Is this working
Watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunrise back to back on Netflix. “Sunrise” was like those rare relationships in my 20s and early 30s that were magnificent, exciting, and very short lived. “Sunset” was about romanticizing those relationship and bemoaning the complexities of a sustained relationship. The charm of the movies is the connection between the characters. Sure, we want the main characters to get together, but there is a reason why movies are about the beginning or end of relationships and not about the day-to-day.
As a side note - turns out Julie Delpy has the same birthday as me.
The plot is stock action movie. A teenage girl bred & trained to be a killer must defeat forces bent on destroying her. It’s also a weirdly artsy coming-of-age movie. A silly conceit is that Hanna only knows music from the dictionary definition, but In her travels she gets to discover music from many different cultures. I liked how they wed action tropes and a sense of wonder. Don’t think about it too hard and Hanna is an fun film of self-discovery and graphic violence.
It almost exactly six months since I started my new job, finished writing my latest novel, and lost my ambition. At first I was just taking a break after some intense efforts, but time dragged on and my inability to focus (or care) about a project or direction has become annoying. It feel now that I’m going to have to give up not having a direction. I got get feedback on my novel, FAILUR, that support what I’ve been thinking, that it need to be rewritten. I started an Improv class and I would like to follow that through until I’m ready to perform for an audience. I want to get my PMP certification this year. I want to read more.
Despite all of these myriad wants, I still feel a sense of futility and laziness. I’m not good without a plan. I feel ungrounded. I’m not good at lying to myself about my commitment. I’ve been able to ride these last few months – and maybe I should allow some time – but it’s been too long.
I’m still mostly killing time. I’m playing lots of solitare in that time I have reserved to to great things at the computer. I’ve concluded that being a novelist is a crappy job and that fame is a racket. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to publish a novel. Perhaps I will rewrite FAILUR.
The dog died yesterday. She was old and sick. We could just say ‘it was her time.’ I listen to my son, 7, tell his friend on the phone that “these things happen.” Even babies die sometimes in their mother’s bellies, he says. I’m freaked out, but cool outside.
Watched the new V series tonight. It was way Cheesy. In an hour they raced through the introduction of the alien visitors, public reaction, the “relevation: the aliens weren’t benign, and the formation of the resistance movement. The character were thin and the dialog was bad.
There were elections today somewhere. A lot of idoits are talking about them being a referendum on Obama. A lot of people need something to talk about to sound important.
I sent out my first batch of queries today for November Underground and got my first rejection. I don’t feel – as I did before – like I’m in a big hurry. Maybe I can take this slow. See if I can learn something. It’s clear to me I have no idea what I’m doing. That’s not exactly true, following the prescribed route. I’m researching agents, polishing queries, following guidelines. I’ve learned the rules. The problem is that the rules overwhelming lead to failure. The problem is that I have been writing too long, and my head isn’t in this selling/distribution game. It’s not tangible enough. It’s not something I can chew on. I can’t taste it yet.
I am actually reading now. I just finished a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain. It’s a drama narrated by the family dog. What made the book was the voice and the racing analogies. The plot was thin.
One
At first my feet might seem like a good symbol for my unemployment. They started hurting almost immediately after I was laid-off. Over time, weeks they have gotten tougher. It would be tempting to conclude that I have been “pounding the payment” looking for opportunities. But in fact, my job hunt was mostly conducting at the computer or the phone. The reason my feet hurt is because I was barefoot almost all the time walking around on hard floors. So my feet are not a very good symbol for my unemployment.
Two
At the beginning of the year my family spent some time in a cabin in Bastrop with some friends. If you don’t know those cabins, they are constructed of stone and long planks of timber. They have a rough beauty. They were built by boys who were part of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) during the Great Depression. Intellectually, I had understood had been clear for many months before New Years that 2009 was going to be a bad year. I wondered then if the catastrophe would become as tangible for us as the wood and rock had been for those boys. Losing my job certainly made the disaster more personal. While there was anxiety, however, I have really suffered. There were no great sacrifices (at least not yet). So I can’t really say that I understood what life was like for those boys or indeed for the many that had lost more in current economic environment.
Three
I heard something that seemed to be to be a good symbol for success. You may remember last year the criminal Bernie Madoff, convicted of running a +$50 billon Ponzi scheme. What caught my attention was a statement by investigator Harry Markopolos. He said that it took him about five minutes looking at Madoff earning reports to determined that the man was a fraud. The earning showed steady growth year after year, unaffected by trends in the market, the price of oil, wars or the weather. His profit rose on a forty-five degree angle with time on the X-axis and growth on the Y. An arrow of wealth shooting toward heaven. Icarus flying to the sun, kissing it, and continuing on forever. It’s amazing that Madoff wasn’t caught sooner. It’s amazing he wasn’t awarded a Nobel Prize. Isn’t this, the arrow forever rising, our ideal of success? It’s the nation’s talisman, a roadmap, a diagram of our dreams.
Four
The day before I lost my job, our refrigerator broke. On the morning I was laid-off I was working from home, waiting to hear from the repairman. I got a meeting request from a manager asking me to come into the office for a “mandatory business update.” The very ambiguity of the request made the topic crystal clear - no sudden face to face meetings with unnamed topics are good. I had to wait nearly four hours for the meeting. I stopped working. I was distracted and it seemed pointless. Instead, I cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer. The refrigerator was probably the best symbol of the layoff. The refrigerator and especially the freezer was an archive of our intentions, and of our culinary failure. There were vegetable we though we should eat. There were condiments that we’d hoped would spice up our evening. There was food we bought on whim, and those we though would change our live style. The freezer was so packed that we could only buy a couple frozen foods each trip to the store. I salvaged a little. I threw the rest away – the good intentions with the bad. The refrigerator was bare. We could start over again.
There is a quote that an author never finishes a novel, just abandons it. I’ve abondoned my manuscript tonight. I’d guess it won’t last long. I’d called it finished last week an then turned right around and found 500 words to remove. In finding those words I became edgy about some key scenes. But after staring at them another hour, I had to turn away, or else I would tweak them forever. The difference between improving and tinkering is sometime so subtle its imaginary. I had to force myself to walk away.
Coming Soon - Information about my second completed novel, November Underground, and maybe a chapter.
I was pleasantly surprised by the opening of the novel when I went back to reread it. Sure, It was sloppy, but I’d also put some good things in it. It’s a brief vignette focusing on a teenager girl living on a ranch outside of Austin who finds Ludd’s body and some other strange things. She’s a throw away character, we won’t see again in the story, but she lets me set a tone that is at once dark and full of the anxious-heady possibilities of the times (and of day, as I write this it is January 20, 2009). I also use her to introduce the year 1970 in a personal (albeit superficial) way – which is what I wanted. I didn’t want to get bogged down to much in setting the time at the beginning more than I had to. The politics, war, technology, will soon become clear through the plot. Finally, the girl who is excited about going to the university and leaving her ranch home which she as backward (behind the times) allows me to use the word “anachronism” in the first few paragraphs of the novel.
I am less pleased with the introduction of junior reporter Franklin. I like the way he stands in the crowd and yet apart from it. All the pieces are there, but the execution needs work and in the end it’s the execution that matters.
The beginning is rough. Every word is worth double, as I need to manage interest and carefully set expectations. I’m hoping that once I get past the beginning the rewrite will go faster.
In FAILUR, the protagonists made stuff happen. More accurately - my werewolves felt that little worthwhile was going on in their lives, so the TRIED to make things happen, to be apart of the big news around them, and flirted with disaster. In that story the plot was almost completely driven by Warren and Amanda (though they were manipulated sometimes).
In Rose November it is almost the opposite. I was heavily influenced by paranoid thrillers where a hapless character is minding his own business is suddenly drawn into danger not of their own making and for which they are not prepared for. Some cinematic examples of this genre include North by Northwest, Three Day of the Condor, Enemy of the State and recently Eagle Eye. Very quickly my hero, Franklin A. Sales, is being chased, interrogated, falsely accused, drugged, beaten up and almost killed over things he knows nothing about. This created a challenge for me when developing his character. For the first half of the story he is reacting to things that happen to him. Franklin initiates very little action. This is not exactly his fault. It’s not that he is a passive character. It’s just that one of the main things on his mind is NOT being chased, interrogated, falsely accused, drugged, beaten up or killed.
To some degree you want a character like this to be the “everyman,” someone that the audience can identify with. He is not a cop. He is not a super agent. He has not special abilities or skill to help him deal with being chased, interrogated, falsely accused, drugged, beaten up and almost killed. He is sort of like you or me. To some degree Franklin is a stand in for the reader - who should be thinking about what they would do in a similar situation.
Franklin is young, 25. He’s a reporter who had only been working a few years. He’s not completely happy about his work, but he believes he has to pay his dues for a while before he can do what he really wants. He secretly believes that he can take on the world, but he doesn’t know how, and fear a little that the opportunity won’t come. This would be ironic, given the trouble he’s going to get in to, if it were not so commonplace. His father was in WWII and landed at Utah Beach on D-day. Franklin suspects that he will never have a moment that live up to this.
Franklin is also a bit of an outsider. He had friends and get along with his coworkers fine, but he is often an observer. As a reporter, Franklin is good at watching people, talking to them and figuring out what makes them tick. He can understand what a passionate mob at a peace really feels, but doesn’t participate himself. He has an problem with authority. He doesn’t completely believe in the right of authority - whether is it the popular feelings of the crowd or individuals whose position or title lets allow them to claim authority. At the same time Franklin doesn’t really know how to push back against those that authority.
So where does this leave us?
For much of the book, Franklin is mostly reacts to be chased, interrogated, falsely accused, drugged, beaten up or almost killed. It is however his ability to find his strengths that will allow him to survive. This is my challenge for the next draft. In the current draft Franklin’s character is choppy - especially at first. I need to make him more consistent. At the same time, it must be smooth and motivated, or else Franklin’s character traits will phony and tacked on.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
I am reviewing the draft of Rose November now and made some observations. One is that there are no weekends! The story covers the period of 2-3 weeks (with some excursions). In my review I’m in the seventh day with businesses open, schools in session, no breaks. For most of the rest of the story this won’t matter because all hell breaks loose and no one is working – Sunday and Monday don’t matter any more.
The main action is set in the fall of ’70, some weeks after the Weather Underground sprung Timothy Leery out of prison and days after Janis Joplin’s death. With the outline I had a pretty good idea of how many days passed, but I knew things would shift a little in writing the draft (the time it took for several of my characters to travel from Austin to San Francisco partly on foot and hitchhiking for instance). Writing the draft I didn’t want to tie myself to exact dates that would slow me down. Now, I need to fix it. I should fix it.
Part of me wonders if I can get away with it. Will anyone count the days? Will anyone notice that my Austin of 1970 is a place of perpetual work without break?
Perhaps it would be better if I had never found out. I could blissfully send out the story without knowing. Later I would have to make up an explanation that it was a parallel Austin with 9 days weeks, and that this was actually important to my story, because it showed the relativity of causality when viewing time from different vantage points.
It’s my world, why not?!
I’ve completed the draft of November Underground, my second novel. Now I have to rewrite it by summer. Currently it is 108k words. I would like to cut it down to 85-90,000. There is a lot more work to be done, but I’m slowing down a little while I review the manuscript and let it sink in. It feels like a weight has lifted – but this is illusionary. Soon I will be stressed that I have not made enough progress on the rewrite.
Regarding FAILUR, it could use a minor rewrite I think. I’ll come back to it when November Underground is out. I think NU will be the manuscript that I will try to sell through conventional markets and FAILUR will be the one I work though new/online channels. More on this later.
I still believe the biggest problem with my first novel is that it’s quirkiness and genre bending makes it hard to market. I have come to believe that it needs a rewrite. Whatever else is true of my second novel, I will easy to describe. People will be able to “get it” much quicker.
I have heard it said that writer’s rarely publish the first novel they write. If this is true - I’m not sure that it is – then the most obvious reason is because most authors’ first novels suck. After their first novel, they work through some problems and their next novel is better. While this is a likely explanation, it is not my favorite explanation. One possibility is that writers improve their skills to market their writing. My favorite explanation is that an author’s first novel is the most personal, innovative, and idiosyncratic. Perhaps many author start writing that truly personal vision into their first novel. Then again perhaps the line between personal and idiosyncratic and sucking is real but very narrow.
I stopped by the writer’s conference for a beer. I had decided not to attend the conference this year, as I am not really in a good position to pitch this year. I’ve decided that I’m probably going to rewrite FAILUR. I think I can make it a lot tighter. Now matter what I do to it, it is going to be an odd beast. I had a beer with Doug and talked to some other writers. As usual the conference was a mass of tension as writers agonized over getting and keeping agents attention. I saw Jennifer briefly. She had won an award for her newer novel, and was getting some attention from agents. With any luck she’ll break through soon.
I made a promise to myself while at the conference, that I would be pitching my new novel at next year’s conference (if not well before). I also decided that I would rewrite FAILUR and create some podcast – though I stopped short of promising myself on a date.
