Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 1- Congratulations
Let’s go back to the very beginning. You laugh and cry as you sit alone and write a “meaningful” book. During the course of your endeavor, you have thought that you have something important and momentous to say. At some point you’ve completed the book for which the world patiently waited. Congratulations
.......... on one count. The vast majority of would-be writers start a book and give up halfway in. The bulk of those become indie reviewers who display their honed abilities on book oriented, social web sites. With one exception, everyone I know has initiated a book. 98% of those have never finished one. So, rejoice, you who are capable of finishing, as you are already in the top two percent. While the actual writing of a book is a relatively easy endeavor, as the task is no longer burdened with any of the stylistic constraints imposed in the un-enlightened, archaic past, most still find it more important to go to their paying job, clean the house, mow the lawn, take the potentially choking web app out of the baby’s mouth, and tend to a myriad of other distractions unfairly imposed on the merest of mortals. It makes little sense to the one who has been “blessed” with the ability to transcend the banal; unless thought of in the manner suggested by the dated Hollywood offering titled “The Matrix,”
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ostensibly unaware of the fact that it had again snowed overnight. Have you not yet seen?
Pragmatically ignoring the noise epidemiologically rampant among the un-nessed of couths, thereby provides a pleasurable, ersatz escape from any annoying, distasteful, personal sense of responsibility. You have become an artist. You are at last free.
The necessary muses and models come and go with the conjured rapidity of the most neutral of the most terrestrially based of hundred year shelled tortoises. For you, the artful vision serves as a satisfactory, pictorial compensation; on good days bearing the enigmatic title of many a dream of the “Johanna,”
Smaller, easily surmountable matters considered; at some point you no doubt have found that your fictional work has the potential of being incorrectly viewed as too self-revealing.
What can one reasonably expect? Those with the “luxury” of a studied life have, with a tad of self-interest, attached particular significance to four lines of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and have concluded that this is “proof” that he was gay. Willy ain’t shakin’. Damned by your brain’s ability to “accurately”
recall that which may never have been more than two weeks prior, you maintain at the very least an illusion of some semblance of privacy, as you in seeming discordance, simultaneously notice the circle at the top of your open laptop staring at you. The dreaded revelation was a non-event for you, yet you now realize
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that as the numerous Luddites will apply the wisdom of power they have gathered during their pop psychology, “Harry Potter”
gatherings. They will likely find your viewpoint conveniently faulted or will say that they do. They might even say that you didn’t like your mother OR father. Your possible acquiescence to the instructed social conventions include the thought that you will be required to think to yourself; “Uh oh. The readers will conclude that I’m a deviant. I guess I am. .......... I guess I’m not. But, I am definitely not yet ready for public confession, no matter how couched. Besides, my mother might see the damn thing and then I’m going to have to answer a million cross referenced questions over the next month, and if one impromptu word doesn’t seem to jibe with another .............”
You get over the whole thing when you circuitously come to the pure logic of; “The un-creative commentators would do well to just fuck themselves somewhere out of my eye’s viewing ability.”
You just felt like writing a book and getting wads of dough for it.
For the souls innocent of psychology’s dictums, and for the exhibitionists who get off on Revelation, and for those who truly don’t care, around the hundredth page the inconsequential characters in the story become difficult to keep straight; no sexual innuendo implied. In the context this would seem retarded to have to say, but for the possible benefit of 90% of the
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indie-reviewers-writers out there further clarification, sometimes referred to as pedanticism, is the infinite rule of the 2016 day. For we writers, at this point, our considerations center around things like; “Is this ‘Andrew’ in the next scene the fat mama’s boy, his skinny misanthropic friend or some other minor character I invented back on page 20? What color did I say his hair was? Where did I say he lived? If it’s the fat one it’s with his mama, no doubt. But, where does she live? And what was her name? Details, details, details. Your “artistic”
sensibilities are offended. You could care less and think that so should any reviewer with the equivalent of a GED or higher documentable attestation to their mental acumen. You consider it an immaterial pain in the writer’s well-worn butt and a complete waste of time better spent in the whirlpool. But, hard logic removes your “coulda, woulda, shoulda” dalliance into the world of irrelevant fantasy, and you practically decide to “do it right,” no matter the momentary inconvenience, as it is best not to be pecked to death by the kind of people who get off on doing things like pointing out the way in which the gearbox of the Batmobile was in drive one second, and without the benefit of a shifting was in neutral the next, (Believe it or not, I am not making that up.) before your “brilliance” has sold an easy few million copies and you can have an entire sauna installed in the house you’ll occupy in Carmel, and sit in it anytime you want
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to; .......... the whirlpool, that is; simultaneously, extremely blasé about Clint to your right and Jane to your left. Practical graciousness seems to suggest that you give them an autographed copy. But, you consider all the “little” people condemned to exist in places like Duluth, who have funded your trip to jet-streamed paradise. You once dwelt amongst them and love them dearly. As a kind and tedious service to your sure-to-come supporters, you sigh and check back in order to get the
“pertinent” details consistent. Noblesse oblige can be and too often is a necessary bitch.
