When I finished the fourth and final draft of the manuscript in February, I didn’t feel jubilation or excitement. A gauzy haze of “what now?” was the vague emotion. I had simply enjoyed writing the story up to then, escaping into the world of three childhood friends who make a catastrophic group decision in response to past regrets and abuses, and who then have to face the consequences of their momentary lapse of judgment. Mob rule had swept over the politics of my imagination on a daily basis for several months, and then WHAM! Resolution took form, followed by an ending to the story, and then an awakening from that heady space of mob mentality. Suddenly, my three friends had left the house, leaving behind 315 double-spaced pages detailing their trials and tribulations.
The question remained: Was the story compelling enough, the characters engaging enough, and the wordsmith worthy enough of publication? I liked the story and the characters, but isn’t it up to the agent, editor, and ultimately the reader who have to say whether it’s enough?
Ten years ago, I had finished a manuscript of a rather unconventional novel—it had ample internal conflict between the two main, starkly contrasting characters and great moments of catharsis, but it didn’t follow the traditional storyline arc and, what really peeved me, the characters weren’t clearly visible in my own mind’s eye. They had huge cerebral cortices, but big holes in their hearts, lard-covered hands that couldn’t grasp concrete objects, ever-changing hair colours and wardrobes, and no distinct mannerisms. To my amazement, an editor of a small, subversive publishing house in Vancouver asked to see the manuscript despite its flaws. Several weeks later, she sent the manuscript back, saying it needed more work, and provided a page of suggestions. The editorial advice was priceless—and free. I spent six months re-working the manuscript, and re-submitted. She said it was vastly improved and would pass it on to the editorial board. Six months later, I got a rejection letter from the publisher saying the story didn’t fit their “publishing program” that year.
I didn’t write again—until last year. I’m still not altogether sure why I stopped except that I needed to work; more specifically, I needed money to pay the rent. And, although my 20s were plagued with fluctuating self-doubt and delusional visions of myself as the second coming of Christopher Marlowe (coupled with a Gogol complex), I was no Anthony Trollope, writing the Barsetshire novels while keeping a full-time job at the proverbial post office. Plus, my full-time job involved a great deal of writing so perhaps that particular urge had been placated.
When I quit my job last year, the writing automatically flowed, but this time without grand delusions of creating capital “L” Literature. I just had a desire to entertain myself with a good story and to make new imaginary friends.
So, when I suddenly had a manuscript on my hands, I remembered that generous editor from ten years earlier. I looked her up and found that she is now at a self-publishing outfit charging $4 to $6 per page for her editorial advice.
If I had the $1,260 to $1,890 in cash, I’d pay for her help again, to provide details of what may be wrong with specific sections, to give me a road map for the reader to travel along, identifying where the road should be smooth, where potholes should jar the ride, where the incline could be steeper, and where mountains should appear.
It still raised the option, though: to self-publish or not? It seems cost-prohibitive, but I still can’t dismiss the possibility. Especially when I think of Terry Fallis who won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Honour here in Canada last year for his self-published novel, “The Best Laid Plans”.
But, I thought, let’s see what an agent can or cannot do first. It’s a fairly commercial—as in marketable—story, so how difficult could it be? (Ah, naïveté.)
So the search for an agent began...
The question remained: Was the story compelling enough, the characters engaging enough, and the wordsmith worthy enough of publication? I liked the story and the characters, but isn’t it up to the agent, editor, and ultimately the reader who have to say whether it’s enough?
Ten years ago, I had finished a manuscript of a rather unconventional novel—it had ample internal conflict between the two main, starkly contrasting characters and great moments of catharsis, but it didn’t follow the traditional storyline arc and, what really peeved me, the characters weren’t clearly visible in my own mind’s eye. They had huge cerebral cortices, but big holes in their hearts, lard-covered hands that couldn’t grasp concrete objects, ever-changing hair colours and wardrobes, and no distinct mannerisms. To my amazement, an editor of a small, subversive publishing house in Vancouver asked to see the manuscript despite its flaws. Several weeks later, she sent the manuscript back, saying it needed more work, and provided a page of suggestions. The editorial advice was priceless—and free. I spent six months re-working the manuscript, and re-submitted. She said it was vastly improved and would pass it on to the editorial board. Six months later, I got a rejection letter from the publisher saying the story didn’t fit their “publishing program” that year.
I didn’t write again—until last year. I’m still not altogether sure why I stopped except that I needed to work; more specifically, I needed money to pay the rent. And, although my 20s were plagued with fluctuating self-doubt and delusional visions of myself as the second coming of Christopher Marlowe (coupled with a Gogol complex), I was no Anthony Trollope, writing the Barsetshire novels while keeping a full-time job at the proverbial post office. Plus, my full-time job involved a great deal of writing so perhaps that particular urge had been placated.
When I quit my job last year, the writing automatically flowed, but this time without grand delusions of creating capital “L” Literature. I just had a desire to entertain myself with a good story and to make new imaginary friends.
So, when I suddenly had a manuscript on my hands, I remembered that generous editor from ten years earlier. I looked her up and found that she is now at a self-publishing outfit charging $4 to $6 per page for her editorial advice.
If I had the $1,260 to $1,890 in cash, I’d pay for her help again, to provide details of what may be wrong with specific sections, to give me a road map for the reader to travel along, identifying where the road should be smooth, where potholes should jar the ride, where the incline could be steeper, and where mountains should appear.
It still raised the option, though: to self-publish or not? It seems cost-prohibitive, but I still can’t dismiss the possibility. Especially when I think of Terry Fallis who won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Honour here in Canada last year for his self-published novel, “The Best Laid Plans”.
But, I thought, let’s see what an agent can or cannot do first. It’s a fairly commercial—as in marketable—story, so how difficult could it be? (Ah, naïveté.)
So the search for an agent began...
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