Maybe the Stars Know

You may belittle horoscopes. As well you probably should because there is no sensible reason to think anything light years away can guide you anywhere in the tiny swath of land that is your life.

All the same, I like my horoscope–and I don’t see why you have to believe something to enjoy it.

Here is my Rob Brezsny horoscope for this week:

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): According to the *Guinness Book of World Records,* the longest love letter in history was written by an Indian man named Harish Kondakkuli. The gushing 143-page message took him over three months to complete. Oddly, it was addressed to an imaginary woman, since there was no one in his life he was actually in love with. I encourage you to consider the possibility of exceeding his achievement in the coming weeks, Libra. You’re at the peak of your ability to express wickedly delicious passions and profoundly tender intentions. There may even be a real person, not an imaginary one, who warrants your extravagant outflow.

I’m hoping this means I can write a wickedly delicious passionate story with profoundly tender intentions… What would that story be about?!

Can a story be a love letter?

Well, this posting every day for the month of May is almost over. Thank goodness.

And so is Story-a-Day. Whew. And while my horoscope suggests I could write a 143 page love letter, I could barely manage a proper paragraph for today’s story. Today’s story is, in fact, not the longest but is the most ridiculous. But it’s done!

Maybe No Passion Whatsoever

The world may benefit from my stories…but that’s a bit hard to believe, isn’t it?

Somewhere in my subconscious must be the belief that sharing what comes out of my head is a good and interesting thing. What evidence is there for this grandiose thinking?

The rejection letter received today reads:

‎”Thank you so much for sending me your work. I’m afraid, however, that I am going to have to pass up the opportunity to represent it. I am currently taking on new clients quite selectively, focusing on work that really stirs my passion. I honestly don’t feel that I could represent your work with the requisite enthusiasm in this tough market, but hopefully another agent will feel differently.”

Isn’t it amazing how a stranger can find–inadvertently–the words that goes straight into the heart?

Shouldn’t stories stir passion? And you know I don’t mean of the fake shiny passion of a Harlequin romance (which has its place in world–oh fans of Harlequin–but not what I mean).

Though it is difficult not to tie together the many forms of passion when talking about rejection. I have a passion for writing and making art. But I can hardly know if I stir passion in readers for reading what I put out in the world. And yes (nod to Harlequin gods and demons) it reminds me all too well when I was younger and couldn’t to save my heart stir passion in anyone. Even the few boyfriends I had were quite clearly indifferent.

And who among us wants the world to remain indifferent?

Well, just as I continued to go out dancing with friends or to movies by myself, I’ll keep writing stories because what else would I do? Because I did not know then, do not now, and may well never know how to stir passion in others.

It reminds me of when people tell me they don’t have a calling, a passion, a clue about what they want to do with their lives. They admit to having no hobby, no great interest, no obsession, no passion for anything in particular. “Do you have any ideas?” they ask.

I don’t know your inner workings, I want to say. I don’t have your inner map.

So. If I had to choose, perhaps being passionate in an indifferent world beats being indifferent in a passionate world. Maybe.

What do you think?

*

And on a side note, I’ve got an excerpt for todays story posted over at the imaginary lake guaranteed not to stir passion!

Please forgive this impersonal blog entry. Your comments, however, will be accepted.

These are a few of the rejections I’ve received over the years. A few were addressed to me, though many were addressed to Dear Author.

Due to the current status of the publishing industry–and the selectivity that the market now demands, we regret that we cannot consider your material at this time.

I can’t decide if they both didn’t like it, or just the senior agent.

Thank you for sending us the full manuscript of your novel as we requested. Two of us have now had the chance to read it, and we found the subject matter both compelling and relevant, as well as incredibly moving.

Ultimately, however, —– did not feel strongly enough about the writing to agree to represent this book with the greatest possible enthusiasm. Hers is only one opinion, of course, and we both wish you the best of luck in finding the right agent to represent your work.

This one sounded the harshest to me.

Please accept my apology for this form response, but the volume of mail received in my office makes a personal reply impossible.

I have reviewed your material and it is not anything I wish to work with at this time. Thank you for the submission and I wish you the best of luck with other agents.

What makes a person enthusiastic?

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, I was not sufficiently enthusiastic to feel I’d be the right agent for your work. In addition, I’m taking on very few new clients so I must turn down a lot of good submissions.

