I spent yesterday reading Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential", and working on my new synopsis. I think it's almost ready for public consumption. If any of you want to see it, let me know. I'll be happy to share, if you don't mind giving me your thoughts afterwards. =o)
And now, today:
This morning, my CP shared a thoroughly depressing piece of news with me. I don't blame her, she needed to get it off her chest, and after we talked she felt better. Personally I didn't get depressed so much as pissed off. You see, a certain unpublished writer we both have had contact with has not only found an agent, but their book is in front of a publisher now.
You know me, I'm the first person rooting and cheering when I hear someone has achieved a writing goal. Sounds like it ought to be happy news, right? This should be an occasion to break out the pompoms, shouldn't it?
It would be except this person's writing is horrible. Seriously horrible. Not only is this person's writing horrible, but they seem to be unable to take constructive criticism to heart - even when it concerns spelling and grammatical errors. To top it off, this person begs for people to critique their work, so if you're kind enough to put effort into looking over their work, they just ignore you. (Which is frustrating to say the least.)
So, anyway, the sheer stinkiness of this person's work, and the fact that they got an agent when neither of us have, is a little bit disheartening. I cheered my CP up, and we both will get over it, but it doesn't bode well when two people who are serious and conscientious about writing can't get an agent, but this person can. Feh.
Maybe it's all just a case of RPRT (Right Place, Right Time). If you've got RPRT, it trumps everything.
Tell me... Have you ever picked up a book and wondered how the hell it ever made it into print? (And I'm not talking self-pubbed either.) Dish the dirt here. Go on. Get it off your chest. (You don't have to give names/titles if you don't want to.)
Sunday Update - Week 33
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