Posted in comedy, humor, humour, Uncategorized, writing

Me: The Wilderness Years


So, I sent the first three chapters off, and a synopsis, and a covering letter; so far, so good. Until I realised that the three chapters I’d sent off had (in the last seconds before I attached to email) magically transformed themselves from the standard Times New Roman 12pt font; 65 numbered pages, to Fuck Knows What 14pt font, 86 not numbered pages. A great start, then.

I dashed off an follow-up email of apology to the relevant peeps, attaching the correctly formatted script. In this, I came across as a sort of bumbling but well spoken fop, with a dash of unsure charm and a sprig of good intention. Like Hugh Grant, at the end of Four Weddings. I assume I came across like that, anyway. They probably read it more as one of the gypsies from Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, auditioning for Rainman: The Musical.

I haven’t heard back yet, but that’s considered quite normal, if your book is shit. Sometimes they don’t even send you a rejection. I hope they do, though. I plan to wear my rejections like the ears of my slain foes. Or perhaps as a sort of off-the-shoulder, batwing sweater. Like her in Flashdance.

The biggest problem with submissions is that they want to see the beginning of the book, and if you’re a debut novelist, your beginning is always rubbish. If it doesn’t come across as rubbish initially, it’s because you’ve used some sort of gimmick to distract from the fact that it’s rubbish. Clever, but eventually someone is going to notice that it’s shit. There is no way to get around this, other than to just be born a literary genius. Even then, there’s no guarantee that anyone will understand your gift. Vonnegut, Welsh, Binchy- they were all laughed out of agents’ offices to begin with, due to their maverick ways.

Like any art form, the problem with monetising writing is that the people who can put you in a position to cash in, only understand What Makes Money. They have no interest in What Is Actually Good. Comedy producers don’t laugh; they don’t have time to laugh, because they’re too busy making fold. Art gallery owners couldn’t tell a Picasso from a Banksy, but they butter their toast with butter made of diamonds. No one who sells art gives a flying fuck about the integrity of it. No one who represents an artist actually understands or enjoys their client’s work.

Which is a good thing, you whiney emo prick. Stop thinking the world owes you a fucking living. Some innocent Brazilian tree is going to get cut down to make your book of shitty rape victim haikus; it’s your responsibility as a Citizen Of Earth to make sure that it’s saleable. You might try putting some dinosaurs in it. Bitches love dinosaurs.



Self proclaimed author, cynic, saviour of humanity.

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