It Begins

I never thought I would participate in a blog. Now I have this. It's like having a podium without an auditorium. I can stand behind it and express all kinds of supposed brilliance. Just what I need. It's the perfect audience, too. The hall is empty as I speak (write). I can say whatever I want and no one will be offended. And for those who may slip in - deliberately, or by accident (most likely) - they can do so without drawing attention. And they can slip away just as quietly. I will never know. Unless they leave a calling card (comment).

The truth is, I do not expect anyone to come here and listen to what I have to say, much less let me know that they have. I have the illusion of communication, and I owe it to a book agent who suggested I go to Evil Editor to learn why my query sucks. (It does, by the way. I just haven't learned why yet.) I do not reveal the agent because I do not know that would be appreciated, and I made a promise in my thank you to them I would not pester again.

It's a pity, too. For the agent's website is a happy one. It's filled with energy and fun. I felt it every time I visited, garnering the courage to send the ill-fated query letter. If my books are ever to be published, I would one other wish of mine be granted: I would like this agent to represent those books. Of all the agent websites I have visited, this is the only one that made me feel happy to do so. The pity is, I said I would not pester again. I made my submission. I was rejected. I got up to bat and struck out on three pitches. I'm not sure I belong in the major leagues. I couldn't even see the ball. I may as well of had my eyes closed. Pity.