It's not what you know...
…It’s who you know.
Been a busy week, writing, querying, jotting down new ideas and sketching out a few old ones. Got a form rejection that sorely tested my eyesight. The toner must’ve been non-existent, the print was so faint, and the text so crooked I suspected the copier teetered on the side of a hill when it spit out my letter. See, not all of us writers hate rejection letters—I’ve learned to milk the entertainment from them; it masks the sting quite nicely.
Researching agents (I made a vow to send out one a week) I came across one that blatantly states, “Let us know if you have celebrity or media connections that will help in marketing your work.” I’m sure that’s what all the agents and potential publishers want to know, and believe me if I had the connections I’d exploit them mercilessly.
Not to say I haven’t had my share of celebrity run-ins over the years. My first celebrity encounter was a million years ago, well, almost forty to be exact when I met the Three Stooges, Moe, Larry, and that other guy who replaced the guy who replaced the guy who replaced Shemp who replaced Curly. I was way young and don’t remember much about them, except that it was at the Shrine Circus in Worcester and when we went backstage, Moe LOOMED at me, a tiny, wrinkled old man with enormous bags under his eyes. I’ve had Moe-the-Stooge nightmares ever since.
Fortunately my celebrity encounters tapered off until I was an adult and could process them better. In brief, I’ve rubbed shoulders with Butch Patrick (Eddie Munster on The Munsters), partied with the band Aha (in costume on Halloween!); was nearly creamed by Ted Kennedy’s limo outside the Harvard Club; was presented to the Queen of Bhutan; had my foot stepped on by basketball great ML Carr (my pained response? “It’s okay, I’ve got another one.”); directed Peter Jennings to the men’s room; and, at a filming, responded with military efficiency to Gen William Westmoreland’s three commands, “I need my coat, I need a cab, and I need my wife. Not necessarily in that order.”
None of my exploits compare to my mother’s claim to fame. In her younger days, working on an anti-poverty initiative, she met hippy-radical-hairy guy Abbie Hoffman, who tried to date her. She turned him down and when I ask her why she wouldn’t go out with him, she says, “He smelled.”
So, if Abbie had paid more attention to his hygiene, he might’ve been my father. And THEN I’d have some celebrity to brag about! But I guess I’ll just have to settle for a little Moe. Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me.
Been a busy week, writing, querying, jotting down new ideas and sketching out a few old ones. Got a form rejection that sorely tested my eyesight. The toner must’ve been non-existent, the print was so faint, and the text so crooked I suspected the copier teetered on the side of a hill when it spit out my letter. See, not all of us writers hate rejection letters—I’ve learned to milk the entertainment from them; it masks the sting quite nicely.
Researching agents (I made a vow to send out one a week) I came across one that blatantly states, “Let us know if you have celebrity or media connections that will help in marketing your work.” I’m sure that’s what all the agents and potential publishers want to know, and believe me if I had the connections I’d exploit them mercilessly.
Not to say I haven’t had my share of celebrity run-ins over the years. My first celebrity encounter was a million years ago, well, almost forty to be exact when I met the Three Stooges, Moe, Larry, and that other guy who replaced the guy who replaced the guy who replaced Shemp who replaced Curly. I was way young and don’t remember much about them, except that it was at the Shrine Circus in Worcester and when we went backstage, Moe LOOMED at me, a tiny, wrinkled old man with enormous bags under his eyes. I’ve had Moe-the-Stooge nightmares ever since.
Fortunately my celebrity encounters tapered off until I was an adult and could process them better. In brief, I’ve rubbed shoulders with Butch Patrick (Eddie Munster on The Munsters), partied with the band Aha (in costume on Halloween!); was nearly creamed by Ted Kennedy’s limo outside the Harvard Club; was presented to the Queen of Bhutan; had my foot stepped on by basketball great ML Carr (my pained response? “It’s okay, I’ve got another one.”); directed Peter Jennings to the men’s room; and, at a filming, responded with military efficiency to Gen William Westmoreland’s three commands, “I need my coat, I need a cab, and I need my wife. Not necessarily in that order.”
None of my exploits compare to my mother’s claim to fame. In her younger days, working on an anti-poverty initiative, she met hippy-radical-hairy guy Abbie Hoffman, who tried to date her. She turned him down and when I ask her why she wouldn’t go out with him, she says, “He smelled.”
So, if Abbie had paid more attention to his hygiene, he might’ve been my father. And THEN I’d have some celebrity to brag about! But I guess I’ll just have to settle for a little Moe. Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me.
posted by Janet at 7:17 PM
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