Hello Reader! So let's begin this post with a lament. No, it's more like a bastardized form of a complaint. It's so hard to get a novel organized!!! There are so many things being juggled around at once. From sequencing to flow to tone, I'm reeling from the variety of plates I've got to keep spinning.
It's all due to the episodic nature of the novel. I'm not talking about novels in general, I'm talking about mine. Each chapter is devoted to one theme. Will an agent think I'm just a schizophrenic teenage author? It's scary wondering what someone will say about your work that's hundreds of miles away.
Actually, that might be the fear that's really behind my complaints. Everything from sequencing of events to the tone of the novel are things I can fix. I guess I'm not truly afraid of those things. I'm just being lazy. What I'm really scared of are the agents that'll be reading my work. They don't have an emotional attachment to who I am and what I'm trying to do.
I read a lot of the interviews that these agents give. They're so damn generic about what they want. It's like trying to interpret a woman. Yes means no, but only on Tuesdays when you're having Fried Fish. Otherwise, Yes means Yes, unless you've gone to the bathroom three times that day. These are exaggerations, but read anyone of the links above to the Literary Blog. Sometimes I feel like even these agents don't know what they want.
One guy said that he threw out the Lovely Bones because he couldn't handle it. He had three daughters and he just couldn't bear to read about a little girl being raped and killed. Well, how the Hell was Alice Sebold supposed to know that? Do I have to stalk each and every agent I'm querying? Should I not send my book to an agent whose father died when they were a young age? It's baffling how subjective these guys can be, and I, as an author, still have to depend on them!
And then there's the hatred out there for science fiction. Jeez, no really respectable agent represents it! It feels like my name has to be Isaac Asimov for me to get published in the genre. I don't even want to be published in that genre, I want to be in commercial fiction. But I've got aliens and spaceships in my book. Nothing matters except for those things. I barely even have spaceships! There's only one! In the first five pages of the book! And then it's gone. Ya, I've got tons of aliens, but they're not the slithery kind that like to suck your brains out. They've got passions and hatreds, loves and loss.
I'm venting, yes. But it feels good. Anyways, I guess I'd better suck it up. It's normal I suppose to be afraid of putting yourself in the fire. It's a part of life to be afraid of judgment and paranoid of ridicule. It's also part of life to deal with stubborn people who only see one path, even though you see another. I've got to convince them my way is the coolest, otherwise this book will stay a 300 page waste of hard drive space. Let's hope this winter break changes that. Until Next Time Then.