I am actually quite happy with this rejection note. It comes from an agency that made a strong point of "If you don't hear from us take that as a no." She gave great feedback, and I am considering more "commercial" and "quirky" projects. I am not giving up on the story, but just trying to think of more successful future ventures.
Tina,
Thank you so much for sending THE TREE THAT HELD THE SKY for my consideration. Unfortunately, this project isn't a fit for me or the agency. This is a lovely idea and written well, but I think it spends too long on the negatives, the exhaustion, the growing old. In this tough, tough picture book market, editors are looking for fun, quirky and commercial. I'm afraid I'm not taking on any risky picture book projects right now, which is a shame.
As you know, these decisions are highly subjective, and another agent may have an entirely different opinion. After all, it takes just one "yes" to find the right match. Thank you again for thinking of *********, and I wish you the best of luck in finding a good home for your writing.
Thanks!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
First rejection, First Bead on the String!
I got this rejection a few hours after submission! I thought it would be in bad taste to name names, so I left them out.
Tina,
Thank you for letting me read your manuscript, but I see that I wouldn't be the right agent for it.
Please know that another agent is likely to feel differently and will know exactly where to send your work. I wish you the best in placing the manuscript elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Tina,
Thank you for letting me read your manuscript, but I see that I wouldn't be the right agent for it.
Please know that another agent is likely to feel differently and will know exactly where to send your work. I wish you the best in placing the manuscript elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Here is the story...
The Tree that Held the Sky
And to hold the sky a tree was formed.
And in the end there was a tree
alone in grass and prairie field,
who held the sky, the very sky,
over and above the entire world.
After many snows and storms,
many breezes and years and
years and years and years,
its branches brittle,
its branches twisted,
the tree grew tired,
grey, mossy, and bare.
And with the bare and brittle branches stooping and withering to the ground, the very sky began to droop.
The edges of this very sky began to touch
the pointy tips of prairie grass,
and the tree grew tired still.
And the prairie grass, its slender stalks,
were bending and bending,
bending and bending
until the sky and prairie grass
were resting upon the ground.
And from the edges of the world where the sky and prairie rested, the animals and people began to move towards the trunk of the tired tree.
“What has happened?” cried them all.
“What has happened to our sky?”
“What has happened to our prairie?”
“What has happened to our home?”
“It has been years and years and years and years,
many breezes and many snows and storms
since I was young, but now I’m old,
so very old, the oldest amongst all living things,
and this sky, this very sky, is just too heavy now.”
A few cried, knowing that the tree would only grow older and more tired.
A few sat around and discussed how to fix the problem.
“Maybe we should find a new and younger tree?”
“Maybe we should take turns holding up the sky?”
“Maybe we can find a potion to make the tree young again?”
Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.
And a few carried on with their normal lives
and built new homes around the tree.
They filled their hands with stirring spoons.
They moved their hands by weaving thread.
They dirtied their hands with weighty tools.
Down upon their work they all would look,
and pretended the sky had not fallen to the ground.
And the children played their games.
They played with balls and dolls in imagined houses.
They ran, they skipped, and they leaped after each other.
They screamed, they shrieked,
threw their heads back to open their mouths,
wide in laughter, up to the remaining sky,
until they fell, and rolled side to side into each other.
Their activity was too much for the old and tired tree, stooping and withering to the ground.
“Children, oh sweet children, I know you mean no harm,
but I am tired, so very tired,
and I must hold the very heavy sky.
Could you please play your games somewhere else?”
The children began to play
where the wise people spoke in
maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.
“Oh children, please, we know you mean no harm,
but we are wise and busy trying to solve
the problem of the sky.
Could you play somewhere else?”
So the children traveled to the edge,
where the very sky and prairie grass rested upon the ground.
They walked until the sky touched their strands of hair,
and when they threw back their heads to laugh
their noses could almost poke the sky.
They played with balls and dolls.
They ran after each other,
a couple tried to skip and leap but hit their heads upon the sky.
They screamed, they shrieked,
they threw their heads back to open their mouths,
wide in laughter, up to the sky,
until they fell, and rolled side to side into each other.
They played at being wise adults and spoke in elaborate maybes.
“Maybe we can build caves and live underground?”
“Maybe we can stand on each other’s shoulders and hold the sky?”
“Maybe we can live in the tree?”
But the littlest one of them,
just two weeks shy of five years old,
sat by the edge of the world, and dug a hole for play.
The children stopped their play with balls and dolls.
The stopped their running, their screaming, and shrieking.
They stopped their game of wise adults and all their talk of maybe.
For the sky began to rise.
The littlest one amongst them all
had built a little valley and by that little valley,
a little mound of dirt that held the very sky.
The children all began to dig.
