The Business of Books

There are two sides to writing if you are interested in being published. One side is up to you, and that is producing the story, poem, novel, or memoir that represents your best efforts and is rewarded with the great news that you are being published. The other side is cold, hard business - dark and seamy and filled with potholes and disasters - and those are the good things about the business side of being published.

When I was notified that my first novel was going to be published, I was thrilled. I had images of my book in print with my name on it and all kinds of accolades and bestseller status and . . .  so on. Likewise my second novel. Things were rolling and, even though I wasn't getting rich by any stretch of the imagination, I was proud of my work. Novel #3 was finished and sent off and I was told it would be published last November. And then communication came to a dead stop. Emails were unanswered. A Christmas gift was not acknowledged. No communication. This is the evil side of publishing; the business side over which writers have little control. So I made a decision based on the fact that communication had ended. I sent them a registered letter terminating my contracts. 

Now I am on the street again, seeking a publisher or an agent, tin cup in hand and singing "Mr. Bojangles" on street corners. Tough decisions are not always rewarded immediately, you know.

A pox...

I believe in diversity and I believe in tolerance, and I can prove it. I have friends who are Cubs fans and I have friends who are Cardinals fans and I still accept them. They are welcome in our home and they know it, showing up for our First Friday gatherings, as well as other times, with regularity, making those times more fun. I am okay with their wearing their teams' paraphernalia and keeping me up to date with their teams' successes and failures. They are intelligent fans who know the game, appreciate the history of their teams, and are aware of the thousands of statistics that only major league baseball can generate (right-handed hitting Ernie Forbles' batting average the day after a night game on the road in June when the sun is shining and lefty reliever Portnoy Rackowitz is pitching with  a 2-1 count).

My friendship and expansive tolerance is partly based on sympathy because, with the Cubs every century or so with a World Series championship notwithstanding, their teams are, well, inferior. Inferior to what, you might ask. Inferior to my team, for 62 years now, the Boston Red Sox. We have better fans, history, ballpark, city, players, management, and more nuns in the stands.

But tolerance and welcoming diversity only go so far, and they do not include embracing fans of the Forces of Evil, the New York Yankees. A pox on their houses

I do bite my thumb at Thee, sir.

As some of you may have noticed, I am a writer of self-admitted minimal success and enormous failures, but I still write. I think psychologists call that "self-injurious behavior." So be it.

Today's "Writing Wednesdays" blog is about a weird kind of retribution for all the rejections I've suffered from agents. When I research a literary agency, I review what each agent is interested in before deciding whether or not I should contact them. I wouldn't send a murder mystery to an agent who only handles historical non-fiction, for example. This is a standard process.

Now, I do the rejections, dumping agents that aren't appropriate for my work. "Take that!" I shout at the computer screen when I reject an agent. "How do you like that, you arrogant, elitist, literary snob!" Of course, they don't know I've rejected them; whereas, when they reject me I get it in writing or, even worse, silence.

This approach is recent, and I know it may fall short just a tad from reality. But therapy can take on many faces. I find comfort in it, but I suspect it is only temporary. Stay tuned for next week's "Writing Wednesdays" blog.

Writing Wednesday

I plan to dedicate a blog about writing on Wednesdays from now on, as much as possible. If you've been following curlylarryandme, you know that I'm a writer with some success and lots of failures. I have written more about rejections than anything else, because I'm an expert on being rejected, as is nearly every other writer regardless of publishing credits, or not.

Usually, when I query a literary agent I think would be a good match for me, they explain on their website, that they are busybusybusy people, and a bit self-important, too. Most of them have a tone of condescension, too. They say they receive 5,342 queries every day of their busybusybusy lives, and because of their level of busy-ness, they may not be able to tell you that you stink for a month or two. Or not at all. The "or not at all" attitudes are especially annoying. In other words, they are so busybusybusy they don't have time for good manners, common decency, or simple professionalism. 

So, when I sent off a query letter and a few sample pages to an agent who seemed to be a good match, I was a bit surprised to receive a polite, professional, and kind rejection email in, get this, 18 HOURS! Was my letter so terrible that the poor woman threw up and hit the REJECT AUTOMATIC REPLY that fast? I could not believe it. A first in decades of rejection letters. 18 HOURS!

When I told my astute Book Concierge, Rowe Carenen, she said not to worry, that the busybusybusy agent's "In Box" was probably full, triggering the response, and she probably never even saw the query letter and sample pages. That made sense. I tried again with another agent at the agency. That was a little over two weeks ago. No rejection. Yet. Maybe she's reading what I wrote. Maybe she'll be impressed. Maybe she won't. Might be too busybusybusy. I'll let you know when, and if, I hear from her.

In the meantime, keep writing!

Twittering Twitterer Twit

Growing up in Iowa, back when just a few of the smaller dinosaurs were still scurrying around shopping for sweaters, I thought a "tweet" was some kind of edible reward for being good, such as butter brickle ice cream or a  "black cow" at the A & W stand three blocks down North Second Street from where I lived. Now, I have been educated. Wikipedia defines "twitter" this way:  "Twitter is an online news and social networking service where users post and interact with messages, "tweets," restricted to 140 characters. Registered users can post tweets, but those who are unregistered can only read them."

So, why am I telling you this? Starting in April, I will be twittering all kinds of tweets for people interested in what I have to say. And I think all three of you will enjoy my profound insights into life, death, sports, food, books, and dating topics. There will be none on politics or religion. I will be offering up tweets as a shameless act of self promotion for my novels. Marketing experts agree that it is a good idea for writers. So in addition to my blog you are reading and new website at www.johncarenenwrites.com, there will be tweets.

I hope you will come looking for my tweets. I think you will be pleased.

See you in April!

Squirreled Away

I have been outsmarted by a squirrel. Twice. Now, for those of you who know me, this is not fresh news. 

We have a squirrel in our crawlspace overhead. It does not make itself known except in the middle of the night, when it wakes me up, gnawing on something for about thirty minutes. Actually, we don't know for sure if it's a squirrel. Could be a mouse or a rat, but based on information provided by friends and neighbors with similar experience with annoying mammals, it is very likely a squirrel, flying type or earthbound. Doesn't matter. 

Our overhead crawlspace is not accessible to someone my size. Let's let it go at that. Suffice it to say that there isn't much room up there, it is not floored, and I have never actually been any further into it than waist height. We did have small people go up there and blow in tons of cottony insulation when we renovated the cottage a few years ago.

We told a friend of ours about the problem and he promptly said his live squirrel trap would work. It had worked for him. He loaned it to us. The trap has an opening at each end and a small metal plate in the middle, upon which one slathers peanut butter and sets the hair trigger device guaranteed to trap the intruder. The slightest nudge will release escape-proof doors at each end. After the trapping, the squirrel should be driven ten miles from the cottage and set free to bug other people.

Once, I heard the trap go off. I put a little two-step stool on the bathroom counter beneath the access point to the crawlspace. I shone my flashlight on the trap. Nothing inside. Two other times I checked the trap and it had NOT gone off. But the peanut butter was completely gone. My long-suffering wife thinks the squirrel has a straw.

I returned the live squirrel trap to my friend, who was as baffled as I.

This afternoon I'm going to drop by the Army Surplus Store and see how much they want for an AK47, night vision goggles, and maybe a Claymore mine or two.

Stay posted.