Monthly Archive for April, 2008

If you can make a living at it (and almost no one can), being a writer is a hell of a job. You set your own hours, as long as you make your deadlines at least. Your own creativity is your main tool. And it greatly increases the odds of you being remembered once you have shuffled off the mortal coil on your way to Buffalo.

However, there is one part of writing, especially as someone hoping to one day make a career of it, that I hate. I absolutely loathe that portion of the process, nearly enough to make me think of chucking the hopes and dreams from time to time.

It’s not the rejection; I’ve been rejected my entire life and have gotten used to it. In fact, most of the rejections I’ve gotten over the three years I’ve been “working” as a novelist and playwright have been downright constructive and helpful. (The others were form letters saying, essentially, “we’re too busy with what we have,” which are also to be expected.) It’s not having to plow through portions of writer’s block (or creative constipation as I prefer to think of it); as far as industrial disease goes, writer’s block is about as good as you can get.

No, the part of the “job” that makes my sphincter tighten and compels me to yank out my now-graying hair is something so mundane that most writers don’t even consider it.

I’m talking about querying.

It’s a curious quirk in my nature that I can’t ask people for anything, especially for a favor. Even as a child, I could never compose letters to Santa, and my parents were forced to discern my interests from conversations throughout the year. This is why I never went into sales, despite many offers from my grandfather during my time between radio jobs to sponsor me for a real estate license. When it came down to the wire, I would never close the deal, because it seemed too much like asking someone to take something off my hands for me, or give me money. One of the reasons my early political career fell apart is that I could never ask anyone for their vote. I rationalized my way around this during my years in retail as I was helping people find things they already wanted, or were interested in, and fell back on my skills as an actor when the time came for the upsell. (Me the clerk and Me the theater owner were characters I played, much like Me the DJ.)

This is what makes the querying process a chore for me. Something deep inside me screams when the time comes to draft yet another cover letter, asking an editor, publisher or agent to look my stuff over. Intellectually, I know the worst that will happen is that the SASE will come back with a form rejection letter, which (as I said above) I know not to take personally. And who knows, someone might actually want to publish one of my books or perform my play, and I have to get it in front of them and make it known to them if that’s going to happen. But the little gnome inside my skull starts yelling and pounding on my gray matter when query time comes around, and I hate having to put up with him.

Add on top of this the drudge work of querying. Printing the sample chapters. Either drafting a new query letter or modifying an old one to provide information asked for in submission guidelines. Keeping track of your submissions, so you don’t send the same book to the same publisher or agent twice. Preparing the SASE, trying to stay ahead of postal rate changes that might occur during the months your manuscript is under consideration. (However, I will admit that the “Forever” stamp offered by the post office made this part easier, allowing me to pre-assemble a stack of return SASE’s in the corner of my desk and just pluck one off the top when the need arises.) I’ve literally spent more hours in preparing queries than I did in writing my first novel.

It’s part of the job, I know, and it’s a necessary step on the road to desired success. I still hate it, though, he said as he sealed envelope #54, ready to apply the address label as soon as the damn printer spits it out….

I opened an old SASE that arrived in the mail the other day, expecting the usual stock rejection letters sent by theaters and publishers during recent mass submissions of my novel and play.

It wasn’t until a second reading that I realized that yes, it was a form letter, but it was a form acceptance letter of sorts. A theater company thought highly enough of Bearding The Lyons that they’ve added it to their list for formal consideration. In their words, “[they] feel that [they] might be able to make excellent use of it at some time in the future, and would like to keep a copy for this potentiality.” It’s an open ended situation; they don’t know when or if they’ll ever use it, but they do want it available. Step in the right direction.

They also gave me a copy of the reader’s evaluation sheet. Very nice. It’s the first real critique I’ve gotten for the piece except from friends who read the first 30 pages (when I didn’t even known how it was going to end), or who joined in the table readings and polishing sessions Brett hosted for it on my behalf.

In their evaluation, I scored 103 out of a possible 150 points. My lowest score in a category was 5/10 for “technical requirements” since their stage may be (as the reader notes) too small for a the set. (I need an opening bay window, for example.) I scored 6/10 for “originality” (but what farce is truly original, anyhow? It’s always just variations on a theme), “pacing,” and “local audience appeal.” I got 7/10 for “character development,” “clarity,” “dialogue,” “consistency,” “entertainment value,” “believability,” “engagement,” and “talent pool match.” (i.e.: they won’t have to look too hard to find suitable actors for my characters.) Finally, I got a whopping 8/10 for style, theme, and plot.

The reader called it “complex and fun,” with a “naughtiness to it is appealing and not threatening.” Wow. First time I’ve been called that in a long time.

I’ve very gratified. Maybe this will help me get someone hereabouts to mount a workshop production with me so I can fine tine the action a little, and move the show a little further along in the process.