There’s a growing number of writers out there in etherland who are wandering around without their brains. I rarely say this because I’m a writer myself and would hate to be accused of leaving my cerebral cortex in my other purse. However, given the recent rash of odd submissions, I can only deduce that the glue had peeled back from many a head and allowed brains to go begging on the sidewalk.
Submitting or querying is fairly straightforward. It doesn’t require an advanced degree or special dispensation from the Pope. All one need do is go to the agent or publisher of their choice and determine if they produce or represent the kind of work you write. If they do, the next step is to review their guidelines. Carefully. What could be easier, right?
In the past month, I’ve received five CD’s. Do these people really believe that I’m going to d/load anything unsolicited to my harddrive?? Oh, one came in a very pretty envelope and promised me that I was seeing the very best of American literature. Really? Well, not if it’s on a C-freaking-D. All went directly into the trash.
I received a submission that was filled with a slew of photos and also promised that I was getting the next thriller that will turn America on its ear. Wow. Really cool. Except we don’t pub thrillers. Like an idiot, I wrote this guy back – something I rarely do – to tell him that rather than including all the hoo ha pictures and sensational drivel, he might consider including a synopsis. My jaw dropped in my lap when he called the office to inform me that I’d hurt his feelings. I suggested that perhaps he was pursuing the wrong hobby. Obviously he’s never seen a scathing PW review.
This month’s winner goes to the clever writer who told me that he’d written his first “autobiographical novel,” huh?, and had come to the conclusion that it was horrifically inept, “unequivocably” disastrous, and a magnanimous train wreck transcribed to paper, but that he hoped I would consider publishing it. He not only felt I should see this, but that fifteen other publishers should as well – as we were all listed in the address line. The added bonus was his P.S. which apologized for the mass email and oh, so, hoped he hadn’t broken any protocol. Nah, no worries, dude, I’d love nothing more than to publish someone’s horrifically inept train wreck of a manuscript. I may pull out my toenails with a rusty set of pliers just for kicks.
So, for Christmas, I’ve asked Santa to give fresh batches of glue sticks in hopes that this brave new world of writers puts them to good use. As for me, I’ve asked Santa to up my order for Jim Beam.