No one likes a pity party, but it's still hard not to throw one for yourself sometimes

Almost a year ago I finished work on my memoir, Immature Loser Punk. Then I spent the next several months writing a proposal and a query letter and then researching agents. By April I was ready to start sending out those queries. Since then, I've sent letters to a total of seventy-one agents. Of that seventy-one, twenty-seven never bothered to respond (seriously, how hard is it to send a simple form rejection saying, "no thanks"?), thirty-three of them did respond with a resounding "we'll pass on this one," and eight of them actually asked for my manuscript (some partials and some fulls). Of those eight, seven came back with one of two responses: "this isn't right for me" or "I really like this a lot, but you're not famous enough -- sorry."

This whole experience so far has been horribly discouraging. I do know that the publishing world is mess right now and that it's hard for anyone to get their foot in the door, and I know that publishing is (as I've been repeatedly reminded) a very subjective business. Still, it's hard not to take the rejection personally after a while.

Anyway, a couple days ago I threw myself a hell of a pity party, complete with balloons, streamers and cake, and had a wiz-bang time, so I'll just shut up about it now.