Chapter Five

Just about the time I thought my career had been misplaced by the postal service, an email arrived informing me that “step one” would be the reformatting of the manuscript-- essentially transforming my initial mess into something the “copy editor” could work with.

The note stated that the manuscript would be arriving shortly, but the work would be minimal: In fact, the publisher stated, most of the editing symbols would be familiar from my days in advertising.

Exciting stuff, and doubly since there was a new query for my list of questions, namely “What the hell is a copy editor?”

When the manuscript arrived, I opened it with a certain smug satisfaction, my mastery of the word processor having been so tight that the formatting would be “minimal”.

Flipping through the pages, my smugness melted away, and I wondered if my publisher had an altogether different definition for the word minimal. The pages bore only a slight resemblance to the document submitted-- virtually every line had an editing mark on it, and the end result looked like some sort of hieroglyphic translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

I thumbed through the pages carefully, and while the symbol for “delete,” seemed familiar, that was it. Not so much as an inkling on how to reformat the mess came to mind.

Stymied, the former Marine in me stepped in to take control: I emailed my publisher and said, “Got the manuscript. No problem. Have it back to you in two weeks.”

My “no problem” scheme entailed hiring a former secretary to untangle the triple canopy jungle of dashes, indents, returns, and alignments, which she hacked through over the next two weeks. Her invoice was equal to the “best case” gross profits from my first two books.

Your favorite soon-to-be-published author was losing money on the endeavor. My subconscious whispered to me the words that ruled much of my life: “Hey, Dude… You’re doing it wrong.”

Speaking of Doing it Wrong…

Over the years, I’ve studied and dissected a number of interviews with successful authors, hoping to glean some insight on how to achieve publication.

A number of these authors expressed dissatisfaction with the cover art assigned to their books, and lamented the fact that creative control of the cover lay exclusively with the publisher.

My response? Boo-hoo-hoo, ya’ spoiled, egotistical jerk. You’re published. Shut up, be happy, and revel in the victory.

A solemn vow took shape that should the big publishing break ever drop in my lap, I’d be the “coolest” author ever, and be entirely gracious about any decisions my publisher made.

When the initial cover for my book arrived, one thing occurred to me: No jury in the world would convict. Assassination plot details churned through my brain when my phone rang.

Agent: Dude, I just got the cover. When it comes in, don’t look at it. Delete it.

Me: Too late.

Agent: Okay, we can work through this. We need to use respectful persuasion, okay? Whatever you do, don’t be going all Elton John on me.

Me: It’s not a problem, Boss.

Agent: You like it?

Me: No, but after the designer goes missing, we’ll get a new design team assigned to it.

Agent: Seriously, Man. Be cool-- it’s just an initial concept. These guys are total pros, and they’ll come up with something great. Just be patient.

Me: Bro-- did you see that thing? Steps must be taken. It’s like the law of the jungle, where certain sacrifices must be made for the good of the herd. Joe Antelope doesn’t want his bow-legged son to get eaten by the crocodiles, but the herd must thrive. I’ll be thinning the herd of a weak link.

Agent: Pretty good analogy, actually.

Me: I’m not throwing a tantrum, here-- just saying.

Agent: Look, we just need to give them some better ideas to latch onto.

Me: Okay, here’s an idea: The designer goes missing.

Agent: Look, you’re a writer. And you come up with spiffy ideas as a profession. Just combine the two, and win them over.

Me: Aren’t you supposed to do this stuff? What do I pay you for?

Agent: How much have you been paid so far?

Me: Nothing.

Agent: Right. And 15% of nothin’ is nothin’.


Soldier of Misfortune

With all the waiting built into the process, life demanded a varsity effort on my part to keep from going (further) broke.

Hanging on until the publication of my book was paramount, at which point a) It would sell, and I’d be a groovy writer guy making living, b) It wouldn’t sell, and I could blame all my life’s problems on my broken heart, spiral out of control, burn down my house, and wander the streets of my hometown muttering. The tortured artist defense would be offered to all who inquired, and the world at large would give me a mulligan.

But what to do now? For money?

Sadly, my chosen career path offered only one real skill, marketing. Yes, as a former Marine Officer I could have hired myself out as a gunfighter to an outfit like Blackwater, and generated some decent coin protecting dignitaries, but when inquiring about employment with Blackwater they asked how many miles I still ran per week.

“Mile…sss? As in plural?” I responded.

So, marketing it would have to be.

Step one, a name. Something cool. Something that would lend itself to a cool logo.

