AMERICAN MALE PROSTITUTE
By Wilfried F. Voss
Published by Copperhill Media at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Copperhill Media
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Disclaimer
Needless to say but, nevertheless, enforced by legal counsel, what you are about to read is based solely on the author’s dirty fantasies and vivid imagination.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, and events are purely coincidental.
Shame on you if you believe the nonsense I write!
Also needless to say, writing and publishing this book was absolutely possible without the support of the so-called experts in the writing and publishing industry.
Nevertheless, I do thank businesses like Amazon.Com and specifically Lightning Source – An Ingram Business Unit – for their vision and support of future publishing.
My narrow view is without a doubt not representative of the entire world of writing and publishing, but I am certain of the great number of new writers who have made similar experiences.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all writers, talented, but ignored by the system.
Credits to Yolanda Campbell who came up with the business strategy of “If you can’t impress them with your knowledge, baffle them with your bull-shit.”
Last, but not least, I do appreciate the support and understanding of my wife who had to put up with my dirty fantasies.
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Foreword
“I note that you are putting together another masterwork, entitled American Male Prostitute. Might I suggest that you direct a little of that “research” towards yourself, and your own fantasy life?” – From an angry reader of my website FrogenYozurt.Com
The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless writers’ magazine whose title shall not be uttered here. But thinking about it, it was not totally useless, since it enlightened me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing.
To put it in a nutshell, today’s publishing world is divided into two principle sections. First, there is the exclusive pool of traditional publishers, and, second, the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.
Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense, and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the vast pool of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing, authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent, but the use of the wrong font in a manuscript, an insufficient query letter, or other minor shortcomings. Vanity publishers will publish everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t come crying to them when you can’t sell a copy of your book.
Now, take a wild guess which of the two can afford to put serious money into full-page advertisement in writers’ magazines. These magazines, like all other publications, sit between a rock and a hard place. They are not only obligated to please their readers but also their advertisers. And here we go again; the sharks keep the upper hand. Aspiring writers are on the losing side, one way or the other, whether they consider the traditional or vanity publishing method.
On top of all that, the majority of writers’ magazines are – excuse my French – full of crap. They are full of motivational nonsense to keep their readers happy enough to continue their quest for stardom. At the same time, they keep feeding the sharks.
Just the other day, I found yet another grossly misleading advertisement that made my blood boil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.
Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is exactly what I did. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.
And just for the record, no, I never submitted any manuscript to a literary agent or publisher. I didn’t have the time for that nonsense. Consequently, I was never rejected. My point is, my motivation to write this novel does not stem from frustration but mere perverse curiosity.
And, no, I did not get a book deal through sex, lies, and deceit. I don’t have the mandatory luscious looks, and I am very happily married, and, after all, I run my own publishing business.
Yet, I wondered, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you’re running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?
* * * * *
Prologue
My name is Stuart Martin Berry and, until last week, I was an associate editor for one of the largest magazines dedicated to the dream world of writers and poets. Like many of my ex-colleagues, I am also a failed novelist. My first and so far last novel, a thriller titled Rules of Extortion, never made it into print. That was almost two years ago, and, with my pregnant wife pressing me to get a job that, in fact, created sufficient income, I considered my writing career as being over and done with.
For a short time after my failure, literary agents, snobby bastards that they are, treated me like I was the carrier of a deadly disease. But they turned around and started kissing up to me as soon as I got my job as editor for the above-mentioned magazine. Until then, during an intense three-month period of shamelessly promoting my book, I had learned my lesson on persuasive bull-shitting.
Suddenly, if you believed my job description, I was not a failed novelist, but an accomplished author, who had decided to share his knowledge with the aspiring writer, to provide advice and encouragement. These days you see my photo in various publications, printed or online, identifying me as a top expert on all aspects of fiction writing. My job included, among many other things, writing about writing without being allowed to write something substantial like, let’s say, a novel.
Another essential part of my work as an editor was keeping up a fantasy world for the tens of thousands of wannabe-writers who made the mistake of subscribing to our magazine or the even more useless online forum.
Let me explain to those not familiar with the publishing business, a writers’ magazine cannot exist without the vast number of delusional writers who will never have the slightest chance of ever being published. In order to have your book published, you need to be talented and, as I was told from day one, the vast majority of our subscribers weren’t.
I was also directed to keep the information in my articles at a fairly superficial level and use ample motivational nonsense to keep our readers happy, everything to convince a dying man that he will live a long and prosperous life.
My personal favorite was an article series on dealing with and recovering from rejections, and you can bet, most of our readers have been rejected numerous times by agents and publishers alike.
Besides advertisement, we made our main revenue through online writers’ workshops, and the depthless articles filling our magazine ad nauseam were the best marketing tools. And for God’s sake, I was not to write anything that might interfere with the dubious business of the sharks that paid substantial fees for full-page advertisements in our magazine.
