I recently ran across a copy of Library Journal. Those of us who write are greatly indebted to libraries, even if we never sell a story. Much of my childhood involves memories of trips to the library. The smells, the tacky texture of books constantly handled, the quiet. They stay with me.
While thumbing through the Library Journal, it struck me that I'd never heard of many of the publishers advertising there. I thought of how hard it's been to find publishers for my own work, and I realized it's a lot like the story of the perfect lovers.
You know the one. The story where lovers that we, as readers, know belong together, but the author (cruel lot that we are) keep them apart. Romeo and Juliet is only one such scenario.
Publishers need content. They crave writers who are steady, dependable producers of good material. Some of us write every day and have done so for decades. Publishers don't notice us.
For our part, as writers, we have trouble finding publishers. If Library Journal isn't lying, there are lots of them. I spend a lot of time on Duotrope. I frequent Poet & Writer. I send out as many inquiries as my fragile ego can bear. Nothing.
Yet it seems that my lover must be out there somewhere. That publisher that can get a weird, yet deep, writer who can say things in fiction that he can't say in fact. A guy with a tonne of content to offer and who's willing to work with an editor.
I even gave an editor I personally know my business card. He never got back in touch. Seems that the law of averages is against us. Maybe I can get a job at Library Journal where I can let people know that I exist.
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