My new Denfield clock had let off it’s blaring squeal to many times to count by the time I dragged myself from my down filled cocoon of depression. The inscription above the face reads “tomorrow is another day” I contemplate sleeping until then.
The sun shining it's annoying shade of orange reminds me again it is after noon and I am again awake to greet the day. Crap. I accidentally glance up into the mirror as I brush the sod off my teeth and wash the night out of my hair in the sink, I look like hell. My eyes rimmed in a deep red from nights staring at a blue screen alone, wishing it were easier to just pump out a top grade idea that would finally get my name on some sort list they would read. Or at least consider to read. Lately I have been trying to focus mainly on magazine stories, independent horse manure that might catch someone’s attention, anyone. I find myself falling repeatedly into this rut of wanting the next American novel; that is where the recognition is, the praise. The real money! and thats what I NEED.
I quit my job three months ago and wrote a 400-page manuscript, I pretty much eat KD, spend what's left of fairly substantial savings on a house my father left me in a will filled with good wishes and not much more and I currently live off my soon to be ex's' parents, who love me possibly more than they should. See, I'm not completely useless I just could not look at another stapler or copywrite promo for another useless DIY project. I knew it only takes one publisher and I was sure it was Ruth Gudgeon from Harpers Inquire, I read she found Tom Clancy or Wally Lamb or some other note worthy mind hacker. I sent my polished manuscript direct to her office (it helps to have insiders) unfortunate for me I received not only a note of rejection but also an unopened envelope containing all 400 pages untouched. The note read:
“Harpers Inquire does not now accept unsolicited submissions or query letters. Please refer all future correspondence through agent or person of interest with in the Harpers Family of subsidiaries”
Not a thank you to be seen; just an F-YOU BUDDY GET AN AGENT! but I cant afford an agent, I can hardly afford to pretend to pay off the bills I already have.
I pull on a pair of umbro track pants and a tank top heading out the back door to make a round trip to pick up my mail from the front as i do every morning since the quit. Lounging in my bathrobe until 3pm may be alright by me but I see my neighbors judging stares, "Can't a good young person get a job?" or that "I couldn’t possibly have enjoyed the day”. I find it better to fain a life than to have one at this point.
I am pleasantly surprised to find when I open my letterbox, fifteen letters all addressed to myself from several publishing agencies, no large brown envelops good news, I have learnt the smaller the response the better. Though I have no reason to, if my past luck persists, I am largely optimistic. I throw the flyers and postmarked pat due billing notices on the counter next to the fridge and take a seat in the light of my dining rooms large bay window, I don't eat in here it should be used for something.
I open the letters one by one.