I went outside last night to take a piss so as not to put any more unnecessary stress on our underperforming septic system. The temperature had dropped precipitously, and there was a light mist that I knew would turn to snow by morning. As always, I was thinking about the bills, about surviving another day/week/month/year. And, as always, I pushed those worries aside by thinking: What do they really matter, because soon enough I’ll be dead. The redemption inherent in ageing comes with the comfort of knowing that soon the battle will be over. That soon, no one can do anything to me. That, finally, rest will be upon me. But deep down inside, I suspect that I will never truly be able to rest until I have what I consider to be a successful book to leave behind. I fear that I will die before that happens. This is what keeps me up at night. This, even more than money worries, is what I worry about the most. This is my biggest fear. This is what torments me day in and day out.
Going back inside the house and facing the tyranny of the computer screen, I counted 90 submissions to literary agents that I had made over the course of the last three days. Carpet bomb submissions. Gatling gun submissions. Submitting in a dazed craze with an insane look in my eyes. Constantly reminding myself of Einstein’s immortal words: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing, the same way, and yet expecting a different result.” And here I was, expecting a different result. The only way to crack the Big Five publishing houses is through a literary agent; and boy don’t they know it. I have come to hate their arrogance, hate their hubris, hate their nit-picky outline forms, hate Query Manager, hate the power that they hold over me. I have to do it exactly like they are used to seeing it done. They won’t step one inch outside their comfort zones. Like the homecoming queen that I knew would never even give me a second glance, I tell myself that there are other fish in the sea, but with agents you don’t even get to swim in the ocean – until that day when you finally do, and I’m afraid that I’ll no longer inhabit the Earth before that day finally comes.
I’ve been rejected thousands of times. I know all the usual excuses. “Not a good fit.” “I’m not passionate enough about the subject.” “I don’t feel that spark.” “I’m not the right agent for you.” “Another agent may feel differently” “You failed to notice that I’m closed to queries.” That last one really gets to me. Their business is so good that they don’t even have to entertain taking on any new clients while I don’t really have any business at all. That’s sobering and demeaning all at the same time. It must be nice. It must be really nice. Then there are those agents that are open, then closed, then open again. Everything at their convenience. She loves me, she loves me not. Wait by the computer screen for your big chance.
All this rejection makes me wonder if I have any writing talent at all. Or, I must be writing about subjects that no one really cares about. Or, both. In my deepest darkest moments I often wonder: Can I really be that bad? What bothers me the most is all their drivel about passion because I highly suspect that the only thing that they are really passionate about is money, and they don’t see how they can make any off of me. It galls me that they hold the keys to the empire and they get to rattle them in my face whenever I ask for entrance.
Agents are busy. Editors at publishing houses are busy. You know who else is busy? – me. I’m busy kissing their bourgeois ass’s and getting nowhere with them. So I turn to self-publishing; the kiss of death to anyone wanting in with the Big Five. Amongst the conventional publishing industry any self-published book is akin to perpetually wearing the scarlet letter or having “loser” tattooed onto your forehead.
I oftentimes wonder if agents really like to read. Oh, they always use the excuse that they’re so unbelievably busy that it’s an absolute necessity that they insist on brevity. One paragraph queries. A short succinct synopsis. A glittering bio resting on a solid platform. Most important, unequivocal proof that the book will sell that’s so ironclad that even a dummy could do it, begging the question: Then why don’t I do it myself? Literary agents are so brief, in fact, that they like to inform me that if I don’t hear back from them in six weeks, then I can assume that they’re not interested. What a crock of steaming hot b.s.! What has happened to civility in our society? We lament America’s political landscape and the two parties’ complete lack of bipartisanship, but we don’t notice it our own personal and business lives. Agents rule the roost, there’s no doubt about it, and it’s maddening the way they sit on high in judgment. The Big Five, and the agents they recognise, have it all sewn up. It’s airtight and waterproof and virtually indestructible. Yet they are so unimaginative and anal retentive that they doubt their own judgement oftentimes only showing interest if someone else shows interest first. If you receive an offer, then they all want to know about it. Then they might engage in a bidding war over something that they had previously ignored. Then they’re nothing more than sheep playing follow the leader.
And whenever I do hear back from them, I oftentimes wish that I hadn’t. I know I’m in trouble when the first thing they say is to change the title. That only means that they are assuming total command from the very first word. And it only gets worse. I’ll accept copy edits – being made aware of an occasional typo, an embarrassing misspelling, misuse of the true meaning of a word, a change in tense, something that could be said more clearly. But when they just start ripping and tearing and moving things around and insisting that a section be removed entirely – that’s going too far. Who the hell is writing this book? Them or me? I went through this all before with design review committees during my career as a landscape architect. The members all felt that they had to say something, otherwise what was the purpose of their being there? So they made their esoteric comments, expounded upon their innate observations, said stupid things that I could have gone my entire lifetime without hearing.
Sometimes I had to call them on their hubris, telling them, “Well, I suppose that if I don’t think and say exactly like you would think and say, then what I think and say has no merit.” That was always good for a snicker, and another round of totally unnecessary beratements. That always invited explanations of who was really in charge. That always laid down the gauntlet. Battlelines had already been drawn before I went ahead and etched them in stone. So I already knew that they had the power, and that I didn’t, and they were going to wield it any way they saw fit. Put the underling in his place. But what did I care by then? So what? It was their way or the highway, and I knew that I would be taking the highway.
This morning’s e-mails brought another round of rejections.
