Dance, little monkey, dance for your food.
I am so weary of the publishing process. You’d think you could just send the work, have it read, then receive an answer. It’s a book, so the words are all there, right?
No. You have to prepare it. Cover letters where you have to be a salesman, telling the potential publisher how much they should want to print your book because of this reason or the other. “I’ve been published by so-and-so, and reviewed favorably by this critic. I’ve worked with this other writer, and…” Jesus Mary and Joseph. Can’t we cut the crap? You want me to convince you you’ll make money on this book? How the fuck am I supposed to know that? Same way you know: we don’t! It’s a fucking gamble, you capitalistic stooge.
You just read the damn book. If you enjoy it, maybe someone else will. Maybe not.
It’s maddening. I have to be unrestricted and violently honest with myself and the readers in my writing, because readers can detect falsity instinctually. Fiction isn’t a lie, it’s a complex metaphor.
Then, after the years of self honesty it takes to push that vision from your mind onto paper, you’re supposed to suddenly change everything and be your own narcissistic salesman?
Or you could get an agent. That’s their game, after all. But you still have to convince them to try to be your advocate. So it’s the same song and dance.
I’m a fucking writer. If I was into marketing, do you think for a moment I would be doing novels? No. I’d be making a lot more money in advertising. So why on earth do you expect a writer to sell you their words?! Just take the fucking book, read it, decide, get back to me. It doesn’t have to be this interactive. It’s not an essay, it’s a yes or no test. You’re either going to publish it or you’re not.
It’s absurd. The reader requires honesty of heart in their books. Otherwise, it doesn’t reach them. Yet you won’t even look at the book itself unless the writer can convince you with lies?
I have confidence that I’ve written a good book. Evidence that I actually fucking sent it to you. I can’t guarantee people are going to like it. I’ve done my part already. I shouldn’t have to sell it to you. Do you want me to personally print all the copies, too? How about cutting down the trees to make the paper? Just how much does a writer have to do outside of his occupation?
If I wanted to be a lumberjack, I wouldn’t have written a book.
Your frustrated friend,