After a while the walls moved in on me a bit, and daydreaming set in, and then I looked down at the dog, who was gnawing on my great-grandmother’s hutch. There, on my ankle, I noticed the tattoo inked many years previously during a lost weekend in Atlanta (The Braves won their World Series game with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and something of that significance demands a permanent reminder, no?).

The tattoo selected, for some reason, took the form of a dangerously toothy Piranha, and it occurred to me, “That’s an angry little fish. Sort of like me.”

My brain, which works in strange and frightening ways, put it all together for me:

Don’t want to be a marketing star.

Just want to be a little fish in a big pond.

Just want the little crumb jobs that ad agencies don’t want to fool with.

Just want jobs where I can zip in and zip out--

You know, grab a nibble and bolt the area before the client notices the radio spot fails to mention the name of the store five times.

And thus, Little Fish Consulting was born. My tattoo provided the cool logo, the business cards fell in line, and letters were launched to all my contacts in the business.

And the waiting began on a second front.

I feel you, Mr. Dangerfield

As freelance jobs trickled in, both my wife and I found ourselves working out of our home. Office space costs money, and since we didn’t have any, the home/office solution carried the day.

A husband and a wife both working out of the home can be difficult, however, especially if the man makes his living doing something subjective, like writing. Here are a few notes on the inherent challenges, in case you ever consider sharing a home/office with your spouse:

1) No matter what you’re writing—the great American novel, a brochure, an ad campaign, a freelance magazine article, or a piece for the church bulletin—there is one rock-solid constant: You are sitting at a computer doing it.

2) Here are some other things you do at the computer: Waste time on the web, forward stupid emails, and Google words like “Selma” and “Hayek.”

3) If you compose Pulitzer Prize level literature for 6 straight hours, then take three minutes to watch a funny video emailed by a buddy, an infallible law within the space-time continuum will ensure that your wife walks up behind you during those three minutes.

4) Once this phenomenon has occurred more than once, which it must due the aforementioned universal laws, your wife will swear before her Creator that your writing-to-screwing-off ratio is, at best, one part writing for every nine parts screwing off. This fact will embed itself in her brain, and remain there with a tenacity normally reserved for unkind things you said a decade ago.

IMPORTANT DATA BELOW:
5) As discussed so brilliantly in the book Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, men are from Mars and women are from Venus. A man compartmentalizes data, “hunts” down solutions, and leans into tasks until they are either complete or he is exhausted. A woman, on the other hand, is a stream of consciousness thinker, “gathers” ideas, and has the ability to mentally multi-task hundreds of to-do lists simultaneously.

6) Once your wife “feels” you are goofing off over there on the computer, she will inject her Venusian style of thinking into your Martian world, and her stream of consciousness thinking will stream forth whenever an available second arises. Example: She’s on the phone with a client, and you are desperately trying to strangle out of your brain a word that rhymes with “orange.” Her client puts her on hold. Suddenly, she has a free moment for streaming thoughts:

You: Orange. Borange? Corange? Dorange?

Her: Hey, Sweetie, did you remember to call your great-grandmother and thank her for
sending us that article Better Sex for Married Couples?

You: Forange? Gorange? No, I’ll do it tonight.

Her: I asked you yesterday.

You: Zorange? I’m working.

Her: (With telepathic smirk) Ahh. Well, please call her before you forget.

You: Horange? Morange?

Her: Please. Now. While you’re thinking about it?

You: I’ll do it, Hon.

Her: Good. Right now. Oh, and while you’re up can you take the trash out, walk the dog, email our Bible study group about Wednesday, and re-screen the porch? And don’t forget—oh, hey, Janet. No problem. Do you need me stop over and discuss the options?

You: Please, Janet! Just say yes! Say you need her over there now! Demand she come! I’m frickin’ beggin’ you!

While it’s true this type of banter doesn’t lead to an evening of champagne and amore, it does have an upside: By the time the silence in your home/office lifts, you will have had ample time to find a word that rhymes with “orange.” Probably a word that rhymes with “purple,” too.

Makin’ copies…

The next step revealed to me in publishing process involved the Copy Editor. As you may recall from an earlier comment, the copy editor’s role mystified me, but I acted informed when my publisher emailed to tell me the “copy edited manuscript” was on its way.

Fortunately, the manuscript arrived with a letter explaining a copy editor’s job:
a) They search out questionable issues regarding time, continuity and language

b) They do the needed fact checking

c) They cover the manuscript with strange symbols which provide direction to the person “typesetting” the book into its final form.

