Bad News Poetry Contest!
Whew, it’s been a grim week here on the blog, hasn’t it? All this talk about difficult conversations between authors and agents. I think it’s time to let you put your own spin on all of this. (And hopefully add some humor to the situation.)
So I was thinking we should have a contest. How about you write a poem that captures one of this week’s difficult conversations…or any other icky bad news writers have to deal with. (Rejection letters, anyone?) I happen to like haiku. Limericks too. Of course you could write a sonnet if you prefer.
Are you ready? Got your pencil sharpened? Let’s write some Bad News Poetry.
Here’s the contest:
→ Write a poem having something to do with the hard parts of publishing.
→ Submit your entry in the comments to THIS post.
→ ONE entry per person. NO revisions or resubmissions allowed.
→ Deadline is this SUNDAY, May 22nd, 11:59pm ET.
→ WordServe clients can enter but are not eligible to win.
→ I’ll announce finalists and a winner sometime next week.
→ The winner gets… their name made famous here on my blog! Okay, plus they can choose either a $20 Amazon gift card (that’s twenty .99 downloads!) OR an evaluation of a query, book proposal, or fifteen pages of a novel performed by moi.
Come on, all you closet poets. Show us your stuff!
© 2011 Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent
102 Comments
President & Literary Agent,
Gardner Literary Agency
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>They
Love
Me
I know it…..
>oops…excitement got the best of me. Post is too late, but I'll leave it. I'm a rebel. That's just how I roll…do the poem, then read the rules. *sigh*
>Dear writer thanks for your time,
please add your name to this line.
I read your query with great interest,
but found the writing quite senseless.
Perhaps the art is best left to the sublime?
>chapter one: revisions
fresh-voiced writer
with so much to say,
heed my advice:
chapter one is
the sane voice of the flight attendant
who assures you the plane won’t crash
(but it does)
the outgoing friend
who invites you into her social life
luring you to wine bars
(and bad blind dates)
the charming celebrity perfume
fruit! flowers! cupcakes!
cheap and captivating
(smells truly vile)
chapter one is
a red herring
an unpracticed sales pitch
a stammering contrivance
a lie
how can i believe anything that follows?
(said the critique partner)
revise, revise, revise
until the sun creeps
over the eastern horizon
your bad hook
will be a distant memory
one day
(start over)
>Dear Rachelle
It pains me to have to admit
Your project is not a good fit
The premise is ugly
The writing is fugly
There’s no way I’d handle this…
er…
LIT!
dylan
>Difficult Conversation Number Five
Your prose shows loads of promise, but it needs an overhaul.
Checking out your website, I suspect the text’s too small.
Your characters impress me, but the structure’s off the mark.
I’m not exactly sold, although I see a teeny spark.
Your writing is exciting, but by “salable,” I meant
You’ll need to redo only the last 85 percent.
Get a better head shot and a hotshot stylist, too.
Your tweets are too offbeat. (This hurts me more than it does you.)
Oh! I know an image pro who’ll coach you on your look.
(Listen, kid; it’s true: a dated 'do won't move that book.)
Get more friends on Facebook, make them “like” your page and then
Grow your lowly platform by a factor of, say, ten.
I hate to hurt your feelings, but I need to do so, Chelse.
I tell you, I can sell you if you’ll just be someone else.
>The one bit of news we all hate is the New York Times' bestseller list: to think of all the nights chained to the desk as we type away the next Great American Novel only to learn that some third-rate (and X-rated) "Lord of the Rings" knock-off has taken the number one slot!
So here is a poetic parody of a song by Cee Lo Green fit for both readers and writers (or at least our egos) alike:
Query For You
I see you chillin' in a Starbucks with a book I loathe
And I'm like, here's a query for yoooou
Was Cheevers' prose just not good enough
I'm like, here's a query for you
Did you know all your favorite books suck too?
Said if you read something richer the story would stay with ya
Long after you put down that piece of sh—
(Oh don't throw no hissy fit)
Is Teenage Mutant Paranomal Amish fiction really the best
Don't believe me I'll put it to the
test
Just answer this query here made for you
Well I'm sorry
That my advance couldn't buy a Ferrari
But that don't mean I'm sleeping on the stairs
Even if I'm more of a starving artist
Guess you're looking for a one hit wonder
But nobody ever said the publishing game was fair
I pity the foooool that's stuck in a book club with you
(What's a "foreshadowing", you ask, "is it some type of eyeshadow?")
Ooooooooh I got some news for you
Yeah go run and buy a dictionary.
I see you chillin' in a Starbucks with a book I loathe
And I'm like, here's a query for yoooou
Was Flauberts' prose just not good enough
I'm like, here's a query for you
Did you know all your favorite authors suck too?
Said if you read something richer the story would stay with ya
Long after you put down that piece of sh—
(Oh don't throw no hissy fit)
Is Teenage Mutant Paranomal Amish fiction really the best
Don't believe me I'll put it to the test
Just answer this query here made for you
Now I know that I had to borrow beg steal and lie and cheat
Trying to reach ya
Craft a story that'd please ya
But self publishing sure aint cheap
I pity the foooool that's stuck in a book club with you
(What's a "flashback," you ask, "is it part of a flashlight?")
Ooooooh I got some news for you
I really hate illiterate fools right now.
Now baby baby baby why why do you read stories that are just plain bad?
