E-Queries: Quick remark(s)

Since I recently posted a blog on literary agents and queries, I thought I'd say a few more things about that today. I like agents who accept e-queries. Why?

It's green, people. I know that term has been murdered by celebs, politicians, and all the other folks you see on the T.V. or read in a newspaper (do people still do that?).

Anyway, I'm not sure why some agents cling to the old form of querying. Save some friggin' TREES already! Plus, AGENT X (if you happen to be reading this here blog), you can reject us authors way faster! See the lady agent to the right? Although she's suffering from mental pain, reading yet another crappy query, at least she didn't have to risk getting a paper cut . . .

Think about switching to e-queries only, 'k?

Love,
Chastity

Thinking about agents and gazing at slush piles

First of all, I wanna say that most of the agents I've encountered have been superbly polite. For the most part, when I began querying a few months ago, I found that most agents responded. Even if it was a flat "no, I'm gonna pass," at least the agent was acknowledging my existence. (Oh, and even Ms. Snark implored fellow agents to politely decline, and I know for a fact that Nathan Brandsford responds to every query. Literary agents could learn a lesson or two from Mr. Brandsford - he's a super nice guy. I just know it).

Then there are the agents who are apparently too cool for skool, and ignore you. It's bullshit. It's absolute bullshit. Haven't these people heard of friggin' courtesy? Sheesh. Didn't these kids learn anything in skool? Or did they missed the etiquette train in first grade? I mean, perhaps I'm naive, but I just think it's about human decency to correspond. And don't give me that "I-m-just-too-busy-to-even-say-no" line. That's bullshit, too. You're telling me, that you can't click, RESPOND, and type out, "No, I pass - Sincerely, Ms. Polite Lit. Agent?" If you can't do that, you're a lazy you-know-what.

You've dedicated your life to prose, or so you claim, so the least you can do is correspond with frigging writers, and even the ones you reject! Even worse, the agents who themselves are writers and don't respond to your queries! Gimme a break already! OK, this is getting out of hand. I just used three exclamation points in a row. You see, this stuff gets me pretty worked up.

Since we're on the subject of queries, I'm gonna eventually post the one that lands me an agent. As I said earlier, I'm not there quite yet, but my pitch is solid, and has gotten a lot of positive feedback . . . now, if only I can win the heart of an agent with my actual manuscript. That's the biggest hurdle. I'm almost there, and am anxious to hear back from the agents who have the partial piece of my book.

THE SLUSH PILES PICTURE TO THE RIGHT: The one below is an impressive lookin' slush pile. It's neatly organized, compared to the one above it. If you can make it out of a slush pile, you're headin' somewheres . . . at least that's my own delusional thinking, but who knows?

Werner Herzog and my now all time favorite quote

So there's the man, Herr Herzog. This photo was obviously taken when he was in the heart of the Amazon jungle, perhaps filming Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes (Aguirre, The Wrath of God, 1972). This film was the first time Herzog was to work with the tempestuous Klaus Kinski. It would, of course, not be the last.

I watched Aguirre for the first time last night. It's based on a true story. Set in the sixteenth century, Aguirre, a Spanish conquistador, is convinced that he will find El Dorado (the land of gold). Having become a renegade, declaring independence from Spain, Aguirre and his weary crew of men are doomed, as they float down the Amazon river on makeshift rafts. Driven by greed, the desire for power, and fame, Aguirre convinces his men to believe in the illusion of a land overflowing with gold and other spoils. Of course, these illusions quickly turn into delusions. Anyone who dares to challenge Aguirre is slaughtered mercilessly.

While it's gruesome, there are moments of hilarity. That's the last thing that you'd expect, given the subject matter. I realize that Herzog has a sense of humor, but these moments struck me as odd - it adds a type of campiness to the tone of the film. Herzog, I realized, is quite a ham. I won't go into the details, as I hope you watch it yourself, and enjoy a chuckle here and there. Hint: it's obvious when you're supposed to laugh.

