“Yeah, I’m as gay as they get.” Nationally syndicated sports journalist Thorton Feller’s recent announcement stunned the sports community. Unsure if his word was genuine, many decried his declaration as a publicity stunt for wider readership of his idiosyncratic column Feller’s Beef. Whatever the angle, it soon became the only topic on tap, forcing Mr. Feller to protest vehemently. “I’m not a gay sports journalist. I’m just a sports journalist. That’s it.” Mr. Feller’s ire became particularly inflamed by the most square-jawed of the scrum, Rock Misogyny, shrieking, “But you came out!”
Feller lost his composure, striking with a sharp slap. “We’re all fucking gay!” A melee ensued; bats were raised, sticks waved, and Feller was dead.
The scrum laid full blame on a member of the custodial staff, an illegal immigrant it turns out, who hated sports journalists.
I was let down again. Disappointment reigns. It was a writer’s workshop this time, an opportunity that almost seemed ideal, like it really would work. I was sure of that. Well, I wasn’t sure. Not quite that. But confident. And confident they would accept me. Almost. And then. Thud. Damn thud.I mean, I keep expecting something, at some point, to work. There should be. There must be. I mean, I get that it’s a struggle to find an agent and a publisher. I get that. But a workshop?! Come on! Not a workshop. What now? A deserted island. A mountaintop to clear my head. Damn thud. Ugh and damn. When is this thing going to turn? The thing is to push ahead. To fight back. To make it work. And to drink. Yeah, at least do that.
I was delighted to receive your query, and I have given it my most careful attention.
We appreciate your patience in allowing us to completely evaluate your material, giving it the ample attention it deserves.
Please forgive this impersonal note regarding your query.
Please accept my apology for this form response.
Apologies for not answering in a more personal manner; given the large number of inquiries, it is simply not possible.
We are a small agency and do not have the staff to critique everything we receive.
I wish I could talk to every author who contacts us. Although that is not possible, you can read an interview with me on the subject of career development on my agency’s website.
Please be assured that your manuscript has been read and thoroughly evaluated.
There are many reasons to decline a manuscript.
Under other circumstances, I might want to take a look at some of your writing, but I’m afraid I am swamped with current circumstances.
While this appears to be a strong project, I’m afraid it doesn’t strike me as a likely fit with me and my particular editorial contacts.
The extract was read with interest, but unfortunately we are not interested in pursuing this project.
After review of your materials, we must respectfully pass.
Unfortunately your project does not meet with my current needs.
We don’t feel that it is quite the right fit for us.
I’m afraid I wasn’t drawn into it to the extent I would need to be to offer my representation.
I’m not convinced I could succeed in placing your work.
Unfortunately your novel is not right for us.
I regret it is not a match.
Not for me. Thanks anyway.
It’s not worth my time.This has nothing to do with the quality of the work.
My taste is eclectic and I am always seeking some balance in my client list.
We are taking on only a limited number of clients and feel that your work is not a good fit for our list.
As an agent I have to jump on those projects that excite me from the get go.
Please accept my regrets concerning your proposed submission.
Reading tastes are very personal however, so another agent may feel differently.
We certainly recognize that might well be passing up a good opportunity.
Your work deserves only the most passionate of advocates, and I am sure that with a book like this, you will find a good home for it.
We’re sorry for giving you a disappointing response.
We hope that you are not disheartened.
You may well become a hugely successful author, and this letter will become a document of our total failure to sign you before the lecherous hands of another gets their hooks into you.
We encourage you to keep writing and try other agents.
I’ve changed the opening to my bad side. Yes, again, but now it has more action, more of a hook, as those in the know have advised…My hand reflected ghostly in the silver elevator panel. There was a kind of liquid sound, almost like metal rain, inside me, a fluid crinkling in my brain, chewing into my ears and down my neck. I didn’t know what was wrong, a sickness or terror. Crystal was convinced she had brain cancer. She was always saying things like that, determined to be the loneliest, the purest of all. I rotated my heel back on the stiletto, my foot angling sharply up, and thrust through out of the elevator, only half open, my key already out, and pushed hard on the apartment door. “Last warning.” Derek stood between the back of the couch and the window, a broom held up. Apollo crouched, his sleek serval shoulders tensed, his rear legs coiled like springs.
“What are you doing?!”
He turned on me. “Your fucking cat—“
“Leave Apollo alone!”
“Leave him alone?” Derek stepped sideways, his fire fighter’s cap tilted back. “Are you fucking serious?”
Apollo kept his body tight, his eyes on Derek, watching him, a rodent in the savanna.
“This fucking exotic monster of yours attacked me!”
“You need to leave.”
He came around the couch, stepping drunkenly; that’s when I realized he had a gun. “What’s with the dress? You fucking a prince?”
I stepped back.
“You turned your sister against me!”
“You need to go home.”Apollo sprang, stretching fully across Derek’s chest and dug his claws into his shoulder. There was a bang, like a window slamming shut. Apollo fell suddenly, in the middle of the rug, his bottom leg stuck out. I crouched over him and saw the hole in his shoulder, a tiny nothing and then a watery line of red trailing into the rug.
