From One Unpublished Author to Another

By Robert Crane

Ed Note: I could not resist this article even though it doesn't really help with marketing. A good laugh helps put things in perspective.
Enjoy!

If you are unpublished, you are one of my peeps and we are a nation of millions of poor saps who scratch our heads in constant angst with every killer query returned in standard issue rejection, while we squirm in our Costco desk chairs to take pressure off the nuisance of a new hemorrhoid.

For my own sanity, I like to share some things I have learned over the past ten years. It is the least I can do. But before I do, I must warn you, remove any loaded guns, put the arsenic away, tuck the noose under the bed, and pull the box of Kleenex near.

Are you ready? Let's do a little sharing then, shall we?

I dabbled in writing scripts about ten years ago, entering two of them in some smalltime but legitimate screenplay contest in Monterey County, California. When informed that both made it to the second round, I secretly allowed myself the simple pleasure of imagining my acceptance speech at the Academy Awards. When I daydream, I don't mince fantasies. A month later, I received the 'sorry but' letter for both scripts. I realized later that the second round was reserved for those scripts that were submitted in the correct format and with a check that didn't bounce. So much for Hollywood! I filed my acceptance speech away.

Lesson One: the second round of any writing contest only means two things: 1) your work was formatted correctly, and 2) your check/credit card payment went through.

Undaunted, I decided all I needed was to have one of the scripts read and critiqued by a Literary Agency. I found one, The Star Literary Service in Tucson Arizona. It was before Google was around. So I forked up $90 to have it critiqued, believing that once read, they'd clamor to represent me. I soon received a standard filled out critique form with a few standard critique paragraphs attached essentially saying 'the writer had promise but the script was not marketable, thank you very much'.

In all fairness, having dusted off the script recently for a reread, it was pretty amateur but not because it was not marketable. In fact, a few years later 'You've Got Mail' was released, a slightly modified version of my story called 'Roomance', right down to the actors I had in mind-so much for no market. The truth is the script was amateur because, other than the dialogue, the scene descriptions read like a Tolstoy novel, making it about forty three pages longer than it needed to be. Regardless, I would have been better served if I had just played the slots with the ninety bucks.

Lesson Two: if one pays an agency to read her/his work, make sure the cost can be covered by disposable income, as in trash disposable. The good ones don't charge to read!

Having felt the rush of finishing not one but two full scripts, I felt somewhat fulfilled, even though both were pretty lame. Meanwhile, my full time job was becoming quite intrusive. Content with two completed scripts, I filed the writing away, thinking I was over it. But if you are my peeps, you know the urge to write always lurks below the surface, kind of like a life long allergy that suddenly bubbles up on the skin just when you think you out grew the damn thing.

Well it hibernated for many years. And when it awoke, it was for poetry of all things. I was suckered into that 'poetry.com' site to submit a poem to the weekly $100 contest. If any of you have stumbled across this little ruse, you know what happens next. You receive an unexpected email or letter from that irascible Howard Ely and the folks from the International Society of Poets (or a handful of other related societies). Before you can say iambic pentameter, you discover you are in the semi-finals of some big contest and your poetry is going to be printed in some grand Anthology. For the uninitiated, I canít say this any clearer. If this occurs, pick up your quill and run for the hills! It is all about collecting cold cash from gullible poets to buy a copy of the anthology, or a CD of the their poem read by a professional, or a Poet Society sponsored convention to read your poetry to your peers, or a plaque or a pen or a glass football or a set of coasters or whatever they can imprint your twenty line poem on-always constructed from the best material found on earth and always available for a special member price just for you.

I must admit my vanity leaked out a wee bit at that initial unsolicited letter from Howie. But fortunately I was rudely snapped out of it by my son who said he thought the poem was 'somewhat pedestrian'. Now if I could write my unsolicited queries to agents like the folks from the Poets Society write their anthology invitations, I might not be writing this piece of drivel now. I might not be one of us! Anyway, with vanity in check, I have had my fun with them over the past few years, sending in really lousy poems from Inlin Freebosh, a North Pole elf friend of mine. By the way, he has been named one of the top two hundred poets in the world by Howie and the gang. It's true! I didn't even accomplish that!

Lesson Three: If vanity is your thing, writing can be a great endeavor to fulfill that need. There are ample slugs, I mean caring publishers, ready to turn your paper dollars into paper pages. (Note: if it is not your thing, visit 'www dot vanitypublishing dot info' for a really good 101 course in what to look out for; lest you find yourself suckered into purchasing an heirloom-quality depressing, demoralizing dust collector.)

Okay so the poetry wasn't very rewarding. But the allergy was back and I was itching to get something done. Determined to write a small novel based on a really simple idea that hit me one Christmas and a month away from trading in my corporate job for a year's severance, I decided to turn myself completely over to the urge and take the plunge about two years ago. With the next great children's holiday story in hand after months of writing/editing, writing/editing, writing/editing and then a dozen more rewrites/reedits, I started the literary agent query crusade.

