booksay
This is the nonfiction story of one man's quest to publish a fiction novel:
Chapter 16: A Real Divine Intervention
beer So I walked into my house the other day and saw Jesus.
It’s true. He was reclining in my chair, long beard resting in the bucket of popcorn he was holding. Saint Michael was with him, jumping on the couch and waving his flaming sword around like he was imitating Zorro. The apostles were all there, too. They were sitting on the floor playing my X-Box. Judas, of course, was in the corner, staring at the wall.
I dropped my briefcase on the floor and walked past them all without saying a word. I entered the kitchen and there, right in front of me, shining bright white, was a holy ass. God’s ass. He pulled his head out of the refrigerator, a cold Miller Lite clutched in his palm, and said, “Matt, it’s time to have a divine intervention.”
Apparently He didn’t like the excerpt from my book that I included in my last post, and he punished me for it. Not really by showing up in my living room to have an intervention, but to strip something that I really wanted away from me.
The agency that asked for the first three chapters of my book rejected me. “While we respect the craft of your writing and admire your ambitious story, we find that we just can’t get excited enough about your work to represent it.”
I fear that I have created a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that in addition to this pain on Earth I will feel pain in the afterlife and end up like the main character of my blasphemous book:
There were a number of damned souls sitting around a rather large conference table. The chairs were painfully straight, and we were strapped into them, so our backs had no arch to them. There were no cushions on these chairs. Spikes rested where cushions should have been. If we tried to slouch at all, spikes dug sharply into our backs.
The conference was for new souls, like myself, but there were some veterans there as well. They were present to sort of show us the ropes, when those ropes weren’t around our necks.
The idea was that we’d go around the table, introduce ourselves, and confess our most horrifying sin. The sin that we figured cemented our place in Hell. It went sort of like this:
“My name is Adolf and I rid the world of six million damn dirty Jews between 1941 and 1945,” a man with a mustache like film legend Charlie Chaplin’s said. My first thought was not, “Oh my God, I’m sharing a table with Adolf Hitler.” It should have been, but it wasn’t. I was too busy marveling at the fact that I could understand what this German man was saying, even though I had never taken a single German class in my life.
In Hell, everyone is multi-lingual. Everyone can understand what everyone else is saying. It was an amazing advancement in the field of communication. And it was a remarkable experience to learn I spoke thousands of languages. Then I leaned back and spikes dug sharply into my back.
“Hi Adolf,” the group retorted in a hundred different languages that all sounded like English to me.
“Hello,” one of the most evil men in history beamed back.
The group’s attention then turned to the man next to Hitler.
“Wow, that’s gonna be a tough one to follow,” the man said as he cracked large, callused knuckles. “Okay, my name is Ghengis and I pillaged and plundered the hell out of everyone I came across on my way to conquering the world.”
A murky looking son of a bitch with a dirty beard and long, yellow fingernails commented, “Nice use of the word ‘hell.’”
“Thanks.”
“Alrighty, I’ll go next,” said a particularly pale man with an accent out of a bad vampire movie. “I’m Vlad and I was a bit too fond of impaling.”
“Say no more,” that creepy guy with the long fingernails said.
“Welcome, Vlad,” the group spoke in unison.
Vlad the Impaler turned to the damned soul next to him. “How ‘bout you?”
“Me? Oh, you can call me Charlie. I was the mastermind behind Helter Skelter, which apparently some people took offense to. Pussies.”
“This is a bit off topic, but I like that tattoo on your forehead,” Adolf Hitler interjected.
“Oh, why thank you, Adolf. That means a lot coming from you. Hey, do you have any free time later? I’d love to pick your brain.”
“I’m being decapitated and then having my head sewed back on at three. Are you free after that?”
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
“What about you?” a man who had raped and murdered nineteen young girls turned to me and asked. “Why are you here?”
“Oh. Well. I’m not really sure,” I muttered.
“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” someone said. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
“Shut up, Dahmer,” the fingernailed freak spat. “You murdered fifteen people and feasted on their flesh.”
“You think that’s what did it?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty likely.” Mr. Fingernails brought his attention back to me. “Seriously, man, what’d you do?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I ate meat on Fridays.”
I got scornful looks from the table of mass murderers and all around evil bastards.
Okay, maybe it isn’t that bad. Maybe I'm being overdramatic. Maybe I’m not going to find myself in Hell and not know what I did to deserve damnation, like what happens to Angel of Life’s narrator, but it’s still pretty painful. When an agent rejected my query letter, that was find. It's possible the person didn’t have enough time for a new client, or didn’t like my type of book. That’s no problem. But to be intrigued by my story and then reject the first three chapters. That one hurts.
But it’s not all bad. Some good stuff has happened to me. I had my first interview – Andrew Olanoff of The BlogFactory interviewed me for his show. And even though the world will now see that I sound like a 12-year-old boy who just sucked on Helium and then got kicked in his nether-region, that still was cool. I also gave a subtle shout-out to all my blog followers. I mentioned something that I've only talked about on this blog, so let's see if you guys can pick up on it. [Note: The views expressed by the interviewer on a certain modern pirate novel do not reflect those of this author]
Plus, the totally awesome underground1986 created this:
So yeah, it’s bad right now. But it’s not all bad. I mean, at least God didn’t show up at my house to drink all my beer. I mean, come on, that would be weird.
