the best bad news I've ever had
I was woken up today by frantic buzzing on the doorbell. When I got down the stairs, semi-clad with my eyes still bleary and my hair like a bomb in a hair factory, the postman was gone and my manuscript was sitting in the hall looking forlorn.
It took two cups of very sugary coffee and a hearty breakfast before I could get the courage up to open it and read my rejection letter. I was fully expecting something like 'this is terrible self-indulgent twentysomething dross, all the characters are hateful and pitiable, and you should do us all a favour and never pick up a pen again'.
But no. Agent Guy liked the characters and the ideas. He said some very nice things about style and imagination. The main problem, he says, is that there's too much crammed into it, too many plotlines going on at once, and it doesn't all fit together. I knew this deep down anyway, if I'm honest. And then he wrote, "It's like Michelangelo's David... if you dropped him off the Empire State Building." Okay, I winced, but I laughed too. I never thought I'd laugh out loud at a rejection letter.
He says to send him another one with a simpler plot. (Hmm. Writing frenzy over Christmas?)
I'd have expected to be depressed at a time like this - to think my whole summer had been wasted writing this messy farrago of a book which should be four different books by rights. But I'm not. I'm actually quite pleased.
See? The Fear is totally random.
Maybe I'm just still blissed out by having a go on
tjej's new cello at her and
miss_newham's luau party last night. I love cellos. Songs with cellos in make me weak at the knees. (I should really make a mix CD of the Best Cello Songs Ever - "Unfinished Sympathy", Ballboy's "Something's Going To Happen Soon", something by Invocal, everything the Magnetic Fields have ever done live...) But I'd never touched one or tried to play one till last night, and I got a huge kick out of just drawing the bow across the strings and making this fabulous rich warm thrumming sound... mmmmm.
Even though all I could play was "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (the easiest song in the world on a stringed instrument) and that was probably out of tune, I still want a cello for my very own now. Don't know where I'd put it, though.
Generally a wonderful night, full of showtunes and Danish pudding and tinsel and wine. I wore my new, utterly ludicrous silver Buffalo shoes, at which
tjej declared "You rule space!"
I may not have an agent, but I RULE SPACE. Cool.
It took two cups of very sugary coffee and a hearty breakfast before I could get the courage up to open it and read my rejection letter. I was fully expecting something like 'this is terrible self-indulgent twentysomething dross, all the characters are hateful and pitiable, and you should do us all a favour and never pick up a pen again'.
But no. Agent Guy liked the characters and the ideas. He said some very nice things about style and imagination. The main problem, he says, is that there's too much crammed into it, too many plotlines going on at once, and it doesn't all fit together. I knew this deep down anyway, if I'm honest. And then he wrote, "It's like Michelangelo's David... if you dropped him off the Empire State Building." Okay, I winced, but I laughed too. I never thought I'd laugh out loud at a rejection letter.
He says to send him another one with a simpler plot. (Hmm. Writing frenzy over Christmas?)
I'd have expected to be depressed at a time like this - to think my whole summer had been wasted writing this messy farrago of a book which should be four different books by rights. But I'm not. I'm actually quite pleased.
See? The Fear is totally random.
Maybe I'm just still blissed out by having a go on
Even though all I could play was "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (the easiest song in the world on a stringed instrument) and that was probably out of tune, I still want a cello for my very own now. Don't know where I'd put it, though.
Generally a wonderful night, full of showtunes and Danish pudding and tinsel and wine. I wore my new, utterly ludicrous silver Buffalo shoes, at which
I may not have an agent, but I RULE SPACE. Cool.

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Between your thighs. Duh!
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Care to share any classics of yours?
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You're right, a form letter would have had me crying into a stiff drink, never mind that it was 10am...
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That was kind of what I was going for - lots of little bits that built up into a complicated collage with a big picture. So the jigsaw analogy is bang on. Trouble is, I think I'm the only person in the world who knows how to complete the jigsaw...
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I'd also point to item seven here (http://www.mil-millington.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/writing.htm?urlID=814655365) out of a very sensible-looking list; it may be that your novel is perfectly fine and it's just thet the first 16 agents you try are too dense to recognise it. However, when you get to agent seventeen and they all say the same thing, perhaps they know better than you after all.
I'm trying to reconcile the fact that it's good for you to be your own harshest critic with the fact that you shouldn't be too put off by other people's criticism; if you genuinely do think there was too much crammed in all along, then all well and good and take the appropriate remedial action, but I doubt you would have sent it to an agent if you really did think that and it might well be that you are just letting the agent perusade you as to what you might have believed at the time.
My guide to being published is just to get damn lucky, be in the right place at the right time and find a vacancy for a book to be written, which is much easier said than done. (Refer to "get damn lucky" above.)
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There's a big overarching theme I was trying to explore through all the different stories, but I think I erred too much on the side of subtlety as well. (Maybe if my next one has a message it should have neon lights around it, blinking, and a great big arrow saying "LOOK! IT'S THE MESSAGE!")
Maybe it's basically okay, but it's the sort of book you can only get away with when you're established.
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You rule, end of message and out!
Congrats on the interest and good luck with the next 'un.
(PS: We still have those old Punches kept safe for our nexty meeting, by the way.)
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I played violin for many many years, but never cello.
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Have a great writing Christmas!
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There used to be one other person (who's now deleted his journal). He turned out to be Songdog's sound guy.
Do you like them?
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Wish I could see them live some times.
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But they should come somewhere near me, like Munich or Vienna or northern italy.