Well, that coulda gone better

Last night was the final class for the pop fiction writing program. Anticlimactic, although I don't know what would have made a good climax. An agent in the room announcing that someone is getting a book contract. Eat live worms and walk through fire, Fear Factor-style, to winnow out competitors. Last one standing gets an on-the-spot advance and two-book deal. With movie options, bitches!

But sadly no, although I would have eaten the worms.

The first half of the last class was an infomercial for Pop Fiction Writing 2 (Thematic Boogaloo), where the teacher and two of her students came in to play carnie, seeking out marks to go this way to the great Egress. I've mentioned before that I'm not going on to the second level because I'm classed out. I'm going out into the wild to write the novel, to finish the damn thing, breaking only to haunt the new Tuesday night critique group only minutes from my house. I wish the ones going on to the next step some luck, but I wasn't sold on the next safari. Too much sounding like a retread of what this adventure was all about. So, I stand at the pier and wave bon voyage to the ones going on.

The second half, oy.

Agent X came to class. She's high-spirited, passionate, and possessed with that brick-fist gumption you would want in an agent fighting for you at the Publisher Thunderdome.

But that lasted about 30 minutes, when the floor was open to questions. She dodged one about how many clients she had, only nailed down by one of our thriller writers hitting back with a follow-up. She danced around what genre she represents, saying she represents "popular" fiction. Which means, what, exactly?

Then came her feedback on the query letters we sent. She read about eight of ours, and we learned at least four of us sent in samples (no feedback on that, will have to wait). Through my periscope, I remained quietly angry as she spent 10 minutes talking about each query only to take all of 60 seconds on mine. A couple minor blips on her radar, but nothing else. The rest of the class I spent reading between the lines of other query letters to gain tips, the same way Russians would dissect Pravda to really see what was going on. If a party official wasn't mentioned in the news, odds are he was dead. For me, that's how I learned. Watch what other people weren't doing. It was constructive criticism jazz, the notes you don't hear.

I know, I know. Wait a couple days and e-mail her. Ask her more questions. She was kind enough to read our stuff, kind enough to brave the metal bottleneck as known as the 520 floating bridge, happy to take questions. So, that's something. Usually, writers would have to fly out to New York on a red-eye Jet Blue ticket to meet with their agent. Last night? Cookies on our turf.

Any input I get I should value, but I can't help but feel a little ignored and downtrodden from waitingwaitingwaiting and getting trace elements of feedback. I woke up this morning with a depression hangover, which was better than last night's irrelevant. With the program behind me, I felt a little robbed, unfinished, unchallenged, empty. Looking back, I get that Sex Pistols vibe: "How does it feel to be cheated?" I know my teachers meant well, but I don't feel any sort of completion, or even a notion that I'm on my way. I'll have to churn this a little longer, because maybe I had too much expectation from the class all year and Agent X's arrival, and there's nothing they can do about that.

But no matter what verdict I rend from the writing program, I got something out of last night. Something clear and forthright when the agent last night said that "dystopia" was not a word.

And there was my moment of Zen. Thanks, but I'd rather not have you represent me.