How NOT to Pitch Your Novel to an Agent or Publisher

So you say you've written a book-- and now you must weed through the thousands of web sites out there written by everyone--

From best-selling novelists to people who once penned their phone number on a cocktail napkin--

All ready to advise you on how to pitch your beloved novel.

Yet very few of them will tell you what you shouldn't do.

And that's why here at Of Cabbages and Kings, we have pulled together a helpful list of phrases that you should never, ever use to promote your novel. Unless you want to give publisher-type people something to snigger at around the watercooler. Which they might appreciate, if only from a place of schadenfreude and ironic sadness.

What Not to Say in Your Pitch Session or Query Letter:

• "I have sent my 1,064 page manuscript to your offices posted C.O.D. because I am that sure the moment you read it, you will want to sign it."

• "This darkly romantic Gothic saga is in the tradition of Stephanie Meyers and Anne Rice, if Edward or Lestat were giant talking squids."

• "My novel is so hilariously funny, I laughed so hard that I cried. Then I wet myself. Then I paused long enough to change my trousers, and start the cycle over again. You've never read anything so uproarious as Mr. Wiggins' Fiscal Analysis of the 90s Recession."

• "Contains a cast of characters bigger than Tolstoy's and Dostoyevsky's works combined!"

• "I'm giving you the unique opportunity to be the first to read my manuscript, even before I have. That's how much I value your opinion."

• "I'm the ideal person to write Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer because of my remarkable experience in the field. I have watched Silence of the Lambs 147 times and..."

• "Deer Ageint..."

• "So, in closing, my non-fiction self-help book, Procrastination: How-To Stop Putting It Off isn't yet complete, but I expect it to be ready sometime in 2012. Or at the latest 2013."

• "I know I sent you this manuscript twice before, but I really think if you would just spend some quality time with it... say, take it to dinner, share a few bottles of wine... cuddle up with it before bedtime... you would see..."

• "I know you receive so much mail daily, so to save on paper, I have decided to communicate my manuscript to you via telepathy... coming... NOW."

So there's the complete list, folks! Simply scan each query you send for these ten key pitfall phrases, and soon you will be on your way to receiving rejection letters based on more fulfilling reasons--

Like your plot sucks, you didn't happen to go to school with the editor's brother, you never were on a reality television show, or you just mailed your power of positive thinking guide to a publisher specializing in nihilist literature.

Good luck!

And PS- Do you folks have any "Don'ts" to add here? Leave a comment and share them! I promise there will be no rejections... unless you spam.

Puce is Not for Sissies: Part Two

(If you missed Puce is Not for Sissies Part One, and the explanation of what on earth this is, and why it's on Cabbages this week, click here for enlightenment and hopefully a few jolly snickers at my expense.)

________________________________

...

"So how do you two like school this year?" queried Uncle Ray.

I hated it. David Lipton had purposefully stepped on my G.I. Joe lunchbox and stomped it until it oozed peanut butter and jelly. My teacher looked like the Church Lady. "Fine," I said.

The phone rang so The Creep yelled, "I'll get it! It's for me!" and ran from the room. She was spared the inquisition about school. I was sure that she had asked her friend to call her when she got home, for the sole purpose of avoiding interrogation. Teenagers were lucky like that. They always had excuses to be rude.

Dad strode into our house with a grin on his face, yelling, "Honey! I'm home early and--" His eyes fell upon Lydia and Ray. The grin slid off of his face and, in an instant, a new one appeared. It was the same grin he put on when my cousin Todd bit him on the ankle. "Hello Lydia, Ray." Dad noticed Mom admiring my present. "That's an interesting color."

"It's puce," Mom informed him.

"Sure is," Dad agreed, giving me a knowing glance. In the back of his closet were a watercolor painting of a pigsty, a souvenir Indian headdress from Lydia's trip west, and a silver-beaded handmade whatchamacallit that looked like it could have been either a Christmas tree ornament, a bracelet, or a bathing suit top. All of which were gifts compliments of my aunt and uncle.

Dinner wasn't much better. There was toxic waste on my plate. It sat there, stagnant and brownish-purple-punk, staring at me. I stared back. It was eating through Mom's fine china. 

