The Agent Famine

Dr. Oz talked on TV about the "sex famine" in the U.S., saying hardly anyone's getting any because cultural rules make it artificially difficult: too young, too old, too tired, too jaded, too fat, too poor, too kooky, and so on. I have no opinion on whether it's true or not.

But the agent famine is a fact. In the past two days three first-novelists have asked me about getting agents. Two said they had no further manuscripts. I told them politely to stop hungering for agents and get busy being their own agents and seeking alternatives: small presses, subsidy publishing, self-publishing, e-publishing, broadcasts....or at least to go to a local writers' meeting and start networking. The third writer had her romance novel rejected by a big publisher, but she'd also sent a proposal for a book of nonfiction about a sustainable farm. The publisher said that topic was hot, and asked to see chapters. At what point, the author asked, should she get an agent? I said, you've got a publisher's ear. That's very rare. Do a good job with the nonfiction and don't add an agent to the mix until your nonfiction book is published and successful. Then your novel may find an agent.

Just as you prefer to hire contractors that have been in business for a few years and have references, agents want the same from you. I wish agents were just aching to represent your first novel. They are not. Artificial difficulty. But there are genuine solutions.

Are Writers Temperamental?

Anonymous writer had two readings set up. Decided not to do them, but rather than say "I don't want to do them," picked an asinine quarrel guaranteed to short-circuit both appearances and future ones.

Anonymous writer breaks out in red spots upon hearing that she should inquire about guest teaching gigs rather than waiting (11 years & counting) for universities to seek her out. She's bitter that they don't.

Anonymous writer feels she is slighted because she is fat and black. Another sure that the problem is that he is a white male. Another feels ignored because he is over 50. Others feel pegged -- as a Jew, an Asian, a lesbian, an academic, a newbie.

Anonymous writer is crushed by a rejection, never tries to publish again.

Lots of suffering generated by their choices of truths and realities!

Writers' Agonies, Volume 1, Chapter 1

As a writer, I maintain certain unexamined assumptions I do not wish to examine at all. To wit:

1. Words are the whole world.
2. All words are equal.

These assumptions mean I agonize not only over my own work, but at scarifying length over all words ever spoken or written to me. I can spin up whole rainbows of agony out of a lone "Sorry" scrawled on a rejection slip, and fury, too, because whoever wrote it doesn't seem really sorry! I can't seem to weigh and sort words according to their source or context or tone. Some people say that words are mere hot air, or can be ignored! Not I! To me, all words are serious! You can imagine how I fare in a culture that is jerry-built on kidding and banter. For example:

A--HOLE:
Hi there, Eagle Beak!

ME:
Eagle Beak?

A--HOLE:
It's a joke! Just a joke! (Punches ME on the arm.) Can't you take a joke?

ME:
(Looks daggers.)

A--HOLE:
Ha, ha! I was just kidding. (Pounds ME on the arm repeatedly.) Geez!

ME:
You're a f-----g a--hole.

A--HOLE:
A-ha, ha, ha!

Just Saying "No"

At this point, after the fourth rejection of my "Interviews with 11 St. Louis Writers" book manuscript, I could cultivate the familiar writerly psychological problems: "I did my best, it wasn't good enough," "Why try," and "I could have predicted this," & so forth. Against those I repeat 50 times: "Writing is an art, publishing is a business." But there's new spot in the Petri dish -- maybe because this is a new kind of manuscript for me -- and it communicates thus:

"You're so arrogant, thinking you can publish a book as-is and get a smidgen of glory. Get real. Remember you are a servant. You serve the publisher and readership. The publisher suggested you compile full bibliographies of all 11 authors. In certain cases, such as Gerald Early's or Don Finkel's, this would take years and you'd come out, as in grad school, with a face like a sneaker sole. But you should do it as a service. Learn to think not like an author, but like a servant."

To this I said (to myself): "That violates my boundary. I think it does. Yes. It does. I perform a service. But I am not a servant.

"H-ll no!"

Bedeviled

Lately I’ve been tempted to enter writing contests -- local or online. Ach! They are everywhere and are hard for me to resist! Just accompany that 250-word essay or couple of poems with that $10 or $15 "entry fee." Write that check, or give it up to Paypal, because…

PRIDE: The contest is so local/small/restricted that for me it is no contest at all, and my work will surely place, although odds are it will win.
GREED: I need the prize money. I’ll take $100, $50. Or $10.
GLUTTONY: I don’t care what it is or what it costs, I don’t care what I send or who is judging it or how low I’m stooping: I want prizes and I want them now.
SLOTH: If I win or place, it’s an easy gold star to add to my resume, and if not, at least entering the contest was easier than market research or having actual relationships or sending out stuff that might get rejected. Besides, I can only finish things if I’ve got a deadline. . .
ANGER: I’ll win one of these penny-ante writing contests if it’s the last thing I do.
LUST: Sure would like to get my hands on that [prize]!
ENVY: I never saw a prize that I didn’t deserve more than the actual winner did.

Pray for me!

Rejection at 50

My first published poem appeared 32 years ago. Rejections stung only a little. (There was still time to win a Pulitzer by age 25.) Then, around age 40, when I expected more rewards, my fragility increased: Call it osteoporosis of the soul. This forced me to systematically, ALPHABETICALLY, read through literary journals and submit only to those that published poems like mine. This HATEFUL activity forced me through jungles of jealousy: "She's younger than I! And he writes better! And that's a great poem! And she's published four books! And there's my former student in a journal I failed to get into!"

Actually, I was doing the smart thing, business-wise, because publishing is a business, but it only increased my fragility. Approaching age 50, I dreaded those S.A.S.E.s even more. Now I'm ever so careful to:
1. Send only my very best poems.
2. Make sure my poems have a a ghost of a chance at that publication. (Next blog will be about that!)
3. Avoid contests, no matter how tempting -- the chance of winning, about 1 in 1000, is too remote.
4. Take long, long breaks in between bouts of sending, sometime six months or a year.
5. Keep working on more, and when those S.A.S.E.s or E-mails come back, curse or cry, feel grossly ashamed of my "arrogance" and "presumption" in thinking the world might want my poems -- and then get over it, and put poems right back in the mail.

See that list of five things? That's my new backbone.

And yesterday: **Good news! ** A long, risky poem, perhaps the longest and riskiest yet, accepted. How long has it been since a poem got accepted? Three years? Five?

Joy? No. Forehead on forearm, and a sigh of Relief.