I have determined that from a marketing perspective FAILUR is a hybrid freak. My werewolves go to dinner. They argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. My monsters wish they had better jobs. There is suspense in the story, but it is not primarily an action/adventure – in a sense the story is about the protagonist’s quest to find suspense.
Early on, I stressed the exotic and adventurous part of the story to agents (the serial killer, the ghost, the doomsday prophecy). I got some interest. But the agents who read a portion of it said it “didn’t develop fast enough” or something else indicating it was slow. I’d set the wrong expectation. They were expecting a fast paced, hard-boiled, urban fantasy.
Last time I told you that I changed my strategy for how I present the novel to agents. For one thing, changed the name for the novel from “FAILUR: A Werewolf Love Story” to just “FAILUR.” I’ve also changed my query. I think the new query more accurately reflects the contents and tone of the novel. I like it because it is storytelling as much as it is a sales pitch. The risk is that some agents will think this is gimmicky.
Please consider representing my story FAILUR. Though it has been a while since my fifteen minutes of fame, you may recall my role in stopping the “Harbinger” serial murderer. The mainstream media’s version of the event was sensationalized and manipulated by politicians and special interests. FAILUR will be the first time real story is told.
FAILUR is about my life leading up to the events at ‘the Altar’ on the so called Night of the Penultimate Motion. I hadn’t planned to become a werewolf. No one does. At first, I did what was expected. I went to the support groups. I medicated and quarantined myself. It was killing me. I’m not sure how I would have stilled the electricity in my limbs or the spinning wheels in my mind, had I not met Amanda Cross.
Amanda was not as she had been portrayed in the media. She was a creative free-spirit who loved to laugh (admittedly, she did have a bit of an edge). We were malcontents. Our lives were not going as planned. We were sick of the fake choices others offered us. When the prophecy seemed to come true, and the world started falling apart around us, we thought that we had just as much right as anyone to do something about it. We really didn’t know what we were doing. At first we were just wandering. We were reckless. We didn’t really mean to find trouble.
FAILUR is not just a book for werewolves. It will appeal to anyone who knows what it’s like to feel a little lost when their life plans have been derailed. It’s a story for anyone who has had trouble finding their own way.
I have included the first pages of the manuscript. The complete manuscript is 109,000 words and it is available upon request.
NOTE: While I am willing to work with editors to emphasize parts of the story they feel are of public interest, I will not comment on Ms. Cross’s present status (for reasons that are made clear in the narrative). I hope this is not a deal breaker.
I’ve used this pitch for two batches of queries. While I did not get agent representation from the first batch, I feel like I got better rejections. I can’t prove this. It is a subjective observation. I still got more form rejections than anything else. But I did get a few people wanting to read some pages, and some of the rejections seemed better thought out. My query even prompted at least one agent to go to my website.
I sent out another batch of 20+ queries recently. I’ve already received a number of form rejections. Most haven’t responded yet and maybe never will. Two agents liked the query, they read a few pages and they wanted to read more. It is normal for it to take agents between 4-8 weeks to read a manuscript. I’ve keep you posted.
When researching agents recently, I found an agent who had a note which said: “Due to conditions in the publishing market, this agent no longer accepts queries from authors who have not been previously published by a bona fide publisher.” The few people I’ve mentioned this too, thought it sounded harsh. The truth is that I like the simple directness of it. Really many of the agents express the same thing in their form rejection letters, just not as clearly.
The publishing industry sucks now. Fewer and fewer people buy/read books. Fewer and few large corporations own publishing and they are institutionally incapable or unwilling to champion books that do not fit in their marketing templates. The agents are very careful with their time. You’ve got a few seconds to convince them that they are going to be able to sell you to the publisher. It helps if your book happens to fit their particular passion, but it’s not necessarily enough.
I would almost feel sorry for them, but I have my own problems.
I rarely worry about whether my writing is good. I assume it is good. At least it pleases me in some way. I could always make the writing better. But at some point I have to decide to stop. I rarely worry about whether my writing is good. The question is, what is it good for.
Some of you would enjoy my novel. Some of you would not. You might think it is bad, or it may just be a story that does not interest you. It does not bother me that some people will not like my novel. Success is not counted by the ration readers who like or dislike the story. It’s not measured in the number of readers. I know this, and yet I am still too reliant on this big publishing industry to get out my book.
What I need to do is to work on alternate distribution channels. I talk about this all of the time. I need to work on online publishing, podcasts, or printing on demand. I need to find the online community of people who would be interested in this story. One of the reasons I haven’t done this is laziness (well, not entirely laziness, I have recently been obsessed with completing the 30,000 work “outline” for my next story). But part of me is still stuck on the idea, I want my book to sitting on a shelf a Barnes and Noble.
In its current form, my new BIG story is 30,000 words: too big for an outline, too small for a first draft. I really like how this one is going, but there is a lot more work to do. The plot is pretty complete, but the characters, subtext, and voice is mostly still in my head.
In some ways the new story (working title “Lennon 45”), is the opposite of FAILUR. Failure is about a couple of malcontents looking for action (or looking to do something worthwhile). Lennon 45 is about a young reporter who is ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time’ – danger finds him. I had in mind films like “North by Northwest” and “Three Days of the Condor.”
Lennon takes place in the fall of 1970. The 60’s a literally over, but the Vietnam war continues. The previous spring, the public learned that the war had expanded to Cambodia. One student protest over the expanded war, the ROTC program, and the low admission of black student at Kent State resulted in four students (including two not in the protest) being shot and killed by the National Guard. To many people, the president, Richard Nixon, seems cold and unsympathetic to the slain protestors. Nixon does meet with student leaders and decides that they are willing or unwitting pawns of international communists. In the fall, just before my story begins, the Weather Underground has just broken Timothy Leary out of prison (for which they were paid $25,000 by the Brotherhood of Eternal Love) and Janis Joplin has died.
My story is not a about the historic 1970. It is an adventure set in a fantasy 1970 of Russian spies, government conspiracy, mass behavior medication experiments, underground radicals, and dangerous science.
More to come, as the story develops.
I don’t keep up well with Shannon. She lives across the country. We talk maybe once a year. But just after college, Shannon, Michael and I had several ‘adventures’ out on the west coast. Recently a firend of Shannon’s, asked several people that knew her to write something about her for a surprise birthday party. Below is what I wrote. While not my best writing, I think it captures the feeling of the time well. It is a prequeal in a way to Gear and Loafing in America.
In ’91 Shannon and I slogged through the congested urban hellscape of Los Angeles in my blue Toyota hatchback looking for work. Everything in LA was an hour by car. Half of the time that car shook with stupid goofy hilarity. We made up songs. We riffed on stupid billboards, the ubiquitous neon mini-malls, and the million over gaudy symbols of a city constantly on the make. And we laughed at ourselves and our lack of marketable job skills.
The rest of the time we shouted. By our early twenties, we had discovered that the world was pretty screwed up and we were pretty pissed off about it. Los Angeles, was a polluted city with sepia air, where vulgar conspicuous consumption butted up against poverty. It gave us many exampled of what was wrong with the culture of greed and commercialism. On the radio Dr. Helen Caldecott told us that the Earth was dying and a president named Bush had just sent the nation to an unnecessary war in Iraq (Ok, compared to Iraqi Freedom, Dessert Storm seems almost holy, but it was still bullshit. For history buffs: what was the ‘peace dividend?’)
We yelled because the world was wrong and because we were in a recession. Because our degrees were less valuable than the frames they were set in. Because we had no way to do anything meaningful. Because our lives were out of balance.
We yelled and sang old songs.
We starve-look at one another - short of breath - walking proudly in our winter coats wearing smells from laboratories - facing a dying nation - of moving paper fantasy - listening for the new told lies - with supreme visions of lonely tunes
And when we could yell no more at the world, we turned on each other and yelled some more.
Shannon and I went to an employment agency. They were polite to me and allowed me to fill out an application. When they saw Shannon, they had stuck employment agency gold. They immediately sent her out on interviews for “pretty young receptionist/secretary” jobs. Shannon didn’t get the first job. She’d taken the interview seriously. She had asked intelligent questions about the business and tired to find interest in what they were doing. This had been a mistake. They had not been looking for someone intelligent and interested. They wanted a “pretty young receptionist/secretary.”
This did not at all sit well with Shannon, but she was quickly moving though her small cash reserve. She needed a paycheck. A few days later she interviewed with another company. This time she acted demur, friendly but passive. She got the job, working for two real estate loan guys in large commercial banks. She spent her time at bank finding ways subtle and overt to torture them.
Michael T. came to Los Angeles a couple of months after Shannon. Unlike Shannon and me, Michael had a degree useful in the job market (Electrical Engineering) and actual job experience programming. Like us, Michael had trouble finding a job. After hundreds of miles negotiating the smog sea for a job (and anything of value), Michael came up with the theory that it was in fact Hell. Hell, Michael theorized was not a burning pit, but a place of endless frustration and discomfort where you struggled to get ahead not realizing that on that next level just contained more frustration.
It wasn’t long, though, before we found a pattern around one of the few things we could control – food. Each Saturday we would spend hours strolling down Fairfax shopping at bakeries, delis, and independent produce markets. Each evening we spent an hour or two preparing out dinner. Our chores where time consuming but not tedious. The food was fresh. It was unprocessed. We had circumvented the system, albeit in a small way.
It was Shannon’s idea to move to Oregon. Nominally we were moving to go back to school to find something we could make a career of. In truth, we went to Oregon with a utopian vision. We were going to find intentional communities, sustainable living, and alternate economies.
We drove up to Oregon to check it out. Along Interstate about an hour outside of Los Angeles was an art installation by the conceptual artist, Christo. There were miles and miles of giant yellow umbrellas. The Los Angeles media was all a buzz about the umbrellas. Just as the LA cultured class was asking itself if it was art or not, the wind pulled on of the umbrellas loose and it killed a woman. In our small group we never asked if the umbrellas were art, to us they just more ore the careless viciousness of LA.
Shannon and I left LA sonn after than. Michael found a job, and so again he would follow us a little later. We drove up the coast and as usual we laughed and we yelled and we sang old songs.
LA is a great big freeway. Put a hundred down and buy a car. With a dream in your heart you are never alone, but dreams turn into dust and blow away. And there you are without a friend. You pack your car and drive away…
But of course were we not “without a friend.” We had our little group and we had a mission, but that is another story.
When I started FAILUR, I wanted to have the characters floating in a world without any sense of context: no history, no politics, no science. I wanted that characters - who were essentially searching for relevance - to live in a vacuum. It was that their world had no history or that there was no science, it was that most people (including my protagonist) lived in modern world without thinking about it, without any idea about how history or science affected them. Without context, people turned to marketing to find something that passed for meaning. Without context, people were easily manipulated by politicians and special interest group. In other words, I wanted to portray modern culture as it is.
Now, in a political season, it is very clear how this works. Candidate (or often their segregates) make gut-level claim that often fall apart if one looks back even a few weeks in the past, their arguments fall apart. One reason that I love the Jon Steward show is because they juxtapose politician’s words with the most obvious of contradictions - something that the “real” news media pretending that they are unbiased fails to do. I believed that is people applied a rudimentary understanding of history, culture, civics, and science, most politicians would be blown off stage with the force of the audience’s contempt and laughter.
But I digress…
With FAILUR, I strained to put my characters in a world without context. It didn’t work. Early in the planning stages I built a political world for my characters that became integral to the plot and themes of the story. Even with this, the whole time I wrote the story, I wanted to make more connections with the real world.
One thing I am enjoying about writing “Lennon 45″ (the working title for my next novel or screenplay), is that it has a sense of context. I get to include politics, culture and technology from 1970 and before. My characters are affected (often indirectly) by the shootings at Kent State, Amazon Mythology, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, Operation Overlord (a.k.a. D-Day), the Philadelphia Experiment, the Bohemian Club, over-sized punch card computers, and good old vinyl records. I doubt that I will be praised for my exhaustive research or ultra-realistic setting, but it is making the writing more fun.
I’m feeling rushed. This is nothing new. I always feel rushed.
I promised myself that I would write something here once a week. It was my way to keep myself in balance. Otherwise I become too anxious about the BIG STORY. I want it done now. I can never do enough on the BIG STORY until it is done. In my heart I still chase the BIG dream of the BIG novel, that turns into a BIG film, and launches the BIG writing career.
I keep chasing the fantasy.
Doug, at work, keeps saying that the Internet is the future. He is looking at pod casts. I believe he is right. The internet, new media, is the way to go. It is still open enough that you can carve out a niche without being beholden to big dinosaur industries. I need to spend a little more time, looking into it, but I’m too busy chasing the BIG dream.
I don’t have a title yet for the new BIG story. I’ll tentatively call it Lennon 45. While I’m unhappy about the speed of progress (I’m never happy with the speed of progress), I’m pretty happy with the story so far. The “outline” will be about 25,000 words. I think to myself, that all I will have to do is to add 2 words for every word in the outline and I will have another novel. Of course this isn’t exactly true. I’m going to have to put an awful lot of characterization and style into those two words.
