Chapter Four

I was sitting on my porch the following month when my cell phone announced an incoming call with the sweet, sweet opening chords from the Auburn Fight Song. I took the call.

“Who’s the best freakin’ agent in the world?” the caller asked.

And, Man, I knew. Knew who it was, knew why he was calling, and knew for sure my wife had bought a case of beer the night before. A cold one was in my hand and half-gone before I could shout the words, “You, baby, You!”

And that was that. My agent sold my book… sold it to a real, live, New York publishing house.

Whether that meant I got paid, or screwed-blued-and-tattooed was anyone’s guess, but one thing was a reality: A brief moment in recorded history now existed when someone on the planet who knew good writing read my work and said, “You, Sir, do not suck.”

They didn’t want to write themselves into the script; they didn’t want to know why it took so long to write; they didn’t want to know if the logo should be bigger or if there was too much copy; and they didn’t tell me they had their own great idea for a book.

The future may hold riches, fame, and a Nobel/Pulitzer combo, but for this writer, they will all pale in comparison to that evening on the porch.

Around midnight, while still on the porch drinking beer, a fleeting memory of a doctor’s appointment the following morning clawed its way through the dead and dying brain cells to the tiny part of my brain assigned to “important issues.”

I called the medical office phone number to cancel, but it wouldn’t take a message. To my horror, my phone rang two minutes later, and the caller announced himself as “Doctor Something.”

“Doc,” I said, “No can do on my appointment in the morning.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Negative, Doc,” I responded. “I just sold a book, and—Dude, I am way hammered!”

Neither he nor my wife found my comment to be funny, but I thought it showed creativity in a no-win situation.

I should have taken some pithy notes over the next few days, but stupid-happy thoughts clouded my thinking. The truth be told, the victory buzz sort of overwhelmed me, and even led me to tell a couple of potential marketing clients that business was booming, and that “my firm” (me) wasn’t taking on any new work.

Part of this statement was true—because getting loaded every night and sleeping until noon makes it hard to take on much new work. After a week the buzz started to fade, so I called my agent.

Me: What do you hear?

Agent: All good news. They’re going to release you in their spring catalog, which is really fast. Should be April.

Me: Umm, it’s only August, Dude.

Agent: I know. April is practically tomorrow in publishing time.

Me: I guess that means this would be a bad time to quit my day job. How long before writing could serve as sustainable career?

Agent: How about never? How does never fit into your schedule?

Me: You’re telling me something here, I think.

Agent: Yes, that’s true. What do you suppose it is?

Me: That I shouldn’t get cocky?

Agent: We’re making progress, Pray.

A few days later, the first email from my publisher arrived. My publisher. My publisher. My publisher. My publisher. My, uh, sorry.

Anyway, the email was very kind and complimentary, welcoming me into the family. It explained that there would be a contract arriving shortly, and that my job entailed signing it and returning three copies to them.

I called my agent to find out what to do.

“If I were you,” he said, “I’d sign it.”

What’s that in dog years?

Alright! With a publisher onboard and a couple maxed out credit cards, I began to feel like a real artist: That is, broke, with no means of reliable income, and clueless about my future.

It felt so right. In the zone. A quick slash of a knife, an ear to my agent, and genuine starving artist status could be mine.

Here’s a brief look at the questions that haunted my attempts to sleep:

1) Will I make any money?

2) Will there be a book tour?

3) Will my expenses on the book tour be covered?

4) What will the cover of my book look like?

5) What are my promotional responsibilities, and what are the publishers?

6) What should I be doing to prepare for this experience?

7) Should I be working on another book?

8) What should the follow up book be about?

9) What is the frequency, Kenneth?

The silence from my publisher on these issues was deafening. In quiet moments my mind would wander, and frequently ponder how bad it is, really, to include the words “Midas Muffler” five times in every radio spot.

True confessions

The section you are reading at the moment was added as part of the re-write process.

Why?

Because I think it’s important to come clean on how stupid I was in the early going-- I knew essentially nothing about the business of “getting published,” and I don’t know if that stupidity is shared amongst all struggling writers.

With that said, here is a list of the things I kinda/sorta thought would happen… in, you know, very general terms:

 My agent would begin to view me as an up-and-comer, and would do whatever he could to “groom” my talent, and ensure I stayed within his stable of clients.

 The publisher would ask that I come to New York-- in order to meet the team, and generally get a feel for this writer they had “signed” and thus allowed to make the sacred leap from “writer” to “author.”

 Having inspected the cut of my jib, the publisher would select an editor to work with me… an editor they thought would “bring out the best in me.”

 Someone at the publishing house would have an extended sit-down with me, and explain how the business works: What they will do… what I should do… and things I could do above and beyond the call of duty that would make them very happy.

 While the book was going through the steps of getting published, folks at the publishing house would be “working the streets,” and talking with their insider friends about the fact that “we have a new author that’s written something unique—you’re going to want to read it.”

 Some folks at the publishing house would discuss the book, and look at where the publishing industry was selling, and offer some ideas on what topics I should consider (as quickly as possible) for my next book. This would happen because I’d leapt the writer/author chasm, and they’d naturally be interested in keeping me within their stable of authors.

 Once the book was on the street, at least one person would take Fries under their wing, and stay up nights making sure it rocked the publishing world.

 Oh, and I thought celestial choirs would descend on the backs of unicorns, and a white dove would land on my shoulder, and the voice of James Earl Jones would announce to the four corners of the earth, “This is my author, with whom I am well pleased.”

In retrospect, the last one listed was the most realistic.