Writing at the Powell's Café

I'm at Powell's right now, sitting in the café and looking through the window across Burnside.  This is a view (dream) I've enjoyed many times in my life, especially the three years I lived in Portland, back when my only dreams concerning my writing, was publishing my short stories in great literary journals and someday getting into a legit MFA program.  Eleven years since I was here last, I can't help but take a personal inventory of my life, noting the achievements I've fulfilled and those that I'm still trying to achieve.  Among other things, I realize that:

1.  Contrary to what I assumed in 2003, when I took my first fiction workshop at the age of 28 at Portland State, publishing a short story in an excellent journal, even publishing a bunch of short stories in many respected journals, doesn't mean you've "made it" at all as a literary fiction writer.  Or maybe it did once, but then you begin moving the goal posts with each tiny success

2.  Getting accepted into a legit MFA program doesn't mean you've "made it" either

3.  Ditto with a legit PhD program

4.  Ditto studying with famous authors (all of who have tried, each in their own way, to get their agents to pick me up as a client)

5.  One of my biggest fears since the day I realized I wanted to be a literary fiction writer, was not publishing my novel, short story, and memoir manuscripts.  My second greatest fear was being one of those professors who teaches writing, but who hasn't published his books.  Right now, these two fears resonate with me, not because I think I'll never publish my manuscripts (actually, I think I'm incredibly close right now because I have many agents reading my first and second novels and just as many indie presses reading similar and different manuscripts), but because before you're a published author in the book sense of the word, you're nothing.  Or at best, you're simply a published author in the literary journal sense of the word, which isn't the same thing.

6.  As I was talking to my good friend Leigh, two nights ago, at this vegan trattoria, it hit me that as a fiction writer trying to make a career publishing his novels in hard copy, I'm essentially fighting for a lost world.  A world that doesn't even exist anymore to anyone except literary fiction writers

7.  I need to find an illustrator and a coder and then finish my electronic novella, Dukkha, My Love, as soon as possible because I can still leave my mark in that medium, regardless of how long it takes me to publish my other work

8.  On the flip side, at the cost of sounding smug, I'm happy with life right now.  I'm in love, I'm married, we have a bomb loft apartment in DTLA and two small dogs that we absolutely adore.  I have an awesome gig teaching hybrid class of lit, creative writing, rhetoric, and comp, at a great school (UC Irvine).  Besides that, I'm healthy.  I get to travel with my boo at least once every year.  And with the exception of this annoying reoccurring red patch on my cheek (that is either eczema, seborrheic dermatitis, or rosacea--and makes me feel like an angry lush clown), I think I look pretty good for my age.

9.  I think I'm at a very major threshold here.  I'm hopeful, shamefully, possibly even unjustifiably hopeful about my future.  My hope is that in a few years, I get to come back here to Powell's not as a customer, but as an author.  Until then, I keep fighting, keep submitting, keep improving my manuscripts

Riffing with TC Boyle

Every time I meet up with Tom, it invariably becomes this dope riff session on writing, culture, and music.  We end up talking about our favorite writers, our MFA days, our different views on craft, SoCal cultural mythology, East Coast/Midwest nostalgia, famous writers we've worked with who changed our life, a short bitch session on literary agents, random Rock'n'Roll references, followed by a short Q and A where I ask him questions about reading for the New Yorker Festival and going on tour in Europe and his revision process.  Today, more than ever, I felt like we were two friends in two very different stages of our literary career, just kicking it for a half an hour.  Some of the highlights of this convo included:

1.  Tom gave me some love for "The Invisible Dress," a chapter from my debut novel, The Amnesia of Junebugs, that he read as part of the Writer-in-Residence deal at USC.  He said it was one of the best things he's read of mine in a while, but then he stopped himself and said, "but you've written a lot of great stuff, so . . . "  I laughed when he said that

2.  After he said that sometimes he likes to "rewrite" classic short stories like The Overcoat, we began crooning about the Russian masters like Gogol, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky, all of whom I read voraciously in college.  Diary of a Madmen, The Nose, Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, The Possessed, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, War and Peace, The Kreutzer Sonata, and The Death of Ivan Ilyich, were some of my most treasured novels back then.  And for Tom too, a connection I didn't even know we had

