Lorelei Bell is author of Vampire Ascending, and soon to be released Vampire's Trill

More of author Lorelei Bell’s posts can be found at Lorelei’s Muse

I was recently given an ARC (advanced reader copy), and I really want to tell you about it. Oh, and don’t let the title throw you. Or, maybe you should? Maybe it does titillate the consumer exactly as intended.

American Male Prostitute, by Wilfried F. Voss is a work of fiction–I emphasize this because that’s really important. The story, however, is a subject near and dear to my heart: The trials and tribulations of trying to get published with a “traditional” publisher.

In American Male Prostitute, happily married man, Stuart Martin Berry, is given 3 months to find a publisher for his book. His pregnant wife gives him full and free rein “to do whatever it would take to get a book deal. Her only request was not to share any details of how I got there.”

This story is for anyone who has tried in vain, again and again, to hook an agent, even though you have bought every writing magazine, every book on “how to hook an agent,” or “how to write the perfect query letter,” (raising my hand here).  In this story, we’ve got someone in Stuart to root for. It may be a work of fiction, but to a point it is all very much true-to-life. Not only that, but a lot of things are revealed that the would-be-author may not know about the publishing business, how it works. Or why you don’t get audience with an agent or a publisher, or why the agent doesn’t work out in your behalf.

We realize early on that Berry will have to stoop to using sex, lies and deceit, as he attempts to get his foot, literally, in the door of the publisher of his choice. Many of you out there might say this could never happen. Well, I’m sure it doesn’t always happen, but believe me, it can and does. The subject was breached with yours truly, once, a very long time ago. I didn’t go for it and let that person know. Would I have been well published by now? I guess I’ll never know. Me and my conscious.

But here, in American Male Prostitute,the fantasy of using people who are just as deceiful–and possibly really deserve it–takes shape and unfolds as our hero/aspirting author, Berry goes on the hunt for that book deal and moves to New York where he shamelessly promotes his book. He does have an agent, but she’s rather unproductive, and he learns that she is really disliked by his target publisher. There is intrigue woven throughout, as well as the expected titillating situations required. It has realistic places, the  parties, money and people in power, as well as believable publishing mogals in their holier-than-thou realms.

If nothing else you come away with better knowledge of the “disturbingly dysfuctional world of writing and publishing”, as Berry pulls off the blinds–or the sheets, as it were–of the publishing world and what actually may entice those in power to say yes or no to you better than just a well written query letter.

Over all, Wilfried F. Voss has done an exceptional job, if only to have the guts to tell such a story. He gives us aspiring writers something to think about as we wonder why the hell a query letter, or a pitch isn’t working. You wonder about it. You really do.

Advertisement

AMERICAN MALE PROSTITUTE

How I (Almost) Got A Book Deal Through Sex, Lies, And Deceit

Stuart Martin Berry has only three months left to find a publisher for his first novel. In a desperate attempt to reach his goal he leaves his home to live in New York. His wife has given him free rein to do whatever it takes to get a book deal. Her only request was not to give her any details on how he got there. If he fails he will be forced to give up his dream of being a famous writer and take a regular forty hour a week job. For Stuart this is sufficient motivation to start a three month adventure full of sex, lies, and deceit, without losing focus of the ultimate goal. When he finally reaches the finish line, he has evolved and become a top expert in the publishing world.

The question remains, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you are running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?

Stuart Martin Berry has found the answer: If you can’t impress them with your talent, baffle them with your bull-shit. [Read more, including an excerpt]

American Male Prostitute is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Noble, and any other good bookstore.

Click on image to buy from Amazon.Com

Stuart Martin Berry has only three months left to find a publisher for his first novel. In a desperate attempt to achieve his goal, he leaves his home to live in New York. His wife has given him free rein to do whatever it takes to get a book deal. Her only request was not to give her any details on how he got there. If he fails, he will be forced to give up his dream of being a famous writer and accept a regular forty-hour a week job. For Stuart, this is sufficient motivation to start a three-month adventure full of sex, lies, and deceit, without losing focus of the ultimate goal. When he finally reaches the finish line, he has evolved and become a leading expert in the fantasy world of writers, literary agents, and publishers.

