A Ghastly Start

I decided to write a book.

I’d always enjoyed writing, and made my first attempt in kindergarten. It was bad, but I think I’ve improved since then. Writing has been a hobby of mine for years, after all, so I’m bound to have learned something along the way.

Perhaps it’s just the rigidity of writing that appeals to me. It’s not messy (or shouldn’t be) and follows very specific rules (or should, you uneducated heathens). Writing is considered, in comparison to speech, and as such, seems more true. Less ruled by emotion, and yet able to convey it to a much larger degree.

A lovely leather journal. Not mine, but lovely.

But I digress. I decided, one fair spring day when COVID was young and no one knew what to think of it, to write a novel. A difficult task within itself, but if thousands of people can do it every year, then by gum, so can I! Being an odd person, I had a couple leather-bound journals sitting about the house, so I took one of these and began writing. Cursive, of course, because it looks lovely and I needed some practice. Really, who writes in cursive anymore? I do, now, which really goes against my architectural training of neat, blocky letters.

For just under two years did I scribble nobly onto those creamy pages. Yes, I sat in coffee shops (I like coffee and baked goods), and parks (watching geese and ducks on a hot summer day from the shade of a tree is a great way to get those creative juices flowing), and other stereotypical writing places. I wanted the real writer’s experience, you see, but opted out of the beret and existential crisis.

When that final XX (because apparently that’s how you end manuscripts) hit the page, I began over, typing it all out and editing the story. Eventually, I had a completed manuscript. I’d written a novel. I felt proud, happy, and like I could stop boring my friends with incessant talk about my writing. Surely the hard part was over.

Lots of people write stories. Many would like to see these in print. Now, I suppose you could go out to any old printing store and order up as many copies as you wanted. You could even get it bound into a true, professional looking book. But how do you get that book onto shelves in those brick-and-mortar stores so that you can walk in, stand around, and wait for someone to ask “Hey, isn’t this you?” as they hold up the dust jacket?

You need a publisher. They have the connections and the pull to call up those stores and say “Hey, have I got a product for you!” But publishers are finite, and the amount of would-be authors coming at them is reminiscent of the Mongol hordes sacking a village. So they’ve built up their defenses; stout walls of stone, with towers every thirty paces. You can’t get in anymore. Well, you can, as there are smaller publishers out there. But the big guys shoot arrows at you over the crenelations and taunt you.

Enter the literary agent.

They’re sort of like sentries, standing guard over the publishers’ gates. You need to convince them that you’re worth admittance, and then they’ll let you inside and see if someone is interested in what you’re peddling. Okay, says I, I’ll find me a literary agent.

Ha ha!

Just like publishers, literary agents are finite, and the great horde has been foisted onto them. What’s more, they’re quite choosy, as those they pick from the throng will speak to their reliability as agents, and have a direct consequence on their careers. So they want you to query them. There’s a multitude of articles, blogs, rants, videos, and diary entries about querying, so let’s just say it’s a demoralizing process that makes you want to revert to a time you were illiterate and couldn’t write more than a few badly misshapen letters.

It’s a challenge. I’d say it’s much worse than writing the novel. I also suck at it, so got some help from the Query Shark (https://queryshark.blogspot.com/). Apparently it’s good to have supplementals these days, because agents like to really make their potential clients cry. Thus… this.

I’ve built a website; not so bad, as I wanted one for my architectural portfolio anyways. But apparently a blog is needed, so as to build a mailing list. A blog! At this time of day, at this time of year, in this part of the country, localized entirely within my kitchen. I’ve never had such a thing. I don’t even have social media, apart from LinkedIn, which I use to see design and construction products.

But here it is, and a maiden entry to boot. Fortunately I have no followers, or readers, so this entire ramble hasn’t wasted anyone’s time. Could you imagine? Reading all of this just to find out its an announcement that I’m going to be a (half-hearted) blogger now? Such is life.

Well, to you, imaginary reader, I leave this closing comic. It is apt for how I feel.