The ending is masterful and highlights Herzog's adoration (mixed with a type of hatred) for the jungle, confirming his idea of the "ecstatic truth" in nature. The films he makes after this one, even expressed as recently in the tragic documentary, Grizzly Man, attest to Herzog's firm belief in truth expressed through chaos. In a word, the unpredictably of nature fully illuminates the Truth. We, as human beings, are forever doomed by hubris, foolishly believing that we can either conquer (Aguirre types) nature or peacefully commune (as in the case of Timothy Treadwell) with it. Although separated by centuries, both men radically different as a result of their given historico-cultural contexts, Aguirre and Treadwell are similar. Only Herzog could manage to convince his viewers, even one with a profoundly historicist perspective, that these two men can be divorced from historical specificity and reveal this universal truth: "man" is doomed to fail and nature wins out every time. We may think that by living in cities, surrounded by concrete and steel, we are somehow us impervious to the elements. But such assuredness, as the recent catastrophes in New Orleans, the tsunami of 2005, etc. demonstrate, is just plain stupid. (I know that a few of my scholar buddies, if they had the time to talk to me, would be up an arms about my usage of "nature," but I'm not gonna delve into tiresome and irritatingly, po-mo questions like, "what is nature?" or whatever . . . I leave that type of quibbling to the "real" scholars).

Of course, for both Aguirre and Treadwell, it wasn't nature alone that led to their untimely deaths. But if I even attempt to delve into psychological factors, this blog will devolve into its own form of chaos.

The picture below is from the last scene from the movie. Aguirre has lost everyone (all remnants of "civilization" disappear at specific moments as the story progresses). Here, he is a man devoid of his world, and yet he still thinks, albeit delusional, he's going to take over all of New Spain. Aguirre's men are rotting on the boat, which has now been overrun with dozens of little monkeys. (I get it. I really get it!).

On a funny, and equally, disturbing note, this monkey was pissed off when Kinski picked him up! It squirms in his hands and looks at the camera angrily. Kinski is quite violent when he tosses this monkey aside - he flings its little body so hard, one wonders if the creature lived. I don't imagine an animal rights activist was on set. Let's assume they had been on the set. By the time this final shot had been filmed (assuming that the movie was shot chronologically), they would've already been dead, as a result of the earlier scenes with the horse. It's pretty unnerving.



Once the film was over, I flipped through the extras. Overall, these "extras" were pretty lame and paltry. I own a box collection of Herzog's films, and the other DVDs have way more added stuff. I realize that that's not entirely crucial, but I've enjoy these additional tidbits. I find Herzog fascinating and he interviews very well. In any event, this particular DVD only had brief bios about Herzog, Kinski, etc. Sadly, I wasn't able to satisfy my hunger, as the other sets allow me to eat up the tones of Herzog talking about the "Juuu-ngla" in his weird, mellifluous Bavarian accent. No such luck with this one.

But I did find my now all time favorite quote, so I can't be too critical of the dearth of extra information. As I mentioned, Kinski had a reputation for being insane. While he was making Count Dracula (1969), with director Jess Franco, Kinksi exploded; he was enraged that certain scenes weren't being filmed in an actual sanitarium. The director retorted, "I had planned to shoot it in a real cell but then it occurred to me that they might not let you out!"

Kinski and Herzog had a "love/hate" relationship, too. It's documented on film, as they had outbursts on set constantly. (Wish I had been Kinski's make-up artist. Sheesh. That would've been one of the worst gigs in modern labor history - hey! Somebody should write a labor history of people who worked for Kinski. Now that's something I'd read. You see, I don't read. I'm actually illiterate, and that's why this blog is extra special. It's a miracle that I'm even writing). As I was saying, Kinski and Herzog had this weird relationship, justified by the we're-fucking-crazy-intellectual-artist-types-so-what-do-you-fucking-expect? attitude. Naturally, both of the men spoke quite openly about this fact. But Kinski always had the most outrageous things to say about Herzog. This quote, as I said, is now my all time favorite. When asked about Herzog, Kinski hissed:

"I absolutely despise this Herzog . . . Huge red ants should piss into his lying eyes, gobble up his balls, penetrate his asshole, and eat his guts."

Whoa! In one sentence, Kinski refers to red ants, piss, lying, balls, innards, and (my favorite) Herzog's asshole! While I bet that sounded way funnier auf Deutsch, I laughed so hard, I peed my pants.

I should wrap this discussion up with a decent conclusion, but it's a blog, and I've spent too much time perfecting conclusions. Again, that's amazing, too, given the fact that I'm illiterate, can't/don't read, have managed to get through grad school, and am wrapping up my first novel. What can I say? God works in mysterious ways.