You have seen that the illusion of perfection is imperative in the low to middle brow marketplace. It seems to be something well short of essential, perhaps even disdained as another “over studied” attestation to the author’s poorly concealed feelings of inferiority, at the higher brow level. But, you know that the size of the latter group is roughly the equivalent of the population of Lichtenstein, and they have a large “free”
library. David Foster Wallace did not live in Carmel, nor did he ever give up his day job.
It’s not just a theory or some garbage on the net. You first-hand know all too well that many patrons of the arts get their kicks in life, as it were, by pointing out inconsistencies. You’ve learned that through many interminable weekend visits from your failed-artist-brother-in-law, who
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surprisingly could never find a girl-friend to occupy his
“holiday” departures from his part-time janitorial gig. You have kindly commiserated with him about how much you like his un-salable oil paintings and how the market was stupid, devoid of taste and how it’s all about “who you know.” To do otherwise was to risk being branded a Philistine. You have reserved your inquiries about his high end taste in movies during which he had a penchant to obtain extreme pleasure when noting the existence of above ground telephone lines in a dinosaur movie. Admittedly, this contradiction is of more significance than Batman’s gearbox thing, but I, for one, would prefer to have focussed on the inventive commentary on the post-modern ennui and the socio-economic issues contained in “Gertie the Dinosaur.” Do you for one second think that William Randolph Hearst had Gertie pulled for nothing?
But, I was at a loss, as it would have been much too obvious to say that the significance of the physical phone lines were well within the intellectual grasp of maven cinephiles and that they had already indicated substantial agreement regarding the matter. It would have been rather insulting to my brother-in-law, an art student when not fishing in the privies, as he certainly must have known that. So, I refrained from commentary and laughed in the obligatory fashion called for; a convenient way of avoiding difficult subjects; such as substance. It’s only
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business as boringly usual. Fun and games. Why are you so serious? The multi-hued, pastable balls are available cheap to the “craftspeople” shopping at the Hobby Vestibule chain.
Besides, cats love to smack them around. There is some benefit in having had this kind of experience. These skills will come in quite handy when one mistakenly starts to converse with other sensitive indie authors incapable of selling squat. In the meantime try to forget that to find inconsistencies is kind of easy as they’re all over the place. And do not ever; and I repeat ever, at the risk if infinite banishment from places you’d rather not be,; point out that the movie’s director actually got paid a few hundred grand and you got bupkis.
Even on a prideful level, you don’t want your genius to be dismissed on a technicality. As a consequence, what started out as fun became tedious. But, you persisted. Congratulations, again. You are an enterprising, hard-working American. Now you expect to become rich and famous and recognized as brilliant.
It’s not that you really care about the judgments of the rabble.
But, you seek justification as your significant other has suffered through all your prior prognostications of greatness; and it is wearing thin. She has actually appeared to have been astounded by some of your phrasing, ideas and insights. She has maintained credibility by occasionally saying she doesn’t like certain scenes. She has always been excellent at bottom-lining
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things and is waiting for the green to start rolling in. It’s your own fault. Whenever money issues have surfaced, you have said; “Don’t worry about it. Soon, your biggest problem will be counting it.” Sometimes you wonder if you should read something more than her personal fandom into her periodic suggestion that you should abandon your literary pretensions and write something like “The Wire.” Besides, street and cop shit sells a whole lot better than updates of Du Maupassant, and you’d rather not meet the aficionados of “The Clasp,” anyway.
