There are moments when I want to throw the monitor through a window rather than stare at it for another second. A bit violent, perhaps, but therapy has taught me to accept my feelings and nature rather than deny it. For the safety of my neighbors, I walked away and left the monitor on its stand. Something inside said take a vacation and recharge for a few days. While physically ready to implement Oriana’s edits, the brain–and more importantly the voice that directs me to the keyboard in the first place–said back off and wait. Anyway, I gave myself a few days for DVD’s, some reading, and a visit with Mom.

Speaking of one’s nature, as Mom and I strolled through her kitsch downtown in search of a restaurant, she mentioned something that differentiates me from many writers. It has nothing to do with my actual writing skills.

A lot of the stuff I write about, I also like really doing, or would at least consider attempting. Now if I was into shopping, that wouldn’t be very interesting; rather, shopping is something I avoid, and I’d sooner drive a mannequin through a display case than browse for tzotchkes willingly. But I like writing about adrenaline and action based backdrops. Hemingway ran with the bulls. Hunter Thompson rode with the Hell’s Angels. I jumped out of a plane, and am scheduled for more passes.
Though I never understood why either author passed so violently. Surely they had options.

Oriana–the ninja proofreader–finished four weeks ahead of schedule, which means I can implement her extensive list of suggestions for The Last Track. Working through the first eighth of the manuscript took two sessions, so ten to fourteen days of editing for the remainder seems a feasible goal. She even offered a second pass at the manuscript after I finish. Very nice of her, indeed.

I have a running betting pool with my friends about whether or not I’ll hear back from the agent who requested the manuscript before BEA, and a second bet whether I hear back at all. The subject of agent follow-up on requested materials is a subject I covered over the years, but it boils down to this: the standard form–the de facto standard of literary agents–is a non response. Basically, they say no by saying nothing.

Collaborating with Oriana reaffirms my suspicions. Early in her career, she worked for a publisher and then an agent, as a screener. She spent her days in a room with manuscripts stacked floor to ceiling. Her task was simple. To reject 99.5% of the manuscripts in the room, without exception, and notify her superiors when that mythic .5% landed on her desk.

Many factors influenced whether a project ended in file thirteen or file call back. Presentation mattered. Personal tastes mattered. And emotion mattered. The mood of her coworkers. If a coworker had a bad day, they might return to the office after lunch and nuke everything, without reading more than the first page. Or maybe not even reading that. Screeners in effect, the very people who have the least experience in the business, wield some of the greatest power over the unpublished novelist because they determine access to the decision makers.

I do not mention this whilst trolling for a badge of courage; rather, I mention it because of a great insight hiding within her story. The churn rate of screeners is enormous. Typically, they last three to six months in the position, either moving up or out. It’s not uncommon for the entire lot in an office to turn over in six months.

Which means an agency that said no in January, might very well say yes in June.

Mailed the requested materials off to the agent priority mail this afternoon, and then sent an email thanking them for their interest and consideration. Letting go of outcome starts right here…
Two submissions for two separate projects in a single week, one solicited and one contest entry/New year’s resolution.
Not bad.

After way too many late nights in the last two weeks, sleep calls.