(So bad, so bad)
I asked my agent she just said reading is more than art there's enjoyment to be had
(To be had, to be had, to be had)
And I'm like, why?
(Oh!)
Why?
(Oh!)
WHY???
(OH!)
It's so cliche!
(OH!)
The prose is so gauche!
For crying out loud I got an MFA!
I see you chillin' in a Starbucks
with a book I loathe
And I'm like, here's a query for yoooou
Was Dickens' prose just not good enough
I'm like, here's a query for you
Did you know all your favorite books suck too?
Said if you read something richer the story would stay with ya
Long after you put down that piece of sh—
(Oh don't throw no hissy fit)
Is Teenage Mutant Paranormal Amish fiction really the best
Don't believe me I'll put it to the test
Just answer this query here made for you
"Would you please consider buying my book too?"
>Loved this! It's been ages since I attempted a form poem, tapping out iambic pentameter. What fun. Here's a little something that would make Elizabeth Barrett Browning choke.
Sonnet from the Publishese
How do I love thy book? Let me spell out
Any misconceptions you may hold dear.
Your book is acceptable, have no fear,
‘tho about a few things there is some doubt.
Your book needs rewriting, this you must know
The publishers aren’t biting, I have tried
My best to sell, but opinion’s bright tide
Points out your tendency to tell not show.
Oh and did I mention your frightening hair
and that book two is a cause that is lost?
Don’t worry, the writer with all is rare,
And though the fixes are not without cost,
We’ll soon have a product to sell I swear,
And Hell will experience a light frost.
>Just getting started
Unaware of what's to come
Anticipation
>After planning, plotting, drafting,
After writing three years long,
Just imagine my elation
when an agent signed me on.
Her name was Mary Ellen,
and she knew I’d be a star,
You’re a genius! she first told me,
When I met her in a bar.
I had penned a racy thriller,
based on ancient Roman lit,
Where the killer was a werewolf,
And we knew we had a hit.
Mary took it to the big leagues,
Harper, Random, every spot.
When the indies wouldn’t buy it,
Then she asked, what else you got?
I took those tear-soaked pages
And I hurled them in the fire,
Then I went back to my laptop
And I started to perspire.
That book had been my oeuvre,
I had nothing else to give.
I gnashed my teeth in anguish
Was my mind a useless sieve?
Then genius struck: I had it.
I could base it on my life!
I could mine my wealth of stories–
The ideas, at once, were rife.
Mary Ellen met me downtown
And she bought me rounds of drinks.
Then she said, I love you madly,
But this story kind of stinks.
I’m a certain sort of wizard
I can sell ‘most any book.
But no editor will buy this–
It’s all fluff, and zero hook.
I know this is disheartening
But that’s no excuse to cry.
Dystopians are selling,
Why not give that type a try?
And while we’re on the topic
(Now please don’t take this as stricture)
Let’s talk about your website,
In particular, your picture.
The shot is unbecoming,
But your problem’s worse than that,
For your fans might find it strange
To see you posed with your dead cat.
I went back to my workspace
Feeling like a bitter fool.
Then I signed up for some classes
At a local writing school.
The idea for my next book
Took me ages to discover.
I was thrilled when it was finished,
and designed a flashy cover.
A desperate tale of bravery
By a Congo-dwelling doctor.
A complex plot, a hot romance,
And prose worthy of Faulkner.
Mary Ellen cried, I love it!
This is clearly your new best!
There are just a couple changes
That I humbly would suggest.
The story starts in chapter five,
So cut out one through four.
And while you’re at it, you should tweak
The dialogue some more.
The plot twist comes too early,
So delay the revelation,
And change the doctor’s background
To define his motivation.
The ending is fantastic!
But the middle just drags on,
And could you change the setting
To Karachi, or Saigon?
Now I’m working on draft seven
Of book number twenty-two,
And my dreams of overnight success
Have soared into the blue.
I’m still working as a waitress,
But don’t dare call me a hack.
I know I’ll make it someday:
Mary Ellen’s got my back.
>compose stellar prose
stalk unsuspecting agent
launch poetic strike
>Sonnet 1
by Gus Kroustalis
She said she can’t be my agent any longer.
That the story was much worse than my past projects.
No inspiration?” she asked. “No inner hunger?”
She wouldn’t go to market just to risk our necks.
I thought I had become master of the edit.
Five drafts of striking ‘delete’ to perfect this piece.
That she could at least give me a little credit.
I didn’t think my talents showed any decrease.
But then she brought forth the evidence for her case
Like bad dialogue, thin characters, and no plot.
It puzzled her to see a regression take place.
Traveling backward in skill to a writing tot.
I was now the Benjamin Button of my craft.
Seeing that my best writing was in my first draft.
>A Haiku…..
The small envelope
Arrives in the daily post
Still not good enough.
>"Sorry," she said.
"Your book? It is dead.
It really is going nowhere."
"That's okay," I replied.
I went home and cried,
and shaved off all of my hair."
>Name: William Stuckey
Poem Title: From Rejected Eyes
Poem Form: Tanka
Reference: http://www.tankaonline.com/Quick%20Start%20Guide.htm
From Eyes Rejected
The story blossomed
Like a cherry tree in spring
Her face spoke volumes
Red marks struck deep with contempt
But with eyes of hope retained
>I run my fingers down the weathered spine
bent and broken but loved firsthand.
I wish mine could be loved so dearly
but instead banked a secondhand spurn.
