Ever wonder just how many ripping yarns never make it through a combination of a bad sales pitch and poor timing?
If the Agent in question, despite advertising otherwise, is really looking for the next moody teen angst/coming of age YA and you offer up your highly polished script about a nobody, who ends up touring the galaxy because aliens want to demolish the world to make way for a galactic super highway (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy c 16m sales), and you are indeed subject to that silent rejection what do you do?
Or what if your superbly crafted tale, an absolute byword for the narrative craft, is the tale of a man who marries a woman so that he can seduce the teenage daughter (Lolita c50m sales)? Would your story ever pass the 30-second scan. A grown man who seduces a child… the police would be round your house quicker than a quick thing.
I’m not moaning, I’m not. Neither am I comparing my work to either Nabokov or Adams.
I am just attempting to articulate the real frustration, the near forlorn hope, that a teller of tall tales feels when offering up their work.
The pitch has to be perfect, your summary must pull the scales from jaded eyes, and above all your tale must, absolutely must make that ‘kerching’ sound of a cash register opening, and your timing, your timing must be superb!
I’m not complaining in a woe is me kinda way, this little missive isn’t a pity party, these words are just me, blowing over the hot cup of tea, and mumbling into the great empty auditorium.
The game is played thus, and I know and accept the rules.
I’m still allowed to grind my teeth in frustration, that’s also in the rules.
This game is long, it is hard, the pitfalls many, and not all of them of your making, and the behemoth of the publishing world isn’t going to change because the fragile butterfly of your ego is bruised by another silent rejection…
Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant (“Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you”)
Stay safe and try to remain sane!