2 posts tagged “family”

Now that you have your newly-edited manuscript down to 143,122 words, (not including the 36,310 words of the ‘Back Section’ which includes recipes, a guide to additional reading, a history lesson, a wine list, and other information you deemed pertinent to your readers as addendums to your manuscript), you start looking for a book publisher. The only problem there is that you have no idea how to find a book publisher. Someone wiser than you, or maybe someone who just overheard someone else talking to another someone about this, suggests you get a “literary agent”. But you’ve no idea how to find one of those, either.  So:

1)     You go into your husband’s office and ask him, “Have you any thoughts on how I can get an agent for my women’s empowerment memoir?”

 

Your husband, a stockbroker who reads the financial pages, baseball biographies, and P.G. Wodehouse, and is at that very moment trying to make an important stock trade, replies (quite flippantly, you think), “None whatsoever.”

 

2)     Unreasonably irritated, you leave his office, go back into your own, and type, “How to Get A Literary Agent” into the search engine on your computer. This is when you discover that Google has approximately 818,000 articles on how to find a literary agent, and amazon.com sells more than 50 books on the subject.

 

Surely you don’t need to read a whole book and all those articles? After all, how hard can it be to get an agent? Aren’t they like realtors? Don’t they want to sell your work? That’s how they make their money, after all, isn’t it?  

 

Thus, assuming that selling a work of literature is like selling a house, you choose to follow the directives in a concise, one-page article you find on ehow.com.

 

3)     The ehow.com article says that you need to first write a ‘query letter’ to an agent. Again, you are clueless. So again, you rely on Google, typing in, ‘what is a query letter?’ to find out on Wikipedia, another of your ‘unfailing’ information sources, that “a query letter is a formal letter sent to magazine editors, literary agents, to propose writing ideas.” 

 

This seems simple enough, so you sit down and write your first ‘formal’ query letter, which goes something like this:

 

Dear ____________:

 

My name is Patricia Volonakis Davis, and I have written a women’s empowerment memoir called, “Amerikanaki”, which is my story about being raised first generation Italian-American, marrying a Greek national, and moving to Greece with him.

 

I hope you will be interested in reading my manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Patricia Volonakis Davis

 

Address

telephone number

email

 

4. After formulating your concise query letter to match the concise instructions which you followed to write it, you make a list of the top ten agents in the United States, finding their names through Google, too, of course.

 

You go to the agents’ individual websites and discover the particularized instructions on each. Some want you to post your query letter, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Others will only accept queries submitted by email. Some ask you send the first 30 pages of your manuscript, to also be included in email, pasted, not attached, in “WORD format only”, or “RTF format” (a format you assume is an anachronism for RUT the F*ck?!). Some want you to include any three random chapters, to be sent along with your SAE. And yet others ask that along with your query letter, you send the x-rays of your teeth your dentist took during your last exam.

 

Following all these instructions diligently (you were a teacher, after all) you send out your ten query letters/emails to your ten top choices of agents, and expect to hear from them all within a week or two at the most.

 

5. Three months later, you’ve written and emailed over fifty literary agents and received two replies detailing further instructions, and after having complied with those, you never hear from those two again. You now have six of those fifty available books sitting on your desk, with one more on order from amazon.com, and have taken five writing courses. One of those includes a three-day class given by a literary agent, (who shows no interest in your manuscript at all, by the way), simple titled, “How to Write a Query Letter”.

 

It was during this class that you learned how pathetically inadequate your first query letter was,  and you rewrote it so many times that it actually took longer to complete than the manuscript itself.  You also learn that apart from your manuscript and your query letter, you need to write something called a “book proposal”, and you have a new list of books written down and ready to order on how to write one of those.

 

You’ve spent hundreds of dollars on postage, photocopies, books, and classes. Additionally, you suspect your husband is seriously considering moving his office from home, so that you can’t barge in every day to cry over the latest rejection or out-and-out disregard from literary agents. You know these suspicions are well-founded when he suggests that you go to a writers’ conference where you can meet agents in person.

 

“But, writers’ conferences are very expensive,” you point out to your beleaguered husband.

“True, but a lot less expensive than my having to move my office,” he replies.

 

(You see? You were right.)

 

6. And so, you register for BEA (Book Expo America) in New York. You need to pay the conference fees, flight, hotel, meals, and transport to and from BEA, so that once there, you, along with hundreds of other hopeful writers, will have two hours to meet with as many agents as you can, who will give you three minutes each to pitch your manuscript to them. You have no idea who any of these agents are, you only read a short blurb description of them, and of whether they are looking for ‘fiction’ or ‘non-fiction,’ ‘children’s’ or ‘adults.’ You can also clearly see, as you stand on a queue waiting to speak to them, that all of the ones you’ve chosen are already annoyed at and/or bored with the writer who’s talking to them at the moment. And you’re up next.

 

7. You’ve spent thousands of dollars and another three months up to now, but guess what? ─ you walk away from the conference with seven business cards from agents who have told you to send them your manuscript! A month later, of the seven, two actually offer you a contract! Once again, you have no clue which of the two you should choose, so you go with the one who shows the most enthusiasm for your work. She turns out to be the less experienced of the two; as a matter of fact, you learn that you are her very first client, but no matter. You have an agent! You’ve done it!

 

8. You run into your husband’s office again, this time with excitement, kiss him and thank him for his brilliant suggestion.  You then ring your best friend joyously, informing her that you finally have a literary agent! You will be published within weeks!

