The Perspiring Writer Magazine

There's a story about a group of blind people who were asked to describe an elephant. Each was led to a different body part. The one who felt a leg said the creature was like a tree. Another decided it resembled a wall. Yet another said the ear must be a throw rug. The tail was surely a snake. And can you imagine what was said by the one who handled the trunk?

A squirrel, on the other hand, can be summed up as a bushy tailed rodent that frolics in trees and buries nuts. Okay, now that you squirrel lovers have been offended, please understand these examples are meant only to emphasize how some things require more words to describe than others. Which, brings us to query letters.

To many writers, query letters are keys to unlock doors of opportunity. To me, however, they're iron fences, topped with razor wire designed to block serious consideration by a publisher or even an agent. Books are available that explain how to write an effective one, along with magazine articles, web sites, and authors giving costly seminars. 

Sadly, none of the dozens of differing suggestions have yet proven effective.

The problem is that my writing style resembles elephants more than squirrels. Whether a short story, novella or complete novel, I like to take the reader on a safari filled with imagination, gaining momentum and surprises as corners are turned and hills climbed while traveling to the eventual conclusion. Attaching a mere few hundred words to a query letter is like sending a picture of an elephant's ear. It doesn't begin to reveal the "nature of the beast."

One of my recent short stories, for example (if 15,000 words can be considered short), begins with two elderly men discussing an idea of how to overcome boredom. Simple scenario, right? But as it unfolds, other people become involved; some good, some bad, and some not quite so bad. What began as a simple idea becomes complicated. Point being, several unexpected events occur, which aren't included in those few hundred words attached to a query letter.

So I whine. Mainly about the cardboard box full of rejection slips beside my desk. After my first novel was repeatedly turned down, I gave up and published it myself. Word got around, so I ordered a few extra copies at the request of friends and relatives, knowing they'd offer polite comments, no matter what. Then more acquaintances heard about the book and wanted copies.

And then friends of friends. The same thing happened with my second novel, and I began to accept that people weren't simply being polite. They actually enjoyed my work. As a final test, I mailed a copy to the book reviewer at a newspaper in a nearby city and was shocked when he printed a glowing review in the Sunday edition. Wow. What could be realer than that?

Filled with renewed confidence, I began sending query letters again. 

Sigh.

Published authors say one shouldn't be discouraged by rejection slips but rather to view them as evidence of the fruit of one's labors. But then, experts say anyone who performs an action repeatedly while seriously anticipating a different outcome may not be entirely sane. 

Since the fruits of my labor resulted only in more disappointments added to that cardboard box beside my desk (along with a rotten apple core and an empty potato chip bag), I've decided to go with the experts' advice and give up hope about query letters altogether. Otherwise the dingaling wagon might find out and show up at my front door to cart me away. I do reserve the right to continue and whine, however. Plus save a fortune on postage.

Meanwhile, people still ask when my next novel is coming out. Sometimes I just smile and thank them for their encouragement, and sometimes I take the time to explain how self-publishing can require a lot of time and effort.

Their response is to suggest I simply contact a publisher, or an agent, and let them do the hard stuff. Gee, now why didn't I think of that? Whine ...

*Jerry Hobbs has always enjoyed writing but didn't have much time to spend on it until his retirement several years ago. His preference is fiction, since he discovered his stories tend to take off and write themselves while he merely tries to keep up. Jerry has self-published two novels, "The Lovebug Device," and "Missy's Gift," plus a book of short (and not so short) stories, "Maybe Granddaddy's '55 Chevy - Plus 30 ½ Other Stories." Plans are in the works to publish a completed novella and several other short (and not so short) stories when time permits. Of all his work that has been published, along with a few prizes and medals, his favorite was an essay that resulted in a diamond ring. A very small diamond, to be sure, but now the prized possession of one of his granddaughters.