Aren’t impersonal rejections easier than personal ones?

Please forgive this impersonal note regarding your query, which we have considered but must decline. As we receive a tremendous number of queries, we are unable to respond to each submission individually, but we thank you for the opportunity to review your work.

We encourage you to keep writing and to try other agents.

Who does connect to my writing? Enough people to sell a book?

Thank you for sending the requested materials for our consideration and for your patience while I spent far too long considering it.

It is clear you have devoted a lot of time and effort to your novel, and you have every reason to be proud of the result. …..is not a simple subject to write about, but your work was very well done and certainly intriguing. I’m afraid though that I couldn’t connect with your writing enough to justify taking this on and submitting it into a market that seems to grow more and more difficult to enter.

As such we are passing, but thanks again for the opportunity and I wish you all the best of luck in placing your work elsewhere and in your future as a writer.

Well, it is good they are dedicated to the clients they have. Some agents aren’t.

Thank you for your letter regarding representation. Unfortunately, we’re taking on very few new projects at the moment due to an already full load with present clients and are not able to ask to see your manuscript.

This one was one of the most disappointing.

I so apologize for my delay in getting back to you. We were cleaning out the office and came upon your query for —. And while this certainly sounds like an original premise for a novel, I can see from my extraordinary delay that I’m simply too overwhelmed with work lately to be able to responsibly agree to take this on. I thank you for thinking of me here, though, and have no doubt that you’ve found other representation by now. I do wish you the very best of luck with this work.

Again, I’m sorry for my inexcusably slow response.

This was the rare hand-written note.

Thank you for thinking of me, Marta, but unfortunately the novel you describe doesn’t sound like what I’m currently looking for, so I’m going to pass. Good luck elsewhere.

Elsewhere is beginning to sound like a magical land.

I’m suspect (and does this make me naive or pretentious?) that my work is too quirky (or perhaps woo-woo!) for a mass audience. So what would any agent do? (WWAAD–I can see the plastic bracelet now.)

Dear Author,

Dear Author:

Thank you for your submission. It was kind of you to think of us, but we are sorry we are unable to offer to see more of your work.

We thank you for the opportunity to consider your materials and we wish you the best of luck elsewhere.

Sincerely,

—-Inc.

I’ve been in a snit trying to find my Microsoft Word disk, tearing apart my work space, and finding scads of unfinished projects, failed projects, materials for imagined projects… and what I finish, isn’t enough.

My novel went to a literary agency and all I got was this lousy rejection.

Everyone’s Past

I have finished my rough draft of this year’s NaNoWriMo novel, and I started with the first three chapters and notes my mother wrote before she died. The story is about a relationship she had. A couple years ago I made contact with this man from her past and he wrote me a letter about their relationship. It is odd to try and look back on what I experienced and piece together with what my mother and what he told me. These stories do no match up–but that is real life not a novel. I’m trying to make a novel.

So, here is a tiny piece of the letter he wrote me about two years ago. That would be 2008, and I lived with him and my mother from 1981 to 1982 when I was 12 to 13 years old. I took out a few specific references because I am not truly comfortable sharing other people’s words. But to clarify, this fellow taught a college class on death and dying. It was very popular. He was very popular. And anyway, Mom titled her novel The Death Man, so perhaps that gives you an idea of her thoughts when she started her novel. So. Here is what he wrote about finding out about my mother’s death and the years since.

I cried and cried then, and I often do now. About 13 years ago, doing some research for my NDE group that I have in the ——- area (you remember I was the death & dying guy in ——–), I came across a young woman who claimed to be a medium. I’ve seen these people before, and have been absolutely amazed by them. So, I checked her out. Little did I know that she would tell me all about your mother, and that she would “speak for” your mother who was there in the room. I won’t go into all the protocol I use to check veracity, but I can tell you it was as real as I am. But just to be sure, I sent some of the top ——- scientists to her and a top trial attorney to her. They all came back as amazed as I was. ——- (the medium) and I are now very close friends, and she knows when she can talk to me “for” your mother and when it would just floor me with emotion. But she assures me your mother is with me much of the time, and that we will be together again.

Fifty-thousand words and am not sure what this novel I’ve written from all this is really about.