Upon its arrival I looked it over, and it occurred to me that the copy editor should be paid more than me, my agent, and the publisher combined.

He, for instance, pointed out that “Rubick’s Cube” served as an analogy on page 78, and asked if it shouldn’t perhaps be changed to another concept when it appeared on page 203.

He noticed that the cost of page 198’s combo meal at Burger World didn’t include tax.

He noted my overuse of the term “heaving breasts” and offered up such rock-solid alternatives as “swelling sweater pups” and “bouncing bazongas.”

He even reviewed my permanent record, and noticed some holes in the defense I’d mounted in kindergarten when I was (falsely) accused of eating paste. Absolutely flabbergasted,

I called my friend/novelist Beth Webb Hart and asked about her copy editor: She told me her editor noticed that a cat in her novel was pregnant two weeks longer than it should have been. People, this isn’t a skill…this is unrewarded, savant-level genius. In addition to his ability to cross-reference and retain facts like Bobby Fischer, the copy editor also painted the entire manuscript in a maze of markings, lines, and squiggles the meaning of which was surely known only to him, the typesetter, and the handful of Middle Earth Wizards who developed them.

It took me a while to understand why the process of reviewing his notes felt so pleasurable. After all, who enjoys working on something they’ve already worked on? Worked on, like, twenty times?

Then, once again, Colonel Kurtz’s diamond bullet hit me between the eyes: The copy editor, and by extension the publisher, was asking ME if I wanted to change something…

IF a particular phrase could be improved…

IF a particular reference would make sense to the readers.

Only an advertising writer can connect with the sublime ecstasy of this experience. Understand, dear friend, a year before my writing was judged and re-written by used-car sales managers, retail salesmen, and state employees.

These yo-yo’s-- who couldn’t write a coherent sentence with a shotgun duct taped to their head-- would read my stuff…in front of me…for the first time…with a red pen in their hand!

Even worse, some of these super-duper-high-powered McTrumps fancied themselves “just too busy,” and would dispatch their secretary to review and edit my copy! The process was a day-after-day kick in the crotch, as my very professional skills were devalued to the point of monkey business.

It was at that moment, while holding the marked-up manuscript in one hand, when I stood atop that mountain of joy and flipped a furious bird to copy-tweaking clients all over the world, proclaiming, “Free at Last! Free at Last! Thank God, Almighty, I’m free at last!”

I may never get another book published, but for one sweet, shining moment in time, the victory platform was mine, and my flag ran up the flagpole as the band played Skynyrd. With the volume turned up to eleven.

Big Brother needs a new pair of shoes--

As the waiting progressed, I pondered the reason for investing my time in the musings you are currently reading, and my introspection revealed a two-fold answer.

First, to let the wonderful people who actually spend their hard-earned money on books understand what a first-time author goes through; secondly, to reach out to all my brothers-and-sisters-in-arms who are clawing their way towards publication and say, “I feel your pain.”

Not rehearsed, Bill-Clinton, bite-my-lip pain, but your real pain… bad-hungover-from-MD-20/20-with-a-hatchet-in-your-head pain.

If you’re not a hopeful author, you’re probably still wondering what’s so “painful” about the quest for publication. You deserve an explanation:

1) The publication process lures you in like a siren to the rocks, because it’s hardwired into every writer that achieving publication is required to achieve “legitimacy.”

2) For reasons discussed, finding a crack in the process through which to crawl is damn near impossible.

3) But the pain, the silent pain, the pain inside the pain, comes from the fact that even hopeful writers know that the legitimacy they feel so burdened to achieve isn’t really legitimate anymore. Back in the days of Hemingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck? When books were the Internet and Television combined? You betcha publication meant you were talented.

But these days the business hosts a dirty little secret-- Let me give you an analogy:

Let’s say that fifteen years ago a dream took root in your mind, and thus you began planning, training, and saving your money to make a deep water exploration dive into the perilous Caves of Death. For the past three years your diving instructor has been an absolute sadist, demanding that you run five miles a day, swim two miles a day, complete a year-long Navy Seal Upper Body workout program, and pass a PhD-level exam on the chemistry of the gases required for a deep water dive.

The training, studies, and finances have consumed your every free minute. Finally, the day of the dive arrives, and your boat pitches through 25-foot seas to reach the spot where the caves can be accessed. You and your instructor converge on the stern of the vessel, where you check and re-check your gear—and even as you pull on your wetsuit your instructor is grilling you, demanding answers on what to do in the event of an emergency.

