Selling Oldbitey

Little Mabitey always told me I was sitting on a million bucks.

Yes, well, you and I know she wasn’t exactly referring to parking my arse on an office chair in front of a mac whilst creating a work of fiction. 
 If
you’re an author like me, perhaps you too wonder if sending out queries to agents and publishers is a little like being your own pimp and hooker. Not that I’m standing on a street corner in the Valley, but I am hawking something, aren’t I?

Truthfully,  I’m a little uncomfortable when it comes to trumpeting my own horn. I can do it for others. In fact, I excel at being a cheerleader for those who feel self-conscious or less than pretty or a little inadequate. It’s easy to find goodness in those you know and love. Yet, when it comes to peddling the words I put to paper, when I send out those queries and sample chapters the cheerleader turns into someone else. I begin to feel all Huggy Bear, as if I should be wearing a purple hat with a red feather, some platform shoes and tight red bell-bottoms. I hear strains of Roxanne and my voice drops a couple of octaves until I sound like Barry White. Oh baby these words of mine are fine…sit back and let this silky story caress your body...let it love you right…let it love you tonight…

When the pimp sensation ends, the sideshow carny guy steps in...Step right up and see the pretty words!

After that it’s the door to door salesman. 

Yes, yes! I’m a whore selling words instead of my bod. How far do I have to go turn a trick that pays out?

Today, I sent out three queries. Two to agents, one to a major publishing house that’s sent me polite form letter rejections via email. In a way those polite missives were refreshing because they were different to the glowing letters that praised my work and then turn it down. So now I’m the wallflower prostitute with the heart of gold. If all that means my words and stories are too old to work anymore,  it’s time to become a madam.

Luckily, I look pretty good in whorehouse red.

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