A Letter from the Death Man

my mother photographed by her boyfriend

A lot of time here has been spent on letters from my mother. Well, here is a portion of a letter to her from her ex-boyfriend, the fellow her novel, The Death Man, is based on (and the novel I am trying to finish).

I wish I could have been around for your graduation. I would have invited myself to Tampa to take you out to dinner. Your determination is only one facet of the marvelous character I see in you. I can’t tell you how much I value and appreciate (within myself–I just don’t talk to other people much anymore) the fact that you and I had the relationship that we had for so long.

Not so foreboding, is it?

Dippy is as dippy does.

On May 6, 1988, my mother wrote this.

[My professor] gave me an A, but he said although I was sometimes brilliant, and never bad, I was often dippy. But he gave me the A for my brilliance.

It is hard for me to imagine my mother ever being dippy. She was silly from time to time, but I don’t see that as the same thing. Sometimes I wonder what my professors thought of me, but that is probably a dippy thing to do.

I can definitely be dippy.

Well, maybe that depends on how you define dippy.

What did your teachers think of you?

Mind Your Manners

When I was 15, my mother wrote me this.

You’re approaching adulthood. Neither boys nor girls automatically know how to behave. Manners will get you through. That’s what social manners are for.

The other night a young woman sharing a table with me burped loudly. She didn’t say excuse me or look around as if someone might have heard. A while later, she burped again. Again without any comment. A few more times she burped and not once did it look as if “excuse me” even crossed her mind.

I found myself annoyed. You should say “excuse me,” I thought. Did she not know any better or did she consciously make a point not to act ladylike? She had a buzz cut and cap. She wore a sweatshirt.

How would I have reacted if she had been a he? I would’ve thought him rude, but I also would’ve found him typical. Ugh. Guys. But for some reason, I expect a girl to know better.

This strikes me as sexist. Low expectations of men and high expectations of women. And I suspect I am old-fashioned. Men should take their hats off inside, no one should slouch, and flip-flops are not for work. And if you burp, say excuse me.

But I wonder what my notions about the way things should be say about my writing. How do biases, pre-conceived ideas, prejudices, and attitudes about girls who burp in public shape your writing? How do you write believable, worthwhile characters if you’re stuck on the way you want people to be?

Or, in a different direction–watching this aspiring writer across from me burp and not say anything made me wonder how polite a write ought to be. Must a woman writer always act like a lady? Is it even ladylike to write?

I say “excuse me” when I burp, but I’m not sure I’m a lady…

dress the part

I was in high school in the 80s when my mother wrote this.

This money order is not just a Christmas present. People your age need to dress appropriately. As your mother, I’m going to add some advice about spending this money–you’re probably going to get a lot of advice. Ignore everybody. Make yourself happy. This is a “Do yourself a favor” gift. Spend it all in one place, on one thing of 5 things–I’ll send more sedate amounts from time to time that I’ll expect you to be sensible about. Don’t be sensible. Have fun. BUY what makes you feel good. Ignore your grandmother. I spent years wearing clothes I hated, especially pants that didn’t fit. To get on in life you’ve got to dress whatever part you pick for yourself. But the part you pick must be entirely your choice, not forced by circumstances. I love you.

Thanks for the unicorn. He adorns my living room–the only Christmas thing there. A very famous philosopher/ psychologist said that “Adults need fantasy more than children” (because they’re so far away from their dreams). So you’re in exalted company.

Thank you. Have your own brand of fun. (Listen to me, I’m your mother.)

My mom rarely had money to spare. She either had no car or a terrible car, and her refrigerator usually contained lettuce, cheese, grapes, apples, and milk. She also kept potatoes, tomatoes, melba toast, and coffee.
For meals (when I visited) we went to my grandmother’s. With the money I bought boots even though I lived in Florida. I loved those wildly impractical boots.

my new boots

Now, of course, that unicorn I bought my mother is mine. Adults will always need unicorns.

So, anyway, do you dress the part you’ve picked for yourself?

things of the future

My mother write this on October 11, 1989, three days before my birthday and thirty-five days before she passed away.

You may be 21 now, but don’t forget the things of your childhood–they keep you young forever. … The other things are just stuff, some old, some new, you might be able to use. … The gift is for the things of the future–may you have a long and productive and happy one.

What things of your childhood do you keep?