I feel bad for most writers who want to get published or make money from their writing, including myself.
But I never feel that bad — after all, writing is a privilege that not everybody can do, or even should do. Some people have to farm the wheat and corn that goes into my food. Others have to pull the hairpin out of my washer that makes it not work.
Others have to read through thousands of submissions and queries by writers like myself who have high hopes but humble facades.
So I can’t imagine how frustrating it might for a literary agent until I came across Slush Pile Hell.
Which makes me wonder how I’m going to send out a query for my novel (when it’s finished). It’s a question I ask myself time and again: how can I describe a stinging broth of kinky sex, magical hairdressers, Eastern European villages and secret werewolf mafias without seeming conceited?