On mundane note, I'm sick of looking at Harvard's cupolas. When the sunlight hits them, they really do look like Ivory Towers. Blech. Maybe I should go back to my grad school prison. I'll think about that over another cup of coffee. Although I hate reading, and just confessed that I neither comprehend writing, Proust is calling for me. He's obsessed with memory.

Why am I inside?

It's sunny and seventy degrees outside. Those of us in Cambridge know too well that this weather is rare -- God must love Harvard very much today, as He rarely let's the sun shine here. (Given Harvard's endowment, I think God shows His loves this institutions in other ways).
But enough about God.

Alas, I am inside. Why? But to write of course!

I'd kill to be a wealthy Harvard undergrad today. The term is almost up, the sun is out, and we have Urban Outfitters down the street from the main quad. Man, if I were an undergrad, I'd hang out on the green grass, laugh it up with my other Harvard undergrad pals, and then head over to Urban Outfitters. I'd buy some ueber-hip tank top and stop off at Grendel's den for a beer.

That would be grand. But I ain't an undergrad. Even worse, I ain't even an official grad student anymore. That means I'm nothin' . . . at least to other grad students and my ex advisor.

Therefore I must become an author, not just a writer, and fast! If only I hadn't been seduced by great philosophy and literature as an undergrad. If I had had any sense, I would've focused on becoming a doctor or something useful. But now I'm cursed. I'm too "educated" to work as a receptionist (nobody will hire me, otherwise I'd gladly answer phones) and too cynical to go back to the Ivory Tower. Admittedly, since I've been unemployed ever since I left grad school - that was last summer - the thought of going back is enticing.

I've survived off of my writing. Lemme tell you something about that: freelance writing sucks. Why? Let's make a list:

1) you have to wait to get paid
2) while you wait to get paid, you fear that you'll NEVER get paid
3) you have to wait to get paid, worry that you won't get paid, and ignore more important (insert novel here) stuff
4) most gigs pay like crap
5) the gigs that do pay well suck - you're hired to write papers for lousy undergrads
6) it's not "real" work - nobody you know (even you) believes it's legit
7) the pay sucks

My sissie likes writing for College Candy, and they treat her well. I'm glad about that. She won't tell me, however, if they pay her. Whatever. Maybe she's working there for free. Who knows? Who cares? As long as she enjoys contributing to their site, I'm supportive of her. Besides, I like that place. It's pretty fun.

OK, I'm gonna look out the window, imagine the kids tossing Frisbees around, and then bury myself in some books about Proust. Yippee.

It's Saturday, so this post exalts RANDOMNESS

Since I've tumbled out of the Ivory Tower, I've been slummin' around more on the interwebs. I think after you've been holed up in a library, writing and reading for 12-14 hrs a day at a dumpy carrel, that that's to be expected. Perhaps I am wrong. Of course, I am proud to say that I've written a novel this year, too. And that's coming to an end as well. So, it hasn't been a total loss, and I'm still trying to determine if I should return to my graduate program.

I'm still working on a title for my fantasy novel. And in case you're wondering, I did kill of a child last night. As I wrote it, I cried. You see, my writing is that good. Ha! (I'm not that arrogant, at least not yet). Like I said, my fantasy novel is set in Kansas. It's filled with dragons, demons, crabby skeletons, and ghosts from the original Scooby Doo. Even E.T. is a character. That sounds wacky, just a random list of creatures, spirits, and a few things that typify popular film and TV programs in the '80s for children. But as I mentioned in my previous entry, the novel is pretty scary.

Where am I now? Presently I'm a stone's throw away from the Widener, and can see the lovely cupolas that overlook the Chaaarles river (oh, wow - that reminds me of Brideshead Revisited. If you haven't read the book
or seen the TV series, which includes stupendous parts played by Sir Laurence Olivier and the lovely Claire Bloom, not to mention Jeremy Irons, another one of my all time favorites, go out and buy both versions NOW. I still adore Irons, despite many of the wretched films he's made, but he's gotta pay the bills somehow). In any event, here I am holed up in Cambridge, MA. The point of mentioning this is . . . I'm longing for Kansas at the moment. I miss the wide open skies. You don't see skies like that on the East coast, because the topography is too hilly, filled with enormous trees. Plus, there is tremendous amount of light pollution. My novel has made me experience real heimweh, and that's far more brutal than you're run of the mill homesickness.