3.  Tom told about his experience being an editor for the Best American Stories 2015, which honestly, sounds totally fucking exhausting.  It was especially interesting to hear him talk about how he picked thetwenty stories for the collection

4.  Tom talked about switching from Viking to Ecco, his sadness about leaving one editor and his happiness about working with another

5.  Tom said he thought this was gonna be my year.  I told him I hope he's right.

6.  Tom asked me how things were going at UCI (very good).  Then, he asked me if I was applying to tenure track jobs this year, which I am.  I explained that I'm applying to every decent, great, and awesome, tenure track job out there located in or near a major metropolitan area, even jobs out of my league, because you've got to.  Someone will get those jobs, why not me?  He replied, "Now, you just need a book contract and everything else will fall in line for you with your PhD."  In his own sweet but indirect way, Tom implied that he's waiting to write a blurb for me and honestly, I can't wait for that.  In fact, sending him, Aimee, Percival, Valerie Sayers, Frances Sherwood, and Steve Tomasula emails for blurbs will be one of the sweetest parts of finally getting a contract because I'll get to thank them for all of their support, advice, and insight over the years

7.  Tom talked about his days as the fiction editor at the Iowa Review where he basically picked the stories he liked the most, and then sent his recommendations to Robert Coover who picked from Tom's shortlist all the way from London

8.  Tom talked about how fucking slow McSweeney's is, even with marquee writers like him.  They bought one of his stories a million years ago and still hadn't published it yet, which eventually made his agent, Georges Borchardt, badger them a little bit.  "I really don't care," Tom explained, "because they already bought the story."  Must be nice to have such an illustrious publishing career that you actually don't give a shit when McSweeney's gets around to publishing your short story.

9.  Tom and I agree that Tobias Wolf's Bullet in the Brain is one of the gold standards by which other short stories should be judged

10.  I feel like now, more than ever, Tom is waiting for me to make it big.  I feel like my time is coming.  He feels like my time is coming.  I know he believes in me as a writer with talent and stubborness to burn, which is an amazing source of confidence and support for me, but now I have to go out and slay this dragon myself.  I'm the only one who can do it.  I know he'll be cheering me from the sidelines, which I feel blessed about

The Best Way to Submit A Query Letter

LB and I are about to go on vacation in Scandinavia, so I'll be incommunicado for the next couple weeks.  But since six months to an author feels like six weeks to a literary agent, I thought it was a good move to send out some laser-targeted query letters and manuscripts to a few indie presses and agents.  This way, instead of sitting around and wondering what's going on, I'll be walking the streets of Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Helsinki looking for the next perfect Instagram shot instead of worrying about marketability and plot lines.  Everyone wins!

Mean What You Say

My big wish for this upcoming month is that literary agents who state they want literary fiction in their agent profiles actually want literary fiction and not commercial fiction with a few literary flourishes.  I say this because having looked at some of the good rejections I've received the past couple of years, I've noticed most of these rejections were by literary agents who said they wanted literary fiction on their website but still rejected my manuscripts for being, well, literary and stuff.  It's complete speculation on my part, but here are some possible reasons for that:

1.  The agent prides her/himself on representing literary fiction but most of her/his client list is actually (or has become) commercial fiction, so including the category of "literary fiction" in their list of desired genres is more about how they see themselves as an agent and less about the kinds of manuscripts they actually sell to editors these days

2.  The literary agent has a divergent definition of literary fiction (that more and more resembles uptown fiction or top-tier commercial fiction), which is why s/he gets snarly when you declare foolishly that "literary fiction doesn't sell"

3.  The agent doesn't want to feel like a complete and absolute sellout because who does?

4.  S/he is keeping her/his options open, but literary fiction has become more aspirational than vocational.

5.  The term literary, as all other genres, just doesn't have stable genre conventions and doesn't mean shit anymore, so it's almost impossible to define and just as impossible to exclude other overlapping genre conventions

