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Sunday, July 13

The Union Station on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC, was built at the beginning of the twentieth century, and at the time it was the largest train station in the world. It is also considered one of the finest examples of the Beaux-Arts style of architecture. In every aspect, it was designed to be monumental. A Presidential Suite was added soon after the station was completed. William Howard Taft was the first President to use the room, and, over the years, many dignitaries, including King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain, were officially welcomed here.

The last President to use the suite was Dwight D. Eisenhower, and George 41, the elder Bush, used it during an inaugural ball in 1989.

Nowadays, the Presidential Suite accommodates B. Smith’s, my wife’s favorite restaurant when it comes to Cajun, Creole, and Southern cuisine. The setting is nothing short of spectacular with the turn-of-the-century elegance, the thirty-foot ceilings, and the chandeliers.

The owner, Barbara Smith, began her career as a fashion model, and she was the first African-American woman on the cover of the Mademoiselle fashion magazine. She is not only a beautiful, and very versatile woman, but she has also been rated as one of America’s ten most outstanding non-professional chefs.

The history of the large room was not on our mind on that Sunday night that marked the beginning of my three-month absence from home. I had made arrangements for the Amtrak train leaving Union Station at 8:49 pm, arriving at New York’s Penn Station at 12:10 am. I hate flying as well as long, mind-numbing car rides, and the train ride would give me ample time to work on my laptop.

For Sophie and me it made sense to have our last dinner together at B. Smith’s, and while the food was fabulous, we didn’t enjoy it. The conversation was sparse, and we finally decided to put a quick end to the current miserable situation. We walked silently through Union Station and to the platform, where Sophie gave me a hug, followed by a long and passionate kiss.

“Go, get them, buster,” she said with a forced smile on her face, and then she turned away, wiping here eyes while she walked towards the stairs that would lead her back to the station.

“I love you!” I called out to her.

She turned around, and I could hardly hear her whisper, “I love you.”

Then she was gone.

My train was not due for another thirty minutes. I just sat on a bench, watching the busy world around me, torturing my mind if the whole thing was a good idea or not. I wasn’t one iota closer to a decision when the train finally came in, and, feeling like a lamb being led to the butcher’s block, I stepped up the coach and entered the cabin.

The Coach Class of an Amtrak train, with its big, comfortable seats and the ample legroom, provides the luxury equivalent to a much more expensive First Class flight. You can walk around any time you like, and there is a carryout style food service available in the Snack Car.

I took my seat at the window and, after the train was already on its way for an hour, I powered up my laptop on the fold-down tray in front of me. During the agonizingly long search for a literary agent I had accumulated a large database of agents and publishers, and I paged through the vast amount of letters I wrote to most of them.

We had learned the hard way, after being rejected on a regular basis, how to approach a literary agent. During one of her business trips Sophie had found a writers’ magazine at a newsstand on the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. The cover page promised help with finding an agent. We learned of the importance of a properly written query letter. If they don’t like your letter, they don’t even bother reading your manuscript.

Being a Human Resource a manager, Sophie understood the concept of having a pile of job applications on her desk, and it is common practice to start the selection process by merely scanning over the cover letter without even looking at the candidate’s qualification. If the cover letter doesn’t appeal you’re out. However, Sophie also pointed to the major difference between a job application and a query letter to a literary agent. As a Human Resource manager you look for one – the best – candidate for the job, and competition is tough.

A literary agent can easily end up with the same, large number of queries from aspiring writers, but each of these applications could bring them the next John Grisham, Stephen King, or Dan Brown. Add to this that each application is submitted by a potential customer who would share ten percent of his or her income with the agent. Wouldn’t it make sense to read the manuscript regardless of the query letter’s appearance or if it complies with submission guidelines?

Apparently not, as Steve told me when I asked him.

“Every agent will complain to you, how many queries they receive in a single day,” he said. “While that is true, the average literary agent is, in my very personal opinion, highly unorganized and thus ineffective. There are exceptions, of course, but the majority simply falters in view of the masses of applications.”

In addition to the query letter and manuscript, literary agents insist, understandably, that the author includes a synopsis of his work. One requirement that struck me as odd was to provide an analysis of potential readership.

“I know, it looks like they want you to do all their work,” was Steve’s response, “and there is a hint of truth behind it. As a matter of fact, agents need to assure that their clients have some knowledge of the publishing process. It truly cannot be their task to educate each new writer on the workings of the publishing industry. It improves the process tremendously if you, the writer, are prepared.

A major misconception is that your work as an author is done as soon as your book hits the shelves. The truth is, the author is their major weapon to promote the book, and, believe me, marketing your book requires more efforts than actually writing it.”

