Thursday, November 5, 2009
I'm a Deer in the Headlights
This is Mark Twain. He was a genius.
My frustration level is rising. Please join me at my poor me party. You are invited.
I wrote a book. It has taken two years. I have contacted 74 agents. 74. That's a relatively high number. What I got back was many great responses. 'Love it, but not for me', 'you are hysterical, but not what we are looking for', 'Your style of writing is amazing and unique, but...' I could go on. I really could. There were about twenty of those. Every one just short of 'I will be your agent'. All the responses felt like they were saying, 'I'm sorry, but I just want to be friends. It's not you, it's me'.
So I settle back in to the chair and re write the entire thing. Now it is better than it was which I didn't think was possible. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying.
Here is the core of my frustration. Last night driving home from the grocery store after spending 200 dollars, I remembered that years ago, I was a 'finalist' in some sort of Disney Fellowships for a television pilot I wrote. I'm driving and I thought, 'Oh yeah! I forgot about that!' I forgot about that because since then, I have become the Susan Luchi of 'finalists'.
I was a finalist for America's Funniest Mom, not once, but twice. Finalist. No tamale, but still a finalist. I was a finalist at a comedy thing for one of two people from the west coast to compete against two people from the east coast. West coast! Didn't win, but was a finalist. I should be excited and grateful that most things I enter, I am usually a finalist. I have entered stupid things, finalist. If I am sitting at a baseball game and a fly ball comes directly at me, it will hit the tip of my finger and fall right in to the hands of the drunk guy behind me. If you win something by being the hundredth person, I am number 99.
This doesn't include the number of contests (usually writing contests) that I want to enter but guess what? The entry deadline was YESTERDAY. Not last month! YESTERDAY! Well, yesterday isn't today, is it. Fucking, fuck, fuck, mother fucking fuck. Don't shake your head at me, you know you think that a few times a day.
Okay, so I'm kicking around the house yesterday, irritated, frustrated, swimming in my sadness. My youngest daughter Carly asks what's wrong. I say, "I've queried 64 agents. I've re written the thing a thousand times, my proposal sucks, my book is stupid. I'm tired and I'm thinking I should just self publish the piece of shit so I can get it off my desk and move on to something new." See how fun I am?
Carly sat silent for a moment and then said, "Mom. Don't quit right before the miracle happens." I think this kid can really turn the juice on when she wants to.
But then I think about it. I think she's right. I like my book. I think other people will like my book. And one day, I'll walk in the bookstore and it will be on a shelf and I'll say, "I did that."
So, today, I will re write my query letter, and I guess, contact 74 more agents.
Okay, I'm back. I've had a few Redbulls. I've decided that I'm not only going to get a better attitude, I'm going to write the living shit out of this book and all 74 agents from NY to LA are going to buzz around their offices and say, 'We didn't pass on that, did we?' Yes, you did my fancy friend and now heads are going to roll. I'm going to re write my crappy proposal with such passion that it's going to make 'The Passion of Christ' look like 'Spongebob Square Pants' And trust me! I have no idea what that even means! So save up! My book will be on the book store shelf, hardback, and it will cost 27 dollars and be worth every dime! And it will be on the NY Times best seller list, probably in the number two spot, but I'm fine with that! I just want everyone to know, the wheels are turning, and you know what happens when the wheels turn? Agents from all across America will have tire marks on their expensive jackets! (I hope agents don't read this) There will be so much paper involved in the printing of my book that loggers will have to work overtime. Their bosses will say, "They need more paper because of that lady's book! We have to cut down more tree's!" The logger will say, "But I have to get home to my wife and kids!" The boss will say, "Your wife and kids can go straight to hell! This book has to be on the shelf next week! They need more paper!" The logger hangs his head and begins climbing the tree with his chainsaw and he wonders. When will they have enough paper? You get the idea. And one more thing. Redbull is the new black.
Posted by Dina Kucera at 7:38 AM