I was sure Mom would be greatly upset about that, since we never touched the good china unless our relatives came. I didn't dare take my eyes off my meal; at any moment, it might decide to crawl off of the plate, and I wanted to be prepared. 

If the toxic waste were consumed, it would surely eat through my guts. Mom plunked down three little golf balls into the blob on my plat, and The Blob encompassed and devoured the golf balls in an instant.

"Eat your brussels sprouts," said Mom. "They're good for you."

"They disappeared," I told her. "I think they're drowning."

"You eat your dinner," Mom ordered. "This is Aunt Lydia's favorite dinner! And anyway, you love beets! You love creamed tuna on toast!"

Oh, that's what that was! "I do?" I queried, keeping a watchful eye on The Blob.

"You do." Mom's eyes burned a hole through my brain. It was a form of mind control. Her will traveled directly into my thoughts and became embedded there. That same force made me pick up my fork and attempt to shovel up some of The Blob. The Blob growled at me. My love of life overcame my mother's power, and I put down my fork.

I looked over at The Creep to see how she was faring. She was staring at her dish, too, and I noted that her hand was reaching for her fourth piece of bread. "Gee, Brenda, why aren't you eating? I thought you loved creamed tuna on toast!" I said.

Attention focused on her. She glared at me. "Oh, I do! I do! It's just that I'm not feeling very well. My stomach hurts."

"Couldn't hurt too much. You've had four pieces of bread." I had temporarily evened the score.

The rest of my relatives' visit went on in much of the same manner. We opened up our belated Christmas presents. I got a pair of puce plaid knickers to go with my shirt and tie. The Creep and Mom agreed that I would wear the whole ensemble to school the next day. The Creep had her revenge. I don't want to talk about it. I also received a record album of Shaun Cassidy's Greatest Hits.

"Wow!" exclaimed my sister. "Aren't you lucky, Robby! Boy, am I jealous!" She cackled with evil glee.

To the immense delight of my father, my sister, and myself, Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray finally went home. I also figured out what to do with that album Aunt Lydia gave me... 

Guess what The Creep got for her birthday?

Puce is Not for Sissies: Part One

I unearthed one of my high school's literary magazines from way back in 1989, and realized I had apparently been writing humor-- or at least what passed for it among my peers-- for a very, very long time. 

This story appeared in that magazine as it appears now. While it certainly presses the boundaries of the word "literary," I thought you folks might get a kick out of seeing my 17-year-old self's fledgling attempt at humor story-telling. I've broken this into two parts because it's a bit long for one post.

____________________________________

"Do you remember me?" asked Aunt Lydia with a broad, toothy smile Crazy Glued to her face. "The last time I saw you, you were one month old."

"No," I mumbled. "I don't remember back that far. That was seven years ago."

A plump hand the size of a catcher's mitt reached toward me and repeatedly wrenched the side of my face. "Oh, you are just soooo cute, Robby! Where did you get those dimples?"

"I don't know," I said, but thought they were probably due to so many of my relatives tweaking my cheeks.

And then it happened. Uncle Ray posed the one question I dreaded to hear. "And what do you want to be when you grow up, li'l feller?"

"I don't know," I repeated. I knew I couldn't tell them what I really wanted to be. They'd just smile and laugh like they always did and tell me, "Looks like ya got big plans, Son." 

I was serious. I wanted to be a doctor so I could save people's lives. I want to be a cowboy so I could get to ride a horse. I wanted to be an astronaut so I could walk in space. I wanted to be a great movie star like Pee-Wee Herman and have my own Saturday morning TV show. Most of all, I wanted to be old enough so people wouldn't ask me such stupid things.

It was bad enough that my relatives had come to visit for a few days, but there was a boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. It was squeezing tighter... tighter.... tighter... and I pulled at it, attempting to pry it from my throat. That made the serpent angry, and the angrier the boa constrictor became, the less I was able to breathe. I gasped for air.

"Leave your tie on," said Mom. "You look nice, Dear."

"I don't want to look nice, Mom. Uncle Ray and Aunt Lydia are here. Can I take this off now?"

"No. Wait until your father comes home." She adjusted the boa constrictor. I gasped again. "And stop making those disgusting wheezing noises, Robby! One would think you were choking to death."