All that wasn’t difficult for me. As I said, bull-shitting was one of my acquired talents.
Jilly Cooper once said, the male is a domestic animal, which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things. I am living proof to validate that statement.
Well, the bull-shitting life is finally over, and, honestly, I hated every single day. Deep in my soul I am an honest guy. Unfortunately, honesty doesn’t pay the bills.
Fortunately, though, about four weeks ago, my wife Sophie had accepted a job offer for a $150,000 annual salary plus benefits, and I had offered to be a stay-at-home Dad.
Our daughter Magda is now almost two years old, and my wife was itching to get back to her former job as the head of the Human Resources department of a leading insurance company based in Washington, D.C.
I have not yet decided what I will do during the copious spare time between play-group-mornings and afternoon walks in the park. I still maintain my blog and make a few bucks on the side with online advertising, just enough to cover the operating costs. I might start writing paid literature reviews or even start an editing service. With my connections to the publishing and writing industry that shouldn’t post a problem.
Llysha, another aspiring author and a dear friend of mine, had jokingly suggested starting our own publishing business, and she touted BBS, Inc. as the business name. BBS stands for “Baffle them with your Bull-Shit”, and, believe me, the name alone was a guarantee for success in the publishing industry.
To stay with the truth, I am done with writing. I am with Groucho Marx who once said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” Nevertheless, I am burning to take a final hit at the system. It deserves it.
While we’re at it, my name is not Stuart Martin Berry, and events and names have been changed to protect my family, specifically my wife. I will tell you about that grotesque period of three months, during which I tried to find a publisher for my book. My wife had given me totally free rein to do whatever it would take to get a book deal. Her only request was not to share any details of how I got there.
Sunday, September 21
I woke up with a headache and checked the alarm clock. It was Sunday at 2:24 in the morning. Sandie and I had been partying all night, and the mixture of alcohol and cigarette smoke was never a fortunate combination for me.
Sandie lay beside me, and, as usual, was fully covered with the light-blue silk blanket. I leaned over and cautiously removed the cover to take another look at her huge, heaving breasts, and I shook my head. Sandie was a remarkably attractive woman, and I was sure her breasts, in their original size and shape, were as perfect as the rest of her body. Why a beautiful woman like her would mutilate her body and have a pound of plastic added to either side, is still beyond me. Her argument was, of course, the pursuit of an acting career, and I didn’t question her. After all, she still believed I was the son of the executive director of MGM Studios. I had made the title up on the fly, and I had to play the game.
I pulled the blanket back over her and cautiously stepped off the bed to go to the bathroom. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and shook my head. I had looked better than the man who stared at me from the other side. I turned to open the bathroom closet and retrieved a bottle of Advil.
For a moment, I felt tempted to swallow the entire contents but decided against it. I took two pills, walked over to the kitchen area of my Manhattan studio where I threw in the pills and gulped down a glass of water. I shook my head in disgust, and then I just stood there to decide how to go from here.
The choice was between going back to bed or doing something else. That something else, I decided, was to sit on the couch with a large glass of seltzer and start up my laptop. I had to be quiet. From where I was sitting I could see the large bed at the other end of the studio, and I was not in the mood to talk to her right at that moment.
As a matter of fact, I was already thinking about a way to get rid of her. I still had some confectionary sugar and some bendable straws, which, when arranged in the proper way, would hopefully reveal a drug addiction. Honestly, I don’t have any experience with sniffing cocaine, but I have had my fair share of Law & Order on TV.
The trick had worked with Erin, knowing that her first boyfriend had overdosed a few years ago. It would be a crapshoot with Sandie, though. Chances were, she would never notice the set-up, and even if she did she might not know what it was. Another possibility was that she would be thrilled and jump to get herself a sniff. I determined there were too many unknowns, and I had to come up with a more sinister plot.
I looked at the computer screen for a few moments, unsure what to do with it. Then I decided to take a last look at the notes I had made during these past three months. Despite the prevailing headache, I couldn’t help but grin when I read the first entries. My status as a successful writer was bleak when I arrived here, but on Monday morning I would sign a contract with Sandie’s boss, Jonathan O’Keeffe, one of the heavyweights in the book publishing industry.
That same day I would return to my home and my pregnant wife in Montgomery Village in Maryland. Roughly two weeks later, if everything went according to the doctor’s prediction, we would have our first child, and I was looking forward to it.
Sandie grunted under the silk blanket and turned around, interrupting my frantic typing on the computer, while I was adding to my notes. Then I shook my head. There was no way the barely noticeable clicking would wake her. She was not a morning person either. She would sleep until the afternoon if I didn’t wake her, but at the same time I toyed with the notion of simply leaving the studio later this morning. Maybe I should spend some leisure time at Central Park without her, however, not without leaving a romantic note saying something like I didn’t dare to wake the sleeping beauty. She always fell for this kind of stuff. The idea of kicking her out today, or even at this very moment, was tempting, but I needed to wait until I had signed that contract.