The wise people stopped their maybes,
the few who carried on with normal lives stopped,
and even the criers stopped their crying.
For the sky began to rise.
They traveled to the edge,
where the very sky and prairie grass once rested,
and where now the children were digging.
They saw the valleys and mounds of dirt and rock forming.
The adults began to dig.
Bigger mounds of dirt and rock grew bigger still.
And mountains formed where sky and prairie once met,
and deeper valleys where dirt and rock once lay.
So, in the end, the very end,
after many breezes, many snows, and storms
after years and years and years and years
of holding the very sky,
the tree felt it grow lighter and lighter
lighter and lighter until the weight of the sky disappeared.
The tree’s leaves and branches rustled music in the wind,
for it no longer had to hold the very sky.
And to hold the sky a tree was formed.
And in the end there was a tree
alone in grass and prairie field,
who held the sky, the very sky,
over and above the entire world.
After many snows and storms,
many breezes and years and
years and years and years,
its branches brittle,
its branches twisted,
the tree grew tired,
grey, mossy, and bare.
And with the bare and brittle branches stooping and withering to the ground, the very sky began to droop.
The edges of this very sky began to touch
the pointy tips of prairie grass,
and the tree grew tired still.
And the prairie grass, its slender stalks,
were bending and bending,
bending and bending
until the sky and prairie grass
were resting upon the ground.
And from the edges of the world where the sky and prairie rested, the animals and people began to move towards the trunk of the tired tree.
“What has happened?” cried them all.
“What has happened to our sky?”
“What has happened to our prairie?”
“What has happened to our home?”
“It has been years and years and years and years,
many breezes and many snows and storms
since I was young, but now I’m old,
so very old, the oldest amongst all living things,
and this sky, this very sky, is just too heavy now.”
A few cried, knowing that the tree would only grow older and more tired.
A few sat around and discussed how to fix the problem.
“Maybe we should find a new and younger tree?”
“Maybe we should take turns holding up the sky?”
“Maybe we can find a potion to make the tree young again?”
Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.
And a few carried on with their normal lives
and built new homes around the tree.
They filled their hands with stirring spoons.
They moved their hands by weaving thread.
They dirtied their hands with weighty tools.
Down upon their work they all would look,
and pretended the sky had not fallen to the ground.
And the children played their games.
They played with balls and dolls in imagined houses.
They ran, they skipped, and they leaped after each other.
They screamed, they shrieked,
threw their heads back to open their mouths,
wide in laughter, up to the remaining sky,
until they fell, and rolled side to side into each other.
Their activity was too much for the old and tired tree, stooping and withering to the ground.
“Children, oh sweet children, I know you mean no harm,
but I am tired, so very tired,
and I must hold the very heavy sky.
Could you please play your games somewhere else?”
The children began to play
where the wise people spoke in
maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.
“Oh children, please, we know you mean no harm,
but we are wise and busy trying to solve
the problem of the sky.
Could you play somewhere else?”
So the children traveled to the edge,
where the very sky and prairie grass rested upon the ground.
They walked until the sky touched their strands of hair,
and when they threw back their heads to laugh
their noses could almost poke the sky.
They played with balls and dolls.
They ran after each other,
a couple tried to skip and leap but hit their heads upon the sky.
They screamed, they shrieked,
they threw their heads back to open their mouths,
wide in laughter, up to the sky,
until they fell, and rolled side to side into each other.
They played at being wise adults and spoke in elaborate maybes.
“Maybe we can build caves and live underground?”
“Maybe we can stand on each other’s shoulders and hold the sky?”
“Maybe we can live in the tree?”
But the littlest one of them,
just two weeks shy of five years old,
sat by the edge of the world, and dug a hole for play.
The children stopped their play with balls and dolls.
The stopped their running, their screaming, and shrieking.
They stopped their game of wise adults and all their talk of maybe.
For the sky began to rise.
The littlest one amongst them all
had built a little valley and by that little valley,
a little mound of dirt that held the very sky.
The children all began to dig.
The wise people stopped their maybes,
the few who carried on with normal lives stopped,
and even the criers stopped their crying.
For the sky began to rise.
They traveled to the edge,
where the very sky and prairie grass once rested,
and where now the children were digging.
They saw the valleys and mounds of dirt and rock forming.
The adults began to dig.
Bigger mounds of dirt and rock grew bigger still.
And mountains formed where sky and prairie once met,
and deeper valleys where dirt and rock once lay.
So, in the end, the very end,
after many breezes, many snows, and storms
after years and years and years and years
of holding the very sky,
the tree felt it grow lighter and lighter
lighter and lighter until the weight of the sky disappeared.
The tree’s leaves and branches rustled music in the wind,
for it no longer had to hold the very sky.
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