"Discourse is fleeting, but junk mail is forever." --Joe Bob Briggs

Well, the end of the querying process is getting closer—and, with that knowledge, my shoulders feel a slight lightening of the usual, invisible weight. I sent the final set of email queries last weekend. And, with my web post on the Publisher’s Marketplace, the last thing on my to do list is to send out query letters by post with Self Addressed Stamped Envelopes dutifully enclosed. Once those are sent out, the Graces go to bed to sleep a fairy tale sleep of, quite possibly, years. Which is OK. I have faith that a prince—or princess, for that matter—will eventually trot along on a white steed and waken them from their slumber.

And once those letters are out, I can solely concentrate on the new manuscript. Turn a page, so to speak.

With the prospect of mailing out a dozen or so letters, however, I can’t help but ponder the strange relationship I have with paper. In my former career, it wasn’t unusual to have 30 banker boxes full of documents and be tasked with the job of summarizing their contents. The hours of my daily life were spent delving into an evidentiary morass, detailing the mundane and describing the meat of the matter. Mine was a life of fraud; thankfully, the fraud perpetrated by others but a fraud at my fingertips, nonetheless. The victims and their financial sufferings were familiar to me on paper alone. All in all, it wasn’t an occupation to restore your faith in mankind, not one that left you with positive thoughts on the long commute home every night—knowing that all of it, the awful ways people take advantage of and steal from others, break fiduciary trusts, and are motivated by sheer greed was, nonetheless, all reducible to clinically white paper, without a trace of sympathetic or philosophical language.

The truth is, I’m not a big fan of paper. Not the usual sort of white, bonded paper, that is. I’m big on recycling, absolutely high about hemp, and get misty over hand-made tactile treasures. But office paper? The kind that’s bleached to unnatural whiteness? Yeah, not too fond of the stuff. Without a doubt, my childhood years living in a pulp and paper town, spending my university summers working at one of those pulp and paper mills, really turned me off paper for good. There, I saw beautiful trees turned into pulverized mounds of wood chips, those wood chips then turned into a frothy mix of bleached goo, effluent ponds churning chemical-ridden sludge that would eventually get pumped into the mighty Fraser and Nechako Rivers and, finally, see massive rolls of what looked like toilet paper for Titans. Visually, it wasn’t easy on heart. The regular waft of sulphur and chlorine from the bleaching process wasn’t easy on the sinuses, either.

Years ago, I had written a short story for an anthology on labour—not the birthing kind of labour, but the labour experience of the key industries of the province. The labour behind paper was my theme…and now it seems that’s the theme of this blog entry, as well.

I guess there’s a dread. A dread of the waste of paper. As it is, with my email queries, of the 17 who responded back (either with form or thoughtful “no, but thanks” responses, or with requests to see sample chapters or the whole manuscript), 3/4ths of them responded within three days. Either I heard right away, or I have heard nothing. But it’s the wait that’s the worst part—and sending out letters only means longer waits (sigh).

Then again, it’ll be interesting to see if posted queries get more responses (any sort of response). I wonder if agents feel more obligated to send a response to someone who’s gone to the trouble of sending out query letters by post with Self Addressed Stamped Envelopes dutifully enclosed…

I guess we’ll see. I guess we’ll also see if the bubble gum chewing teenager at the nearest postal outlet understands what an International Reply Coupon is...

I'll Give You Desperate...

In light of what that writer said, as mentioned in the last entry—about not alluding to rejections in her blog for fear that she would appear desperate and her novel would come across as insanely un-likeable, un-publishable, and untouchable by angelic agent hands, I thought I would take the one step I said I would several weeks ago: post on the Publisher’s Marketplace as Writer Seeking Agent.

So, I’ll try it out for a month or two. With my Google Analytics set, I’ll be able to see if anyone—let alone agents—even bothers to use that particular forum. As I’ve said before, why should they? Agents have all those email queries land on their laptops the way I get junk emails for cheap Viagra prescriptions. If I had dozens of men bow at my feet every morning asking me to enter into legally (or illegally) binding relationships with them, why on earth would I bother to go to singles bars or on blind dates? I wouldn’t have the opportunity, motive, or even the energy.

