I was scrolling down my Facebook page, as one does, often when at a loss, and I saw many people advertising their upcoming anthologies
and novels. Of late, it seems to me that the world is bursting with people publishing
their work.
I wonder how they manage that.
Long ago, (four years ago, actually) an Indian publisher had
suggested that I write a book, their suggestion arising from one of my short stories. I
thought that I had died and attained undeserving Nirvana. Fearing the chariots
of time drawing ever near, I finished the book within months, full time job,
failing kidneys, and graduating child notwithstanding. Every time a revision
was suggested, I attacked it, conquered it, and sent back the section before
suggested deadlines. I vowed to be the most agreeable, the easiest of writers
anyone could dream of working with.
However, some ornery constellation stamped its feet and
rather abruptly, I was told that the publisher had lost interest. No other
explanation was offered. One day I had a book contract; the following day, I was anchor-less, rudder-less.
My book has been completed, revised, re-visited for years. I
had tried looking for an agent and sent out about fifty letters of inquiries to
various agents, my list compiled from a variety of sources (yes, including Writers & Poets!). I got nary a
bite. Not A One.
And these, mind you, are agents, not publishers that I tried
to approach.
Interestingly, however, whenever I have sent in sections of
the book as separate stories, they have been accepted and published in
magazines, no revisions asked for.
I know my work is decent, current, and fits in with what is
being read. How does one jump this huge chasm between finished project and
marketed product?
The person who had published my first story offered to come
out with a kindle edition of my book. Of course, I have agreed. However, that
constellation is still ornery, and of late, my queries are ignored. I wonder
about the value that these two experiences are supposed to convey to me, but I
remain at a loss. It definitely does not hearten me to know that Moby Dick was rejected 75 times.
I have read hundreds
of blogs and articles on composing the perfect query letter, choosing the right
literary agencies, paying attention to the kind of material on the market, and followed
a myriad of other advice. I have tried many variants and forms of query letters.
I pay attention to agents that represent writers I like and whose topics match
mine. These pieces of wisdom and logic assure me that agents are
interested in accepting and marketing my work; after all, that is how they make
money.
Perhaps then, the ones I tried are independently rich.
Perhaps I need to be independently rich and self-advertise, self-market,
self-publish, self-sell, and self-buy. After all, I write for myself, not
anyone else! Alas, my rather ordinary and modest circumstances, combined with
my total and complete cluelessness about this process will allow no such
indulgence.
My writer friend and I have agreed that it is time for us to
find a proper agent for our finished projects. Of course, we have no idea how
to land one. On Facebook, I see thousands of prompts that promise to stir the
Muse. Many articles offer advice about how to keep writing, the importance of
it. There are suggestions about places an aspiring wordsmith could disappear
to, places as impossibly beautiful as a poem from a star.
I don’t think that these articles understand: I write and
will continue to write because I have no choices. Inspiration is not my
problem. I do not need an ivory tower to write; my sofa is quite adequate. Finishing
projects is not my problem. Accepting criticism and fixing bleeding paragraphs
is also not my problem, and neither is respecting deadlines.
If only I had a spell that moved constellations! If my patient
reader commands such a spell . . . However, I realize that it would be asking
for much too much to share it, like asking to spare an internal organ. I do not
command the words that could frame such a thing properly.
This post goes out in hopes that it will stir the stubborn
stars; perhaps, lounging and floating Vishnu-like on the Milky-Way, they might
read this to idle an hour by and deign to twinkle kindly.
