There’s a woman sitting across from me with a very small face, and I wonder if she’s always had a small face, or did she make her face small so that her breasts would look bigger? That’s the sort of thing they do, you know. Crafty, crafty womenfolk.
I need an agent. Remember that time before when I needed an agent? And then I didn’t, because I was going to self-publish? Well, I lied. I still need an agent, because I still need a book deal. I’m not going to sit here and sell five books a day, while all around me, the McDonald’s staff cleaning chip-vomit off the floor have bigger take-home pay than I do. I’m not going to preach about integrity, purity and the beauty of control, if I have to make up my 2,500 kcals a day by licking the inside of the bins behind Starbucks. There is only so far that your own talent can take you; then you’re faced with a choice: Carry on being self-published, and spend every day grinding out sales by being unnecessarily nice to people on the internet, or (MUCH BETTER) get someone else to promote the thing for you, so you can get on with the business of writing the next one.
That was always the plan. The reason for self-publishing at all, was that the query/rejection/acceptance process is fucking soul-destroying, and I didn’t have enough reserves of self-esteem to begin with to survive the sort of battering they’d have taken during a few months of that. I AM A FWAJILE FWOWWER! Nope, it was better to finish the fucking thing, and get people’s feedback on it. Positive feedback only, obviously. I’m too much of a fwajile fwowwer to hear the actual truth about anything.
So it’s back to whoring myself in front of the Parasitia again. A lot of agents have this whole ‘WELL! Don’t send us your manuscript if you’re going to be sending it to EVERYONE!!!! We do TALK to each other, you know! We’ll find out!!!!’ Er, yeah. So, if the greatest manuscript of all time landed on your desk, you’d turn it down if you found out that two or three of your agent friends were also considering it? Great business sense there, Insecurey McPreciousknickers. The truth is, you’d bite the author’s fucking hand off for it. And if you wouldn’t, then there are plenty of agents who would.
So I’ll be sending my manuscript to loads of agents at once, regardless. I’ll also be sending them links to my reviews, to my Facebook and Twitter, and to this blog. So if you’re an agent and you’re reading this, and you were Totally Going To Sign Me Up until you read that bit up there where I gently pointed out the silliness of your silly rules, but now you’ve changed your mind about it- balls to you. If you’re an agent and what I said made no impression other than to make you think ‘That Ciarán West chap, he’s a clever guy! And funny too! And so handsome!’, then you are my favourite agent ever, and when the revolution comes, you will be spared. You will also be with me and my father in Heaven later, and you shall go to the ball.
In short, I’m going to get myself a book deal. There’s no ‘trying’ about it. I either get it, or I take this sniper rifle up to the roof of the train station, and see how many of you fuckers I can take with me.
Love you all! Buy the book! (while you still can)