bookfraud

As I await word from publishers on my novel, and having really nothing better to do, I thought it might be instructive to share a taste of publisher’s rejection letters.

Why am I doing this, you ask? For sympathy? To blow the lid off a corrupt publishing world?

No, because the past week I have either been crazy with work, or have had the energy level of a wet dogturd, and thought it best to produce an E-Z post. Plus, since staring at the screen for more than 21 seconds at a time creates this vertiginous sensation like there are small oozing pustules on my body, making me feel as if I will expel ink-black vomitus, I’ll keep it relatively short, brain free, and lacking the usual light-hearted, good-natured tone of the terminally optimistic.

Reject me at will.

WHAT THEY SAY: “This was entertaining and unique. But I didn’t think that the story came together in the end.”

WHAT THEY MEAN: I loved it! But it’s gonna sell 100 copies.

WHAT THEY SAY: “The novel starts strong with a great premise, but ultimately fails to capture my interest.”

WHAT THEY MEAN: It sucked.

WHAT THEY SAY: “Thank you for sending this. It was one of the most interersting novels to pass my desk in some time. However, it’s just not right for me.”

WHAT THEY MEAN: It totally sucked.

Somebody’s mad as hell. But not Bookfraud

WHAT THEY SAY: “The novel gets lost near the end, and I had a hard time following the various plot contrivances and twists.”

WHAT THEY MEAN: I didn’t have time to finish it.

WHAT THEY SAY: “The writing is fresh, and the characters are facinating. This book really got my attention. Ultimately, however, I’ll have to pass.”

WHAT THEY MEAN: If I saw you in a bar, I’d think you were hot, but I’d never sleep with you.

Thank you, thank you.

What is kinda strange is that the rejection letters don’t bother me. That is, they didn’t bother me until six weeks had passed after receiving each one, a time when I stewed in a blood rage about the publishing corpocracy conspiring against me. Somebody whose writing I respect immensely had his novel rejected a bazillion times before it got accepted — and this after he published a collection of short stories. I really have nothing to bitch about. (Which really means I have no reason to live).

More importantly, I finally have realized that rejection isn’t simply a function of the book’s quality, but also of its commercial potential. And I just have to live with that. Publishing is a business, lest I forget.

The interesting thing about rejection letters on books is that they are formal and generally nice to the agent — after all, editors rely upon agents to send them good material. Also, I have noticed a subtle pattern among the rejections: the beginning rocks, but the ending isn’t as swell. Maybe I can learn from this. Perhaps I will emerge with a better novel, as a better person, in a better world, with better food and ketchup packets that are as easy to open as it was for me to write this, goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow. Don’t wake me.

N.B. Following the initial publishing of this post, the cardinals elected a new pontiff, who promptly named himself Benedict XVI. I’m not thrilled with the name choice. For one thing, it makes me think of a certain traitor in U.S. history, but it also makes me think of omelets. And Denny’s Grand Slam Breakfast.

Still, the following is chock full o’ wit and wisdom. Which means you should read it.

I’m not Catholic, in religion or temperment. But I did find out something interesting following Pope John Paul II’s death: anybody can be elected pope. It doesn’t have to be a cardinal, bishop, or priest. Anybody.

As the Cardinals convene, blowing out smoke, I say that if elected pope, I promise lower tithes, a worldwide order banning gays, and mandatory rhythm method birth control, enforced by the military. Actually, all you cardinals reading this, I’m just joking. No offense, really.

However, I’m aware of the huge groundswell for a Pope Bookfraud I, but at this time I must decline your nomination, even if I could remain married.

From a heathen’s point of view, the coolest things about being The Man are the Popemobile, the jet-setting, and the millions of people who love you, no matter what you do or say. Also, nobody makes fun of your clothing.

But the coolest thing about being pope is that you get to rename yourself. Karol Wojtyla became Pope John Paul II. Just because he liked it, and the guy named John Paul I died about two hours after becoming pontiff.

Since I humbly decline the invitation to become pope, I would like to make some suggestions for the new pope’s name. Mostly offensive, I imagine.

Pope Zippy II: The nickname of one my college roommates. Without going into detail, he was a true Pope Zippy, all others who follow are pale imitators.

Pope Bookfraud II: Since I am already Bookfraud, you’d have to become Pope Bookfraud II. Your holiness.

Pope Ron Jeremy II: This, too, is already taken, so you’d have to be RJ II. This name ensures nobody questions your virility. Your pontiffness.

