Short Fiction Installment #1 (Humour Division): "Amazon Bestsellers Rank #525,448—Market-Driven Sequel Strategies"

    Last seen facing an uncertain but no doubt pained future of secrecy or self-denial in ho-hum River Bend City, Canada circa 1965, Winston Wilson—high school librarian, mamma’s boy, melancholic closeted homosexual, and protagonist of The Age of Cities—became part of that long history of literary heroes afflicted by oppressive circumstances and scant opportunities. 
    Wilson’s inventor, meanwhile, receives a royalty cheque ($37.71) on November 19, 2012, six years after publication; the accompanying statement of total sales brings him up to speed (891 copies worldwide, ebooks included).
    With the contemporary market in view, he maps out lucrative follow-up novels.


    The Age of Cities, Volume 2: Dangerous Crossings
    Surviving well past the age he expected, a weary, grizzled Winston travels by foot with a pale mute called the Boy. To the casual eye the pair might be father and son, and the landscape they trudge on a reflection of an unrelenting cold snap’s brute fact—thin drifts of snow, gusting winds, desolation.
    Winston and the Boy cross a stubbly corn field, ears and eyes alert, worried the visibility will draw unwanted attention from mortal foes hellbent on annihilating one another and any of the pitiful remnants of human civilization coming between them. The Boy tugs at Winston’s tattered sleeve, pointing in the direction of a skeletal poplar stand; the two sink to the ground. They expect to lay until nightfall, feeling only fear and damp cold seeping into their bones.
    Silent, Winston stares at the sky; blanketing grey clouds threaten snowfall. He recalls his mother Alberta decades before, walking towards the mailbox at the driveway’s entrance, spry and sharp-tongued as ever. Winston’s new existence of heartbreaking decisions and grave necessities began with her disappearance. The arrival of the alien Visitants and their unspeakable atrocities changed the tide of human history. Worse, the hubris of science and religion unleashed fearsome predators—heartless mechanical soldiers that turned against their very makers, and The Carmilites, a coven of heretical nuns whose unholy dabbling in black magic led to soulless ghouls with an insatiable thirst for blood.
    Winston has heard whispers about Discovery, a hidden sanctuary for survivors. If they can outsmart death-dealing patrols of Visitants, Mechans, and Carmilites, he and the Boy might reach safety.
    Tagline: Caught between a rock and hard places, two men undertake a perilous journey... toward Discovery.

    The Age of Cities, Book III: A Beautiful Winter Solstice Mystery
    Winston arrives home, bushed from the squabbling of the Library Committee. Preparing afternoon tea, Alberta tells him of a letter, an unexpected inheritance, and an offer too tempting to refuse.
    Months later they’ve left behind Canada and the dark doorway to their pasts for Stornoway Manor, situated in the northernmost reaches of Scotland. Overlooking the turbulent Sea of the Hebrides, the Wilsons gradually transform the Manor into an exclusive getaway, though one whose daily arriving guests—with unsavory motivations and weighty secrets—provide ongoing trials to the taxed but beloved innkeepers.
    When the stern abbot of the Obanpool Monastery at the far end of the valley is murdered, Winston and Alberta resolve to calm their guests by investigating the shocking crime. Along the stony passageways of the ancient building that supplies the Manor with renowned goat cheese, they discover hidden rooms as well as greed and deceit.
    As the doors to their own pasts open, the Wilsons must face unpalatable truths. With compassion and warmth, mother and son plumb the depths of the human condition, learning and growing as they restore order to the valley.
    Tagline: Seeking to solve a crime, mother and son unravel the mystery of the human heart.