6.  All literature, in one amorphous sense, is literary (right?)

7.  If an agent could know ahead of time that a manuscript would sell for one million dollars, they'd probably accept it regardless of its genre, so literary fiction isn't out of the question technically

8.  The agent used to look for and sell literary fiction actively, but as the market has contracted and as Amazon has taken over the world, s/he has become much more conservative in the kinds of authors s/he represents, and commercial fiction has always had a better payout.  So, finding the next Pulitzer prize winner has become much less important than paying the mortgage

9.  The agent, once a brave and fearless bellwether in the publishing industry (whose "experimental" authors once violated rules of form, structure, and content gleefully) has dug his/her heels in and now rejects more and more literary fiction and accepts more cookbooks and dystopian YA knock-offs because there's already a pre-manufactured audience.  Yes, s/he has literary authors, but s/he's had them for thirty years and they're remnants of the golden age of literary fiction

10.  Why the hell not?

So Three Literary Agents Walked into a Bar . . .

Yesterday, I got a request for a full manuscript from a junior and senior agent at Writers House, putting me in a unique and odd place:  for the first time in my life, three (four?) different literary agents are reading full manuscripts of NINJAS at the same time.  Usually, this happens in a staggered fashion:  one agent this week, two agents next week, one agent the next month, etc., etc.  Anyway, this recent synchronicity doesn't really mean anything except that I write a good query letter (and maybe that I have a dope second novel that's ripe for the market).  Other than that, who really knows? 

Still, it feels fucking good whenever I know an agent is seriously considering my work. What's not to love about that?

Warren Frazier Asks for Partial of NINJAS

Less than eleven hours after I sent him a query letter, Warren Frazier emailed me back and asked for a partial, which is of course both appreciated and shocking, to be honest.  I'm not sure I've ever had an agent ask for a partial of NINJAS in such a short amount of time, but I'm definitely not complaining.

I won't get my hopes up at this point because it's just a partial.  Additionally, NINJAS is very voice-driven and stylized, so it's not for everyone.  I give agents fair warning in the query, but seeing voice-driven stylization on the page is always different.  Also, Warren Frazier represents some motherfucking heavy-hitters in the literary world:  Joyce Carol Oates, Robert Olen Butler, Adam Johnson, and Jess Walter, among others, which includes three Pulitzer-Prize winners ("Bob," as Julianna Baggott called him back when we talked long-distance on the phone from Argentina to Florida in 2008, Adam Johnson and also Frederik Lovegall, who won a Pulitzer in history for his book, Embers of War).  So, I'm nothing if not realistic.  Still, when an awesome agent is reading one of your novels, there's always a little room for hope.   

Melissa Flashman Requests Full Manuscript of Dream Pop Origami

Less than 24 hours after I sent her a query letter for my conceptual memoir, Dream Pop Origami, Melissa Flashman wrote back requesting the full manuscript.  In many ways, this is really awesome considering that she was one of the first agents I queried, in part because she's very forward thinking and is always looking for something that's bold, fresh and also deals with what it means to be human--all things I also care about deeply in my own writing.  Anyway, I won't get my hopes up at this point but I'm happy to see her interest in my manuscript.  She's exactly the agent, or the type of agent, I'd want interested in my memoir.

Two Literary Agents Ask for Partial of Ninjas

After getting Ayesha Pande's email today + a republication request from a major Australian news outlet for an essay I wrote earlier for the Good Men Project, I have to say, this has been a good Monday.  Actually, in the past two weeks, two literary agents have asked for partials of my second novel, The Ninjas of My Greater Self (Kate McKean at Howard Morhaim Literary Agency and today, Ayesha Pande at Ayesha Pande Literary). And as long as there are agents reading my novel, there's (a tiny bit of) hope in my world.  Stay tuned for updates (+ possible mania/heartache).