The new BIG story follow a young reporter in 1970, who gets into a mess of trouble when an ex-girlfriend – now a Weather Underground like radical – comes back into his life. It’s wrong place at the wrong time story consciously channeling Hitchcock’s North by Northwest and Three Days of the Condor, but with a light Science Fiction edge. I am having some problems with the B-story, which follow an FBI agent (I’m probably changing this to a Police Detective). The B-story is still a little too functional. Both the reporter and FBI agent/detective are archetypes from old movies and television, but their world will be much more subversive.
Well, I’ve better get back to it. I’ve only got a little time to work on the BIG story, before I’ve got to do something else.
- Ignore advice from people who have not been successful. What do they know? All they can give you is conjecture and rehashed conventional wisdom they read from what was probably a better source.
- Be famous already. Agents and publishers love working with authors who have a wide following before their book is even released. This reduces their risk. If you are not famous already, remember in this case ‘infamous’ is almost as good as regular famous. Go out their and sleep with a celebrity or politician. Keep in mind that there are laws that prevent convicts from profiting from their crimes, so you will have to find a legal way to get public attention.
- Nepotism!
- Find opportunities to discuss your project with your literary friends. Invite some agents to your place in the Hamptoms. Play racket ball with your old Yale buddy that’s now at Penguin.
- Join the Writer’s Digest Book Club, and get a book about formatting and submitting your novel and three other books for “FREE” when you agree to purchase another Writer’s Digest Book Club selection at the regular club price. About every three weeks you will receive in the mail the Writer’s Digest Book Club catalog of books with a featured “Book of the Month” which you will be sent automatically if you do not return the order form indicating you do not want it. After a few months you will forget to send the order form back in time and receive the featured book. It will probably be about making you memoir a spiritual. You will think about returning it, but decide it is easier to keep it. (Note: This description my not accurately represent any actual Writer’s Digest Book Club plan or offer. The Writer’s Digest Book Club is not associated with this site.)
- Go to the store and find a book that is something like yours. (What? No other books like yours? Congratulations! You just wrote a book that has no market). Read the book. Find out who the author’s agent is. If you are lucky that author will have thanked the agent in the acknowledgement section. You may also be able to find the agent through a search online. If you cannot find out who the agent is, start over. Go back to the book store and buy another book. Now look up that agent at the agent’s website or in a guide to agents and find out what they are looking for. Read reviews of other books the agent has sold. Find out if the agent is currently accepting unsolicited queries from new authors. If not, start over. Right a one page query letter to the agent explaining how your book fits the agent’s list. Describe the premise of your story, what makes it stand out from other books, and why someone would want to read it. Send the query by email if the agent accepts is that way. Now one of three things happens: a) you get a return email within 24-hour explaining how you should keep trying even though they didn’t think the book was quit right for them; b) you never get a response from the agent; or c) the agent asks you to send the first fifty pages
- Add pictures or artwork with your query. If it is really cool, maybe it will catch the agent’s eye. Or if you are not an artist, attach something to the query letter that is meaningful to your story – a black feather from that mysterious crow that follow around your protagonist; or a tiger-striped dotted just like the one you main character wears. Even though all the article and book about writing to agents tell you that this will be perceived as gimmicky or unprofessional by the agent, maybe, just maybe, the agent will understand what you are trying to do. Perhaps they will keep your query letter long enough to really think about it. And if they really think about it, they will realize that it is a good idea. And if they will just read a few pages then they will see your writing and then they will understand your story and everything you put into it and they will know that they can get others to enjoy your story and then you will be published because it doesn’t matter if most agents think your picture, feather or button is stupid, you just have to get one to understand.
- Indiscriminately send a query letter to every agent you can find. Fuck it, it’s not like most of them are going to read it anyway. You might as well just get over with. If none of them can recognize a good story then screw them.
- Go into a deep depression for a while.
- Consider self-publishing.
- Go into a deep depression for a while.
- Take up painting, yoga, or online gaming.
- Go into a deep depression for a while.
- Consider self-publishing.
- Go to the store and find a book that is something like yours. Read the book. Find out who the author’s agent is. Send them a query.
Lately I’ve felt a little disembodied. This is partly a cost of writing, of working out variations of scenes like a meddling god until they are right in my head. But I don’t think state is only a symptom of the writing. It’s also an effect of my job. I sit in my cube for hours floating in cyberspace. The monitor is my eyes, the headset my ears. My hands are mouse and keyboard. I communicate by email. I meet with a global conference bridge with people in Casablanca, Scotland, Malaysia, England, Panama, and China. We joke with each other about the position of the sun. It is morning here, afternoon there. They say good day; I say good night. My Tuesday winds down and as they begin Wednesday. We joke about how our shared sun comes and leave us, and I think we laugh in part because we know it is irrelevant to our work.
Almost no coworkers sit around me. I have some friends nearby, but most of my Texas coworkers work in another building across the street. Many of these coworkers don’t like me. I’m not saying this as some sort of dramatic self-loathing. Their dislike is not personal. They don’t like me for business reasons. It is a new global team, but many of them have worked together for a long time. I am an outsider, and I have been tasked with changing things they have done for years. I’m tipping their sacred cow. This situation will change. Nothing stays the same very long in my company. It’s been a hard year. People are scared or frustrated. But for now, it keeps the distance. And I work primarily through wires and signals.
No wonder I have a problem snacking too much at work. I get up from my desk, walk across the floor to the candy jar at a friend’s desk. It is a change to move, even a little. It is a change to taste something of the earth.
The cost of this is that I have trouble switching gears and getting out of my head. At work I got feedback that my presentations were too dry. I didn’t engage my audience. Sometimes in groups of friends I struggle to be there in mood and tone. At home I work to connect with my family. These are temporary struggles. They come and go. I have always been a little too mental. I know how to fight this fight. But I get torn with motivation. I know where I am most effective. I struggle with myself and with my circumstances.
I have had one response to the 10 queries I sent out so far. An agent who I sent a sample chapter and synopsis wanted 100 pages. It’s a good thing, but too early to declare the Winter Campaign a success. I promise to tell ou more about the Winter Campaign soon. Really I want to tell you about it before it is clearly a success or failure. If I tell you about it after it’s failed, then the stupidity of it will be too aparent. If I wait until it is successful, I will seem that I did not have enough confidence to tell you about it until it was proven. My plan is to post it with my next newsletter.
Last week I sent another 10 queries to agents – snail mail this time. I’ve adopted a new tactic. A good query does two things. It sets the proper expectations about the manuscript and keeps the agent’s attention long enough to so that they will think about it before rejecting it. I’m hoping that they will see it as clever and original. The risk, though of going something different is that they will think it is gimmicky and that it gives them an excuse to move on the next one. I’ll tell you about the new tactic soon, at the moment I have some other things on my mind.
“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed or buy anything sold or processed or repair anything sold, bought or processed as a career. I don’t want to do that.”
- Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack), Say Anything“You pretend to be more eccentric than you actually are because you fear you are an interchangeable cog.”
- Douglas Coupland
I sold buttons with my roommates (Michael, Shannon, and MK) when I lived in Eugene, Oregon in semi-optional poverty. We’d scraped together $100 to mail order the button materials and we’d borrowed the button press from MK’s brother Charles, who sold tie-dye stuff at Dead concerts (which would make Charles feel entitled to steal from us later).
| The button designs were mostly conventional: symbols (like ankhs, yin yang, and peace signs), quotes from Freud, Einstein, Gloria Steinem, and Marx, and political statements (Free Tibet!), smiley faces, and character (the Grinch and “Bill” from School House Rock). We came up with some original slogans and designs, like “Follow me, I’m Jesus” and “Fuck off! I’m Meditating.” |  |
I used Michael’s Apple to create the gears that now appear as the header of my website and newsletter for a button that said, “Don’t be a Cog.” This wasn’t just another slogan to me. At the time, this directive had resonance and urgency. I’d rejected the big industrial-commercial machine. I saw that civilization was a giant Ponzi scheme, borrowing from the environment and the poor to finance temporary gain. I wanted as little to do with it as possible. I was going to use my time doing something worthwhile, or at least something creative and fun. And if I couldn’t do either, I wanted to do as little as possible.
 |
I had mixed success at doing little. I was a part time shift supervisor at a skating rink in nearby Springfield. I got off early enough in the evenings that I could go to a bar or a night diner. There was no alarm clock. When I decided to get up, I would bicycle along the Willamette River, stopping to practice Tai Chi or to pick blackberries when they were in season. I often went hiking or hung out at Buffalo Gals (a coffee shop where I was known). And sometimes I wrote stories or worked on schemes with my roommates. Only frequent misery kept it from being perfect. |
Despite the schemes, it was stagnant. I was restless and impatient. My roommates were my best friends, but we had lived together a little too long in a too too crowded apartment. Increasingly we all looked for ways out. I didn’t date and had sex even less. And my poverty was only partially voluntary. Unless someone wanted me to direct a short film, I had no marketable skills. I was at the end of my middle twenties, and I’d failed at (or turned my back on) my first two ambitions. I was running out of ideas.
 |
In many ways, my life is better now. I’m married and I have a smart and silly five year old. I know many interesting people, some of which I can call friends. I have a fairly good job, a house, and I put money away for the future. Perhaps, I’m a wage slave, but I’m just as much a slave to my writing. I have less free time, I don’t know if I would have ever had the discipline to write a novel with my loose schedule I’d had in Oregon. |
In most way things are much better now than they were when I created the gears artwork, but I am definitely a COG.
| Most of my waking hours are spent in routine, work, chores, feeding. My job can be interesting, but it is all about saving money for a large multinational corporation. I may free time it is difficult not to want to crash by the TV or play a stupid game on the computer. I look for ways out of the machine. But I know that even if I become a successful novelist, it is no guarantee I will escape (it could, in fact pull me in deeper). |  |
Though long gone, that guy that created the gears artwork is my harshest and most interested critics. He wouldn’t necessarily been opposed to my job (to him all non-personal job were the same: janitors, offices temp, project manager, etc.) He would not approve of my working overtime (without time and a half!) He would have frowned when I took the job home with me or when I lost sleep over it. He would have expected me to spend more time with some political or community cause. Mostly, he would have hated that I ever allowed routine to make me forget what is important: Action! Creativity! Connection! He would have been pleased that I was trying to get my novel published, even if it took me forever.
I’m not sure if my former self would have approved of my life now. But then again, he didn’t know everything.
The intermediate art between the button and the header.
If werewolves were real, mostly likely we would have killed them all by now. Or maybe they would have killed us. If somehow we’d all managed to survive we would have come to a state of equilibrium. If werewolves real they would be very mundane. When the news reported on how a new bill in Congress changed federal werewolf policy, most people would turn the channel to see if they could find out what Brittney is up to.
If vampires were real, there would be degrees programs in blood management. Blood bank chains would be run by multinational conglomerates. Jobs in the blood industry might pay well, but you wouldn’t see a lot of TV shows about glamorous characters working in it.
If ghosts were as common as cockroaches, there would be all sorts of sprays and powers to get rid of them. If the exorcism industry wasn’t well regulated, these home remedies would probably be toxic to humans. Chances are no one would pay much attention to the regulations because when you had ghosts you’d just want to get rid of them as fast as possible, and it you didn’t, who cares? You’re too busy to worry about these things.
I’m sorry. Am I being a killjoy?
Any sufficiently familiar magic is indistinguishable from technology. Monsters are easily integrated in our lives.
I’ve posted my first excerpt from my novel, FAILUR. It is a scene that happens earlier chronilogically than most of the action in the story. The protagonist is only a couple of years out of college. He has a godd job with a consulting firm something like Accenture. He is a little arrogant, but he is already beginning to sense something is wrong. I wanted to include a gypsy warning, like in an old black and white Universal horror movie, but I wanted to make it very modern. His dealings with the gypsy will have reprocussions later in the story.
This is an excerpt from my novel FAILUR. It happens earlier chronilogically than most of the action in the story. Warren is only a couple of years out of college. He has a godd job with a consulting firm something like Accenture. He is a little arrogant, but he is already beginning to sense something is wrong. I wanted to include a gypsy warning, like in an old black and white Universal horror movie, but I wanted to make it very modern. Warren’s dealings with the gypsy will have reprocussions later in the story.
The Market Plan of the Mall Gypsies
from FAILUR: A Werewolf Love Story
(Copyright Brian Wittenbrook 2007)
As soon I entered the room, I knew it was a mistake. The woman gazed downward as if she was in a trance or meditating or something. I waited. I decided it was up to her to make the first move. After all, I was paying. Just as I was getting tired of waiting, she looked up. Her eyes were fierce. I was startled. I flinched. Ok, so she had the dramatics. I’ll grant her that. I made it a point to hold her gaze after that.
“You have the mark of the wolf.”
“What?” I said. She had startled me again.
