Cursed
Boyd K. Packer thinks I’m cursed. He has no idea how much.
I’m cursed with having the one talent in this messed-up world where only one in a million ever make a career out of it. Lucky me.
I’ve gotten over my same-sex attraction issue and learned to accept it is only a shameful choice to those who believe Sarah Palin should be the next President. Writing, on the other hand, is not something I will ever get over. Especially since when I’m lost in the land of words, I could wear an adult diaper and not even realize I had an “accident.”
As I market the first book in my life I’ve ever finished, it’s too late. I’ve already screwed up my chances by marketing with agents and publishers with lousy and redundant book ideas like sparkly vampires and a school of witches. I didn’t just jump the gun, I ran it into the Niagara Falls and then beat it up to post-death. Guess that’s what happens when a person publishes their first piece of work when they are post-adolescence?
But agents never forget a name; any excuse to throw a query or manuscript into the nearest garbage can, whether that be on Times Square or in their penthouse office, and they will do it. Agents, especially those centered around New York City, which is 90 percent of them, have about half a second for you, and if you ruin it with them then you are doomed for the rest of your earthly-existence or until you decide to marry Lindsay Lohan. Then you can sell all the damn books you want and then some.
Meanwhile, almost everyone and their kitty wants to be an author even with the crumbling book industries, the rise of e-books and the discovery of a poisonous Bush-called recession. Consolidation doesn’t help any; where most of the work coming out is similar, that’s a big shocker, since most of the books are being written by the exact same authors and family members.
I just got a rejection slip from the second agent I queried for the book I finished. Wait for it … it is titled Cursed. Haven’t heard yet from the first or third agent or publisher I queried. By the way, if any of you are lucky enough to have a career that is actually booming or has any source of income, a query letter is a one-page introduction, covering a short synopsis, an author bio and marketing prospects.
Anyway, the agent who gave me the rejection slip said these three simple words, “Thanks, we’ll pass.”
I was offended until I looked deeper into that agency and discovered I had tried to sell my book with gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender themes to an agent who represented well-know, anti-gay Christian authors. Not too smart on my behalf. That’s similar to trying to sell edible panties to Gayle Ruzicka.
It dawned on me as I spent extra time in bed, being miserable and wondering what the hell I’m doing on the face of Earth, that I need to face my New York best-selling dream will never be a reality. In order to earn my sanity back, I need to forget about my closets full of rejection letters or the fact the amount of money I earned so far in writing could fit inside a piggy bank.
I need to figure out what to do for that second source of income. Sell my soul, my eggs, or my cute puppy. No, I’ll never be desperate enough to sell the last one. Either way, I’ll have to figure it out someday. If not, I’ll just write about it.