October 8, 2001
Attention must be paid
Today I spoke with my agent for the first time in more than two weeks. She has been sick. Bronchitis. She says it is from working too hard, but I have yet to see any results from her labors. The angry child in me wants to attach monofilament to all her joints and live on a platform above her desk while I manipulate her every action as she busily makes phone calls on my behalf. Or better yet, replace her entirely with a lifelike Disney animatronic device. A Stepford Agent if you would.
She has read our rewrites. There are qualms. She has qualms; her boss � the agency's literary department head � has qualms; qualms most certainly exist. There will have to be another teleconference with me and my writing partner. Rewriting the rewrites will follow.
I have no idea what changes will be requested. I do not care. This is not about the quality of the writing. Or artistic credibility. It is about jumping through another hoop. About surviving the long, frustrating hazing ritual required for the world's most exclusive fraternity. About a subjective call at best. And at this point, my subjectivity does not matter.
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