And then I decided to search out one of you to rep my first novel.
And I'm Canadian.
And my book makes no mention of Muskoka chairs and is in no way/shape/form influenced by Margaret Atwood.
So now, dear agent, I hate Fridays.
Your rejection is fine. It's a part of writing life. I'm cool with that. It adds fuel to my fire. But every Friday since I've launched myself head-first into the search for you, agent, my inbox has been getting stuffed full of your no's. Do you know how long it takes for the sting of your rejection to ease up, agent? 48 hours exactly. Do you know how long the weekend is?... You see my point.
Dear agent, I just want you to like me so why are you adding to my misery? Isn't it enough that you've poo-pooed a novel I've spent five years toiling over? Do you have to destroy my weekends, too? Why do you choose Friday to send out your form letter rejections? Why not Monday or Tuesday or even Sunday? Do you hit "send" and then run for the hills once your 4:59 p.m. rolls around? But why, agent? Why? Are you afraid that I might respond to you with crocodile e-tears? Do e-tears make you uncomfortable, agent?
Well, you don't have to worry about me. I'll take it on the chin on a Monday or a Tuesday, even a Thursday since there's good TV to look forward to. See, I'm a nice girl. I give people my seat on the subway. I sneeze into my elbow. I don't e-mail agents like you back after you've rejected me, my e-tears raining down the page like so:
Just give me Friday, please. I need my Friday.