Tuesday, March 28
Well, my email is certainly more varied these days. But this one's really fucking annoying.
For those of you not into the writing thing, Miss Snark is a literary agent who runs a blog where she hands out advice and insights about the publishing world. She does so quite freely (and, as her title might suggest, snarkily) in part because the blog is anonymous. No one knows who Miss Snark is.
Apparently this gets on some people's tits. Thus, my day's annoying email, which I presume I got via being an occasional commenter on the blog....
Oh, mais oui!
Miss Snark is none other than *withheld, just in case this nitwit is right* of the so-called *withheld* Literary Agency.
A) I'm supposed to believe you why? I don't know you from Eve. You offer no proof. If you're right, I'm figuring it's by pure dumb luck.
B) I do not care. As far as I'm concerned, Miss Snark "is really" Miss Snark. I don't read her because of who she is or isn't. I read her because she gives good advice and she's funny.
She lives and works out of her home in Brooklyn, NY (not having a real office)
Uh, like *counts on fingers* at least six well-known and respected agents I know of? "Home office" is not some kind of euphemism, honey; rather it's the same as saying "I never get to leave work." Get a clue.
... and the reason she keeps her ID a secret? Her friends tell us she believes the Snark blog will bring her the kind of fame she can't possibly earn on her own.
Ah. "Friends". Leaving aside the fact that anyone sharing information with you is at best a former friend (and has exceptionally poor taste), unless you name names, this means exactly zip. "Friends" tells me nothing. Your street cred was never high with me, but when you start tossing vaguely-defined faceless sources into the mix it plummets down past "National Inquirer" and straight into the realms of "Weekly World News".
Also, what's this "we" shit? There is no "we". There is only you. Fake multiplicity does not equal authority.
Why? Well, you see, she isn't much of an agent. Matter of fact, the Snark-darling's "sales" are nearly all to obscure who-gives-a-shit-about-them presses that don't even buy lunch for their clients
*googles agency*
Yup. We call those "small presses." They are a major market for this thing called "literary fiction", which all of these books are. "Literary fiction" separates itself from "commercial fiction" by being, well, less commercial, and thus not of much interest to the big presses. This does not mean that literary fiction can't earn out in small ways over the years. And considering how new the agency you cite is, it has a pretty damn good track record.
I don't know about the lunches, but myself, if I got published I'd be happy to go Dutch.
Maybe you should have stuck with vague generalizations. These "fact" things don't seem to be working out for you either.
and only one to something larger (a crummy SF book called *withheld*--yes, yes, she does SF, contrary to her denials--
This might matter to me if a) I had the faintest confidence that you had the right agency, b) the book in question had actually been SF, rather than literary fiction with SF elements, or c) I cared who Miss Snark was. But it is a rather clever way of getting around your scapegoat agent not actually fitting with what we know of Miss Snark, in a "you can't fire me, I quit!" kind of way.
--also, she has ZERO taste in books).
Now you're just being... snarky. I sense a rejection letter from this agency lurking in the dark filing cabinet of your ego.
Bottom line, Snark-darling isn't what she says she is, not by a New York mile! How else do you think she has so much time to blog around? Because she isn't doing real agent work! You believe a real agent would have time to make snarky cracks on a blog all day, ask herself questions posing as other posters, and even moderate comments at the same time?
Dude. I work 42-56 hours a week and write novels in my spare time and I still find the time to putz around on the Internet and sharpen my wits on unsuspecting spammers. Work is a variable; procrastination, a constant.
And she actually believes she is going to get a book out of the deal. What better motive, I ask you?
Is it my imagination, or did we just take a sharp left turn? What book? Where? I don't see any book here! Earth to writer, it's chapter fourteen and the aliens have arrived....
btw, though much of her advice is good, some of it is plain manure.
Pot, kettle; kettle, pot.
Apply mask as needed and watch out for fumes.
Sweetheart, this is the Internet. Never believe everything you read on the Internet. Especially if it's unsolicited spam in your inbox. And again, there's a certain eu de wounded ego about this; perhaps Miss Snark dared to disagree with Your Trollish Highness and incurred your Mighty Wrath thereby?