>In the style of Li Bai…
You ask why I keep writing
I smile without speaking, my heart content
Cherry blossoms on the street ache for a description
There is a heaven and earth beyond the sorrow of rejection
>To: The Semi-Famous and Self-Impressed Author Who Unfollowed Me on Twitter
Beware ye touter of self and same,
Whose work hath ‘chieved a whit of fame,
For those who in your shadow lay
Will come upon our own gold day
Of pub and strub and contract. Nay?
You say?
Hark, yon heart of gleeful pride,
Doest thou doubt I’ll dance and fly?
Mistake is thine my snubnosed ‘friend’,
For when we reach the distant end
Of road-less-travelled, I’ll not bend.
Or lend
My sparkling star to thee,
Whom saw fit to poo and pee
‘Pon it when I were just ‘aspiring’ –
A hidden gem, a tarnished ring,
A twitter-itch. A nothing,
You mean?
Yea, when thou dost next consider
A twittering mess, a constant jibber,
Think on this, some-lauded scribe:
Your star my fall, your star may rise
Or flap, or float, or glide.
But, time?
Time flies on wings of lightest air
And takes with her your laissez faire.
And when your star doth crash to ground
And your twittering mess I’ve found
Somewhere inside my round,
Your pound
Of flesh, I’ll un-follow you right back,
You seething pit of crit and flack.
That’s right, you heard,
Though perhaps not learned
That people are still people, were
They semi-famous here
And now
Or not.
-Aimee L. Salter
>Difficult conversations to be had
Certainly I feel a bit of a cad
But changes you must make
Book sales are at stake
in the end we will all be glad
>Rejection Letter
I move in-between here and in-here
In the evenings and
After a good laugh
and other unmarked moments;
A secret door meant for my protection
gives way.
I am winning something
and all my sponsors are happy.
I slide the door
So I can smile for them,
the people who love me.
I am dressed as if there was no funeral;
A princess in color-me-beautiful
Instead of gauze and linen.
But winning isn't enough to afford what just happened.
I move again,
inside,
Where wins and losses co-exist
My words and pages, taking turns.
"Until the author rewrites the book,…"
I move in-between.
>An Email Just to Say
I have considered
the penname
that you chose for
your novel,
the name
you likely
treasured
in your dreams.
I’m sorry.
Stephen King Stevens
won’t work.
Yes, I’m sure.
(With apologies to William Carlos Williams and Stephen King.)
>had to brush off my iambic pentameter for this one 🙂
A parody of William Shakespeare's Sonnet #29
When, in disgrace with many agents' eyes,
Writer, alone, beweeps his outcast state
And troubles his betas with fruitless cries
And looks upon his Mac to curse his fate,
Wishing himself like to scribes rich in hope,
Jealous of those published, with books possess'd
Reject after reject seems a cruel joke,
When what he needeth most: a Full request;
Yet in this gloom, and the tenth revising,
Haply, an agent beckons with good news,
She wants to rep his book, his mood's rising
She loves the plot and hook, he's paid his dues;
Faced with more work and new challenge this brings
He now hath strength of Shakespearean kings.
>Fibonacci Sequence Poem
A True School Visit Rejection
So
Sad
But no
The reason
We have money for
A “really expensive” author
But don’t worry we are going to have you come next year.
I want to reply: Great! See you next year with my new “really expensive” author rate!
>Words strung bright as pearls
Draping, dripping down the page.
Snipped by frenzied doubt.
>Myiku
Quoth the agent
I like it
But I don't love it
I've heard before
Quoth the author nevermore
>To an Editor, Upon Rejection of My Novel
O lady, thou'rt a hussy fair and cruel
In thy high tower dispensing smiles and pain
In letter form to literary fools
Like me, who flinch, yet must submit again.
You say my plot turns on coincidence,
My characters lack marketing appeal,
And further, drama loses consequence
When folks are made not fantasy but real.
Reluctantly I to the keyboard go
To cut and slash–revise–eviscerate–
And reconstruct it so the seams won't show
And none would recognize its former state.
Then, when a rival house says "yes" to me
I'll send a copy–autographed–to thee.
>Dear Author ~ the sting of an impersonal rejection letter
Dear Author,
Thank you for your query submission.
We appreciate your ambition.
We’re just not interested in your composition.
Please forgive this impersonal note,
We’re just not interested in what you wrote.
We’re handing you your hat and coat.
This is the one millionth rejection we’ve sent this year.
Go ahead and shed a tear.
Best of luck in your writing career.
>Bad News Haiku…
(Perspective is Everything).
An agent calls me.
Bad news doesn't bother me.
An agent called me!!
>There once was a writer named Florence
Who suffered rejection abhorrence
She stared at blank page
In writers’ block cage
Wishing her words came in torrents
She’d stare up for hours at the skylight
Praying to enter the limelight
She queried just twice
Hoped her words would suffice
Feedback was: “Too much like Twilight.”
She wrote and she wrote on for decades
Through twenty-six computer upgrades
Ten queries she dared
Not one of them spared
Gave up: now plays games in the arcades
>Thank you for your pages:
Sadly, not for us
Economy is poor.
>There once was a plumber turned poet
Who persuaded himself to just go for it
But they scrunched up their nose
“We can’t work with this prose!”
Oh that poor proseless plumber turned poet.
>Ode to Rules
There once was a rule called passive
That I knew would give me gas if
I was made to admit
My violations of it
For sure were bordering massive.
