A paragraph. The first one.
I just read some of my old poems. They are weird. I don't know if I like them or not. I don't know if I can go back to poetry or not. I just don't feel compelled to write slam anymore.
I sent the manuscript off to a few more agents today. Can I just say that writing query letters is wholly and completely frustrating. It really is. I spent some time revising the beginning. Do you want to know how it starts? I'll give you the first paragraph, but that's all you get. OK. Here you go:
Out of everyone in the fifth grade class, I’d say there were really only three of us who lived on the outside, but I was the first one and by far the worst off. I was the Yankee, for crying out loud, and all of these guys had grown up with Soviet Union this and that being crammed down their Eastern European throats. People’s Republic nonsense. Anti-American propaganda. Red Pioneer Youth. And that’s where the line was always drawn. This was about blood and borders-about who was born where and who was not. I was not one of them, and no matter how perfect I could have been, I would still have my dark blue passport with the gold letters boldly spelling out UNITED STATES OF AMERICA below the picture of an eagle. I wore the passport every day in a small white pouch hanging around my neck under my shirt. It wasn’t like a ring or a pair of glasses. It was never so familiar that I was able to forget the weight of it.
I sent the manuscript off to a few more agents today. Can I just say that writing query letters is wholly and completely frustrating. It really is. I spent some time revising the beginning. Do you want to know how it starts? I'll give you the first paragraph, but that's all you get. OK. Here you go:
Out of everyone in the fifth grade class, I’d say there were really only three of us who lived on the outside, but I was the first one and by far the worst off. I was the Yankee, for crying out loud, and all of these guys had grown up with Soviet Union this and that being crammed down their Eastern European throats. People’s Republic nonsense. Anti-American propaganda. Red Pioneer Youth. And that’s where the line was always drawn. This was about blood and borders-about who was born where and who was not. I was not one of them, and no matter how perfect I could have been, I would still have my dark blue passport with the gold letters boldly spelling out UNITED STATES OF AMERICA below the picture of an eagle. I wore the passport every day in a small white pouch hanging around my neck under my shirt. It wasn’t like a ring or a pair of glasses. It was never so familiar that I was able to forget the weight of it.