She DOES NOT speak for the NYC literary establishment.
That would be hard. There's lots of them, after all, and I get the impression that agents are only a bit less insanely individualistic than writers, and you couldn't get a bunch of writers to whistle "Yankee Doodle" together without serious artistic argument, numerous fistfights, and copious amounts of alcohol. Nor do I remember Miss Snark claiming such authority.
Go to my Agent 007 for better advice, really.
This isn't an either/or proposition. I read Agent 007. I also read Miss Snark. It's advice. You're supposed to get it from as many sources as you can.
And I rather doubt Agent 007 would appreciate your endorsement, much less your use of the possessive.
(signed) J
Now really, sweetheart, is this any time to get coy? Particularly when you've got your full name (Julia Fields) in your yahoo address. Or were you expecting me to respect your anonymity...?
Julia -- if that is your real name -- you are a troll. You're waving a red flag in the face of myself and God knows how many other Snarklings in the pathetic hope that by doing so you will become somehow important... or perhaps your red flag is directed towards Miss Snark herself, in hopes that your life will somehow be more fulfilling once you've been trampled. It is towards your kind (though of the opposite gender and rather simpler inadequacies) that the innumerable ads for increased length, width, girth, and duration which make up the rest of my spam are directed. Perhaps you should be reading more of it; somewhere in that deluge there is no doubt an offer to give you a dick, and then you could go wave it all you wanted and leave the rest of us in peace.
And if you then increased the length, you could self-abuse all you liked and save me the trouble of telling you to go fuck yourself.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some snarky blog posts to catch up on.
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: 583 words. It should be more, but I was distracted by the ranty goodness.
Comments: All done with the blowing things up. Darn.
Snips: At the moment, everyone is sitting around talking about how screwed they are. Enlightening to the reader (I hope) but not very snippable.
For those of you not into the writing thing, Miss Snark is a literary agent who runs a blog where she hands out advice and insights about the publishing world. She does so quite freely (and, as her title might suggest, snarkily) in part because the blog is anonymous. No one knows who Miss Snark is.
Apparently this gets on some people's tits. Thus, my day's annoying email, which I presume I got via being an occasional commenter on the blog....
Oh, mais oui!
Miss Snark is none other than *withheld, just in case this nitwit is right* of the so-called *withheld* Literary Agency.
A) I'm supposed to believe you why? I don't know you from Eve. You offer no proof. If you're right, I'm figuring it's by pure dumb luck.
B) I do not care. As far as I'm concerned, Miss Snark "is really" Miss Snark. I don't read her because of who she is or isn't. I read her because she gives good advice and she's funny.
She lives and works out of her home in Brooklyn, NY (not having a real office)
Uh, like *counts on fingers* at least six well-known and respected agents I know of? "Home office" is not some kind of euphemism, honey; rather it's the same as saying "I never get to leave work." Get a clue.
... and the reason she keeps her ID a secret? Her friends tell us she believes the Snark blog will bring her the kind of fame she can't possibly earn on her own.
Ah. "Friends". Leaving aside the fact that anyone sharing information with you is at best a former friend (and has exceptionally poor taste), unless you name names, this means exactly zip. "Friends" tells me nothing. Your street cred was never high with me, but when you start tossing vaguely-defined faceless sources into the mix it plummets down past "National Inquirer" and straight into the realms of "Weekly World News".
Also, what's this "we" shit? There is no "we". There is only you. Fake multiplicity does not equal authority.
Why? Well, you see, she isn't much of an agent. Matter of fact, the Snark-darling's "sales" are nearly all to obscure who-gives-a-shit-about-them presses that don't even buy lunch for their clients
*googles agency*
Yup. We call those "small presses." They are a major market for this thing called "literary fiction", which all of these books are. "Literary fiction" separates itself from "commercial fiction" by being, well, less commercial, and thus not of much interest to the big presses. This does not mean that literary fiction can't earn out in small ways over the years. And considering how new the agency you cite is, it has a pretty damn good track record.
I don't know about the lunches, but myself, if I got published I'd be happy to go Dutch.
