This is the rejection letter I just received from an agent I spoke to at a conference last month. At the conference she told me she wasn't interested at all, but I sent her my work anyway with a cover letter explaining that even though she said it's not her style, I'd love to try to change her mind. This is her letter (all emphasis hers)
Dear Elaine,
Thank you for your interest in our agency, and for taking the time to pitch to me at NHWP. I hope you had a wonderful and fruitful time at the conference.
I reviewed your sample, and I'm sorry, but we're going to pass on requesting more of your work. It was a tough decision, actually, as really like your style, but ultimately I had to be honest with my doubts about who I could sell this to. Maybe you'll have better luck with an agent who has already done something a little closer to this, but it is a crowded shelf. I'm so sorry I don't have better news.
Although I'm passing on your project, I hope the next agent will feel more drawn to your work. Keep sending it out there!
Best of luck with it. I do hope to hear of your success.
Warm regards,
***
So, that was really nice. It would have been better, of course, had she decided to take it on. But, still, it's a really good start.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Sample Chapter One
The job I never ever want to have is being a teacher. I don’t want to be a teacher because you have to go to school and it’s like going to school all over again. Also because you don’t get a lot of money. This is why I don’t want to be a teacher.
-Angelo
Bright yellow police tape surrounds the entrance of the school. I stop for a moment as I wait for security to buzz me in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
My own seventh grade experience consisted of almost being expelled for accidentally setting the hallway on fire, failing shop class for building a rocking duck that wouldn’t rock, and skipping so many classes that several teachers assumed that I had moved away. I’m hardly the ideal candidate for this job. But, part of me wonders if I would have done better if I’d had a teacher like myself, one who didn’t believe that these were the best years of our lives; one of the cruelest lies we tell kids.
I never planned to become a teacher. But, after spending almost a decade working in the insurance industry, I found myself fantasizing about jobs that didn’t involve policy renewals and endorsements. One day on a walk I strolled by the local Charter School, and, on a whim, I decided to see if they needed a volunteer to teach a writing program. Instead, they offered me a position as an assistant in the sixth grade. I took the job on the spot, and I cut my regular work hours back to accommodate my new schedule.
That first day I was wooed by the smell of radiator heat and wet mittens. I found that I loved being around kids, but working in an affluent suburb I grew tired of students telling me that their gardeners made more money than I did, even though it was true. The kids I really connected to were the ones who were accepted into the school as part of a lottery system that attracted students from lower income towns nearby. By the end of the year I knew two things, that I wanted to teach, and that I wanted to work in an urban school system.
But now, as I wait to be let in for my interview, I wonder if I really know what I’m doing.
The building is enormous, taking up close to a city block, and it looks more like a prison than a school. It’s one of the least inviting buildings I’ve ever seen, dark cement with only a few windows that are covered with a deep, red film that doesn’t let in the light. I can’t imagine the rationale behind the colored windows; maybe they think kids will be distracted if they can see outside.
After several minutes a short, balding man opens the door. He shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself as Mr. Fitzpatrick, one of the vice-principals. He leads me down the corridor toward the main office. He doesn’t mention the police tape, and I don’t ask as we walk down dark corridors, dodging puddles of water on the floor.
“Excuse our appearance,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says. “We’re still getting things cleaned up for the start of school.”
I follow him into a cluttered office and he offers me a seat. As he flips through my thin file, I try to think of questions that will make me sound more competent than I feel. I know a bit about the school from my friend’s husband who used to work here. I remember Sean talking about the incongruity of baby-faced Cambodian gang kids, seventh graders who look so young, machetes cloaked under baggy jeans. Those were stories told over a glass of wine; a chorus of, “that’s so sad” leading into political discussions about the Khmer Rouge and refugees. But now, sitting here, I wonder why I never asked him how he handled those kids. Was he afraid to give them detentions for fear of retaliation? Did he tell them to leave their knives in their lockers?
Mr. Fitzpatrick closes my file. “Everything here looks good,” he says. “I know Sean told you about the school, so I won’t really get into that except to say that most of our kids are very needy. They need teachers who really care about them, and they can tell the dedicated teachers from the hacks. This isn’t the place to be if you can’t handle taking the job home with you at night.”
