My name is Prioleau Alexander, and I am a writer.

I've been writing professionally for about 20 years, but last year, I struck the validation vein every writer strives for: I actually got a book published.

It started when I landed a gen-u-ine New York literary agent.

Then he sold my book to a New York publishing company.

Next, I got an advance.

Then, they assigned me a publicist.

And that's when things got weird.

You see, I thought that was where a writer was supposed to begin the "happily ever after" part of life. You know, a second book deal and an agent who becomes your sidekick and a semi-reliable stream of income emerges-- right?

Not so much.

As an exercise to keep my writing skills sharp, I carefully chronicled my Rookie Year as a first-time author. It was quite an adventure. And that's what this blog is about-- answering three questions that haunt every struggling writer:

1) "What's it really like to get published?"

2) "Is it worth all the work, pain, and rejection?"

3) "Should I pursue it, or go with a print-on-demand option?"

I confess from the get-go that this was written to be published as a book, not a blog. It became a blog. A book and a blog are very different.

But, at the end of the day, they pay the same.

Chapter One

Art, in general, is a confusing and over-used term.

After all, what is art?

We can all agree that Michelangelo’s works are art, but does merely holding a paintbrush in your hand make you an artist?

Does learning to play the intro riff to Stairway to Heaven make you a musician?

Does playing “second bunny” in your kindergarten play make you an actor?

Heady stuff.

In the art of writing, one torturous hurdle separates “recognized success” from the sublime world of anonymous scribbling. That hurdle is getting published.

The process by which one goes from “writer” to “published author” is the least understood of all artistic endeavors.

It’s much easier to understand the process of going from “musician” to “recording artist,” because if you’re a good musician, and you get yourself some gigs, and the crowds increase in size, and people talk about you, and girls you don’t know are suddenly sleeping with you, there’s at least a chance that a music label will wander into a show to consider your potential.

Musicians are also fortunate because, in order to enjoy the fun of being a “musician,” they never actually need to make the transition from “musician” to “recording artist,” They can simply stand on a street corner, play some tunes, and people walking by will listen.

Credit for this goes to the Doppler Effect.

Same for an actor. You can spend a couple hours at Happy Hour, then bellow Hamlet’s monologue on a street corner until the cops come; all the world’s your stage, no?

A writer, however, lives in a different world.

A writer seeking to become a published author is an “imagination egotist” that sits alone at a computer, pecking out the details of some sort of story he hopes others will pay to read.

The investment takes hundreds, even thousands, of hours. When he’s done, well, what now?

Let me tell you, Amigo, there are few things uglier than a big, thick, unpublished manuscript. Why? The time investment.

Let’s consider a musician saddled with this same multi-hour-investment reality:

Guitarist: Hey, Mom! I’ve been practicing for the past 8 months. Want to hear my stuff?

Mom: Sure, Hon-

Guitarist: Okay, but there’s one small caveat.

Mom: What’s that?

Guitarist: I’m coming over every night for two weeks, and each night I’ll play for three hours, but you can’t comment until I’ve completed the entire set.

Mom: Son… that would be great. But I’ve got to go to the doctor.

Guitarist: What Doctor?

Mom: Kevorkian.

Or how about a painter caught in the writer’s world:

Painter: Hey, Mike! My old college roomie! Sup’?

Mike: I’m good-- what’s up, Dude?

Painter: Man, I’m having my first art showing! You in?

Mike: Cool! Where’s it gonna be?

Painter: At your house. I’m going to come by every night for two weeks, and each night you’ll sit in silence while I spend three hours discussing the paintings: The technique, the inspiration, how they make me feel, how they should make you feel, you know—the usual.

Mike: Dude, I wish I could, but I’ve got committed to attending a multi-level marketing meeting—they’re selling time shares, and I just can’t stand the idea of missing it.

No matter how you slice it, the journey to become a published author is a long, strange, demeaning hike.

If you tell someone you’ve spent the past two years writing a manuscript, it’s amazing how often you’ll hear a reply along the lines of, “Really? I’ve got a great idea for a book myself, if I could just find time to write it.”

If you say to the same person that you’ve spent the past two years perfecting Handel’s Messiah, the odds are extremely low that they will respond, “You know, I’ve been meaning to perfect Beethoven’s Sixth myself, but I haven’t been able to find the time.”

No, they will likely look impressed and ask, “Will you play it for me?”

So what is a writer to do?

There is only one answer: Get published. And how hard can that be, right?

Good question.

How Hard It Can Be

For every writer seeking publication, there is one single icon that emerges as the symbol of the quest.

Unlike the Holy Grail, this particular symbol is easy to find, and unlike Ahab’s great white whale, there’s no peril in attaining it. In fact, it’s available right down the road at your neighborhood Post Office.

This hallowed jewel is none other than the self-addressed, stamped envelope.

The self-addressed, stamped envelope is such a unique and ubiquitous part of the journey to publication that it has morphed into an acronym amongst those in the biz, and is called simply a SASE.

One need only purchase a “How to Get Published” book to connect immediately to the power of the SASE, as every literary agent who agrees to be interviewed lists the SASE as the single most important element within a submission package.

“I wonder why?” I remember thinking during my perusal of my three get-published books. “Maybe it’s so they can quickly and easily send me my advance.”

No, no… that’s not quite it. Literary agents are not seeking a more efficient way to begin their personal and professional relationship with you. The truth is a bit more nuanced.

You see, SASE doesn’t stand for Self-Addressed, Stamped Envelope. It actually stands for “Sorry, Ass-monkey. Send Elsewhere.”

Yes, I’m afraid it’s true.

Due to the sheer volume of rejection letters that literary agents send out every day, you (the submitter) must pay your own dream-crushing freight.

By way of an analogy, imagine a loan shark calling to say he’ll be by next Tuesday to kick your ass, but he needs an advance to pay for the dry-cleaning of his soon-to-be-bloody suit. For a struggling writer, that’s what the SASE comes to feel like.

Inside these SASE’s, rejection letters come in many forms.

Or, in my experience, many, many forms.

The nicer ones-- which feel like, oh, just a Ninja throwing star to the Adam’s Apple-- come on the agent’s official letterhead, and use phrases like “we are unable to give your work the attention it so richly deserves.”

