Early on in my life I realized that there were “outsiders”, those who were picked-on, excluded and made fun of and so I made it my ambition to never stand-out. In the media, in entertainment, the outsiders are glorified and made triumphant (Revenge of the Nerds, Forest Gump, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer) but in reality, everyone knows this is a quaint fantasy.
Most people are not capable of opinion altering feats, in fact most people are never even given the opportunity. They’re classified and excluded from the reindeer games forever. My chameleon abilities allowed me to befriend teachers and bullies, gays and geeks. No matter the situation, I was never an outsider. I never had to prove myself worthy because no one really took notice. It was a comfort to barely exist.
She rose to her feet and pulled a
scrapbook from her book shelf. Without a word she gave it to me. It
was an ongoing project, nearly complete. Inside there were black and
white copies of old newspaper clippings and glossy photo prints. The
first headlines immediately fascinated me. Leviathan
of the skies pays Toronto breakfast call .
“Where did you get these? This is amazing!” I asked as I
devoured sporadic paragraphs.
Blase Toronto received the thrill
of a lifetime yesterday when the great ghostly shape of the R100
crept unexpectedly over the city, with her engines droning low, in
the early hours of the morning, and treated watchers to a sight that
will never dim in memory of the comparatively few who witnessed the
event...
A roar of applause broke loose as
the sky liner, half obscured in the darkness, drifted away, her five
engines thrumming softly. A bell jangled somewhere in the big silver
shape and the engines began a throbbing clamour of power. Lights
glowed softly from the promenade deck windows, while red and green
navigation lights twinkled from high up on the great silver hull...
Well done, R 100! Not so long
ago the wafting of half a hundred persons across the Atlantic Ocean
in under two days would have seemed a miracle. In one respect, this
flight should prove real and lasting value. To a new country, like
Canada, actual visible achievement means more than any words...
Then
the final headline, alone in the centre of the page. It betrayed the
result of all the frenetic potential. It was one year after that
incredible two weeks.
R-100 is for sale, Cardington
closed
A wash of excitement flowed over me
only to be replaced by a flood of emotion. My reaction was the only
reward she sought. Alex smiled. She could see my mind starting to
focus.
The deadline has come and gone. April is over. And all I am left with is crickets. I submitted a short story to a group publishing a book on the COVID pandemic as experienced in Burlington, Ontario. Considering I was competing against only fellow Burlingtonians, I rather arrogantly thought my submission would be successful. Instead I was rejected by crickets.
There is something particularly disappointing about not receiving some sort of confirmation from agents and publishers that they are not interested. You are never sure how long you should hold out before accepting their apparent rejection of your work. They always give you a drop dead date such the end of the month and in 8 weeks but if you feel hopeful you tell yourself to wait just a bit longer. With crickets when you finally accept your rejection, your mind fills in the spaces. It decides how horrible your submission was and makes up everything that was wrong with it and then believes even worse.
I understand that there are many submissions, rather an enormous number of submissions, and I understand that being short staffed makes it impossible to respond to each one individually. If agents or publishers do respond it is generally a short automated reply with cut and paste personalisation features. They are like flies, numerous and harmless.
For example:
I'm sorry, but your project does not sound like a fit for me at this time, and so I will have to pass. Thank you for considering me and best of luck with your future queries.
or
Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to consider your project. I carefully read and consider each submission I receive, and I’m sorry to say that yours is not quite right for me.
Agenting is subjective, and while I couldn’t take on your project, another agent may well feel differently. I wish you the very best of luck with your work in the future and thank you for thinking of me.
or
Thanks so much for sharing ELAGABALUS with me. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm the right agent for this project, so I will have to pass.
Please keep in mind that this is a subjective business and mine is only one opinion. I wish you all the best in your search for representation and in your writing career.
or
Thank you for your email and for your interest in this agency. I am sorry to say that this is not the kind of book we are looking for at the moment.
Good luck with finding a suitable home for your work elsewhere.
All of these responses indicate their decision was made fairly quickly. They read the query and decided it was not for them. Just like looking for a novel in a bookstore, they've quickly looked at the title, the book cover or the tag line and have decided to move on to another shelf. When agents send back a short reply, it is disappointing but I'm fine with it.
The worst, even worse than the crickets, are the wasps. Those are the rejections that make you feel like you actually had a chance but that your writing failed you.
