"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
It’s never easy, is it? Talk about counting your chickens before they’ve hatched. One day you think you’re the top of the world. You see that light at the end of the tunnel. Then a package comes in the mail that blows the exit to the tunnel. So you have a choice. You can stay there and suffocate. Or you can decide to get dirty and start digging your way out. It’s a lot of rubble, but it’s better than the alternative. And maybe it proves just how bad you want it.
You Had To Be A Big Shot Lately I’ve been wondering if I’ve been an asshole. I feel like I’m slowly sinking into myself, becoming self-absorbed and intolerant toward even the tiniest fly in my ointment. I quit my easy-as-shit job that had the nice kickback of paying all my bills and giving me time at night to write. There was stress, but what job doesn’t have stress? Well, I wouldn’t stand for it and now my debt is about to crash over me like the Perfect Storm.
Since the Atlantic City trip and some resulting Internet stupidness I haven’t spoken to Kahloz. I won’t go into all the details here, because the Internet proved just how evil it can be and I’m not going to continue to make matters worse by bringing this particular real world problem back to the Land of Make Believe. Let’s just leave it at there’s stuff unresolved that doesn’t look to be settled any time soon.
And last Friday I got rid of my dog. After less than a year my patience was done. I can’t count how many times I’ve been bitten over a toy. He fought with every dog in the neighborhood. He was anti-social at home. And something in his head made him think the kitchen needed a pile of shit in the middle of the floor at all times. If I wanted an animal that treated me like nothing more than the jackass with the bag of kibble I would have gotten a cat. So, good-bye Aztec. Hope they find some rube stupid enough to take you in and deal with your shit; figuratively and literally.
These are fairly significant shake-ups in my life. And I think I did them all partly because I was getting a little too high on myself as the bigshot writer. Hell, I wrote a column last week talking about how I didn’t need New York City anymore and where I was going to build my dream house. I’ll be stuffing my turkey with hubris this Thanksgiving.
Letter Bomb Monday night I’m heading out to buy some toilet paper (little did I know that Rite-Aids generic brand wasn’t the only going down the toilet that night). I get to the end of the block and realize I forgot my wallet. Turn around, back to the building. In the lobby my super is painting and he tells me in his barely intelligible English that I have a package. I was expecting a proofreading job from a former co-worker at Ballantine, a much needed income injection. So when I saw the thick FedEx envelope I figured it was the Dark Angel book I was set to work on. Then I read the name on the Sender line. My editor.
Now, when you’re applying for college (or doing porn) a thick package is a good thing. But when you’ve given your manuscript to an editor and you get a big envelope back it can only mean one thing. Usually.
I run upstairs, freaking out, sensing the inevitable. I tear the envelope open. There’s a copy of my manuscript and a letter. This is what the letter said:
Thank you so much for sending me The Spinner Boy which I am returning herewith.
I am really glad I had the opportunity to look at this and I think it is a well-written, hilarious, and touching book. Unfortunately, I have been let go from my duties here at Doubleday. I am sure that’s so not what you were expecting to read after the word "unfortunately," but it is what it is.
I strongly encourage you to see what you can do about getting an agent and running with this. It is a little difficult to get a foot in the door as a "first-time" novelist if you don’t have representation, but I also don’t think that you’ll have too difficult a time getting someone to represent you. I know that you said you knew someone who is interested, but shop around a little bit — The Spinner Boy is that good.
I wish you all the best.
And just like that, the tunnel caved in.
Damage Control My first response was to call Watts. More and more I’m thinking of her as my Sharon Osbourne. Without her I really wouldn’t be anywhere. So I got her on the phone. Despite having to learn fifteen new songs by Saturday, she came over to sit at the other end of the couch while I moped and watched wrestling. But she also helped me to rally my spirits.
Tuesday I got my Hotmail working overtime, sending out e-mails to every feeble and not-so-feeble connection I have. I wrote to the editor at Del Rey who I’m writing my second book for. When he first expressed interest in my writing he told me that, if the Doubleday thing ever fell through I could send him my book. Even though the first book isn’t even remotely sci-fi, he could still have it published as a regular Ballantine book I imagine. He called me later on Monday and set up a lunch for Friday. Watts gave him a copy of my manuscript on Wednesday.
I e-mailed another editor friend who got me the names of some agents. She’s a fairly new editor, having only signed her first book recently. So her contacts at this point are few. And since she also works for Del Rey, most of the agents she knows only handle sci-fi. Sorry, but I don’t want to be confined to that ghetto. But she knew some crossover agents at small agencies and gave me their contact info. Wednesday morning I sent out query letters. One came back ‘delivery failure’. We’re looking into what happened there. The other one wrote back asking to see my book.
Watts messengered a copy to the agent, who said she would read it over the weekend. I also sent her links to this column as some indication of what my writing is like. I told her that I’m hoping to find a print venue for the column that would pay. She said she knows some people who have published collections from websites for twenty-somethings. So maybe there’s hope there.
But just like counting them chickens before they hatched, I also didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket. So I’m still shopping around for agents. I found a business card for a guy who works at one of the larger agencies in town, who spoke at one of my NYU courses this past summer. I sent a query to him late on Wednesday, after office hours. Hopefully I’ll have gotten a response by the time you folks read this. Hopefully.
So that’s the latest in the roller coaster ride that is my life as a struggling author. The funny thing is that there seems to be this small buzz building around my manuscript. It’s all Watts’s fault. She’s been going around telling everyone how great it is. At least now I have something in writing from an impartial (former)editor that seems to concur with that assessment.
I feel kind of like Wilco with their last album. They created this great album, so great that the record label dropped them because they didn’t feel it was commercial enough. So then all this critical buzz starts growing. When the band finally got another label to release it, the album (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot) debuted at the top of the charts and has been heralded as one of the best albums of the year. Well, maybe my novel isn’t that great. I guess it comes down to how much Tweedy I have in me.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon Sharon!!!
The Random: After careful observation and study I’ve decided that the only former boy band member worth a damn is Joey Fatone. Justin wants us to believe his solo album represents some drastically new sound. Nick Carter thinks he’s an Indy rocker with his leather wristbands. And the rest of the marionettes are just sitting on their hands. But Joey is in the highest grossing independent film of all time (My Big Fat Greek Wedding), getting rave reviews even in a dated musical like Rent, and is willing to admit that sometimes he looked ‘retarded’ when he was with N’Sync. Figures the only genuine figure emerging from all that processed muck is the one that looks the most like me. Also figures that he has the nickname ‘The Fat One’. But at least he’ll still be relevant in five years.