The not-so-nice rejections, well, they sting a little more. Imagine submitting your great American novel to a literary agent, and three months later you receive one-third of a sheet of paper, hand-cut and crooked, a copy of a copy of a copy, that starts off, “Due to the volume of queries we receive….”

For an unpublished writer, that’s a baseball-cleats vasectomy, without a bag of frozen peas for the post-op.

Why must this be? Why must the literary agents be so cruel?

Think about it: They have the worst job on the planet.

Imagine, if you will, committing several hours a day to reading some stranger’s poorly written, disjointed, mind-numbing fiction.

Then let’s season that salad with a few volumes of bad poetry. Add the occasional biography of someone’s grandpa, who fought in WWII and went on to become philosopher-janitor.

Finally, let’s top it all with the rough-note ramblings of every single yo-yo this poor literary agent has ever met, no matter how briefly.

People, this isn’t a job-- it’s Hell, in a Word document.

Here’s the painful, statistical truth: As writers, you and I suck.

Except no one ever tells us we suck.

If you write a romance novel about Renaissance England and show it to your husband, what do you think he’s going to say? That it’s boring? This man wants to have sex with you at some point in the next decade.

How about the man who writes the crime-fiction novel about the perfect heist? Do you think wifey-poo is really going to tell him the truth? With that new ottoman hanging in the balance? Not a chance.

So, the literary agents get to tell us we suck.

And this is where the disconnect occurs. None of us want those statistics to include our writing.

Every other writer might suck, but you don’t, right?

You can describe a “heaving breast” like no one before or since.

Or your bad guys aren’t just bad, they are symbolic icons of the good-and-evil duality of man the likes of which hasn’t been encountered since Moby Dick.

And if the damn literary agent would just stick with the manuscript through the first hundred and seventy pages and allow the story to build, they’d see that you are quite possibly the next James Joyce.

News flash. Here is how much money the agent who discovers the next James Joyce will make: Zero.

Here is how much the agent who convinces Oprah to put her name on a cookbook that she’s never even laid eyes on: One gazillion dollars.

You see, for a literary agent to make money, they have to sell the book to a publishing house. The publishing house must then in turn print and sell thousands of those books to readers.

Now, which do you think will sell more copies: The cookbook with Oprah’s photo on it, where she swears she stays thin with no effort? Or your “important” novel that explores the relationship between conjoined twins, and cuts deep down into the issues of self, selfishness, and selflessness?

Hint: Are there more people looking for a no-effort solution for thinness? Or conjoined twins, seeking someone to understand them?

If you’re still confused, ask yourself this question: If Americans won’t even commit two hours to an “important” movie, what leads you to believe your “important” four hundred page book will fare any better?

Strike One

My first manuscript entailed the trials of turning thirty. Part-truth and part-fiction, it was a humorous memoir of myself and two friends traveling through Europe, struggling with the concept of reaching the big three-zero, and having to become real, no-kidding-around, adults. (At the time, thirty seemed old).

At the end of this exhaustive typing exercise I gave it to a couple dozen friends and family, and got solid reviews, with broad consensus that it was, at the very least, laugh-out-loud funny.

In my opinion, this manuscript defied the statistical suckage, and thus deserved publication.

Next stop, my acquisition of several How to Get Published books.

As mentioned earlier, this is where the SASE came to light, but that was only the beginning. There is a very specific style for kissing a potential agent’s ass, and straying from the formula will doom you faster than signing a three-movie deal and discovering a taste for Bolivian marching powder in the same weekend.

A shortened version of the formula reads as:

Dear (Agent’s Name),

With great self-loathing and humility, I beseech thee taketh a look at my musings. Yea, though my scribblings are not worthy for your eyes to behold, I feel it my bounden duty to present it to you. It is unlike any work ever produced, because ___________.

With Great Thanksgiving and Humble Obedience,

(Your Name).

The blank is where you describe how your book is unique and destined to sell more copies than, say, the cookbook Oprah agreed to smile for.

Perhaps you wrote it without using verbs.

Or maybe you shattered the current record for heaving-breasts per page.

Maybe you drew Vonnegut-style cartoons of Mohammad, and are ready to go into bestseller exile.

Whatever the angle, it better be good. In my case, the angle was a right-of-passage book that wasn’t all angst-filled and boo-hoo-hoo. I thought it filled a pretty interesting, under-served niche. In a non-sucky way.

Only a worm hole in the space-time continuum could account for how quickly the SASE rejections began crowding into my mailbox—in fact, one was waiting for me when I got back from dropping off the initial mailing at the post office. And they kept coming. I didn’t keep exact count, but I’m fairly confident three rejections materialized for every query letter sent out.

The How-to-Get-Published books were once again scrutinized, and their advice was clear: Don’t give up! Press on! You don’t suck, even if you suck!

So I pressed the quest. Then, after playing SASE boomerang for months, it occurred to me that the United States Postal Service may be behind the writing and publishing of these How-to-Get-Published books.

What could be an easier way to margin their profits?

My local postman spies a letter to a literary agency and sets it aside. One day later he opens it, stuffs the SASE with a rejection note, and drops it by my house. Two stamps are purchased, but the letter never leaves the neighborhood.

Genius! Evil, but genius!

My wife listened to my theory as it spewed forth in angry detail. After a while she worked the words “trial separation” into the conversation, and the conversation faded towards something like painting the crown molding or getting the dog fixed.

But still, I wonder.

My next move involved playing a few of my aces in the hole. Through family connections, some people in the publishing biz kinda-sorta knew my name, so it was time to call in some favors.

Even if these folks couldn’t actually pull the trigger on a book deal, they could assuage my ego by telling me what a not-sucky writer I am, and perhaps kick it upstairs to the decision makers who could at least consider it.

Their responses ripped into me like John McCain at a pancake buffet.

One said, “You need to be more deliberate,” as if my chosen style of writing was… an accident?

Another said, “You need to practice writing more,” unaware that my professional job (for 10 years) was as an advertising writer—and that I’d won a couple dozen awards for the craft I now needed to practice.

The third opinion was that the book was too “stereotypical Southern male,” and thus “wouldn’t sell well.”

Apparently, us Southern Boys is just a bunch of toe-pickin’ mule humpers, and our kind don’t buy nothing that’s got’s to do with fancy book learnin’.

