The agent Julie Barer has a way with rejections. Under the blackout she made some intelligent personal remarks about the specifics of my writing. If not for the love metaphor, this would be a very good rejection. It says: "Not only does your writing indeed show a lot of talent but a wonderful comic sensibility and attention to a meaningful narative....[blah, blah, blah]. But unfortunately, as much as I admired the material I read, I just didn't fall in love with it in the way I wanted to." It's too bad, I think I would have liked being the ho to her admiring pimp.
5 comments:
"fall in love the way I wanted to":
such self-dramatizing self-delusion pervades that whole profession, as if they were all characters in a Romance novel. Puleeze! Call a ho a ho! You just din't pull tricks like I like 'em, babe.
Can I get a hoooooooooo!?
This one would be the pimp who'd get your jokes, though.
Whenever I consider the ho-pimp thing it makes me feel like making out with Denis Johnson. Because, though I'm also a writer, I'll always be a reader first. And, who in the ho-pimp/writer-agent analogy plays the part of the John, I ask. Who else but the reader, baby? Oh, yeah. Denis Johnson, I have a little cash to spend this week, hun. You want a piece of my wad o' money? Well, come over here and show mama how you do the do.
(Scrambling to bookstore to buy Tree of Smoke.)
Ain't it the sad, sad truth.
She spelled competitive wrong.
I still like her, though.
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