Agent Writer

Good morning you talent-less fuck.

This is my daily wake-up call. Every afternoon around two, I march myself down to the mailbox with hopes that this is it-my lucky day. Some agent, in that far away land- otherwise known as Los Angeles is going to realize that I’m her dream client- full of wit, sass and sophistication. I imagine that she would have already Googled me and have seen my headshot and bleached teeth. “That girl’s marketable,” she would say to the other agents, who would obviously be seething with jealousy. Jenny Beres, the next American humorist.

Instead, what I usually find crammed between the Val-Pac and electric bill is one or two letters, that I self-addressed a few weeks back. I try to open them with caution and the same amount of flippancy one uses when scratching off a lottery ticket. I cannot afford to let hope have one ounce of air- because ultimately I know exactly what the letter is going to say, even when I can barely make out the handwriting.

A lot of times the rejection letters aren’t signed. Or they aren’t even letters. They’re my original query, stuffed back into my envelope with one-liners scribbled on the bottom of the page. “No thanks.” Not for me”. “Too swamped.” All meaning, “Who the hell are you?”

The ugliness of rejection really bared its teeth when I started sending out multiple letters for multiple projects. There’s good chance, on any given day that I could be rejected for everything I have ever written. And that day has come and passed- twice in the last week.

Yesterday, I was rejected five times. In fact, there were more rejection letters in the mailbox than there were bills. Thank God this isn’t dating. Though, believe me when I say it can be much worse. Here is the rundown of what I received- too fluffy, you need an agent to contact our agents, we’ve retired, we don’t represent screenplays anymore and one that I honestly couldn’t make out.

In the 20 seconds that it takes me to walk back from the mailbox to my front door, I have already crumpled up all the mail and have tossed it into the trashcan that the apartment complex has reserved for dog shit.

On Wednesday, something even more bizarre happened. I opened a letter from a literary magazine that I had submitted my humorous essay (Double) D-Day to. I didn’t expect it to be positive (I never do) but I didn’t expect it to be so clownish either. In 24 Arial font the paper read “Rejection Sucks.” I had to read it twice, to make sure that I was seeing it correctly. That couldn’t really be how editors were treating writers, could it? On the other side was an obnoxious, primary colored plea for sixty dollars so you could receive four copies of their shitty magazine. This is what they found funny? They were right- my article was not a good fit for their publication. Humor, in general, was not for them.

One agent sent back an encouraging and exhausting email- seeing that it came with seven pages of instructions. In a Twilight Zone moment, I went from being a screenwriter to super secret spy. Skimming her detailed directions, I realized it would have been easier to meet her outside a phone booth in London than to follow (correctly) what felt like a scavenger hunt from hell. I printed out the letter and the thing warmly started like this:
Dear Screenwriter:
Yes, frankly. We expect your scripts to be perfect.

That’s quite a salutation. No hello, or real introduction. Just an “I’m way busier than you” hammer crushing your creative skull, making your hands shake as you sign the release form and cut out the return label that will go on the outside of the unmarked packaging, complete with the secret code. But wait? Where’s the secret code? It’s not in the attachment, certainly not on the label it belongs to. Next thing I know I’m combing through the body of the email, like an archaeologist in King Tut’s tomb. By the time I find the code, and go to print, the printer is out of paper and I have to reload, reprint, reread. Shit. She wants a cover letter, a full-page synopsis, the mystery code, a signed release form, confirmation of copyright and finally, the nothing-less-than perfect script.

I receive this email on a Tuesday. By the time it takes me to lead myself over the hill to the promised land, away from my anxiety and down towards the manna of landing an agent, it is Saturday, at 2:00- and the post office is closed.
I have sympathy for agents. I do. But the same way they freak out if you begin a letter to them, as “Dear Agent” is the same way I freak out after spending the time it takes to tailor a letter specifically for a certain agency, and I receive a “Dear Writer” response. The last “Dear Writer” letter I received was dated March 2008. This letter came only on Monday. Which means my computer is younger than their generic rejection- that nobody bothers to update- or at least even bother make it look like they do.

Agents are swamped with every Tom, Dick and Harry that can tell an adverb from an adjective. Or from that guy in Indiana that thinks he’s entitled to write his life story because he’s old and has lived long enough to do so. Well he’s not. If you can write, then you are qualified to do so. If you can’t, tell your story to somebody that can. Writing is a profession. Just like being a lawyer is. I wouldn’t represent you in court. Please don’t publish your novel.

Then there are those assholes that have been told over and over again by an agent that the agency is just not interested in their work. Next thing you know the poor agent is getting roses delivered to them every day for a month until their office smells like a goddamn funeral home- and they either succumb and read the crappy manuscript or they lose it and quit taking submissions all together.

Well, dear agent, I am not going to send you flowers and I’m not going to stalk your inbox week after week either. My work is funny. My job is serious. I have resigned my life to this profession and whether I’ve ever had a choice about that is still up for debate. And because of that, I know there is a strong solution that’s concocted with the right amount of persistence and professionalism. When I need to talk shit about you, or the process, I will do it here- in short essays that I’m not sending your way.