It's All Goodnow……

My Response To Mean Agent Rejection

PLEASE READ THE POST “MEAN AGENT REJECTION LETTER” BEFORE READING THIS POST.  IT IS THE LAST POST.  THANKS.

 

Dear Good Sir,

While my words on pages may not be Hemingwayesque (I hope you don’t get angry with me for making up my own word), it has received a favorable response from most of the people who have read it.  I adhere to the Stephen King school of thought that a book, pardon me, words on pages should be story driven.  That is what I did with my words on paper, My Sober Year.  I don’t think Stephen King is a retarded donkey and I would be honored if he read my words on paper.  Further, you made mention of book burning.  While admirable (the Nazi’s had great success with this) I do think that you may have overstepped on that one.  I would also like to point out you made a spelling mistake in your letter to me.  As an agent you should be embarrassed and ashamed.  There is this amazing new tool created in the mid-eighties called spell check.  You may want to employ it from time to time when belittling aspiring writers.  See, you may have made it in your craft, but you are …..thinking…..thinking……such a bad writer I can’t come up with the wor……a bully.  (I was going to call you an asshole, but I thought it too “sophomoric”)  

I hope you revise your rejection letter policies and your general outlook on life.  Who knows, our paths may someday cross and I could be a lot bigger than you (professionally speaking of course).  

I hope you have a great day.

May God bless and hold you in the palm of his hand  (I wanted to incorporate God here as you did in your letter).

 

Cheers,

Andrew J. Goodnow

Author of My Sober Year, a novel

Mean Agent Rejection Letter

Dear Writer of Very Bad Material,

Why did you waste my time by sending me the first ten pages of what you think comprises sentences that attempt to tell a story over far too many pages (I will not give you the benefit of calling it a novel, literary fiction, or book)?  If ever bound I feel bad for the trees used to sacrifice their natural purpose in order to have your dribble contaminating what was once a vital part of the ecosystem.  Your attempts at humor are sophomoric, your plot is non-existent, and your character development borders on actually slapping the reader in the face and calling them a retarded donkey.  Why are you calling me and anyone else misfortunate enough to read your words a retarded donkey.  It seems like a terrible thing to do to another human being.  Your words on pages were so bad that there isn’t even a place for me to edit.  It was so bad the only thing I can do is to hope for a book burning in New York City at some point in time.  That is coming from a person making his living from the sale and integrity of books.  The only problem with the book burning would be the chance of breathing in the air your words on pages occupied.  Also the concept of a book burning would incinuate that your words on pages are, in fact, a book.  Which it is not.  

In closing I would like to recommend you do something – anything really – other than write.  Don’t even sign your name to credit card receipts.  Do not send text messages, I fear anyone reading them would become much, much more simple.  

May God have mercy on your soul.

Sincerely,

 

Literary Agent

Not The Life I Expected

Imagine what you want your life to be.  Or what you thought you wanted it to be.  Where do you want to be?  Who do you want to be with?  What do you want to do everyday when you wake up?  

A little over a year ago I left a job that paid alright, had great benefits, and didn’t have terrible hours.  But I wasn’t very happy.  I had no room to be creative or for that matter to be myself.  I felt constricted and I made the decision to quit the job and head to Europe for a little while.  Nothing crazy, just a month, but I had the impulse to get away.  To do my writing.  To enjoy a bit more of the world.  To be myself.  Not Andrew that couldn’t write what I wanted on my blog in fear of losing employment.  Not someone who had to clap for people I could have cared less about at large conferences.  Not a guy who had to listen to boss’s that were all about the company line.  

So for the last year I worked on my writing.  I self-published my book.  I am working at a running store.  I still live in NYC – though no longer in my large studio on the Upper East Side.  I have far less money (which does cause a whole lot of stress).  But on the whole I think I am happier.   Though THIS IS NOT WHAT I SAW FOR MY LIFE.  

This wasn’t supposed to be me.  I was going to be in business and make a killing.  I wasn’t going to be some starving artist writer selling running shoes.  There are days when I am tempted to go back to the corporate world (ie, making money again), but is it worth what made me so very unhappy before?  Is that what I want?  I don’t think it is.  I think I am going to give it a little more time.  I think I can make this work.  I think I can get some traction and start making a living off of my writing.  Will I ever be rich?  Maybe not, but I think I’ll be a hell of a lot happier than sitting in a cubicle doing compliance training.  Maybe if I had a family, a responsibility to anyone other than myself it would be a different scenario.  But I don’t.  

So I’m going to keep going and hope that my life does change.  Hope that it evolves with my love of writing rather than spiraling down because of it.  Work toward having the Manhattan apartment a small summer home, and maybe a Smart Car.  I don’t need much. 

I want to make it.  On my terms.  Doing what I love.  And I suppose, in order to do so, there will be sacrifice along the way.