“You have the mark of the wolf!” The old gray gypsy woman repeated the pronouncement.
“Crap!” I couldn’t believe that I let Gilbert talk me into this. Forty dollars wasted.
The gypsy laughed. “Come in,” she said, “sit down. You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you? What will it be? You want to talk to the dead? You want to know your future?”
“Sure, whatever,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said the gypsy, “you can outsmart me. Maybe we talk awhile. You can catch me in a lie, or see through my trickery. I have to warn you though, I’ve been doing this for a long time and I’m very good at it.”
The gypsy’s frankness surprised and amused me.
“Come on, sit down and talk to me for a few minutes,” said the gypsy, “The first moment I look at you I can see that you don’t want to be taken in by an old gypsy like me. But I’m a very clever talker. I think I can find something to interest you. Besides, you’ve already paid for the time, and there are no refunds.”
What the hell? I sat down at the table across from the gypsy.
“What do you want me to do first?” asked the gypsy. “Shall I impress you by guessing your profession? Give me three guesses.”
“You need three guesses? I would have thought that you would use your powers and get it on the first try.”
“Give yourself a little credit. You are not that obvious,” said the gypsy. “Let’s see, you are very young. You haven’t been out of college long. This is your first job. It’s a very good job. You are successful for your age, but you are not comfortable yet in your success. You dress very well – very professional but not stiff. You are proud of your position. You like making money. You might be a lawyer, but no, I don’t think so. You dress like a sales person.”
“Good guess, but wrong,” I said.
“Ok, I get two more guesses. The questions is, what brings you to the M-A-double-hockey-sticks on a weeknight. You didn’t buy your clothes at this mall. I don’t think this is where you shop by choice. You are here because it is convenient. You are probably staying in one of the hotels nearby. You are here on a business trip. You have alcohol on your breath. You probably had drinks with coworkers or clients at T-Buds. Now you are wandering the mall, because you don’t have anywhere to go except back to your hotel room. You are a consultant. I’m right. Aren’t I?”
I agreed. The gypsy was correct.
“You are from one of the prestigious consulting firms that hire a lot of young people out of college like Melvin-Conroy, or Brinkley Barnum.”
“That’s right, Brinkley Barnum,” I said. She was good, but she was still just guessing. “Now what? Are you going to tell me my future?”
“I could show you your future, but the procedure is imperfect, expensive, and many find it disturbing. No, I don’t think you want me to show you your future, but I can give you insight.”
“I’m not really looking for a spiritual therapist.”
“I’m more of a spiritual consultant,” she said. “I’m intrusive. I tell you what you should do with yourself. In the end, you can’t be sure if you could have done just as well without me.”
I laughed. “Do you always insult your clients?”
“Most of them don’t catch it,” said the gypsy. “Tell me, do you like motorcycles?”
“No, why?”
“Not at all?”
“Not really. Why? What’s the deal with motorcycles?”
“It’s nothing. Tell me about yourself. How is the career going? Is it everything you’d expected so far?”
I decided there was no harm talking to the gypsy. She had been correct. I had nowhere to go except back to my hotel room to watch television and log a few more hours. I had gone with my coworkers to the T-Buds on the other side of the mall for happy hour. We’d gone to T-Buds almost every night since we’d come to Fort Lethe. At first, we had gone most nights after happy hour searching for merchandise or entertainment on which we could dispose our generous per diems. Now, about five weeks into the three-month assignment, we usually went back to our rooms after T-Buds.
Julie, Jonathan, Gilbert, and I were the younger members of the Brinkley Barnum team on the Fort Lethe assignment. We worked together, ate together, drank together, laughed, and argued with each other. We were proud that we worked for Brinkley Barnum. We had been chosen from among many for our skill and promise. We made good money and expected to make a lot more. We were hard working, smart, and very competitive. Each of us knew that we would be the first to make partner.
That night, as usual, we laughed about the follies of our client, the billing office for the Bauldi Hospital network. They needed our assistance more than they could comprehend. We complained about our project leaders, the senior members of the team. They gave us the crap work and little credit. They treated us like we didn’t know anything. Granted, they had more experience, but we had a fresh perspective they lacked. They needed our creativity even if they didn’t acknowledge it. We suspected that the senior members of the team resented us a little. We had talent. We knew it. We were a circle of geniuses. We would be recognized and rewarded for our abilities.
I think I loved that group, a little. They were the best allies and fiercest competitors I could have hoped for. Gilbert had been with Brinkley Barnum a little longer than the rest of us. He thought of himself as our leader. On these extended trips, he planned most of the outings: dinners, ball games, bowling, clubs, or movies. Usually the rest of us went along with his plans, but we thought of him more as our mascot than our leader. Julie and I had started at Brinkley Barnum the same summer. Julie had a deep smile that most of the guys mistook for flirting. Jonathan had joined Brinkley Barnum the year before. He had a bashful bladder.
“I do not have a bashful bladder,” said Jonathan.
“How come you are always running back to your hotel room before the rest of us?”
“I just need to get back to the hotel room. That’s all,” said Jonathan. “The bashful bladder joke is getting really stale.”
The rest of us voted and decided that no, in fact, the joke was not getting old.
“What about dinner?” asked Gilbert. “Anyone up for seafood?”
We weren’t. Jonathan planned to grab a burger on the way back to his room. Julie wanted to shop a little. Gilbert and I had nothing better to do. So, we followed her to Great Pages, where we each purchased a copy of the latest business bestseller, Constructing Leviathan. I knew Julie would actually read the book. I had already read the reviews. I thought I understood the main points enough to discuss the book, at least with associates that also hadn’t read it. I didn’t like the picture of the author, Leonard Morrow, on the dust jacket. He looked too smug. I decided that when I appeared on the cover of my best-selling book, I would look friendlier. Morrow’s smugness made me resent him all the more for taking another twenty dollars from me.
After Great Pages, Comfort Tech, Edges, and Gizmos and Stuff! Julie was ready to go back to the hotel. Gilbert wanted to stay. Usually, I would have gone back with Julie, but I was feeling restless. Most nights I phoned Valerie when I got back, but this evening she was dining with a group of doctors and telling them about her company’s new heart medication. I had nothing to look forward to at the hotel, but cable movies and endless spreadsheets.
I followed Gilbert deeper into the mall. He chatted tirelessly about something. When he confided in me that he thought Julie had been flirting with him, I assured him that she had not. Gilbert and I came to a branch of the mall that I hadn’t been down before. It didn’t look promising. I knew from the maps that there was no anchor store this way. The wing was a gloomy beige and white. It hadn’t yet been remodeled to the more elegant gray and white of the rest of the mall. Passing archaic chain stores and lackluster homegrown boutiques, I found nothing of interest. It depressed me inexplicably. I found myself daydreaming about six-figure bonuses, about being interviewed by leading business journals, about my name in big letters on the outside of an office tower.
“Look! Let’s go in here,” said Gilbert with his typical dopey enthusiasm that made you want to go along. Having nothing better to do, I followed Gilbert into the Fortunes, Etc.
Fortunes, Etc. stores were for the gullible. I’d never been in one before, but it was about what I’d expected. Voodoo dolls, craven images, and stone idols filled the shelves, representing no consistent culture or creed. There were racks of candles and red and yellow leather bound books. Charms, talismans, and symbols promised easy love, wealth, or revenge.
Back in college, I’d read a case study of the Fortunes, Etc. franchise for a marketing class. Fortunes, Etc. had two types of customers. Most customers came. to buy talismans and idols to decorate the walls of their bedroom or dorm to make their lives less mundane.
The other type of customer was fewer in number, but spent more money. They came to Fortunes, Etc. to gain more control over their lives or at least hedge their bets against uncertainty. They bought trinkets, tomes, and salves to help them obtain love, revenge, or wealth. For these customers there were four doors. Three of the doors went to fortune rooms, where the mall gypsies read palms, tarot cards, and tea leaves. The fourth door was marked “Do Not Enter.” You had to prove your knowledge, desperation, or wealth before you were allowed past the fourth door. Beyond the fourth door, was the room where the “sophisticated” and “enlightened” shoppers could find the “real” stuff, or where the suckers bought the expensive stuff, depending on how you saw it. Even after you were admitted, the gypsies would sell you nothing until you had accepted the responsibility of the power they offered. It was part of the market plan of the mall gypsies. They made you work for it, or at least made you feel like you were working for it.
“Let’s get our fortunes read,” said Gilbert. I can’t explain how he convinced me. Maybe it was his almost giddy excitement and I had nothing better to do.
Once I’d made it clear to the mall gypsy that I didn’t want any bogus hocus pocus, I actually enjoyed talking to her. The gypsy had remained largely silent while I told her about my career, about Valerie and about my plans. When I’d finished, the gypsy stared at me as if considering my words or my soul.
“You want me to tell your future?”
I nodded noncommittally. I wasn’t expecting much.
“It is very likely that you will be disappointed in your ambitions.”
I smiled. It was a joke. “Is this the way you keep customers?” I asked.
“You want me to tell you that you will inherit a fortune from a long lost relative, or some bullshit? You’ll be fine. Probably, you’ll be better off than most. Unless you are very careful, however, you will plateau. You will be frustrated.”
“Unless I buy something from you to help me take control of my destiny, right?”
“We both know you aren’t going to buy anything from me. I have nothing to gain or lose by saying this. You need to decide what you want.”
“See, you don’t know me at all. I know exactly what I want. I’m going to get it. I’m going to do whatever it takes. And, I’m going to do it my own way.”
“Which is it?”
“What?”
“You are going to do whatever it takes, or you are going to do it your own way? There is a difference.”
“You don’t make any sense. I don’t need your help. I have a mentor back at the office, who helps me without speaking in riddles.”
“It is a shame you aren’t a motorcycle enthusiast,” said the gypsy.
“What are you talking about?”
“There is this man. His name is Mansfield or Mandrake. He is the head of your company.”
“You mean Sherman Manchester, president of Brinkley Barnum?”
“Yes, that is the one. He is passionate about motorcycles. He collects them. He used to race them. Maybe he still does. Perhaps if you knew more about motorcycles-”
“How do you know Manchester is into motorcycles?”
“I have my sources.” She didn’t say what her sources were. I didn’t believe they were supernatural. Manchester was well known. Most likely, the gypsy had read something about Manchester in a magazine, assuming, of course, that her intel was even true.
“What did you think?” asked Gilbert when he’d finished talking to his gypsy and I to mine.
“Not worth the money,” I said. I didn’t want to admit that it had been more interesting that I thought. Toward the end, I had allowed the gypsy to get to me a little. It was my fault. She was just doing her job. I had no plan to come back, but I had to admit I had a little more respect for Fortunes, Etc. and their market plan. Before going, I glanced back at that fourth door that went back to the secret room. It was a clever gimmick. I had to admit I was curious about what was back there.
It would be almost a year before I asked the old mall gypsy to show me.
About a week ago there was a fire at the KOOP Radio studio. It is the third fire the radio station had in two years. According to the news the first two fires were accidents. Authorities say that the latest fire was arson.
There was a time that I was down at KOOP (pronounced “co-op as in cooperative, not as in chicken coop). the station two, three, or four time a week. I did shows on the air occasionally. I was a volunteer coordinator. And sometimes I just hung out. I was there the first day the station broadcast. I helped the station move to its previous office in the old Cotton Exchange office on 5th Street. I owned the station. We all did.
It’s been several years since I’ve been part KOOP, but the story really brought it back to me. It wasn’t completely surprising to hear that there had been another fire. Nor was it that surprising to hear that it had been set on purpose. KOOP was always home to passionate artists and activists. The folks I knew were amazing musicians, performance artists, protestors, organizers, reporters, poets, dreamers, and arguers. There were a lot of verbal battles and endless tense meetings. I don’t mean to suggest that these arguments turn into arson, far from it. The arguments came from a lot of passionate people wanting to be heard. And as frustrating as these meeting were, we kept coming back for more.
The climate was also prefect for borderline personalities, would be dictators, and giant egos. There were always a few people who understand thoroughly that their opinion was that of truth and righteousness. It was axiomatic that anyone disagreeing with them meant you were corrupt, probably a fascist or FBI infiltrator.
KOOP is not mine anymore. I don’t know the people there now, but it would surprise me if it the people had changed that much. KOOP wasn’t just a radio station, it was a lifestyle.
Eel is to Twix bar
as
Jellyfish is to Hershey’s Chocolate bar
as
Lobster is to M & Ms
A cow is to what? Twix bar, Hershey’s Chocolate bar, or M & Ms? Why?
- On a lazy day, approach a stranger.
- Look serious but a little confused.
- Ask: “What day is it today?”
- When they tell you the day of the week or the date, say: “No. What’s the year? What year is it?”
- When they well you, repeat the year aloud. Look incredulous.
- Hurry off.
Bonus Point if you are wearing clothes from the 80s.