“I have no problem with long hours,” I say.
He looks at me evenly. “I’m not talking about your workload.”
He gets up and shakes my hand. “I think you’ll do well here.”
I can’t believe the interview is over so quickly. I’d rehearsed answers to all of the tricky questions I figured he’d ask, but he’s already leading me back into the corridor.
“What grade will I be teaching can I see my classroom is there a copy of the textbook?” I ask in one breath as he walks me toward the door.
“We’ll let you know what grade you’ll be teaching before school starts, and you’ll get your room assignment then.”
“But school starts in less than a week,” I remind him.
“Don’t worry; we usually have everything set by the time school starts.”
Usually?
“What about a textbook?” I ask.
“Oh, I suppose we can give you one, I think there are some seventh grade books in the closet. You could be teaching sixth or eighth, but at least you’ll have an idea of what to expect.”
At least I’ll have some reading material stave off the panic.
He leads me to a broom closet with dog-eared books piled floor-to-ceiling next to paint thinner and mops. He digs out a copy of the seventh grade literature text and hands it to me. It’s large and purple and it looks like a lot more reading than I can handle in just a few days, but somehow it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
As he walks me to the door he asks, “So, are you getting nervous?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Good. The ones who aren’t scared scare me.”
-Angelo
Bright yellow police tape surrounds the entrance of the school. I stop for a moment as I wait for security to buzz me in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
My own seventh grade experience consisted of almost being expelled for accidentally setting the hallway on fire, failing shop class for building a rocking duck that wouldn’t rock, and skipping so many classes that several teachers assumed that I had moved away. I’m hardly the ideal candidate for this job. But, part of me wonders if I would have done better if I’d had a teacher like myself, one who didn’t believe that these were the best years of our lives; one of the cruelest lies we tell kids.
I never planned to become a teacher. But, after spending almost a decade working in the insurance industry, I found myself fantasizing about jobs that didn’t involve policy renewals and endorsements. One day on a walk I strolled by the local Charter School, and, on a whim, I decided to see if they needed a volunteer to teach a writing program. Instead, they offered me a position as an assistant in the sixth grade. I took the job on the spot, and I cut my regular work hours back to accommodate my new schedule.
That first day I was wooed by the smell of radiator heat and wet mittens. I found that I loved being around kids, but working in an affluent suburb I grew tired of students telling me that their gardeners made more money than I did, even though it was true. The kids I really connected to were the ones who were accepted into the school as part of a lottery system that attracted students from lower income towns nearby. By the end of the year I knew two things, that I wanted to teach, and that I wanted to work in an urban school system.
But now, as I wait to be let in for my interview, I wonder if I really know what I’m doing.
The building is enormous, taking up close to a city block, and it looks more like a prison than a school. It’s one of the least inviting buildings I’ve ever seen, dark cement with only a few windows that are covered with a deep, red film that doesn’t let in the light. I can’t imagine the rationale behind the colored windows; maybe they think kids will be distracted if they can see outside.
After several minutes a short, balding man opens the door. He shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself as Mr. Fitzpatrick, one of the vice-principals. He leads me down the corridor toward the main office. He doesn’t mention the police tape, and I don’t ask as we walk down dark corridors, dodging puddles of water on the floor.
“Excuse our appearance,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says. “We’re still getting things cleaned up for the start of school.”
I follow him into a cluttered office and he offers me a seat. As he flips through my thin file, I try to think of questions that will make me sound more competent than I feel. I know a bit about the school from my friend’s husband who used to work here. I remember Sean talking about the incongruity of baby-faced Cambodian gang kids, seventh graders who look so young, machetes cloaked under baggy jeans. Those were stories told over a glass of wine; a chorus of, “that’s so sad” leading into political discussions about the Khmer Rouge and refugees. But now, sitting here, I wonder why I never asked him how he handled those kids. Was he afraid to give them detentions for fear of retaliation? Did he tell them to leave their knives in their lockers?
