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Query Letter Hell
May. 7th, 2008 12:00 amI fucking hate query letters.
I have no excuse for not doing them except that every time I look at my list, the number of agency names that haven't been crossed off gets shorter and shorter. And every time I go into my office that pile of rejection letters gets bigger and bigger. There's something daunting about having been rejected fom... let's have a quick count. Call it around 25 agencies. Probably closer to 30. And my list was only fifty odd names long, and even if there are new entries in this year's book there will only be one or two. And then what? I suppose I could broaden my search to people who publish mainstream in general. Or switch gears entirely. Polish up ... hey, there's an idea. Polish up Sophie/Val/Nicky.
God, I suck.
I see those frying pans, girls. No, I don't truly believe I suck, but it's 11.45 in the evening and it's getting on that time when I should be getting to bed. My hair is greasy and my skin feels dry from all that paper tape and I'm contemplating the damned Sysiphian task of pushing that bloodyboulder novel uphill. I'm beginning to suspect that I hate any sort of profession or endeavor or such that relegates your sucess or failure, after a certain point, largely on the whims and tastes of other people. Dammit! I put time, effort, a hell of a lot of time and effort to get as good as I am today. I deserve some kind of fucking reward!
Not really, I suppose. Most of the time, I'd say about 90% of the time, just getting the damn story out and onto paper and finished is the reward. There's a huge sense of uplift when a story's done, a sort of, yes, I finished it. I finished it and I did the best job I possibly could for a first draft. And then, sometimes, I leave it alone on the basis of I couldn't possibly make this any better and if I try I'll only screw it up. And sometimes I go back and tweak it. And sometimes I go back years later and look at it and wonder Dear god what is that thing? Yeah. I've done that.
I'm rambling. And I'm rambling when I should be getting ready for bed, really. But I'm dragging myself back to doing query letters. I only succeeded for about six or seven months last year. Which is something of a sobering thought, that if I'd actually done it all year long and gotten all those rejection letters I'd probably be out of agents. And then what would I do? Pitch to small press publishing companies, I suppose. I feel like such a failure. I attracted the attention of an editor in a major publishing house. Fucking Putnam was interested. But they don't take unagented submissions, and maybe I should have spoken more with the man, been less timid, done more to get his attention and worked with him to find me an agent. But no. And now it's been a couple of years, he's probably forgotten all about me, and I still have no agent. And no publishing company.
Right. I'm going to brush my teeth, go to bed, and forget that I ever had those thoughts. Or try to. Like bad pizza, they'll probably keep coming back to haunt me. Fucking writing business. Fucking writing.
I have no excuse for not doing them except that every time I look at my list, the number of agency names that haven't been crossed off gets shorter and shorter. And every time I go into my office that pile of rejection letters gets bigger and bigger. There's something daunting about having been rejected fom... let's have a quick count. Call it around 25 agencies. Probably closer to 30. And my list was only fifty odd names long, and even if there are new entries in this year's book there will only be one or two. And then what? I suppose I could broaden my search to people who publish mainstream in general. Or switch gears entirely. Polish up ... hey, there's an idea. Polish up Sophie/Val/Nicky.
God, I suck.
I see those frying pans, girls. No, I don't truly believe I suck, but it's 11.45 in the evening and it's getting on that time when I should be getting to bed. My hair is greasy and my skin feels dry from all that paper tape and I'm contemplating the damned Sysiphian task of pushing that bloody
Not really, I suppose. Most of the time, I'd say about 90% of the time, just getting the damn story out and onto paper and finished is the reward. There's a huge sense of uplift when a story's done, a sort of, yes, I finished it. I finished it and I did the best job I possibly could for a first draft. And then, sometimes, I leave it alone on the basis of I couldn't possibly make this any better and if I try I'll only screw it up. And sometimes I go back and tweak it. And sometimes I go back years later and look at it and wonder Dear god what is that thing? Yeah. I've done that.
I'm rambling. And I'm rambling when I should be getting ready for bed, really. But I'm dragging myself back to doing query letters. I only succeeded for about six or seven months last year. Which is something of a sobering thought, that if I'd actually done it all year long and gotten all those rejection letters I'd probably be out of agents. And then what would I do? Pitch to small press publishing companies, I suppose. I feel like such a failure. I attracted the attention of an editor in a major publishing house. Fucking Putnam was interested. But they don't take unagented submissions, and maybe I should have spoken more with the man, been less timid, done more to get his attention and worked with him to find me an agent. But no. And now it's been a couple of years, he's probably forgotten all about me, and I still have no agent. And no publishing company.
Right. I'm going to brush my teeth, go to bed, and forget that I ever had those thoughts. Or try to. Like bad pizza, they'll probably keep coming back to haunt me. Fucking writing business. Fucking writing.