I was stranded in Disco. I went to dozens of darkened places with enough flashing lights to drive the average person mad. I felt lost in the pulse of sheer panic.I haven't the faintest idea what Martha Reeves was talking about when she said that, or honestly, even who she is. (Though I'm sure someone will tell me and I'll feel a bit of a prat.) But looking at that quote, particularly in conjunction with the picture attached, it makes perfect sense.
There is a literary agent that wants to see my writing.
Now you feel the same panic that I do. Or you don't. Either way, I'll explain, so if you understand, feel free to let your attention wander.
The idea of being an author is a lovely one. There's a pretty picture of me sitting in a quiet room, or on a terrace overlooking some beautiful city, with a mug of steaming tea at my elbow, joyously typing on my computer, working on the next Great American Novel. It comes easy, and the people that I interact with know me as "The Writer", and there is adoration that flows like ambrosia from the gods.
It doesn't work like that.
It's hours and days and months and years of second-guessing, self-loathing, sketching out suicide attempts on the coffee collars of the thousands of cups that I've used to completely ruin my insides and give me an ulcer. It's writing and rewriting and throwing pens across the room to relieve frustration. It's having invisible sword fights with broom handles to the the choreography right, though no one will notice if it's wrong. It's creating languages and magical limitations, which you'll probably never use and throw out anyway. It's being sure that, no matter how hard you try, it will never go anywhere, and that has to be okay with you, because it's "not about the reader". Which inside, you know is complete and utter bullshit. You write so that it's read. Not so that it'll take up space on your hard drive. Anyone that says different is a lying moron.
And then there comes the time when you have the chance to have someone read it. Not a friend, or a family member, or some random person you met in a writing group on the internet. But someone real.
A literary agent.
The most powerful and terrifying person in publishing. Because if they don't like it, there's no chance in hell of anyone else seeing it. The buck, as they say, stops with them. Which is a phrase I've never really understood, but that's beside the point.
They say you don't need an agent to get published. Which, I suppose is true. But, you also don't need a paddle to get down a river in a canoe. I'd love to see someone try and stay away from a waterfall with their Jedi mind powers though.
Agents are important. Agents are the author's paddle. I want a paddle. I want the help, because I'm not strong enough to make it through the waterfalls by myself.
She's a friend of a friend (which further solidifies my belief that it's not what you can do, but rather who you know), and apparently Ali has talked me up hardcore to her. No pressure, thanks Ali. Agent chick asked me questions, seemed excited, and somehow made me promise that I'd send her something by the end of next week.
Fuck me.
There is a literary agent that wants to see my writing.
Now you feel the same panic that I do. Or you don't. Either way, I'll explain, so if you understand, feel free to let your attention wander.
The idea of being an author is a lovely one. There's a pretty picture of me sitting in a quiet room, or on a terrace overlooking some beautiful city, with a mug of steaming tea at my elbow, joyously typing on my computer, working on the next Great American Novel. It comes easy, and the people that I interact with know me as "The Writer", and there is adoration that flows like ambrosia from the gods.
It doesn't work like that.
It's hours and days and months and years of second-guessing, self-loathing, sketching out suicide attempts on the coffee collars of the thousands of cups that I've used to completely ruin my insides and give me an ulcer. It's writing and rewriting and throwing pens across the room to relieve frustration. It's having invisible sword fights with broom handles to the the choreography right, though no one will notice if it's wrong. It's creating languages and magical limitations, which you'll probably never use and throw out anyway. It's being sure that, no matter how hard you try, it will never go anywhere, and that has to be okay with you, because it's "not about the reader". Which inside, you know is complete and utter bullshit. You write so that it's read. Not so that it'll take up space on your hard drive. Anyone that says different is a lying moron.
And then there comes the time when you have the chance to have someone read it. Not a friend, or a family member, or some random person you met in a writing group on the internet. But someone real.
A literary agent.
The most powerful and terrifying person in publishing. Because if they don't like it, there's no chance in hell of anyone else seeing it. The buck, as they say, stops with them. Which is a phrase I've never really understood, but that's beside the point.
They say you don't need an agent to get published. Which, I suppose is true. But, you also don't need a paddle to get down a river in a canoe. I'd love to see someone try and stay away from a waterfall with their Jedi mind powers though.
Agents are important. Agents are the author's paddle. I want a paddle. I want the help, because I'm not strong enough to make it through the waterfalls by myself.
She's a friend of a friend (which further solidifies my belief that it's not what you can do, but rather who you know), and apparently Ali has talked me up hardcore to her. No pressure, thanks Ali. Agent chick asked me questions, seemed excited, and somehow made me promise that I'd send her something by the end of next week.
Fuck me.
