Last year I re-wrote my punk novel MAYBE TOMORROW. The story is about a car thief, gay hustler, and a runaway teenage girl who form a punk band in 1976 to rip-off a rich kid, but fail because they succeed musically for one night. I first sent 30 pages of this book to Emma Parry, a New York literary agent. She passed on it, but suggested my sending the first 30 pages along with a synopsis to SOFT SKULL. I dropped the manuscript in the post last week. I didn't expect to her from them in months. A letter showed up in the mail today. It could only be one thing.
A rejection notice.
Form.
And the letter looked like they had used the same piece of paper to send out two other rejections.
Oh drat.
Opening paragraph.
The November sun atop the Jersey Palisades flashed a dying ray off a West Village window. This wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. The blonde appeared unaware of the approaching glow, then broke into a smile shy of surprise, as the sapphire shimmer transformed the twenty year-old into a fallen angel regaining his halo.
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