The next on my list was head-hopping
Without the bother of stopping.
Can't I ever write bouts
Of a heroine's doubts
Without the POV lopping?
Oy, they say my WIP has no tension
To give it strength and dimension.
Should I just toss it out?
Or throw in a lout
And pray for reader retention?
Now dialogue has its own set
Of rules taught by authors who get
Paid when they break them
While I slave in mayhem
Of killing off words that are pet.
The adverb's in need of affection
Not writers' disdain or defection.
Lavishly embrace them
Don't angrily erase them
And wait for your CP's objections
Rejections will come via email
Or brought to your mailbox by snail
For they twang your last nerve
And rob you of joie de verve
While you pound on your keyboard and wail.
So wordsmith, you're advised to take heed
Are these rules important? Indeed!
If first you will learn them
Then known, you finesse them
The line to a book deal you'll lead.
>My ex calls in tears
Her novel has been rejected
Sympathy
Is tempered by schadenfreude
And by the knowledge that my own novel
Unwritten but for broken drafts
Is now more successful than hers
For it has not been rejected
My ex calls in tears
Her novel has been reviewed
Savagely
Under soothing words I quietly exult
That no one will call my novel
Pretentious, sophomoric or artless
In the Sunday Times
For it has not been reviewed
My ex calls in tears
Her novel is not a bestseller
Yet.
Amazon rank 36,570
My novel acquires a new character:
The failed and chastened novelist
Who returns to her ex-boyfriend
For he will one day write a bestseller
>THE WRONG WORDS
Blank monitor taunts
Sighing writer touches keys
Hits delete again
>Heartfelt haiku:
Sorry
my list is full,
with people more lucky than you
>Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
My, my, my [manu]‘script hits me so hard
Makes me say "Oh my Lord"
Thank you for blessing me
With a mind to write and two fingers hyped
It feels good, when you know you're down
A super fly homegirl from the Typist town
And I'm known as such
And this is a ‘script, uh, you can't touch
I told you proofie ( can't touch this)
Yeah, that's how she typin’ it and you know (can't touch this)
Look at my screen-burned eyes, man (You can't touch this)
Yo, let me bust the funky ‘script (can't touch this)
Fresh new lines, submit
You gotta like that, now you know you wanna hope
So move, outta your seat
And get a tough agent to catch this query
While it's sending, hold on
Pump a little bit and let 'em know you’re pushing on
Like that, like that
Cold on a mission so call them back
Let 'em know, that you're too much
And this is a ‘script, uh, you can't touch
Yo, I told you (can't touch this)
Why you standing there, man? (can't touch this)
Yo, start the ‘puter, publishin’s in, writer! (can't touch this)
Give me a call, or email
They make me sweat, when I’m waitin’ on 'em
Now, they know
You talking about the writer, you talking about a show
That's show, not tell
Writers are sweating so pass them a wipe
Or a book, to learn
What's it gonna take in the book world to burn
The tweets? Legit
Either work hard or you might as well quit
That's word because you know…
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Break it down!
Go with the trend, it is said
That if you can't regale to this then you probably are dead
So stop pleading from your knees
Bust a few words, run your fingers o’er your keys
This is it, for a pubishin’ find
Edit like this and you're gonna get signed
Move, slide your mouse
Just for a minute she gonna grouse, grouse, grouse
Yeah… (can't touch this)
Look, typo (can't touch this)
You better get hype, writer, because you know (can't touch this)
Start the ‘puter, edit’s back in (can't touch this)
Break it down! Stop, Agent time!
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Break it down! (Nice pants, Writer) Stop, Agent time!
Every time you see me
The book signin’s just so hype
Thought I’d never get here but my agent set it right
Now why would I ever stop doing this?
With others making queries that just don't hit
I've toured around the towns, from east to the west
It's "Writer, go Agent, Go Writer, go Agent"
And the rest can persevere
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
Can't touch this
>This is fantastic. Did you know Chip MacGregory used to have May as his bad poetry comp for his birthday? I'm impressed 🙂
>"This book will not work.
Amazingly written, but…"
I open the drawer.
>A Correspondence
Midnight is here, and in solitude I write
a query to Shakespeare: Dear sir, how can I seize
that elusive contract? I want people to cite
my words as an author's, but I can't seem to meet
the standards that could draw an agent's bite.
I want this novel's journey complete!
Verbatim reply: Mine eyes ne'er saw glory complete.
Time shed its scythe, sundered words wrong from right,
and tendered mine finest along Avon's dear bight.
Though mine words have withstood the tides of seas,
mine own personal quiet I ne'er didst meet.
Mortal mine thoughts were, lack of morrow's true sight.
(Why doth tongues oft lie, and so eloquently cite
this rimer, bereft of fair verse? Mine doubt is complete
with questions as these- Did I not mete
out the same beauty and grace as April's sweet rite?
Alas, it seems there is something that sees
beyond the pendulum's travels and the critic's bite.)
Shouldst thou thread thine pages into a noose's bight,
forsaking thine efforts from thine reader's sight?
I oft trod that valley and desired to seize
the wordsmith's calm, mine own story complete
with the tragedy of kings that I oft did write.
Nay, mine destiny would not be, to reach such mete.
Didst thou know mine first acts were devoured as meat
of the "upstart crow" by Robert Greene's bite?