The Popeinator: A radical reworking of the Pope’s name could be just to thing to jump-start marketing efforts. Obvious tie-ins with Arnold Schwartzenegger, Popeinator dolls, posters. Each Pope following would be the Popeinator, without Roman numerals. Hasta la vista, my children.

Pope P-Diddy II: Perhaps not.

Pope Kramer I: Promising, but don’t know if the Pope could get the hair right.

Kramer vs. Katholics

Pope Boniface Formosus Damascus Callistus “Blessed Urban” Gelasius XXXVIII: By becoming Pope Boniface Formosus Damascus Callistus “Blessed Urban” Gelasius XXXVIII, all taken from names of past popes throughout the centuries, you probably ensure there won’t be any Boniface Formosus Damascus Callistus “Blessed Urban” Gelasius popes following you.

Pope Barney Fife III: Thelma Lou!

Pope Wolverine X, Pope Cyclops X, or Pope Professor Charles Xavier X: Guaranteed to win support from the X-Men fans within the College of Cardinals.

Pope Magneto II, Pope Lex Luthor I, or Pope “Doc” Ock VI: Guaranteed to win support of the comic-book-villian-loving Cardinals.

Pope Cornelius I: We all know that Don Cornelius was the deep-toned voice of Soul Train. Need I say more? (Alternate: Pope Barry II, after Barry White).

The Bruiser’s available

Pope Jimi XVII: Sure, Jimi Hendrix took drugs, had sex, and played the evil music, but he was a rock God!

Pope Dick the Bruiser IV: Dick the Bruiser (ne Dick Afflis) is one of my all-time favorite pro wrestlers, but not because of his exploits in the ring (which were great). One night when he was a member of the Green Bay Packers in the 1950s, he was wandering around Green Bay drunk, worried about what his wife would do once he got home.

I’ll let the Bruiser tell what happened next, related in a television interview of many years ago: “It’s three in the morning, and I was thinking, I’m drunk, I can’t go home to my wife. So I think, ‘Hey I know! I’ll get thrown in jail.’ So I gets a rock, throws it through a window, and the cops come pick me up a few minutes later. You know, problem solved.”

This is a man whose keen sense of logic and proportion would have made him perfect to lead any congregation, but he died in 1992, may Dick rest in peace.

Because I’m too busy/lazy to write a new entry, behold Gizoogle.

My post on Elvis Haiku, done Snoop Dog style.

Also, reader comments as such.

Racist or harmless? Offensive or funny? Paper or plastic?

I would like to set the record straight on a little matter involving sports. Wrestling – not ersatz, professional “wrestling,” but the kind practiced in high school, college, and the Olympics – is not erotic. Sure, there’s plenty of sweaty guys with hot bodies knotted into seemingly kinky positions (yeah, yeah, look at the picture), but if you’ve been in the sport, you know better.

A double root canal is a bigger turn on than wrestling. As is stamping invoices or watching C-SPAN with the sound off.

The math is simple: wrestling is the hardest sport out there, period. A single high school match is the aerobic equivalent of sprinting for six minutes. Your body is twisted and mangled in shapes for which it was not designed. You are thrown around, subjected to painful holds, your face mashed and hit; all of this is legal.

Training is hell on earth. One’s life is spent lifting weights, running windsprints until you’re sick and then some more, and wrestling in overheated rooms, your body drenched, your ears mashed into cauliflower. And the offseason is just more of the same.

This is a good time?

Then there’s cutting weight. I wrestled at 138 pounds in high school, even though I was closer to 145, the next class up, so I’d have to lose 5 to 7 pounds each week. I cannot describe how awful this was to a growing boy who loved to eat.

I joined the team after my freshman soccer coach, also the freshman wrestling coach, talked me into it. Wrestling is a great sport, but not necessarily fun, even if you are successful. There’s a tremendous amount of satisfaction when you win, but I can’t say I ever looked forward to a match. You don’t get the adrenaline rush of scoring a touchdown or hitting a home run.

(Please, I know many love to wrestle. They think it’s the best sport ever created. Otherwise they wouldn’t devote their lives to it. Just don’t tell me how you’d rather wrestle and lose than play basketball, or I’m an idiot, etc.; I know this already.)

Now, more than 20 years later, I’ll see NCAA or Olympic wrestling on television, or hear tales from my brother, a far superior grappler than I ever was, and I’ll think, “Why did I ever quit? I might have been good.”