Maybe you should have stuck with vague generalizations. These "fact" things don't seem to be working out for you either.
and only one to something larger (a crummy SF book called *withheld*--yes, yes, she does SF, contrary to her denials--
This might matter to me if a) I had the faintest confidence that you had the right agency, b) the book in question had actually been SF, rather than literary fiction with SF elements, or c) I cared who Miss Snark was. But it is a rather clever way of getting around your scapegoat agent not actually fitting with what we know of Miss Snark, in a "you can't fire me, I quit!" kind of way.
--also, she has ZERO taste in books).
Now you're just being... snarky. I sense a rejection letter from this agency lurking in the dark filing cabinet of your ego.
Bottom line, Snark-darling isn't what she says she is, not by a New York mile! How else do you think she has so much time to blog around? Because she isn't doing real agent work! You believe a real agent would have time to make snarky cracks on a blog all day, ask herself questions posing as other posters, and even moderate comments at the same time?
Dude. I work 42-56 hours a week and write novels in my spare time and I still find the time to putz around on the Internet and sharpen my wits on unsuspecting spammers. Work is a variable; procrastination, a constant.
And she actually believes she is going to get a book out of the deal. What better motive, I ask you?
Is it my imagination, or did we just take a sharp left turn? What book? Where? I don't see any book here! Earth to writer, it's chapter fourteen and the aliens have arrived....
btw, though much of her advice is good, some of it is plain manure.
Pot, kettle; kettle, pot.
Apply mask as needed and watch out for fumes.
Sweetheart, this is the Internet. Never believe everything you read on the Internet. Especially if it's unsolicited spam in your inbox. And again, there's a certain eu de wounded ego about this; perhaps Miss Snark dared to disagree with Your Trollish Highness and incurred your Mighty Wrath thereby?
She DOES NOT speak for the NYC literary establishment.
That would be hard. There's lots of them, after all, and I get the impression that agents are only a bit less insanely individualistic than writers, and you couldn't get a bunch of writers to whistle "Yankee Doodle" together without serious artistic argument, numerous fistfights, and copious amounts of alcohol. Nor do I remember Miss Snark claiming such authority.
Go to my Agent 007 for better advice, really.
This isn't an either/or proposition. I read Agent 007. I also read Miss Snark. It's advice. You're supposed to get it from as many sources as you can.
And I rather doubt Agent 007 would appreciate your endorsement, much less your use of the possessive.
(signed) J
Now really, sweetheart, is this any time to get coy? Particularly when you've got your full name (Julia Fields) in your yahoo address. Or were you expecting me to respect your anonymity...?
Julia -- if that is your real name -- you are a troll. You're waving a red flag in the face of myself and God knows how many other Snarklings in the pathetic hope that by doing so you will become somehow important... or perhaps your red flag is directed towards Miss Snark herself, in hopes that your life will somehow be more fulfilling once you've been trampled. It is towards your kind (though of the opposite gender and rather simpler inadequacies) that the innumerable ads for increased length, width, girth, and duration which make up the rest of my spam are directed. Perhaps you should be reading more of it; somewhere in that deluge there is no doubt an offer to give you a dick, and then you could go wave it all you wanted and leave the rest of us in peace.
And if you then increased the length, you could self-abuse all you liked and save me the trouble of telling you to go fuck yourself.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some snarky blog posts to catch up on.
Writing Progress:
| |
2,363 / 100,000 (2.4%) |
Today's Progress: 583 words. It should be more, but I was distracted by the ranty goodness.
Comments: All done with the blowing things up. Darn.
Snips: At the moment, everyone is sitting around talking about how screwed they are. Enlightening to the reader (I hope) but not very snippable.
Saturday, March 25
And so it begins.
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: 1190
Comments: Yes, this is the sequel to Harmony Station that I swore I wouldn't write until Harmony sold. No, Harmony hasn't sold yet. It's standalone, ok? Get off my back.
Guilt aside, it feels really scarily good to be writing Joey again. And scarily easy. Journey always felt kinda like work, but this is something I'm hurrying to get home to already.
Not sure whether "easy" is good or bad, but it sure is what I need right now.
Snips: Less a snip than a segment. Welcome to Friction Burns, everybody.
