The First Ten Pages

Sometimes you have great days at work, perched in your dark, cramped, oddly damp work nook like a small bird, typing away merrily. Then again, sometimes you must leave your work nook, pace the floor for hours like you’re the heroine in a Gothic novel, and eventually fall to the floor and writhe around for a while because of the impossible, gargantuan nature of the task you must complete.

For me, that impossible, gargantuan task is The First Ten Pages.

Before I explain, here’s a very short primer on Getting Published in the Traditional Manner (i.e. by a publishing house, as opposed to self-publishing):

  1. Write a book

  2. Send it to agents, along with a query letter and the first however-many-pages/chapters they request (commonly ten pages)

  3. If they like the query letter and first pages, they might request a full manuscript

  4. If they like the full manuscript, they might agree to represent you

  5. HOORAY! A MIRACLE!

  6. Make major edits to your already-majorly-edited book

  7. Wait while your agent…performs the rituals? Makes the sacrifices? This part is mysterious to me, as I have done most of my research on simply finding an agent and less about what happens afterward. Is the writer expected to perform a portion of the rituals, herself, like marketing?

  8. After waiting for months or even years, receive word that your book has been accepted by a publisher

  9. Celebrate! But only for a moment. Because now the real work begins.

As you can see, this whole operation sort of hinges on the query letter—basically a pitch for your book—and those first few pages agents read. Which is why I have been softly rocking back and forth for weeks now, staring at those pages, convinced that they sound trite and amateur, and also why, whenever anyone asks how writing is going, I get a slightly manic crook to my face and whisper, “Why? What have you heard?”

Because this limitation—just ten pages—is agonizing. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, or if you know me in person and I’ve ever written you a letter, you’ll know that I like a lot of space to express myself (which is why I never did well on Twitter). This puts a lot of pressure on less than four percent of the book to entice and intrigue a reader.

THERE ARE SOME FUNNY BITS ONCE IT REALLY GETS GOING, I want to explain, EVEN IF THE BEGINNING ISN’T THAT STRONG. But you can’t say things like that in a pitch. You have to be CONFIDENT.

(Even though I am not confident.)

You have to be SURE.

(Even though I am not sure.)

You have to be ALL THE THINGS YOU SECRETLY FEAR YOU AREN’T AND NEVER COULD BE, LIKE SMART AND TALENTED AND INTERESTING AND WELL-SPOKEN AND CAPABLE OF WRITING AN ENGAGING BEGINNING TO A STORY THAT DOES NOT COMPLETELY SUCK.

(Even though, as you may have guessed, I secretly fear that I am none of those things.)

And so I sit here in the oddly damp dark and stare at these pages, not even reading them anymore, rocking softly back and forth. This is my life now. At least until I get so downtrodden and tired of looking at my own words that I say “Screw it” and send it off—imperfect, exposed, waiting to be judged.

So, yeah, writing is going super well, thanks for asking.

HOW TO WRITE A QUERY LETTER

in

Dear Prospective Literary Agent,

How are you? I am well.

Nope, that’s dumb. Forget I said that.

___

Dear Agent,

I have written a book. How, you ask? I have no idea. Life is a mystery and I am confused all of the time.

___

Dear Agent,

I don’t suppose you’d like to represent a book that I wrote, would you?

No, I thought not. It’s fine. If I were you, I wouldn’t represent it, either.

___

Dear Agent,

HOW DOES ANYONE EVEN WRITE ONE OF THESE THINGS??

___

Dear Agent,

I feel more than a little unequipped to write this letter, in part because, up till a few days ago, I thought query was pronounced like “very.” In my defense, “quee-ree” is difficult to say and it sounds ridiculous.

___

Dear Agent,

Attached please find a picture of a check that I am sending to you as we speak. Don’t think of it as a bribe; think of it as—

Nope. Bad idea. Reel it in, Muller.

___

Dear Agent,

It’s snowing today. Out of my kitchen window, I can see a little boy playing in his backyard across the alley. He’s balancing on a swing by his stomach, limbs akimbo, twisting the swing up and letting it twirl him around and around as it untwists. It’s the tired swing of a boy who’s been playing in the snow for a long time and whose range of motion is restricted by too many layers.

Watching him gives me perspective. I’m so frightened to send this book I wrote into the world to be judged—not because I think the book is irredeemably terrible, but because I’m worried I’m not good enough. I don’t have enough followers; I hate to network; I have no contacts in the publishing industry. Now that the fun part of writing is over, I’ve been doing a tired tummy swing for months now.

But you have the power to change all that. You can read this query letter, skim the first pages of the book, email me for the full manuscript, call me to discuss and make an offer of representation, pitch the book to publishers, secure a contract, and in only two to three years from now, this sad, slow, twisting swing can finally stop! WHATTAYA SAY?

___

Dear Agent,

Ever think about how weird the word “parallelogram” is? Try saying it. So weird, right?

Please represent me.