Chapter Nineteen

For one glorious fall weekend at my alma mater I felt like a VIP.

Okay, it wasn’t a full weekend, it was just a few hours in the VIP booth, during which I dined on some very tasty VIP shrimp, some VIP sausage, and (according to my wife) drank way too many VIFree beers. I thought I drank the exact number I should have, but she has a much keener eye for detail than I.

Sadly, upon my return from Auburn I was accidentally enrolled in the University of Reality’s freshman author course-- and man-oh-man-oh-man was it a vicious shot to the me-o-meter. My enrollment in the University of Reality was a result of agent shopping-- I asked around, and was referred to the person I will call “Sensei X” by another insider—who told me, “I know a lot of agents, but Sensei X is quite literally the only one I know who isn’t being sued by one of their authors.”

That seemed like a good thing, so I sent Sensei X a book and a query letter, and upon reading the book the Sensei decided yours truly had some talent worth pursuing.

I will, however, be decidedly vague on the details, as my professor was kind, and took a great deal of time to instruct me-- mostly on brutal realities. Quite frankly, I thought I’d already learned enough concerning the publishing biz – and certainly enough to keep me wondering for years to come. There was a great deal more to know, though, and through a series of emails and one very painful phone conversation we walked across the ricepaper of publishing reality.

Sensei X put waaaaaay more time into my lessons than I can imagine any other highly respected agent doing, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Sensei X was complimentary of my writing, but also made sure our roles were well defined-- Sensei X never referred to me as an author, but repeatedly as a “witty guy.”

In short, no punches were pulled during the instruction of this young Grasshopper. And in the course of the relationship, several things were made very clear:

1) Sensei X forcefully proclaimed that the words in this document you’re reading are nothing more than a “What I did on my summer vacation” essay, and shouldn’t be considered for anything more than a blog.

2) My demographic inspiration for this project is “absurdly small”—a few million frustrated writers? Who says frustrated writers are book buyers? Plus, a rookie like me shouldn’t be writing anything that doesn’t have potential appeal to every book-buying human in America.

3) I shouldn’t be writing about the publishing business because I don’t know crap about the publishing business.

4) As mentioned earlier, I wrote a humorous history of the United States a decade ago, which “made the rounds” via my agent, but failed to inspire a buyer. And, as you know, I re-wrote the manuscript soup-to-nuts (injecting it with an additional ten years writing experience). Sensei X announced, “You need to quit trying to sell this thing. It had its chance. Maybe someday when you are huge you can pawn it off on some publisher, but it’s pointless to circulate it at this point.”

5) The Sensei advised me to ditch the history manuscript and this manuscript and write something of broad, universal appeal. (Maybe a Cookbook for Multiple Orgasms?) “Real” writers write because they cannot stop, and the ability to let go of past failures and work on brand new projects is what separates the sheep from the goats. (My writing career of the last twenty years does not, apparently, qualify me as a “real” writer).

6) A Rookie cannot complain about the availability of their book, because every square inch of a Big Box Bookstore is bought and paid for real estate. Yes, even the books on the “Staff Recommends” table are “recommended” because someone recommended a payment of X, and someone else liked that recommendation. Whether the book faces “out” is paid for. How many books remain stocked on the shelf is paid for. And the only way for a non-celebrity author to convince their publisher to cough up that kind of payola is to either write Cold Mountain or to stay in the game until they write the book that “catches on and sells like hell.” With the book selling like hell, the publisher will then be happy to “pile on” to the success by buying space for the book—then happily enjoy some “found money” selling all those earlier books.

7) And finally-- I’ve established (albeit modestly) a niche writing/fan-base via Fries, and that’s the niche/genre where I should continue to work. Gee, that sounds fun.

All this, and Sensei X actually liked me.

There was no intentional dream-crushing by the Sensei—these words were experienced insight from a respected insider. The Sensei filled me in on the reality of the publishing industry, and burned into my brain that my perception of the business had no bearing on the hard, cold, mean realities. In short, I am a man dressed out to play football, and out of pure naiveté I’ve wandered onto soccer field.

If, perchance, the Sensei and I found ourselves on the same playing field, here are the questions I’d ask:

1) Why the hostility towards the idea of writing a book about my experiences as an author? I got this from both my Sensei and my former agent. YES, I get it… I “don’t know crap” about the inner workings of the publishing industry. I DO, however, know a LOT about my own experiences. Isn’t that what a writer is supposed to draw on?

2) How can a manuscript from a decade ago, completely re-written by a Knighted member of King Author’s Courts, be completely unworthy of consideration? I did, after all, get a book published… and the history manuscript is now better and funnier than the one that got me knighted in the first place.

3) And why—I say why-- would I want to spend a year writing an entirely new book, which-- if it succeeds and an agent deems it worthy of submission—and the publishing gods deem it worthy of purchase-- the prize is to go through another year like the one I just experienced?

Then, the moon and the stars aligned and reality finally hit me…

It was with the lessons from the previous year ricocheting around in my head that I got an email from my publishing house. It was kind and complimentary of my history-of-the-USA manuscript, but … it was rejected.

I emailed back, “Well, sometimes you eat the bear. And sometimes he eats you.”

Why? Because it didn’t seem very important anymore.