Go ahead, don't be shy, ask your question
Q Dear R.L. I have written thirty-seven novels. Unlike you, however, none of them have been published. I know they don't match your immeasurable genius but they're pretty good. The trouble is, I can't get publishers to look at them. I'll never move out of my mother's basement if I don't sell at least one manuscript. Please, R.L., tell me the best way to find an editor or agent.
Sincerely, Mom's Favorite
A M.F.: To capture the attention of an editor or agent, you must beard him in his own lair: the writer's conference or workshop. But beware; such a quest is not for the faint of heart. The biggest mistake aspiring authors make at these crucial events is failing to train for The Gauntlet. That $1500 registration didn't just cover little name tags and the fees associated with renting that high school auditorium; ninjas and bumper cars don't come cheap. Those who move through this brutal ritual and survive are granted a three-second audience with an editor or agent, so don't waste time mastering your pain or staunching blood-flow. Have your two-word pitches prepared, people! I can't stress that enough. To help get your creative juices going, here are some successful pitches I have heard bandied about the Published Authors Social Club:
- Stellar Debris
- Geoduck Almighty
- Lascivious Cheerleaders
- Bronson Pinchot
- President Crawdad
QDear R.L. I was so excited to read The Screaming Codpiece that I pre-ordered it. When it arrived, I was shocked to see that the cover depicts flames blasting from a man's prominent crotch. The engorged realism of the artwork so disturbed my little sister that she hasn't spoken to me for three weeks. The story itself says nothing about flaming crotches. Why the discrepancy? (P.S. I adored the book--of course!)
- Aroused Curiosity
AAC: When the artist, editor and I convened at Burger King to discuss the cover art, I was adamant that the codpiece be the central detail, and I quoted at length many of the passages that described its powers: the Keen of Incontinence, the Wail of Fail, and the Ululation of Procrastination. Sadly, two factors evidently forestalled the conveyance of my message. For one, Julio the artist does not grasp English well, nor, frankly, does my editor despite it being her first language, and the masterpiece of words that I painted for them was akin to leading a blind man through the Louvre. For another, the manager of the Burger King asked us to leave before I finished because apparently my pipe smoke irritated the less cultured patrons around us. To mitigate his embarrassment, I of course left him with an autographed photograph of myself.