A great deal of thought went into my re-writing the book from another point of view-- perhaps an atypical, New England lesbian-- but the idea fizzled when the term “heaving breasts” surfaced three times in the first chapter.

From there, I returned to my stack of get-published books, which assured me in no uncertain terms, “Perhaps the topic you chose sucks, and maybe the way you arranged the words sucked, but there’s no way you suck. Consider purchasing our companion book, How to Write Better So You Can Become a Writer.”

The concept struck me as a bit like selling a book to biology majors entitled How to Be Smarter So You Can Get Into Med School. I subsequently moved the ownership of these books between cerebral categories-- from “good value” to “suspect.”

Having already spent our family emergency-fund on SASEs, a brilliant idea rose like a Tomahawk missile to my brain: To hell with the old book-- just invest a few hundred hours writing a book on another topic!

The get-published books said that if your book is good enough, it’s impossible for it to not get published. My thinking here belays my affliction with the writer’s disease, because if I really felt my literary mission involved exploring the angst of turning thirty, then that idea would remain front and center until achieving perfection, right?

Nah.

The point was publication, and if that meant writing a new book, then a new freakin’ book was comin’ up!

Strike Two

Okay, the space between this paragraph and the one above represents the two years lost to writing my next book.

A humorous history of the United States, it uncovered lessons we should’ve learned, but failed to. No less than a dozen people told me it was the funniest thing they’d ever read. That’s a good thing, no?

That space up above represents the several months lost to playing SASE boomerang with this second manuscript. The need for more up-to-date versions of the get-published books began to haunt me… and then it happened: A real, live, fast-talking, New York literary agent called.

Agent: Did you write this?

Me: Uh, yeah?

Agent: This is the funniest stuff I’ve read in two years, and I’m gonna sell it, so don’t lie to me. Is this your stuff?

Me: Yes.

Agent: Okay. Send me the rest.

This wasn’t the appropriate conversation.

Doesn’t discovery lead to … compliments?

I mean, what if I was fragile? A sensitive artist, one mood-swing away from a Drano martini? Or a quirky, reclusive, alcoholic genius who might burn my manuscript rather than submit to such a blasé reaction.

The issue demanded pressing:

Me: So you really liked the book?

Agent: It’s not a book. It’s a manuscript. You’re not gonna be one of those whiney, needy types, are you?

Me: Nah, that ain’t me. I dig your style, Dude.

Agent: Terrific. Why aren’t you on the way to the post office?

So, step one was officially complete. The impossible morphed into the possible. A literary agent now represented me on the mean streets of the Big Apple-- a player in the game! And he loved my stuff! New York address, big name clients… I was on my way to the top!

Why they call it the “submission” process…

After an infinite amount of time passed, my agent called:

Agent: Alright, ya’ big sissy, we’re going to start submitting your manuscript. And they don’t call it the submission process for nothing. I hope you got thick skin, because these people will say what they think.

Me: If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to be rejected.

Agent: Funny. All I’m saying is you don’t have dick until you have a deal. And right now, you ain’t got dick.

Me: Does that mean I shouldn’t have leased the Porsche?

The next eight months rolled out as the slowest, most agonizing months of my life. My agent sent the manuscript out to one publishing company at a time, along with a cover letter endorsement in which he stated “Maybe I’m weird, but this is the funniest stuff I’ve read in years.”
And one by one, the rejections made their way back.

Ever sensitive to my feelings, my agent faxed them to me at work without a word, and my secretary delivered them to me.

A rejection, I could handle… but the wording in some of the letters was too much to take. In fact, most of them agreed with my agent, and stated, “I’ve got to agree. This is some of the funniest stuff I’ve read in a very long time.”

Yes! Yes! Go on!

“Unfortunately, this genre isn’t selling very well these days, so we’re going to have to pass.”

Wait! Wait! You’re doing it wrong! You say “It sucks,” and then you pass.

You don’t say “It’s good,” then pass.

You’re MegaWorld Books! Whatever you say sells is what sells! If there’s a problem with a genre, you make the market! I mean, Al Franken is getting published! If he’s getting shelf space, how can you turn down a book you think is actually good?

Are you there, God? It’s me, Prioleau.

And then, the call came.

Agent: Well, Pray, we gave it our best shot. No takers.

Me: But, but, but, but-

Agent: Win some, lose some. Hey, I thought your manuscript was good.

Me: But, but, but, but, but-

Agent: We had a few laughs, though, huh? Good times.

Me: But, but, but, but-

Agent: Listen, send me something I can sell, okay?

Me: But, but, but, but-

Agent: Don’t be a stranger.

Aaaaaand, click. Dial tone. Insert sound of crickets.

Chapter Two

The next couple years of my life revolved mainly around creative denial. I focused on my advertising job, pretended that my work mattered, and watched in silent hell as the owner of a local Midas Muffler Shop edited the dialogue in my radio spots.
(You know, Prioleau, you don’t have the words Midas Muffler Shop in here enough. They said at the seminar it should be said at least five times).

Of course, that is but the tiniest of examples, as my entire day revolved around clients strangling the life out of any idea I laid at their temple of approval.

Me: And at this point, we cut to a guy on stilts, who says—

Client: Stilts? What do stilts have to do with selling cars?

Me: That’s the point. We’re getting the viewers to—

Client: Stilts have a negative connotation.

Me: A what?

Client: Everyone fell off stilts as a kid. That’s a negative.

Me: A negative?

Client: I don’t see any price and item in this script.

Me: Well, if you’ll let me—

Client: Where do I walk in? I’m the brand.

Me: You’re the what?

Client: The brand. People buy here because they know they can trust Crazy Mike to be the low price leader, with service after the sale. That’s what we’ve got to sell. You see? That’s creative. The low-price leader with service after the sale. Do you have someone at your agency that trademarks stuff like that? You know, with a little circle C or one of those TM’s?

Me: Brilliant idea. I’m on it, Mike.

My literary pursuits during this time were minimal, thus allowing time for the bile associated with my previous failure to settle. To soothe the savage beast in my belly I’d swing by the bookstore, look for something that looked as good as my brilliant musings, and smugly leave empty-handed.

One day, however, the self-help section obstructed my path, and an epiphany struck me: A self-help book! No, a parody of a self-help book! Genius! A half-dozen of the stupidest looking titles leapt into my basket, and followed me home.

Strike Three

My parody of a self-help book wrote itself, set to the background music of my hysterical laughter.

