I'm bugged, in the very best sense--not the "Here, have this plant that keeps emitting strange electronic beeps and looks suspiciously like a hidden, wireless mike" bugged (not to worry, I kill all houseplants and would quickly notice); quite thankfully it has nothing to do with the six-legged kind, prominent in the city that they are; and--most of all--it does not have to do with the annoying sort that relate to (in my mind) 1) screaming children kicking my airplane seat, 2) broken library systems that call in patrons when books are not ready, and/or 3) lines at Trader Joe's that extend around the store. (Who knew its wine store was a club? There was practically a velvet rope, last time I tried to enter the Manhattan location, and there was certainly a Hawaiian-print bouncer.)
No, this is the productive kind of bug--the, "Write this, right
now" bug-as-verb.
I do hope you have several friends willing to do the same for you, even if you disagree.
In my case, my disagreement is hearty: I'm flattered, but will not, as my roommate, agent friend, correspondent, reader and professional correspondent suggest, consider writing a guide to modern etiquette anytime soon. (And, for those of you who expect me to eat my words, I assure I've just had a very satisfying carbalicious lunch, washed down with a diet book manuscript, and am no longer hungry.)
But. One point of etiquette that has come up and that is relevant to a meeting I have this week: one of the most important skills you can gain for your social life as a writer--especially as a writer who would like to stay on good terms and/or in touch with an agent--is to accept rejection gracefully.
How best does one do this? Well. Keep in mind that the subject is uncomfortable not only for you, but for the agent(s) involved. The moment we sense you'll ask for more--or bring it up again--we put up immediate anti-awkwardness force fields. If we sense you'll contest our details, we'll send a rejection that doesn't give any jumping-off points. (Really, a code word
must be invented that means "I am a nice author and you can tell me anything you like about my work without fear of tantrums/retribution/karma/anger/further emails on the topic.")
Consider a rejection the same way you would an invitation that you did not receive. Let's say a friend has thrown a party and invited several people you know--but not you. Perhaps there is a matter of space, finances (perhaps it's a sit-down dinner), or other factors that make the number of invites finite. Truly, you'll never know all of the factors involved. Maybe there's someone in town--someone you threw a pie at at the last party, or who you do not get along with, and the hostess wished to avoid that awkwardness (and the cleaning of crust from the carpet). Maybe it's a special-interest society meeting--one that is too embarrassing to bring up. (A support group, say--you wouldn't go around asking people, "So, have you ever________? Okay, come join our group"--but would, instead, invite those you know to be in this category.)
You could run yourself in circles wondering why your friends got invited and you didn't.
But would you ask the hostess? Most likely, no. What good would it do? You'd feel awkward. She'd feel awkward. And the awkwardness would lead to fewer invitations in the future.
Try as I might, I did not find anything in the Emily Post about this, though I did find very amusing note-formulas for the rescinding of invitations. (More to come.) I do wish Ms. Post addressed more of the issues of etiquette in messy situations--her book seems mostly to address what to say and do when everything goes perfectly.
So. Let's say you are rejected by an agent but have reason to be in touch with them in the future. What's the best thing to do?
As harsh as it is: it's probably best to wait and see if they bring it up. They may ask how you're doing with the book they saw--which is an invitation to say, "Oh, yes, it's doing marvelously"--and if it's doing terribly, put it as delicately/optimistically as you possibly can while still being truthful--but not an invitation to ask, "So, why did you reject it?"
They may ask you about the subject matter: "Oh, Author, I have always been curious about the lions you mentioned. Will you tell me more about your safari?" which is, you guessed it, an invitation to discuss lions, maybe tigers, maybe bears--but no rejections.
Any further questions, if you need to ask them to proceed, should be asked over email--not over the phone, and
certainly not in person--especially if you're at a restaurant, have just ordered, and it will be a long time before the bill. You must realize that, with all indelicate questions, it's somewhat impolite to ask in a situation that requires an immediate response. It's only fair to give one time to think.
By the same token, if you've submitted your work to someone--and if you know them socially, to some degree--it's best to let them bring it up. Don't pester them with, "Have you read it? Have you read it? Huh huh huh?"--tempting as that may be. Send it to them, assume it got to them, and then wait for their response. I've just sent a piece to a friend of mine. It's probably taking it a bit far--then again, he's doing a favor for me--but I fully plan to avoid all mention of books, writing, and editing with him until he happens to get back to me. I'll also not do that thing--so typical of our generation of chat-ers--"Hi! How are you?"--and then wait for a response. Were I him, I would know that that meant, "Hi, how are you? Have you read it yet? Do you like it? Do you think I'm going to be a big famous writer with an international book tour someday? Do you? Do you
really? Oh good."
So, in sum: don't talk about it. Let all of this business chat be over email. If you meet them socially, stick to lighter topics. Keep your spirits up--much more attractive in writers and people in general. Be hopeful, never defeated. And always remember that there is no last chance. There are always more agents out there who will look at your work.
But an ongoing connection is invaluable. Whatever small advice you might have gotten by asking for it is not worth jeopardizing that agent's sense of comfort with you.
In other news, I've had Blossom Dearie's "
I Won't Dance" in my head since breakfast:
For heaven rest us, I'm not asbestos...
Indeed, you're not. You're lovely. Be kind and gracious, and agents will think so, too.
When you wake up and your very first thought is of the book you're reading...well, then, you know it's good. I've just finished The Forest of Hands and Teeth. Does it have problems? Um, yes. I'm amazed no one took the author aside and said, You know, if you keep using "the ocean" as your hit-us-over-the-head obvious symbol for "hope outside the current situation"--and don't insert any other such symbols--and repeat it every other page--you're going to annoy some readers.
I started this last night, got to page 250, slept, and finished it on the subway this morning. It's about a haunted girls' boarding school. Some parts are kind of ridiculous (50,000 dollars for a single Halloween party? Seriously? And it didn't even sound all that cool) but the relationship between the protagonist and Julie, the best friend she is trying to save, is quite good. There's a moment when she tells Julie her suspicions of Queen Bee (though I do hate it when young female characters adopt mother-age terminology) evildoing, and Julie tells her that it's a pathetic attempt at trying to retain her friendship--like something out of a bad movie..JPG)
