I did spend some time this Labour (Canadian spelling thank you very much) Day weekend, performing that most soul destroying exercise of querying agents. I always feel dirty afterwards, like I have told the biggest lie, just attended a half hearted pep rally for the high school football team, or simply lost touch with why I do this. Part of me can’t help to try to write what they want to hear, try to shove my square pegged novel into their round hole.
I take my time with queries and research what each agent is looking for and try to match the work therefore. Even so, the only comparable shelf neighbours (Canadian spelling) of my novel will be with other authors whose last name starts with ‘Be’ ‘Bi’ or ‘Bl’ and on and on.
I feel however that I should have a spoiler alert at the beginning of my query stating the raw facts: age, gender, sexual persuasion…mood, and see if the intern can get past those hurdles before reading the synopsis and my bio, and miracle of miracles, my excerpt.
Enough on that. I am plowing through my poetry collection trying to maintain some momentum as I will come back many more times, but want to do a ‘crude’ edit of the work, to reacquaint myself. It’s all erotic and I am trying not to fall into the pornographic rut, not that that’s bad, just that erotica language can be more of a challenge. (The first story I ever got paid for––US$100––was one I submitted to Playguy, many many years ago.)
When I was an adolescent my mom got me, and probably my siblings, a membership at a tennis club in our city. It was nice but not too fancy, not the kind in the movies, but it did have a pool! I discovered that many of my school friends were members. They all played tennis really well. I was absolutely terrible, even with lessons.
I remember one particularly athletic girl, who was also really nice, you know she was probably the valedictorian and Ms Congeniality plus high marks and top athletic skills. She saw no one would play with me because I was so terrible. Her advice. Use the practice board. Which I did. I just kept lobbing the damn ball against the board and running after it. I actually improved (too late everyone had decided not to play with me, it wasn’t going to change their opinion).
Anyway my point is, this constant editing and writing alone in the dark on an early morning is like the practice board. We keep engaging and smacking back at that board and, well, it’s the only way isn’t it?
Do not lose touch with why you so this. But I suspect those lonely dark mornings of writing build that memory of "why."