Double Bonus Points if you are wearing a “futuristic” silver jumpsuit.
| Date | Description | |
| 02 - 16 - 2008 | 1001 Tips for Creating an Irresistible Query Letter - Post about strategies for writing to agents and getting them interested in your work. | |
| 02 - 16 - 2008 | Disembodied Days - TOom many things going on in my head. The abstraction of work. | |
| 02 - 03 - 2008 | Winter Campaign - Update - Progress! | |
| 02 - 03 - 2008 | FAQ - Added question about significances of gear in header. | |
| 01 - 25 - 2008 | The Winter Campaign - Introducting my latest strategy for selling the story. | |
| 01 - 25 - 2008 | Gears and Loafing in America - The origins of the gear artwork on the top of the website. | |
| 01 - 13 - 2008 | If Ghost Were Cockroaches - Thoughts about monsters which appear in my story. | |
| 01 - 13 - 2008 | The Market Plan of the Mall Gypsies - An excerpt from my novel. | |
| 01 - 13 - 2008 | Air and Fire - About the fire at a radio station. | |
| 12 - 20 - 2007 | Logic Problems - Post about my writing | |
| 12 - 20 - 2007 | Puzzles and Pranks - Added puzzles and pranks page. |
A: Socrates is a man.
B: All men are mortal.
C: All men are Socrates.
- Woody Allen, Love and Death
Recently in my writing I have found myself repeatedly fighting against logic. This bothers me because I’d always assumed that my stories would be more logical. The problem is that almost every time that I find that a story is getting too boring and tedious it is because I’m trying to provide a logical explanation for the characters and action. Increasingly I’m making jumps in my writing. What’s worse is that sometimes I like it.
The truth is that when you control the whole world, you can make almost anything logical. But often the logical explanation is BORING, SLOWS the story down, or BREAKS THE FLOW. In FAILUR, I didn’t want my protagonist to have a cell phone (cell phones can be a problem for suspense), even though it was an obvious choice for him. In the story I’m writing now (I don’t have a title yet, my working title is Anachronism), I didn’t want my hero, Franklin, to go to the police after he is attacked, even though this is the smart thing for him to do. In both cases I’ve made up perfectly good reasons why they don’t do the sensible thing. But my justifications were tedious. I’m not sure that anyone would want to read them. I’m temped to add footnotes for people who miss the detailed explanations.
I feel guilty about this. Good writing feels natural. When logical gaps are noticed it makes the story seem contrived. Nevertheless what I am working on now in my writing is keeping the narrative interesting. In the past I’ve wasted too many words trying to get the plot accurate. Playing a little loose with the logic has been liberating. Like binge drinking I’ll probably regret it later.
BTW – NO logic gaps are allowed along the main line of the character arc.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.- Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead.- The Doors, Horse Latitudes
The winds at the Horse Latitudes are variable and unpredictable, making the seas alternately choppy, and calm. Colonial ships, their sails stilled, could be stuck in the hot humid waters of the Horse Latitudes for weeks. Precipitation is uncommon. Sometimes, to conserve water and lighten their loads, sailors would pitch horses overboard and drown them in these treacherous seas. It is for this that these latitudes (30-35 degrees north and south of the Equator) get their name. (Actually they may be named for the Persian general and navigator, Sataspes, but this explanation is not as interesting.)
Now, at the end of 2007 my story is adrift. I was a good enough navigator to know it was coming, but not a good enough captain to avoid it. A few days ago I’d received a rejection from the last agent that took any interest in my story. I haven’t sent any queries out for a while, mostly because I have been focused on my outline of my next story (and my website). My problem at the moment is not how to get my novel published, however. Right now, I’m thinking about how I continue writing these posts from still waters.
When I started writing these posts there was movement. I announced that I had completed the novel and that there was some immediate interest by agents. I knew that it would not last. Even with “quick” success in publishing could take two years before the book was in print. More likely it would five years or more, and it might be the second or third book that finally sold. Foolishly perhaps, I began writing this story, knowing that I would likely become stuck along the way with little apparent movement.
But it is lazy to view life as a lot of waiting between destinations (and depressing I think). As a writer, it interests me to show the stillness between the big actions – to show that it is not really stillness at all. The real reason I write this, however, is because as long as I have a story to tell, then my pursuit has not failed. The real failure is running out of story, and I am far from running out of story. Of course I would like a wide audience, but it doesn’t matter it my story goes out like a lonely message in a bottle bobbing the waves that my never find it shore. As long as I’ve got story, I have something.
Still I want to keep my story interesting. I don’t want to be like the Ancient Mariner spending eternity accosting wedding with his albatross killing story. So while I end 2007 stuck in my own Horse Latitudes, wondering what I might have to jettison to propel my story onward, I’ll leave you with a preview of directions the story might take.
I will try new ways to sell my story to agents. I may decide to make significant rewrites to the manuscript. This will be ugly, but it may be the best path. I will continue the work on the next novel, which could overtake FAILUR. Meanwhile I intend to explore new ways to get my stories out their and to make connections with other writers. I shall tell you a little something of the demons that follow me on this journey, alternately blowing me off course and pushing me forward. Perhaps in 2008 I will reach my destination, or maybe like Columbus I will find some different land not on my charts.
Happy New Year friends. May the winds be at your backs and may you have a star to guide your journey.
I thought that they were angels, but to my surprise
They climbed aboard their starship and headed for the skies
Singing come sail away, come sail away
Come sail away with me
Come sail away, come sail away
Come sail away with me- Styx, Come Sail Away
One of the few exception to my rules that names in FAILUR be meaningless or deceptive, was Chloe. Chloe is a friend of the main character. She’s an actuary. Her name was chosen because it was similar to Clotho, the first of the three Fates (or Moira, the “apportioners”).
I’d considered calling my protagonist “Brian Wittenbrook.” (see Mary Sue). I’ve had a fondness for authors who write improbable stories about themselves. Stephen King put a writer called Stephen King into his Dark Tower series. Kinky Freidman regularly writes novels about a character named Kinky Freidman solving crimes. And of course Dante Alighieri wrote about “Dante” who got Vigil to give him a guided tour of Hell, where he got to see his enemies tortured. Later he visits Heaven where his host Beatric is a woman that Dante had a crush on who died at 24.
The name “Amanda Cross” (Warren’s lover) on the other hand, has two or three meanings, but in the story the name is not given to her by her parents. Amanda chose her name herself for her own reasons (real life influence)
.
Generally, when names have meaning it my story, it is because the name was chosen by the character. Amanda chose her name for personal reasons, but most of the time names were chosen by their owners to decieve or manipulate.
While several characters and group use pseudonyms to advance their agenda, the most obvious example is “Concerned Citizens for Freedom, Propensity, and Children.” This the name of a special interest group that is funded by a think tank who wants to manipulate public opinion to support their public policy agenda (see Astro Turfing and Front Organization). The name is deliberately over-the-top, but really is much different from all the “Concerned Citizens,” “experts,” and “spontaneous” grass-roots movements you see giving their opinions on CNN, on blogs, or in the letter to the editor section of the paper.
False names designed are central to my story which takes place in a world of false choices contructed by marketing and political manipulation.
I gave my protagonist the name Warren, because I had no strong associations with the name. I have known some Warrens, but none recently. I’m sure I could make some reasonable connection to some Warren from pop culture, history, or literature, but that was not my intent. Warren was named in similar way that Pam and I named our son. After filtering out the names that would earn him beatings on the playground, we chose a name because we liked how it sounded. Like many names in the novel, Warren was chosen because it has no special meaning.
I still haven’t heard back from the agent reading the first chapters of my story. Lately I’ve been focused on the next story or on this site, but It’s been a while since I’ve sent queries. I need to send out some more.
The spell check is broken on MS Word!
My novel, FAILUR is pretty much a story about my life in my late twenties, except for the ghost, the serial killer, the fortune telling, doomsday prophecy, and of course all the werewolf and vampire stuff. Admittedly, the beginning of the story is made up. Unlike my protagonist, Warren, I was not successful after college. The middle of the story is true, though I embellished Warren’s relationship with Amanda. I did have any relationships as good as their in my late-twenties (though I did have some as bad). Amanda herself is an amalgam of some of the women I dated, and even more women I almost dated. She is also based on women I didn’t really know, but how I imaged they were. She is smart and creative, but self-defeating; passionate, a little screwed up, restless. Also, I moved the setting from complacent outwardly mild Clinton-esque milieu of my twenties to the fear and terror Bush post-911 world. Some would argue that I am not as hip as Warren and his friends, but actually the novel is meant to be subversively anti-hip. Everything else is true, except for the ending. Warren is bolder than me in some ways. My own recklessness was lackluster at that age. I never got into anything like the physical peril or public danger that Warren and Amanda’s anxious wandering eventually lead them to.
All the stuff about the politicians, special interest groups, and broadcast media is absolutely true.
No shows while nose blows.
Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot
Traditional Guy Fawkes Night Rhyme
Monday night Pam and I went to the launch party for Red Planet Audio Books. Toby, the president of the company is a neighbor of ours. It was Guy Fawkes Night , and Red Planet used the day to invoke a sense of revolution. “The traditional publishing model,” says their brochure, “is a big ol’ dinosaur, too old and slow and short-sighted to realize that the world has passed it by.” They provide audio book print-on-demand audio book services that allow independent authors to by-pass the conventional publishing industry.
From what I know of Toby, he spent some time receiving rejection letters from conventional media for his work. But he seems to have given up on rejection to do his own thing. He has his own radio theater company, the Violet Crown Radio Players, and does a weekly podcast, Chicken Fried Radio.
Red Planet’s view on publishing is not unique. Even at the agent and editor conference, which is heavily invested in the conventional publishing industry, people saw that it is in trouble. It is increasing run by a few mega corporations trying to produce “sure-things” with minimal OpEx (operating expenses), catering to a shrinking book buying market. With services like Red Planet or more conventional paper print-on-demand companies author can produce small runs and even single copies of their book at relatively affordable rates. With the Internet it is increasingly possible for authors to find their niche and find their audience. It is, however, difficult for all but the most marketing savvy or lucky writers to make money at it (if that is their goal).
As for myself, I have reasons for doing what I am doing right now (laziness, bestseller fantasies, ideas that I could make enough money to allow write full time, and hidden-agendas-that-I-haven’t-revealed-yet-but-which-should-be-apparent-if-you-think-about-it), but I like the DIY ethic, and I’m keeping an eye on the options.
Friends and Acquaintances
Once Carol was a DJ at KOOP radio. She started a small writer’s group that was in for about a year. More recently, she became a mom. Carol brings a unique humor and wit to her writing. Here blog is here: Graceful Parenting.
Patrick is a college friend and a New York entrepreneur. He’s got a printing company PaperSlam. He has just started a gallery called CharmingWall that allows people to purchase prints from talented but not well known artists at reasonable rates.
Doug is a coworker who wrote his fifth novel last year during National Novel Writer’s Month (NaNoWriMo). He is currently working on his fifth novel. You can find info about his fourth novel here: A New Witch.
Shana was my improv instructor twice. She is also a prolific performer and if you are in Austin you should go see her. Her company is here: Merlin Works. She performs in many groups such as Girls! Girls! Girls!
Writing Links
I don’t have any connection to these sites but I’ve found them useful or interesting.
- Agent Query - A good place to find info about agents
- Publishers Marketplace - Another place to find agent info
- TV Tropes - A wiki of conventions and idiom from TV, Film, Anime, Literature, Games, Music Videos, etc.
- Agent In the Middle - a agent’s blog
- Caitlin Kitterdge - a writer who blogs about her experiences writing
Last week New Mexico Governor and Democratic presidential hopeful Bill Richard came to my work to give a speech and answer questions. I brought pen and paper thinking that perhaps I could add a little live reporting of events of national interest. I didn’t feel waves of hostility toward him, as I often do with politicians. Unfortunately, I wasn’t very inspired either. He said a few good but vague things about health care, education, and freedom. He did the same joke about himself that I saw him do at one of the debate (“With Hillary you get experience. With Obama you get change. With me you get both.”) The high point was when someone asked him about the UFO that supposedly crashed in Roswell in the fifties (Richardson said that he had asked about them, but wasn’t sure that he’d been given the complete answer.) Mostly it was the usual bland catch phrase politics. It’s not really Richardson’s fault that the political discourse sucks so badly. Conventional wisdom demanded that Richardson not discuss any issue too deeply. And he did had to deal with some antagonists recycling talking points against what they supposed was his policy. Nevertheless he doesn’t get a lot of points from me for doing an average uninspired job.
What motivated me to write about Richardson was not his policies, but a joke he made. He said something very lame about doing a fund raiser in Arizona that night. When no one (including myself) recognized it was a joke, he informed us that he has in fact said it in jest. This got some laughs. He went on to say that when you’re at 13% you’ve got to take whatever you can get. This got a few more laughs and reminded me of his quixotic position. You have to appreciate a person, who spends a months talking to thousands of people, raising millions of dollars for a stated goal that he will fail to achieve.