“I told her to call me.” Derek stood just above. “You know that.”
Everything in me was twisted tight, my heart erratic, a mess of veins squenched together, vibrating madly, almost still. I grunted as I swung around and threw myself fully into his legs, bringing both of us down, my arm under him. I swung at his face, missed, hitting the floor, surprised that none of it hurt, that I was that strong and had the gun, got up and kicked him in the neck.
“She’s gone, Dee.”The gun snapped up and hovered, a living thing, and there was a vibrating sound, the light hard and burning, and then Derek was looking at his blood coming out.
“Stay there. Just stay there.”
He slumped back, his hand drunkenly clawing the air.
I tried to lift Apollo, but my arm wouldn’t work, and could only pull him around, his long legs almost lifeless. I drew the clothes off the dresser into a bag, a pile of shirts and underwear from a drawer, all of it onto his cage, like I had been waiting for this, and dragged everything behind me onto the elevator.
The snow was deep, some drifts as high as 15 feet. He made a cave and sat there alone. The walls were more blue than white. He stretched his legs legs out and watched his breath float in clouds, listening to his snowsuit crinkling and then the shifting and cracking of the snow.He heard steps, his father and Mr. Wylie.
“Huson had a break-in?”
“They went after his motor, chained to his Ski-Doo. Cut the goddamned thing off.”
“I heard they were in Reynolds’ place last week.”
“Left the door wide open. Ruined the floor.”
“They catch anyone?”
“Kids, goddamn good-for-nothings.”
Their voices vanished. He stared at a tiny animal trail going into a frozen hole. He only saw the animals dead on the road, frozen and squashed.
The little bag of Popchips was a brilliant blue, shiny and wonderful; she reached out with a finger, pulling at the edge.
“Looking at our agendas…” The principal was young, wide eyed. “You’ll see we have a lot to get through. A lot.”
She touched the bag, turning it in closer; she loved Popchips, how they were light and baked.
“This is our first draft of the policy document.” The principal spoke in staccato, her words bulging with excitement. “Our team has put a lot into getting this together. A lot. And now we need your feedback.”
She read the top line and then turned the page, flicking the edge of the little bag. She scanned the page; it looked fine. She reached for the little bag crinkled, but it crinkled. She snapped her hand back.
Her pair-share buddy was checking his messages.”What do you think?”
“It looks fine.”
He slid the policy document under his phone.
She pulled at the edges of the little bag; it wouldn’t open.
“Are we supposed to write on it?”
“I don’t know.”
She tried again; it crinkled and wouldn’t give.
“Can we all turn to the second page?” The principal asked.
They all did. They had to find a phrase. And they talked about that. She touched the bag again, her fingers going out and back. She kept doing that; she couldn’t stop.
“We could just delete it,” a small voice suggested from the back.
“We could,” the principal replied slowly.
“Are we going to apply the policy document this year?” Another asked.
“That’s a very good question.” The principal was standing right behind her, the edge of her pant suit descending in a long clean line. “The answer is we just don’t know.”
She tried the bag again, pulling the edges out hard, but it wouldn’t give.
“Are we going to finish the agenda?” The first one asked, almost sounding sincere.
“That’s why we wrote it out for you,” the principal replied. “To see if we could get to the end.”
She pushed the bag away, deflated, and her pair-share buddy snapped it open.
I am a little stuck with my writing at the moment. While iI like to use the excuse that I have begun a new teaching job as the reason for my procrastination, the truth is that I will do anything to avoid the page.
I will shovel. Chop up the ice on the driveway. Do the dishes.Burn the garbage. Sweep out the ant. I will even watch Mitt Romney iron his sleeve. (A ridiculous film by the way.)Anything to avoid opening that document.
I wasn’t going to make it. I knew that. I had only been in the water for ten minutes. Not even that. Five. And I was tired. We were still in the bay. Hammer’s Island was still there. I banged my hand against the canoe. My fingernail was broken. I was just going to stop.“You okay, Dee?” Reilly looked down at me, her paddle across her legs. She was a three-time Bawigian; she had a tattoo of a fish on her wrist.
“Yeah.” I didn’t know why but I started again. I would make it out past Hammer’s, and that would be it.
“You’re doing great.”
I hated how dark the water was, how my arms went out in front of me and became brown and gross. The sunlight went down in long sharp lines and then got lost, like there was something there, branches, something reaching up, fish in the gloom. I closed my eyes and counted my strokes. I made it to ten before hitting the canoe again. “You want to take a break?”
“No.”
“It’s not a big deal. We’ve got all day.”
