by Shelt Garner
@sheltgarner
The fact that literary types apparently are aggressively turned off by my personality really goes against my own personal self-perception. My entire life, I’ve been able to lean into my “unique” and somewhat “charismatic” personality to weasel my way into some pretty cool situations. But now that it seems clear that literary types think I’m such a freaky weirdo that they won’t even let me pay them money to help me with the novel(s) I’m working on, I’m given some pause for thought.
The closest thing I can compare it to is the dynamics of Tinder. On Tinder, the metrics of the service are such that I’m too short, too broke and too old. But I was able to make my case to a lovely young lady in person, I would get a lot farther in any romantic situation. The same with literary agents. I think if I could give them a little bit of the “personal touch” that they might be willing to a least look into my art.
But I’m the first to admit that I’m probably being delusional. I’m too old, too broke and haven’t done very much with my life — there no reason for a literary agent to give me the time of day, no matter how good the novel I’m working on may ultimately be.
So, my fear is they will look at my Twitter feed and this blog and roll their eyes at what a bonkers, drunk weirdo I am, even if should they meet me in real life they would actually like me.
And, yet, being a “delusional jerk with a good heart” is my thing. It’s my trade mark. As such, lulz, so what. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.