In watching YouTube you have seen not-too-bright authors interviewed on past TV shows, which you and five others have watched; the five being the author’s mother, father, high school English teacher, his girlfriend, and sorry publisher. They babble on about how they do or do not gauge their audience, culminating in a diatribe which covers all bases. Tip: If Mark Leyner is one of the guests, turn off the sound until you see another face. If he is the only guest, try another show.
By “high-brow, literary” talk show standards Wallace was the exception in his directness, genius and almost complete disregard for saying the right, politically correct, banal thing. No doubt, it has become obvious to you that his interviewers, who have never written a notable book, if any at all, have been intent on showing how smart they are by posing
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questions in a Shakespearian soliloquistic fashion. Your ADD
prevents you from remembering the ostensible gist of the long-winded statements they think they have disguised as questions.
In your fantasy flight into the role of sought after celebrity you are tempted to interrupt or un-indictably deride through an un-accusable sarcasm. You find the whole thing stupid and distasteful, but have discovered that writers make more money from TV appearances than they do from their books. In a breath of fresh air you see that Charlie Rose is much more experienced and secure in his intelligence, thereby being less prone to open displays of combative essays.
You try to find out exactly how much money one gets for being a guest on “The Charlie Rose Show.” While your book was a noir-ish potboiler about a hit man who didn’t think he was doing anything particularly wrong, you anticipate making answers to the inevitable questions concerning your belief in God or the state of the educational system. It’s essential not to be honest and say; “I don’t know,” as it your job to fill air time and you want to be invited back. Charlie doesn’t want to do all of the talking. It’s not his job. Your dictated goal is to talk unclearly and at length around the issues in an inoffensive, jocular manner; kind of suggesting a theoretical agnostic variation coupled with some personal experience in which you saw the stone rolling; or some less obvious derivation of that old
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theme. It is expected and only five people are paying any attention anyway. The rest are looking at your clothing and appearance, saying things like; “Jeez, I didn’t think he’d be that old,” “That hair style has been out of fashion for decades,” “At that age he’s lucky to have any at all,” and “I wonder if he’s gay. Most of them are you know.”
In your mind you are consciously trying to hide your pride and exuberance at having written something the literary and financial equivalent of “The Catcher in the Rye.” Those countless bleary-eyed and weary evenings have resulted in undeniable proof that you have outdone Shakespeare, Proust, Joyce, Hemingway, Mailer, Wallace, Franzen and Saunders.
Fitzgerald is an overly simple joke. Greatest American writer?
Yeah, right! However, your costume is to appear depressed, humble, fortunate and thankful. It is fashionable. It is safe.
It is liked by the saddened readers with dour outlooks. The most hurt are the vast majority of the potential purchasers of your book.
Your media disdainful outlook is called into question when you get back home. You enjoy the predominant quiet relaxation, but are periodically given your wife’s evaluation of your performance, coupled with un-answerable questions concerning your next gig and how much it will pay. You try to joke and say that your next “gig” will be a free book signing at the local
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public library and that as an artist, you are revolted at the crass commercialism. You call into question the marketability of your notions of humor as she stares, arms folded across her chest. She’s heard this shit a million times before. You turn on your computer, to see that you have received an e-mail from Howard Ginsburg, a publicist who offers to make room for you on his lengthy list of successful clients. You write back saying that you are broke, but wouldn’t mind using his services if he would extract his fees from your revenue. You consider it the depth of low class communication when you read his immediate response with all those words which were forbidden when you were thirteen.
Your artistic sensibilities have been violated. You cannot write one word. Reality has rudely introduced itself through a brain-dead megaphone. You desperately need to commiserate with others of your ilk. So, you deign to spend hours during which you could have been writing your next gem, to post whiny shit decorated with happy faces on Goofreads, the home of sad ass indie writers, indie reviewers and in excess of 100 actual readers who find more amusement in actual writers than they do in their books. Fantastic! Leo’s on line right now and this time he’s not talking about his husband who killed two people and split. Not bothering to reverse the stuff he had originally put on his profile, he’s doing his justification bit about how it’s
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great to be an indie with a market of eight people, seven of whom are authors with whom Leo swaps five star reviews. Trying so hard to be liked, I try to write him something in keeping with his constantly duplicitous state of mind, but can’t resist the temptation of trying to somewhere in there bury some note of sarcasm. Ignoring whatever he previously wrote, I post; “As usual, Leo, you are so right. An indie knows that rather than
‘submitting’ a query letter and segments of your novel to unscrupulous agents and publishers, only to be later edited if accepted is the height of nonsense. An indie can write whatever is in their heart and mind and keep all the royalties. Well, not exactly all, but a fair proportion. Well, .......... Never mind for now. You’ll think about that later. Your inquisitive convoluted mind wonders if 35% of $.99 will equate to thirty-four or thirty-five cents. Consult a third grade math book, if the penny matters. Okay, Leo. No matter. There will be so many sales you won’t ever have to think about money. And then, when it goes movie ....... As an indie, you further justify your decision to self-publish by your ability to keep all the rights.
