All the world's a stage...so where are all the critics?

Awesome...I found a blog where people can submit their query letters and have them critiqued by complete strangers. The Public Query Slushpile is such an incredible idea and an immense service to us lowly, burgeoning writers.

Criticism is what I need. Yes, I'm getting a few bites on the query letter, but I want more (hmmm, is this how Mina Harker felt every time Count Dracula wasn't home by 3 a.m.?). Without criticism, I can't tweak the letter. And if the letter's fine, then it's the story that's not interesting enough. And, well, then...it'll definitely be time to finish manuscript #2 if that's the case. The story is what the story is (kind of like "stupid is what stupid does", not easily changeable after the display of utter idiocy).

So I hope people comment to my query letter that I just posted on The Public Query Slushpile site (but if all I get is criticism on the shade of my lipstick, I'll have to say it again: Mother, I'm a grown woman now and, no, I do not look like a clown)...

Oh, and since I love the whole soliloquy, here it is:

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

When is Enough Enough?

I woke up this morning realizing one thing (apart from how sticky my eyes are thanks to allergy season): I won't query the manuscript forever. I won't be one of those writers who query hundreds of agents and then hide under the covers when all of the effort is to no avail.

My brain must have done some macro and micro-processing overnight since a to-do list formulated, a set of instructions, all with a clear end in mind.

So here it is: I have reviewed the client lists for over 200 agents, narrowed the list down after considering apparent compatibilities with their past representations, and only have 35 left on the list that I have yet to query. I'll likely narrow the 35 down further after researching their query guidelines (some may not be taking submissions at this time; others may only be looking for Christian-based fiction AKA mysteries and miracles).

I also have a handful of agents on my list that only take written/snail mail submissions (I suspect they have relatives or stocks in the pulp and paper industry) and will dutifully send those out after the electronic queries have been sent--which saddens me to some extent since there are some agents very high on my list who have smartly utilized the ploy of accepting only written submissions likely in order to curb the amount of queries they get (who could blame them? After going through Miss Snark's Crap-o-Meter query examples, I nearly stabbed my eyes out with the nearest sharp object, which happened to be my own fingernails).

I'll also try posting a few sample chapters on this blog, and then post the site on Publishers Marketplace, under their page of 200 other writers in search of an agent. But I won't do that forever (not at USD$25 per month if it gets me no where. I mean, c'mon...rejection has it's own price. That's just adding insult to injury).

And that'll be it. A girl has her limits. And when they're just not that into you, big girls can accept that and move on. Right? Right.

Besides, I'd rather expend my energy on the latest manuscript. I still have the entire climax to finish on the first draft...and I don't want to delay gratification. Manuscript #2 still has to go through another three drafts, then critiques from a few unluckily chosen guinea pigs, and then at least a fourth draft (a method I like to employ--I am nothing if not methodical. Oh, and short--but that's just genes).

In the meantime, I'll continue with my 3 to 5 queries per week until the agent list is exhausted. And I'll just keep amassing manuscripts on my hard drive until something gives.

What that something will be, only time will tell. But I suspect it'll be the micro processors.

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.

Russian Roulette with 8 Bullets

"Finding a literary agent is like moving to a new town and having to find a contractor to remodel your house and a mechanic to fix your car all at once. It has a strong element of Russian roulette." ~ National Writers Union

Guess how many literary agents work in New York City? According to Google maps, 6,351.

When I saw that figure pop up, I recalled the same feeling I had back in the early 1990s, scanning through a barely-read back issue of The Economist, and reading that there were over 50,000 practising lawyers in Washington, D.C. 15 years later, that number may have tripled. Still, that’s fine—most could be working in some politburo think tank churning out opinions on how water-boarding doesn’t infringe constitutional rights, or defending politicians who engage in acts of public indecency or other conflicts of interest—but what if you lived in D.C., needed a nasty divorce, or paperwork filed for the purchase of a 400-square-foot apartment, or your neighbour accused you of harbouring illegal aliens in your basement? Where would you start to find a good lawyer?

Well, that wasn’t my plight. It was worse. I was looking for a good literary agent—but here in Vancouver, we know next to nothing about literary agents, let alone good v. bad ones. We see what’s on the best selling lists, listen to our friends when they say they’ve just read a good book, or hear about some novel for the first time when it’s already on the big screen. At least with lawyers, there’s word of mouth—everyone’s had the misfortune of needing one or two in their lifetimes. 2,400 miles away from New York, we have no collective experience of agents—apart from Estelle, Joey’s chain-smoking agent on “Friends” or Ari Gold on “Entourage” (who, of course, contemplates practising law at one point).

Luckily, there’s the Publisher’s Marketplace where you can see who the top deal makers are, do reverse searches on authors and find out who their agents are, track the most popular agent web pages or blogs, read their clients’ book reviews, and do your best to determine if what you have is remotely compatible with what an agent has accepted in the past.

So that’s where I started. After researching many agents’ client lists and submissions guidelines (and choosing only those who accepted emails because I was curious to see if anyone would even respond), I sent off a modest amount of email queries—8 to be exact.

Then I sat back and contemplated how long, or if, I would hear anything back. (Time to start the next manuscript, I thought. This could take a while.)

The next day, I got a response. An agent asked to see the whole manuscript, asked if I could email it to her.

Shocking. I hadn’t expected such a quick response, especially not from an agent who had recently represented a first-time writer—one who just happened to be one of Oprah’s Book Club selections.

So off the manuscript immediately went, travelling the 2,400 miles through cyberspace at the speed of light, without the destruction of a single tree. Later that day, I also got two rejections from other agents: one saying she wasn’t considering submissions due to her full roster of clients (a form, automatically-generated response), the other from an agent’s assistant saying my pitch didn’t seem right for their list but thanks for thinking of them just the same. But I didn’t mind—I’d already sent the manuscript off and wanted to hear from Agent #1 before sending it off to anyone else. A week later, I got two other form rejections but, still, no sweat off my balls, as they say.

And then the wait began.

We Canadians are known for our politeness (damn Lester Pearson and the Suez Canal Crisis). It may end up being our downfall, as it has been the downfall of our pipelined natural resources, but I continued to wait, saying to myself, “She must be swamped with queries and all the other agent-like things she does. I’ll give her 6 weeks.”

6 weeks, it turns out, is a long time not to send out other queries, not to invite more rejections. But I waited, to be polite (why ask someone to consider a query when Agent #1 might agree to take it on?). I guess I was hopeful—dubious, because it simply couldn’t be that easy to find an agent, but hopeful nonetheless.

As soon as 6 weeks passed, however, I sent an email reminder. Agent #1 wrote back:

Many thanks for following up! I’ve had a chance to look at “The Graces of Mercy & Circumstance”, and I’m afraid that I won’t be offering you representation.

As you may know, I’m just beginning the agent-ing process, and I’ve found that I’ve really got to be 110% behind a novel in order to best represent it (especially in these rather tricky times). I think you’re onto something here, and I’m sure others will feel differently.

Best of luck to you!

(I just double checked…she did say I was “onto something here”—not “on something”.)

As for the other 3 of the original 8 queries, I haven’t received any responses from them. One did note on her website, however, that if she didn’t respond in 3 weeks, then consider it a rejection.

I think it’s safe to say that any lack of a response after 3 to 4 weeks can be taken as a “no, but thanks” from any agent, regardless of whether they specify that on their website or not.

Still, considering I doubted I’d get any responses at all, I figured that one request for the manuscript, 4 rejections in less than two weeks, and 3 non-responses was pretty good.

And is a 37.5% non-response rate a good thing?

Turns out, as the weeks have followed, yes it is…

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).