Blind as the farm mare, he wouldst often then write
condemnation for mine plays at our new Thames site.
I oft didst ponder mine own doom as complete
after suffering shame from those marks of low 'C's.
So, to answer thy query. How doth thou seize
such treasured contract? Perchance we shall meet
with the Muses when thine life is complete,
and seal our concordance over a heavenly bite.
Until then, I proffer just this. Ne'er disturb, such sight
is ransom to me. Just continue to write.
Strange, how I can see this feast and sit down to write
a sestina about meeting the Bard, and how this sight
prompts me to complete my work. Byte by byte.
>There once was a writer from Vail,
Whose story was… well, a big “FAIL.”
His agent just sighed.
“I loved it,” she lied,
“But there’s no way that this is a sale.”
>How to Get Published
By Angela Mackey (an unpublished author)
Writing.
Submitting.
Waiting.
Rejection.
You need a Platform.
Blogging.
Reach out.
Ask Questions.
Twitter. Really?
Twitter. Really!
Community building.
Tribe leading.
Niche creating (but not too niche-y).
Facebook fan page creating.
Speaking.
Writing.
Submitting.
Waiting.
An article published.
Celebrate.
Writing.
Submitting.
Waiting.
Rejection.
Doesn’t meet editorial guidelines.
Learning.
Reading.
Practicing.
Critiquing.
Speaking.
Writing.
Submitting.
Waiting.
Rejection.
We aren’t looking for that topic.
Platform? Yes.
Writing.
Submitting.
Waiting.
Book Deal? Maybe.
Repeat for as many books as you want published.
>There was a young writer named Haziel, who it was very hard to frazzle. When she sent out her queries she had not a worry for the joy was all in the story.
>it’s in the going down that one is able to rise
tearing down to build
shaking to add stability
rocking to tip off the unstable foundation and give a stronger one
life is an unequal and equal stream of ups and downs
the ironies that seem so logical
a puzzle pieced together sides flipped down
when one is patient one will see the constancy of an upward movement
toward what is the purposed end
>In a faraway kingdom near the Plebeian Sea,
Angel the Agent was nice as could be.
She read queries and proposals and picture book stories,
And all her clients were as happy as clients could be.
They always said thank you, they always said please,
And they were all quite happy, quite happy indeed, to live in their kingdom near the Plebeian Sea.
They were…until Angel the Agent issued a Decree,
To be the Greatest Agent her Kingdom had seen.
So Angel the Agent raised her hand
And Angel the Agent gave a command.
She ordered all of her clients to revise their prose,
and then punched one of them right in the nose.
All your stories must be revised! Angel cried.
All of your manuscripts! All your proposals. They MUST be revised!
I am Angel the Agent. Yes, indeed!
I am the Greatest Agent this Kingdom has seen!
I’m Angel the Agent! Oh wonderful me! No agent has ever been wiser than me!
Now delete everything after page three! Angel hollered and screamed.
And all of her clients were quite frightened, indeed.
Then Angel the Agent frowned and said with disgust,
That’s not enough! Change more stuff!
Change the title and the plot!
And make your main character a priest, not a cop!
I’m Angel the Agent! No one’s wiser than me,
I’m the Greatest Agent the World has seen!
Then out from the crowd stepped a little girl named Bree.
Excuse me,” she said, bowing down on one knee.
But how you are treating your clients is not right.
You are all professionals here and you should all be nice.
How dare you speak to me that way! Angel snarled and brayed.
But suddenly her clients were no longer afraid.
She speaks the truth, said the little girl’s mother and father.
And then all the people began to hoot and holler.
Who are you to say what we must do?
You can stay here or leave. It’s up to you!
Now Angel the Agent had a decision to make.
She had nowhere to go. And she wanted to stay.
Okay, she said with sorrow and shame. “I didn’t mean to be mean. It was just a game.”
Then all of her clients gathered together that day,
and agreed to let Angel stay if she changed her ways.
And today all the people still live in their Kingdom
near the Plebeian Sea.
And they are all quite happy, quite happy indeed.
They always say thank you. They always say please.
And they are all treated kindly, as all writers should be.
>Time for an epic!
The market will adore me.
“Not so much,” she said.
Louise Curtis
>Crazy as I am, I wanted to do another one, even though it won't count for the competition.
Limerick II from Agent POV
Your agent is not a magician
You’re wasting my time with submission
You're tension's a mess
The plot's in distress
Your manuscript needs a revision
Enjoy!
>Limerick from Agent POV
You’re story does not have a chance
I knew it with barely a glance
Your blogging is lame
Your clothing's a shame
There’s no way you’ll see an advance
This was such a fun competition Rachelle. Thanks!
>Dayspring – it works – brilliant!
Everyone – it's so much fun reading these 🙂
>I send out my queries
with hope in my heart
and dream of the day
I can play the part
of a published author
on the bestseller list.
So I check my email,
but my eyes start to mist.
"No thanks, not for me."
Oh, how the words sting.
Then, one day, "please send more!"
It makes my heart sing!
Into cyberspace
my submission goes.
I cross everything,
even my toes!
My betas rejoice,
my family supports.
Then more rejections…
my face contorts.
I pick myself up
and send out some more
wondering why
I pursue this chore.
But my characters demand
that their story be told.
So I have no choice
but to query till I'm old!
>A woman who thought she was fancy
Endeavoured a Regent romancy
But when she applied
Her agent replied
"My dear, your novel's just pantsy"
>These may just seem,
Like words on a page.