I could see the other canoes getting further ahead. There were twelve of them, painted green and red. 22 swimmers, everyone ahead. I kicked and counted, my eyes open, my arms coming across my face, digging out, pulling back. I had to remember to kick. I got to 20 this time. I was going to stop and then started again and got higher. I looked up at 50. The canoe was still there, Reilly looking at me over her paddle. I really liked her. I counted and kicked again. We were down from Hammer’s, out in the open lake, the deepest part, a hundred feet down, more. I thought about something coming out from that, that long prehistoric body, its row of teeth, swimming faster and faster, coming at me, coming after my arm as it came back, my toes dragging behind. I had to remember to kick. I did it twice and dragged again. I had water in my ears; it was humming and starting to hurt. I banged my head against the surface. “You’re almost a third of the way.”
I floated there, almost treading backwards, thinking I would just get her to pull me up, and kicked and reached again. I counted to 50. My arms were heavy. I couldn’t kick. I was gasping for breath. I counted again. I made it to 40 this time. I stopped. There was a canoe just ahead.
“Jasmine’s getting out.”
She was the only other Frog in the Bawigi.
“You’re doing great.”
I kicked and counted again. I made it to 50 and kept going. I was at 100, but I wasn’t swimming right. My arms were flopping down and I wasn’t kicking at all. I wasn’t going anywhere. I flipped onto my back and let my legs flutter. The sun was over the front of the canoe. I was cold. I wanted to get out.
“You’re halfway, Dee. Suze and Lizzie just got out.”I wasn’t going to make it. I knew that. I had nothing left, but I would go as long as I could. I flipped over and counted again. I got to 80, and I was going to stop. My hands were pruned. I couldn’t feel anything, like I had something around me, like my skin had a skin on top of that. My legs felt like that too. It wasn’t in me. I was going to drown, something like that, and then I had Jabberjaw in my head. Jabberjaw was a cartoon shark in a cartoon band with cartoon teen-aged kids. He played drums. And he was a giant shark, a Great White. He must have been 20 feet tall, towering over everyone in the band. Jabberjaw was always getting into trouble because of his lamebrain ideas and bumbling antics.He had a crazy laugh, “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” He laughed like that whenever he got into trouble. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” He was always in trouble. That’s what drove the show. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” It wasn’t just Jabberjaw laughing in my head; it was Marlin Perkins too, the old man from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Jabberjaw was the subject of today’s show. Marlin Perkins was on the edge of his desk with a picture of Jabberjaw over his shoulder, Jabberjaw, the crazy cartoon shark, dancing on the water. “We seek the mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters off Cozumel,” Marlin Perkins announced. He said ‘Jabberjaw’ like he had practiced it too much or knew him like a brother. “The mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel.”He repeated, intoning each syllable, Jab-ber-jaw and Co-zu-mel like lyrics, words he was teaching. Jabberjaw! I stopped and looked up. We were in the channel, turning through the islands. The harbor, the end of the Bawigi, was over a mile away.
Reilly’s head bobbed above the water. She looked very cool. I was happy about that. I was happy that I was going through the islands. I was happy that I had made it to here. I was happy that I was still in the water. I didn’t care that I wasn’t going to make it. “The mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel.” Marlin Perkins’ face was big, like Jabberjaw’s, bright blue and white. And then Jabberjaw was saying Marlin Perkins’ lines: “The mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel.” He was laughing at that. “Knuck-knuck-knuck.” He was laughing like he was teaching it to Marlin. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” Marlin Perkins tried it, but he didn’t have the ending right. It was too hard, too enunciated. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!”Jabberjaw laughed it slowly, like a baby. And then he explained it like Marlin would understand: “The mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel. Knuck-knuck-knuck!” Marlin Perkins tried it again. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” Jabberjaw replied, “Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel.” And then Marlin Perkins had it. “In the clear waters of Cozumel, the laugh of the Jabberjaw his hallmark, professing his lamebrain ideas and bumbling antics. Knuck-knuck-knuck!” Jabberjaw was on the edge of the desk with him now, listening, his front fins crossed in his knees. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” They did it together. “Knuck-knuck-knuck! The mysterious Jabberjaw in the clear waters of Cozumel.” Their voices were combined, Marlin Perkins’ professorial tone, Jabberjaw’s high-pitched chuckle. “The mysterious Jabberjaw!” Marlin Perkins patted Jabberjaw on the back. “Knuck-knuck-knuck!” I was doing frogs kicks now, my face just above the surface. The bay had narrowed to a line of cottages on each side. I focused on Reilly’s paddle, in and out of the water, the curl of the far side of the blade, the line of bubbles, out and just ahead, cutting through the brown water, the light off that, flat and the bubbles and out again. “The mysterious Jabberjaw! The clear waters of Cozumel. Jabberjaw! Knuck-knuck-knuck! Jabberjaw!” Marlin Perkins was tired, waiting for commercial, sitting behind the desk. Jabberjaw wasn’t a cartoon anymore. He was just lines, smudged, not even talking. “Knuck-knuck.” Marlin Perkins tried to get him going but that was it. I could see the bottom. Swirls of light slid up and down off the green rocks, and then there was sand and the dock. I was there.
“The first, I think.”
“The first, I think.”