"No, no, and no, with an order of no on the side. How many times to I have to repeat myself?"
Renee Oliva's smile flickered, but only for an instant. She was, Joey had to admit, well-trained. She had politely insulting down to an art.
"Director Terifino," she said, the smile now firmly back in place, "there is nothing you can say 'no' to. I am not asking your opinion. I am merely doing you the courtesy of informing you that there will be another shipment of evacuees tomorrow."
"No!" Joey said, loudly enough to startle some of the refugees out of their personal misery. Heads turned; bodies moved instinctively away, forgetting for the moment that they were in freefall, and there was a moment of panicked grabbing for handholds. From the Customs booths Joey's Second, Dai Herrick, made a sharp cutting motion with his hand that Joey interpreted as stop spooking the cattle. Joey drew a breath through her teeth and counted to ten.
"Ille Oliva," she said, as quietly as she could manage. "I realize that a diplomat may not have the finely honed senses that we pride ourselves on in the military, so let me point out a few things you might have missed. This," she waved her hand at the bay with its crowd of wall-clinging refugees, floating luggage, and gray military walls, "is a space stat-ion. We have what is known as limit-ed re-sources in certain areas, like, I dunno, oxygen. We also have this thing called a max-i-mum safe pop-u-lation of ten thousand and a current population of thirteen thousand. You can't bring any more people here."
Renee's smile didn't waver. "You know as well as I do that the situation is temporary."
"It's gonna be terminally temporary if you stack any more bodies in here."
"Evacuation to Geani will start up again in a few days --"
"You people have been saying that for three weeks!"
"Director Terifino -- or might I call you Josephine?"
"You might," said Joey, "call me Joey. If I liked you, which I don't. Stop fucking around and make your point."
Renee's smile finally vanished, but her mouth took on a hard set that Joey found no better. "We are working under a deadline here. I'm no happier than you that none of the human worlds will step up to take the refugees, but if we don't have Mylo empty of human presence by the date the Trake have set then we will be at war again. I don't care what you think of it. I don't care if I have to pack your precious space station to bursting, I will not let that happen." This time it was Renee's voice that rose too loud; she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke again it was with a shadow of her former professional smile. "And a Director of Security does not have the authority to stop me. Nor does your commander, or your commander's commander, or anyone in that chain of command that you military types worship so fervently. So let me do you the courtesy of telling you, Director, that there will be another shipment of evacuees tomorrow."
Joey looked away from her, out across the bay. It was more crowded than it had to be -- as usual the grounders had arbitrarily declared one wall the "floor" and were refusing to use the other three, causing an unnecessary glut. But still, too many people that Harmony Station had no place for. A few of the refugees had clearly been close enough to overhear their argument; there were a few faces flushed with what might have been anger, and one young woman met Joey's eyes and raised an eloquent brow, her expression somewhere between fury, mockery, and resignation, and Joey felt a twinge of guilt.
No, we don't want you either. No one wants you. The former residents of Mylo dribbled slowly through the gates, their eyes downcast, and Joey could have shouted the thought aloud and shocked none of them. They were a burden no one cared to shoulder.
"And if you overload the station?" she said, taking care to keep her voice down this time.
Renee's gaze did not waver. "Then the deaths would still be less than if the war started again. I would grieve. But I would not undo it."
"Nice," said Joey. "Very dramatic. And very stupid. Why don't you spare yourself the grief and me the dying-horribly-in-vacuum and find these people a place to live?"
Renee hissed in exasperation, but whatever she meant to say was lost in the sudden scream.
"Get away from me!"
Joey turned and had perhaps half a second to take it in, the startled faces at the Customs booth, the refugees recoiling in that same involuntary motion she had startled them into earlier, the slight form flying away from the crowd towards an unoccupied wall with the terrified scream still twisting her face, and then the world broke open with sound and light.
Writing Progress:
| |
1,190 / 100,000 (1.2%) |
Today's Progress: 1190
Comments: Yes, this is the sequel to Harmony Station that I swore I wouldn't write until Harmony sold. No, Harmony hasn't sold yet. It's standalone, ok? Get off my back.
