Dear literary agents and publishers,
Please stop playing this cat and mouse game with me. I understand that you’re trying to build dramatic tension by not responding to my query letters. This delay can only increase sales of my future memoir and make its inevitable movie adaptation more attractive to Hollywood. Everyone likes a story about struggle. But we all know that the story’s beleaguered heroine always triumphs in the end, and I think you’ve toyed with me for long enough.
Just publish my f@#*ing novel already. You’ve published way worse things. I’m not going to name names, but I’ve read some terrible books by your authors. Really lousy stuff. At least I can spell. At least I know where to put my commas. Don’t commas count for anything anymore? Are you worried that I won’t give your copy editors enough to do? iff so i kan haz changez.
Is this about money? Because I assure you that my parents and at least one or two other family members will buy my book once it’s published. They will probably even buy it in hardcover, which will put you well on your way to recouping my six-figure advance.
We all know what’s going to happen one day: New York Times bestseller list, Oprah Book Club, moody publicity photos, Guardian interviews, Salman Rushdie dating rumors. YOU could midwife this fresh talent into the elite world of letters. YOU could be the first to pay me money. YOU could be the person I call when I need white lilies in my hotel room or a mini-fridge full of chardonnay while I sign autographs.
Don’t talk to me about risk. You know what’s risky? Spending hundreds of hours writing prose about fictional people when you could have been going to medical school. Oh ye publishers and agents of little faith, let’s put some stock in my imagination for a minute. Nobody really knows what’s going to sell in this business. I’ve got lots of drinking buddies willing to write hyperbolic blurbs for the book jacket. I’ll do all my own publicity, including the Oprah interview, etc. You’ll only have to fly me to Chicago and put me up in a five-star hotel.
Agents and publishers, let’s start this process over without all the BS. Swallow your pride and acknowledge that you’ve been remiss in not replying to my letters and phone calls and unannounced visits to your Manhattan offices. I am willing to forgive and forget once that first deposit is safe in my checking account. But please – no more delays. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to borrow money from my mother without having something from you guys on paper.
Sincerely,
Wistar Watts Murray
