Not a problem, thought I. So long as the story remains relatively intact, I can do that. After all, I kinda get what she means.
I neglected to read the second email she sent me which stated that she just wasn't thrilled enough to take on the book.
I read that this morning.
And now I want to cry.
You know that sinking feeling you sometimes get when your life appears to be a big, empty void - a colossal chasm filled with dreams never fulfilled? I have visions of me sitting at this very desk, twenty years from now, still single, plumper than I should be, embittered and defeated.
Right now, I want to quit. Who needs to be published, anyway?
Trying was a stupid idea.
Of course, I'm not especially bright, so I'm going to keep trying. Like a hamster that never learns to stop touching the electric frikkin' wire.
Maybe I'll self-publish it.
I don't want to, but who knows? Maybe it's the only way this story will see the light of day. And this story deserves to see the light of day.
Let me stress, I'm not in any way, shape or form, angry with the agent. Actually, she was excellent at keeping me abreast of where she was at with my submission and I appreciate her candid explanation of why she wouldn't take on the manuscript.
Besides which, I would much rather have an agent who was thoroughly excited about my stuff.
There just seems to be no such beast.
Well, I'm going to go hide in a hole for the rest of the day, probably cry some and think a great deal. Here's today's Forgotten English to keep you occupied while I do:
To emasculate through squeamishness. From the name (Bowdler) of one of Shakespeare's "purifiers." [Occasionally still used.]
- John Hotten's Slang Dictionary, 1887.