You celebrate your power to remain un-sullied and un-censored.
At least some tasteless, mercenary, crass agent or publisher won’t get in on the largesse to soon come.”
To my delight a message came through from the far reaches of the tundra. Leo gave me two D’s and a whoo-hoo. Being new at
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computer abbreviated lingo I wasn’t really sure whether his word approximations, format deviations, and hyphenated, Minnie Pearl aphorism sought to indicate an appreciation of my encouragement, a robotic reply to all, or if he was telling me to drop dead. I was presumptuous and assumed that the two exclamation points he put on the end meant something good. (I assure you that no sexual innuendo was intended.)
I just have to get away from this stream of consciousness excuse for poor writing and not write what next occurs to me.
Reality’s cousin, depression, introduces himself in an ironic fashion. He manages to enter and stay away at the same time. He must have been recently reading Franzen short stories.
Your gem has been available on AmawayOnSteroids a whole week and there is no largesse yet indicated. The New York Times reviewer has not called you to arrange a consultation in preparation for a Sunday book section front page piece. Charlie Rose’s people have not contacted your people. It is a weird state of mind to not be offered the thing that you wanted to disdain and reject, pulling a JD Salinger. You recall your old friend’s commentary about how something cannot be rejected if it was not first offered. You further recalled your response calling that sophistry based on an imperfect meaning of words, and of more significance a self-defeating philosophy by which
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one is obliged to get a lot of garbage, just to be credible when saying that they don’t want it. Don’t believe me. I don’t care.
You note that after three weeks there have been five sales and three of them have been refunded. This is out and out ridiculous and insulting. It has to be a mistake or some sort of an indie-intolerant conspiracy. Your mother and sister do not even need the refund. Maybe there’s some kind of message intended.
On a more significant level, this couldn’t possibly be the fault of your masterpiece. It has to be the fault of AmawayOnSteroids. You go to their website, and sure enough, if you type in your name the book is shown as “for sale.” You go to the “Community” section of your Ginder Direct Publishing (GDP) account and discover that indeed there is something wrong with AmawayOnSteroids.Com. Your fellow writers, the most successful of whom claimed to have sold 200 books in just one month, find serious deficiencies in virtually every aspect of AmawayOnSteroids.Com’s operation. You vow to get into the details ........ someday. There are so many provided by indie authors experiencing zero sales. You think of suggesting that they rattle their mother’s and sister’s cages a bit, but reject that thought, as right now you are content to feel justified in your sabotaged endeavors, and the consequent absence from the New York Times top ten list, the lack of contact from their
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Sunday front page reviewer, Charlie Rose’ people’s snub, and your inability to possibly reject them all.
In down periods you re-read your own clever and funny, veiled insights and think; “Anyone can write this. I have enlightened myself only.” Sad, sad, sad. You are afforded solace and warmly greet a re-entry of a belief in your astounding abilities when you re-read the greats and find their works less than a continuous orgasm. Five interspersed in a 600 page book is about as good as most get. You have topped that in 200 even after factoring in the inevitable fakes. You are temporarily sure of your textual acumen.
In your soothed runaway imagination you find that you are periodically answering a self-imposed question no one has yet asked, but you think certainly someday will. You flip-flop from black to white and spend futile time in accommodating gray. At one extreme you think; “I am an artist. The day these books become best sellers is the same day that I will admit that I am as trite as everyone else.” At the other extreme you recall Joni’s lines concerning artists in magnificent privation and clerics with obscene fob pieces. You recall your significant other’s big green eyes. The well-behaved inmates worship the Good Book. The radicals worship the cause is meaningful in the moment, while more confusing in the analysis. ......... Or is it?