Thank you for sending me your query for OBLIVION. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I must pass on this project; I wasn’t as pulled in by the opening pages as I'd hoped.
Ouch! "as I had hoped" - that one stung, just as this one did:
I spent some time thinking about the potential of your story and my own expertise in relation to a potential partnership. I read each query with my own list in mind and specific genres I have a need for, and at this moment, I truly believe I am not the right agent for this project at this time. I am currently looking for a few specific stories, and this one isn't quite what I know I can take on right now.
Using the bookstore analogy again - it was as if she had picked up the book and read the back cover and a few pages before putting it back on the shelf. I had piqued her interest but my writing did not deliver.
It is challenging to continue to believe in yourself and your work. Getting published is an up hill battle. On days when I am feeling positive I send out queries and hope for the best. On those when I am feeling down, I shy away and hide my work and listen to the crickets.
When we first arrived it was immediately clear who was available on
Wednesday afternoons. The group was comprised of five women, three
well into their silver years, Joannie, Louise and Carol, one tired
and disillusioned fifty something housewife, Margaret, and an 84 year
old grandmother, Betty, who was alert but tiny and frail. Her
daughter had dropped her off and quickly retreated to a nearby coffee
shop for the duration of the lesson. As a group, we waited in the
corner of the dance studio for the private lesson ahead of us to
finish. A young couple was rehearsing a romantic wedding dance so as
to impress their guests. It was clearly the bride's idea. She wanted
to give her day that extra special detail. The groom was
uncomfortable, especially when he saw me. Generally guys don't want
other guys to know they take dance lessons. Either you have it or you
don't. It’s not a pursuit you actually put effort towards, or at
least not publicly. Most guys are more than happy to admit "I
can't dance!"
As
they glided across the polished wood floor, our class swooned. The
couple were not quite effortless yet, but they were definitely in
sync and we could tell they had made wonderful progress. After some
final pointers, the couple disappeared from the floor and Richard
their instructor, approached us. He was a heavier set middle-aged man
with a perfect posture and a deceptively easy step. He flashed a
broad smile and immediately joked at our uneasiness. "You all
look like you have been sent to the principal's office." He
spoke with a slight British accent, not the kind that is
authoritative, rather the one that’s your best mate. He immediately
answered the group's need for gossip and detail. "That couple,
Kelly and Kevin, have had private lessons for six weeks. Their
wedding is in the summer."
"Oh
they are wonderful!"
"How
lovely!"
"Beautiful!"
"Magical!"
It
was a chorus of awe and praise.
Kelly
and Kevin? I thought. Even their names had been matched. The wedding
was too planned for the marriage to last. My anxiety fueled my
disdain. Sarah was absolutely smitten. I could see her eyes wide with
wonder.
"Don't
worry," Richard spoke directly to me. "we’ll be starting
right from the beginning this afternoon. No previous experience
necessary!"
Everyone
smiled and let out an audible sigh of relief. I was still suspicious
though. This all felt like a trap.
"I
would like to begin by welcoming and congratulating our winning
couple, Julian and Sarah. They won our door prize at the recent
McDougal House gala."
"Oooh."
The older women were delighted at our good fortune and applauded
respectfully. As a shiny young university couple, we immediately
became the darlings.
"Now,
we usually don’t get many gentlemen in our classes, especially
during the daytime. Julian would mind helping us out a bit as a lead?
And Sarah would you mind sharing?" Richard asked the two
questions simultaneously though he directed his request more towards
Sarah.
Sarah
helpfully replied "No, not at all!"
"Fantastic!"
Richard was pleased and the whole class murmured with excitement.
How
wonderful! I had just been pimped out as a gentleman host. I quickly
attempted to lower everyone's expectations. "I’ve never danced
before."
Richard
smiled at me. "I know exactly what you’re feeling. You’ll do
fine." He nodded his head using the masculine code: relax no one
is watching. "We’ll start with a basic foxtrot."
We
lined up in two rows facing each other, ladies on one side and
"leads" on the other. I had been emasculated to make the
other volunteer lead, Louise, feel more comfortable. Women are not so
visceral about gender roles at least when it comes to dancing. They
are more interested in the experience than the perception. I, on the
other hand, could feel my brethren, all of mankind, watching my every
move...