It was so funny to make fun of life’s losers and the proposed personal advancement techniques.

I laughed and laughed, sitting there. Alone. At my computer. Laughing at my own jokes.

Even as the manuscript launched north via overnight to my agent, my laughter rose to the heavens. Any agent, even an agent who disliked me, could turn these witticisms into a gold mine franchise of books, movies, a TV series.

After a couple weeks of silence, I made the dreaded call.

Me: Hey, Man! What’d you think?

Agent: About what?

Me: My self-help book, dude!

Agent: Oh, yeah. I read it. On the can. Why did you write it?

Me: It’s funny! It’s original!

Agent: Are you at your computer?

Me: Yeah.

Agent: Google “self help parody book.” How many hits?

Me: Uh… let’s see. One million, one hundred and sixteen thousand. And some change.

Agent: That’s all? Wow, Pray, you’ve really discovered an untapped niche. Ever heard of any of the titles you see?

Me: No.

Agent: Do you think that might be some indication of how well they sell?

Me: Hey, I have an excellent idea. Maybe we should talk before I undertake my next manuscript.

Agent: Maybe that would be good. Unless you’re really more in for the typing. Ha! Like that joke about the hunter and the bear? Where the bear says, “You’re not really in this for the hunting, are you?”

Me: Alexander… out.

Out, indeed.

Why on earth does anyone want to be a writer?

I just couldn’t get right with my dream.

A musician, sure—sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. A painter, sure—people look over your shoulder as you work, and comment on your talent.

An actor, why not—you pretend to be someone else for a couple hours, and people clap.

A writer? Hell, it takes me two hours to get my software to indent correctly… and trust me, there aren’t any groupies getting naked in admiration of proper formatting. In fact, there’s a standing joke in Hollywood that goes, “That’s a starlet so stupid she slept with the writer.”

The lunacy of my dream washed over me like the darkness over The Dude. And in that darkness, on the edge of that abyss, I came to grips with what a time-wasting pursuit it was-- and convinced myself it wasn’t a dream worth chasing.

I became Springsteen, down by the river.

John Galt, working the subway rails.

Charlie Croker, reading the works of the Stoics.

Skip Wiley, surrendering his beloved everglades to the developers.

It was indeed, Alexander… out.

Hey—hold my beer. I wanna try something…

The curse of the creative mind is this: There’s only a very small “Whatever” box for filing all the things that deserve to be ignored.

The greatest blessing a man could possibly receive in the brains department would be a bottomless “Whatever” box: Politics, Economics, Social Security, Illegal Immigration, Partisan Corruption, Steroids in sports, Must-See TV, Rush Limbaugh, Al Franken, the IRS, The Middle East, hell, the future itself… whatever. I gots to fry me up this here bologna sandwich.

Unfortunately, a creative mind usually refuses to shut down, and the push is for more understanding, more insight, more truth, more humor, more whatever-- in the case of Einstein, it was for more really, really confusing math.

Some creative people are good at dealing with this bombardment of ideas (Einstein), and others, well, Hunter S. Thompson comes to mind.

In my case, my demise came about not as a result any great level of unsustainable brilliance, but an inability to square my McTalents with my particular profession. As an advertising guy, it just reached the point where I could no longer spend a day working on an idea… pitch it to a client… and after one second of deliberation hear them say, “Well, what about if____?”

The problem was me, not them. My brain snapped, crackled, and popped, and I quit.

And, like that, something to write about materialized. Phone call time:

Me: Hey, Man. It’s me.

Agent: Pray! What’s up?

Me: I’ve got an idea for a book.

Agent: Pitch me!

Me: I quit my job.

Agent: Good start.

Me: I don’t have another job lined up.

Agent: Ah, you’re going for the “Le Mis” thing here? A novel?

Me: No, Dude. That’s not the pitch. It’s a fact.

Agent: You mean you actually quit your job, as in you quit your job and have no paycheck?

Me: Check.

Agent: Pray, you’ve got to earn some money before you call up looking to borrow some.

Me: No, no, no. Here’s my idea: It’s a book entitled You Want Fries With That?, and it’s a memoir about a white-collar burnout dropping out of the rat race and working minimum-wage jobs.

Agent: Man. I actually like it. I really like it. How much have you gotten done?

Me: This phone call.

Agent: Well, lemmie see it when it’s done.

Me: Can you sell it?

Agent: I’ll know after I read it.

Me: Dude, dude, dude—you’ve read my stuff. You know it’s good. Can you sell it, you know, like on spec? Get someone to agree to it before I actually work these jobs?

Agent: Sell it before you write it? Like a President’s autobiography?

Me: Yeah?

My agent was still laughing when he hung up the phone.

Chapter Three

It’s not a vacation when you’re unemployed…

Quitting your white-collar job to seek the publishing grail feels great. You can drink on weeknights, sleep late, then pad around the house saying to yourself, “Well. This is the life of a writer. I know, because I’m a writer.”

This high lasts until the first bill arrives. Hello, home insurance. It wasn’t a killer or anything—me and the bride had plenty of money saved and invested—but it did tickle an itch in the back of my mind, which said, “Day Seven As A Writer… two thousand dollars out, and zero dollars in.”

Hmmm.

Three weeks later, a similar epiphany struck as the monthly bills screamed for nourishment, but this time the voice said, “Day Thirty As a Writer… seven thousand four hundred dollars out, and zero dollars in.” Writer’s High, meet Writer’s Horror.

The checkbook was bleeding money like a James Cameron production, and not a bloody cent was coming in to replace it. Time to get going on the minimum wage jobs and start writing.

Good doesn’t necessarily mean fun

The more I pondered my idea for the book, the better it seemed. Who among us doesn’t have gut-wrenching stories from some awful job back in our salad days? Who among us doesn’t laugh when friends share their tales? Who among us doesn’t love NASCAR?

The problem with my idea, however, was the reality of the idea: It required actually working these jobs. No, not shadow an employee for a day, or chat with someone about what it was like… I had to go apply, get hired, and actually show up for work.

Can you, my friend, picture yourself adorned in a Burger World visor and nametag?

How about ringing a doorbell, and handing someone their pizza?

Can’t envision it? Me neither.

The other reality that hit me involved a merger of physics and economics: As nature abhors a vacuum, so the world abhors a checking account. And as nature will destroy a vacuum, so the world destroyed my checking account.