I turned my attention back to the computer. It is remarkable how the memories and emotions of past events are refreshed when you keep a written record. Some emotions come back as they were, others, in view of the time passed, are different. I also realized how naive I was then. That had changed profoundly. My experiences with the people in the publishing industry had turned me into a ruthless bastard, and I was brilliant at it. I had truly learned playing their game.
Another look at the screen, checking the date of the entry, and I realized that it was three months earlier to the day when we met with Steve, a good friend of ours, to discuss our plan.
Saturday, June 21
Steve arrived late, as usual. Knowing him and his utter lack of punctuality, we had asked him to come by around 6:00 p.m. but had prepared dinner to be served at 7:00. Despite our efforts, he beat us yet again. He arrived at 7:30. I had prepared a black bean soup that, thanks to Steve’s late arrival, needed several refills of chicken broth while simmering on the stove.
“I hope I’m not too late,” he said in an apologetic tone, standing in the entrance door of our home and shaking off the rain from his coat. “Traffic was hell. You must be starving by now.”
“No, not really,” I answered, chewing on the remains of the baguette my wife and I had started eating a few minutes earlier. “Come on in, Steve.”
I hung up his coat in the hallway, and led him to the kitchen where we sat down at the large table. Sophie and I had only one bowl of soup. We were not hungry after eating a whole French bread by ourselves. We just sat there, shooting the breeze about this and that, and watched Steve, who seemed to enjoy the soup.
Our friend Steve McCullum is a freelance journalist, and we had invited him over to pitch our latest idea to him.
A few months earlier I had finally managed to get an agent who promised to find a publisher for my first novel “Rules of Extortion.” Nevertheless, we, my wife and I, had begun to worry about the slow progress. Then, a few nights ago, my wife, who was in the second trimester of her pregnancy, came up with her proposal.
“Honey,” she called out to me while I was preparing for bed. “We need to make a decision. It is June, and the baby is due October third, which leaves us a little over three months before I leave my job.”
Sophie was the head of the Human Resources department of a leading insurance company just north of Washington, D.C. Her annual salary was in the neighborhood of $120,000 then, enough to indulge a comfortable lifestyle and allow me to follow my dream of becoming a writer. She worked long hours, while I stayed home to write, clean, and cook. Cooking had never been my forte, but, with the help of a fast Internet connection, I managed to find some easy recipes for the cooking-impaired. Let’s not talk about my cleaning skills at this time.
“The merger has gone well so far,” she continued, “but we are reaching a critical milestone. Mergers inflict layoffs, and this is where my expertise is required.”
She sat up in bed, groaning a bit, and stuffing a pillow behind her back. Then she looked at me.
“What I’m trying to say is that I will be buried in work for the next three months, most probably all the way to the due date.”
I opened my mouth for a response, but she stopped me by holding up her hand.
“Hear me out,” she said.
“Come October,” she continued, “there will be no income, and we will live from our savings, unless your book hits the jackpot. I doubt it, though, the way things are going at the moment.
Don’t get me wrong. I do love your novel, and I like your agent - at least what I know of her. But I do have the feeling that we need to power things up a bit to make it happen.
On the other hand, the savings will not last forever, especially with a baby in the house.”
She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.
“Here is what I propose,” she finally said. “Your agent lives in New York City and so do the majority of her contacts in the publishing world.”
She turned toward me.
“I want you to move to New York for the next three months and, with your agent’s support, promote your novel to everybody in the industry. We won’t see much of each other anyways, so why not do it.”
I thought about it for a few seconds.
“Can we afford to do this?” I asked cautiously.
She nodded.
“I will give you a budget,” she said. “You can use it at your discretion, but I recommend you buy some nice suits, ties, and shoes.”
I frowned.
“I know,” she laughed. “I prefer seeing you in tight jeans and a wife-beater shirt, but, as they say, desperate times call for desperate actions. And not to worry, all expenses are tax deductible. I talked to our accountant about this.”
I sat there to think about it a little longer, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to the idea.
“Does the budget include rent for an apartment?” I asked. “Living in a hotel for three months seems a bit excessive.”
She shook her head.
“I have already pulled some strings,” she said. “The company owns an apartment right in the center of Manhattan. You are going to like it. It comes with a laundry service, security guards, concierge, and exercise facility, the whole enchilada. It is usually reserved for the executive management when they visit the parent company.”
“Great!” I said. “But, if you don’t mind, I would like talk to Steve before I leave. I’m sure he has some insights. I also would like to know what he thinks of the idea.”
“That’s fine by me,” she said.
Then, after a deep sigh, she delivered the bad news.
“There is one catch, though.”
“What is it?”
“If, after those three months, you don’t have a book deal, I want you to find a regular, paying job.”