Ink firmly pressed down,
Yet flowing like my life.
This may just seem,
Like an ordinary poem.
With not much to say,
Yet it begins and ends with words.
Words cut deep,
Like a knife through melting butter.
Words spread far too thin,
Like not quite enough lemon icing on a cake.
My words are carefully crafted and contained
Like a potter creating a fine porcelain vase.
Yet in a moment, they can shatter, into a thousand letters,
On the cold hard stone floor of your indifference.
My words, describe my life.
My journey, on the road of faith.
Tread carefully on my words,
For you are also walking on my dreams.
Your words,
Describe your response.
Your reflection, brings life,
To my dreams.
Some say my words are profound,
But still they hide in this poem.
Because you did not read them,
Like you said you would.
I hope this poem escapes,
Gets set free and travels.
For it contains words, that we can all speak.
And commas,
Where we can take breath.
>Queries, submissions, and such
To dreams of publication I clutch;
The waiting’s the worst,
The rejections are terse;
Queries, submissions, and such.
>Agent, agent on the phone
Am I the next writer on the throne?
It won’t be me, I hear you say?
What?
It’s because my hair is so gray?!
>The editor said to the writer,
“Your prose is much wronger than righter.
It made my dog howl,
It made my cat yowl;
My wife said she feared it would bite ‘er.”
>The Persevering Pen
Born a scribe and given the gift to pen,
She dreams of painting stories with her words-
Masterpieces that entertain, elicit laughter,
Even tears.
Portraits of adventure and beauty
The medium of words pointing to the
Master Storyteller.
Her dream is pure while she is small
She writes on scraps and in notebooks-
Lists of characters with fancy names, fragments of plotlines and
Fantasy places.
Mere scratchings of a little girl
The simple, innocent words revealing
Sweet Dreams.
Growing older, and tasting life,
She clings to her pen but doubts her words-
Voices from within and without, voices of truth,
Voices of lies.
Messages of ‘not enough’ and ‘too hard’ bombard
The world and her fear invite her to quit before
She Fails.
Born a scribe and given the gift to pen,
She writes through the fear and the failures words that-
Sometimes fall flat, sometimes soar high, but always come from
Her Heart.
Running the race marked out for her she remembers
The One who gave her the pen and calls
Press On
-Becky Avella
>The dream has been consistent,
The ache has been persistent.
Words fashioned into prayers,
Life folded into layers.
"No, thank you at this time."
"You must fine comb every line."
"Cute, but not my genre of choice."
"Where's Chapter 2? I love your voice."
An agent's heart I finally capture?
And tomorrow is the rapture!
>Sakura blossoms
Lovely words on paper once
Grounded by a ring
>There once was wannabe novelist
Whose writing was truly quite marvelous
All the agents agreed:
"You have talent indeed,
I just don't think I can market this."
>That is so unprofessional
You ought to visit the confessional
Image
How can I find the words to say
Your work is as drab as a rainy day
Slush Pile
>Haiku for Conversation II
Returning your book.
I thought it would have done well.
Good for a bird cage.
>I Can't Sell It as Written
Smelt your work, writer;
Fire away the dross. Temper prose
With critical eye's cold water.
>This post is so the other comments will come to my inbox. Love reading everyone's poetry.
>Amazing Writing
She never fails to amaze.
Her words flow like silk on the page
and catch my breath away
in wonder and in awe.
Whence comes this foreboding then?
After reading three chapters in?
Angst grows page by page and
pain penetrates my jaw.
My stomach cramps halfway through.
I push myself to continue.
I finish, and I know
that this book is no go.
Alas the timing's wrong
and I know what I'll have to say.
This genres not your song
not your brand of today.
How can I tell her this news
without breaking her heart in two?
I can't sell it, that's true
what's an agent to do?
I promised to guide her career
and she's strayed too far from the path.
I just have to tell her
this manuscript won't do.
I call. Tell her what I need.
Can you write another I plead?
Because I value our
growing relationship.
She can't answer right away.
First she cries, and then sighs until
her voice returns. I'll try
she says to me. I will.
She never fails to amaze.
Her words flow like silk on the page
and catch my breath away
in wonder and in awe.
>There once was a starry-eyed author
Who put his new baby on proffer.
He sent a short query
But his eyes grew quite teary
When the response came and said, "Please don't bother."
>Sorry — the poem by Anonymous is mine.
>Why the LONG face,
FELLOW?
I just received
a rejection letter.
My agent said
I need to do better.
Apparently,
my WORDS aren't WORTH
publishing.
>I have burned waaay too much of my lunch break reading this 🙂 how in the world are you going to choose a winner?
I've also been laughing too hard to make the syllable/ beat count work out on my limerick. But even if I could, it wouldn't begin to compete with the genius on display here. yay everybody!
>Title-Dear Agent
Dear agent I know you can see
Your next client should surely be me
My query was clever and I swear to endeavor to show and not tell with each key
Dear agent there can be no way
You would term that line a cliche'
And my use of adverbs is clearly absurd if you're being quite honest this day?
Back to my keyboard I go
For your feedback is stellar I know
My work will be halted instead of exalted but crafting for service is slow
>Timid, Blind, Reeling
Trusting God to lead the way
My perfect Agent!
>The Publisher’s Door
Are you squinting?
If you could see through that keyhole…
Look at it, burnished bronzed, worn from wear
Try again.
