnings. Better publications exist. New chances are waiting. But only if you stop staring at the door that closed long enough to notice the ones that haven’t.
Maybe you worked beside an agent who once seemed inseparable from your dream—someone who believed in your book the way you needed someone to, who replied within minutes, who said we when they meant you. Then one day, the emails slowed, the calls stopped, and the edits on your shared document froze in place like an unfinished sentence. The silence wasn’t loud, exactly—it was worse. It was indifferent. And now your book feels suspended in digital limbo, waiting for you to decide whether it’s still alive, or if another shot of adrenaline to the heart could even bring it back.
That moment can gut you. You scroll through old emails and read the one where your agent said your manuscript gave them chills, the one where your editor called it “special." You can remember where you were when you first got those messages, what you were wearing, what you were thinking, and how you couldn’t stop smiling as you read them. Now those same words sting. They feel hollow, perhaps even like they were from another life. You can't help but begin dissecting every exchange, wondering when the energy changed, what you missed, and if the excitement you felt was ever real.
See, now we're ruminating again—but it's time to get back on track.
It’s easy to spiral and decide this loss confirms every fear you already carried, perhaps that you simply were never good enough to begin with, that the story’s success was a fluke, or that the small bit of momentum you had was dumb luck. But you must know this isn’t the end of your career. This is simply the point where the illusion of security breaks, and you’re reminded that what’s left is your work, your undeniable persistence, and your ability to rebuild, just as you always have. Losing a partner in publishing doesn’t erase what you’ve made.
What remains is the unglamorous but defining part of being a writer. The return to your desk that feels less like triumph and more like that college walk of shame you pretend never happened. The unfinished draft waits where you left it, unchanged by everything that just fell apart. The blank page doesn’t care who stopped believing in you; it only asks what comes next. This is the work done without witnesses; the incessant sitting, endless rewriting, and the insistence on showing up even when no one’s looking. It’s raw, humbling, and strangely steadying. This is the threshold that separates those who linger in fleeting moments of disappointment from those who are destined to create against all odds.
A Breakup Isn’t a Failure
When an agent ends a relationship or a publisher walks away, it can feel like the floor has given out beneath you. You may find yourself replaying every conversation and email, trying to find the exact moment things changed, but in most cases, it isn’t about you at all. Publishing is a volatile industry shaped by sales projections, seasonal priorities, and turnover that would make any other business collapse. Agents leave agencies. Imprints shutter overnight. Editors who once fought for your book get reassigned before it ever reaches the marketing meeting. What we're saying is: a breakup in this world is rarely a verdict.
This happens to more writers than anyone is willing to admit. Before The Night Circus became a bestseller, Erin Morgenstern struggled for years to find representation; her first agent dropped her before the manuscript ever sold. Delia Owens, whose Where the Crawdads Sing later dominated bestseller lists, had her first attempts rejected by multiple editors. Colleen Hoover self-published Slammed after repeatedly failing to secure an agent, selling tens of thousands of copies independently before publishers began calling her. Even Stephen King famously threw Carrie in the trash after dozens of rejections—thankfully, his wife rescued it, and the rest became history.
These writers didn’t change their stories to fit the market. In the end, they find the market that finally catches up to them. The end of one professional relationship doesn’t mean your book is dead. It means the partnership that carried it this far has done its part. What happens next depends on whether you stay still or start again. And starting again is what every successful author eventually learns to do.
Reclaiming Your Power
When an agent or publisher walks away, the first instinct is often to freeze, wait for someone else to step in and save you, or, at a minimum, prove you still belong here. But waiting can become its own trap. The most useful thing you can do is take a deliberate step back and decide what matters most to you as a writer.
Start with the intellectual property you can own—the writing itself. Print the manuscript and read it like a stranger would. Mark what still holds up and what no longer feels true. Don’t be afraid to get honest with yourself about what’s weak or doesn’t make sense. The distance will indicate whether the story requires revision or simply a different perspective.
Once you’ve taken inventory, move forward with focus, not desperation. If you plan to continue pursuing traditional publishing, study agents who’ve sold similar work recently and note what they’re representing now. If your project aligns with a smaller or independent press, identify those that share a similar subject or tone. If you’ve thought about publishing on your own, start learning the logistics: editing costs, design, distribution through IngramSpark, Draft2Digital, or direct sales. Each option has tradeoffs, but all require initiative and clarity rather than permission.