Mr. Fitzpatrick closes my file. “Everything here looks good,” he says. “I know Sean told you about the school, so I won’t really get into that except to say that most of our kids are very needy. They need teachers who really care about them, and they can tell the dedicated teachers from the hacks. This isn’t the place to be if you can’t handle taking the job home with you at night.”
“I have no problem with long hours,” I say.
He looks at me evenly. “I’m not talking about your workload.”
He gets up and shakes my hand. “I think you’ll do well here.”
I can’t believe the interview is over so quickly. I’d rehearsed answers to all of the tricky questions I figured he’d ask, but he’s already leading me back into the corridor.
“What grade will I be teaching can I see my classroom is there a copy of the textbook?” I ask in one breath as he walks me toward the door.
“We’ll let you know what grade you’ll be teaching before school starts, and you’ll get your room assignment then.”
“But school starts in less than a week,” I remind him.
“Don’t worry; we usually have everything set by the time school starts.”
Usually?
“What about a textbook?” I ask.
“Oh, I suppose we can give you one, I think there are some seventh grade books in the closet. You could be teaching sixth or eighth, but at least you’ll have an idea of what to expect.”
At least I’ll have some reading material stave off the panic.
He leads me to a broom closet with dog-eared books piled floor-to-ceiling next to paint thinner and mops. He digs out a copy of the seventh grade literature text and hands it to me. It’s large and purple and it looks like a lot more reading than I can handle in just a few days, but somehow it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
As he walks me to the door he asks, “So, are you getting nervous?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Good. The ones who aren’t scared scare me.”
Sample Chapters to Big Kid
The sample chapters just went out to Big Kid Agent. I clicked "send" and my heart just sank. I know it's far too early in the game to be put off by rejection, and by most standards I really haven't faced a whole lot of rejection, but I'm just feeling discouraged today. I've revamped the first chapter at least a dozen more times, and I feel like it's pretty tight, but the marked for this kind of book is tighter, and there's really nothing I can do about that. It's not that I thought people would be banging down the doors to represent me, but I didn't expect so much of the feedback to center on the fact that this is a type of book that's tough to market. In a sense, I'd be better off if they just thought my style sucked, because then I could work on that, but people are saying pretty decent things about the writing, it's the subject matter that's the plague. It's kind of like dating and being told that it's nothing personal, you're just too tall to find a boyfriend. Heavy, poorly dressed, crappy personality, hell, even butt ugly could be changed, but height is what it is. And teacher memoirs are the gangley kid at the party. Sure, people will make comments about modeling and basketball, but at the end of the day, you'd better be damn hot to pull it off. And right now, I'm not feeling hot.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Big Kid Agent Called Me Back
Just when I thought I was being stood up by Big Kid Agent, he called me back. Of course, Bear Cub was screaming bloody murder in the background and Disney Radio was blasting in the background, so I'm sure that set up a sweet mental picture for Agent Man. New Hampshire is an interesting return address to New Yorkers. Some days it congers up images of maple syrup and quaint country inns, and other days it's all toothless hicks with gun racks. I have a feeling I'm now some barefoot woman in a housecoat with a kid on my hip and a bottle of beer in my hand.
Replace the housecoat with flannel pjs, and the beer with a decent scotch and I guess you're pretty close.
Oh, but anyway, Big Kid Agent wants to see my first few chapters. So, I reworked them again, and as soon as I figure out how to disable the "track changes" feature, so they can't see all the inner workings of my mind, I'll send it out.
In the meantime, I'm channeling David Sedaris via Naked on audio in my car. Damn, he's good. But, if you think of him in terms of a query letter, he reeks of rejection.
Dear Agent,
My book is...well, it's about licking doorknobs, and how my mom got all the teachers drunk so they wouldn't keep talking about how I licked doorknobs, and my crazy grandmother...
Damn, I take it back, even the query sounds funny. Maybe I need to find my inner doorknob licker.
Replace the housecoat with flannel pjs, and the beer with a decent scotch and I guess you're pretty close.