 

Or so you think.

 

                                               (To be Continued.)

 

Note: Please remember that comments and replies are now at http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com.  I am really sorry for this inconvenience. I hope VOX fixes the bug on my blog someday.

 

     

 

This post is dedicated to you. You know who you are, though not many others do. You trust very few with your secret, the terrible, shameful secret that your mother, your father, maybe even your brothers and sisters, are not talking to you, or you've stopped talking to them.

Or perhaps that's not quite the truth, perhaps you do still talk to them, but wish like hell you could find the nerve to sever ties. Because every time you see them, you leave feeling sick and humiliated. They twist your guts up every time, but you keep going back, because you think- hope- it will be different this time. This time, you’ll do or say the one right thing, the one clever thing, that will make them love you or be proud of you, or, at the very least, respect you.  Or maybe the reason you go back each time is because you had it drilled into your head long ago that you have to accept any bad behaviour from them because they are "your family." Possibly your priest told you that, or your rabbi, or even your best friend, who just happens to have a family who treats him/her in a similar way.  

But more likely, it was your parents themselves. Starting from when you were quite young, after they tormented you in some physical or mental way, they told you that you were to blame, you forced them to treat you in an unbearable way, because you were an unbearable child.

And when you got to too old for them to mentally or physically persecute you, (but only because you moved away,) they continued their campaign against you by “gathering armies.” They told your brothers and sisters how reprehensible you are and that it was acceptable, preferable even, for them to dislike you, even hate you. They passed this sentiment on to aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, anyone they could martial to listen to and sympathise with their complaints about you.  Some were happy to join their crusade. Others were skeptical, though nonetheless, they never defended you.

So for a long time, as you grew to adulthood, you believed them, all of them, that you were ‘argumentative,’ or ‘ungrateful,’ or ‘disrespectful,’ or ‘selfish,’ or ‘crazy’ or coldhearted, or ‘too big for your britches,’ or ‘difficult to handle,’ or whatever. Whatever the reason that they reviled you, you knew it was your fault and you tried to 'fix' it .

But, you never could, could you? No matter what you attempted, be it reason or tears, no matter how you begged for acceptance, wanted so much to explain who you were, and how much you loved them, they wouldn’t hear you and you couldn’t earn their love.

So you struggled hard to close yourself off from the pain of it. You swallowed all their contempt, pretending that you didn’t even sense it. You chastised yourself every time you weren’t stoic enough, numb enough, to convince them and yourself that their barbs, their accusations, didn't hit their mark.

You may have even gone out and found others who treated you the same way your family did. Your wife, your husband, a new friend, even a coworker, picked up the signal from you that it was okay to treat you despicably, because your own family had taught you that you deserved to be despised. You provided a great outlet for these people, because you would never react. And that was because you wanted to be too tough to care.

Sometime in your late twenties or early thirties, it all gets to be a little too much, however, when someone steps over even that meagre line of self-respect you’ve allowed yourself. It might be that you get turned down once too often for that promotion you richly deserve, or that your husband’s verbal assaults become physical. Maybe you have child and one day, when you look at her, you see the child you once were.  So you decide to create a better world for your child and you. You seek “help,” another thing your family ridicules you for, as more proof that you’re the problem. They see you need to go ‘get right in the head,' while of course, they don’t.

For a hefty fee, your therapist is sympathetic and points out the obvious - you didn’t deserve to be brutalised because you couldn’t have been all that intolerable when you were in middle school. So, it’s not you, after all. You wasted almost three decades to anxieties and unmerited hurt, but now you can feel better. Now you can say, “it’s not me,” with some conviction, because your therapist told you so. And will keep telling you so, as long as you keep going back and paying to hear it.

Eventually you stop having to go back and hear it, either because you do finally truly believe it, or because your health insurance runs out. You feel much better about yourself. You learn to have productive relationships. You learn to assert yourself, even like yourself. You meet others who like you, too and whom you can like right back.

And yet, there’s always that hole of lingering hurt. You try to fill it. Maybe with food, maybe with exercise, maybe with sex or achievements. But deep down, you know you weren’t really hungry and all your accomplishments still don’t give you what you want -  that primal approval from the ones who mattered first, though not necessarily most, and the complete release from the little guilt devil who still remains tethered to you. He’s much less significant now, but he’s still there. He’ll never completely go away.  And do you know why?

It’s because you really are guilty.

You are guilty of possessing that one rogue gene from the putrid family pool that gave you a luminous soul and a heart full of compassion.

You are guilty of making the rest of your pitiful family feel envy and resentment that not only were you the only crab who crawled out of their barrel, but you offered others a hand up, too and they didn’t want to take it.

You are guilty of overcoming hardships and rejoicing in your triumphs, while your relatives only see that you have “good” luck, whilst theirs is “bad.” 

And though you may always feel slightly sad that your “good luck” did not extend to who your family is and how they will always see you, that experience helped shape you into the empathetic, productive person you are.

And so, you are guilty, my friend, of being capable of embracing life, drawing others to you with your lure of joy, while your relatives only want to wallow in misery and wait to die. It was a choice they made long ago, that separates you from them and always will. If you can’t fully get over it, sigh deeply, and get used to it.

Then, surround yourself with people like yourself and celebrate the miracle of you, the guilty, wondrous, miracle of you.