Lucy Carson Requests Full Manuscript of Ninjas

After a month, I thought Lucy Carson had erased my query letter.  Because I have my shit together (I'm OCD), I keep a linear log of all my submissions (both to agents, literary journals + CW jobs), with color coding based on the final results of each submission.  Black = manuscript still in play.  Orange = manuscript being reviewed (useful only for submishmash/journals with online submission manager).  Light grey = rejection (because it's the easiest on the eyes).  Green = acceptance.  Blue = withdrawn.  Red = who who the fuck knows what happened?  The point being, after a week, I'd already changed my query status for Lucy Carson from black to red because I hadn't heard a thing.  Usually, when agents don't respond within a week, they don't respond at all.  That's been my experience 99.999% of the time.  But today:  Jackson, meet exception.  Exception, Jackson.

Today I got a very gracious response today from Lucy Carson requesting the entire novel.  She also thanked me for my kind words for one of her clients, Ruth Ozeki, who I read at USC + mentioned in my query letter.  Some of the clients at The Friedrich Agency include:  The Pulitzer prize-winning Jane Smiley, Esmeralda Santiago, Ruth Ozeki, Carol Muske-Dukes (a USC poet, no less) + Elena Gorokhova.  Not bad at all.  But to put things in perspective, statistically speaking, the number of literary fiction writers + male writers at this agency is slim.  So, I'm not going to delude myself into expecting miracles here.  But, I def appreciate the full manuscript request.  Now let's see if it's a good fit for her.  If not, I'm certainly flattered nevertheless that a tech-savvy agent like LC showed interest in my novel. 

Resisting False Dichotomies (AKA a Month of Fidgeting)

I do my best to resist false dichotomies.  Not only are they warped, fucked up little distortions of reality, but they're also usually untrue.  This is why false dichotomies are considered a logical fallacy, one I taught my students at USC to identify + deconstruct.  But sometimes your life actually is one + that's where things really go to shit.  And the worst part is, this happens almost every 2-4 years . . .

When I was finishing my MFA at Notre Dame, I was waiting to hear back from a bunch of creative writing fellowships, a teaching position for the JET program + Notre Dame's Sparks Prize.  To be honest, it was scary as shit because  I knew in exactly one month I was either going to be flat broke with absolutely no job prospects, no funding, no school--my inertial dream coming to a sudden + dramatic halt--or I would live to fight another day as an aspiring writer.  The one thing I thought I had the best chance of getting (the JET program position) I wasn't even a fucking alternate for.  I guess I should have seen the signs considering the 3 people in my interview were assholes, insinuating in their questions that I was too old for the JET program, that my lip piercing made me unfit to teach English, that I would AWOL anyway (they ignored of course, my years of experience teaching English/Writing to Mexican immigrants, international students + Cuban refugees, but let's not get technical).  But the thing I thought I had the least chance of getting (the Sparks Prize), in part because I was competing against my entire graduating class + in part because my writing isn't mainstream (which was supposedly part of the judging criteria), and yet, I won that damn thing.  Suddenly, I had funding for a whole year, I got to give a reading of my novel in progress on campus + I started dating LB in Chicago.  In many ways, winning the Sparks Prize defied logic but it also made perfect sense.

Fast-forward to Buenos Aires.  After living in South America for a year + literally crying at the thought of eating another motherfucking empanada or walking into pile of dog shit, I realized that I just wasn't writing enough.  In fact, I'd only written two new short stories + revised BLANK, my first novel, in the entire time I'd been living in Cap. Fed.  So, I talked to Valerie Sayers, my thesis adviser at Notre Dame + told her I was considering applying to PhD programs in English/Creative Writing + she was like:  Go for it, Jackson.  I applied to FSU + USC + got waitlisted at both schools (which was a blow to my ego, but whatevs).  At the end of March, I got into USC, which was my dream program since I really loved TC Boyle + Aimee Bender's short stories, I was intrigued with LA + I'd be an hour and a half drive away from my mom.  Out of all my options, getting into USC was the best case scenario.  I honestly wrote it off by March.  And I knew that if I hadn't gotten in, once again, my dream to become a published novelist would slowly die with a five-day a week.  But I got in + disaster was averted.  This gave me the time to write + workshop a second novel, get some stories published in some prominent journals, work with a few literary heavyweights + read a shitload of novels.  It was honestly as awesome as I'd hoped it'd be.

