Your name is Vladimir Bloodsucker. You reside in the Western section of Romania in a quaint little villa known as Transylvania. Aside from your regular occupation as the town mortician and kindergarten teacher, you write humorous romance novels as a sideline. You have this great idea for a novel, but you are suffering from a form of writer’s block. It’s not that you can’t find the words; it’s placing them so you remain true to your genre as well as the book’s subject matter.
Let’s just face facts. If you weren’t so hung up writing in one genre with the ridiculous… No, ludicrous ideas you manufacture for your books, we wouldn’t have all these problems. I’m the only literary agent in this podunk town and I have two clients; you and what’s his name. And ole what’s his name can’t seem to write about anything but vampires. Every month, I get another vampire manuscript. I’ve had it up to here (holding hand above head) with vampires. I send him a dozen rejections at a time and tell him to make sure these last for the upcoming year.
Starting next year the rejections go out wrapped around wooden stakes.
Now, where was I….Oh yeah, Vlad and his next best-selling flop. Vladimir’s idea for his next novel (and don’t forget he writes in the humorous romance genre) is the astronauts perspective of landing on a moon made of cheese.
Here is the actual first chapter I received from Vladimir last week.
“Cheese Wheel to Mission Control. Cheese Wheel to Mission Control. Come in, Mission Control, over,” Artichoke said. (Beep)
“This is Mission Control, Cheese Wheel. Good morning, Artichoke.” (Beep)
“Good morning, Mission Control,” Artichoke replied, “are we a go for landing?” (Beep)
“That’s an affirmative. We have determined the surface to be similar to that of a mid-range limburger.” (Beep)
“Roger that, Mission Control, initiating thirty second burn to begin decent.” (Beep)
“You’re looking good, Cheese Wheel, ten seconds to touchdown.” (Beep)
“On my mark,” Artichoke said. “5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 and down.” (Beep)
“Good job, Cheese Wheel, ready to exit LEM.” (Beep)
“Thanks, Mission Control; it’s a bit wobbly down here and smells like armpit.” (Beep)
“You knew going in, that limburger is aged with the same bacteria that causes human body odor,” Mission Control said. “So suck it up, suit up and get outside.” (Beep)
“Roger, Mission Control, I snuck my wife aboard so as soon as I finish romancing and telling jokes I’ll get right to it, Cheese Wheel out.” (Beep)
I couldn’t read anymore, my lunch was working its way upward and I found myself reaching for my bottle of Xanax.
Now you see what I have to deal with being the only literary agent with two clients, one with a vampire fetish and the other just an idiot. And the real shame of it being no other prospects. Most agents are inundated with manuscripts…Me, well, you know my story.
Actually, I’m suddenly finding that things are looking up as long as I mix my Xanax with a half bottle of wine. Who knows? Maybe I’ll start writing and represent myself. It couldn’t possibly get any worse…or could it?