Just like high school. Minus the pretty girls.
I got my first rejection letter today. Nothing spectacular, just a three-sentence email that read as follows:
Dear Larry Brantley,
Thank you for your email regarding your manuscript. I have considered your query, and unfortunately I do not believe I am the right agent for the work you describe.
I wish you much success in your publishing endeavors.
Short, sweet, to the point: your book ain't the book for us. Now, I've been a working actor for 23 years; I'm used to rejection. Or, at least I thought I was. Because when I opened up that email first thing this morning and read it, it was a little like a boot to the nuts. I probably shouldn't have started my day reading emails. (If I get a few more rejection letters, I'll probably start my days with Xanax and Jameson. Which sounds like a terrific idea, even on days when I'm not getting rejection letters.)
Rejection is such a weird word. I'd have almost preferred if this literary agent had found my work so offensive and immature that he crafted a letter in which he practically spit at me, while telling me that my words in print were as disgusting to him as baby killing-Nazis. With herpes. Instead, he just very politely told me that my ideas were not his cup of tea. Or coffee. Or vodka. Whatever the hell literary agents drink (pretty sure vodka). He didn't hate it; he just wasn't interested.
Maybe that's worse for me. I'm self-aware enough about my personality to recognize that few, if any, people are middle-of-the-road about me. They either really like me - or they really don't. You can find someone interesting and still dislike them. Everybody has their own custom-made vanity. Mine is that I really don't give a fuck whether you like me or not - but I do want you to find me interesting. My joke about that word used to be: "Interesting" is what you say about a guy you're not going on a second date with. And, in this case, I suppose that's true. I hiked up my skirt ever so slightly for this agent, and he decided that my goodies weren't worth pursuing. And because I spent the last two years pouring my guts out in a manuscript he wasn't even interested in (he didn't read the manuscript, he only read my query letter, which tells me that I should probably remove the word"fuck" from future query letters), yeah, it stung a bit.
But only a bit. It just took one person to believe in me enough to give me my first shot at being a for-real, professional actor. And I know for a fact that the chance she took on me (my first tv agent) paid her some decent dividends over the course of the years we were together. This is no different. I lack confidence about a great many things, but creative skill and storytelling are not among them. I'll land a literary agent, and I'll land a publishing deal, and then I'll write to every single one of the agents that rejected me, deeming my story not interesting enough. I'll remind them of the words of indie-film mogul Harvey Weinstein, as related by indie director Kevin Smith. Weinstein made movies in the day when big-budget studios were looking only to make sure things. Weinstein's response?
"There is NO such thing as a sure thing. So make the interesting thing instead."
I raise my glass (at two 'o clock in the afternoon) to all of you interesting people. You may be adored; you may be despised. But - if you're truly interesting - you'll never be fucking forgotten. Cheers to that.
Maybe that's worse for me. I'm self-aware enough about my personality to recognize that few, if any, people are middle-of-the-road about me. They either really like me - or they really don't. You can find someone interesting and still dislike them. Everybody has their own custom-made vanity. Mine is that I really don't give a fuck whether you like me or not - but I do want you to find me interesting. My joke about that word used to be: "Interesting" is what you say about a guy you're not going on a second date with. And, in this case, I suppose that's true. I hiked up my skirt ever so slightly for this agent, and he decided that my goodies weren't worth pursuing. And because I spent the last two years pouring my guts out in a manuscript he wasn't even interested in (he didn't read the manuscript, he only read my query letter, which tells me that I should probably remove the word"fuck" from future query letters), yeah, it stung a bit.
But only a bit. It just took one person to believe in me enough to give me my first shot at being a for-real, professional actor. And I know for a fact that the chance she took on me (my first tv agent) paid her some decent dividends over the course of the years we were together. This is no different. I lack confidence about a great many things, but creative skill and storytelling are not among them. I'll land a literary agent, and I'll land a publishing deal, and then I'll write to every single one of the agents that rejected me, deeming my story not interesting enough. I'll remind them of the words of indie-film mogul Harvey Weinstein, as related by indie director Kevin Smith. Weinstein made movies in the day when big-budget studios were looking only to make sure things. Weinstein's response?
"There is NO such thing as a sure thing. So make the interesting thing instead."
I raise my glass (at two 'o clock in the afternoon) to all of you interesting people. You may be adored; you may be despised. But - if you're truly interesting - you'll never be fucking forgotten. Cheers to that.
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