Now I'm back at the same either/or fallacy:  I just finished my PhD + my MA in English/Creative Writing at USC, which is one of the seminal moments in my life + now I'm fighting to keep that dream alive for another year (or two), for another month (or three).  But the options are so dramatically antithetical it's ridiculous.  Either I score an teaching position or creative writing fellowship in the next couple months, or frankly, I start making mocha lattes dressed in an apron + barista visor.  I know that sounds dramatic.  I know that sounds insane.  I know that sounds like I've simplified my reality, but this is the continuous struggle of being an emerging writer in the US:  Trying to scrap together funding or score a teaching gig or win a fellowship or win a book prize or live temporarily at a writing residency, all that, all of that shit, just to keep your dream alive until you finally make it (which will be never), or at least, until your books are published by Riverhead.

At this point, if I could do anything else in the world to make a living, if there was anything else I was as good at, as devoted to, if there was anything else I had as much talent + passion + dedication + vision as with writing, If there was anything else that fucked me up + made me as bipolar + euphoric + as certain of my place in this galaxy as writing does, I would totally run off + do that because this writing life is nothing but a slow-mo existential crisis, a chess match with yourself, an artistic war with almost no survivors.  But dude, I can't help it.  This is the only thing I'm awesome at, the only thing that has ever made sense to me, the only thing that has kept me up at night + woken my ass up in the early morning, the only thing that I could do for days without food or water, the only thing that threatens my marriage + confuses my family, the only thing that rings inside of me like a broken campanile + gives me cosmic significance as nothing else ever has.  It's all or nothing, man.  It's all or nothing.

My Whole Life = Submishmash

In many ways, my life right now mirrors my submishmash status.  Not only have I been waiting to hear from  journals + indie presses, some of them forever, but I'm also waiting to hear from like a gazillion creative writing fellowships + teaching positions in the North Shore + Hyde Park, Chicago + Madison, Wisconsin + Hamilton, New York to Norwich, England.  And honestly, I have no idea what's gonna happen, whether I'm gonna be unemployed or teaching next year, whether I'll have agent or whether I'll still be stumbling through the forest of unpublished novelists.  I have no fucking idea at all.  None.  And so like I've done so many times, I'm gonna wait + hope for good news.  The only thing I have control over right now are the revisions I'm making on The Ninjas of My Greater Self, which an agent requested after reading the first draft.  So there's that, but that's the only kinetic snack food left in the vending machine, man.  And I'm fucking STARVED!

Sent My Second Novel to Sandra Dijkstra

If you'll remember, Tom ran into Sandra Dijkstra a year and a half ago at some literary event + asked him if he could recommend any up-and-coming fiction writers to her. TC Boyle was kind enough to recommend me (which was relatively easy for him to do because I'd just taken a workshop with him the previous semester so my work was pretty fresh in his mind), after which, she told him to tell me I should send her my novel. So, I stopped by Tom's office where he promptly hand-wrote a referral letter for me on SC stationery, sealed the envelope + then plopped the letter in outgoing campus mail. I was so flattered + excited. But then a week later, I sent Sandra Dijkstra a query letter with my first novel + I never received a reply. To be honest, I was really pissed off.

But because I'm a stubborn motherfucker + also because glitches in the matrix happen all the time, I decided to write Sandra Dijkstra a year letter with a new query letter for my second novel, just to see what would happen. And miraculously: It turns out that they never got my first query letter. This shit happens all the time, man. If anything, I was relieved to hear they hadn't received my first query letter because I was superfrustrated at not getting a response. Anyway, long story short, they apologized for not getting my first email but told me they'd love to read my second novel, so I've been doing a master revision for the past two weeks + I just sent them the entire novel a few minutes ago. Would it be fucking amazing if they picked me up? Hell yes. Do I think this is really gonna happen? No idea. See, one of my biggest problems is that I always think everything could change in a flash + I keep pushing for that moment to happen. But I make no assumptions, I just cross my fingers during these liminal moments + keep on writing. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe not, but either way, it's a chance I didn't have before.

