shredding

The literary agent

It has been a while since my last blog entry.
I would like to say this is due to ‘writers block’ but that sounds far too professional for my caliber of writing.
Up until a couple of years ago I wanted to write for a living, but I gave up once I learned that every publishing company on the face of the earth have too much on to take another author at that present time but wished me luck in my search.
Those who bothered to reply to my letters did so with cautiously kind words.
As kind and cautious as their responses were, I knew what they were politely saying…
“GO BACK TO SCHOOL AND LEARN HOW TO SPELL STUMPY!”
One of the kind responders informed me that the way forward was to find myself a literalary agent which turned out to be one of life’s impossibilities.

You see, literallarary agents are lifeforms of the planet Lit and although very similar to humans they do have very distinguishing differences.
The planet Lit itself is similar to earth, but everything is built from books. houses, roads, everything.
It doesn’t rain on Lit, nor does the sun shine to brightly thus giving the residents a perfect reading light and apt reading temperature.
On Lit the sea holds no water, instead of water it contains trillions of shredded pieces of rejected manuscripts.
Where as here on earth we might go to the sea for some reflection or peace and quiet or just to stare out at its vast beauty and calming effects, On Lit the liraralary agents gather there each weekend to empty their paper shredders and roll around naked amongst each other in joyous self gratifying romps covered in tipex.

Every year one of their vagina shaped rocket ships come down to earth and abduct hundreds of orphans who are then used as slaves back on the planet Lit.
These orphans will spend their lives writing apologetic letters of refusal which are then sent out daily in the millions.
Even people who briefly considered being an author one day but never got round to sending a manuscript off will receive one.
The postman on Lit is the same as a postman on earth except they don’t ride bikes and are giant flying robots with the capability of delivering daily the same volume of letters as her royal majesty’s post office fleet in slough.

Agents daily routine consists mainly of paper shredding but they also spend a lot of their time writing the rules on how to submit a manuscript.
The human slaves do a good job edit these rules so they appear friendly, a bit like the inland revenue advert ‘tax does’t need to be taxing’
With out the edit or in the agents own words would read…
We will only read it if there is NO spelling mistakes, bad grammar and show evidence that you have read a book before you attempted to write one.
There is absolutly no way I spent my teen years swatting it in the library whilst you smoked cigarettes in the school bog to spend my time trying to disipher your writings because YOU never learned to spell!
i DIDN’T LOSE MY VIRGINITY UNTIL i WAS 27 BUT I KNOW A GOOD STORY WHEN I READ ONE AND YOU SUCK!

Basically, it doesn’t matter how great your imagination is, it doesn’t matter if you have the ability to make people laugh.
It doesn’t even matter if your stories can change peoples lives or give comfort to those who seek it.
If you can’t spell, GO AND CLEAN SOME WINDSCREENS AT THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS LOSER!

BUT, litrerary agents are not authors so why is that? I hear you wonder.
Apart from reading too much, what qualifies them to judge if your work is what people want to read?
I have come to the conclusion that many (including my own) are rejected because litralarily agents have no sense of humour.
Didn’t that lady who wrote Harry Potter try for years before someone deemed her work suitable for publication?
But she did get published eventually which means there is at least one out there with the ability to give us what we want.
I guess I will along with many others, be discovered after my death.

To bring closure to this rant I shall end with an ‘epiloge’ (didn’t think I knew what that meant did you literarys.)
Despite my negativity to literary agents, it doesn’t go for all of them, especially the clever guy or gal who will one day publish my stories.
That’s right, some of them are ok and behind the glasses, lack of personality and green slime they could one day be trained to be of more use to the rest of us… like a speed bump.

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