Every poor agent gets submissions from loads of talentless hacks, so they’re thrilled — THRILLED — to get pages from talented borderline geniuses like myself.
I’m revising the first chapter of my draft novel. I’m submitting it for agent review this Friday. Now I’m not expecting the agent to sign me on the spot or anything crazy like that. My novel needs a lot of work, and I haven’t even written the second half of it yet. Nonetheless, it’s a matter of pride that I turn in the best work possible.
For reference, I started this novel eight months ago in September 2011, and I revised the intro chapter approximately 492 times until I got to the point where I was all, damn, this chapter is looking good. As in, real good. As in, holy crap, the agent is going to fall over from shock and delight and ring me up straightaway. No question.
Then last Thursday I read the chapter for the first time in a couple of months and promptly chucked my Mac out my third-story window and booked a one-way flight to Tahiti, where I plan to spend the rest of my days going laptopless whilst composing ballads based on island legends and threading flowers into necklaces under a thatched beach hut.
Let me back up. I didn’t really ditch the Mac. And roundtrip flights to Papeete, French Polynesia, are averaging $2,700. Said another way, I’ve decided to reread Robert Louis Stevenson’s South Sea Tales and park myself right here at home.
Still, in reading the first chapter of my draft novel, I have to ask—did I actually write this? For real? For real for real? And what about it made me think it was looking good? As in, real good. As in, As in, holy crap, the agent is going to fall over from shock and delight and ring me up straightaway? Cause, damn.
I refuse to be one of those talentless hacks or even mediocre middleroaders who are deluded into believing they’re God’s gift to fiction writing. I simply won’t allow it.
Gotta run. I have a lot of work to do.
