Page 3 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
I wrote on a typewriter. Yep, an actual typewriter. Like a real writer. The clack of the keys, the resistance of the letters beneath my fingers, theding!at the end of each line—it all made me feel like a pioneer of the written word. And watching the pages pile up on my desk gave me a sense of building something solid. Like a bricklayer, but with more caffeine and no social security.
Writing on a computer? Unthinkable. That damned blinking cursor, just sitting there, waiting for your next idea… it felt like it was judging me. Staring. Daring me. As if it were saying, “Well? You planning to write something brilliant, or are you just going to keep staring and hope the universe writes it for you?”
Obviously, I mailed my manuscripts the old-fashioned way. No emails. I refused to compromise or go digital. Only paper—real, tangible, noisy paper—was worthy of holding my words. Once the manuscript was done, I’d photocopy it, tuck it into a chunky yellow envelope, and send it off to literary agents, one after another. It was a ritual that blended vintage poetry with creative stubbornness.
To be fair, it wasn’t just old-school romanticism. There was strategy behind it—questionable strategy, maybe, but strategy nonetheless. All the agent websites said the same thing: email submissions preferred. Which, in my mind, meant only one thing: their inboxes were overflowing with PDFs, DOCXs, pitches, synopses, and broken dreams. Millions of aspiring writers begging for attention with subject lines in ALL CAPS and way too many exclamation marks.
But me? I imagined myself as the only one crazy—or brilliant—enough to send something physical. Something that would land on their desk with a satisfyingthump!A fat, yellow envelope impossible to ignore.
“What is this relic?” a secretary would say. “Do people still use envelopes?” the agent would reply.And then, out of pure curiosity, driven by that irrational urge that makes you open mystery packages... they’d open it. They’d read the first lines. And since my openings were, modestly speaking, brilliant, they’d keep going.
They’d read the whole manuscript. And then, moved and astonished, they’d send me a letter (typed, of course) saying they’d discovered a gem. A unique voice. A new star in the literary sky.
Spoiler: that’s not how it went.
I was collecting rejection letters. All of them identical, all politely impersonal, all clearly spat out by the same autoresponder that probably handled the emails of the poor digital hopefuls, too. Only in my case—maybe to mock me, maybe out of artisanal solidarity—someone actually went through the trouble of printing the rejection on paper, stuffing it into a vintage yellow envelope, stamping it with the agency logo, and mailing it back to me. A nice gesture. Really. At least my disappointment had some literal weight.
Dear Author,
Thank you so much for submitting your manuscript. We are honored by the trust you’ve placed in us...
blah blah blah...
...unfortunately, we don’t feel we’re the right agency to represent this project...
blah blah blah...
...we wish you all the best.
Kind regards. Goodbye.
I collected them. Taped them to the wall, side by side, like an artist obsessed with her own failures—or a serial killer with a flair for motivational wallpaper. Sometimes I reread them, just to fuel the fire.
I dreamed of the day someone would finally notice me, give me a chance, and my novel would become an instant bestseller. I’d win the Pulitzer. Maybe even the Nobel. And then, in aVanity Fairinterview, I’d talk about my “wall of shame,” and all those agencies would tear their hair out, look at each other in horror, and say: “Wait... we rejected her?!”
Still, a part of my brain—the part that could still think straight despite the sleepless nights and dangerously high caffeine levels—didn’t entirely blame those agents. They were right to reject me. Because what I was writing now—The Real Great American Novel—made everything I’d ever written before look like warm-up scribbles.
This one had it all. Life, death, love, hate, apathy. Even a blind dog and a twist in the second-to-last chapter.I’d been in a state of grace through the entire draft. All that was missing now was an ending worthy of the rest. I’d already written four or five versions, but none had fully clicked. Then I’d remind myself that Hemingway rewrote the ending ofFor Whom the Bell Tollstwenty times, and I’d calm down.
There’s no rush when you’re holding the winning lottery ticket.
The anxiety fades. What remains is that rock-solid, unshakable certainty of imminent success. Maybe, just maybe, all my previous failures had led me to this exact point. To write this masterpiece.
Although—okay, yes—I was a little anxious. Because deep down, I knew: I had poured everything into this book. Every last drop.
And if even that wasn’t enough?
Well, then it was over. I’d lie down on the battlefield with my hands in the air, like, “Okay, universe, you win. Now please just erase me in peace.” I wouldn’t even have enough strength left to send a farewell tweet.
Around dinnertime, I emerged from my creative cave. Tess was curled up on the couch, grinding her teeth while watching a show about controlled demolitions of skyscrapers. She sat there like a dockworker who hadn’t been paid in three months.
“There’s a letter for you,” she said, eyes still fixed on the slow-motion collapse of a ten-story building. “It’s on the console by the door.”
“Hmm. Wonder what that could be.”
It was the usual white envelope with the agency’s stamp. Light. Thin. The exact weight of a disappointment you’ve felt before. I tore one end open without even trying to preserve it. This wasn’t a keepsake.
There it was: the classic, standardized, impersonal rejection letter.