Perhaps kneel closer, your breath against the door…
Old chipped paint, your nose against the handle
Cold. You blink and wonder what is on the other side.
Knocking. Knocking to no avail.
Now you grasp the handle and stand up.
Rattling the entire entry in its frame,
Shaking it. Maybe you use your fist and pound with all your strength.
What do you want it to be like on the other side?
Does it matter?
You kick the door and curse but you can’t give up.
Now you have splinters in your fingers and the curiosity has built into rage.
Do you want out?
Or in?
Has your perspective narrowed in your quest?
If you had the key in your pocket…
Would it make a difference?
>Here's my haiku called:
"Rejection Blues"
Another letter
Brings no tears and fears, for I
Am broken no more.
Judy, South Africa
>Woosh woosh (Doors Closing!)
Hoonk Hoonk! (Beep Beep Beep!)
Shuffle, Click, Shuffle, Click
Agent? No! Agent? Must have!
Chaos tries to win
Contradictions scream through the tendrils of cyberspace
Where to turn?
….
Here, let me help! You’ll never make it!
Oi! Watch it you idiot!
‘scuse me, Pardon me
Which way to publication?
Just keep swimming!
…
Self-publication?
Jumping off a cliff
Do you need help, love?
I’ll have an e-book, please!
There’s no business like our business
Life goes on, and on, and on
Forget work. Forget worry. Forget whatever.
Being one, being there, being part of it,
Here in the Eye of the Storm, the chaos of the business disappears.
Just write your story
Do your best and hope
Hope that Lady Luck and talent smile on you today
>First time around the block.
This venture is so foreign,
I am an author virgin.
Only one book to my name.
I'm a little lost in this game.
My heart can't take the suspense
of the querying process!
Sometimes it seems easier
to give up and be bitter,
But I won't! I can't! I'll hope
that they'll think I'm not a joke.
"Author needs good home." It says,
the sign I've hung round my head.
>Dear friendly agent, I've found you at last.
It took only two years of busting my ass.
My query was nonsense, choppy at best,
something that "Query Shark" could clearly attest.
Please don't be offended that I speak from the heart.
Now that I have you, this is only the start.
I promise to follow your expert advice,
and care for my hair so I'm not struck with lice.
I'll pinch my cheeks red and keep bleaching my smile.
I'll wear lipstick to bed and fluff my do for a while.
I'll work on revisions from dusk until dawn
and discard silly pages that cause you to yawn.
Only you can decipher the words in my head.
It's no big secret; I just want to be read.
As I strive for perfection will a quill in my hand,
with you at my side I will travel the land.
If everything fails and you give me the shaft,
We can remain friends. I'll still make you laugh.
>Agent Theorem
The probability
Of selection
By an agent
Is a relatively simple
Mathematical
Equation
Derived by the ratio
Of the number
Of queries sent
To the number
Of rejections
Subtracted from
The result of
The process of
Elimination
As it approaches
The limit of
One yes!
>No thank you,
thank you no,
We enjoyed the giggle,
Now off you go.
>Queries gone awry,
Slush pile reaches the sky
letter writers cry.
>The plot is pointless.
And the writing is banal.
Wish you success though!
>My fingers curl in ugly hooks
They’ve been too long typing wannabe books
And while the summer passes and winter begins
My page is still marked with all manner of sins
Passive voice, characters
Not quite alive
Started with weather
And didn’t quite drive
The story to climax, the conflict to pain
Why did I ever write novels again?
And I wade through the mire
Of revision’s long night
I emerge in the morning
Bruised but all right
And pack the whole thing to a partner to critique
Hitting the button marked “send” feeling terribly meek.
The answer comes swiftly, assured in the craft:
“Good writing, good try! For a first draft!”
>A hopeful young writer with book,
Asked new agent to take a quick look.
She bit all her nails
While writing more tales,
Hoping this time she'd managed to hook!
>You have once touched
The heart of a numb soul
You made a song
Out of the crumbled dreams
The soul had
You made her whole again
Now, you’d be lowered
Down to your grave
And solitude
The soul knew
What you wished for
She, too, wanted the same thing…
But you, yourself can tell
How your majesty
Was left unmoved, unexplored
Down to your deathbed
There’s no solace
Only turmoil
Which would constantly
Thunder in your head
Like wrathful gods
But the soul and you
Would be like inextricable coils
Nothing will ever keep you away
From each other
And although you
Can’t be together
You’d never ever be apart…
When you died
She ceased to live along with you
For you and the soul are one
A creator of life
Beauty
Art
Poetry
And in your deathbed
There’s a desperate wish
That it may just be
An ephemeral cessation
I whispered the same wish to
The gods too.
That an agent will finally fall in love with you…
>On Difficult Conversations
I.
I’m just a dog
Waiting by a phone.
Needing a few tweaks.
An edit.
A wrinkle adjustment.
I know this hurts me,
More than it hurts you.
But in the end,
I’m just a dog
Waiting by a phone.
II.
Lemonade. Lemonade.
It’s sweet. It’s good.
It’s refreshing.
Lemonade. Lemonade.
Some stops. No buys.
No requesting.
Lemonade. Lemonade.
I’m done? We’re done?
Arrgh. Depressing.
III.
Excuse
me?
I have just
2
tiny
hardly-even-worth-mentioning
words:
Image Consultant.
(Oh, and
Sorry.)
