I’m not sure if it’s the Christmas season that has people in a bigger rush than normal, but since my entering the hospital last Tuesday to coming home on Thursday, I’ve received NOT. A. SINGLE. PROPER. QUERY.
No, I don’t mean they’re poorly written, they aren’t anywhere close to my zipcode – meaning nonfiction/memoir/biography. I received a 325,000 fiction novel – instantly deleted, historical fiction – also instantly deleted, romance, paranormal romance, young adult, and fantasy.
I’m starting to get a bit cheesed off (for which I could blame the Vicodin, except I quit taking it) because I’ve never seen such a huge clump of silliness. I’ll admit that I don’t suffer fools well and tend to let my impatience get the better of me, but this is over the top. In my relative infirmity, am I channeling my inner hose baggery because even a spec of navel lint is currently more active?
It’s not like my submission guidelines aren’t prominently displayed, so what is it? Chutzpah or the elusive Missing Brain Syndrome? I have had plenty queries that start out with, “I know you don’t publish YA paranormal romance murder mystery historical fiction, but I’m taking the chance you’ll be so wowed with my writing that you’ll reach for a contract.”
Only thing I’ll reach for is Pepsid.
I know this is the season to be more charitable, but isn’t this also the season to be mindful? After all, I’ll toss the offending query and say rude things about the author’s lack of reading comprehension. OTOH, the author will awaken the next day and be just as clueless as they were the day before. And the day before that.
And sure, it’s irksome for me because I open each query with a sense of anticipation and excitement. Will this be “the one”? And instead, I match growls with the beagle and hit the Delete button. Since there are a finite number of hours in a day, I get a case of cranky pants over having my time wasted. Likewise, I would think these authors wouldn’t get a thrill up their leg over wasting their own time, either.
One went so far as to contact me a month later, which was this past Friday, to inquire if I’d read their paranormal romance query. I deleted it, unanswered. They called me. CALLED ME. They were pretty snippy about it, too. “I queried you, I emailed you, and nothing. How RUDE!” Ok, I admit that I had popped my last Vicodin and my patience wasn’t where it could have been, but I gritted my teeth and asked if they’d taken the opportunity to read our submission guidelines.
“Sub-miss-ion guide-lines,” I repeated very slowly.
So how ’bout you? Have you experienced a continued irritant that makes you want to climb on top of a bar stool and scream, “What the h-e-double hockey sticks are you thinking?”