Chapter Seventeen

Who built this ceiling I keep hitting my head on?

A few years ago, Kevin Costner starred in wonderful golf movie entitled Tin Cup, about a driving range pro who enters the US Open and plays brilliantly. At one point, he is making a run at the course record, when one of the television producers laments that so much of the attention of “his show” is being stolen by a nobody: It’s heroes I need, he rants, not obscure driving range pros.

Indeed.

America loves her champions-- the more dominant and longer reining, the better.

Whether it’s athletes, or actors, or musicians, or writers, we want our American gods placed up high. Out of reach. Invincible. Yet humble. Wise. Knowing. Deserving.

We want them up there, on the throne, until their desire to rein slips past—at which point they should step down, undefeated, only then making way for a new equally invincible champion. Of course there are pockets of aficionados in every area-- fans that truly understand and study the nuances and subtleties of their area of interest-- but in general? The fact is that most Americans want the driving range pros to stay on the driving range.

Why?

Could it be because invincible champions are safely beyond the scope of our own dreams? And challengers remind us of who we really are-- Mere scrappers, fighting for 10,000th place?

If every “champion” was a one-hit/fight/game/match/tournament wonder, then what does that say about me? You see, a revolving door of champions would remind us daily that we never even made it into the arena-- but a long-reigning champion? It feels right—distant. Unattainable. Super Human.

You can’t feel inferior to super-mega-monster-level greatness: The Rolling Stones. Mohammad Ali. Michael Crichton. JFK. Cal Ripken. Bo Jackson. John Elway. YoYo Ma. Eddie Van Halen. Pavarotti. Oprah. Bill Gates. Angelina Jolie. Tiger Woods. Michael Phelps.

It is stars we love, not for the light they provide, but for the light years they are away from us.

Did you and I co-build this damn ceiling?

I am a struggling author.

Perhaps you are a struggling writer. Together we struggle for our big break—a break that would put us atop the heap. But who are we struggling against? Agents and publishers, who are usually too busy to trifle with our musings?

Or could it be we are struggling against an industry that doesn’t want us, because we don’t want us?

When you go into a bookstore, who do you ask about—your usual favorite authors? Or do you ask if there are any rookie authors in the store—authors breaking the usual rules, and exploring new ideas?

Do you and I support you and I?

Or do we subconsciously utilize the built-in vetting process the industry offers? A process that for the most part ensures some degree of quality in the books we buy?

Aaaaand, action!

In due time I quit thinking and decided to heed the sales rep’s advice—it was time to take my book places. No point in whining when there’s work to be done.

I had several business and personal trips planned to southeastern cities that weren’t on my book tour, so during the next month a case of books accompanied me on my travels. From there, it was simply a matter of knocking on bookstore doors— I was Willie Loman in his prime, busting through doors with a shoeshine and a smile, brimming with pluck and cheer.

Indy or Big Box, I tracked down the owner or manager and did the soft shoe.

Sure, there was lots of standing in line while the manager assisted little old ladies seeking heaving breast novels and confused customers seeking “that book, by that guy, about that thing,” but I was as patient as old Screwtape himself, awaiting my moment to pounce:

Me: … so, I thought I’d personally bring by a review copy of my book. I’ve learned that the people who sell books are people in bookstores, so I’m comin’ to the source!

Owner: I guess I could put it on my stack of stuff to read.

Me: I really think you’ll like it—Pat Conroy gave it a great review!

Owner: Pat Conroy will give a blurb to anybody.

Aaaaaand, cut!

Me: … so I’m comin’ to the source!

Manager: Great. I’ll read it.

Me: Cool. Would you like me to sign it?

Manager: Sure.

Me: Tell me your name so I can personalize it.

Manager: Nah—just sign it. If you put my name on it, I can’t sell it.

Aaaaaand, cut!

Me: … so I’m comin’ to the source!

Manager: What a lousy time to be a writer. 300,000 books were published last year. And readership is down.

Aaaaaand, cut!

Me: … so I’m comin’ to the source!

Manager: I don’t order our books-- I think I’ve got a form around here somewhere that you can fill out if you want to apply.

Aaaaand, cut!

Me: …to the source!

Manager: Are these books returnable?

Aaaaaaand, cut!

Me: … to the source!

Manager: I’ll be honest with you—this won’t sell here. Have you ever written about wizards? We sell a lot of that crap.

Aaaaaaand, cut!

Me: …so, you know, I just drive around with a box of these freakin’ boat anchors in my car, and—hell, I’ll give you one if you’ll just lie to me and say you’ll read it.

Manager: I did read it. A friend gave me their copy-- I loved it.

Me: Okay, thanks anyway. Bye.