Be Careful, They Have a Manuscript
The writing biz is turning into a standoff at a 7-11. On the one hand, you’ve got the writer, coming up for air after months or years of closet time. This person is badly in need of socialization. The only contact with the outside world: Miss Snark. Her treatise on the art of rejection is stapled to the hollow core door. Listening to her is like asking the night clerk at a Soviet hotel where the best restaurant in town is. Joe Stalin’s Diner, yum. A bit of socialist heaven.
But our hero is more intrepid. Having stumbled out of the lobby onto the street, he or she is ready to see things with their own eyes. There’s a guy on the corner running a three card monty. He explains the demise of intellectualism ( where have you been?). He takes a quick glance at your manuscript, sez, what kind of chick lit do you write? You don’t know if this is a reality check or the ravings of a street corner hustler. Somewhere in the back of your mind the rusted mechanism of critical thinking struggles to ignite. This guy has a sandwich board for Joe Stalin’s Diner.
Time for a Big Gulp. 84 ounces of ice and sugar ought to pop the spoon on that part of the brain devoted to evaluating information. Sure, you’ve walked up to a 7-11. No one in their right mind does that, but this is an emergency. In the back of the store, not far from the cases of Coors Light, is the manuscript evaluation booth. Jeez, the line is long. Maybe you ought to come back another time, not 2 am, maybe ten in the morning. This is nerve wracking. The guy in front of you used to be president of Iran. Dude, you manuscript’s in Farsi. Cool. Persian chick lit? Get outta here.