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Some disparaging person who has never been there might call a person capable of writing the previous digression a naïve dolt; and that someone would be quite wrong; and probably has the brightest of responses to a possible retort; having had lots of practice. You have heard a lifetime of opinions and only argue judgments when there is a recognized appeals court and winner’s prize. But, you also can’t be swayed. You have no doubt that living a fantasy of a three year’ duration was delicious, and you would be glad to do it again and again and again ......
It’s kind of retarded to rush the fall into Nod.
While, under a barrage of Conservative indoctrination for the last thirty-five years of mainstream television, we have all become certain that we have now attained a meaningful education concerning financial likelihoods without the rude imposition of having had to have paid a supposedly degreed professor; with a disdainful beard; an account with the phony ID people; and a regular paycheck. Despite that advantage, you are of the firm opinion, that you will be the exception; and that all except you are wrong about that; as your writing ability is superior. You are wise in being shy to express your special nature. It breeds un-needed jealousies and attracts a slew of annoying Goofreads’
trolls. But, in moments of clarity you are Salinger honest about it; at least with yourself. You think you are magnificently talented. You think you are more creative than the prime mover.
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You know that without you and a handful of other writers an entire industry would not exist. You know that if not for your unfair, sacrificial tribulations the entire population would have to read themselves to sleep, their noses buried in
“Freedom.” ....... Actually, that sounds very efficient as a used copy sells for less than what the man asks for OxyContin quarters and lasts a lot longer. You see the pile of bills near the dangerous microwave; at any moment ready to flash that much discussed and not fully understood 11:11 signal at you. You avert your eyes, but cannot help but peek, as you know that your next book will cure everything. You know you love to write. You know the one you’ll do next will supersede anything ever done.
It is practical. Without these beliefs you wouldn’t be able to write a cook book. This is your curse. The cynical owners of everything just use your love and desperation to keep you impoverished while you slave away for them. You don’t want to hear this, but they have the financial advantage of having heard this long ago. They play the heavy odds. ........ Look, I’m not saying don’t write. I’m just saying don’t count on a huge income from it.
Credentials. Credentials. They insist on credentials, because they are too insecure to say that they liked it without academe backup. (No sexual joke intended.) To be elaborated upon
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later. You think; “Damn the credentials. Look at the first few pages of the book. It’s free.” But, you know that this is the key word in all pursuits. We live in a society where no one dare venture their mere opinions. Sans “legitimate” excuse, being wrong is intolerable. People have ostensibly in seriousness told me that they have lived their entire lives, without having made a mistake; no sexual innuendo intended. Safety lies in Linus’
blanket; be it a degree, union card or past calculable financial success; a tangible thing in which to rest one’s faith; the oxymoron silent to the many. “I wasn’t wrong. Anyone would have done the same thing.” “Yes. I understand. Yes. I’d do the same thing. Yes. But ....................”
It would be another case of “tough shit,” if it were not for the fact that we rookie, indie writers are the ones who get most screwed. It’s absolutely insidious. AmawayOnSteroids.Com speaks to us of promotion and you personally believe that they are the best deal around, only because they require zero out of pocket. Yet, when you log onto AmawayOnSteroids.Com you are greeted by images of the same “best sellers.” I swear to God. If I see that pasty white Geisha face one more time I’m going to pull a Pollack and piss right on the screen. Catch-22? You wonder why they can’t feature yours sometimes. You think that it would certainly generate some more sales. If someone wants to purchase Patterson’s or Rothfuss’ books, they know where to find
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them, without constant “in your face” advertising, which may actually be counter-productive. What do they know? Their common stock sells at only 1000 times earnings after 22 years of un-fulfilled promises.
What do they know? Who cares? The only thought relevant to you is that you have become aware that the minute you decided to sell it, your work of art became one of eighty billion products available on AOS. Once you have settled into this frame of mind, you simultaneously realize that your only financial considerations are simple. Do you want them to use you? Or do you want to use them? There is one thing in your favor. The 2016
Goliath cannot see you. It has no eyes. It is just a series of interlocking algorithms which are blind to anything other than repeated patterns. Even if it could see; you are much too small to get its attention.
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Chapter 2- Me?
How much of Chapter 1 is about me? Absolutely none. I already told you that I’m a fiction writer. Pay some attention.
