On Writing as a Career
It's probably good that the film thing hasn't panned out cuz (ready? ready?) I just scored an internship at (ready?) a literary agency. A good one. The dude who discovered Vincent Lam (Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures) and represents the chick who did the wicked Skim graphic novel. And so on. His client list is uber impressed. I will break down how this came about.
Scene One: Andrew at work, freaking out about future.
Andrew (internal monologue): Fuck this worrying shit. I'm going to do something proactive.
[begins sending emails to production companies, editors, ad agencies, and literary agencies; gets responses from two, a magazine and a literary agency]
Agent [via email]: Let's meet for coffee. Bring some writing.
Scene Two: Andrew's washroom
[Andrew, nearly vomiting from excitement]
Scene Three: Coffee place, convenient located close to new apartment and, we later learn, the literary agency.
[Andrew orders tea, fiddles nervously with pen]
Agent: Hi.
Andrew: Hi.
[They begin discussing a variety of cool shit; agent asks Andrew to talk about himself; Andrew does so]
Agent: Cool, well, did you bring writing?
[Andrew hands writing over, waits while agent reads ALL OF IT]
Agent: You're good. I can see why you're getting published.
[Andrew wets himself; agent says he usually does three month internships, but he thinks it might be cool if I stick around longer]
Agent: So what kind of writing are you working on right now?
Andrew: Uh, my thesis is going to be a novel.
Agent: Hang around and I'll show you how to write a novel.
[Agent tells Andrew about a workshop he runs Saturdays, among the attendees writers he's considering signing; says Andrew should come]
Agent: Have you ever seen Californication?
[Conversation devolves into talk of Hank Moody, labia, pregnancy scares, and how the agency is, as he put it, "into some crazy shit you're going to love."]
Agent: So I'm in New York next week. When I get back I'll introduce you to everyone and hook you up with this manuscript we're editing to send out.
[/meeting]
This, friends, is what we call outrageous fortune, EXACTLY the kind of thing you dream of happening when you do a creative writing program. I've always concentrated on the craft itself. I think you have to, no matter what art form you're pursuing.
I never thought about publishing until I felt like I had a grasp of the basics, and even then, I only sent stuff to ezines, non paying places. I took things slow, not getting ahead of myself. I didn't try to run when I could barely crawl. Agents were always something for later. Right now, I thought, let's get the craft down. Worry about that stuff later.
Then, in Spring, my creative writing prof told me about an agent looking for new clients who asked him if he had anyone in the program who looked promising. He said he thought of me, which made me lose my shit. I took it as a sign that maybe it's time to turn the heat up a centigrade or seven.
On the advice of an editor from Harper Collins, I started doing whatever I could to get my name out. Book reviews, articles, whatever. I'm applying for the next available Toronto Arts Council Grant. I'm writing a novel and it's not just an exercise. Somehow I've accumulated enough publication credits, editorial work, and contacts that I can query places and not look like a fucking idiot. Places like literary agencies for internships.
Somehow things got serious and I guess all that's left to do is close my eyes, dive, and pray there's not some craggy pointy rocky shit under the waves.
Scene One: Andrew at work, freaking out about future.
Andrew (internal monologue): Fuck this worrying shit. I'm going to do something proactive.
[begins sending emails to production companies, editors, ad agencies, and literary agencies; gets responses from two, a magazine and a literary agency]
Agent [via email]: Let's meet for coffee. Bring some writing.
Scene Two: Andrew's washroom
[Andrew, nearly vomiting from excitement]
Scene Three: Coffee place, convenient located close to new apartment and, we later learn, the literary agency.
[Andrew orders tea, fiddles nervously with pen]
Agent: Hi.
Andrew: Hi.
[They begin discussing a variety of cool shit; agent asks Andrew to talk about himself; Andrew does so]
Agent: Cool, well, did you bring writing?
[Andrew hands writing over, waits while agent reads ALL OF IT]
Agent: You're good. I can see why you're getting published.
[Andrew wets himself; agent says he usually does three month internships, but he thinks it might be cool if I stick around longer]
Agent: So what kind of writing are you working on right now?
Andrew: Uh, my thesis is going to be a novel.
Agent: Hang around and I'll show you how to write a novel.
[Agent tells Andrew about a workshop he runs Saturdays, among the attendees writers he's considering signing; says Andrew should come]
Agent: Have you ever seen Californication?
[Conversation devolves into talk of Hank Moody, labia, pregnancy scares, and how the agency is, as he put it, "into some crazy shit you're going to love."]
Agent: So I'm in New York next week. When I get back I'll introduce you to everyone and hook you up with this manuscript we're editing to send out.
[/meeting]
This, friends, is what we call outrageous fortune, EXACTLY the kind of thing you dream of happening when you do a creative writing program. I've always concentrated on the craft itself. I think you have to, no matter what art form you're pursuing.
I never thought about publishing until I felt like I had a grasp of the basics, and even then, I only sent stuff to ezines, non paying places. I took things slow, not getting ahead of myself. I didn't try to run when I could barely crawl. Agents were always something for later. Right now, I thought, let's get the craft down. Worry about that stuff later.
Then, in Spring, my creative writing prof told me about an agent looking for new clients who asked him if he had anyone in the program who looked promising. He said he thought of me, which made me lose my shit. I took it as a sign that maybe it's time to turn the heat up a centigrade or seven.
On the advice of an editor from Harper Collins, I started doing whatever I could to get my name out. Book reviews, articles, whatever. I'm applying for the next available Toronto Arts Council Grant. I'm writing a novel and it's not just an exercise. Somehow I've accumulated enough publication credits, editorial work, and contacts that I can query places and not look like a fucking idiot. Places like literary agencies for internships.
Somehow things got serious and I guess all that's left to do is close my eyes, dive, and pray there's not some craggy pointy rocky shit under the waves.