After working the appropriate mathematical formulas based on minimum wage paychecks, an obvious conclusion emerged: I could cover our bills working these jobs, provided I skipped lunch and only slept four hours every three weeks. Begrudgingly, I put the word out to my marketing contacts on the street that I was available for freelance and consulting projects.

Over the next year, my W-2 form boasted paychecks from such career endeavors as a pizza delivery guy, an ice cream scooper, a construction worker, an ER tech, a wrangler on a dude wagon train, and a big, fat zero that came from an extensive but failed attempt to get hired on by two of the big box retailers. (Interestingly, I worked a consulting job for a month that paid more than all the other jobs combined.)

The sum total of the madness yielded a manuscript I was proud of, which was immediately overnighted to my agent. A week later, the phone rang.

Agent: Pray, I love it. That’s the good news. The bad news is-- well, you know the bad news. It rhymes with “lurking at a Burger World.”

Me: Dude. Dude, Dude, Duuuude.

Agent: Sorry. Burger World. Gotta do it. Send me the pages when you’re done.

Me: Dude. Dude.

Agent: The name of the book is You Want Fries With That? It’s a little obvious you failed to represent in that particular profession.

Me: Dude.

Agent: Keep it real, Pray. Send me the pages.

With the same enthusiasm the Jewish slaves used stack stones for the Pharaoh, yours truly waded into the combat zone of hamburgelry, and landed a job.

Let me tell you, getting a job at one of those joints is way more difficult than you think—not because the qualifications are anything more than the ability to fog a mirror, but because the managers are either overworked, brain dead, or achieved the Peter Principle back when the previous manager put them in charge of the French fryer.

There were applications bearing my name languishing at nine national chains when I finally confronted a manager by pointing out my application was submitted three days earlier, and since then they’d put out a help wanted sign.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. You’re hired.”

The job yielded the pages, and the pages yielded a finished manuscript. Bring on the fame!

A couple of weeks later my agent called.

Using the word “I,” he explained, was boring.

“I did this, I did that,” he said. “You’ve got to hack those out.”

“The book is about me doing this, and me doing that,” I replied. “How the hell do I explain something I did without the word “I”?

“They don’t all have to come out. Just, like, 90%.”

“I repeat my previous question.”

“And I repeat my previous request. And since I’m selling the book, it’s probably a good idea for you to figure it out.”

The space above represents the weeks spent eliminating the word “I” from my manuscript. Oh, and if you would, please take an admiring moment to notice the paucity of “I’s” in this manuscript… despite the fact this book too is about “me” doing this and ‘me” doing that.

How do I do it? I don’t know.

Anyway, the revised manuscript flew north. Fast forward a month.

“You’ve got to get rid of all these passive verbs,” my agent said.

“Good Lord. How do you write a sentence without using frickin’ verbs?”

“Passive verbs, ya’ dolt.”

“What in the hell is a passive verb? A verb that doesn’t fight back?”

“Google it. Learn it. Fix it.”

The space above represents the month needed to research and understand active versus passive verbs, then decide to go Texas Chainsaw on my agent, then change my mind due to my fear of re-entering the world of SASEs, then re-write the freakin’ manuscript.

It was an exercise in mental torture. Or, should that say, the exercise tortured me mentally. Yet another manuscript flew north, and I figured that if my book outsold the Bible for two straight years, an average hourly return of minimum wage might be attainable.

Upon receiving the newly morphed manuscript, my agent called to shower me with praise. “Damn, Pray,” he said. “I can sell this.”

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.

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.

Chapter Six

You gotta ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky?

As I mentioned earlier, the pace at which the publishing industry moves is glacial.

Having come from the advertising industry, where everything is a Jack Baueresque emergency, the whole process felt like a root canal in a time warp. If I was now in the club, then let’s GO! Give me another topic, agree in advance to publish it, and I’ll write a book about it.

Send me to Afghanistan.

Send me to the presidential debates.

Send me backstage of American Idol.

Send me somewhere, and let’s get something accomplished!

As if by divine providence, and email arrived from my agent. This was fortunate for both us, because I was about to start bugging him, and… well, we all know what a sweetheart he is to begin with:

P,
Time for a re-write on your humorous history book. Your ridiculous overuse of ellipses and passive verbs must be addressed. We might get lucky and sell it as a follow-up to Fries.

Dude,
I’m all over it. Any specific thoughts or direction? I know the humorous parts can be improved, and the pop culture references can be updated, and converting the verbs sounds like a really party. What else?

P,
Sorry. After getting your note I re-read my email, and see my failure to utilize sufficient pronouns. Let me further clarify. I, the agent, want YOU, the writer, to do the re-write. The word “we” was referring to getting lucky and selling it. Sorry for the confusion.

My sweet agent’s bedside manner aside, it was the exact distraction I needed. My writing to screwing off ratio was getting out of kilter, and my bride was beginning to suspect that she and I had different definitions of “full time.”

For nine full-time weeks I edited, and converted verbs, and tried to think of pop culture references that didn’t include Lindsey, Brittany, or Paris. (Which is surprisingly difficult to do when you’re writing a book about lessons learned from history. What could possibly offer more insight into the 21st Century than the purpose-driven lives of these cherubs?).

I’d morphed into a more polished wordsmith over the years, and thus applied all my new tricks of the trade to the manuscript. The end result was a work I felt offered more fun per page than my book currently in the pipeline to publication. Wait until my agent sees it! Our Best Friend Forever status will come to fruition yet!

A clear and present danger--

About this time in the process I found myself talking over beers with a good friend who ain’t been right since Al Gore invented the internet. You probably know the type—the guy who can no longer accept anyone else’s advice on anything electronic, because the ability to do research via the web has enlightened them with an angry expertise. Anyway, during our conversation I mentioned that my first book would hit the streets in the spring, and he looked at me like I’d just bragged about my new video game, Pong.

“Why would you mess with an old economy publishing company? You could sign with a print-on-demand, web-based company—they pay higher royalties.”

“Interesting,” I said. “But I think I need the marketing horsepower of the old school method. You need to remember that no one’s ever heard of me.”

“So?” he replied.

“How many print-on-demand books have you bought from authors you’ve never heard of?”

