I've got a story...

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...

Bully for the Underdog

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).