Yes, the life of a literary agent is idyllic. Working with brilliant writers. Rubbing shoulders with powerful editors and publishers. And cashing the big fat commission checks.

Yes, that’s how it is. Except that sometimes a literary agent has to read submissions, looking for that rare jewel that will produce another bestseller, another classic, another big fat commission check.

Alas, those moments are few and far between. A disproportionate part of an agent’s task is saying, “No, thank you.” And for a nice guy like me, that’s really hard and really, really depressing. I hate saying no. As often as it happens, I hate it. So, I thought—for my benefit and yours—I’d spend some time researching why I’m forced to say no so often. And the results surprised even me, as smart as I am.

I reread my 100 most recent “no thank yous” and categorized the reason for the rejection. And before you think you’re in that sample, this was a good while ago, and I’m not telling you exactly when. So it wasn’t you, okay? But here, sorted into ten categories, are the reasons I broke 100 writers’ hearts, in order of frequency:

Not something I represent (26)

Twenty-six of the 100 submissions were for fantasy, sci fi, memoir, or other kinds of books I don’t represent … as stated clearly on this website (here, for example).

Not a Christian book (15)

Fifteen of the 100 submissions I declined were for book ideas that weren’t distinctly—or even remotely—Christian.

Not up to snuff (16)

Sixteen of the 100 submissions didn’t meet the high standards necessary for consideration, perhaps in the quality of the writing itself, in the professionalism of the presentation, or other factors.

Platform (13)

Yes, you think most rejections are because of a modest or nonexistent platform, right? But 13 of the 100 submissions were, as I sometimes explain, “due to the need for a more substantial platform to support this kind of work.” (To be fair, this number would probably be higher if I ever got beyond the “not something I represent” and “not a Christian book” impediments.)

Wrong length for the genre (10)

Ten of the 100 submissions cited a length that indicated that the writer didn’t understand his or her genre—which also suggested the need for more education and experience (of the kind that can usually be found at good writers conferences).

A query or manuscript was submitted, not a proposal (8)

Eight of the 100 submissions were queries and/or full manuscripts, despite the information on the agency website saying that I start the conversation about representation upon seeing a full proposal (here, for example).

The pitch was for a niche project (7)

Seven of the 100 submissions were for a message that may have had merit but wouldn’t appeal to a broad enough audience to make trade publication possible.

The project was already published (2)

Two of the 100 submissions were for writers who had already self-published their book but were looking for an agent “to take it to a wider audience.” This is a fairly common kind of submission but agents are not marketers or publicists; we represent unpublished works to publishers, in the hope they will become published works. However, there are rare exceptions as this post by Steve Laube explains.

The idea was … insane (2)

Honestly, I was surprised that only two of the 100 submissions I reviewed were for, well, to put it bluntly, an insane premise or approach. Or from an apparently disturbed individual. Believe me, I would’ve guessed a higher number. Maybe the submission period I reviewed was in between full moons.

A near miss (1)

One of the 100 submissions was what I call “a near miss.” In other words, I liked it, saw potential in it, was maybe even impressed by it or by the author … but in the end, couldn’t quite take the leap. Maybe because of one of the above reasons. Maybe because I’m lazy or stupid. In such cases, however, I sincerely hope some other agent will take it across the finish line, or, if not, the writer will send his or her next project to me.

Whew. I’m feeling a little PTSD just from reliving those moments of saying no. But I share them in the hope that (a) you’ll feel sorry for me, and (b) you’ll make sure that your future pitches preempt some or all of these reasons that force me or someone else to say, “No, thank you.”

I can hope, can’t I?