Oh, but anyway, Big Kid Agent wants to see my first few chapters. So, I reworked them again, and as soon as I figure out how to disable the "track changes" feature, so they can't see all the inner workings of my mind, I'll send it out.
In the meantime, I'm channeling David Sedaris via Naked on audio in my car. Damn, he's good. But, if you think of him in terms of a query letter, he reeks of rejection.
Dear Agent,
My book is...well, it's about licking doorknobs, and how my mom got all the teachers drunk so they wouldn't keep talking about how I licked doorknobs, and my crazy grandmother...
Damn, I take it back, even the query sounds funny. Maybe I need to find my inner doorknob licker.
A nice rejection
Dear Elaine,
It was a treat meeting a fellow Bardian at the NHWP Writer's Day. Thanks for following up and sending along your memoir.
While I appreciated your story and admired how you poured your heart on the page, I just don't think I could be successful on your behalf. The memoir market is very crowded and I don't think I'd be able to cut through the noise with Gangsta Bears. But I hope I'm wrong and that another agent feels differently.
I wish you the best of luck with your writing.
Sincerely,
L.
A rejection, but in a world of largely impersonal rejections, I've gotten three really nice ones, and two that said they hoped someone else would feel differently and take me on. Kind of the agent version of, "it's not you, it's me". Granted, being turned down still sucks, but it really does take the sting out to get the occasional letter that's not addressed "Dear Writer".
It was a treat meeting a fellow Bardian at the NHWP Writer's Day. Thanks for following up and sending along your memoir.
While I appreciated your story and admired how you poured your heart on the page, I just don't think I could be successful on your behalf. The memoir market is very crowded and I don't think I'd be able to cut through the noise with Gangsta Bears. But I hope I'm wrong and that another agent feels differently.
I wish you the best of luck with your writing.
Sincerely,
L.
A rejection, but in a world of largely impersonal rejections, I've gotten three really nice ones, and two that said they hoped someone else would feel differently and take me on. Kind of the agent version of, "it's not you, it's me". Granted, being turned down still sucks, but it really does take the sting out to get the occasional letter that's not addressed "Dear Writer".
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Left hanging
So, I called Big Kid agent and he was in a meeting. So, what did I do? I broke the cardinal rule of dating/agent hunting. I left a message for him with his assistant. Of course, we know he won't. He's busy, and he has no idea who the hell I am. So, now I have to call back without looking like a stalker. Ugh.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Big Kid Agent Wants A Call
"Big Kid" agent is "curious" and wants me to give him a call. I'm nervous about it, because I know I'm going to have to pitch this in a way that will make him want to read it, without having it feel like a rehearsed pitch, and that's tough. But, I'm going to go into it with the attitude that it's a strong book and hopefully that energy and confidence will shine through. I just have to clear my mind a bit first. It's been a long, tough week in a lot of ways, and I really need to find a good place before I talk to him, since I'm pretty burned out right now.
I accidentally picked up a copy of Writer's Digest at the school library last week. I was talking to the librarian, and when I picked up my papers to leave, it must have been on the counter under them. It's actually a really interesting magazine, and now more than ever, it has information that I can really use. I remember looking through it once before, but since it's all on the publishing end, I really didn't find much there that worked for me. This month's issue has a whole article on the best website resources for writers, and I'm already finding some interesting things there. Of course, I'll have to bring the magazine back at some point, but it feels like some odd gesture on the part of fate that I ended up with it. Either the universe is trying to tell me that I'm on the right path, or that I really need to do some reading and research before I put myself out there further.
I accidentally picked up a copy of Writer's Digest at the school library last week. I was talking to the librarian, and when I picked up my papers to leave, it must have been on the counter under them. It's actually a really interesting magazine, and now more than ever, it has information that I can really use. I remember looking through it once before, but since it's all on the publishing end, I really didn't find much there that worked for me. This month's issue has a whole article on the best website resources for writers, and I'm already finding some interesting things there. Of course, I'll have to bring the magazine back at some point, but it feels like some odd gesture on the part of fate that I ended up with it. Either the universe is trying to tell me that I'm on the right path, or that I really need to do some reading and research before I put myself out there further.
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