    The Age of Cities—Reprise: Five Steps to Heaven
    Chaos! Global war! The epic struggle for souls! Reeling from the terrors that have overtaken the entire planet since the Day of Disappearances, Winston recalls events after a near fatal childhood accident, which he related to his mother while recuperating. Voice raspy in his hospital bed, Winston shared his remarkable experience: he’d visited Heaven. Skeptical at first, his patient mother saw the truth of his words when he revealed secrets about a miscarried child and a runaway cousin she’d never before shared with anyone.
    After watching his mother praying over his unconscious form, Winston’s young soul had floated up to a Land of Light. Wandering through the golden spires and lush peaceful forests, he came upon God and His kindly Son on majestic thrones. Before Winston drifted back to Earth, Jesus whispered in his ear that he’d soon be returning—with love and fire in his heart—for one final engagement with the Antichrist.
    Surveying the ravages to his home town and way of life since those days of childhood innocence, Winston falls to his knees in prayer. He knows Heaven will answer his call, but when?
    Tagline: The moment of truth is dawning. Are you prepared?

Digression: Books I'm Not Reviewing—Freebies Sent from Media Relations, Or, "No man ought to looke a geuen hors in the mouth."

   Though I don't drive and have in fact have never been the owner (proud or otherwise) of a driver's license, I'm moderately interested in car design. I read car reviews regularly, too, despite understanding that driving the model under assessment is little more than a pipe dream and that my knowledge of engine stats could fit inside a spark plug gap.
   One front-and-centre convention for publishers of new model reviews is the full disclosure. Here's one, for example, from Jalopnik—

   (Full Disclosure: Ford wanted me to drive the new Fusion so bad they put me up in a delightful hotel room overlooking the Pacific Ocean. At dinner I ate pasta and was serenaded by a man with a guitar. I found it uncomfortable. Awkward. But at the same time strangely entertaining. Weird.)

   The idea for the declaration is self-evident: by revealing a potential cause for bias—in this instance being flown to the west coast and provided with luxe accommodations—the writer testifies to their lack of bias. The flight and hotel, while appreciated, in no way affect the outcome of the review.

∞

   A few weeks ago a novel showed up at my office. Unsolicited, as all conglomerate and many independent publishers phrase it (as in: "We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts"). 
   No note accompanied the novel, but I guessed a minion from Media Relations had sent it to me because they were aware that I write reviews. I supposed their assumption, furthermore, was that I'd review the book, and, preferably, rather than simply writing a blog review, I'd contact a books section editor of a real newspaper and tell him or her, "I'd really like to review this book." Regardless of whether the review turned out to be laudatory or scathing (or somewhere in between), by choosing to write about it I'd be getting the word out about it in the most public of forums and basically performing a public relations service for the publisher and its author.
   By the way, the publisher of this book was esteemed, and also a subsidiary of a British multinational with over two billion dollars in revenue last year.
   The incentives to write, I presume, are the gift of a free book ($32.00; accepting 40% standard retail mark-up, that's $19.20 in wholesale costs to the publisher + shipping) and the pleasure I might receive from spending many hours reading it contents and then (hopefully) writing a review extolling its myriad virtues. 
   Perhaps as well there might be the 'vanity bonus' for me of seeing my name in print, or exerting some kind of enviable power—as in that old timey legend of inquisitorial theatre or restaurant critics who could singlehandedly make (or break) the reputation of a stage production or newly christened restaurant with a single column of glowing (or condemnatory) words.
   Including reading the novel and writing about it, the effort looked to be no less than twenty hours of labour. Hardly backbreaking and admittedly the kind of work I already perform, the (unasked for) contract being established by the Media Relations person began to sound like this:

   Dear Dr. Grubisic. Please accept this gift of a book from us. As a favour to us, we'd appreciate your writing a review of it. In doing so, you will greatly assist the author and, of course, the publisher. We took in over $2 billion last year, and for 2012, we'd like to beat that record! As a token of appreciation for your labour of love, this work you'll undertake, please enjoy your copy of the novel. We're certain you're likely to enjoy it. 
   We understand that reading the book and reviewing it takes up valuable time. While we'd like to fly you to a hotel in California where you could enjoy the view as you read, we cannot do that. Instead, here's the book, gratis, and delivered right to your door! 
   Although you may calculate that we're actually paying you about 96¢/hr (that is, if you make the effort to sell the book at a secondhand shop), we'd prefer you think of the contribution you are making to literary discourse. We're all in this for the love of literature, after all. Right?
All the best,
HH
Media Relations

∞

   The novel is currently sitting unread on a bookshelf in my office. I considered returning it, but then remembered the second half of the publisher's demand for no unsolicited manuscripts: "If you send an unsolicited manuscript it will be recyled unread."