Richardson has his own reasons for wanting to fail to become the president. Maybe it will increase hit position in the party or position him for a future election. Maybe it is just to satisfy his ego. Maybe it’s his way to try to influence national policy on education and healthcare. Whatever the reason cynical or idealistic that makes him run, you it is a pretty bold or desperate move to run for president to get what.
Run Bill Run. Run Ron. Run Dennis.
Maybe we should all run for president sometime, just to see what happens.
You’re giving me the “it’s not you, it’s me” routine? I invented “it’s not you, it’s me”! Nobody tells me it’s them not me, if it’s anybody it’s me!
George - Seinfeld
If you read my last journal, you may recall, that I left you with a cliffhanger. An agent had read my first few chapters, and had liked them enough to request the full manuscript (420 pages). After a month or so with the full story, she decided that it was not for her.
Meanwhile, I’ve send query letters to another 20 or so agents. So far, one of these though the story sounded “interesting,” and has requested to read the first few chapters. Her reading time is running 6-8 weeks. So I have more suspense (I told you).
I haven’t heard from most of the others, and I probably never will. I have received a number of rejections. Here’s one:
Dear Mr. Wittenbrook,
Thank you for your letter. We appreciate your giving us the opportunity to consider your work for possible representation, but we are afraid we have decided to pass. Of course this is only one response, and tastes vary widely among agents. We wish you the best of luck finding the right home for your work.
And another:
Thanks so much for sending me your query. Unfortunately, your book isn’t right for my list. However, as you know, this business is very subjective and someone else may feel very differently. Best of luck.
Yet another:
Thank you for your recent letter. I regret to say that I don’t feel that I’m the most appropriate agent for your work. However, opinions vary considerably in this business, and I wish you the best of luck in your search for representation.
And:
Thanks for writing, but this isn’t for me.
I don’t blame the agents for their short impersonal responses. They have to sort through hundreds of queries and submissions and make snap judgments about which meet their taste and which they think they can sell to an increasingly crappy fiction market. Nevertheless, it does feel a little like the kind of clumsy brush off you might get (or give) after a third date. I can’t help but feeling slightly sullied by their perfunctory attempts to let me down gently.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid I must decline on this project right now, but I do want to encourage you to continue submitting. Just because a project isn’t quite right for me doesn’t mean the right agent isn’t just around the corner.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, babe, but you’ve got a lot going for you. There are more fish in the sea. You’ll find someone else. You deserve someone who will really want you for you.”
I know it is difficult to receive a rejection, but this certainly doesn’t mean your work is without merit–it just doesn’t match our needs at this time.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
In dating, if you haven’t been successful in a while, it is easy to become desperate and start thinking that you want ANY relationship. I have an odd, quirky book, but it is also entertaining and I believe there is an audience that will identify with it. I don’t mind that I am collecting rejections. The problem is that I don’t really learn anything from them. They make me feel like my queries are crude pickup lines (“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place line this?” or “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”) My next challenge is to become more sophisticated about the business, and to think about my other options. Because in this, as in dating, desperation is worse than failure (in fact, desperation is also worse than success).
At least for now.
This is the speech I claimed I would give when I received a rejection:
“Oh well, it’s a drag, but there are a lot more agents. They say it can take years to get an agent. I’ve got to keep trying.”
For more infor see my journal Suspense
Do not edit this page
by Brian Wittenbrook
| MAN | I love you. (pause) I can’t believe that just a little while ago we were ready to kill each other. | |
| WOMAN | Let agree to never fight again. | |
| MAN | Only if we can pretend to fight then make up. | |
| WOMAN | I think I can live with that. | |
| They start to move together, but the man pulls away, turning his head down ashamed. | ||
| MAN | I’m sorry. | |
| WOMAN | No, no, we were both . . . | |
| MAN | No, there’s something I’ve never told you. I have to tell you now . . . but I’m not sure what you’re going to think. | |
| WOMAN | It’s okay. I’ll understand no matter what it is. | |
| MAN | I’m not sure you will. Remember when you and Diana were really close, and I used to say that you two were spending too much time together? | |
| WOMAN | Yeah | |
| MAN | The truth is that I was jealous of your friendship. Sometimes I felt that you two were closer than we were. | |
| WOMAN | It’s all right. I’m sorry if I made you feel jealous. | |
| MAN | I was mean to Diane. I used to say mean things. It my fault that you two are no longer such good friends. | |
| WOMAN | No, it wasn’t you. It was a lot of things. She got really heavily involved with that guy. You remember. What was his name? | |
| MAN | It was Peter Cobb. He’s a guy I knew from work. | |
| WOMAN | I didn’t know you knew him. | |
| MAN | Yes, you see–I paid him to take out Diane. I secretly set up their meeting. They got along well, and the two of you started spending less time together. . . . I was all my fault. Can you forgive me? | |
| WOMAN | It’s OK. That’s not so bad. I’ve done some things that were even worse. I guess I have to tell you. I’m so ashamed. Remember that fight we got into last March? I’m not sure what it was about. I think it was about the dishes. Anyway, after the fight I went out for a drive. I was so angry that I wanted to break something, something of yours. So, I wrecked your car. |
|
| MAN | My car was wrecked in an accident, and I was there. | |
| WOMAN | It was no accident. I planned it that night. I wrecked it a week later. You remember, we were going to Bob and Lisa’s house out of town? I was driving, it was dark, the street lamp was out. We turned a blind corner and that car was coming at us. I swerved to miss it and I drove off the road and hit a tree. I hired a person to drive the other car. I rented a car with a fake ID and we practiced the crash all week. I even shot out the street lamp to make the accident seem less like my fault. I’m sorry honey. | |
| MAN | It’s OK. We’re both just too strong willed. | |
| WOMAN | Do you think we can change? | |
| MAN | I don’t know. But there is something else I must tell you. Remember that job you interviewed for? That great job. | |
| WOMAN | V.P. of marketing at Simon and Nichols? | |
| MAN | Yeah, that was the one. I didn’t want you to get that job. I should have been supportive, but I was jealous. I didn’t want you to make more money than me. I didn’t want you to have the prestige. | |
| WOMAN | But I remember, you were very supportive. | |
| MAN | I was just pretending. You see, by that I knew you wouldn’t get the job. I sabotaged the interview. | |
| WOMAN | Sabotaged? How? | |
| MAN | Remember the day of your interview with Nichols? You probably don’t remember how crowded it was in the building. There are six elevators in the Simon and Nichols building. I hired people to fill the elevators so that you could only get on the furthest elevator on the left side. I made a deal with building security to let me control that elevator. When you got on it, you thought you were going to the fourteenth floor. In fact, you got off on an unused floor, where I had built an exact replica of the fourteenth floor. I hired an actor to play Mr. Nichols. It wasn’t too difficult as you had never met Nichols in person. While you were meeting with the fake Mr. Nichols, I had an actress pretend to be you to meet with the real Mr. Nichols. She blew the interview, of course. She’s actually quite a good actress. I’ve used her on several occasions and each time she’s done a masterful job. | |
| WOMAN | Really? | |
| MAN | I have the whole meeting audio-tape. It’s a riot. Funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Of course, it might make you angry. I’m very ashamed of the whole thing now. I guess at heart I’m kinda of a manipulative person. I’m sorry, dear, I just let my envy get the better of me. | |
| WOMAN | That’s all right. I’ve let my passion get the better of me, too. Like that time I broke both of your legs. | |
| MAN | That was you? I thought that was an accident. | |
| WOMAN | It’s funny. Freud said that there’s really no such thing as a true accident. He was referring to something else, of course, but still it kind of applies to us. I was angry at you, because we had gone to a party and you had flirted with some woman for about an hour. So I came up with this plan. I suggested one weekend that we go to Bennett’s lake where people like to dive off the cliff into the water, but of course you know this part.What you don’t know is that I had studied video tapes of your diving, especially of your double somersault. I hired a team of physicists to compute the exact trajectory, velocity and orientation of your fall. We left nothing to chance, we had to be sure we would break you legs without killing you. There’s a path up the cliff that jumpers take. We made a second path for you to take so that you would jump from the exact point we wanted you to. We hid powerful wind machines in the trees so that if you were slightly off course we could blow you back on. At just the right moment I had a topless model walk into view at the edge of the lake so that you would look up right when we needed you to. I had a man under water position the rock.It all sounds so cruel now. At the time, I’d convinced myself that I was justified in getting you back. It did turn out to be a master work of modern physics. One of my team, in fact, wrote it up as his master’s thesis. | |
| MAN | Really? | |
| WOMAN | But it wasn’t worth it. I can see that now. I was blinded by rage. I guess the old cliché is true. You always hurt the one you love. | |
| MAN | Why do we keep doing this to each other? | |
| WOMAN | I think we have to admit, as much as we love each other, as a couple we’re kind of dysfunctional. | |
| MAN | I hate this. I wish there was something we could do. Some way that we could stop hurting each other. Maybe counseling. | |
| WOMAN | I had an idea. It’s a little extreme, but . . . (pause) let’s have a baby. | |
| MAN | A baby, that’s a great idea. | |
| WOMAN | Yes, a baby. We must have a baby. | |
| MAN | Everything will be better if we have a baby. | |
| WOMAN | I can’t wait. | |
| MAN | Honey, I love you so much. | |
| WOMAN | I love you, too. | |
Copyright 1994 - Brian Wittenbrook
By Brian Wittenbrook
I find dimes. As a super power it’s not much, but it’s what the universe gave me. It started about two and a half years ago after a romantic disappointment. I wandered through my funk, obsessively running dialogues in my mind; I imagined – had they been real – that they would give me closure, or at least a little bitter satisfaction. Perhaps it was that my head was cast downward, making it easier for me to spot shiny objects on the grounds. In any case, I began finding them everywhere, in the street, outside my apartment, in the convenience store parking lot, in my office, at the gym. It was not a fortune - only fifty cents or a dollar a week - but many more than I would expect to find by chance. Perhaps it was my state of mind, frustrated with the injustice of sex and affection, but I sought meaning in the dimes. The universe had put the dimes there for me to find. But what was the symbol? Were the dimes meant as a small gift to let me know I was not forgotten? Or maybe they had a different meaning. Maybe in their trivial value the dimes were a symbol of how little the universe regarded me. If, after all, the universe wanted to reimburse me for my pain, it could do it in larger denominations. Maybe they were the universe’s joke on me.
The dimes continued to come long after the romance faded to insignificance. They came independently of minor ups and downs of my life. If there was a pattern it alluded me. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. Did the universe mean for me to spend the dimes? Or was I meant to save them as some sort of token? Maybe I should pass them on to the next person I saw. Would I be in trouble if I ignored the will of the universe? Perhaps the universe expected some service for its gift. I became stuck on this idea of an exchange. Maybe it meant me to use my power for the good of humanity.
Maybe it was because this was a familiar idea that I could not let it go. Throughout childhood I believed that I was meant to fight for right and to save the world. I don’t think this belief was especially egotistical or grandiose. I think most children imagine themselves as heroes. I only pity the children born well before the age of the atom and ozone depletion for they could not have constructed fantasies as elaborate and far-reaching as mine. I expected big things from my future. Of all the imagined paths to glory (scientist, actor, president, astronaut) the one that most captured my interest was SUPER HERO.
As a child I couldn’t imagine a better job than superhero. It would be exciting. You would have respect. You would get to travel. You would fight villains and save the world. What could better in a job than the opportunity to save the world? You would wake up in the morning knowing what you would do that day. After all if you could save the world, what else could you do that day that could be more interesting or important? You’d go to bed at night satisfied, knowing you’d done a good day’s work. People would buy magazines when they saw me on the cover. They would get little figurines of me to put on their dash for good luck. I have to admit even as an adult finding dimes in the street the idea that the universe wanted me to fight the big battles appealed to me. But as with most things, I’ve found that being a superhero is much less straightforward than I thought it would be in childhood.
For a while I hooked up with another superhero who had the uncanny ability to find good parking spaces under any condition and to could guess who was calling on the phone before picking up the reciever. Together we would drive around in he beat up old Honda looking for good deeds to do. Mostly we found bars and donut shops and the warmth of each other’s skin. Her name was Holly. I told her how I wanted to save the world and be on the covers of magazines and the figurines on people’s dash. She laughed a little, not cruelly, and said something I will never forget. She said you can’t spell “figurine” without “urine.” Holly didn’t take the hero-business as serious as I. Holly believed that the universe worked primarily by sense of humor. I enjoyed a good laugh. It didn’t acted not in good or evil but in it’s own comic logic. The only thing for us to do when struck with strange fortune good or bad was to laugh it off and to remember not to take the world too seriously. She didn’t believe that the universe meant us to do good with our powers. It was our choice. Our powers were a simple caprice of her Clown Gods. Our partnership didn’t last very long.
In the end I failed as a superhero. I hadn’t need a nudge from the universe to oppose evil. I have always opposed evil in all its forms. In fact, I’m doing it right now. I am not sure, however, that I’ve really done much good. I’ve tried to fight the big battles but the big battles were always more complicated than they were meant to be and the final conflicts were never final.