To put it in a nutshell, today’s publishing world is divided into two principle sections. First, there is the exclusive pool of traditional publishers, and, second, the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.

Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense, and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the infinite supply of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing, authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent. Vanity publishers accept everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t come crying to them when you can’t sell a copy of your book.

The question remains, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you are running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?

Stuart Martin Berry has found the answer: If you can’t impress them with your talent, baffle them with your bull-shit.

About the Author

Wilfried F. Voss is a different sort of author. He is also the president and owner of a small publishing business, Copperhill Media. Copperhill Media was initially established to publish technical literature. After several years in business (Copperhill was established in 1993) Mr. Voss wrote his first novel The Bleeding Hills with the mere intention of getting a look & feel of publishing fiction literature. Within two years after publishing The Bleeding Hills, Mr. Voss has now published several fiction titles by authors from all over the world including the United States, the United Kingdom, and India. Ironically, Mr. Voss’ second novel American Male Prostitute – How I (Almost) Got A Book Deal Through Sex, Lies, And Deceit reflects the experience gained during the promotion of his first novel.

From the Author

“I note that you are putting together another masterwork, entitled American Male Prostitute. Might I suggest that you direct a little of that “research” towards yourself, and your own fantasy life?” – From an angry reader of my website FrogenYozurt.Com

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless writers’ magazine whose title shall not be uttered here. But thinking about it, it was not totally useless, since it enlightened me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing.

To put it in a nutshell, today’s publishing world is divided into two principle sections. First, there is the exclusive pool of traditional publishers, and, second, the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.

Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense, and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the vast pool of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing, authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent, but the use of the wrong font in a manuscript, an insufficient query letter, or other minor shortcomings. Vanity publishers will publish everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t come crying to them when you can’t sell a copy of your book.

Now, take a wild guess which of the two can afford to put serious money into full-page advertisement in writers’ magazines. These magazines, like all other publications, sit between a rock and a hard place. They are not only obligated to please their readers but also their advertisers. And here we go again; the sharks keep the upper hand. Aspiring writers are on the losing side, one way or the other, whether they consider the traditional or vanity publishing method.

On top of all that, the majority of writers’ magazines are – excuse my French – full of crap. They are full of motivational nonsense to keep their readers happy enough to continue their quest for stardom. At the same time, they keep feeding the sharks.

Just the other day, I found yet another grossly misleading advertisement that made my blood boil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.

Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is exactly what I did. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.

And just for the record, no, I never submitted any manuscript to a literary agent or publisher. I didn’t have the time for that nonsense. Consequently, I was never rejected. My point is, my motivation to write this novel does not stem from frustration but mere perverse curiosity.

And, no, I did not get a book deal through sex, lies, and deceit. I don’t have the mandatory luscious looks, and I am very happily married, and, after all, I run my own publishing business.

Yet, I wondered, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you’re running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?

Advertisement

AMERICAN MALE PROSTITUTE

How I (Almost) Got A Book Deal Through Sex, Lies, And Deceit

Today’s publishing world is divided into two principle sections. First, there is the exclusive pool of traditional publishers, and, second, the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.

Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense, and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the infinite supply of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing, authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent. Vanity publishers accept everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t come crying to them when you can’t sell a copy of your book.

The question remains, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you are running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?

Stuart Martin Berry has found the answer: If you can’t impress them with your talent, baffle them with your bull-shit. [Read more, including an excerpt]

How I (Almost) Got A Book Deal Through Sex, Lies, And Deceit

By Wilfried F. Voss

Published by
Copperhill Media
A Copperhill Technologies Corporation Business Unit
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301
USA

Copyright © 2011 by Copperhill Media

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Disclaimer

Needless to say but, nevertheless, enforced by legal counsel, what you are about to read is based solely on the author’s dirty fantasies and vivid imagination.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, and events are purely coincidental.

