Coming Clean

Apr 26, 2005 10:27

Okay, so it appears that thus far, the whole agent thing hasn't worked out the way I'd hoped it would.  Apparently, Lizzie McGuire is what the big market booksellers are looking for these days, and the concept of "quality literature" has been thrown out with the bathwater and that hypothetical dead baby.

This is a disappointment, but it is by no means a fork stuck in my side.  In fact, this could actually be a blessing in disguise.  How?  Well, when I first began writing with intent to publish, I submitted to big houses and big agents in the hopes of landing big money because...

1)  At the time, my sense of self-value was completely tied up in my ability to get into print and the amount of praise or knee-jerk anger I received from sallies published in various magazines;

2)  I was trying desperately to land a firey-eyed artistic beauty who would surely be able to see to the depths of my troubled soul and together we would be able to conquer the world... or at the very least, subdue each other in the bedroom upwards of half a dozen times a night;

3)  I had a difficult time holding down regular jobs and thus knew that my chances of getting a generous pension for a quarter-century of service was remote, thereby dooming me to an old age filled with choking down reheated cat food unless I struck it big while I was young;

4)  All of the above.

Yes, it's not too pretty to admit, but when it came to art, there was a part of me (a small part, but there nonetheless) that was a whore.  Or rather, viewed my natural ability as a means to an end which, when it comes to questions of subjective art equaling hard dollars, is probably one of the most back-asswards ideas ever conceived in the history of humanity with the possible exception of "trickle-down economics."

Well, times have changed, my devoted peeps.  Now I have a job I dig and will able to retire at, a wonderful lady by my side and a rip-snorting V-8 monster under my buttocks.  The only thing missing from the picture is a copy of a novel that I wrote on my bookshelf, one that I did not pay to have published or design and bind myself.  Not a whole lot to ask, is it?

To this end, I have decided to begin submitting to small and literary houses, in the hopes that one of them will say:

"Sure, we'll publish this, although we can't guarantee you anything except for twenty author copies and the fact that if we send you on tour, you'll probably have to pay part of the ride yourself and by 'publicity,' we mean you'll be sipping coffee at a Starbucks while talking to a cub reporter from some place like the East Armpit Sentinel.  For a follow-up, anything you got would be nice.  Oh, and you have to change your pen name, because nobody likes Jesses.  Whaddya say, kid?  Does it sound like a life?"

Yeah, it does.  Plus, I'd really like to cut my hair.  Although my wife really likes my long locks (I now look like Gaias Baltar from the new Battlestar Galactica, in case you're interested), I'm sort of harkening back for the days of my aerodynamic hedgehog look.

So wish me luck, folks.  One dream might be dead, but a new one has sprouted in its place.

Peace to you and yours.

rejection, sour grapes, deep sighs

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