To tell the truth, I felt stunned for a moment. I am not afraid of working, but suddenly I saw my entire writing career being flushed down the toilet.
Sophie looked uncomfortable. She knew what she was asking was not easy for me.
“The savings will not last forever,” she explained, “and…”
“It’s okay,” I interrupted her. “I understand.”
I saw her eyes tearing up, and I leaned over to kiss her.
“I love you, Princess,” I said, “and that’s all that counts in my life.”
She smiled while the tears were running down her cheeks, and she nodded.
I knew how difficult it had been for her to make a choice between a high-paying career and having a baby. We had agreed to start a family long before we got married, but at the same time she enjoyed her work tremendously. We knew we would find a way out of this conflict eventually.
That night I could hardly sleep, and I couldn’t wait to tell Steve. When the time came, he listened to our reasoning without a word, but he nodded occasionally, while working on his third refill.
“So, what do you think?” I asked impatiently as soon as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Well,” he responded calmly, “to be honest I cannot tell you, yes, this is going to work. Neither can I say it won’t. Heck! I sound like a lawyer! Let me say, I would sure as hell like to know how and what you will be doing.”
He got up, took his empty bowl and put it in the sink where he rinsed it with hot water. Steve can be notoriously late, but he is neat.
“That being said,” he continued, looking at me over his shoulder, “I would say, go for it!”
He turned around and dried his hands on the kitchen towel.
“Go,” he said, “but don’t go without being prepared. You don’t have much time, and to be successful you need to turn to the dark side, Anakin.”
He winked, and I laughed.
“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.
He pointed towards the living room where Sophie had prepared a cheese plate with grapes and apple slices. Next to the plate stood a bottle of Pinot Grigio and three wine glasses.
“Let’s sit down,” he said.
He made himself comfortable on the couch and, casually, pulled his pipe from a pocket within his jacket. Then he realized what he had done.
“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“No, that’s okay,” Sophie laughed at him. “You’re the only person allowed to smoke in our home. We both love the smell of your tobacco.”
Steve, relieved, retrieved the pipe yet again and started the procedure of stuffing the tobacco and lighting the pipe. He took a first, deep drag, while Sophie filled our glasses.
“The essence of it all is,” he started after he was satisfied with the pipe’s performance, “that you have only little time at hand to accomplish what takes others years. That means, not only do you need to be ruthless, but you also need to know thy target, the publishing industry.”
“First of all,” he continued, “let me state that most people in the publishing industry work hard and they know what they’re doing. There are, however, a great number of inepts, as I call them, and even more sharks, which destroy the good reputation of the industry.
The real problem, though, comes in form of the big guys in the publishing business looking only at instant profit, and if you as the author cannot deliver it, you’re outta there. There’s nothing wrong about profit thinking, but, in reality, the current system kills the chances for all writers with a less-than-Dan-Brown potential.
I have never told you this, but many years ago I wrote a novel, and I found a publisher for it. The book sold mere 1,381 copies, a vast disappointment for my publisher who had invested in an initial print-run of 10,000. A sales record like mine makes it virtually impossible to land another contract with any other publisher. My writing career was over.
Another problem is the sheer number of inept literary agents, who would reject Ernest Hemingway - if he was still alive - because he did not follow their submission guidelines. Let me add that agents usually dwell in Hollywood-talk, and, as far as I know Hemingway, he talked straight.
By the way, how much did you pay for that query letter?”
We had hired a professional service to draft us a query letter to contact literary agents. We learned that without a proper query letter we would have no chance finding an agent. I looked at Sophie, who is the number cruncher in the family.
“About five-hundred dollars,” she answered. “Including the editing service plus several revisions, mailings, etc., we have spent a total of roughly two-thousand dollars so far.”
Steve nodded like he had anticipated the answer.
“You see,” he said, “you need to spend a substantial amount of money before the industry even raises a finger to support you. And when you are published, they even expect you to take over most of their marketing activities - on your own expenses, of course.”
“Wouldn’t it make sense to look into self-publishing?” Sophie asked. “I mean, with the money and efforts involved, what is the real difference between looking for a publisher and just doing it all by yourself?”
Steve smiled.
“There speaks the business woman,” he said. “You have a valid point, and, in fact, there is a growing tendency toward self-publishing. However, the harsh reality is that the average self-publisher does not sell more than five hundred copies, and most of them are given away to friends and family.
In all consequence, don’t underestimate the power of the established publishing businesses when it comes to bringing your book into the market. Their distribution network guarantees them the upper hand over self-publishers. That will change with the increasing popularity of electronic reading devices, but, until then, I would still go the conventional way rather than doing everything myself.”
He moved to pick up another piece of cheese and took a sip of wine.
“You mentioned the sharks in the business,” I reminded him. “Who are they?”