“None,” he replied. “But that’s not the point. You’ve got to connect to the future, Bro. Besides, discussing books is a moot point anyway. Communications are moving to the blog.”

“The blog? How do you figure?”

“It’s the 21st Century, man. People don’t have time for books. Blogs are the way for people of similar interest to connect. Like, if you’re into photography, you can log onto a photography blog, and find out what’s up.”

“Are these bloggers good writers?”

“It’s about ideas, Man. Not punctuation and grammar.”

“Well, how do you know if the blog writer knows what he’s talking about?”

“Dude, it’s interactive. If he writes something wrong, you flame his ass.”

“How does the blogger get paid?” I asked.

“They don’t, Dude. The web culture is about relationships.”

“So this, uh, photography blog writer spends his own money and time to post his ideas on the web, but if he makes a mistake, guys like you are waiting to flame his ass.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, one more thing-- it sounds like the point of using blogs is to go to a blog about a topic you already know about. So what’s the point? To insult someone from the safety of your own keyboard?”

“No, Dawg. Blogs are the perfect way to learn about something new. Like, let’s say—well, you don’t know crap about technology, so let’s pick an easy one: Digital Cameras. If you want to learn about them, you do a search for a blog on Digital Cameras.”

“Okay, and when I get there, how do I know if the guy is an expert?”

“If he isn’t, you’ll see where people shoot him down.”

“How do I know the people shooting him down are experts?”

“Dude, you ain’t ready for blogs.”

Truer words have never been spoken. But, if people as bright as my friend think the blog is going to encompass something as vast as “communications,” I thought I’d give it a look. Please note: Although my opinion about blogs later changed (thinking and learning can do that) at this point I had no understanding of them. The description of the events below is accurate, chronologically correct, and, well, really happened.

Per his suggestion, my first search demanded “Blog on Digital Cameras.” Google returned 5, 900,000 websites which, quite honestly, is more information than I need.

I poked through a few of the sites listed on the first page, and it appeared the blog-- as a concept-- has migrated a bit: Based on my buddy’s description, I envisioned bloggers being writers who felt passionately about the topic of digital cameras and new digital photography techniques.

Not so—I fear the “freight train” called the capitalistic market has derailed that trend, and the HazMat crews haven’t even begun the clean-up. In reality, all of the “digital camera blogs” I found were nothing more than professional product reviews, copy-and-pasted into websites that just-so-happened to sell the products being reviewed. I wondered if anyone has informed Inventor Gore that the previously-socialist blog is drifting to the right.

I decided, however, against prematurely jumping to judgment concerning the almighty blog. Digital cameras are a product for sale, so it’s quite natural for capitalism to elbow its way into the ring.

I decided that to be fair to “the blog philosophy,” I needed to search some different topics. Specifically, ideas—after all, if my dream of paying the bills as a communicator of ideas is doomed from the outset, I want to know who these leftist book-assassins were, and if they can be stopped.

So, in order to be impartial, Google search number two was for “Blog on Minimum Wage Jobs.” This is the same topic that yielded my first book deal, so it seemed like a good topic to search.

Google responded with 207,000 hits.

I felt pretty good, discovering that only 207,000 other people were exploring the same general idea. The rub, of course, lay in the question, “What did they have to say?”

I poked around, and found a blog by a gentleman who opined on three of the minimum wage jobs (from hell) he’d worked. Eureka! I’d found my competition! The average American “consumer of ideas” could purchase my ideas for $24.95, plus tax, or delve into his blog for free!

Hungrily, anxiously, I drilled down into the content, and discovered he did have a way with words:

* “Minimum wage jobs are exploitive to the tilt(sic)!”

* “I never saw so many smokers in my life!”

* “You are not appreciated for your work or your creativity.”

Did my insights surpass these? Were my musings worth so much more money than the seductive price of free? I pressed on, discovering a category within the topic he felt so passionately about that it generated the use of all caps:

* Just about everybody who worked minimum wage jobs had HORRIBLE ORAL HYGENE. I don’t mean bad, I mean HORRIBLE. Broken and missing teeth, gingivitis was rampant, my only guess is that alcohol, tobacco and poor diet along with a completely loss of hope of every (sic) achieving something in life had been made representational in their mouth. These people where branded for life, good luck getting a corporate job with a mouth that looks like it belongs in that of a wild animal!

For the love of Love in the Time of Cholera, how can a for-profit writer compete for mind-share when not-for-profit writers are out there offering this sort of material free?!!

As a final nail in my ego’s coffin, he hit me with his wrap-up, engaging his fellow thinkers on why minimum wage jobs simply weren’t for him:

* Minimum wage jobs and my personality just don’t jive. I have no problem telling somebody that they are wrong, standing my ground and even telling them off if needed. I have a very direct managing method, no bullshit, no stories, good or bad, just tell me what is going on.

Stunned and more than a little humbled, I searched again, this time for a blog on “turning thirty.” The first manuscript I ever wrote followed this coming-of-age plotline, but it never made it to the publishing finish line. Perhaps the reason for my failure lay out there, in cyberspace, where a brilliant-but-free writer covered the topic with greater humor, sensitivity, and insight. My “turning thirty” search yielded 189,000 hits.

When undertaking a task like a coming of age memoir, even the boldest writer can be intimidated by the Shakespearian load of potential material. Here lies a topic that cries out for the unearthing of the underbelly of angst and optimism, regret and hope, naiveté and wisdom, light and dark, fear and loathing— My failure to achieve publication clearly indicates I failed in my quest, but what of these bloggers?

Would their musings please the gods of rhetoric? Here is one “Opening Sentence” that caught my eye:

Many females -- especially if they’re single and don’t want to be, or they’re in a relationship where they don’t know where things are going, or if they haven’t accomplished something in particular they wanted to do -- look at the prospect of turning 30 and think they should have done something…bigger…than what they have.

Dizzied, I lurched onward to another site:

I know persons twice my age who appear not to understand how anyone could possibly be disturbed at turning thirty.

“Onward!” I cried, “Upward!”

I prepared to read the next page when a voice came from over my shoulder.

“This section is mean. Why are you being mean? Your rule has always been to not make fun of individual people.”

It was my much-better half, reminding me of the obvious.