IV.
What do I do? What do I do?
The agent loves my book?
What do I do? What do I do?
It needs another look?
What do I do? What do I do?
Only a quarter of it is great?
What do I do? What do I do?
You’ll support me while you wait?
*smiles. hits delete button. begins revisions*
>Bookstore, bookstore in the mall
How I wonder how to get my novel inside
Up upon the food court so high
Like a library in the sky
Bookstore, bookstore in the mall
How I wonder how to get my novel inside.
😉
>You Want it Straight?
"I hate to have to say it, but here goes:
Your novel's not as good as it must be.
The dialog is stiff; the action slow;
and cardboard characters are what I see.
If my suggestions count for anything,
you need to cut ten thousand words or more.
A plot twist halfway through will bring some zing,
and maybe add a little blood and gore."
"I what? No way! It's perfect as it is.
I know my audience; I know myself.
But then, will my career become mere fizz?
I really want my books on a bookstore shelf.
To work or walk? It's not a hard decision.
This time next week you should get my revision."
>Three book series
branding and queries
what's a writer to do?
Change my hat
Blog and Tweet
put on another shoe.
Revise, rewrite
wait to freak
my story really stunk?
I get a grip
open the fridge
to help me out of my funk.
Revise, rewrite
gain a few pounds
while pounding computer keys,
at last it's done
was this really fun?
You bet!
But now I have four knees.
>There once was a writer named Sooze
Whose fashion style was BAD news.
Her agent would scream,
"Your head shot's a bad dream!
You're giving me nothing but blues!"
>On Writing
You write because you must.
You write because you can,
and, hey,
let’s face it.
There is no other plan.
And, if your words weren’t given
for all the world to see,
you’d still write with abandon.
Yes, you’d still write
fervently.
‘Cause words they pile high inside,
and no matter how hard you try
to be a teacher, a preacher,
(some ‘regular’ thing)
those words won’t stop pinging
like a pinball in your head.
And, it’s okay along the way
if people stare when you declare
yourself a ‘writer’
because those words will keep spilling right out
even if you shout for them to stay.
That’s the writer’s way.
So, go ahead and say my story’s weak
and repeat the writer’s life is
replete with the mundane,
insane,
day-to-day only a fool
would fall for.
I have no other way
than to spin my web of words
again and again
and again.
>There once was a women’s fiction writer from Nantucket…
I’ll stop there.
I know I’ll have a blast reading these. Fun way to wrap up a hard week!
~ Wendy
>My words may seem on the surface extreme
But the message is true overall
Your book's more or less a quarter success
So please try your hand at baseball
>OK, here's a haiku:
But the book exists!
Should it wander like a ghost?
Will it haunt you, too?
>The Prodigal
I give birth and bleed ink
The nights are long
And sleepless
She grows from the words
scratched in moonlight.
She leaves home
Looking for love
And money
She finds none and returns
home once more.
I let her in
We begin again
And again
Until she is a better version
of her former self.
>Abject depression
From your rejection.
What's an author to do?
It's not what you need.
Did you even read?
My heart and head are blue.
So I'll wallpaper my bathroom
With what doesn't belong in a classroom
Since it was a form letter you sent.
And go back to revising
My work and reprising
The rejection on my blog where I vent.
>Apparently most of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to 'The Yellow Rose of Texas', so I've followed suit.
I e-mailed forty agents
And eventually
Thirteen of their assistants
Sent e-mails back to me
Twelve were form rejections
But one requested more
I sent it and for fourteen weeks
I waited by the door.
So then this agent called me
And said 'I've had a look
I'd like to represent you
But please rewrite your book.
'Your Twitter is appalling,
And if you want my two cents
Your wardrobe and your hair
Could use reworking, no offense.'
Things picked up for a while
She tried to sell my stuff
I'd rewritten and rewritten
But not rewritten enough
She said 'I've done my best here-
Let's throw the towel in.'
Sad, but then to top it all
…My poem didn't win.
🙁
>Sometime ago I saw a man
with downcast head and frame,
I sat nearby, and asked his name,
and he just did the same.
“How strange,” thought I.
“I could have sworn…”
but carried on my way,
until again in one week’s time
he came at close of day.
Again in tears, with moans and sobs
(A most pathetic sight)
he said, “Rejected everywhere!”
I felt a sudden fright.
For all the world, his face was mine! My query in his hand!
My face in tears, my sorry state,
induced by each demand
to “Carry on, and best of luck,
the fit just isn’t right.”
I think I’ll pass the Bar instead
(and change for something light).
>Dear Samantha
Dear Samantha
Dear Samantha, we
regret to inform you that
we cannot use this
at this time because
one of our agents took a
bite out of your work
apparently your
work was about pie making,
and he ate the words
off the page. They were
quite tasty, especially
the As and the Us.
Feel free to send us
more of your work, but please do
not send anything
that can be eaten.
We are sorry. Sincerely,
John M. Publisher.
~Samantha H. Weiner
>There once was an author named you
Who left me unsure what to do.
Your writing's atrocious,
Your manner's ferocious
But your "Jersey Shore" story is true.
>Places among the shelves
Places among the shelves,
Red pages near the trash.
Keep your unread beauty:
Shed no insight upon my weak heart.
My rejection is here
In a place of blankness.
Not your latest post
Nor your form reply
Will lead me to you.
My thoughts are here
In a place of blankness.
Here I stay and wait.