I don't like to burden you with my insecurities. So, I usually make it a point not to. Not today though. You see, a few weeks ago I sent out queries to literary agents. Like a hunderd of them. Seeking an agent, who could get me one step closer to being a published author a la the traditional route. Which is a huge fucking pain in the ass and a huge fucking blow to my already low self esteem.
So, now, while my work is being considered by potential agents, more likely, sitting at the bottom of a huge toppling pile of manuscripts, I am sitting in wait. Agents have the job of not only determining that your potential book is worth reading. They also have to consider if the market is saturated with that genre of books. Which of course the memoir market is. Not only that, agents are also gauging the future writing and earning potential of your second book and beyond. Of course, they get a cut of all of this, so they're taking a gamble on whomever they take on as a client, but especially for first time authors. You simply need to be the whole package. A solid writer, personable, engaging, social media savvy and have impeccable timing with the market. It doesn't hurt if you know someone either.
What you should know about me is I am shitty at sitting in wait. Horrible. Abomidable. Near tragic. Because silence makes my head spin. And I over think things and get a bit Debbie Downer. Especially now that my kids are back to school this week. Providing even more uninterupted silence. A blessing and a curse at the same time.
I was talking to my friend Suzanne on the phone the other day, one of my closest and dearest friends and also one of the biggest supporters of my writing. Confessing to her that I wanted to make some changes, albeit small ones, to my manuscript, which is already out there sitting in that massive pile on someone's desk. Or trash can. I'm naturally an antsy person who doesn't do nothing well. Plus, as a writer, you can't write anything that can't be improved upon. Someway. Somehow. "Don't do it!", she warned. And she's right. I know she is. "Start writing something else", she advised. Again, I know she's right. But, I'm just not ready for that quite yet. I feel I need to be out there fighting the fight for my baby, Rock the Kasbah: A Memoir of Misadventure, the book, in some capacity. Although, I don't know exactly what to do at this point.
That's when I turned to Twitter. I admit it, I'm an awkward social media misfit. But one of the things agents look at in clients is social media prowess. They want someone who brings something to the party. Namely, facebook friends and twitter followers. AKA: potential book buyers. And I've been so engrossed in writing, that I've neglected to whore myself out adequately. Now, that I have more time to flush down the toilet, I'm wasting it on Twitter trying not to be a wallflower. Playing the social media game to try to attract more followers. Although I will not play Candy Crush. Or have every tweet consist of the word fuck. I have my principles people. I'm doing this on my own terms. In the hopes that this results in more exposure for my writing. Not gratuitous cleavage shots. Wait. Hmmmm.
What I've discovered is Twitter is like a big orgy with a fully stocked bar and a drug dealer. And once again, I just don't seem to fit in. It's like high school all over again. I fucking hated high school. And once again, I feel like the introverted, awkward basket case from the Breakfast Club. Which is what I truly am. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to fit in. I'm finally at peace with my complete dorkdom. Fuck it! I am who I am. You either get me or you don't. Love me or hate me. (Also, as an aside, the popular girls seem to get knocked up. Or get crabs. And I don't want either of those.)
It's just that I always believed in the end that substance would prevail over the big fucking popularity contest. But I'm starting to question that now. After all, I've read some pretty crappy books that I can't believe were published by big name publishing companies. Well, mind you, I didn't waste my time reading them all the way through. And I've read some self published authors who are fucking fantastic and should have been published and promoted by the big wigs, but weren't. Their loss I guess.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm saying I'm the next Tolstoy, Mitchner or Solzhenitzyn. (By the way, I fucking love Aleksandr Solzhenitzyn! However, I'm fairly sure there is no Solzhenitzyn twitter hashtag.) What I am is the underdog. A tenacious chihuahua. Ok, I'm nothing like a little yappy fucking spazy dog. I'm more like a bull dog. With an enormous drool loogey hanging from my mouth. I'm real. Warts and all. And seriously, I do have some warts right now. Not genital warts, mind you. And this shit I ordered from the Canadian pharmacy doesn't seem to be doing shit for me.
So if you'll excuse me, I need to go be the Janeane Garofalo-esque girl standing in the corner at the Twitter orgy now. You can follow me there at Rock the Kasbah@Marie Loerzel. We can start our own Solzhenitzyn hashtag or Debbie Downer one. Whatever. Oh, don't forget to like my Rock the Kasbah facebook page.