“Wait,” I explained. “These are hand-selected targets. I’ve looked at a million blogs so far, and most have worse writing than this. But! But! But, I eliminated any that were written by minorities, Christians, over-weight people, immigrants, poets or moms. That eliminated, like, 80% of the blogs! These are the people who need it! Who deserve it!”

“You’re still being mean.”

“But honey, these people are claiming to be writers. Some of them even have a banner on their site proclaiming ‘I support the Writers Guild of America on Strike.’ They need to be made fun of. They want it!”

“How do you figure? They’re doing something they enjoy. They believe in themselves. Who are you to laugh at them?”

“Hon, suppose I wake up tomorrow and declare myself good-looking and buff? And I start taking pictures of myself in a Speedo, and posting the shots on the web? What would people do?

“Puke?”

“Yeah, that, too, but they’d laugh at me, because I’m not a model, no matter how much I wish or think I am. You don’t get to call yourself a writer just because you own a keyboard.”

“You’re being mean-spirited, and it’s beneath you.”

Even as the words exited her mouth I considered starting a blog about spouses who have no idea who they are married to, but thought better of it. Plus, she made a good point— and you have to be married to know how quickly that can shut you up.

Big Brother ain’t so bad. I love him, actually.

I wept with gratitude when the new cover design arrived from the publisher. My tears of relief Gatlin-gunned out my eyeballs, knocked my computer off the table, and scared my 15-year old Golden so bad he pissed the rug. But I didn’t care—my baby no longer looked like Rosemary’s.

Sure, it didn’t look like it possessed the shared DNA of Brad and Angelina, but it was, uh, good enough for me to clean up dog pee with a smile on my face.

So, in my mind, the work was done: Agent sold the book. Book was edited and designed. Cover was done. I’d managed to find and submit a photo where I didn’t look completely like Shrek. Time to start talking about the next book, right?

I mean, the process ain’t that frickin’ hard once you’re in the club: Send manuscript to my agent. Agent sells to my publisher (with slamdunk ease). Publisher reads, I format, they typeset, design a cover—hell, it might come out on the very heels of my first book. The final step was as easy as attaching the manuscript to an email, and crafting a note to my agent to sell him on my marketing insights:

Dude,
I finished the re-write, and the manuscript is attached. I think you’re going to be pleased. Since we’re on track to publish Fries in April, what do you think about pitching the publisher on the history manuscript for an October release? This book lends itself to political discussion, and since October is a month when every radio and TV station is starving for political pundits, perhaps we could lie our way in the door, and pretend like I have a clue. That’d sell some books, no?

P,
Please, seriously, get a job. Find something to do that distracts you from emailing me. But before you do, read your contract. There are some helpful hints in there.

Dude,
I lost my copy of the contract. What do I need to know?

P,
First, you need to know that you are an idiot for losing your copy of the contract. Second, that the publisher has 60 days after the publication of Fries to review your next book. That means that on day 59 they will call me, and say they need more time. We’ll go back and forth, and blah, blah, money, blah, blah, more money. I talk, they talk. Eventually, something happens, and maybe someone publishes your next book, and all this takes at least a year. Does this make sense to you?

Dude,
It took a while, but I but I found a translator. Like you he’s a grumpy, old, get-off-my-lawn-type guy who served as a dog trainer for Michael Vick. He recommends I email you less.

My cologne? Why, it’s Deep Woods Off, of course.

Like most writers, I have to write to stay sharp.

This is partly due to my tendency to sand down the pointy tips of my brain cells with beer, and partially due to my fear that if I don’t write to maintain my writing style I’ll revert to ending every sentence with an exclamation point!

Hey, being an advertising copywriter for fifteen years is a hard poison to choke down (!), but once it’s in you it’s like that little alien gestating that dude’s chest—it’s always looking for a way back to the surface!

But what the hell could I write, stuck here in the perpetual publishing holding pattern? I’d finished the re-write my agent directed, and I was officially at my wit’s end!

But, Prioleau, you say—there are lots of ways you can put your writing talents to use!

Volunteer to write press releases for charities!

Help your friends with businesses by writing newsletters for them!

Write letters to Congress about issues that trouble you!

Create a Blog, and write about whatever you want!

Offer to write for a community newspaper, and probably get paid!

Yes, these things are all true.

And I could also start a website featuring my photo, home address, and pornographic cartoons of Mohammed, but I won’t.

Why?

Because I’ve learned from the past: If you draw pictures of Mohammad, crazy people will kill you.

If you write a press release, you become the defacto volunteer for ensuring it runs on the front page of the daily paper.

If you offer to write a newsletter for a friend’s business, you’ll be provided stellar story ideas like how his business offers really, really, really good service—not like the other companies, but REALLY good, and with a smile, too.

If you write Congress about the importance of law abiding citizens retaining the right to keep and bear arms, a seventeen year-old intern will note “gun nut” in an Excel spreadsheet and file the letter in a shredder.

And if you write a blog, well, let’s be honest—you’re wasting your time to the tilt!

I needed a challenge.

Then, out of the blue, an opportunity. There in my in-box sat an email from the editor of Charleston Magazine, a very nice, high-end publication read by just about everyone in the city. The editor, Darcy, always offered fun and creative assignments:

Prioleau,
I need a piece on the Southern male and metrosexuality. You know, a guy who might get his nails manicured in the afternoon, then be in a duck blind the following morning. You available?

I responded quickly. Here’s a look at the piece that I wrote for her:

Charleston, SC-- I recently encountered a “first” in my life: I turned down a writing assignment for Charleston Magazine. I didn’t want to turn it down… but integrity demanded it.

Why? Because the editor asked me to write a piece about Southern men who have evolved into metrosexuals. “Guys,” she offered, “who might get a pedicure on Friday night, and be in the duck blind Saturday morning.” Regrettably, I had to respond that I couldn’t write the piece because, well, such men don’t exist.

The editor emailed back, “Point taken. Write what you want.”

So… the truth of the matter-- There are perfectly-nice dudes who live in the South and pamper themselves to the point of metrosexuality, but they simply don’t qualify as Southern men.

They are men, of course, but that strange anomaly referred to as Southern men?

No dice. They don’t fish, they don’t hunt, and they don’t follow college football. They don’t order sweet tea, appreciate Skynyrd, or drive pickups. And I can virtually guarantee that no man with a pedicure has ever gutted a deer, used duct tape as a band-aid, or lectured a teenager on the importance of turning into a skid.

