So....I've decide to start this again. No, not blogging, which I have clearly neglected for a very long time. And shame on me for doing so. I love to write. I don't so much love to release what I've written to the masses, but that's part & parcel with writing; somebody's got to read it. If that weren't the case, all writers would probably end up alone in their New York City apartments dreaming about life beyond the gates. Haha. Whatever.
No, it isn't blogging that I'm talking about. I sat down at my computer desk, blew the dust off of my laptop, and started looking for a literary agent. Jesus Christ in a handbag, what am I doing? I got the wild, bright idea as I was driving home this afternoon. That's actually a lie. It just sounds better than, 'I've been thinking about doing this for about a year, but I've been too scared and lazy to do it.' Agreed? Agreed.
Writers are some of the most masochistic people on the planet. I love to write, but I don't want anybody to read it, but I want them to tell me how great I am, but I can't take rejection. Gosh, maybe we're more bi-polar than sadistic. I don't know. Tonight, though, we're going to go with the latter. As I sat in my lovely new home office, reading about how easy it is to get a literary agent using this one particular website, I thought about Nicholas Sparks. I saw a 60 Minutes special on him years ago, and I still hate him to this day. Former drug rep turned best-selling author. Drivel. That story was drivel, and that's what he writes. But people lap it up, and they turn his novels into movies. Maybe I should write some drivel, too.
Or maybe I can just pick my chin up, realize that this isn't something everyone can do, put in some genuine effort and time to reach out to literary agents...and beg them to sign me. I am going to have to play the odds. I am going to have to bet on that ONE person who wants to read my manuscript (I'll be sending queries for Chief of Staff). I am going to have to have some faith that that one person who reads Chief of Staff and loves it wants to sign me, or at least have some further exculpatory conversations about how I see myself down the road. Clearly, I see myself standing on the back of an enormous yacht, looking lovingly off into the distance as the sun sets over the horizon, tucked neatly between the hills of some tropical destination. I'd hope the literary agent sees me there, too.
Until then, I'm back to blogging. I'm back to searching through the Internet to find somebody who believes in my talent as much as I do, but is much more willing to expose me to the masses. I'll continue to write short stories and put them on my website (www.markvertreese.com). And I'll continue to write only for the love of doing so. I'm old enough and wise enough now to realize that's what really makes you rich....writing for people who WANT to read what you're giving them.
Come to think of it, maybe that's why I put myself through this. And maybe that's okay.