Good Rejection + Open Door to Read More Material from Nat Sobel

There's good news + there's bad news. Here's the bad news (though it comes with a decent rejection):

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Thank you for sending us the first 50 pages of . . . , which Nat Sobel asked me to read. I have discussed your work with Nat prior to sending my response. I think that this is an innovative approach to a novel, and I enjoyed the setting you have chosen. However, I’m sorry to report that I have too many concerns to request the balance of the manuscript . . . I admire the energy and style of your prose, but at the same time there is a self-conscious quality that prevented me from being completely drawn into these pages.

Please know that my reading is a subjective one, and others may feel differently. Nat and I both think that you are a talented writer, and we hope that you are able to find a publisher through your current literary agent. While we don’t feel that BLANK is the right novel in which to launch your writing career, should things not work out with The Irene Goodman Literary Agency, we’d be happy to consider more of your work in the future.

Best of luck,

A*** W*****

And here's the good news: After I clarified to A*** W***** that that the Irene Goodman Literary Agency isn't, in fact, representing me at all (they'd actually sent me a rejection letter months ago that mysteriously never showed up in my inbox or spam folder, so I had to write them + ask them what's up--lame), then I asked her if I could send her a partial of what I'm working on now, The Ninjas of My Greater Self + she said hell yes. Okay, actually, she just said yes. But as many of you know, Ninjas is the best thing I've written yet. I'm 320 pages into this motherfucker + I'm telling you, it fucking rocks the joint. I have no doubt that I'll publish BLANK eventually--frankly, despite its various + sundry flaws, it's still a breathtaking novel that's ambitious, innovative, smart, compassionate, multicultural + kinetic. It deserves to--and will someday--be published in an excellent indie press that rewards ambition, vision + heterodoxy. But Ninjas is going to be the novel that helps me launch my career from an emerging unknown novelist to an up-and-coming novelist with national implications. That may sound arrogant, but it's not, man. It's just what's going to happen + I'm gonna work my ass off to make sure it does. Stay tuned. In a month, I'll have a better idea of what's going down.

When TC Boyle Treats Your Success as a Fiction Writer as if It's Inevitable when It's Not but You Really Want it to Be

A few weeks ago, I was chatting with my Turkish friend Marve(y) on campus. It was one of those perfect, idyllic LA days + I was laughing about, fuck I dunno, something, when Tom walked up to me + said: --I recognize that laugh a mile away.
--Hey Tom, I said. Oh Tom, this is my friend Marve(y)
--Hello, she said, blushing.
--Hi, nice to meet you, he said. Then, turning to me: Jackson, he said, stop by my office sometime. Let's talk.
--Okay, cool, I said.

The moral of the story is: When TC Boyle goes out of his way to say hi to you + tells you to stop by his office, you fucking stop by his office.

The next week, I did just that + went to his office.

--So, he said, what did Georges say?
--He said that he was impressed with my writing but also had some concerns that I had too many narrative strands in Ninjas, but he didn't want to prejudge, so he told me to send him the whole manuscript once I was done.
--Good, he said, smiling.
--Of course, it won't be ready for a year until I have a definitive draft. I'm only to page 200.
--Me too, but anyways, that's good that he wants to read the whole thing.
--Yeah, I guess so. How fast do you crank out a novel?
--Pretty fast. I'm working on a historical novel right now about the San Juan islands. I think we already talked about this.
I nodded.
--Listen, I was talking to Sandra Dijkstra. Are you familiar with her?
The truth is, I was trying to figure out whether my friend from Glenn Loomis Elementary School, Greta Dijkstra, had changed her first name + was friends with Tom for some bizarre reason. Finally, I decided that didn't make any sense, because, truthfully, it doesn't. I shook my head.
--She's a good agent. Tough, but very good. She asked me if I had any writers I could recommend to her. So maybe if it doesn't work out with Georges. . . Anyway, check out her website.
--Wow, awesome. Thanks Tom.
--Sure.
--The crazy thing is, I said, on the same day I got Georges's response, I also got a solicited email from the Irene Goodman Literary Agency.
Tom gave me a blank face.
--They do commercial, literary, genre + literary non-fiction.
--Oh, that's normal. Even Georges did a workout book with Jane Fonda.
--Really? I said, incredulously.
--Sure, why not? Some things just fall on your lap like that.
--Crazy.
He nodded.
--They asked for the whole manuscript of BLANK + also an outline of Ninjas.
--They're going to pick you up, he said.
--Really?
--Definitely.
--I dunno Tom, I'm playing it cautiously.
--Well, this is great. Maybe it'll work out with Georges. But if not, this might just be perfect for you. Or you can send something to Sandra.
--I also sent my story collection to Greywolf.
--Oh, he said, great press. I think that's a great idea: publish your stories with Graywolf + then get one of your novels out there. That's the way to go.

