Terror is a part of any new
creative endeavor. Creation is about exploration which always begins with
incomplete information. So, you kind of know the destination you’d like to
reach. You’ve read and heard rumors of others who have beached there, but the
map is blurry and there are definitely dragons drawn along its edges.
I completed The Sun God’s Heir
in 2007 and attended my first conference, The Algonkian Workshop, in New York City. I was afraid and anxious,
but not yet terrified. You see, real terror requires some basic awareness, and
at that time, I was dumb and happy. So I was nervous, but really didn’t have
anything to lose, since this novel thing was still on the pipe dream end of the
spectrum.
The conference went well, I
learned a few things, and Tom Colgan, an executive editor at Penguin USA,
requested a full. That’s the complete manuscript, an all too rare occurrence.
Since not that many people had their books requested, I was floating. “Hey,
this isn’t so hard.” At that time, the manuscript was an unedited one hundred
and forty thousand word beast. Although he did not propel me to fame and fortune,
I am still grateful to Mr. Colgan for the gracious way he treated my
inexperience. He even read the book again, a year or so later, when I was sure
I had it. I didn’t.
The next year, still hopeful,
but anxious, I revisited New York City, attending the Backspace Writers
Conference at the Radisson Martinique. The hotel was a little too expensive, so
I think I stayed at the Comfort Inn down the street. Now, I knew just enough to
be terrified. I put my name tag on and claimed a seat in a large conference
room. I had done some research, and knew that the agents I would meet were the
real deal. They still are.
The concept was excellent.
There would be two workshops on each of the two days. One in the morning and
one in the afternoon, each hosted by two different agents, eight total for the
two days. The morning workshop dealt with the novel’s first two pages, and the
afternoon one with the all important query letter.
On that first day I joined
nine other aspiring authors at four conference tables set in a rectangular
shape with the two agents seated on one side and the ten of us around the other
three. In front of the agents was a stack of paper twenty pages high. The first
two pages from each of our novels, the lure laboriously tied to catch the
interest of an agent, a publisher, and an unending stream of readers, looked
unimpressive as a short stack of paper. Given the overwhelming attention
demands of the twenty-first century, even two pages worth of someone’s time was
a lot to ask.
Jeff Kleinman of the Folio
Literary Agency was paired with another gentleman. Jeff Kleinman was the first
agent I submitted my work to after pouring through the 2008 Writers Market, a
weight lifting tome if ever there was. I knew enough to be actually shaking. Of
the other agent, try as I might, I can’t call more than a blur to mind. I
remember a whispered comment mentioning Stephen King’s agent, but I think it
may have been A.S. King.
Jeff Kleinman picked up the
first two pages. To this day, I am still grateful that they didn’t belong to
me. They represented the hopes and creative effort of the pale young man seated
opposite from me. The rules of this particular workshop stated that the agents
would read the pages as if pulling them from the slush pile (unrequested
submissions) at their office, and react as they would on a busy workday.
No pressure in that. He read
for about ten seconds and then put the pages down. White silence around the
table. The first paragraph or something in it had caused him to put the pages,
and the author’s hopes down. At least there wasn’t a real trash can. He passed
them to the other agent who read a little longer, and then put the pages down.
They then explained why this effort had no chance of surviving the slush pile.
All this work only to drown in ten seconds. Ah, terror.
He finally picked up my pages. I don’t think Jeff Kleinman is a sadist. I really don’t. Looked on with some years cushion, I think he was trying to give us a taste of reality. Fantasy is a wonder within the pages of a story, but not truly useful in the market. Does one no good to pretend a piece of fruit is ripe. That he seemed to take a certain glee in our terror is up for others to decide. He said my name to ascertain my location. I raised my hand. He looked over the sheet.
“Ah, The Sun God’s Hair.”
“No,” I squeaked. I have a
fairly deep voice, and am accustomed to talking, so what came out was a
surprise. I cleared my throat and said, “The Sun God’s Heir.”
“The Sun God’s Hair,” he said
again, with just the hint of a smile.
http://www.bluntmoms.com/open-letter-to-strangers-who-are-horrified-by-my-herd-of-daughters/
Smile went right by me. “No,
The Sun God’s Heir.” By this time in my
novel writing career, I had devoted a couple of
years and a good amount of time, energy and money. I hadn’t really
thought in terms of plan B, so I had front loaded all the elements of fear of
failure. I don’t think I even responded to his second mispronunciation of my
gorgeous title. I just sat there, waiting.
I think he then said, “Whatever.”, but I can’t be sure of anything from
that point. I do remember his reading through both pages, which was momentarily
encouraging. He then verbally cut them to pieces and placed the pages along
with my hopes in the trash. Of the ten of us, I think maybe one survived the trash.