But, as dubious as I am, I’m still curious about the reputation of the Publisher’s Marketplace. And, after a month or so passes, I’ll report back on the (indubitable lack of) traffic…

Maybe next time I’ll write about the power of positive thinking.

What Part of "No" Don't You Understand?

It’s funny how you expect things to happen, and then they don’t—or at least not quite. For example, I expected a rejection from Agent #2—the agent I sent the manuscript to at the beginning of the month (what can I say? My eastern European upbringing with parents who lived through World War II has imbued me with a healthy dose of negative thinking)—but what I hadn’t expected was the rejection to come in the mail, dated a week after the manuscript had been originally requested and emailed. I also hadn’t expected the rejection to be quaintly printed out on a 4x7-perforated piece of heavyweight paper.

There’s something more intriguing to me about the paper itself than its contents. The perforations are curious, making me wonder who else’s rejection was on the single, larger sheet. Given the size, I imagine that I shared the same rejection with three others—and I can’t help but wonder about those three strangers, the connection we have—or at least had until the perforations tore us asunder.

Here’s what the note says:

Thank you for the chance with THE GRACES OF MERCY & CIRCUMSTANCE, but I’m afraid it didn’t speak to me. Fiction is of course notoriously subjective, so I hope you won’t be discouraged by this, and will continue your search for representation.

I do appreciate your thinking of me and wish you the best of luck with this.

Cordially,
[Agent #2]

I wondered why the message came via the US Postal Service, too, especially since I sent everything via email. Then I realized that her agency—one of the largest literary agencies in the world—didn’t specify query guidelines. I had taken a shot by emailing her and lucked out when she wanted to see the manuscript.

Holding this note, this card-like missive, I realize there’s something about the feel of paper—like the feel of a book in your hands. It’s far more appealing than, say, staring at a computer monitor, feeling the effects of the flashing lights pierce into your subconscious, straining both your optic nerve and neck. Is that why I find this rejection appealing, simply because it is on paper? I doubt the agent read the whole manuscript—not in a week’s time—so the note doesn’t affect me as much as it might if I knew she’d made it to the last page, but I still have an urge to frame it—almost two weeks after its receipt—because it is so lovely to look at in its classic simplicity. Only the name of the agency appears at the bottom, not its Park Avenue and international addresses nor its various phone and fax lines. Plus, she signed only with her first name, which adds to its overall unpretentiousness…

It seems so old school—pleasantly so. It reminds me of the image of Jack Kerouac and his roll of paper, typing “On The Road” on his amphetamine high without having to worry about changing the sheets. It also makes me think that this is how great writers of the past would have received rejections—because I imagine everyone being rejected before being discovered. That makes them somehow more fascinating, the authors who could paper their walls with rejection notices and then smile smugly after they’d won a Pulitzer or stayed on the New York Times best selling list for years.

When I got the rejection, I remember thinking, oh well, back to the drawing board so to speak, as I sat with my morning coffee scanning through old posts on the various blogs I’m catching up on. Then, as coincidence would have it, I read the following from a writer:

I rarely…talk about querying and submissions on my blog, because I don’t want to look desperate or make it sound like my novel is one that has been rejected so many times that no sane agent would want to touch it.

Hmmm. It had made me wonder. Querying and the subsequent rejections and non-responses is pretty much the basis of my entire blog. Does this make me sound desperate? Like an utter outcast in the land of fiction writing?

I hadn’t thought of it that way.

So, two weeks after pondering that statement, here’s my response: writers have a common experience in the underbelly realm of rejection—so why not embrace it, share it, and then conquer the fear of it? The more you fear rejection, the more you try to avoid it—which only means you don’t dare expose yourself to others and you then become paralyzed. And not daring…well, that’s just down right counterproductive, isn’t it—especially when daring is at the core of querying in the first place?

Secondly, there’s a great deal of hubris in thinking that agents actually bother to read every wannabe author’s blogs. How would they have the time let alone the inclination when their email boxes are full of dozens of daily queries?