I did my homework as I'm sure you have all done. I bought all the must-have books and agency lists; even found some fantastic query examples on the internet, one demonstrating the merits of humor, something that always resonates with me. Well, off they went, a few more than a dozen, all to agencies that had children's stories listed among all the other genres they represented; you know, the typical collage of categories: lesbian issues, war chronicles, New Jersey, children books.

I think I must have sent the serious queries to the ones that wanted humor and vice versa. Anyway, the rejection form letters came racing back; some completely pre-printed including the signature, some pre-printed except the signature, some with personal responses in real ink - one liners like 'sorry but good luck'; all of them claiming their personal torment of toppling query piles with only two arms to reject them; all of them telling me don't give up there must be an agent or publisher out there somewhere. I think one even had a pre-printed dried tear drop stain near the fake signature. It made me feel good to know that their lives were more dismal than mine.

[At this point, I want to check-in with you. I'm sure there are several of you shaking your heads in agreement, possibly reminded of your own bounty of rejects. What do you do with yours? I file mine away, occasionally pulling them out to read them in worst to best order, always filled with the delusion that someday I'll be plugging my book on the public access show 'Local Corner', at which time I'll build a small bonfire with the rejects, dancing around the flames screaming 'that'll learn 'em'.]

However, out of the darkness of defeat, a dull beacon pulsed. There was one response from Rosemary Stimola of the Stimola Literary Studio that gave me pause to indulge in a morsel of hope. She actually read the three chapters I submitted with the query and hand wrote a note back to me at the bottom of the rejection. She told me the main character, Inlin Freebosh, yup one of the top two hundred poets in the world, was 'charming'. I slept with that letter under my pillow that night, stained by tears of joy and a little champagne. I slipped into sleep as I thought of snappy answers to Oprah's probing questions!

Filled with a renewed passion, I took it up a notch. I wrote a memoir from limited memories of growing up in the Sixties, a collection of humorous stories about my pathetic uninformative years. I found a way to buy another year of dedicated time, and learned to build my own website to get my work out there. And the carrot for all this trouble was the next query letter I'd send off to Rosemary. It would be brilliantly constructed, reminding her of our past relationship and near connection. She'd be impressed with my persistence, resilience, and most of all, talent.

Well the day came a few weeks ago. With a very carefully worded query letter and best story attached, I decided not to just mail it but to hand deliver it. If she saw me, she'd see instantly I was marketable, someone she'd be proud to send to publishers and eventually to public access TV.

Lesson Four: The only thing more difficult than finding a literary agent is finding their actual habitat. [After a gallant attempt, I could not find Rosemary's office. I ended up mailing it. I think she is squirreled away within the safety of a gated condo complex, possibly drowning in a sad sea of crumpled queries.]

I did hear back from Rosemary. This time the response was a bit cooler, almost as if she sensed a little stalking potential in my latest inquiry. I probably should have toned down the salutation, "To my sweetest agent-pooh". Thank god I didn't find her office, she might have shot me. Oh well, I'm still thankful to her for that original response; it really did make a difference.

That brings me to the present. I'm sending my updated resume out to the corporate world, trying to spin the last two years into meaningful, job-related experience-probably some of the best fiction I've written to date. The fact is I need to find income to feed this addiction. Sad really. At the same time, I'm trying the competition route, but part of me, a big part, thinks it is a waste of time. I'm also writing a bunch of political and humor articles for an ezine in a desperate attempt to publish something somewhere; besides it does keep me occupied and off the streets while I figure out my next project and this little employment dilemma.

The website helps a lot. It has generated a lot of encouraging responses which keep me hopeful - but I don't know. This is tough stuff. It makes those author rags-to-riches stories almost unbelievable.

Lesson Five: Writing's a joy; query rejection a poke in the eye!

[Another check-in: I've been listening to a continuous stream of Nat King Cole classics while writing this piece. Does that mean anything? Am I close to the cliff? Has anyone experienced this?]

Well it's time to wrap this up. I just want to tell my fellow unpublished friends, those anyway who have not shot themselves yet, that there is little one can do to stop the madness. The truth is if you are blessed with the writing bug but cursed with enduring optimism, you are in for a long, lonely, hurtful ride.

I think Paula Abdul of American Idol fame said it best recently when she told a really talent-challenged crooner, 'when I hear ... I mean when you sing ... I mean when I look around ... I love the way you stand there ... you have the right outfit for that song ... never give that up'. Actually, I'm not sure that says anything best. What she was trying to say was never let the talent thing get in the way, just dress nice. Even that doesn't make much sense. Oh well, she should've said, 'if you love singing, sing already!'

I think the same holds true for writing.

Lesson Six: Never use a Paula Abdul quote as an example of anything.

This article was written by long-to-be unpublished humorist Robert Crane. Feel free to sample more at his popular website: http://www.cranelegs.com

[The opinions stated in this article are those of the author. Don't shoot the messenger! Ed.]

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