The Weekly Screed (#638)

Oft-rejected, the author finally cracks
by David Benjamin

It’s never prudent for a writer to get uppity and talk back to the editors, publishers, literary agents and various other species of gatekeepers in the publishing industry whose mission is to protect America’s readers — whom they refer to lately as “content consumers” — from inventive fiction, or original thought, or just a good, pleasant read. However, a recent rejection sent one author around the bend…

Dear Ms. Massie:

Since the death of my literary agent, Jack Scovil, last year, I’ve been seeking new representation. The search has consumed much of my time over the past 14 months. As of today, the number of queries I’ve sent exceeds 200. The number of agents who have troubled to respond with an actual typed-out rejection (rather than just hitting the “delete” key) is at least 100 now — including the one I just received from you, personally.

Certainly, it’s not my practice, nor is it good form for the supplicant writer, to respond to each routine rejection. Indeed, that way lies madness. However, your rejection was so distinctive that it merits special attention.

First of all, a word about Jack, my late agent. He was a man of infinite grace. I always thought Jack an elegant man, and regarded him as the last true gentleman in Manhattan. He was, moreover, one of the kindest, most compassionate people in my acquaintance. When my wife was dealing with breast cancer, Jack made a special effort to stay in touch and monitor her recovery — although he had not yet met her in person. Later, of course, they met, shared a memorable hug, and developed a bond that made it all the harder on my wife when we learned of Jack’s sudden death last year.

I mention Jack to you as an object lesson. No one, I suspect, will ever describe any of the personnel at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin as elegant, kind, compassionate or gentlemanly. The word “grace” will not come to mind.

I venture this conclusion because your rejection of my query, for a novel called They Shot Kennedy, set a speed record. From the time I hit my “send” key to the moment your rejection popped into my mailbox, barely two hours had elapsed. Moreover — although virtually every New York agent I’ve ever seen interviewed has specifically deplored the presence of typographical errors in a query — you didn’t bother to spell my name correctly.

“Benjamin,” I submit, isn’t a hard name to spell. It’s in the Bible. It’s in the title of a Goldie Hawn movie. It’s the first name of the founder of The Saturday Evening Post.

I realize that Lippincott Massie McQuilkin is one of the most respected names in the agent racket. I understand that you’re inundated with queries on a daily basis. I understand that most of the writing incorporated in those queries is execrable. I assume that most of the queries are clumsy, badly composed, littered with typos, and inconsistent with the format that you regard as ideal. I know how much you guys hate boilerplate queries, sent out as part of a mass mailing.

None of these flaws applies, I believe, to the query you received from me today. First of all, my query was specific to you and you alone, Maria Massie,  (although I suspect that it never in fact got within a three-cubicle range of your actual body). I made an effort, for example, to address the literary preferences that you personally, Maria Massie, specified in your website bio. I offered brief, but illuminating examples of how my work meets your demanding personal specs. I included in this query a tight (367 words), crisply edited (and oft-revised) synopsis of They Shot Kennedy. I offered you an abbreviated but representative catalog of my credentials and ample proof of my professionalism, my talent, my confidence in my work and my humility as a mere content provider.

My sample fit roughly within your guidelines, running long only to provide the neatness of a complete chapter.

In sum, I met your demands. I spent time not only making my appeal specific to you, personally, Maria Massie, but I reviewed my text three times for typos and awkward constructions. As I noted, I’ve been editing copy for 30 years — and I know how to do the job.

In every detail, I believe I afforded you, Maria Massie, and your corporation, Lippincott Massie McQuilkin, the sort of respect that a proper, professional literary agency deserves.

As a realist in a vicious business, I never expect the same level of reverence in return. But I love it when the response is at least polite. I’m thrilled when I perceive that whoever sent the rejection went to the trouble of making it personal to me.

Your rejection, however, was not respectful, nor was it polite, and it was only specific to me insofar as it misspelled my really easy-to-spell name.
 
The alacrity of your rejection indicates that no one of any significance at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin ever set eyes on my query. It suggests that, regardless of the effort I put into composing my specific query to Lippincott Massie McQuilkin (per your expectations), I am intrinsically unworthy of any attention — much less respect — from Lippincott Massie McQuilkin, except from the lowliest and least conscientious among your newest, worst-paid and most faceless junior employees.

The carelessness and callousness of your response is an insult not just to me (who’s been through this hundreds of time — honest to God, I wonder why I’m bothering to write this), but to your profession. It insults every agent who feels a pang of regret for rejecting even the wretchedest of writers. It insults great, great practitioners of your profession, like Jack Scovil, who would never have tossed off so slovenly a message. It insults Lippincott Massie and McQuilkin, as an organization, because it identifies you as systemically lazy, uncaring and devoid of the sort of rigor and hunger for new talent that marks the best in your business.

Finally, Maria Massie, it insults you. By indifferently assigning your signature to a rude, slapdash, sloppy snatch of cynical boilerplate, you bring yourself down to the level of the creepy little functionary who fired it off — without reading a word of my query — as soon as my name (B-E-N-J-A-M-I-N) popped up in the e-mail queue.

Rest assured, Maria Massie, that I’m finished sending queries to Lippincott Massie McQuilkin.

Sincerely,