Shame on you if you believe the nonsense I write!

Also needless to say, writing and publishing this book was absolutely possible without the support of the so-called experts in the writing and publishing industry.

Nevertheless, I do thank businesses like Amazon.Com and specifically Lightning Source – An Ingram Business Unit – for their vision and support of future publishing.

My narrow view is without a doubt not representative for the entire world of writing and publishing, but I am certain of the great number of new writers who have made similar experiences.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all writers, talented, but ignored by the system.

Also credits to Yolanda Campbell who came up with the business strategy of “If you can’t impress them with your knowledge, baffle them with your bull-shit.”

Foreword

“I note that you are putting together another masterwork, entitled American Male Prostitute. Might I suggest that you direct a little of that “research” towards yourself, and your own fantasy life?” – From an angry reader of my website FrogenYozurt.Com

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless writers’ magazine whose title shall not be uttered here. But thinking about it, it was not totally useless, since it enlightened me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing.

To put it in a nutshell, today’s publishing world is divided into two principle sections. First, there is the exclusive pool of traditional publishers, and secondly the help-yourself shark tank represented by the so-called vanity publishers.

Vanity publishers have a significant edge over traditional publishers in regards to brutality, business sense, and profitability. They ruthlessly pursue the vast pool of aspiring writers who, in turn, are rejected by traditional publishers or literary agents. Ironically, in the world of traditional publishing, authors are rejected not necessarily due to lack of talent, but the use of the wrong font in a manuscript, an insufficient query letter, or other minor shortcomings. Vanity publisher will publish everybody and everything. No questions asked. Just pay your bill, but don’t come crying to them when you can’t sell a copy of your book.

Now, take a wild guess which of the two can afford to put serious money into full-page advertisement in writers’ magazines. These magazines, like all other publications, sit between a rock and a hard place. They are not only obligated to please their readers but also their advertisers. And here we go again; the sharks keep the upper hand. Aspiring writers are on the losing side, one way or the other, whether they consider the traditional or vanity publishing method.

On top of all that, the majority of writers’ magazines are – excuse my French – full of crap. They are full of motivational nonsense to keep their readers happy enough to continue their quest for stardom. At the same time, they keep feeding the sharks.

Just the other day, I found yet another grossly misleading advertisement that made my blood boil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.

Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is exactly what I did. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.

And just for the record, no, I never submitted any manuscript to a literary agent or publisher. I didn’t have the time for that nonsense. Consequently, I was never rejected. My point is, my motivation to write this novel does not stem from frustration but mere perverse curiosity.

And, no, I did not get a book deal through sex, lies, and deceit. I don’t have the mandatory luscious looks, and I am very happily married, and, after all, I run my own publishing business.

Yet, I wondered, what does it take these days to get a book deal with a traditional publisher? What do you do when, hypothetically, you’re running out of time and mere talent is not the be-all and end-all?

Prologue

My name is Stuart Martin Berry and, until last week, I was an associate editor for one of the largest magazines dedicated to the dream world of writers and poets. Like many of my ex-colleagues, I am also a failed novelist. My first and so far last novel, a thriller titled Rules of Extortion, never made it into print. That was almost two years ago, and, with my pregnant wife pressing me to get a job that, in fact, created sufficient income, I considered my writing career as being over and done with.

For a short time after my failure, literary agents, snobby bastards that they are, treated me like I was the carrier of a deadly disease. But they turned around and started kissing up to me as soon as I got my job as editor for the above-mentioned magazine. Until then, during an intense three-month period of shamelessly promoting my book, I had learned my lesson on persuasive bull-shitting.

Suddenly, if you believed my job description, I was not a failed novelist, but an accomplished author, who had decided to share his knowledge with the aspiring writer, to provide advice and encouragement. These days you see my photo in various publications, printed or online, identifying me as a top expert on all aspects of fiction writing. My job included, among many other things, writing about writing without being allowed to write something substantial like, let’s say, a novel.

