Years and years ago, I got one from a poetry journal, written on my poem, saying "Not bad, have you read Frost, Pound, Keats, Shelly, Bryon, Stevens..." and on with about fifteen names.
Before I self-published "It Knows You By No Other Name" I sent out a hundred and ten query letters to agents all over the country. They were all personalized and individually signed so it wouldn't look like I was doing a mass submission. I got about 20 form letters back, 89 agencies didn't respond at all and one letter from a guy that said he really liked my letter, but wasn't taking new clients.
I had an agent in NYC for "Come To The Edge Of Them" and when I called to check in with after about six months, he told me that the publishers he had contacted didn't know what to do with my book. I asked if he was still representing me, he said sure, but that was the last time I ever heard from him. He sounded old, so maybe he died.
Copper Canyon Press put a post it on the front of my poetry, saying "I can't publish this."
My screenplay is still on Angelica Huston's nightstand, fifteen years later.
In New Orleans, I used to tape them up on the wall above the kitchen table where I wrote. Then, I started to cut out comic strips on writing and taping those up instead (mostly Snoopy as he was typing away on top of his dog house) and then started replacing those with postcards my friends would send me from far away places. Now I write in front of a window, been doing that for twenty years now.
I played my banjo last night after writing in front of my window. He's a happy fellow even when I sing sad.
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