The following is an excerpt from my novel Oblivion...
My
Mother hated the winter. She hated being cold. And so every year on
February 2nd she made sure we celebrated Groundhog Day so as to
reassure ourselves that indeed winter would end. Even when I was
away at university, she sent me a Groundhog Day Cake and card. ‘It’s
nonsense.’ My daughter’s kindergarten teacher once proudly
pontificated. “It’s not real. It’s an advertisement for a town
in Pennsylvania and has no place in the modern curriculum.” I
remember how my Mother grimaced when my daughter relayed the sad
news. I’ll never forget what she said, “Perhaps, but the
groundhog is so rolly polly that he makes me smile and to see him on
that particular day means something to me.
Besides it’s a reason for cake. And any reason for cake is a good
one!’ Who could argue with that? Not Mrs. Schroeder.
The following is an excerpt from my novel Oblivion...
One
year Santa Claus decided to arrive at the mall by helicopter, direct
from the North Pole. How fantastic was that? My children were pumped.
We had to go, though I regretted it as soon as we arrived. The usual
Christmas spirit seethed through the oversized crowd of moms, dads
and tears. We all cursed, some openly, others under their breath at
the late arrivers who still managed to push and jostle to the front
of the landing zone. Santa himself was late and to add to the
tension, none of us could understand the garbled updates from the
megaphone. Seriously, does anyone really think that sound technology
works on a windy day? Every once in awhile I could discern the words
"Santa Claus" but that was about it. And so parents were
left to invent their own stories about why we had to be patient for
just a little bit longer. It was a cool fall day but none of us had
dressed properly. Our cups of Tim Horton's had long been drained and
you didn’t dare leave now.
As
a parent, I have never been fully comfortable with Santa Claus. As a
child you’re told to believe in Santa and in the importance of
believing even in the face of ridicule and then, as you grow older,
you find out that none of it is true. Your parents, who insisted you
hold to your faith, finally reveal that your belief, your trust in
them, was entirely unfounded. It was all a game your parents, indeed
the whole adult community played on you. "When did you stop
believing?" becomes a euphemism for "When did you finally
grow up?" As a parent, why would I want to perpetuate that
betrayal. Still I found myself playing along. I was shamed into
complying with phrases such as, "Don't ruin it for everyone
else." and "It is just for fun." Whose fun?
The
steady beat of the helicopter thrashed through the air. The
excitement crescendoed. All eyes looked up and saw Santa's sponsor
for this year: CTV's coverage of the Santa Claus parade. The noise
quickly became incessant. You could feel the rotors slamming against
your chest as children began to call out Santa's name with religious
fervour. "Santa!" "I see him!" "Santa!
Santa!" Parents also pointed up to the red figure waving from
the passenger window of the helicopter circling overhead. "There's
Santa." as if to prove to their children he really did exist.
Then the noise began to cascade as the helicopter descended and
washed away ourshouts
of devotion. It was truly an impressive entrance. Santa had arrived.
Our hearts were prepared. Then reality hit in a hail of small stones.
The downdraft slammed into the mall parking lot and asphalt marbles
began pelting his followers. At first we tried to endure, to witness
Santa's actual touchdown but the tiny bullets were relentless and
hurt too much. Children were crying. Mothers rushed to protect their
babies, all the while Santa laughed, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" His
voice made epic thanks to the helicopter's sound broadcast system. I
finally had to turn away. My daughter buried her face in my thighs
and screamed. My son ducked down beneath his coat and rolled to the
ground in an attempt to shield himself. Sarah tried to keep us
engaged in the moment with a running commentary. "He is coming
this way. Ow! It’s Santa. Ouch. Damn! Why don't they power that
thing down?"
Unfortunately,
the helicopter was only rented for an hour and with Santa's delay in
the air, time was ticking. As soon as the jolly fellow cleared the
landing zone, the rotors revved back up to full speed in a
disorienting din. By the time we gained our senses back, we had
missed the jog by and found ourselves at the end of a chaotic line
that was rushing into the mall to have their pictures taken with the
stranger in disguise. I admit I was angry. I decided there and then
it was time the kids learned the truth! Sarah didn't allow it. And so
we waited at the back of the line for another hour so as to have a
photo to commemorate the special occasion and to get a couple half
sized candy canes. Merry fucking Christmas!