“Oh, they are everywhere,” he grinned. “There is one very important fact you need to know. There is a massive market for those who pry on the unsuspecting, aspiring writer. This is a billion dollar business in the United States alone, because, nowadays, everybody wants to be a writer.”
He pointed to the stack of magazines on the side table.
“I see, you have subscribed to my most favorite useless magazine. Toss it over, please.”
On top of the stack lay the latest issue of a magazine dedicated to writers and poets. I picked it up and handed it to Steve, who took it and paged through it.
“Not that I need to look for an example,” he said with a devilish smile on his face. “Almost every page is full of them. Unfortunately, these guys are in no position to live without bad and misleading advertisement.”
It took him a few seconds before he felt satisfied with what he found.
“Here we go!” he said. “Look at this.”
We saw the headline in big letters - Job Security, Freedom of Freelancing, Hiring Freelance Writers, Apply Today!
“Looks like a good opportunity to make some good money as a writer,” Sophie looked at me. “Why didn’t you apply? You’re a good writer.”
“Oh, don’t!” Steve protested. “In business jargon they’re called a ‘content aggregator’ or, in not as polite terms, a ‘writer’s sweatshop.’ Their primary purpose is to deliver content for their websites or those of their clients. You will work for far less than minimum wage, and you might be better off flipping hamburgers at a fast-food joint. Also, by voluntarily working for a sweatshop you help them stay in business, and, even worse, victimizing other writers. In all consequence, you will quickly become a part of the problem. But besides my ideological view there are other obstacles.
You see, there are some very smart business people at work, and they are extremely resourceful when it comes to lure more writers to work for them. They give you the impression that you can write everything you are passionate or knowledgeable about, let’s say, politics, environmental issues, history, and such. The truth is, even though politics is one of the categories they offer, the vast majority of their work opportunities are for writing articles on operating a dishwasher, changing the spark plugs on a John Deere lawnmower, and more of the same nature. They give you the manufacturer’s text, you re-word the whole thing, and you may make a measly fifteen dollars a pop, but mostly it’s less than that, more like five dollars in most cases. They promise you can build your reputation, because your name appears under each article. I fail to understand how writing about dog whistle training techniques, and more of the same nonsense, helps a writer to gain a reputation.”
He noticed our disbelieving expression, and he added, “I kid you not. That article has been written, as was one about drawing a Greek helmet.”
Steve shook his head and continued turning pages.
“Look at this here,” he called out. He seemed aggravated.
“This is an article where they interviewed the CEO of this dubious business.”
He pointed to a paragraph.
“This is where they write about him bragging – and I quote, ‘Most of our writers don’t even generate enough income in one month to pay their weekly grocery bill, let alone a mortgage.’
Well, you can play the system and make a living with rearranging some words in less than an hour and post the result virtually unchanged as your own work. However, this is only the beginning. As I said, there is a lot more.”
He went through some more pages, and then showed us another advertisement.
He grinned, “I could go on for hours about this magazine, but I’ll spare you most of it.”
“This is their largest advertiser,” he continued, holding up the magazine showing a full-page advertisement. “They promise, they will publish your book, and, really, they will. You will get a listing on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other online bookstores. They also insist they do the cover design for you, and that comes with a price, of course. They will press you skillfully into buying their editing service and their useless marketing kit. They squeeze easily several thousand dollars out of every unsuspecting writer without any concern whether the book has a chance in the market or not. They only want your best, and that’s your money.”
“How much are the royalties?” asked Sophie, “I mean, provided you actually produce some sales.”
“If you’re clever - and most writers aren’t business people - you do some research to find out what other works in your genre go for. Then you subtract the printing cost and the publisher’s share. You may end up in the negative, so you increase the sales price, and then you end up in an unacceptable price range. I am sorry, but it’s a lose-lose situation. To answer your question, the royalties per book are most probably in the neighborhood of a couple of dollars, provided the sales price is somewhat competitive.”
Sophie made some calculations in her head.
“So,” she said, “Let’s assume you spent about three-thousand dollars. Is that a reasonable number?”
Steve nodded. “Oh, absolutely! If you add the registration fee, the editing service, marketing, and the cover design, you’ll get there easily.”
“Okay,” Sophie continued. “Assuming you make about two dollars profit per book, you must sell 1,500 books before you even start to make a profit for yourself.”
“As I said before,” Steve responded, “selling more than five-hundred books is extremely hard for the self-publisher, and, in all consequence, that’s what they still are. The so-called publisher doesn’t do anything for you, unless you pay for it. They provide a service for money, but they are not publishers in the traditional sense. The official term is Vanity Publisher.”
“But,” I intervened, “isn’t it possible that your novel gets some publisher’s attention, and they would like to take it over?”
Steve emphatically shook his head.
“No way!” he said. “Any self-published book is automatically tagged with a red flag. Self-publishing, in view of the traditional publishing world, is a synonym for lack of talent.