I say, who cares? The literary world is full of great writers who received tons of rejections for novels that still matter, and the world is full of extraordinarily talented writers who never get published simply because they’re not lucky…or aren’t related to someone famous…or haven’t been photographed drinking peach schnapps with Osama bin Laden. So be it. Let’s move on, shall we?

Yes, I think I’ll frame this rejection note. Because if this lovely little card is what we’re so afraid of, dear Lord, how do we ever manage to leave the house?

As a postscript, I sent out a quick email to Agent #3, the one who requested the first 50 pages of the manuscript about a month ago, just asking if she’d be interested in seeing the rest of it before I sent out the next batch of queries (because, really, it’s the last 50 pages that has all the action). She responded:

It takes us quite a bit to read when we are busy. I will try to read ASAP but feel free to keep sending queries in the meantime. Please just don't sign with anyone before giving us an opportunity to complete reading.

My best,

[Agent #3]

So, you see? If a complete stranger can have faith in the impossible happening, why shouldn’t I?

Besides, if it was that easy to find an agent and that easy to get a first novel published, that would make a pretty boring story—at least in my books.

Wanna taste?

Finally. The sample chapters are posted here for your viewing pleasure (or displeasure, depending on your palate).

Let me know what you think. Do they make you want to feast on more or do they leave a bad taste in your mouth? Too much salt, not enough pepper...or is the texture just a little too, well, funky for consumption?

My Kingdom for a Wooden Shoe

I don’t like to brag but I’m not usually perplexed by technology or the computer-ese jargon of elite IT secret societies. What does perplex me, however, is the HTML language in the context of the painfully useless and inaptly named Blogger Help.

Help desk? Is that what Satan calls his podium at the gates of hell? Satan, with his little concierge nameplate pinned to his heartless chest that says, “Ask me where to go”?

I thought that, while waiting for the anticipated rejection from the latest agent, I could post some sample chapters here, then research other agents in preparation for the next batch of queries as soon as that polite “no thanks, but other agents will no doubt feel differently” is received.

But I’m stuck. I can’t figure out how to post the sample chapters as midget widgets to the right of your screen, accessible as separate windows rather than as a full-blown artery blogging-clogging post below.

The so-called “help” tells me how to hide posts, to copy and paste a string of text in the HTML template. Great. But where? The template is two pages long. Do I paste at the beginning or at the end of my rope? I then find another reference that says a similar string of text needs to be pasted after the first {body} but before the first {header}—

but neither the specified body nor header is in my expanded template. Apparently, I am without arms and legs (I already knew I've irrevocably lost my head).

So here I am. Trudging through the blogging bog, unable to post sample chapters as mere handy dandy links rather than as additional semblances of “War & Peace”, and convinced another rejection is forthcoming—that is, in precisely two weeks when I send a reminder email.

For some reason, Mark Twain appears in the room, standing next to me. He is atypically—but not surprisingly—speechless. But he’s wearing wooden clogs and is about to throw one at the monitor…or is he aiming at my head?

“Ha!” I laugh, as I duck under my desk. “You forget—I am headless. And I have no body, funny man. Oh, and by the way, this is a non-smoking house, if you please…”

But I digress—because I don’t know what else to do. Except to walk away, slowly, from the computer, then run away in a zigzag manner.

What's in a name?

Someone asked me the other day what the title of my novel was.

“The Graces of Mercy and Circumstance,” I replied.

“Wow! That’s a mouthful,” he frowned and walked away, clearly afraid that I would elaborate. (That day, someone also laughed at my use of an allegedly non-existent word: “unmown”. Clearly, it was not a great day for literature or the English language.)

Had the man not run away before I could have defended my title, here’s what I would have said.

I love phrases that stir up multiple meanings—not double entendres, but triple, even quadruple, entendres. A phrase that can be read simply for what it is or, if you’re so inclined, can be shredded into tinier bits of a greater whole, put back together, and leave your mind reeling with myriad images.