Hey, did I just hear bottles clinking? Hello? Is somebody downstairs?
It’s true. He was reclining in my chair, long beard resting in the bucket of popcorn he was holding. Saint Michael was with him, jumping on the couch and waving his flaming sword around like he was imitating Zorro. The apostles were all there, too. They were sitting on the floor playing my X-Box. Judas, of course, was in the corner, staring at the wall.
I dropped my briefcase on the floor and walked past them all without saying a word. I entered the kitchen and there, right in front of me, shining bright white, was a holy ass. God’s ass. He pulled his head out of the refrigerator, a cold Miller Lite clutched in his palm, and said, “Matt, it’s time to have a divine intervention.”
Apparently He didn’t like the excerpt from my book that I included in my last post, and he punished me for it. Not really by showing up in my living room to have an intervention, but to strip something that I really wanted away from me.
The agency that asked for the first three chapters of my book rejected me. “While we respect the craft of your writing and admire your ambitious story, we find that we just can’t get excited enough about your work to represent it.”
I fear that I have created a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that in addition to this pain on Earth I will feel pain in the afterlife and end up like the main character of my blasphemous book:
There were a number of damned souls sitting around a rather large conference table. The chairs were painfully straight, and we were strapped into them, so our backs had no arch to them. There were no cushions on these chairs. Spikes rested where cushions should have been. If we tried to slouch at all, spikes dug sharply into our backs.
The conference was for new souls, like myself, but there were some veterans there as well. They were present to sort of show us the ropes, when those ropes weren’t around our necks.
The idea was that we’d go around the table, introduce ourselves, and confess our most horrifying sin. The sin that we figured cemented our place in Hell. It went sort of like this:
“My name is Adolf and I rid the world of six million damn dirty Jews between 1941 and 1945,” a man with a mustache like film legend Charlie Chaplin’s said. My first thought was not, “Oh my God, I’m sharing a table with Adolf Hitler.” It should have been, but it wasn’t. I was too busy marveling at the fact that I could understand what this German man was saying, even though I had never taken a single German class in my life.
In Hell, everyone is multi-lingual. Everyone can understand what everyone else is saying. It was an amazing advancement in the field of communication. And it was a remarkable experience to learn I spoke thousands of languages. Then I leaned back and spikes dug sharply into my back.
“Hi Adolf,” the group retorted in a hundred different languages that all sounded like English to me.
“Hello,” one of the most evil men in history beamed back.
The group’s attention then turned to the man next to Hitler.
“Wow, that’s gonna be a tough one to follow,” the man said as he cracked large, callused knuckles. “Okay, my name is Ghengis and I pillaged and plundered the hell out of everyone I came across on my way to conquering the world.”
A murky looking son of a bitch with a dirty beard and long, yellow fingernails commented, “Nice use of the word ‘hell.’”
“Thanks.”
“Alrighty, I’ll go next,” said a particularly pale man with an accent out of a bad vampire movie. “I’m Vlad and I was a bit too fond of impaling.”
“Say no more,” that creepy guy with the long fingernails said.
“Welcome, Vlad,” the group spoke in unison.
Vlad the Impaler turned to the damned soul next to him. “How ‘bout you?”
“Me? Oh, you can call me Charlie. I was the mastermind behind Helter Skelter, which apparently some people took offense to. Pussies.”
“This is a bit off topic, but I like that tattoo on your forehead,” Adolf Hitler interjected.
“Oh, why thank you, Adolf. That means a lot coming from you. Hey, do you have any free time later? I’d love to pick your brain.”
“I’m being decapitated and then having my head sewed back on at three. Are you free after that?”
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
“What about you?” a man who had raped and murdered nineteen young girls turned to me and asked. “Why are you here?”
“Oh. Well. I’m not really sure,” I muttered.
“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” someone said. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
“Shut up, Dahmer,” the fingernailed freak spat. “You murdered fifteen people and feasted on their flesh.”
“You think that’s what did it?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty likely.” Mr. Fingernails brought his attention back to me. “Seriously, man, what’d you do?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I ate meat on Fridays.”
I got scornful looks from the table of mass murderers and all around evil bastards.
Okay, maybe it isn’t that bad. Maybe I'm being overdramatic. Maybe I’m not going to find myself in Hell and not know what I did to deserve damnation, like what happens to Angel of Life’s narrator, but it’s still pretty painful. When an agent rejected my query letter, that was find. It's possible the person didn’t have enough time for a new client, or didn’t like my type of book. That’s no problem. But to be intrigued by my story and then reject the first three chapters. That one hurts.
But it’s not all bad. Some good stuff has happened to me. I had my first interview – Andrew Olanoff of The BlogFactory interviewed me for his show. And even though the world will now see that I sound like a 12-year-old boy who just sucked on Helium and then got kicked in his nether-region, that still was cool. I also gave a subtle shout-out to all my blog followers. I mentioned something that I've only talked about on this blog, so let's see if you guys can pick up on it. [Note: The views expressed by the interviewer on a certain modern pirate novel do not reflect those of this author]
Plus, the totally awesome underground1986 created this:
So yeah, it’s bad right now. But it’s not all bad. I mean, at least God didn’t show up at my house to drink all my beer. I mean, come on, that would be weird.
Hey, did I just hear bottles clinking? Hello? Is somebody downstairs?
Matthew Ulmer @ BookSay
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