And even if your book sells well, and you try to offer your second novel to them, they treat you like you have a deadly virus. Don’t ask why. For a normal human being with a basic sense for business, just like you and me, nothing really makes sense in the publishing world.”
He leaned toward me.
“But seriously, I am not saying everything they do is wrong, but the people in the publishing world, especially literary agents, have developed their own, specific social patterns. If you want to beat the system within three months, you need to play their spiel. You need to be ruthless. Actually, you need to go beyond ruthless. You need to turn to the dark side.”
He sat back, grinning, and puffing his pipe.
“Can you do that, Stuart?” he asked. “Can you play a ruthless game?”
“Well,” I answered, “we have already made the decision, and I still like the idea, especially in view of the three-month limit. I don’t want to give up without a fight.”
Steve nodded. “I think, you should try it. After all, you have a brain, and, if I might add, you got the looks. It might just work.”
We remained silent for a little while to digest what had been said, and then we turned our conversation to more pleasant topics. It was well after midnight when Steve left, and Sophie and I went to bed shortly thereafter.
Before she turned off the light, Sophie turned to me.
“I would like to add one more thing to your New York adventure,” she said. “Please, take what I will tell you now without a response or question. I want to say it once and only once.”
She sighed.
“Steve said, in order to be successful, you need to be beyond ruthless. I believe that he is right, and I want you to be successful.”
She closed her eyes.
“When we start this little endeavor, we will apply a strict Don’t-ask Don’t-tell policy. I would like you to know that, in those three months, you should do whatever it takes. You have my permission to do anything, and I mean anything. There is only one rule: Don’t ever tell me what you did. Just get the damn contract.”
With these words, she turned around and turned the light off.
Sunday, July 13
The Union Station on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, D.C. was built at the beginning of the twentieth century, and at the time it was the largest train station in the world. It is also considered one of the finest examples of the Beaux-Arts school of architecture. In every aspect, it was designed to be monumental. A Presidential Suite was added soon after the facility was completed. William Howard Taft was the first President to use the room, and, over the years, many dignitaries, including King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain, were officially welcomed here.
The last President to use the suite was Dwight D. Eisenhower, and George 41, the elder Bush, used it during an inaugural ball in 1989.
Nowadays, the Presidential Suite accommodates B. Smith’s, my wife’s favorite restaurant when it comes to Cajun, Creole, and Southern cuisine. The setting is nothing short of spectacular with the turn-of-the-century elegance, the thirty-foot ceilings, and the chandeliers.
The owner, Barbara Smith, began her career as a fashion model, and she was the first African-American woman on the cover of the Mademoiselle fashion magazine. She is not only a beautiful, and exceptionally versatile woman, but she has also been rated as one of America’s ten most outstanding non-professional chefs.
The history of the large room was not on our mind on that Sunday night that marked the beginning of my three-month absence from home. I had made arrangements for the Amtrak train leaving Union Station at 8:49 p.m., arriving at New York’s Penn Station at 12:10 a.m. I hate flying as much as long, mind-numbing car rides, and the train ride would give me ample time to work on my laptop.
For Sophie and me, it made sense having our last dinner together at B. Smith’s, and while the food was fantastic, we didn’t enjoy it. The conversation was sparse, and we finally decided to put a quick end to the current miserable situation. We walked silently through Union Station and to the platform where Sophie gave me a hug, followed by a long and passionate kiss.
“Go, get them, buster,” she said with a forced smile on her face, and then she turned away, wiping her eyes while she walked toward the stairs that would take her back to the station.
“I love you!” I called out to her.
She turned around, and I could hardly hear her whisper, “I love you.”
Then she was gone.
My train was not due for another thirty minutes. I just sat on a bench, watching the busy world around me, torturing my mind, and wondering whether or not the whole thing was such a bright idea after all. I wasn’t one iota closer to a decision when the train finally came in, and, feeling like a lamb being led to the butcher’s block, I stepped up into the coach and entered the cabin.
The Coach Class of an Amtrak train, with its big, comfortable seats and the ample legroom, provides the luxury equivalent to a much more costly First Class flight. You can walk around any time you wish, and there is a carryout style food service available in the Snack Car.
I took my seat at the window and, after the train was already on its way for an hour, I powered up my laptop on the fold-down tray in front of me. During the agonizingly extended search for a literary agent I had accumulated a large database of agents and publishers, and I paged through the vast number of letters I wrote to most of them.
We had learned the hard way, after being rejected at a regular frequency, how to approach a literary agent. During one of her business trips, Sophie had found a writers’ magazine at a newsstand at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. The cover page promised help with finding an agent. We learned of the importance of a properly written query letter. What it boils down to is, if they don’t like your letter, they don’t even bother reading your manuscript.