I succeed only in always remembering the one important thing. Most superheroes are only style or bluster fighting only for their own self-importance. The few who actually take decisive action, certain of their innate rightness, are much more dangerous. They fight evil with only lesser evil. They replace the villain’s corrupt or unbalanced priorities with their own priorities, which in turn, go out of balance and eventually become corrupt. Most superheroes forget that there really is only one real point to the battle. The only good is that which can only be measured in the comfort you bring to others. All battles-from protecting free speech to finding a cure for cancer to WWII-can be judged be this standard. There is nothing else to fight for. You cannot for permanence. You cannot fight against death. Only the comfort of another human is worth fighting for even when the battle is not glamorous.
Sadly, even by this standard, I have to admit that I am a failed superhero. Too often I let fear get in the way of touching other. Sometimes it is desire that hold me back or ignorance or ambition or just simple routine. I do fail all the time, but success is the rarity. Distance is the norm.
I decide that if the universe did in fact want me to be a super hero then maybe it was asking too much. What does the universe expect from me? If is really wanted me to be a superhero, it wouldn’t have given me such a shitty super power. It would have given me super strength, or the ability to fly or to read minds. If it really wanted for me to be a super hero it would give me more than a little extra pocket change. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I even supposed to meet my needs on a lousy stipend of fifty cents or a dollar a week? Maybe Holly was right and the Clown Gods were laughing at my foolishness.
But I still find dimes.
I find the dimes and I think maybe it’s not a superpower, but I wonder is meant by them.
It’s not a satisfying end. I wasn’t strong enough or maybe I expected too much. All that’s left for me to do is to write it again, and get it better this time. I’ll write a new story. I’ll reinvent myself again and form a new universe around me. The new universe will be much the same as before only this time I think that I will try to get along better than the clown and I will spend their dimes with more ease. I will try harder.
Copyright 1999 - Brian Wittenbrook
by Brian Wittenbrook
Seth woke up one morning at half-past the hour.
He got out of bed, brushed his teeth, and took a shower.
He put on pants, a shirt, a baseball cap that was gray,
(his normal clothes for a normal day).
He looked for his favorite pair of socks (which were red)
But there was only one red sock and a note.
“Zhoot,” it said.
Seth turned over the drawer and looked through the pile.
He searched the closet and under the bed a while.
He looked in the pockets of his best Sunday suite,
But there was only one red sock and this word: Zhoot
“Well this is very odd,” said Seth, “how can this be?
Single red socks don’t run away. They don’t flee.
And what is this Zhoot that left the note in the drawer?
It must be this Zhoot. This never happened before.”
Seth waited for answers.
He waited a minute.
He waited two.
When no answers came, he put on one red sock and one greenish-blue.
The rest of the day would be normal - that was Seth’s guess.
But when he went to the kitchen and he found a mess.
On the table was food.
There was part of a ham,
a piece of a pair,
a half-sandwich of pink jam.
There were marks on the fridge - dishes in the sink.
On the the floor there was a footprint in jam of pink.
When Seth looked on the counter he let out a hoot.
By a half-eaten pie there was a note that read, “Zhoot!”
“I’ll follow this footprint. I know what I’ll find,” Seth decided.
“I’ll find my Sock, this Zhoot, and whatever else it has hided.”
After the footprint, there was another … and more
The when through the kitchen and out of the door.
Strangely, the prints weren’t paired.
There was only one side.
“I’ll find my sock, this Zhoot and my red sock.
It cannot hide!”
Seth followed the trail outside and down the block.
It wasn’t long before he found a foot and red sock.
From behind a great leafy bush the foot stuck out.
He’d found this Zhoot. Now, he’d find out what it was about!
Seth paused a moment (it might be sinister, this Zhoot).
Then he went on to confron the thief with its loot.
The Zhoot was plump. From its head an antenna grew.
It had blue firm unlike other people Seth knew.
The oddest thing about it, you understand,
was that this Zhoot had only one eye, one leg, and hand.
It was split down the middle. It was only half.
How can that be?
I don’t know.
You do the math.
“Ah-ha! What is the meaning of this? Seth reprimanded.
“There is my favorite red sock. I caught you red-handed.”
The half-Zhoot gave a half smile that was half-friendly and half-sad.
Seth saw that this Zhoot was hungry and alone. He couldn’t stay mad.
“Is it OK to ask? I don’t wish to be rude,
But what is the reason for you sad mood?”
“How did you get left? Did you lose your other half?
Is it near? Is it hiding? Has it lost the path?”
The Zhoot put it’s head down and was otherwise mute,
except for a sigh and a single sad word, “Zhoot.”
“I will help you find it,” said Seth,
“Please don’t be blue.
I have found one half-Zhoot today.
I can find two.”
Seth went back to the house to get his bike.
The Zhoot hopped after him (the way Zhoots like).
The Zhoot had no bike - just a thing with one wheel -
which he kicked as he sat - He kicked it with zeal.
It was awkward, but only once did the Zhoot fall.
Seth feared a crash, but no crash came, none at all.
For the half-Zhoot fell only halfway to the ground.
It hung in the air…
and climbed the rest of the way down.
They search all over town for the Zhoot’s half-other.
They asked Officier Wong.
They asked Ms. Crother.
They asked a guy washing windows,
two girls on swings.
And a lady selling gizmos, gadgets, and things.
They asked a dentist and a guy playing a flute,
But nobody,
nobody,
nobody had seen the half-Zhoot.
Finally, they cycled to the top of Point Phive.
No half-zhoot waited there, nor did one arrive.
The Zhoot started to quiver. It started to frown.
It cried out:
Zhoot!
Zhoot!
It echoed all over town.
They looked down the mountain. They looked far and near.
Then came an answer, “Zhoot…”
It was quiet, but clear.
From the top of Point Phive they raced down.
They followed their path back through town.
They passed the guy washing windows, the girls on the swings.
And the lady selling gizmos, gadgets, and things.
They passed the dentist and the guy playing the flute.
Seth’s friend called out….
…and came a reply:
ZHOOT! ZHOOT! ZHOOT!
The sound led them to old Mr. Schrodenger’s yard.
The Zhoot hopped over the fence. (It didn’t look hard.)
Opening the gate, Seth laughed to see such a sight,
as a half-Zhoot on the left and one on the right.
Just below where Shrodenger’s cat slept in a tree,
the double half-Zhoot were beside themselves with glee.
The laughed and the thanked Seth using the only word they knew.
Then they rode off…
two half-Zhoots on unicycles…
times two.
Copyright © 2002 - Brian Wittenbrook
Here are some stories I wrote at some point. More coming soon.
Killer Yellow Umbrellas and the Escape from Hollywood - A true story written for a friend’s birthday.
The Market Plan of the Mall Gypsies - An except from my novel, FAILUR.
The Apology – A very short play about a dysfunctional couple with elaborate destructive tendancies.
Seth and the Half-Zhoot – A young boy with a lost sock makes a new friend (or half a friend). This story was fun to write, but taught me that I should avoid rhyming and verse in my stories when at all possible.
Dimes – A magical-realism autobiography about my aimless wandering and lackluster superpowers in the late nineties. It was not meant to be factually correct except that at the time I did find a supernatural number of dimes. It originally appeared in the second of the two issues of “Dana’s Child” that I released with Lynn Davies.
Rhyme Commemorating My Son Pausing his DVD to Get a Kleenex - This is just what sounds like it is.
About my novel FAILUR
- About my attempts to get the it published
- About writing FAILUR
- Excerpt: The Market Plan of the Mall Gypsies
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“Shhhh Listen, I have an idea. If you do not turn any pages, we will never get to the end of this book. And that is good, because there is a Monster at the end of this book. So please do not turn the page.” - Jon Stone, The Monster at the End of this Book: Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover |
The Current Pitch
This is what I have been sending lately to agents. For more about this see The Winter Campaign and Beyond.
Please consider representing my story FAILUR. Though it has been a while since my fifteen minutes of fame, you may recall my role in stopping the “Harbinger” serial murderer. The mainstream media’s version of the event was sensationalized and manipulated by politicians and special interests. FAILUR will be the first time real story is told.
FAILUR is about my life leading up to the events at ‘the Altar’ on the so called Night of the Penultimate Motion. I hadn’t planned to become a werewolf. No one does. At first, I did what was expected. I went to the support groups. I medicated and quarantined myself. It was killing me. I’m not sure how I would have stilled the electricity in my limbs or the spinning wheels in my mind, had I not met Amanda Cross.
Amanda was not as she had been portrayed in the media. She was a creative free-spirit who loved to laugh (admittedly, she did have a bit of an edge). We were malcontents. Our lives were not going as planned. We were sick of the fake choices others offered us. When the prophecy seemed to come true, and the world started falling apart around us, we thought that we had just as much right as anyone to do something about it. We really didn’t know what we were doing. At first we were just wandering. We were reckless. We didn’t really mean to find trouble.
FAILUR is not just a book for werewolves. It will appeal to anyone who knows what it’s like to feel a little lost when their life plans have been derailed. It’s a story for anyone who has had trouble finding their own way.
I have included the first pages of the manuscript. The complete manuscript is 109,000 words and it is available upon request.
NOTE: While I am willing to work with editors to emphasize parts of the story they feel are of public interest, I will not comment on Ms. Cross’s present status (for reasons that are made clear in the narrative). I hope this is not a deal breaker.
The Old Summary
You’ll get the wrong idea about Amanda when I tell you that she tried to end the world. We were just two werewolves in love, looking for something to do on a Saturday night.
FAILUR is a gothic satire set at the decaying urban intersection of Kurt Vonnegut and Anne Rice. It takes place in a world where vampires go to in exclusive clubs and werewolves sneak to support groups to cope with their disease.
When a serial killer terrorizes the city of New Sol in an attempt to fulfill an ancient prophecy, politicians exploit the public’s fear, businesses profit, and media sensationalizes. Warren watches from the television in his apartment.
Warren, late twenties, has his own problems. When something writes “FAILUR” on his bathroom mirror, it is only the latest sign that his plans are not working out. Once he once had money, a fiancé, and a promising career. Life has stagnated since he moved to New Sol. He becomes desperate for change. He never planned on becoming a werewolf.Despite the stigma, even danger, of being a werewolf, Warren discovers that it is not all bad. At a support group, he meets Amanda Cross, a creative, slightly-damaged free-spirit. A pair of malcontents, they begin a rambling, reckless romance, which draws them unexpectedly close the prophecy. To find what they seek, Warren and Amanda may have to save the world or destroy it.
Warren narrates with equal parts arrogance and humility, humor and desperation. Though set in a fantastic world, readers will identify with themes of the story. It is about the disappointment of discovering that the world is not what you thought it was; the restlessness that comes when you lose your way toward your dreams; and finally it is about the power of creating your own options.
- What are you working on now?
- Where did you get the ideas for your novel, FAILUR?
- Ok, but where did the all of the werewolf and vampire Stuff Come From?
- What is the significance of the gears on the header of this site?
- Can I read the manuscript?
- How can you have “frequently asked questions?” I mean, who’s actually asking you questions frequently. Are you just making these up?
- Have you considered self-publishing?
- So, tell me, did the main character do it? Is that the twist? Is he really the killer?
- You’re not going to continues making bad “failure” puns, like “Complet FAILUR” are you?
- Why is there a Brian Wittenbrook song?
I am working on a story of a young reporter in 1970, whose college girlfriend (a member of a radical peace organization) shows up mysteriously and leaves him an unusual package. It a paranoid cold war thriller (think Three Days of the Condor) set in the early 70s counter-culture, with a light science fiction edge.
I’m also working on some fun commercial websites with my friends Michael and Sean. More on these later.
Where did you get the ideas for your novel, FAILUR?
Some things that inspired me:
- Times in my twenties and early thirties, when I had no career, dated sporadically, and felt that there was something basically wrong with the world beyond my ability to do anything about it. Dissatisfaction was tempered by the camaraderie of friends who were in the same place. Together or independently we came up with impractical plans to make money, advance our political ideals, satisfy our sense of art, or sense of absurdity. Occasionally, these outlandish plans worked. Of course, we weren’t involved with anything as big as my protagonist and Amanda, but then we didn’t have a doomsday prophecy either.
- Once I was having a drink at the Dog and Duck with woman named Max. I asked if “Max” was short for “Maxine.” She said no. Max wasn’t short for anything. Max wasn’t her original name. She’s chosen it. She didn’t volunteer her original name. I asked anyway. She said, “It didn’t matter.” Max was not the model for Amanda, but I did use this scene.
- Around the time I graduated from college, 7-Eleven ran a “Freedom of Choice” campaign to emphasize the options available in their convenience stores. In particular, 7-Eleven was very proud that they could provide both Coke and Pepsi products at the same soda fountain. In FAILUR, the main character works for Titan-Brooks, owner of both the Good Neighbor and Fast Pick convenience stores, who is running a “Freedom of Multiple Choice” campaign (you may recall from school that “Multiple-Choice” tests were usually easier than other test, because someone else has already provided the options for you). Throughout the story, the protagonist is frequently offered multiple-choice options. While the choices, have the appearance of freedom, others try to restrict the possible options. Sometimes he is aware that others are trying to control him even as they give him choices, but he is blind to some of the other restriction imposed on him.