I hide. I make up things. I lie. I sit by the keyboard all day.
If I wrote about my dreary truth, the 33 physical book sales which have been reported to me, would have been zero.
On the other hand; the left; it seems obvious to me that even someone as obscure, maladjusted, and impoverished as an ebook writer or “Jude the Obscure” himself would have the ability to discern that the bulk of the previous thoughts were considered by me at various times. Otherwise, how could I have written them herein? How literally specific are we lyrical writers required to be? I mean really. In the interest of realism and its fictionalized sequel called “memoir-ism” is the writer obliged to tell the tedious truth of their existence?
It’s embarrassing and you don’t get any money for it. Besides, on an artistic basis, just imagine the efficacy of this opening line. “Teddy, insistently batted his right front paw off my face for the four thousand, three hundred and eightieth time in his 12 year life. I was oh-so-surprised to be yet again awakened this morning by my black cat’s requirement that, at the very first sign of what passes for light in winter, high desert New
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Mexico, to get up, freshen his water, and pour some more dry food on top of that which he had left yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, and the day before, and the .......
To be so insistent he must think that today there will be something new put in his dish, obliterating the pile-up of the past. It was a paw enabled, required ritual I still didn’t understand, but based on his never ending routine, I figured that I must be missing something essential. Not knowing what exactly it might have been, that didn’t bother me in the least.
I didn’t care. Really, I didn’t. ........... Well, sometimes, in dull moments curiosity takes over and ......... I’ve heard that it can kill a cat; and Teddy is my best friend, especially when he kills and eats all the goddam bugs that get into this place in the summer. Imagine waking up because one of those crawly, fourteen-legged, little bastards found its seemingly blind way into your open, sleeping mouth. Believe me on this one; it can happen more than a few times. I don’t know. For me, I prefer the paw whacks-to-the-head over the lingering distaste left after the spit-out or the swallow; no aspersions cast toward any of the proliferating, alleged members of the Sacred Cow Society. I pulled the blankets over my head to soften the blows and Teddy must know that he would again have to wait.”
When I re-read the last half of the preceding paragraph, I found it to be far better than anything else I’ve yet written.
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For quite some time I’ve known that it was likely that the whole damn thing works out better when one does not try; but had never previously considered the possibility that the whole damn thing might work out best when one is trying to be totally inane.
...... My next excursion into the literary world will have a working title of; “Black Pussy Bats in the Morning.”
Pardon the irrelevant, mental divergences into the sought-only-to-Swiftly-become-the-despised personal. Back on my butt in the material plane, I feel that I temporarily have a good situation, and I want it to be prolonged; a brilliant deduction worthy of Sherlock himself. Not in an effort to, but with the realization of the calculable likelihood that my next thought will confound most cracked-heads, I mumble; “There’s a balance,”
envisioning some depiction of the “scales of justice” visually displayed and accompanied by an unseen clang of a hammer; once an intro into some 1950’s, low budget, yet arrogant, black and white TV weekly and not certain if an SIC# is customarily appropriate.
Without the assistance of the greenhouse effect provided by the clouds, the cold night air has brought temperatures down to a level where I appreciate; dare I say love: the double blankets. They feel so good, I want to stay there forever. Eight hours into what is defined as AM, the shy and inhibited, pale sun again almost made its presence know in my eastern, double-
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paned and also side-to-side, floor to ceiling windows. Their less stately western counterparts are much later to be briefly enlightened by the slanted, faintly stained teapot circling the earth; or vice versa.
At this point, like a predictable AOS procedure, little black Teddy always starts howling right next to my good ear.
I’d like to accommodate my buddy’s wishes. .......... But, not quite enough to fancy the experience of the cold. Holmes’
brilliant deductions fade with his inability to access a spoonful; apparently he reticent to show the source of his pronouncements. ................... Another of my un-provable assertions? Or that of the speed freak with the quickness, and subsequently seen as the danceable cadence of a hip-hop star?
Fat chance. They know. They know it wins. It’s almost provable beyond any reasonable doubt by the math provided by those credentialed and thereby deferentially reliant on the regurgitations of the past.
To complicate matters, the majority of the “angelic” beings imprisoned on this earth, sincerely believe that they mean well and would yell at you, disparage you, isolate you, and consider you some sort of devil if you did not totally agree with them.
