A Gent's Outlook

A Literary Agent Divulges the TRUTH about Publishing

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Go, Annie, You Rock!

I have found a new woman and what a gal she is! I love you Annie Proulx, you feisty female! According to news sources, Ms. P wrote a British newspaper a nice little rant about Crash stealing away Brokeback Mountain’s best picture honor. While some may claim sour grapes, I claim bravo. You want to know why?

Because the old gal’s right, that’s why.

Who didn’t see this coming? Am I the only one who immediately knew that Crash would win the day it was nominated? I couldn’t be. It doesn’t take a whole lot of brains to figure this one out. Brokeback Mountain wins every major award out there, and Crash isn’t even nominated. Then suddenly Crash is nominated for an Oscar. “What a coup!” the Crash people say, “We finally got our vindication.”

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Crash was only nominated because the Academy needed a movie that could win and still make them look good. If Brokeback had won, zillions of people would have shit their collective short pants, and H-Wood would have been in the deep end of Doo-Doo Land. So, they nominate Crash, which is about race relations in LA (kind of like having a movie about acne in a high school…yawn). See, those Academy voters will pick something controversial and of substance, it just didn’t happen to be the movie that deserved to win, that’s all. Minor detail. La la la la la.

Now, what, you might ask yourself, does this have to do with writers, besides the fact that Annie is one? Think hard, guys, think hard. Do your wittle heads hurt yet? They do? Okay, then, I will let you off the hook.

Here it is, you insufferable, unpleasant, self-absorbed pathos-favoring wackos: The movie industry controls everything, wannabes, and don’t you forget it. Judy R. traipsing off to the West Endhole to hook HarperC up to the good life in H-Wood isn’t the first sign or the last. Publishing has been trying to get into Holly’s pants for a very, very long time, and has actually been sucking her tits for quite awhile. But now, my wannabes, the time has come for Holly to put out in a big, big way. She is feeling very horny in a literary sense, if you get my drift, and the big pubs are there to get some action. Your novel doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell if it isn’t franchisable, merchandisable, and possibly even submersible. Which leaves out all those memoirs about how you overcame road rage or never got over being taught to masturbate with two hands instead of just one. And don’t think the blow jobs you’ve been offering agents and editors will get you into this little party, because they won’t. The players in the big cities have a much bigger, more refined appetite than that, and a lot more willing individuals to choose from. Talent, sadly, no matter who is in charge, usually takes a backseat, but at least it can hear the heavy breathing.

Lying is out, too. Yep, that’s right. This wannabe staple is o-u-t, out. People in H-Wood breathe lies, so the pathetic attempts to seduce people to look at your work won’t work, jerk. Nope, it won’t. The threats and watch groups and bad-mouthing each other? Those won’t work either. Remember when I said that all those “advocates” and their little groupies and all those wannabes who whine are just flopping around in mire so far down in the publishing plumbing that nobody of any real importance can hear your vibrators? When I said that writers crying about fees and forums focused on “the perfect query” were just distractions for the simple-minded twits who couldn’t see the big picture? Well, guess what?

I was right.

The world is passing you by, wannabe, and pretty soon what you wanna be won't even exist anymore. Sad, but true. But don't worry, I will find a new name for you all, like maybe, oh, I don't know, dipshits. And remember, most of this is your fault. You drove publishing into Holly's arms with your shrewish, cheap bullshit. The relationship was doomed from the git-go.

One last note…I love Annie because she told it like it was. Not in an Anne Coulter I-will-say-anything-to-get-attention way, but in a Sammy kind of way, sans the expletives and references to sex. She isn’t apologizing, either, and I respect that. Her brilliant story should have won, and it proves that the movies are just as fucked up as publishing (like Clyde was fucked up and Bonnie wasn’t?), but they are in control, baby, and have been all along. Get the message, wannabes?

Hooray for Hollywood!

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