Suddenly, a helicopter appears, and lowers a bikini-clad Pam Anderson down onto the deck.

“Wow,” you say, feeling both star stuck and a bit curious about where in the hell Pam Anderson came from. “Have you come to wish me well on my dangerous dive? Was it in the newspaper or something?”

“Nah,” she says, “I’ve just always wanted to go swimming in that Caves of Death thingee.”

You smile.

“Pam, I’ve been preparing for this for fifteen years, and training non-stop for three. Diving the Caves of Death isn’t something you just do. You’ve got to be certified as a Master Cave & Rescue Diver.”

“Hang on there,” says your instructor. “What’s the big deal? You breathe in, you breathe out. I’ll rope us together and take you down Miss Anderson.”

“You can’t do that!” you shout. “She’s not certified!”

“Pam,” the instructor asks, “what happens if you breathe water into your lungs?

“Oh, right. Ask me a medical question. Do I look like a chiropractor to you?”

“The answer rhymes with ‘you brown.’”

“You…umm… drown?”

“Correct! By the powers invested in me the Professional Association of Dive Instructors, I hereby pronounce you a Master Cave & Rescue Diver. Now shed that cumbersome bikini, and let’s go!”

“But there are only two tanks,” you protest.

“Right,” your instructor says. “One for me, and one for Pam.”

“What about me?” you ask. “All my self-sacrifice and work?”

“Well, that will come in handy. You can use your diving knowledge to write an exciting press release about Pam’s certification in record time. Oh, and mention that I specialize in working with celebrity divers.”

And that, my friend, is the state of the publishing industry in relation to celebrity “authors.”

Here in the 21st Century, they are everywhere, sucking up way more than their share of the available oxygen. Children’s books, novels, autobiographies, cookbooks, you name the genre-- celebrities are lined up with their hands out, many of whom receive obscene advances for books they don’t write.

In fact, many of them confess to meeting with their designated ghost writer (aka sellout scrivener whore) no more than a handful of times. Publishing companies publish these books, obviously, because these celebrity “authors” generate sales—but to who, I have no clue.

Here’s a very, very brief list of some of the giants of literature who have managed to secure publication: Paris Hilton. Britney Spears. Pamela Anderson. Suzanne Somers. Loni Anderson. Tori Spelling. Madonna. Jewel. Victoria Beckham.

And that, friend, is just the female “authors” that popped up when I googled “Famous blonde females who would be slinging hash at IHOP if they had a size A cup, but instead are both insanely rich and have somehow gotten their names listed on the cover of a book as the author.”

Look, I got no problem with comedians, lawyers, and multi-talented geniuses like Michael Crichton writing books, because writing is largely what they do for a living-- but Pam Anderson? Paris Hilton?

Perhaps I’m a bit of a snob, but—no, I’m not. This is frickin’ publishing, damnit.

This is the written word professionally printed on paper by an offset press. If a tree is going to die, shouldn’t toilet paper be the most shameful possible fate? But no, we’ve got publishers willing to put their name on a book in order to cash in on the likes of Madonna.

“Oh, get a grip, Prioleau,” some will say. “It’s easy money for the publishers and the ghost writers. It’s a business, not an art. In business, everyone sells out.”

Really? Everyone sells out? Everyone? Well, let’s take a look at the other comparable arts like music, theatre, and painting:

Please email me if you ever hear one of the following spoken:

• “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to the release party for the Boston Pops newest CD. I’m excited to say that during these recording sessions we had a special guest sitting in as our first-chair violin and violin soloist… best-selling author Mr. Pat Conroy!”

• “All right, you Blues 102.5 listeners—the CD you’ve been waiting for goes on sale tonight at midnight. I haven’t heard it yet, but I understand it’s a tour de force of the Delta Blues, as interpreted by the brilliant guitar skills of Mr. B.B. King, Mr. Eric Clapton, and Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, Juniorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

• “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are proud to announce that tonight’s triumphant return of Death of a Salesman to Broadway is directed by Larry McMurtry and produced by Nelson DeMille.

• “And if you will note on your visitors’ guide, you will see an exciting new addition to the New York Metropolitan Art Gallery, as we have dedicated the west wing to an exhibit featuring the watercolors of writer/artist Stephen Hunter.”

As you know, you will never hear those words spoken, because Pat Conroy and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. aren’t musicians, and Larry McMurtry and Nelson DeMille aren’t in theatre, and Stephen Hunter ain’t a painter. So those arts aren’t going to bestow upon them the right to call themselves such just to increase ticket sales among fans with an IQ above 100. Not a chance.

