The Electronic Slush Pile

Since February, I’ve only sent out 20 queries, I just realized—12 since March 30th. Yes, it takes time to research agents’ past and present clients, to read all those book reviews and sample chapters on the web, to scan the posts on the Absolute Write forum to see what other wannabe novelists are saying about their experiences with specific agents. 12 still sounds pretty paltry, though, now that I look at it. Paltry especially in light of what one agent noted on her website, that they receive, on average, 30 queries a day.

That’s right—30 queries a day.

Which supports what I’ve often suspected. Everyone’s got a novel (not to mention a blog, for shame). Everyone—including their dog—has a story they’re trying to peddle. Suddenly, the experience seems cheapened. I feel a set of red patent leather 4-inch stilettos squeezing my fishnet stocking clad feet, toes scuffed and heels ground down, as I stand on some darkened street corner, whistling “Love For Sale” to passing sailors.

Well, that’s an image out of the 1950s, to be sure. And, from what I can gather, that’s when the relationship between novelist and literary agent really came to fruition, likely as more writers came out of all those post-war Parisian cafés and Madrid bullfights, at a time when everyone thought they could write like Hemingway with moving monosyllables.

Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Give me a fresh set of eyes, an objective, tell-it-like-it-is professional to give me a dose of reality and set me straight, someone who makes it their job to foster relationships with editors and publishers, and tells me what to do, where to be, how many dollar bills to shove under my bra strap. Gives me more time to do what I want: write, that is.

Besides, I am still far too new to this to think like a weary and seasoned streetwalker. Me? I’m still the happy hooker. And two-thirds through the first draft of my next manuscript, I can whistle “Que Sera Sera” to my dog as he sleeps, curled up on my feet, keeping my toes warm while he dreams to the clicking of the keys on my laptop.