Being a Human Resource specialist, Sophie understood the concept of having an abundance of job applications on her desk, and she knew it was common practice to start the selection process by merely scanning over the cover letter without even looking at the candidate’s qualifications. If the cover letter doesn’t appeal, you’re out. However, Sophie also pointed to the major difference between a job application and a query letter to a literary agent. As the head of the Human Resource department, you look for one - the best - candidate for the job, and competition is tough.
A literary agent can easily end up with the same, large number of queries from aspiring writers, but each of these applications could bring them the next John Grisham, Stephen King, or Dan Brown. Add to this that each application is submitted by a potential customer who would share ten percent of his or her income with the agent. Wouldn’t it make sense reading the manuscript regardless of the query letter’s appearance or if it complies with submission guidelines?
Apparently not, as Steve told me when I asked him.
“Every agent will complain to you about how many queries they receive in a single day,” he said. “While that is true, the average literary agent is, in my very personal opinion, highly unorganized and thus ineffective. There are exceptions, of course, but the majority of them simply falter in view of the masses of applications.”
In addition to the query letter and manuscript, literary agents maintain, understandably, that the author includes a synopsis of his work. One requirement that struck me as odd was to provide an analysis of potential readership.
“I know, it looks as if they want you to do all their work,” was Steve’s response, “and there is a hint of truth behind it. As a matter of fact, agents need to assure that their clients have some knowledge of the publishing process. It truly cannot be their task to educate each new writer on the workings of the publishing industry. It improves the process tremendously if you, the writer, are prepared.
A significant misconception is that your work as a writer is done as soon as your book hits the shelves. The truth is, the author is their principal weapon to promote the book, and, believe me, marketing your book requires more efforts than actually writing it.”
I learned to appreciate Steve’s input, and I wished I had asked his advice as soon as my novel was finished. It would have saved us a lot of time and efforts. Instead, we followed the writers’ magazine information and purchased their publishing guide for mere fifty-nine dollars. Inside the guide we found a list of literary agents located all over the United States, but also a list of services that would help with drafting a query letter to the agents. In addition, we gained access to the magazine’s cluttered Members Only web site containing more useful information.
While waiting for the first draft of my personal query letter, I had ample time to check out the “useful information,” and it turned out to be a mind-staggering number of superficial articles on writing and publishing. The information was barely enough not to be tagged as a scam, and the little information I got out of it inspired me to search for more information on the Internet. For a long time, I was tempted to write down all the bits and pieces I found and assemble them as a book, but I also found that there was already a vast number of books on writing and publishing. I have to admit that I acquired a few of them, but none of them revealed anything significant, something that would be different from what you can find easily on the Internet.
I spent some time writing reader ratings on the Amazon web site and granted a number of poor but well deserved ratings. I was annoyed that people in the business generate revenue through mere bull-shitting. Any book I found on writing and publishing stated only the obvious, and if you need more information, you can check out their web site for only fifty dollars a month. Please sign up now.
Once my query letter was perfected, it took only four weeks to receive a positive response. In truth, it was the one and only positive response. Some agents wrote polite rejection letters, wishing me the best for my writing endeavor. The majority chose not to answer.
“If she doesn’t answer within twelve weeks,” was one of the responses I received when I called, “you may assume she is not interested in your project.”
Well, if I had known that “she” doesn’t desire to be professional, I wouldn’t have wasted my time to contact her.
Janice Vandenberg, my would-be-agent at the time, called one day out of the blue, only a week after I had mailed the letter, synopsis, and the first three chapters of my novel. We had a particularly pleasant conversation, and she had some specific questions, indicating to me that she knew her job. Yet another two weeks later she sent her contract, and after Sophie had it checked by the company’s legal counsel I signed it, but forgot to mail it.
I was thrilled. In my mind, I imagined what it would feel to be the keynote speaker at a writers’ conference and wondering who would play the main character in the movie version. My personal favorite was Robert Pattinson. He would be perfect for the role as Carl Farnsworth, a young man who worked as an intern in the White House.
Janice and I had agreed to continue our dialog per email.
“Make sure you put my name in the subject line,” she requested. “That way I know you’re one of my clients.”
I thought the request was a little odd, but I willingly complied. As a matter of fact, there was only little communication for the next weeks, mostly my requests for update. She usually answered within two days. Sometimes it took longer than that. Needless to say, but Sophie and I became a little impatient with her, and, as they say, the rest is history.
Here I was, on my way to New York, ready to take things into my own hands. I was surprised how fast time had gone by as I was going through my notes. The train had stopped so many times before, and I hadn’t paid any attention to the announcements. I was shocked when I looked outside, seeing a sign indicating that I had, in fact, arrived at New York’s Penn Station. I hastily turned off the laptop, gathered my belongings, and rushed to step outside.
“Take it easy, fellow,” a steward, a black man probably in his late fifties, called out to me. “We’re not leaving for a while. Where’re you going, anyways? You need a connection, or you staying in the city?”
