And now back to Literary Agent Theatre, the second of a two part series chronicling my pursuit of Mr. Mayberry, the agent I fell for at the Spring SCBWI conference after a chance encounter at the snack bar.
My first query/love letter amounted to… nothing. Nada. Zippo. Not even an acknowledgement. Not an outright rejection mind you, I could’ve handled that with a bit of Kleenex and a bottle of screw-you-too (the vintage is always perfect regardless of who or what is on the label).
The lack of response was troubling since it left me to debate whether I had been rejected or just misplaced in a kindly though inadvertent spam folder. Did I need to accept the truth of my rejection? Or had I been mistaken for Mr. Abed the secretary of the interior of a small African country in need of an American bank account to keep safe several million dollars until the current civil unrest in his country quiets down.
This lack of response might have deterred a lesser writer but I am far lesser than that. I make lesser look good. I laugh at lesser and spin pirouettes on the razor thin lip of lesser's depressed depths.
Instead, I shuffled through the house chanting in Latin and banging my unfinished novel against my forehead like a medieval monk from Monty Python’s Holy Grail. What I needed was a new edge, something eye grabbing and undeniable. I didn’t have anything like that but I did have a couple wrinkles up my sleeve.
For some reason in the weeks following the conference picture book ideas had been flashing through my head like flashbulbs at a Brittany Spears concert, though with significantly more class and less skin. I finished Spring quarter in the Writing For Children Program at the UW by pumping out roughly a picture book a week. I was voted Most Likely To Annoy by my classmates for the effort.
With these manuscripts burning in my hand and a smoldering carpe diem hunger in my eyes I decided to make the bold move of sending a second query. I opened with this little gem drawn from our chance encounter at the conference: ‘
The walks in the park were a highlight, not to mention the spontaneous duets we shared. Not really. We're men, dammit. Maybe next time.’ Perhaps I should've toned down the sarcastic wit but I decided if I’m to be a professional storyteller/liar then I'm going to do it on my own terms, I already have a day job.
I then described the two manuscripts I was sending and ended with a brief description of my background, including ‘I just completed the Writing For Children certificated program at the University of Washington. My head is currently swollen with the knowledge that writing for children is much more difficult than being a child. Who knew?’
On that note I pressed send and for the second time waved my submission goodbye. Seven weeks later I got back the following reply: ‘These are fun. I think the monster story has sales potential. I would probably have to pair it with one of my illustrators before I sent it out. Do you have anything else?’
WHAT?! My submission got through? And he wants to see more? After throwing out my half empty bottle of screw-you-too, I went right to work scrounging through the piles of picture book manuscripts I was using to build an addition onto the house. I immediately sent two additional manuscripts with the following intro: ‘SHAKINGLY, SPEWINGLY MAD attempts to capture the volatile nature of a preschool friendship gone bad and, ultimately, redeemed. And I AM NOT A DUCK is a Boynton meets Breathed story of a duck with a playful imagination who refuses to be stifled by reality.’
A mere two weeks later I returned from vacation to the following email: ‘Hello Dan, I'm impressed. I have to run out soon, but send me a reminder e-mail on Monday of next week and we'll talk about these stories that you sent.’
At this point I felt like piddling like a happy puppy. I refrained, not without some difficulty which will probably lead to a prostrate issue later in life. Instead I let out a contented sigh (read hysterical scream) and reflected on my journey. The writing. The waiting. More writing. More waiting. More writing mixed with more waiting mixed with bouts of screw-you-too drinking (I don’t actually drink much but it somehow sounds Hemingwayish to say so).
I was almost there. I could taste it like a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie right out of the oven. Not to be confused with those dry nasty little concoctions that come in a bag and you only eat when you're too lazy to bake. I mean the real goodness to gracious homemade kind that may come from the freezer section of the store in a tube but what a glorious tube.
If only the story could end here. But it doesn’t. Sadly. The attention of an agent seems only the beginning. Or the middle. Or maybe that last bit at the end of each sitcom episode that keeps you in your seat until the next show begins. Anyway, stay tuned… there’s more to come right after this short commercial break…