The three characters of “The Graces of Mercy and Circumstance” are imperfect personifications of the three mythological Graces, the handmaidens to Venus, who represent beauty, charm, and creativity.

Karin is physically beautiful, although she’s either unaware of it or doubts it altogether. She spends most of her energy exercising—in particular, running—to the point of exhaustion. This is how she copes with her regrets in life and then, later, the loss of her son. As she gets older and more embittered, she and her body become increasingly hardened to the world.

Trisha, on the other hand, charms everyone with her cooking—especially with her specialty: comfort food. She learns early on as a child that her baked goods appease the people around her but she partakes too much in her own delicacies in an attempt to comfort herself, as well. By the time she’s in her late thirties, her doctor has told her she’s pre-diabetic and a good candidate for heart disease if she doesn’t lose weight. Trisha has a hard time giving up the one thing she believes everyone loves her for and subconsciously refuses to lose the protective layer of fat that envelops her.

Alaina, the third of the main characters, studies photography at a fine art school after high school as she’s drawn to the creative expression of her camera, but ends up as an event photographer with her own business. Eventually, her creativity is stultified with repetitious wedding ceremonies, demanding clients, and rigid, predictable poses. Gradually, her profession feels more like commerce than creativity. She quits her photography business but is then plagued with boredom. When she picks up her camera again, she rediscovers her creative energy during her long morning walks, as though she has just noticed the landscape around her. It’s on one of these morning walks that she’s serendipitously reunited with her childhood friend, Karin.

So, although Karin, Trisha, and Alaina represent the graces of beauty, charm, and creativity, their graces are flawed by personal circumstances.

As for mercy, there’s the concept of God’s mercy—when God chooses to forgive instead of punish—as well as the grace of God—the bestowal of unmerited blessings, such as the salvation of sinners. The women are faced with the option of extending mercy upon the recipient of their intended act of vigilantism but ultimately—and without giving up too much of the ending—they’re spared much of the punishment that could have befallen them as a result of their sins, at least temporarily. Nonetheless, they start out—and end up—with the power to act mercifully toward themselves and others; however, the power to either forgive or punish will weigh on them for the rest of their lives.

Yes, I guess he was right. It is a mouthful.

Scientist Meets Fisherman

Two days into the experiment and, so far, I have the same result as the very first batch of query letters I sent out in February; that is, a response the next day for the whole manuscript.

So, expanding on the fishing analogy, it’s like there are two fishermen, both strapped in their respective boat seats for an afternoon of marlin fishing. One is encumbered with too much gear: his rod’s heavier than the other fisherman’s but not as strong, and his lifejacket is too bulky and chafes his armpits, leaving him uncomfortable and rigid. Using the same fishing line, hook, and bait, however, they both manage to get simultaneous bites from their trophy fish. Neither gets anything more than that one teasing nibble (although both get painfully sunburnt).

The encumbered one feels a bit smug because his equipment, as flawed as it is, got him the same results as his streamlined partner—who, of course, invested more in his lightweight gear. Still, since they’re friends, they know they’ll have a good story to tell their buddies back at the hotel bar even though they’re saddened to return home from their once-in-a-lifetime fishing trip empty-handed.

Suddenly, someone appears next to the men on the boat. He holds out his arms and, amazingly, a marlin jumps out of the water and right into the man’s embrace. Even more amazingly, the marlin looks at the stranger, as if to say, “Take me. I’m yours.”

So, in the end, it may not be the gear that matters. As long as you have a good hook, line, and sinker—even if they’re all made of weighty stuff—you should at least get a bite. What really counts is being able to take the fish home, stuff it, and hang it over your fireplace.

Hmm. I think something just got lost in that analogy…

The story makes me wonder, though: since I’ve got the same result as the first cast of query letters, I may have already assumed that I’ll end up with the same conclusion: empty-handedness. Or, more likely, it only feels that it would be utterly magical, if not impossible, for such a rarity to land so easily in my hands. It’s like magic dust that sparkles as it spills through your fingers.

Still, if you’re going to write a novel—and conduct science experiments—it’s good, if not intrinsically necessary, to believe in a little bit of magic.