 

Tips for Writing Success: (Copyright Protected) Source Material (#1)

   Hmm, for all the overheard conversations on a given week that can be utilized by the aspiring writer, sometimes a published phrase—as little as a single sentence—really nestles in the ear. 
   This week, for instance, the majority of conversations I heard before and after classes and on crowded, overheated buses to and from campus conveyed (1) complaints about being exhausted, (b) complaints about being overworked, and (c) expressions of yearning for vacations and/or the end of the semester. 
   In contrast, Janet Maslin's perfectly tart review of Justin Cronin's "epic and gripping tale of catastrophe and survival" (that description courtesy of his publisher)—the second book of The Passage Trilogy—includes a sentence composed of four words; it strikes me as concise and yet eloquently condemnatory. 
   Two of those words are—to borrow another word, which appears several times on every episode of Project Runway—inspiring: encouraging the creation of a character who embodies that very trait, or else a scene in which a character sees a play or attends an art opening or sits through a class lecture (or, indeed, reads a book) that's suffused with that quality.  

   Here's the sentence— 

   "It had insufferable pretensions." 


   Thanks, Ms. Maslin.



 

Digression: Books I'm Reviewing—Scott Hutchins' 'A Working Theory of Love'

   My review of a widely-hyped American debut novel ran this weekend. 
   Though the Sun's headline says something about the book falling flat, my own headline would suggest that the novel is okay and well-written, but not exactly the kind of story that grabs you by the throat while dazzling your mind with fresh ideas. 

Tips for Writing Success: Source Material (#2)

   #2—
    Swing Space, Class 103 (University of British Columbia, Vancouver BC), 30 October, approximately 10:45am.
   Two students have just presented a critical response to Jessica Mitford's "Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain," a chapter from The American Way of Death. Amongst other topics, the essay explains in grisly detail the process of embalming.

   "I'd never heard of embalming. I thought when you die they wipe your face a bit, put on some makeup, and then stick you in a coffin."

 

Tips for Writing Success: Source Material (#1)

 
   [Frankly, I'm bored with posting comments about other people's books. Ditto for posting snippets of my own ill-starred novel. In the interests of blog evolution and giving back to the (literary) community, I'm embarking on a new endeavour: guaranteed overheard and relatively context free phrases trouvés. 
   If you like one, feel free to use it. The postings are a public service, and I consider them public domain.]


   #1—
   Holiday Inn Express (Bellingham, Washington), 28 October, approximately 9:30 am.
   Two fiftysomething women and one of their mothers are seated at a table in the breakfast area (see photo for revealing details).

   "When they take jobs overseas, that's an act of terrorism. Giving jobs to foreigners while we're looking for jobs. It's plain terrorism."

Non-Fiction Sidebar: The Rejection Letter

   Were there a new, adult-oriented volume in the Hardy Boys series called The Mystery of the Ambiguous Rejection Letter, I'd read it in a heartbeat. Others would too, I imagine: there must be a  ready market for the revelatory sleuthing of those two brothers.
   While knowing the truth isn't always what one actually desires (re: "Your ass does look fat in those jeans and you're a lousy lover and not a single soul welcomes your 'world-famous' fruitcake at Christmas"), having the ongoing mystery of rejection letters solved—or at least decoded—is something I'd welcome. (I think that right now; by tomorrow I might desire all the pretty white lies publishers send my way.)


   Consider Exhibit A (there's also Exhibit B, Exhibit C, Exhibit D, and so on; this example is merely the most recent to have appeared in my inbox):

Dear Brett:
Thanks very much for sending us [name of writing project] and sorry to have taken so long with it. [Name of writing project] is certainly audacious, well-written and wonderfully cynical about the business of making movies. Despite its merits, however, we have reached the conclusion that the book just isn’t the right fit for our publishing program at this time. We wish you the best of luck placing this quirky insider novel of yours. It deserves to find a home.

