The recent You Tube phenom, Susan Boyle—the dowdy, heavily-browed, 47-year-old virgin from some UK village, has just reached the 16 million mark in total viewers with her debut performance on “Britain’s Got Talent”.
This strikes me, particularly these days, as strong evidence of one thing: we love the underdog.
Surprising, though, in this case considering she’s a middle-aged, fashion-challenged woman with what appears to be remnants of a home permanent tragically rippling through what’s left of her greying hair (oh how sadly I relate! I don’t think my hair’s ever been the same since that home perm when I was 12 years old…damn 1980s). Surprising, indeed, considering the hours devoted on TV to hard-bodied models and celebrities, and cutesy-pa-tootsy pubescent vixens and their foxy male counterparts. All the iron-flattened hair extensions, silicon-filled breasts, and narrow waistlines in the world couldn’t have prepared me to believe the popularity of a Susan Boyle could ever occur.
But perhaps here’s the reason: we’re jaded—finally. We’ve finally seen enough of the unreal, plastic folks that inundate our popular culture that we cheer when we see an average person do something unexpectedly talented and catch that lucky break.
Or at least that’s what I hope for.
In addition to relating to Boyle for her follicular-challenged existence, I relate to her for another reason. I have written a novel and, since February, have been trying to catch that lucky break, as well. Like Boyle, I decided to go big or go home (or, more accurately, stay home), and query literary agents in New York, New York—because it’s a helluva town, apparently, and why not? I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? A bunch of form rejections and non-responses, for sure. But what if? What if I could find that one daring agent who would actually agree to represent someone from Small Town, Canada, who routinely misspells words like “cheque”, “neighbour”, and “gynaecology” and uses the metric system to describe all things relating to volume, distance, and weight? And what if that agent could actually find a publisher who would be equally daring to buy the manuscript? Hmm…wouldn’t that be like sweet Susan Boyle, tears welling in her eyes when Simon Cowell tells her what an extraordinary little tiger she is?
Brings tears to my eyes, that’s for sure.
So, this will be the context of my blog: detailing what this frumpy, 40-something woman does to catch a break. But I’m not asking for 16 million viewers (which I know I’d only get if my horrific death was captured on a closed-circuit camera next to nesting eagles—I imagine a runaway train or, worse, a taser-yielding gung-ho gang of coppers). I’ll only offer a glimpse into what happens when an average person of average ability attempts to get a manuscript published in the Mecca of Literature (New York City, that is, and not the other literary Meccas of this world: London or any Dublin pub).
Hopefully, there’ll be a happy ending. If not, then hopefully I’ll make others attempting to do the same thing feel better, either with a sense of shared experience or relief that, by the grace of God, mine is an experience unto my own.
Still, I can’t help but suspect the next time we see Susan, she’ll be cleaned up, dolled up, and girdled in. Hell, I’d do the same (I’m not averse to showers but I’d need some real incentive to wear a dress).
This strikes me, particularly these days, as strong evidence of one thing: we love the underdog.
Surprising, though, in this case considering she’s a middle-aged, fashion-challenged woman with what appears to be remnants of a home permanent tragically rippling through what’s left of her greying hair (oh how sadly I relate! I don’t think my hair’s ever been the same since that home perm when I was 12 years old…damn 1980s). Surprising, indeed, considering the hours devoted on TV to hard-bodied models and celebrities, and cutesy-pa-tootsy pubescent vixens and their foxy male counterparts. All the iron-flattened hair extensions, silicon-filled breasts, and narrow waistlines in the world couldn’t have prepared me to believe the popularity of a Susan Boyle could ever occur.
But perhaps here’s the reason: we’re jaded—finally. We’ve finally seen enough of the unreal, plastic folks that inundate our popular culture that we cheer when we see an average person do something unexpectedly talented and catch that lucky break.
Or at least that’s what I hope for.
In addition to relating to Boyle for her follicular-challenged existence, I relate to her for another reason. I have written a novel and, since February, have been trying to catch that lucky break, as well. Like Boyle, I decided to go big or go home (or, more accurately, stay home), and query literary agents in New York, New York—because it’s a helluva town, apparently, and why not? I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? A bunch of form rejections and non-responses, for sure. But what if? What if I could find that one daring agent who would actually agree to represent someone from Small Town, Canada, who routinely misspells words like “cheque”, “neighbour”, and “gynaecology” and uses the metric system to describe all things relating to volume, distance, and weight? And what if that agent could actually find a publisher who would be equally daring to buy the manuscript? Hmm…wouldn’t that be like sweet Susan Boyle, tears welling in her eyes when Simon Cowell tells her what an extraordinary little tiger she is?
Brings tears to my eyes, that’s for sure.
So, this will be the context of my blog: detailing what this frumpy, 40-something woman does to catch a break. But I’m not asking for 16 million viewers (which I know I’d only get if my horrific death was captured on a closed-circuit camera next to nesting eagles—I imagine a runaway train or, worse, a taser-yielding gung-ho gang of coppers). I’ll only offer a glimpse into what happens when an average person of average ability attempts to get a manuscript published in the Mecca of Literature (New York City, that is, and not the other literary Meccas of this world: London or any Dublin pub).
Hopefully, there’ll be a happy ending. If not, then hopefully I’ll make others attempting to do the same thing feel better, either with a sense of shared experience or relief that, by the grace of God, mine is an experience unto my own.
Still, I can’t help but suspect the next time we see Susan, she’ll be cleaned up, dolled up, and girdled in. Hell, I’d do the same (I’m not averse to showers but I’d need some real incentive to wear a dress).
Hey Katarina,
ReplyDeleteNice heartfelt outreach to the niche-based masses!
At long last. The web is the high and low brow discontent that New York, New York types actually and secretly envy more and more each day. Why? Because it's actually the new publishers paradise with office towers worldwide...
You can grown you audience here. It's create, click and play. Similar opportunities are already time tested and proven - obscure film makers, Indy publishers, the fake Steve Jobs, those burgeoning Susan Boyles...
NYNY is being forced to make new picks of those who can generate their own fame and fanfare.
Why second guess the wisdom of the crowd... better known as what the market actually likes when not proscribed with contrived market research mass appeal options.
So, you might even want to publish the first chapter on-line as a sampler to give folks a taste the real carnal creative Kat food for thought menu.
That's being done more and more by even so-called reputable authors who aren't perceived that they even need to do that now.
Au contraire, they're digitally savvy folks who know full well it's necessary for free marketing to keep generating their harmony amidst the noise of everyone else clamouring (another 'u' word 'suffix to say' to the american dictionary) for causes...
That is, all us amateur professionals, doing great things, making our own culture straight from the boiling black pots and kettles of passion thick with intent and purpose, pouring our human blood honesty from our souls.
Looking forward to more novel ideas... ;-)
If only you knew how your image of a boiling black pot "thick with intent and purpose" fits within the story...you'd shake your head at the coincidence. And I always like coincidences, snippets of surrendipity--they, like encouraging, thoughtful words from friends, make everything make sense somehow...
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