The writer’s art? For sale, 100%.

The publisher’s role as money-making machine has even spawned a theatre comedy named “Celebrity Autobiographies,” where comedians will sit on an empty stage and read directly from said autobiographies.

One review of a performance stated, “I laughed so hard I truly thought I was going to pee my pants.” And all they are doing is reading excerpts from these celebrities’ books.

And that, my friend, is painful. Yes, it’s less painful now that I’m “in the club,” but I can guarantee you this: Right now there are 500 genius writers spread out around America who aren’t getting a look because so many agents, ghostwriters, and publishing companies are too busy fighting with broken bottles over the rights to Lindsey Lohan’s autobiography “How to be a role-model before turning 21.”

The only question for a struggling writer is, “Which is more painful: When the celeb does write it themselves, thus degrading the art of words on paper…and or when a ghostwriter writes it, and makes wordsmithing seem so simple that even Paris Hilton can do it?”

Next, the Typeset Pages

The third and final time the manuscript arrived, it looked like the actual pages of a book. I got to tell you, after 15 years of work, that’s cooler than the first time you get a… never mind. It’s awesome.

It’s got all these cool registration marks, and the individual lines are numbered, and there’s that groovy little touch where they put the name of the book at the top of a page, and the name of the chapter on the other. It looked like a damn book!

The joy of the moment dissipated when I began reading it-- again --for the zillionth time. My baby no longer made me laugh. We were now like an eighty year-old couple—sure, we had fond memories to share, but our encounter tonight certainly wasn’t going to lead to any thunder down under.

I worked my way through it, found a couple of typos, and emailed them to the publisher. About that time an email from my agent pinged me.

P,
Publisher wants to know who you know that’s in the biz… preferably famous.

Dude,
I know Pat Conroy, and probably can track him down. I also know Stephen Colbert—we went to high school together. I went to Auburn with Tim Dorsey, who writes the hilarious Serge Storms novels. And I know a guy who writes for the Simpsons, but I don’t know if he knows me. Why?

P,
They need someone to write a blurb about your book for the catalog and the book cover.

Dude,
Okay. Which one?

P,
All of them.

Dude,
Is this something you should be doing as my agent?

P,
No.

Somebody? Hey, it’s me, Nobody.

Once again, another lesson surfaces for the first time author: You are in charge of tracking down people to write glowing, witty things about your book.

Let’s see-- Pat Conroy is in the process of writing his next novel, so I’m sure he’d be thrilled to stop that insignificant pursuit, and write a blurb about my book.

Stephen Colbert, well, he’s only the busiest, most famous man on the frickin’ planet right now, so that’s easy, too.

Haven’t seen Tim Dorsey since we graduated from Auburn a mere quarter-century ago, so he’ll be thrilled at the request.

And the writer for The Simpsons? He is a friend of the older brother of a friend of mine, so, hell, he’ll probably fly to town.

And thus the stalking began. I hunted each of them down via friends, family, and Google-- and then, well, I begged. I begged like Dubya in front of the Yale admissions board… like Ted Kennedy forty-five minutes after last call… like Bill before Hillary when the DNA tests came back… like Jimmy Carter to the Nobel Prize Committee… like the CEO of Haliburton in a war-extension meeting with Dick Cheney.

I don’t think anyone has begged that hard since the last time France was attacked.

Mercifully, one by one, they relented. I sent out manuscripts, and they sent in their blurbs. Pat, the one I least expected to have the time to read the book, provided a blurb that called the book “marvelous.”

It practically made me cry.

The publisher did cry, I think.

He was so excited he called my agent and asked him out to lunch. It was a great coup for a first time author.

Of course, the inside secret is that it didn’t matter what they wrote—all we need was their name on an email with some words in it.

Let’s hypothetically say Stephen wrote a blurb that said, “Throughout the book Prioleau Alexander tries to be funny, but he’s not. His writing is terrible, and his suppositions are outrageous. I laughed out loud maybe once, and that was at how poorly he bumbled his descriptions. I’d recommend this book to anyone who likes wasting money, time, and brain power. Otherwise, forget it. Grade: F. Someone should hack off Mr. Alexander’s fingers."

Gee, Stephen, thanks! We can use it!

“Funny…outrageous…I laughed out loud… I’d recommend this book to anyone.”

Stephen Colbert

Did we actually do that sort of selective editing?

Fortunately, no… but I now have that little parlor trick in back pocket in case it’s needed down the road.