“I need a taxi,” I said, fumbling with the belts of my small duffel bag.
“Just outside the station,” he said, still grinning at me. “You can’t miss them. Plenty of them there.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have any idea how long it will take from here to…”
I looked at my papers.
“…to West 71st Street?”
He thought for a moment.
“Not too far,“ he finally said. “Depends on traffic, of course. At this hour I would say, about fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome!”
His estimate turned out to be remarkably accurate. It was eighteen minutes later when I arrived at the Riverside Studios. Don’t let the name fool you. The Riverside Studios is, in fact, a hotel, but, as I found out quickly, not necessarily the best in New York City.
The apartment Sophie had arranged for me was not available until Tuesday morning, and I had plans to be on a Writers’ Conference on Monday. Still cautious about spending Sophie’s money I had looked for a reasonably priced hotel. Well, you get what you pay for.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when I arrived, and, at first, I was a little worried about ending up in a bad neighborhood, but I was pleasantly surprised. It was a beautiful and quiet area of the Upper West Side. I had wished, it would be the same with the hotel, but no such luck. The guy I woke from his nap in the office behind the reception desk was a riot. He was probably in his early seventies, and, as he was happy to share with me, he was adding a little bit to his otherwise measly retirement check.
But he was the only highlight of the night.
My room was on the fourth floor. The elevator was shady, the hallways were cramped and narrow, and there was the constant smell of some kind of cleaning detergent. The room was spacious with two separate beds, and the sheets on one of them had not been changed. I noticed two used towels and some tissues on the floor, and I immediately checked the bathroom and, to my relief, found more, fresh towels there. Next I checked the shower’s water pressure, and then the air conditioning in the main room. Both were okay. Not great, but okay. It would do for the next two nights. After all, there was no need to look perfect for the writers’ conference.
Monday, July 14
I had consulted with Steve about the idea of going to the conference. After months of participating in various online forums, writing entries after entries to “build my platform,” I was sick and tired of receiving advice and critique from other amateurs. My hope was to meet world-class professionals whose brains I could pick.
Steve had warned me, though, not to expect too much in terms of learning how to become a better writer, or even come closer to a book deal.
“Just go and observe,” he said with a grin as if he was sending me out to be the victim in a TV’s practical jokes and bloopers show. “Get a first look and feel of the publishing world. Don’t expect to learn anything as a writer. See this as a social study. There is no better opportunity to study this bizarre species in their native habitat. Learn how to be one of them.”
Then he added, “I can guarantee you that you, the typical human being, will be angry at some time, but, whatever happens, try to remain calm. It doesn’t make sense releasing your anger upon them. It may make you feel better, but these people won’t have a clue what ticked you off. People in the publishing world don’t have the same emotional responses as normal human beings.
You must understand, they all live in happy-land, and they always find the best in every situation, may it be a success or a miserable failure. They’re almost like a religious sect without a god. Instead, they indulge in a bizarre form of self-worship. Go play their game, and you will get along.”
I had paid my registration fee in advance, and had also mailed a form to request a personal interview with Roger Washington, one of the most respected literary agents in the business. Months ago I had received a letter from him, saying he had read my manuscript and that he liked the story. But he advised cutting the word count by about twenty percent, and I should mail the revised manuscript as soon as it was finished. I spent two frantic days and nights to reduce the word count, and, on the morning of the third day, I mailed it per overnight express. I never heard from him again.
Traffic was not horrendous for a typical Monday morning in New York City, but the taxi ride still took almost an hour to reach the convention center just outside of Manhattan. I went through the usual registration procedure and received my personal badge and a program guide.
The first item on my agenda was a workshop called “The Writer’s Daily Workout,” and I was looking forward to some advice on everyday writing routines. I realized, I was already ten minutes late, and I rushed to find the conference room on the second floor. Instead of using the elevator, I chose to run up the stairs rather than waiting for the next car going up, carrying my heavy bag that, besides my laptop, also contained approximately one-thousand sheets of paper, a copy of my novel, meticulously formatted according to the required standards.
I checked the signs at each of the eight entry doors until I finally found the “Concorde” room. I opened the door and peeked inside, cautious not to interrupt the session in progress.
I was shocked to see nearly fifty people inside, hopping and doing jumping jacks as commanded by the female instructor, a woman in her sixties wearing her ultra tight, pink aerobics outfit and way too much makeup.
Confused, I checked the sign on the door again, and assured it did, in fact, refer to the conference’s workshop as listed in the program. I shook my head in disbelief.
“Yes, hopping around in your living room will make you a better writer,” I heard a female voice behind me, and I turned around to look at a beautiful black woman, nearly two inches taller than I, and very slender. I guessed her age to be somewhere in the mid-twenties. She wore some extremely expensive looking glasses with a thin black rim, and her hair was short and curly.