I love Tom, I really do + I especially appreciate how he talks about my own success as a fiction writer as if it's inevitable. It's a beautiful, wonderful thing to have someone like him giving you that kind of encouragement. But right now, at least for right now, it doesn't feel inevitable. I'm not being pessimistic (it's not my thing at all). I'm just being cautious. A secret part of me feels that it will happen--all of it--but admitting that out loud makes you sound arrogant + cocky + when it comes to this industry, I'm neither. Still, you have to believe things are going to work out. Otherwise, you stop hoping. And when you do that, you start writing solipsistically (or you stop writing--something I could never do), which means, you ignore everything that's flawed + amazing + impossible + heartbreaking about this world. Then you're really fucked.

Playing the Referral Game + Junot Diaz Comparisons

Yesterday, TC Boyle admitted to me in his office that he made all of us in workshop read Junot Diaz (+ 3 other authors from Doubletakes), in part because he wanted the class to see some of the stylistic similarities between Brief Wondrous Life + yours truly.

--You know, I called that, I said. I actually told someone that I wondered whether you had us read Junot Diaz because it was similar in some ways to my own writing.
--No, it's true, he said.
--But I didn't wanna be egocentric, so I dismissed it as stylistic coincidence.
--No, you were right.

Fuck, how flattering is that shit?

::

Last year back when were just getting acquainted in our roles as writer-mentor, I asked TC Boyle one day in his office--because I'm ambitious like that--if he would give me a referral to four agents I was particularly in love with (Nicole Aragi, who I send a query letter to pretty much every year, Mary Evans + Eric Simonoff, both of whom have never responded to me, + Georges Borchardt, Tom's own agent). His response was fair: Let's work together in workshop in the fall + then I'll be happy to. Well, I never forget a promise, especially one involving my own writing career. So after we talked about the last two chapters I'd recently workshopped from The Ninjas of My Greater Self (my second novel), I asked him again + he was good to his word. It's an easier sell now I think because he has a much better idea of my aesthetic. And also, because he was especially impressed with the first chapter I submitted to workshop, "Girls: A Four-Movement Symphony by the Beastie Boys," the good thing is that he won't have to lie about my skillz. I could be wrong, but I don't think Tom goes out on a limb for his students unless:

1. He thinks they're talented
2. They initiate it themselves

So, I think it's a good sign he was still willing to give me a referral, but it's just a small step, one that promises nothing but opens up a new, dreamy--and very unlikely--possibility. But now, the real work begins. Getting a referral doesn't necessarily mean shit in this industry unless:

1. The agent has room in her/his client list, and most importantly:
2. They love the shit out of your novel. And just as importantly:
3. They know they can sell it

And of course, even in the best case scenario that all 4 agents ask to take a look at BLANK or Love + Porn--which won't happen--it's still very possible that I'm exactly where I was before I asked him.

And yet, yet, what other choice do I have? I have to risk the possibility of rejection in order to get my writing out there + create a readership. I have to do it for me + I have to do it for my art. I don't know another way except to keep pushing. Eventually, something breaks down, right? Eventually, someone pushes through. Why not me? Why not me? I ask you.