"We brought your birthday present for you, Sweetie," gushed Aunt Lydia. She rooted through an enormous shopping bag.

Birthday present? I knew what it was! My heart soared. Things were looking up. It was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Slimeblaster that Santa forgot to bring me for Christmas. He didn't bring it because he knew Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray had gotten it for me. Good old Santa! I knew he wouldn't let me down!

A box! Aunt Lydia handed me a box! I could hardly wait. The ribbons, card, and paper were quickly shredded and tossed onto the floor. I mean, I shredded that giftwrap faster than Ollie North ever could have. I moved the box's lid to reveal...

"It's a lovely shirt and tie, isn't it, Robby?" asked Mom.

"Yeah," I said.

Mom turned and smiled at Aunt Lydia who was sitting on the couch, causing it to groan and beg for mercy. There was no room for Uncle Ray; he sat on a chair. "Robby looks so nice in puce, too," commented Mom as she eyed my birthday present. "And what do you say to Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray, Robby?"

What could I say? It's ugly? I hate it? Exactly what is "puce"? "Thank you, Aunt Lydia and Uncle Ray," I said.

My 16-year-old sister slammed the front door with the usual amount of force to announce her return from high school. She entered the living room and plunked down her books. "Hi, Aunt Lydia! Hello, Uncle Ray!"

With some difficulty, my aunt rose from our sofa. It sighed the biggest sigh of relief. Aunt Lydia's body enveloped my sister in a hug. I laughed. My sister peered over Lydia's shoulder and gave me a dirty look.

"Look what Aunt Lydia gave Robby for his birthday, Brenda!" said Mom, holding up the present that was not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Slimeblaster.

"Oh yeah! That's a real cool outfit!" She eyed me maliciously. "Exactly what would you call that color?"

"I believe it's puce, Brenda," replied Mom.

"Awesome shade! And Robby just looks soooo good in it! Why don't you wear it to school tomorrow, Robby?" My sister was a creep.

"Good idea," agreed Mom.

"And those orange polka dots on the tie really enhance the brilliance of those fluorescent green stripes in the shirt, don't you think, Robby?" asked The Creep.

"Guess so," I said.

"I'm so glad you like it." Aunt Lydia smiled again. She smiled more than Jimmy Carter...

(TO BE CONTINUED HERE)

---------------------------------------

Question for today: Have you ever gotten a chance to go back and read things you wrote as a kid? And how did it hold up? 

The Bureau of Character Complaints is Now Open

Apologies all around... That's what I'd owe them. Long diatribes about how I regretted the pain and anguish I caused them...

Sincere explanations for why I snuffed their parents... Or robbed them 14 times at gunpoint... Or launched them into space without a decent pair of shoes... I'd be moved to deep professions about how I never planned to do it again.

Lies, all of them, of course. Because I'd do it again just the same in an eye-blink.

But they wouldn't need to know that, would they?

Still... Yesterday, as I laughed manically, plonking down yet another barrier to peace in my main character's way, I thought:

What if, as writers, we really did have to answer to the people we created, for the choices we made in their lives?

Why, one of my friends' heroes has been stuck on a Wild West desert plateau for years.

I think he'd have some interesting things to say about that.

"Ya murdered my family. You put my gal in jeopardy. Then you killed ma horse and left me on a narrow precipice with no food 'n water...

"Did you know about my inner ear problem? Did think about ma fear o' heights? Did you know I was allergic to prairie grass and gopher dander? Did you ever bother to ask me about that? Did ya? DID YA?!

"NAW! You were too busy gittin' all distracted with fact checkin' and Feelin' the Muse and creatin' historical credibility and atmosphere way th' hell back again in Chapter One! Chapter One, fer Pete's Sake! Them's is done in Chapter One, Lady! Find closure and let it go!

"So now, my equilibrium's been off for five years, my sinuses are a-killin' me and I've been balancing on a six-inch ledge while the buzzards peck my head. Goldurn it, woman-- git me offa this rock!"

I imagine there'd have to be a Bureau of Character Complaints to handle it all.

