A Gent's Outlook

A Literary Agent Divulges the TRUTH about Publishing

Monday, April 30, 2007

The spark that is Snark

Sammy is a wreck. If love does that to a perfectly screwed up human, then I’ll always be single. So this is my first post and he kind of gave me free reign to do what I want to with his blog—within reason—and his reason, as he has repeated time and time again is that he just don’t give a fuck. So here’s what we are going to do.

First of all, here on Agents Overdrive—Outlook, what the fuck ever---we’re going to give do a kind of Carlos Mencia, a true rundown on my take on other agent’s blogs, which, for the most part are pathetic. Let the fun begin with the queen—Missy Snark—and we’ll work our upward from down there. For those of you who have never been on the Queen’s blog, don’t bother unless you fall below the rank of wannabe and there is no animal or mineral lower, so you’d have to be a space creature, and I don’t want to by felt up by some asshole’s eye tentacles.

As for me, who am I? Let’s just say that I’m in publishing and let it go at that. I’m actually further into publishing than most of the subliminal assholes that I’m going to be paint-stripping here, let’s say.

Let the fun begin:

Miss Snark, who the fuck are you? Who the fuck cares? It seems, from my mild somewhat un-objective observation platform that, according to her, a million or so reality TV wannabes have visited her site. My question is, why? Is it because her worshipers have nothing going on in their lives? Do they think that an invisible faux wannabe agent goddess might be just the thing to fall down in front of? Better to fall down in front of the Midtown express. It seems to be kind of like the invisible god—the almighty and powerful omniscient being who rips you asunder only to pick you up, dust you off and make you right again. Woooo!! How pathetic!!

How can anyone who is somewhat conscious and whole think that this attention-seeking tart could be anything but one of these: A pizza delivery person who reads a lot or a Bayonne, New Jersey prostitute who has plenty of free-time. You tell me which because either will fit. But why should anyone with have a brain care?

It’s the way of the world that so many can be deluded into thinking this being is an agent. I ask you one thing while my sides heal from laughing so much, “Who are her clients?” Has anyone thought that here is a person who is supposed to be running a literary agency, which, according to her, is quite successful? But if he, she, its literary agency is successful, how come he, she, it has so much time to read slop and post comments on a blog? An example of a successful literary agent comes to mind. Have you noticed, for instance, that Jennifer Jackson posts about once a month and then only a short paragraph? Or has this escaped your pea-brains?

If this creature is an agent, I pity her poor clients. Those who patronize her slop and goo-goo, ga-ga all over themselves over it and themselves are supposed to be writers. How do you have spare time to even go there either? Aren’t you supposed to be writers? Whoops, how silly of me. Of course you’re not writers, you’re silly-assed wannabes. What difference does it make that she’s screwing her clients every hour of the day as long as she’s entertaining you? But those of you that do have a conscience, how would you like her representing your interests? Answer that one and maybe, before this is over, we can be friends.

As for me, I’m not an agent. I work on someone else’s dime so I, like you, can fuck off all day until I’m caught. But why should I worry? Hell, if this blog takes off like Snark’s, I will snag a book deal. Ah, I get it now. She took off this week to finalize her deal—and you shills are responsible. Give yourselves a good pat on the back—and one on the ass for old Miles here.

Miles Standoffish

Adios, Dipshits!

Sorry for the long absence, but I’ve been busy doing what most wannabe writers and watch puppies don’t have the sense enough to do…have a life. I found me a woman and we got hitched. Yep, that’s right. Sammy got roped into another com, er, committttt, uh, you know, the “c” word. The legal kind. I think this time it might last, since she’s not a complete bitch and knows nothing about publishing. She also doesn’t realize I am rich beyond her wildest dreams and basically thinks I’m the best lay she’s ever had, even without the vibrators and edible underwear.

I like her and California a lot more than NYC, a city that is an awful mistress. Cali is more laid back. People out here are not in such a big hurry go no place. Besides, I did two big deals that will keep me busy walking along the beach trying to avoid over-sexed sea birds for a very long time.

Still, I’d love to write more on this blog. Just because I’m practically out of the game doesn’t mean I don’t care if the game is taken over by idiots and dipshits. Wannabe writers, stupid editors, and the dumber and dumber watch-puppies are not off of the hook yet. It was quiet for a while, but there is no end to the evil that wannabes do. Even Vicki-Voo Voo and her watch dorks know it, because she’s actually provided a link on one of her posts to this blog. She doesn’t have the balls to discourage the wannabes and lose her status, so she sends them here hoping this blog will do it. I told you these people were lazy.

I’ve asked a good friend to take over for me. He’s going to post his first, so see what you think. His name is Miles Standoffish, but you can call him Andy. Or Miles. Whatever. He’s a hell of a guy, but if he gives you any trouble, just come get me at the beach. I’ll be the one rolling around in the sand with a beautiful woman who is not a writer, editor, agent, publisher, or writer advocate of any kind. She’s actually quite normal when she takes her meds, so that disqualifies her from publishing all the way around, doesn’t it?

Anyway, if you don’t like what Andy posts and can’t find me picking sand out of my underwear to complain, then, as Marley would say, go fuck yourself!!