Maintaining stability during this time is less about optimism and more about establishing a routine. Continue writing. Set a schedule. Talk to other authors who’ve been here before—many have. Matt Haig went through repeated rejection before The Humans sold. Taylor Jenkins Reid was dropped by her first agent long before Daisy Jones & The Six ever reached readers. What they shared was discipline. They didn’t wait to be chosen again; they kept working until the right partnership found them.
Building a New Foundation
After the shock fades, the most productive thing you can do is rebuild with precision. Think of this as a professional relaunch, a chance to strengthen every part of your author identity and ensure that the next stage of your career stands on solid ground.
Start by reviewing everything that represents you publicly. Update your query letter, synopsis, and author bio to reflect your current experience, rather than the version of yourself that first entered the industry. If you have a website, ensure it looks current, featuring a clean layout, a clear author photo, an updated publication list, and active contact links. If your online presence feels fragmented, consolidate it. Agents, editors, and readers will search your name before responding to anything you send.
Then, research, research, research. If you’re planning to re-query, focus only on agents who are currently building lists and have made recent sales in your genre. Study their client lists, interviews, and submission guidelines. A smaller, carefully curated list of ten relevant agents is far stronger than a blind submission to fifty.
Expand your professional circle strategically. Join a regional writing organization or attend a genre-specific conference where networking actually leads to conversations, not crowds. Participate in a critique group or online workshop that focuses on revision and accountability. Surround yourself with writers who take the work as seriously as you do, who aren’t afraid to tell you when a chapter drags or when a pitch falls flat.
Finally, consider a hybrid path. The most resilient authors working today don’t limit themselves to one publishing model—they learn to adapt and do what needs to be done to get their work out there. Many have used independent publishing not as a fallback, but as proof of market viability. Only when Coleen Hoover's Slammed hit the Amazon Top 100 did agents begin calling her. Hugh Howey did the same with Wool, releasing it as a short story on Kindle before signing a print-only deal with Simon & Schuster, keeping his digital rights and redefining what author control could look like. Rupi Kaur self-published Milk and Honey in 2014, selling tens of thousands of copies through word-of-mouth and online readership before Andrews McMeel picked it up for wide distribution.
There are smaller-scale examples too. Emily St. John Mandel published her first two novels with a small press before Station Eleven landed her at Knopf. Andy Weir uploaded The Martian, chapter by chapter, to his website after being dropped by an agent, then re-released it on Amazon, where it drew enough readers to attract a film deal and a traditional publisher.
Hybrid authors utilize flexibility as a strategic approach. A self-published project, whether it’s a novella, essay series, or limited print run, can function as both a creative outlet and professional leverage. Small presses can provide editorial rigor and niche credibility that large houses overlook. Each success builds a record of professionalism and audience engagement that strengthens the case for your next traditional deal.
Every step you take now, whether publishing independently, submitting to a smaller press, or building your own readership, lays a sturdier foundation than before. You’re not waiting for an open door; you’re building your own damn door, frame and all. The difference is control. You decide when and how to move, and the industry eventually catches up to the authors who do.
Silver Linings
When an agent or publisher steps away, it’s easy to focus on the partnership, structure, and sense of momentum that has been lost. But what you’ve gained is something few writers ever get back once they enter the system: space. It's time to reimagine your voice, free from external influences that may shape it. You can write without pitching, create without forecasting market trends, and rediscover the part of the process that existed before contracts, deadlines, or expectations.
This is the point where many authors begin their most authentic work. Donna Tartt took over a decade between each of her novels because she refused to rush her process to satisfy publishing cycles, and her books continue to sell steadily years after release. Anthony Doerr spent ten years developing "All the Light We Cannot See" after his previous novel failed to gain traction, then went on to win the the Pulitzer Prize. Madeline Miller, who faced a decade of rejection before finding a publisher for The Song of Achilles, used that time to refine her voice rather than dilute it for align with a trend. What all of them share is the patience to write the story that was theirs to tell, not the one the market expected.
Continue reading: The Pulitzer Prize: America’s Highest Honor in Journalism and the Arts.