And I can see it now. There'd be a reception room just filled with impatient, surly and world-weary fictional characters. Some suffering from gunshot wounds. Some in mourning clothes. Some undead. Some just really pissed.

A little girl with a doll would step into the room.

Little Girl: "Hello. I'm Sara Crewe. I'd like to register a complaint. My father got amnesia in World War I and forgot all about me. So I was left penniless and forced to work as a servant girl in a cold attic and nearly died of mistreatment. Things worked out for the best at the end, but I would like to get an apology from Frances Hodgson Burnett for the middle of the book."

Receptionist: (sighing) "Sign in here and take a seat."

After a lot of rubber stamping of paperwork, the receptionist would finally stand up and announce to the collective before her:

Receptionist: "Okay-- in the interest of efficiency, we're going to break you into groups. Abused orphans over here...

(And half the cast from Dickens' books would move that direction, along with Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket's Baudelaire children, and young Miss Crewe)

Receptionist: "White hat cowboys over here... Misunderstood black hat cowboys over there...

"Native Americans treated as cannon fodder? Here are some towels and you follow Dr. Green, please...

"Characters with unsatisfying endings looking for rewrites, that room...

"If you committed murder and feel it was out of character, or you have a more believable alibi than your author gave you credit for, that room there..."

"Unless you're a Butler.... Then you need to go to Cliched Killers in room 12b...

"No, not you, Mr. Jeeves. You go to Overintelligent Servants Purposefully Stationed Far Below Their Capabilities Yet Illogically Content with Lack of Upward Mobility. Just follow those Shakespearean court jesters-- yes, they'll show you where to go."

Ah, yes. We would all have a lot to answer for, wouldn't we?

Do you know a character with a complaint-- or do you have a character who needs some closure? Send 'em along!

----------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Offish and Waisted

Ah, I love home-grown banner ads! The way they have that warm fertilizer smell, and don't burden themselves with the gloss of those suspiciously-perfect, actually-proofread ad company creations.

I love them because then I get to see things go public like this real-and-for-true ad...



He's waisted thousands. And yep, I hear him. It always feels like the thousands go right to the waist, doesn't it? Why, Waist Control Management is rough these days for everybody.

Hey, but it got me thinking what a unique spin this tiny typo can give to a whole lot of things...

• The Who's "Teenage Waistland" turns into the tale of a teen beauty pageant full of girls with eating disorders... (Okay, so, any pageant, then.)

• "Elegantly Waisted" by INXS becomes Michael Hutchence's obsession with a high society ab cruncher...

• And Snoop Dogg's "Waist of Time" relays the story of Snoop's relationship with a slim, female Doctor Who. (Spoilers: it doesn't work out.)

Ah, but our writer of the banner ad isn't talking about dieting, is he? No, he's waisted his thousands on Adwords until he started making money in "3 week." But, he reveals, he doesn't even have a web site!

Um... dude, if you're spending money placing ads on sites that aren't yours? This could very well be the reason you weren't initially seeing the profits. Just tossin' that out there. Next time try placing the ads on a site you own.

I know, business gets confusing that way.

Well, it was about the time I spied our friend with the thick waist, that I found another friend-- Markus, here...


...Markus is "Plentyoffish.com" Which might explain why he's saying how "being single gets kind of old after a while." Girls don't like guys who are plenty offish. They like guys who seem a little interested.

Okay, okay, I know it's Plenty of Fish... I'm just giving Markus a hard time because of his URL, the fact that he seems to have a strong fear of commas, (but has embraced the semi-colon), and that he's the first man to write a full novel in the space of a banner ad.

I really shouldn't poke fun, though. I myself narrowly ended up with blog title that didn't quite work out in URL form the way I'd hoped.

Yes, you might recall me telling the story of "Angela's Shark." The Blog Eventually Named Cabbages was once "Angela's Shark," after a phrase liberally used in one of my favorite P.G. Wodehouse stories.

I thought it was obscure, eccentric and, as my name is not Angela, humorously confusing. Y'know, like the "Thompson Twins" being comprised of three people.... Or "Brazilian Girls" only having one female member.... Pink Floyd having neither a Pink nor Floyd among them.

That sort of thing.

Only as a URL? With no apostrophe allowed, suddenly it turned into:

www.angelasshark.com

Angel Ass Hark...