I learned to appreciate Steve’s input, and I wished I had asked his advice as soon as my novel was finished. It would have saved us a lot of time and efforts. Instead we followed the writers’ magazine advice and purchased their publishing guide for a mere fifty-nine Dollars. Inside the guide we found a list of literary agents located all over the United States, but also a list of services that would help us drafting a query letter to the agents, plus we got access to the magazine’s cluttered Members Only web site containing further useful information.

While waiting for the first draft of my personal query letter, I had ample time to check out the “useful information”, and it turned out to be a mind-staggering amount of superficial articles on writing and publishing. The information was just enough not to be tagged as a scam, and the little information I got out of it inspired me to search for more information on the Internet. For a long time I was tempted to write down all the bits and pieces I found and assemble them as a book, but I also found that there is already a huge amount of books on writing and publishing. I have to admit that I acquired a few of them, but none of them revealed anything monumental, anything that would be different than what you can find easily on the Internet.

I spent some time writing reader ratings on the Amazon web site and granting a number of very low ratings. I was just angry that people in the business create income through bull shitting. Any book I found on writing and publishing stated only the obvious, and if you need more information, you can check out their web site for a mere fifty Dollars a month. Please sign up now.

Once the letter was perfected it took only four weeks to get a positive response. In truth, it was the one and only positive response. Some agents wrote very polite rejection letters, wishing me the best for my writing endeavor. The great majority chose not to answer.

“If she doesn’t answer within twelve weeks,” was one of the responses I received when I called, “you may assume she is not interested in your project.”

Well, if I had known that “she” doesn’t care to be professional, I wouldn’t have wasted my time to contact her.

Janice Vandenberg, my would-be-agent at the time, called one day out of the blue, only a week after I had mailed the letter, synopsis and the first three chapters of my novel. We had a very pleasant conversation, and she had some very specific questions, indicating to me that she knew her business. Yet another two weeks later she sent her contract, and after Sophie had it checked by the company’s legal counsel I signed it, but missed to mail it.

I was thrilled. In my mind I imagined what it would feel to be the keynote speaker at a writers’ conference, and wondering who would play the main character in the movie version. My personal favorite was Dennis Quaid. He would be perfect for the role.

Janice and I had agreed to continue our dialog per e-mail.

“Make sure you put my name in the subject line,” she requested. “That way I know you’re one of my clients.”

I thought the request was a little odd, but I willingly complied. As a matter of fact, there was only little communication for the next weeks, mostly my requests for update. She usually answered within two days. Sometimes it took longer than that. Needless to say, but Sophie and I became a little impatient with her, and, as they say, the rest is history.

Here I was on my way to New York, ready to take action. I was surprised how fast time had gone by as I was going through my notes. The train had stopped like so many times before, and I hadn’t paid any attention to the announcements. I was shocked when I looked outside, seeing a sign indicating that I had, in fact, arrived at New York’s Penn Station. I hastily turned off the laptop, gathered my belongings, and rushed to step outside.

“Take it easy, fellow,” a steward called out to me. “We’re not leaving for a while. Where’re you going, anyways? You need a connection, or you staying in the city?”

“I need a taxi,” I said, fumbling with the belts of my suitcase.

“Just outside the station,” he said, still grinning at me. “You can’t miss them. Plenty of them there.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You have any idea how long it will take from here to…”

I looked at my papers.

“…To West 71st Street?”

He thought for a moment.

“Not too far,“ he finally said. “Depends on traffic, of course. At this hour I would say, about fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome!”

His estimate turned out to be very accurate. It was eighteen minutes later when I arrived at the Riverside Studios. Don’t let the name fool you. The Riverside Studios is a hotel, and, as I found out soon, not necessarily the best in New York City.

The apartment Sophie had mentioned was not available until Tuesday morning, and I had plans to be on a Writers’ Conference on Monday. Still cautious about spending Sophie’s money I had looked for a reasonably priced hotel. Well, you get what you pay for.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning when I arrived, and at first I was a little worried about ending up in a bad neighborhood, but I was pleasantly surprised. It was a beautiful and peaceful part of the Upper West Side. I had wished it would be the same with the hotel, but no such luck. The guy I woke from his nap in the office behind the reception desk was a riot. He was probably in his early seventies, and, as he was happy to share with me, he was adding a little bit to his otherwise measly retirement checks.

But that was the only highlight of the night.

My room was on the fourth floor. The elevator was shady, the hallways were cramped and narrow, and there was the constant smell of some kind of cleaning detergent. The room was spacious with two separate beds, and the sheets on one of them had not been changed. I noticed two used towels and some tissues on the floor, and I immediately checked the bathroom and, to my relief, found more, fresh towels there. Next I checked the shower’s water pressure, and then the air conditioning in the main room. Both were okay. Not great, but okay. It would do for the next two nights. After all, I didn’t need to look perfect for the writers’ conference.

Next: Chapter 4