Guilt aside, it feels really scarily good to be writing Joey again. And scarily easy. Journey always felt kinda like work, but this is something I'm hurrying to get home to already.
Not sure whether "easy" is good or bad, but it sure is what I need right now.
Snips: Less a snip than a segment. Welcome to Friction Burns, everybody.
"No, no, and no, with an order of no on the side. How many times to I have to repeat myself?"
Renee Oliva's smile flickered, but only for an instant. She was, Joey had to admit, well-trained. She had politely insulting down to an art.
"Director Terifino," she said, the smile now firmly back in place, "there is nothing you can say 'no' to. I am not asking your opinion. I am merely doing you the courtesy of informing you that there will be another shipment of evacuees tomorrow."
"No!" Joey said, loudly enough to startle some of the refugees out of their personal misery. Heads turned; bodies moved instinctively away, forgetting for the moment that they were in freefall, and there was a moment of panicked grabbing for handholds. From the Customs booths Joey's Second, Dai Herrick, made a sharp cutting motion with his hand that Joey interpreted as stop spooking the cattle. Joey drew a breath through her teeth and counted to ten.
"Ille Oliva," she said, as quietly as she could manage. "I realize that a diplomat may not have the finely honed senses that we pride ourselves on in the military, so let me point out a few things you might have missed. This," she waved her hand at the bay with its crowd of wall-clinging refugees, floating luggage, and gray military walls, "is a space stat-ion. We have what is known as limit-ed re-sources in certain areas, like, I dunno, oxygen. We also have this thing called a max-i-mum safe pop-u-lation of ten thousand and a current population of thirteen thousand. You can't bring any more people here."
Renee's smile didn't waver. "You know as well as I do that the situation is temporary."
"It's gonna be terminally temporary if you stack any more bodies in here."
"Evacuation to Geani will start up again in a few days --"
"You people have been saying that for three weeks!"
"Director Terifino -- or might I call you Josephine?"
"You might," said Joey, "call me Joey. If I liked you, which I don't. Stop fucking around and make your point."
Renee's smile finally vanished, but her mouth took on a hard set that Joey found no better. "We are working under a deadline here. I'm no happier than you that none of the human worlds will step up to take the refugees, but if we don't have Mylo empty of human presence by the date the Trake have set then we will be at war again. I don't care what you think of it. I don't care if I have to pack your precious space station to bursting, I will not let that happen." This time it was Renee's voice that rose too loud; she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke again it was with a shadow of her former professional smile. "And a Director of Security does not have the authority to stop me. Nor does your commander, or your commander's commander, or anyone in that chain of command that you military types worship so fervently. So let me do you the courtesy of telling you, Director, that there will be another shipment of evacuees tomorrow."
Joey looked away from her, out across the bay. It was more crowded than it had to be -- as usual the grounders had arbitrarily declared one wall the "floor" and were refusing to use the other three, causing an unnecessary glut. But still, too many people that Harmony Station had no place for. A few of the refugees had clearly been close enough to overhear their argument; there were a few faces flushed with what might have been anger, and one young woman met Joey's eyes and raised an eloquent brow, her expression somewhere between fury, mockery, and resignation, and Joey felt a twinge of guilt.
No, we don't want you either. No one wants you. The former residents of Mylo dribbled slowly through the gates, their eyes downcast, and Joey could have shouted the thought aloud and shocked none of them. They were a burden no one cared to shoulder.
"And if you overload the station?" she said, taking care to keep her voice down this time.
Renee's gaze did not waver. "Then the deaths would still be less than if the war started again. I would grieve. But I would not undo it."
"Nice," said Joey. "Very dramatic. And very stupid. Why don't you spare yourself the grief and me the dying-horribly-in-vacuum and find these people a place to live?"
Renee hissed in exasperation, but whatever she meant to say was lost in the sudden scream.
"Get away from me!"
Joey turned and had perhaps half a second to take it in, the startled faces at the Customs booth, the refugees recoiling in that same involuntary motion she had startled them into earlier, the slight form flying away from the crowd towards an unoccupied wall with the terrified scream still twisting her face, and then the world broke open with sound and light.
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