Ange Lass Hark...

Angela Ssh Ark...

Groovy! A blog either about a heavenly bootie call, a Christian myth about a talking donkey, the speech of some Scottish girl named Angie, or Mrs. Angela Noah being shooshed while her husband droned on about boat-building and the weather.

Needless to say, adjustments had to be made.

Which has me wondering:

• Did you have other candidates for your blog title before the one you settled on, and if so, what were they?

• And what's your favorite (or least favorite) home-grown banner ad?

(I had found another banner in the past that had me laughing-- you can click here to read about that one, in "Beware the Penquins: and Other Cases for Proofreading".)

-------------------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Beware the Penquins and Other Cases for Proofreading

"Benaughty! Rise you potential," the banner ad exclaims.

I've been chuckling over this for a few days now, and felt compelled to share. It hovers over my Statcounter stats in rotation with other less grammatically free-spirited ads.

The first time I saw it, I just caught it out of the corner of my eye. And the message routed itself from eyeball to the brain, where it hung in that big echoing room with all the windmills... And it whispered...

"Rise you potentialllllll...."

Rise me potential? What the-?!... I stopped what I was doing and raised an eyebrow. Or rised it.

But when I looked up, the panel had rotated over to something else. So typical of potential, really. There and gone in the blink of an eye.

Well, the next day, there it was again. "Rise you potential." The brain processed it right away this time.

And do you know how the Benaughty folks think I can rise me potential? By placing hardcore "adult dating" ads on this blog!

Yup, there's a surprise. Gosh, we'll be rising all sorts of things, won't we?

The actual surprise, I'd say, was that their main site appears fairly well proofread-- because, well, with a lead-up like that, I simply had to check it out and see.

And yessir, there weren't any of those pesky typos detracting from their offer of big money for connecting beloved readers with buxom Scandinavian hotties who are, in all likelihood, sweaty men with comb-overs who answer to the name of "the Dwayne-meister."

(The sweaty men answer to "Dwayne-meister"... not the comb-overs. Just so we're clear.)

So I actually started to feel a little sorry for the Benaughty people. I mean, here they are, wanting to lure in potential potential-risers. And instead they're probably getting a bunch of amused marketing writers, rigid schoolmarms, Grammar Nazis, and out-of-work copy editors looking for employment.

Bummer!

I sympathize, you see, because I have not been without my own share of typos. Why just recently, when we were here at Cabbages waiting for Godot, I got "Hooked on Phonics" somewhere along the way and he went all Godoh on us for about three hours. Before I was enlightened to my error.

I'm also reminded of a craft project an acquaintance was working on. This girl-- we'll call her "Stephanie"-- Stephanie had a boyfriend who loved the Pittsburgh Penguins hockey team. And so she decided she'd quilt this fine fellow a Penguins-themed blanket for Christmas.

A nifty idea and a gift sure to be appreciated, right?

Well, Stephanie worked long hours on this, crafting it in yellow and black stripes, cutting out each square, each letter, with love and care and nimble fingers...

And then it was complete. Thick, fleecy and beautiful, with lots of hand-done touches, Stephanie finally showcased her work.

"Um... Stephanie?... How do you spell 'penguins'?"

Stephanie's face grew dark. "Er... what?"

"How do you spell 'penguins'?"

"P-E-N-Q-"

"Uhhh.... let me stop you right there, Steph. G."

Stephanie had lost all blood to her head and neck at this point. "Excuse me?"

"It's G. P-E-N-G... U-I-N-S."

She probably would have been better off just quilting, "Go Pens."

So remember, folks--

Whether you're selling money-making schemes involving "hot broads looking for a good time" who are actually B.O.-radiating Dwayne-meisters...

Or whether you're humor blogging about existentialist literature while undercaffeinated...

Or whether you're just trying to create the gift that keeps on giving...

Good proofreading really can be your fiend.

Er... freind. Er...

Beware the Penquins.

----------------------------------------------------
Vote for Of Cabbages and Kings at Humor-blogs. Or click on over to Humorbloggers for fun discussion boards with funny folks unlikely to ever refer to themselves as "the Dwayne-meister."