Of course, I love Cambridge. I love it's book stores and coffee shops. More than that, I love the conversations you hear in Cambridge. It's always nice to hop on the subway and see one person across from you reading Dostoevsky in Russian, while someone else, who's perhaps sitting right next you, skims Rimbaud in French. The books you see people reading seems random, like the two I just mentioned, but for those reading individuals, it makes absolute sense. I take comfort in knowing that these people, while their reading choices allow my own imagination to meander along the metaphorical path of everyday life's peculiarities, are actually on a set path. I am at the crux of a paradox: my thoughts touch upon all that is random and all that is intentional. It's a lovely place, just like Kansas's topography. See that image to the right? I wanna see that again, and not on the web. I wanna stand in that scene again.

And since I've come back to musing about Kansas, it's high time that I slap a decent title onto this monster-filled piece. The monsters are actual characters. They're not good. Of course not. Publishers don't want any kind of ambivalence like that. Oh, no. Kafka would be so screwed today. But a Kafka wouldn't exist today. I know that from all my years studying history, although I was on my way to earning a Ph.D. in literature. I am, at heart, a historicist. So, I know better than to comment as such. Anyways, the monsters are bad, but the children in the novel have choices, i.e. they are "born" good, but can go bad if they so choose (wow! It's parallel to our own universe, no?).

When I go back and re-read it, certain passages remind me of Alice in Wonderland. The monsters, who are always disguised when their trying to lure the little ones into their murderous dens, offer children cookies and cupcakes. The cookies come in the shape of My Little Pony figures or look like cabbage patch dolls, but the cupcakes are always the same thing -Bugs Bunny from the '40s. If they eat the Bugs Bunny cupcake, they're in for a frightful "trip" that takes them back to World War II. What's worse, they live out their parents' lives. That sends the children over the edge, and if they don't die, they turn black. So, Bugs Bunny cupcakes are pretty bad. When the children die, the monsters, naturally, devour them. But when they turn black, the children change (physically, too) and end up joining armies, aiding the monsters and their insatiable appetite for new children - they become bounty hunters, in search of the flesh of fresh children.

The main thrust: fantasy that's twisted around (false) memory, as the children cannot make sense of the images and emotions they experience once their viewing things through the lens of one of their parents.

I'd spent a lot of time developing the child who died last night. Although she reminded me of how my parents describe the way I was as a kid at the tender age of five, she was a lot funnier. I like how funny she was, so I made a decision early on about her: I wouldn't allow her silliness to wither away. I couldn't allow her to live on and join the monsters and their skeleton led armies. That would've been too difficult to write. That's why she chose the cookie and not the Bugs Bunny cupcake. I didn't want to see her turn black. May she rest in peace with all of her quirkiness.

With that said, I need to conclude this novel. I just have one chapter left, and I already have that sketched out. Now it's just a matter of writing it out from my outlines. As I draw this to an end, I need to get serious about a title. Most of the literary agents who have expressed an interest in the manuscript don't like the present title. (At the risk of exposing myself, I won't list it here).

I'm still anxiously waiting for the actual call(s). Given the amount of interest that I've received, I'm confident that it'll be any day now. Let's keep hoping! OK, back to the book.

Why I'm here in the first place

OK, so I'll make this blog entry short and sweet. That's not like me, but I'm trying to hone my words and make them extra juicy and super terse.

As I said, I tumbled out of the Ivory Tower -- it doesn't matter which one. I only hope that for those who are going to be leaving soon or have left, say, graduate school at an Ivy, that you'll find solace in the following passages.

I'll be honest. I'm in mourning. I miss the intellectual stimulation, the discussions about books, the people . . . HERE's what I don't miss:

a) The snobbery
b) The overt classism
c) The glaring difference between the rich (undergrads) and the poor (grad) - I'm generalizing, but it's basically true.
d) The desire and hope that you'll become a fantastic scholar, like the ones who are training you, i.e. your role models, BUT also FEARING (the divine paradox of being in grad school at a first tier school) that you'll end up at BFNW University, without health insurance, and dealing with kids who don't care what you're saying (that wasn't my experience when I taught in the Ivory tower - I was spoiled with the level of engagement I enjoyed)
e) Mounting student loan debts
f) Wandering WHY your advisor has 1) stopped writing to you; b) has never written to you; c) is the BLACK sheep of the dept.; d) never read your work!
g) Classism
h) Classism
i) Losing sleep to the point of a nervous breakdown
j) Being filled with ambition (see d), yet feeling uncertain about the future of your professional life in academia
k) Persistent and/or chronic diarrhea
l) Broken friendships as a result of having THEORETICAL differences
m) Acting the part of an apprentice, DESPITE the fact that it's the 21st century
n) Regretting that your dreams as an undergrad are not to be realized in grad school - IF YOU'RE TALENTED AND LOVE WRITING, etc. DON'T GO! TRUST ME, you'll be miserable and a) drop out or b) accept how cruddy it is, and become a curmudgeonly grad student
o) Classism - have I mentioned that already?
p) Sexism (yes, I'm absolutely serious)
q) Having a crappy advisor
r) Having a crappy advisor crap on you
s) Admiring your advisor, then realizing that they're crappy
t) Being disenchanted by the advisor you had admired and being crapped on them
u) Feeling trapped in the same fretful thoughts
v) Imprisonment in the Ivory Tower
w) No one understanding what it means to be a 'grad student' - asbolute limbo, eh? Dealing with these questions: "What are you gonna do with that?," "When you gonna be finished with that degree?," "What is a grad student anyways?"
x) General malaise and an overwhelming sense of isolation
y AND z) Knowing that your star has crashed, burned, blacked out. My sincerest condolences to those of you who have either gone through this, are going through this, or will (God Forbid) go through this - I'll tell you know, you will suffer from bruising, scrapes, bloody gashes for months afterwards.

Sigh.

But, wait! There is hope! Life does exist beyond those pillared towers. The hard part: taking the first steps to leave. Join me, and I'll share my own experiences. You'll see! There is life beyond those old gates, lonely carrels, and plush green lawns . . .

Agents, Agents every where, but not a one of 'em will drink!

So, I'm a fantasy writer of sorts, and not yet (big emphasis on 'yet') published. That means I'm not really an author, just a writer at the moment. I'm fine with that. No, wait. That's not true. I'm not fine with that. I want to be a writer more than anything else in this world. I mean, I wouldn't go as far as Faust, but then again, Mephisto hasn't been stomping around my cavernous library lately. One never really knows, unless they're asked by the Prince of Darkness.

Although I'm relatively new to the game, I'm proud to say that I've at least been able to get the attention of about twenty-five literary agents. I am not being boastful either - those 25 have actually written me personal e-mails and asked to look at my stuff. But that's not the real challenge. As you writers know (even those who are published, save for the hacks who just got a deal cuz their last name was Bush, Hilton, or whatever), rejection is just part of the deal. But there's something to be learned. I know, I know, I know. That sounds ueber-cheesy, but it's true. Use it as a device to become humbler. I swear, I'm providing you with some good advice.

It's all very humbling to receive these types of replies: "no, thanks," "I'm afraid you're not the best match for our agency," etc. If these came via mail, I'd be able to redecorate my bathroom with fancy letterhead from literary agents. Instead, it's all boxed up electronically, so I can only stuff it away in a category in my e-mail account called "Agent Rejections." But I digress. Humility can do wonders for you, especially if you're prone to being insane.

At least I can now say that I have another label in my e-mail account called "Bitin' Agents." That's encouraging as hell.

My fanciful book is pretty fantastic. It's set in the Midwest - Kansas to be exact. In an ordinary suburb, a little girl's dreams, as well as her nightmares, turn out to be very real indeed. That's the worst way of putting it, as my pitch is really honed - I'm quite proud of it, and I've managed to at least snag the attention of a bunch of agents momentarily. That's when they move to the next step, request a partial, and then write back with a polite "no." Agents are so overworked, that they wanna be given any reason to say "no." Suffice to say, don't take it personally.

C'est la vie.

OK, back to the drawing board.

In the meantime, you should check out Sarah Disgrace's blog. It's quite funny.
http://sarahdisgrace.blogspot.com/ - I've listed it below, but since I've been trolling around her site lately, I thought I'd list it in this entry, too.

Who knew? She loves Tina Fey as much as I do! Plus, she likes cupcakes, just like Amy Sedaris. Aaaah, isn't that cool?

All right, I gotta murder a child in my book. Being a writer is almost criminal.