Back in 2008 I decided to take my writing to the next level. I had been writing off and on for 16 years and believed my latest story was marketable. It was what they call a "high concept" psychological thriller. Big stakes. Action galore. It even packed history and romance into the mix. I scraped together enough money to attend Thrillerfest, a conference catering specifically to thriller writers. There would be plenty of famous, successful writers sharing their experiences and secrets to success, and would be accessible to us wannabes. On the agenda were lectures, classes, luncheons, interviews, panels, book signings, and cocktail parties. Dozens of the top New York City literary agents were attending and available to aspiring authors to pitch their novels for a chance at representation. The conference was touted as an author's mecca and when all was said and done it delivered everything it had promised.I anted up the money for the conference, hotel room, and airfare--a sizable sum for a working-class stiff for sure, but the payoff felt worth every penny. To rub elbows with successful authors, network with other like-minded dreamers, learn from the best in the profession, with the chance to land a big-time literary agent--well, it lured me in like a drunken, desperate sailor to a siren.I stumbled into the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central Station all wide-eyed and stupefied, like an extraterrestrial's first visit to Earth. I had been to cities all over the globe: Tokyo, Hong Kong, Soeul, LA, Vancouver, Miami, but this city had something special. My first Thrillerfest encounter was with two men handing out name tags and registering the attendees. Two friendly, down-to-Earth guys you'd have over for beers and BBQ. Turns out they were Jon Land and Andrew Peterson, both successful thriller authors. While Peterson was in the early phase of his writing career, Jon Land had over 20 novels to his credit at that time (many more now) and many best-sellers. Later that day I would watch Jon Land interview Tom Doherty, the founder of Tor Books, home to authors whose books I had been reading for decades. Somebody pinch me.Long before I had thoughts of writing I was a thriller-reading junkie. For a thriller lover such as I, this was the jackpot. The biggest names in the genre were attending. I saw Clive Cussler and was speechless, unable to stop staring. I stood not far from Lee Child at a cocktail party. I rode an elevator with Alison Brennan, and made some thoughtless, inappropriate reference to an Aerosmith song. It wasn't intentional; I was simply starstruck. I rambled and she was gracious, understanding and forgiving. During a presentation, I sat next to Rebecca Cantrell who dismissively rolled her eyes at my attempt at small talk. I listened to lectures by Andrew Gross, D. P. Lyle, Donald Maass, David Morrell, James Rollins, R. L. Stine.Alright, you get the gist. Everywhere I turned there was an industry icon.In the afternoon of the second day, I pitched my novel to thirteen of the most prestigious literary agents in the industry. Of those thirteen, nine requested the manuscript. I was elated. I returned to Florida and within a few days I had sent out everything requested of me.Over the following six weeks the rejections trickled in. When all nine submission responses were tallied, all had given a definitive no.I was crushed. That had been my best shot. I had poured everything into that endeavor. Years of work.I quit.I wanted to quit.By all outside appearances, the writing bug was a cataclysmic failure. I lot of money and a lot of time for nothing. Deep within my psyche though, I knew there was value in the experience...somewhere, although it sure as hell didn't feel like it.My writing quest looked abysmal and I had no logical reason to do anything other than quit. My pragmatic side, the voice of my father, firmly chastised me and said to give it a proper burial. You're not cut out for it. Stop this tomfoolery and grow up. Be responsible. Quit being silly. Be a man.I have no idea whether or not it made me more or less manly, or had no effect, but in the end I couldn't stop. Eventually the sting of those rejections wore away with time. Like the bull rider, I brushed myself off, took stock of my injuries, and climbed back in that chute.I realized a writer wasn't defined by the publishing deals, the number of readers, or the sales rankings. Its the act of expressing ideas through storytelling. Its independent of all else. No other components required. It's all in the "doing" not in the results.It's like the musician on the street corner, strumming, singing, eyes-closed, pouring out their soul, everyone walking by. He or she is still a musician regardless of an audience. He or she follows the call of their soul, independent of others. Independent of circumstances. Independent of how many greenbacks are thrown into the hat.I'm reminded of the film The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke plays a has-been wrestler who risks everything to get back into the ring one more time, his stage having been reduced to a tawdry warehouse. Great movie. Very inspirational for me. If you want to see someone chase their purpose at all costs, then it's a must-see.I think back to the night of that conference in NYC. After I had pitched to thirteen big-time literary agents and been in the presence of authors having household names, I carried my suitcase from the conference hotel (I couldn't afford to stay where the conference was held) about a mile through the rain to an much smaller hotel I had booked online. The kind of hotel where the night clerk is protected from muggers by a glass security window. The room itself could barely fit a twin bed, and the bathroom wasn't much bigger than an upright coffin. It smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, and the lone window looked out into a brick wall, so close an old guy like me could leap from building to building. I sat on the thread-bare blanket, box springs sagging, with my mind brimming with possibilities. There was no telling where this journey would take me, and the potential was exciting.That night became one of those defining moments. A milestone in my life. I look back at that moment and realize it was then that I knew I was a writer.Because I was doing it. I was actively chasing my dream. I was navigating through the gritty reality, and behind-the-scenes, unglamorous work to achieve publication. That experience was as necessary as the writing itself. That and...well...all of it. The rejections, the years of solitary work, the scraping together money on a shoestring budget, the lost sleep, the damp gloom of a decrepit motel--those are the cornerstones to achieve a piece of worthwhile writing. But hey, isn't that the way it is with most things in life?So after I quit sulking, I went back to work, joined a critique group of brilliant writers who bitch-slapped me back to proper humility, and started another novel.Eight years later that novel won the Beverly Hills Book Award in Horror. The same award (but in another category) that Jon Land had won the prior year. And as icing on the cake, Jon Land read my novel and had this to say:"In UNHOLY BARGAIN, debut author Travis Holt beautifully blends thriller and horror elements with seamless alacrity befitting a much more seasoned hand. An able and appropriate successor to the likes of John Farris, Ira Levin and Robert R. McCammon, his first novel offers a unique take on the nature of evil and the heroism required to fight it. UNHOLY BARGAIN is anything but that, delivering on everything it promises and never failing to satisfy in sumptuous and scintillating fashion. A major debut."Jon Land, USA Today bestselling authorFucking "A," man.  Never...ever...quit.