Best wishes,
[Name of Acquisitions Editor]


  A letter such as this instigates a number of responses, not least of which is the Kübler-Ross model of the five stages of grief (minus the acceptance part, which arrives much later if at all).


   There's also the Accept-at-Face-Value Response that tries to be rational and accepting (though in fact reading the words feels like being dumped by someone you felt attracted to, and the reason given for the breakup something terribly empty and vague, like "It's just not working out" or "We're not on the same page at this time, that's all"). 
   With a face-value reading, you (tragic, dejected, rejected, self-pitying) understand that there's your novel in front of you and their "publishing program" over yonder and, well, as Kipling wrote, "Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet." 
   You calmly tell yourself, "No big deal" and "It's the nature of the business" and hum (maybe after catching a Kelly Clarkson song while buying a carton of soy milk), "What doesn't kill you makes me stronger/Stand a little taller." 
   You remind yourself it's not personal, it's just business, and that the rejection in no way reflects your lack of talent. 
   Later, though, despite all the adult maturity and temperate acceptance, questions may arise. Such as: "What is this doctrinaire 'publishing program' exactly and why is it so narrowly defined?" and "What specific qualities does my writing have that make it a non-fit, a quirky outsider that the cool kids take pains to exile?" Even in the face of knowing better, these questions persist.





   Another reaction is the Classical Seer Manoeuvre. Ancient seers, you'll recall, read farm animal guts (in the manner of tea leaves today) for signs from the gods. The seer's interpretation would be heard by VIP generals or kings about to make empire-building decisions; after hearing what the guts spelled out, General A or King X proceeded accordingly. 
   Repurposed for letters of rejection, the seer/neurotic recipient of said letter, stares at the words with grave intent, seeking to extract the precise Platonic truth that floats below the illusory surface of the words themselves. 
   Stare, ponder, see beyond the mirage of surfaces: "audacious," now, does not mean "showing a willingness to take bold risks." Since it's part of the rejection, there's another, truer meaning to the word. Rather than being a positive, an indicator of admirable risk-taking or literary daring, then, it means "unsalable" or "too sexually graphic" or "this crosses the line into vulgar bad taste." 
   (There are compelling reasons for believing in the seer's strategy. If you don't, and prefer the face-value reading, the publishing is essentially stating, "Your book is audacious, but since our publishing program is categorically against audacity of any sort, you are not a good fit for us." You're correct to doubt that a publisher will say or believe that.) 
   Each word—"quirky," "well-written," "wonderfully cynical," "merit"—requires study, interrogation, interpretation in order to find its true meaning. Study all of them long and hard enough, and their truth will seep out and enlighten your previously befuddled mind. (All the while try to suppress the knowledge that often times seers were and are wrong.)


   Still other possible readings exist. 
   There's the every-word-is-diplomatic-doublespeak reading. 
   In this case, the truth is entirely absent from the letter. The truth is in fact simple: the publisher didn't like your book for reasons A, B, and C, and, furthermore, the publisher cannot imagine anyone who will so there's no aesthetic or economic reason to pursue a contract with you. 
   Instead of that painful, brutal response, the heart-of-gold letter writer opts for flattery ("It deserves to find a home") that, unfortunately, is so laudatory the recipient might mistake it for a letter of acceptance. Good means bad, maybe, or else good means good, but also something else...
   You'll go crazy with this approach. Think of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four, maybe, and that trying to hold two contradictory ideas at the same time is one of the bases for that dystopia. 


   I was watching a documentary on PBS the other night, The Botany of Desire, and one of the segments discussed how marijuana's THC mimics a chemical that the brain produces naturally, all the time. Released to neural receptors, this chemical (and likewise THC) encourages us to forget. 
   The scientist theorized that evolutionary value of the chemical, speculating that humans need to forget because with so much stimuli (visual, auditory etc), our systems need to forget most of it to prevent us from being overwhelmed. Forgetfulness, then, is adaptive, a benefit of the evolutionary process.
    Take heart, you might tell yourself, knowledge of the rejection letter in your inbox will degrade and disappear, just like the knowledge of what you ate for dinner three Sundays ago. 
   Forgetfulness is good.