Talk about delusional. Not only was I simply average, I never loved wrestling, a prerequisite if you want to take this sadomasochistic sport seriously. As a 15-year-old, it wasn’t a good time. I quit after a couple of years, preferring a full buffet and less pain, and never looked back, until now.

Because wrestling is a noble endeavor of sacrifice and toil, I forget just how hard it is. I like telling people I wrestled in high school (for two whole years! wow!), as it makes me look like a tough guy. Wife sometimes mentions my wrestling past to others, which is cool.

Having returned from the AWP convention, I’ve also been having fits of selective memory about writing. I wonder why my work didn’t fly when I was in my 20s and early 30s. I think: Damn, if I’d just not been so headstrong and actually listened to teachers, if I’d taken writing seriously instead of treating it as a lark, I wouldn’t have wasted all those years writing full-fledged drek.

Instead of writing stories that were a series of jokes strung around a silly plot, lacking whole characters or evocative prose, maybe I would have actually published stuff earlier.

Here’s where the selective memory comes in. The above version of events leaves out several important details. My 20s were largely a lost decade, spent grappling (ha) with bad relationships, bad geography, and a bad job. I was profoundly unhappy, which manifest itself in my writing, bitter and cerebral and bad.

Nor did I get the “wacky” thing out of my system until I was in my mid-30s. I finally got the idea that it was fine to have normal people doing normal things and normal emotions, and my writing improved appreciably. (Having Wife around didn’t hurt, either).

But I’d like to think that things weren’t as bad as they seemed, and I could have been a great writer at 25. Selective memory plays its rotten tricks.

All I have to do is read some of my early work to realize this. Too bad I’ve burned it.

“So,” asked Friend of Wife, “what are you going to write about the conference in the blog?” I must admit I had no answer.

The AWP conference, which ended Sunday, had been going remarkably well. There had not been any stupid neurotic worries or ridiculous moments of self-loathing. I had met many excellent people, and saw some old friends, all such encounters lacking drama. I had many drinks and did not throw up on anyone, nor did I have the desire to.

All in all, a success. But it also meant I couldn’t feel sorry for myself. Without a single iota of heartbreak, feelings of inadequacy, or silent resentment.

Just what the hell could I bitch about? In other words, did I have any blog material whatsoever?

No worries

Even after Friend of Wife made her astute observation, I lacked of despair, anger, or other such woe. I had too much to drink on Friday (didn’t say or do anything stupid that I recall) and missed a panel discussion on Saturday. I also sat through half a rotten session, all of a half-good session, and ambled the book fair without incident. I went to Stanley Park, Granville Island, and a sampled some of the city’s seafood, which was top notch.

This is not the stuff of high drama.

On the 1:30 a.m. taxi ride from the airport, I rode past a row of zaftig women in hot pants and fake furs, holding shiny purses and wearing wigs (I didn’t stop). When one counts a large number of crying babies on the fight out as one of the worst things that happened, it leaves little room for despair.

There must have been something that went wrong in Vancouver — perhaps, using my remaining brain cells not drowned in Molson’s and vodka tonics, I can remember an what it was. Someone who runs a lit mag dissed some I know, a pointless insult the person quickly shook off. Wife abandoned me for fifteen minutes at a party while I guarded her purse and she chatted up an editor. Was buzzed enough at the time not to care.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is that Wife will have all the reason to say that she told me so. “You’re going to have a great time, and everything’s going to be excellent,” she said. Damnit, Wife was right once more.

We agreed that if there was any angst, it came at the book fair, in which publishers and literary journals hawk their wares, trade-show style.

“That magazine rejected me,” I said, passing one booth.

“That one rejected me,” Wife said, passing another.

We bonded.

I passed out business cards, wrote the blog’s URL on them, and briefly worried that someone would actually read the thing, and unmask me to the world for the messed up bottle of nerves that I am. Lacked a pen at one point and wrote down “http://bookfraud…” using an eyebrow pencil. Whoo hoo.

These pititful non-events are the best drama this brooding loner can deliver to faithful readers awaiting tales of resentment, anger, and vomitus.

I missed saying goodbye to a friend after we were supposed to meet at a bar. That was the lowlight, besides a hangover one morning. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, when I am no longer exhausted and spent, I will think of something cogently interesting tell. But I doubt it.

I mean, I have nothing to complain about.

Bummer.