You also gain the chance to write beyond what your former representation might have allowed. Agents often need to think in terms of “brand consistency,” which can box writers into a narrow lane. Now, you can test the boundaries. That memoir you’ve been avoiding because it didn’t “fit the list”? Write it. The poetry collection you thought was too quiet? Assemble it. Submit to independent or university presses that still champion work for its merit rather than its market projection, places like Graywolf Press, Tin House, or Milkweed Editions, where editors look for originality over formula.
This independence can feel disorienting because it places every decision back in your hands. But that control is also power. You choose your next move, and that choice no longer needs to be filtered through a sales forecast or a submission schedule. It can be guided by instinct again. Some writers use this phase to expand their skill set, learning design and layout, building author newsletters, studying SEO for better reach, or connecting directly with readers through serialized platforms like Substack or Ream.
And often, this period of rebuilding leads not to decline, but to rediscovery. The manuscript you revise now, without pressure or interference, will be stronger. The pitch you write next will be clearer. The new agent or editor you eventually meet will see a writer who survived disappointment and used it to evolve. In an industry built on rejection, resilience becomes the real currency. When everything else has fallen away, the writer who pushes forward, continues writing, and is willing to start over will always find their way back.
Looking Forward
Publishing has never been more fluid or more dependent on adaptability. The divide between traditional and independent publishing has blurred into a continuum of opportunity. Writers today move between models based on project, genre, and timing. An author might sign a two-book deal with a major house, release a short story collection through a small press, and self-publish a craft essay series all in the same year. What once would have been seen as inconsistency now reads as versatility.
Agents are paying attention to that versatility. Many now scout self-published authors who’ve proven audience engagement and sales capability on their own. Publishers track independent titles that build steady readership, regardless of origin. Readers, for their part, are increasingly format-agnostic, meaning they care more about the writing than the imprint on the spine. Before We Were Yours author Lisa Wingate built her early readership through small presses before signing with Ballantine. Rupi Kaur sold hundreds of thousands of self-published copies of Milk and Honey before being picked up for worldwide distribution. Even The Martian’s Andy Weir began by posting his work online for free. Why do we keep driving this home? Because the boundaries that once defined legitimacy have dissolved.
If you’ve lost representation, it might mean you’ve outgrown the framework that once fit your work. Maybe your writing has become too ambitious for the list your agent built their business around. Perhaps you’re ready to handle your own marketing, or your next project targets a different readership entirely. Rather than viewing this moment as a professional setback, treat it as an opportunity for recalibration. What you want now may not match what you wanted when you first signed that contract, which means you're continuing to grow and develop as an author, and that's what matters above all else.
Moving forward means adjusting your strategy to match who you’ve become as a writer. Identify what success actually looks like for you, whether that is financial independence, creative control, critical recognition, or simply getting your work into more hands. Then choose the publishing route that supports that goal rather than chasing the one that looks best on paper. The writers who last in this industry aren’t the ones who never fall out of step; they’re the professionals who learn how to pivot, rebuild, and keep producing work that demands to be read.
Your Story Isn’t Over
Every writer reaches a point where the work stops moving. Perhaps the agent leaves, the deal falls through, or the manuscript that once felt unstoppable unexpectedly goes quiet. That’s the crossroads where careers are defined. Some step back permanently. Others pause, regroup, and begin again with renewed focus.
Take the time to acknowledge what’s been lost. There may be grief in the end of momentum, the absence of partnership, the doubt that creeps in after a manuscript goes cold. Let yourself feel that pain, but don’t allow it to become the foundation of your life. Once the dust settles, what remains is the same set of tools that got you here in the first place: your persistence, your curiosity, and your ability to turn raw experience into something worth reading.
Start small if you need to. Reopen the document. Rework a single paragraph. Write one clean page. The point isn’t to prove the industry wrong, but to prove to yourself that the part of you that writes survived the fallout. That’s what every enduring writer has done. Octavia Butler kept rejection slips thumbtacked above her desk to remind herself that writing was an act of insistence. Toni Morrison wrote The Bluest Eye while raising children and working full-time because no one else was going to tell that story for her. They didn’t wait for anyone's approval—they continued producing until the world caught up.
Your career hasn’t ended. It’s recalibrating. What comes next will carry a sharper edge because you’ve lived through the part no one talks about. You’ve seen how fragile momentum is and how steady you have to be without it. When you return to the page, it won’t be from a place of proving worth, but from the understanding that the only thing a writer truly controls is the work itself, and that’s more than enough to begin again.
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