The truth of the matter is this: You cannot be a Southern man and a metrosexual. South is south, and personally-pampered is personally-pampered, and never the twain shall meet. A delightfully hilarious example of a man who tried to be both was John Kerry who, during his run for the White House, stated, “Who among us doesn’t love NASCAR?” Dear God, Senator, did you actually say that?

If that wasn’t enough, he responded to a hunter’s question about deer hunting, “"I go out with my trusty 12-gauge double-barrel and crawl around on my stomach. I track and move and decoy and play games and try to outsmart them…That's hunting,"

Uh, no, Senator-- that might be what happens in an X-Box video game called I Wish I Could Carry at Least One Southern State, but deer hunting it ain’t.

A Southern man is not defined by his political opinions, wealth, education, color, or profession. He can be a plumber, a physician, a farmer, or a real estate mogul… rich, or broke… fat, or fit… funny, or dull… black or white… football, or basketball. The socioeconomic and racial details mean nothing.

What matters-- what defines you-- are the things you connect to, and respect: Guns. Chopping wood. Hunting. Farming. Tobacco. Whiskey. Fistfights. Hand-tooled leather. Honor. Snake chaps. Buck Knifes. Cordless tools. Personal responsibility. The love of a good woman. Chainsaws. Beef Jerky. Western saddles. And the smells of campfire smoke, gunpowder, and wet dogs.

The uber-Metrosexual in today’s pop culture is George Clooney. He is handsome, fit, famous, wealthy, single, and loves to flaunt his comfort with the metrosexual stereotype. When interviewed by yet another fawning reporter, he is more than willing to state that he enjoys the girly lifestyle: Spa treatments, facials, back waxing, ear and nose hair trimming, manicures, pedicures, and herbal wraps.

And I say, “Good on you, Mr. Clooney! You’ve found what makes you happy, so pursue away.” It’s not that Southern men never engage in these activities. My wife Heidi is a merciless reaper when it comes to my nose and ear hairs; I got a back waxing one time when I crashed a motorcycle wearing a t-shirt; I manicure my fingernails with my teeth at least once a year when my alma mater Auburn plays Alabama. And rich Southern men no doubt treat themselves to the “finer” things in life: A personal jet, a driver, a dog trainer, a property manager, big parties with lots of friends… that’s fine stuff by any standards.

But paying someone else to cut their toe nails? Not happening.

To a Southern man, the pursuit of happiness can be summed up in a single moment in time which I once experienced personally: It was an early fall afternoon after a dove hunt when several of us were drinking beer around the tailgate of one of the hunter’s pickups. Someone had brought a battery-powered television, and college football played in the background while we lied about how many doves we’d shot.

Fifty yards away another group was doing the same, but instead of football their group was talking to the background sounds of Sweet Home, Alabama. I took a moment and thanked Jesus that he had allowed me, a sinner, to be a part of the moment.

For good or ill, being a Southern man is something your father passes on to you. Some connect to it and treasure the gift, while others reject it and migrate elsewhere. One’s not better than the other… it is what it is.

As for me, every time I hear Dixie or the National Anthem, I thank my Pop for passing along the goose bumps.

Maybe that’s why I write…

For a couple of weeks following the publication of the article, a great number of friends and acquaintances complimented me on it. The words most often used were “funny, and so true!”

Perhaps that’s why I’m so driven to write: Some writers are driven because they are storytellers, and love the challenge of keeping a reader’s interest; some feel a call to expose injustice and oppression; some use their writing to excise their personal demons. Me? Perhaps my writing is inspired by what I perceive to be insights into experiences we humans share, and I want to get my perspective into public eye—for those who think a bit like me, it’s reassurance they are not alone.

For those who think I’m a gun-nut, religious zealot, right-wing, Southern redneck, it’s to let them know that even a gun-nut, religious zealot, right-wing, Southern redneck possesses a sense of humor and a functioning brain. And if that’s the case, maybe, just maybe—we can all agree we each have idiosyncrasies and regional quirks, and if we all have these things, then maybe we can come together as a united nation: Red and Blue States, PETA and the Beef Industry, Labor and Management, Osama Bin Laden and the 1st Marine Division-- all living and laughing and loving to the tilt!

Or, maybe it’s just because I think my stupid opinions matter.

Who knows?

Nah, this is why I write…

Another interesting discovery surfaced today. It happened when I plodded out to the mailbox, and there-- there among the stacks of bills, the forty-seven Pottery Barn catalogs, the twice-weekly requests from the NRA for money, and the John Wayne movie library I’d ordered from Columbia House (don’t ask)-- lay an inconspicuous looking envelope with my publisher’s return address. Fearing it might be a slander lawsuit launched by the hapless book cover designer, I ripped it open with heavy heart.

My advance.

Only an analogy can suffice: Do you remember those years when you knew for a fact that Santa didn’t exist, but you faked excitement for fear that your non-belief might negatively impact your intake of loot?

That’s what the getting-published process was beginning to resemble—you know, me acting all excited for the benefit of the publisher, but really just wanting to say, “Hey, let’s cut to the chase—send a Brinks truck of money, a Pulitzer, and a contract for the next four books, okay?”

Now, suppose that amongst all that Santa disbelief, you wandered downstairs at 3am on Christmas Eve and there was the fat man himself, eating the cookies and using your Dad’s special carving knife to clean the reindeer crap from the bottom of his boots.

There’s his bag!

There’s his pipe!

The son-of-a-bitch even has a twinkle in his eye!

The magic is back!

You are a born-again Santa Clausian!

That’s what it’s like to get your advance.

Yes, it’s low. So low, in fact, the actual number will remain cloaked in mystery. So low that aspiring writers don’t want to know the number. And so low that, well, getting paid only 15% of that teeny-tiny number is a pretty good reason for my agent to treat me the way he does.

But, hey— Screw that! I got paid! There’s no turning back. My publisher really is going to print my book, and ship them to bookstores, and the Above 100 IQ crowd will be able to judge my writing without any further interference by clients and agents and editors!

And if I make 10% of every book sold, and we sell, say—say, four or five million copies at $24.95, then… then… then I’d say this hoping-to-be-a-book manuscript that you’re reading will halt abruptly and the end will pretty much suck, because it’s hard to type when you’ve got a tumbler of Cabo Wabo in one hand, and a fly rod in the other.