They have even been reported to have punched on certain occasions. When in Rome and all that. In concurrence, I have been convinced to believe that they distrust you and me; as they
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maybe; for the sake of impact and popularity; correctly seeing that one must consistently appear to be on one side of one or the other. It is so financially logical, the basic subject of simplified, advanced degrees .......... Oh well; you can’t please everyone. Deep caustic sigh.
Sadly, you thereby rightly, strongly suspect that it might be just another temporarily palatable over-simplification; a completely, self-serving, Machiavellian farce aimed at another cold theft of your heart. With difficulty, you have previously recovered from such thoughts imposing themselves in your head; but, with the inherent and attendant thoughts of the possible shut off to pain, lean toward the purchasable life-sustaining things, despite their having been successfully attacked for generations. On the most personal of levels, in humility, you know that you could never do it again. It is well discussed, clandestinely, in the Egyptian “Book of the Dead,” original, un-expurgated edition.
The ideas or lack thereof are consistent with your imputed truth; required adaptations likely and reasonably made; you disabled and ignored, in your un-wanted, misunderstood utterances, trying to reach your brothers and sisters, and failing at that seemingly simple task. You’ve seen the loving truth of their un-hideable eyes, their wonderful and un-maskably sincere eyes, and have often wished that you might have
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continued to have been blessed with the same view; the remembrance of another time making it worse. So many of the creative ones selflessly seek to do well; something so good; tempered through no fault of theirs; insofar as they can or cannot, separate themselves from the limitations of the total mass retain; though regularly and ergo merely un-recognized as just another manifestation of the banal group dynamic.
This gets so theoretical while it doesn’t. I recognize that if I have been successful in articulating it, I will be greeted with the conveniently short commentaries of those who say that everyone knows that; ostensibly themselves; all evidence to the contrary. I don’t care. I am encouraged not to. I am satisfied as I know that Teddy and I are certain that we truly are hurt when we see the pain of others less able to cope. “Stop it, Teddy. I’ll get up and feed and re-water you when I am compelled to take a piss; and not before. These blankets are so nice.”
In light of; in keeping with; and in deference to the aforementioned, likely forgotten caveats I will tell you that I have an MBA in Finance and an appropriately titled BS in Accounting to back up my ability to calculate financial probabilities and 66 years of “living,” perhaps “shared experiences,” the more appropriate term ultimately dependent upon point of view, to back up my view of the human spirit. Any
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banal, well-anticipated disagreement is unwelcomed and will be disregarded without substantiated empirical evidence or the equivalent or better, accompanied by verifiable credentials posted in PDF format. Any book attachments are un-wanted, unsolicited and will be destroyed, along with their attendant un-diagnosed virus. Anyone using or actually infected with the unfortunate name of “Gertrude” would do best to leave the immediate environs and continue to write their GFR “meta”
reviews of books they either didn’t read or understand, while they inform their waiting public of their protracted views on most everything; especially their unfortunately imagined, problems with men. I suspect that there is something comedic in this; but I don’t know what that might be.
In actuality, whatever that may be, the first month I put my twenty some odd books on AmawayOnSteroids I was elated to see 1,700 sales of e-books and unfortunately virtually no sales of paperbacks. I know that is not anything E.L. James would brag about, especially considering that it took 20 books to reach this lofty goal. I didn’t expect this until month three. So, being a rookie, I found that surprising, but far from disturbing. I had four of the top twenty five in the Ginder store for a couple of hours!!! While in hindsight, I practically view that distinction as being the lettered equivalent of being the pitcher who threw the most consecutive
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strikes on a Monday afternoon during the month of June, 2006, in Double A baseball; I confess that at the time I was overwhelmed.
After all the accolades advanced copies had received from numerous, sophisticated, literary mavens encountered while walking my dog, my breakthrough was not expected until a few more months had elapsed. Even my well-read wife of 45 years, who is not the least bit hesitant to tell me when she thinks I’m being stupid, really, really liked a few of them. Thank you Diane; your honesty is appreciated ........ the vast majority of the time.
I’d like to note here that at this point I had done no marketing whatsoever and had not yet joined Goofreads. I continued to not market at all, but later joined Goofreads which coincided with a plunge in sales.