Ok, but where did the all of the werewolf and vampire Stuff Come From?
First of all werewolves and vampires are fun. But also, I read something about vampires and werewolves a long time ago. I think it was in reference to the film The Howling (1981). It said that while vampires are often imagined as aristocratic, werewolves are often portrayed a lower class – close to the earth – uncultured – rough.
I’d become a little bored of portrayals of vampires as “brooding edgy cool.” My vampires are the establishment. They are upper class, Skull and Bones, white collar criminals, frat boys, trend setters, and movie stars. My vampires aren’t necessarily bad, but they draw their power from others.
My werewolves are decidedly uncool. They are looked down upon. Most werewolves hide their condition as much as possible. They take Luparest and Morphastat to control their symptoms. They are embarrassed by their condition and go to support groups when they dare acknowledge it at all. When they do let loose, their power is explosive.
Werewolves are “funky” in many senses of the word,
“Possessing a strong, offensive, unwashed odor”
“A dejected mood”
“Outlandishly vulgar or eccentric in a humorous or tongue-in-cheek manner”
“Said of something that functions, but in a slightly strange, klugey way”
What is the significance of the gears on the header of this site?
This is explained in Gear and Loafing in America.
Can I read the manuscript?
Yes, but it may be a little awhile. A few people have read all or part of the novel (Thanks Pam, Heather, Meryl, Tracy, Micha, Nancy, Gloria, Melanie, Paul, Michael, Steve, Trish, Carol, Diana, dad, and Sara). Perhaps I’m superstitious, but I only want to keep a few copies out at a time. I will print a couple more copies after the copyedits are complete.
How can you have “frequently asked questions?” I mean, who’s actually asking you questions frequently. Are you just making these up?
Shut up you!
Have you considered self-publishing?
No, at least not yet. Perhaps I will in the future. Right now the dream is to get it printed in bookstores through an established publisher.
So, tell me, did the main character do it? Is that the twist? Is he really the killer?
No, it’s not protagonist. The psycho-protagonist story has been done too many times. FAILUR focuses on normal (somewhat normal) people dealing with normal problems (career, relationships, etc) They just happen to be werewolves, and in the middle of a doomsday prophecy.
Actually, the killer’s name is learned fairly early on. But names in the novel are surprisingly unhelpful.
You’re not going to continues making bad “failure” puns, like “Complet FAILUR” are you?
I’m afraid so. FAILUR puns are just too easy (like “Absolut FAILUR). Of course, these puns will ultimately work against me. When Alfred Hitchcock released The Birds (1963), many critics used the title against him, giving their reviews headlines like “For the Bird.” It didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was just too easy. Words are like that. We make those connections. So, really I have to be cautious with a novel titled FAILUR. I have to brand it carefully. I have to work on verbiage like “FAILUR a complete Success.”
By the way, did you notice how I linked myself to Hitchcock? – pretty slick.
Why is there a Brian Wittenbrook song?
My friend Steve McAllister has a series of CDs (2 so far) called Weirdo Deluxe. All of the songs on disc 1 and most of the songs on disc 2 are inspired by names of friends and family members. The “Brian Wittenbrook” song isn’t actually about me (as most of the songs are not about their namesakes), but how can you not like a song that asks the musical question: “Brian Wittenbrook, do you have a hook for a hand?”
My
[get_latest_post]
Recent Updates
- Will anyone notice if there are no Weekends?
- First Draft of November Underground Complete
- Killer Yellow Umbrellas and the Escape from Hollywood
November Underground: A Novel – Info about my latest and greatest (as yet) unpublished novel. Watch this space. More is coming soon.
FAILUR: A Novel – Info about my first (as yet) unpublished novel.
- Excerpt: The Market Plan of the Mall Gypsies
- History of my attempts to get FAILUR published
- Notes about writing FAILUR
Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)
1001 Tips for Creating an Irresistible Query Letter
| The Brian Wittenbrook Song (by Steve McAllister) Why is there a Brian Wittenbrook song? |
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- The Apology – A short play about a dysfunctional couple with elaborate destructive tendancies.
- Seth and the Half-Zhoot – A young boy with a lost sock makes a new friend (or half a friend).
- Dimes – A magical-realism autobiography about my aimless wandering and lackluster superpowers in the late nineties.
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What’s the story with the gears at the top of the page? |
It should be obvious that a journal called FAILUR (or, for that matter, a novel called FAILUR), is not about success. The first newsletter may have set the wrong tone with its announcement that I had finished the novel and sent it to the first agent. But I never intended for this to be a record of accomplishment.
What then, you might wonder, is this supposed to be about? Am I expecting to fail? Am I writing there journals to document my painfully slow defeat? And in writing these, am I just jerking my audience around?
That is not my intent. True, this journal was not meant to be about success, but a journal called FAILUR (or, for that matter, a novel called “FAILUR”), is not necessarily about failure either. This is about suspense.
What do I mean by suspense? I mean it is about not knowing what is going to happen next. And more importantly about what you do with yourself while you are suspended.
My novel is currently “being considered” at a major New York literary agency. This phrase doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The phrase “being considered” was given to me by Dan (husband of Melanie, my Hollywood roommate, circa 1990-1991). When I spoke to Dan, it was Melanie’s birthday. I had just recently sent the novel to the first agent. It’s always good to be able to go to a party and to tell people that you are working on something. It’s even better when you can tell people that you have just finished something. But the problem is that “just finished something” is cool for a while, but it expires. You can say that you “just finished something” for a few weeks, maybe a month. Success is temporary.
Dan is a musician. He understood. He suggested the phrase, “being considered.” The good the thing about “being considered” is that is can go on indefinitely. Technically my novel has been at one or more agent offices (and therefore “under consideration”) almost the entire time that it has been complete.
While this phrase, “being considered” doesn’t have to mean much, It turns out that right now (as I write this) it actually means a little. I sent my first fifty pages to an agent I’d met at the conference. About a month later I got the response that she would like to read the complete manuscript (420 pages!).
You might think I would open with this information: “Good News! An agent read the first few chapters and now she wants to read the whole thing!” The truth is that I would never open a journal like this, even if I were writing a journal about success. If I were a journal about success I wouldn’t tell about this at all. If I were writing about success I would wait another month until I heard back form the agent and say: “Good News! I’ve got an Agent!!!” If the agent decided to pass, I might not write at all.
As it happens, I’m writing a journal about suspense. I chose to write the journal now, because I don’t know what will happen.
Next time I write, this will be resolved:
Of course, she wanted to represent me. The story is great. Why did I ever doubt? I was just being cautious.
Oh well, it’s a drag, but there are a lot more agents. They say it can take years to get an agent. I’ve got to keep trying.
But neither outcome will conclusive. Suspense will be followed by suspense. And again the important question is what to do in the meantime.
I’m not sure why it took eight weeks to get my first rejection. The agent’s response suggested that she misplaced my pages, but it may have been a problem with my email. I’m not sure why, don’t really care.
The smart thing to do would have been to start sending queries to other agents. At least I should have sent a prompting email to the first agent sooner. But I was enjoying the wait. I had worked on the novel for so long. It was good to have a break. It was good not to worry about it for a little while. And most of all for a few weeks I allowed myself to imagine that it could be easy.
A fool’s paradise? Sure, but still paradise, right?
I knew eight weeks was too long to wait even for the notoriously slow publishing business. But the chance to live this fantasy would not come again. Most fantasies cannot survive without some effort. You can’t pretend that you are going to win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. But this time all I had to do was watch television and drink beer.
In truth, I was getting edgy by the fifth or sixth week. Finally I wrote back to the agent, re-sent the beginning of the book, and received the agent’s friendly rejection. It freed me from the illusion. Rejection sucks. But it was also a nudge; it was time to get back to work.
Even before I got the agent’s response, I was beginning to question the way I was positioning my quirky novel. The agent wanted more to happen in the first few pages. Maybe she is right. If it turns out the beginning is slow, I can fix it. The bigger problem is setting the right expectation. If readers are looking for the Dresden Files or Anita Blake Vampire Hunter, they’ll be frustrated. Despite the werewolves, the haunting, the serial killer, and looming apocalypse, it is really a story about a couple of romantic malcontents looking for something/anything worthwhile to do with their time, going a little overboard, and finding trouble.
Beer and Reality at the Sheraton
A couple of weeks ago I went to Agent and Editor’s Conference hosted by the Writer’s League of Texas. Maybe you’ve never been to an Agent conference, but you’ve probably seen video of the stock exchange floor. It’s a massive throng of hypertension. The agents wear yellow badges. They are mostly women. They are not slick sophisticates. Most are friendly and patient, even when mobbed by hopeful writers (though some remove their badges and try to sneak away). Most of the them want to find that brilliant literary novel that they will fall in love with, a future classic they can be proud of, but they know that their next sale is more likely to be a formula mystery, a compendium of had-been rock stars of the 90s, or a tome of cute cat pictures.
There are 350 of us. The shyer writers stand off to the sides watching. The rest of us weave in an out of the crowd looking for yellow badges, and try to match faces to the agent profiles on the conference website. We try to remember if that agent was at all interested in our genre. We wait in the receiving line readying our pitches, listening for useful information from the agent’s current conversation, or talking among ourselves. When it is our turn, we attempt small talk. It is not strictly necessary; we all know what we are there for. We give our pitch, and if it remotely fits the agent’s list they give us their business cards and we walk away feeling like we are at least a baby step closer to being published. They need us, or they need some of us. They need material. They need a fresh face they can promote. They know they will reject most of us. We know they reject a hundred of us, maybe a thousand for everyone they choose.
When I wasn’t pitching to agents or in one of the conference’s largely dull workshops, I mostly hung out with Jennifer and Doug. Jennifer is a literary author I met at last year’s conference when I was still finishing up my novel. Doug is a co-worker, who has written drafts of three suspense/horror novels since November. Even though they need rewrites I find this extremely impressive. Because his novels are not complete, he was more there to learn than to sell. Because of that I think he had more fun than any of us.
We spend some time at the hotel bar commiserating and comparing notes. When Elise, came to the bar to the bar to get a drink, we spoke to her about the business. Elise is a junior agent from California, who had already rejected my novel because it didn’t fit her list. You don’t mind that sort of rejection, every agents has a limited range of interest.
We talked to Elise about the state of the publishing business from her side of the business. Elise liked her job, but her picture of the publishing industry was grim. Faced with a shrinking audience for books (particularly fiction) the publishers are in trouble. The small publishing houses are being bought out or driven out of business. The remaining large corporations push product out with a minimum of investment or publicity, hoping for a few hits. Because of this non-fiction writers pretty much have to be famous before their book can get published. Fiction writers can be obscure when they start, but they cannot count on the publisher to promote them. They need to promote themselves however they can. If they are lucky, they will get a little buzz because they are a “fresh new author,” however if the first book does not exceed expectations, they will have a very difficult time selling a second book.
This might have been sobering, fortunately writing the novel had never really been a strictly rational decision. I left the conference with what I came for, a handful of agent contacts that could lead to representation. More than that, I came away with a revised plan for positioning my novel, and building my platform. Again I have something to do. Thee truth is that I’m more comfortable having a plan for dealing with publishing hell, than waiting around in inactive bliss.
Thanks to everyone who attended my surprise party a few months. Pam was very sneaky. I was very dense. Of course, I almost ruined the whole thing with my cancer scare earlier in the day. I’d had an x-ray the day before. There was something suspicious on the x-ray that caused the nurse to send me across town for an MRI. Except it turned out that my x-ray was only suspicious because the nurse thought I had a history of cancer. The nurse’s misconception had apparently been caused by my mispronunciation of the cyst I had had in my leg (I said “lymphoma” when I should have said “lī-poma” – who knew?). This nearly screwed up Steve’s plan to distract me after work, so that Pam could get the party set up and so that the guests could arrive. It all worked out (except for Steve who had to sit though the movie “300”), even with Ryan and Laura showing up at my door just before I did.
I have completed the rewrite of my novel: FAILUR: A Werewolf Love Story. Thanks to everyone who supported or inspired me, or provided input. When I consider writing acknowledgements, the task seems truly daunting.
I started the writing when Seth was about 6-8 months old. The original draft was 140,000 words and took about 3 years. I cut 25% in the rewrite, which took about a year. After copyediting, I’ll start sending it to agents. This will probably involve research, lots of waiting, and a fair amount of rejection.
This is the first of a semi-regular newsletter chronicling my adventures trying to get published. The newsletter will become more formal over time, but this one is mostly for friends and family. I’m also starting to work on a website. The main goal of the site will partly be to promote my writing, but also after 4+ years working on one project, I am looking forward to working on some short writings, images, and possibly videos, which I can post on the site.
