by Shelt Garner
For some reason, I can’t seem to get literary consultant types to give me the time of day — even if I’m willing to pay them. It’s enough to give me a complex. What’s wrong with me? Is there something about who I am — or my social media footprint — that causes such people to not to interact with me?
It’s very curious.
I am well aware that I’m colorful and larger-than-life, but the idea that that, by definition, would be enough to scare off people who might otherwise help me. It’s all very curious. What the what?
It makes me wonder, again, if maybe I have the wrong personality for an aspiring novelist and it would be better if I was an aspiring screenwriter. I’m not quiet and I don’t keep to myself. I’m not a lone wolf like your typical novelist, I’m quite sociable and enjoy schmoozing a great deal.
It makes me wonder if maybe I should mull, to some respect, the idea of working on a screenplay.
Then I remember how fucking old I am and how, all things considered, it’s probably for the best if I just work on a novel or six.