However, as there has been a constant pattern in my life of getting fast starts before a quick fizzle out, I tried not to be overly optimistic. I was unsuccessful in that attempt and paid for it. There were 100 sales in the second month and three in the third, two of which have been refunded. Things did pick up.
Over the ensuing eighteen months sales approximated that of the first month.
I have subsequently read that my experience has been uncommon in the e-book industry, but rather ordinary in traditional publishing. Somehow I must have gotten the roles
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again reversed. (Sexual innuendo accidental though not dismissed, this time without the attendant fun.) My seemingly adequate, hour long study of the archetypical patterns attendant to traditional publishing, informed me that in apparent desperation, readers regularly try a traditionally published new author. They somewhat like the first few pages and then become very disinterested in the remainder. At best, indie writers usually take six years to establish a fan base. Sorry. Thanks for trying it. What else can one ask?
I still do not know why an un-known indie got this quick start. I should again qualify that, as there were 20 books, rather than 1; and if you average the whole thing out
........... Maybe the buyers confused me with someone else. Or maybe, I have more fame than I know. Whatever. It seems devoid of importance herein and now, as it’s gone. I just sometimes think of it as another of those odd events, much like my alien abduction. By the way, I have reason to believe that those
“aliens” were really costumed CIA operatives who confused me with someone whose take on things mattered; the subject of another possible book.
So, where do we go from here you correctly inquire? I haven’t got the slightest idea. Truly. I’ve read some about others’ ideas of how to sell books and find them amusing or absurd to anyone who has taken Marketing 101. Personally, I will
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probably offer different ones for free at different times, but I recommend this to no one; nor do I recommend it to myself. I’d just like to say that I have learned that the free e-book giveaways have been a relatively recent marketing idea; the crux of that theory being the establishment of a known name; upon which to cash in later. Veteran writers were mixed of opinion at the outset. Some thought the theory sound and others said that buyers will become accustomed to getting free books and will come to expect that. It seems to me that the latter has proven to be the correct prediction; and, further; like most hindsight; it is the subject of futile speculation, as there is no longer an antidote. I, too have read some of Franzen’s novels. It’s been played, though what hasn’t?
I believe one of my books to be particularly unique. It is about geriatric, bi-sexual aliens, whose genitals have decayed, and who in their search for a higher high, successfully experiment with shooting up the fecal matter of humans. As some degree of success is anecdotally expressed, full septic tanks become the prized currency, ruining an entire malodorous, earth-bound industry. Their (the aliens, not the reeking) overwhelming, advanced powers of media induced hypnosis encourage everyone on earth to gorge themselves, causing a worldwide food shortage. Experts debate whether or not something new and ominous has happened, primarily because the detractors
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accurately point out that there has always been a worldwide food shortage. Proponents stress the US famine, which has never previously been documented, as opposed to seen. Tangential considerations include studies of differing degrees of starvation in areas with public sewers, as opposed to those dependent upon septic tanks, as opposed to those using cisterns, as opposed to those whose residents just shove their asses out the window when required. On the required personal level, our hero and heroine become embroiled in life threatening situations, as a result of their dangerous knowledge of the truth, which they discovered while guarding the entrance to their own septic tank.
High-brow readers will easily distill the subtle symbolism regarding the addiction problems pertinent to our contemporary life, our blind acceptance of psychology as the new god, and the sucked grapefruit status of the US economy. If that strikes you as pretentious, I have a backup position. (Sexual innuendo possibly implied, dependent on the gender particulars.) It is unquestionably less objectionable than the “brand new” concepts contained in the “Fifty Shades of Gray” steamroller, which many jealous GFR indie reviewers have dismissed as “mommy porn,” or the retro timidity disguised as the dour-hip-grayness of steampunk.
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If I haven’t said it already, I cannot say what kind of approaches will sell books. Won’t you admit that to be at least somewhat refreshing? How many times in your entire life have you heard someone say; “I don’t know.” I admit that it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful, but isn’t it somewhat refreshing? Be careful what you say. They’re listening and they are going to investigate.
I am often accused of being too downbeat, so before I proceed to discourage my compatriot writers I would like to stress a real upside in today’s market. The best writers have gone to Hollywood for a regular paycheck. The competition is slim.
Having gotten that obligation completely out of the way, I will proceed to provide my perceptions of the growing author
“assistance” industry; much of it disguised as well as a regurgitating Baldy Bozos.
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