Hey, folks, I'm still stuck in non-fiction. This is fair warning to anyone who thinks they want to be a writer.
The Babbler
I am a writer. I am! At least I thought I was until today. I’m
thinking that the hazing performed on writers at writers’ conferences
is too intense for my wimpy spirit. If only it was waterboarding or bamboo under
the fingernails. But no.
I paid money to join the OWFI (Oklahoma
Writers Federation Inc.) In return, I get to pay more money to go to the writer’s
conference held right here in OKC. I met people today from Arkansas, Kansas, Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, Missouri, and Oklahoma. I had no trouble
talking to people I didn’t know. I told people about my book. I asked them about their's.
I’ve written a wonderful book. For those of
you who have read only the book I wrote
before I learned to write, (The Angel’s Song), You’re going to be shocked and
awed to read this book. It’s funny and touching and historically interesting.
There’s romance and familial love. There’s intrigue and adventure. There’s
redemption and forgiveness. I will be proud to sign any copy of the Pig Wife,
(or sign your Kindle!) I’m proud of this novel. (Rasmus is funny and touching and inspiring and adventurous, too, but since only about 20 people have read it, it doesn't help to reference it!)
But today, when I went to pitch it to a New
York Literary agent, I was about as fascinating as applesauce.
I made the mistake of attending a “How to
pitch your book” workshop just a few hours before I had to pitch my book. I learned that the pitch I rehearsed is too long and didn’t include the necessary
elements. So the little moths that had meandered in my stomach turned into a
whole flock of robins all aflutter.
“Oh well,” I thought, “I’ll just give the
pitch the way I practiced it and be myself and that will have to do.”
I said and said and said those words. I said
them. But I lied them.
I spent 15 minutes in the restroom as my body
reacted physically to my nervous overload. It’s hard not to despise such a
wimpy constitution, but there was nothing to do but bear it.
For those of you that don’t know me
personally, I'm a composed person. I consider myself unrufflable. I can speak
to 500 people without getting too nervous. I can teach of class of 100 adults
and actually enjoy it. I love to do book clubs or authors' panels.
But one little woman. . .thirty pounds
lighter than I am. I could pin her with one hand tied behind my back. That fact
didn’t seem to help.
I want it too much. I like this agent’s
style. I like her book list. I like her credentials, and I liked her answers on
the agent/publisher panel.
I sat across the table from her and spit out
somehow, “I have a historical fiction novel that’s finished at 105,000 words,
called “The Pig Wife.”
“The Pig Wife?”
“Yes, The Pig Wife. I know it’s a sexist
sounding title, but it’s memorable." I hadn't meant to qualify the title at all.
Her impassive face screamed boredom. “What’s
sexist about ‘The Pig Wife”
“UH, well, it just seems that way to me.” (Somehow, my brilliance didn't seem to dazzle her.) My mind raced. It’s not sexist, but
it’s memorable. Isn’t it? I thought it was. Maybe it’s not? I don’t think I
know anything.”
It got worse. I told her that it was set in
1852 in the gold rush boom town of California. At that time, women represented
only 2% of the population of California. Eggs sold in the gold camps for a
dollar apiece and vegetables sold by the pound, just like the gold, for the
first time in history.
Now, I think that’s interesting! I expected
her to say, ‘Only 2%? That’s interesting.’ I expected her face to register something.
Quiet listening.
Did she have a tummy ache? I was unnerved. Did I remember to tell her
anything about Little Jack? Yes, I think I said he was a slow. . .I couldn’t
think of the word I wanted so she mercifully supplied it. “Processor.” (Did I gesture with my hand and she responded
to my charade?)
“Yes, that’s the word I am looking for.” Do I
speak English? Where did I leave my vocabulary?
She asked me if it was a romance. I fumbled
around for an answer. Technically, novels are romances. The word doesn't denote romantic love. So, by the English-major definition of a romance, yes it is. But it’s
not a formula romance where the hero starts out as the antagonist and vice
versa and the woman is rescued by the supposed villain for a satisfying and
suspiciously unrealistic ending. How did she mean the question? Should I ask
her if she meant the literary sense of the word “romance” or the genre
definition?
I just said “No, not the traditional sense.”
(Did I say ‘traditional’? That’s four syllables. Maybe that was okay.) I gave
some info about a subplot that I shouldn’t have given.
“So what’s
the point?”
I fumbled for words. Something must have come
out of my mouth. How the HECK should I know?
She phrased the summary of the book the way
she thought I meant to express it. She was being kind. She was sorry for the
poor doltish woman stammering in some foreign language in front of her.
She was so kind that she asked me to send the
first three chapters. That’s the best possible outcome of the interview. It felt like scoring a goal in soccer when the
ball ricochets off the back of your head into the net.
Then again, she said she was ‘out of cards’
and wrote her address and request on a slip of paper. I haven’t tried the
address yet. She probably gave me her rival’s email. Do Agents play practical jokes on each other?
Alas, Essie-the-Pig-Wife. You’re destined for
oblivion with nothing better than this babbler to set you free. I’m so sorry.
So very sorry!
Then again, this is the second request for the first three chapters this week. A publisher wrote that my query 'intrigued' him. Perhaps they can hear Essie screaming.