Another essential part of my work as an editor was keeping up a fantasy world for the tens of thousands of wannabe-writers who made the mistake of subscribing to our magazine or the even more useless online forum.

Let me explain to those not familiar with the publishing business, a writers’ magazine cannot exist without the vast number of delusional writers who will never have the slightest chance of ever being published. In order to have your book published you need to be talented and, as I was told from day one, the vast majority of our subscribers weren’t.

I was also directed to keep the information in my articles at a fairly superficial level and use ample motivational nonsense to keep our readers happy, everything to convince a dying man that he will live a long and prosper life.

My personal favorite was an article series on dealing with and recovering from rejections, and you can bet most of our readers have been rejected numerous times by agents and publishers alike.

Besides advertisement, we made our main revenue through online writers’ workshops, and the depthless articles filling our magazine ad nauseam were the best marketing tools. And for God’s sake, I was not to write anything that might interfere with the dubious business of the sharks that paid substantial fees for full-page advertisements in our magazine.

All that wasn’t difficult for me. As I said, bull-shitting was one of my acquired talents.

Jilly Cooper once said, the male is a domestic animal, which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things. I am living proof to validate that statement.

Well, the bull-shitting life is finally over, and, honestly, I hated every single day. Deep in my soul I am an honest guy. Unfortunately, honesty doesn’t pay the bills.

Fortunately, though, about four weeks ago, my wife Sophie had accepted a job offer for a $150,000 annual salary plus benefits, and I had offered to be a stay-at-home Dad.

Our daughter Magda is now almost two years old, and my wife was itching to get back to her former job as the manager of the Human Resources department of a leading insurance company based in Washington, D.C.

I have not yet decided what I will do during the copious spare time between play-group-mornings and afternoon walks in the park. I still maintain my blog and make a few bucks on the side with online advertising, just enough to cover the operating costs. I might start writing paid literature reviews or even start an editing service. With my connections to the publishing and writing industry that shouldn’t post a problem.

Llysha, another aspiring author and a dear friend of mine, had jokingly suggested starting our own publishing business, and she touted BBS, Inc. as the business name. BBS stands for “Baffle them with your Bull-Shit”, and, believe me, the name alone was a guarantee for success in the publishing industry.

To stay with the truth, I am done with writing. I am with Groucho Marx who once said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” Nevertheless, I am burning to take a final hit at the system. It deserves it.

While we’re at it, my name is not Stuart Martin Berry, and events and names have been changed to protect my family, specifically my wife. I will tell you about that grotesque period of three months, during which I tried to find a publisher for my book. My wife had given me totally free rein to do whatever it would take to get a book deal. Her only request was not to share any details of how I got there.

Sunday, September 21

I woke up with a headache and checked the alarm clock. It was Sunday at 2:24 in the morning. Sandie and I had been partying all night, and the mixture of alcohol and cigarette smoke was never a fortunate combination for me.

Sandie lay beside me, and, as usual, was fully covered with the light-blue silk blanket. I leaned over and cautiously removed the cover to take another look at her huge, heaving breasts, and I shook my head. Sandie was a remarkably attractive woman, and I was sure her breasts, in their original size and shape, were as perfect as the rest of her body. Why a beautiful woman like her would mutilate her body and have a pound of plastic added to either side, is still beyond me. Her argument was, of course, the pursuit of an acting career, and I didn’t question her. After all, she still believed I was the son of the executive director of MGM Studios. I had made the title up on the fly, and I had to play the game.

I pulled the blanket back over her and cautiously stepped off the bed to go to the bathroom. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and shook my head. I had looked better than the man who stared at me from the other side. I turned to open the bathroom closet and retrieved a bottle of Advil.

For a moment, I felt tempted to swallow the entire contents but decided against it. I took two pills, walked over to the kitchen area of my Manhattan studio where I threw in the pills and gulped down a glass of water. I shook my head in disgust, and then I just stood there to decide how to go from here.

The choice was between going back to bed or doing something else. That something else, I decided, was to sit on the couch with a large glass of seltzer and start up my laptop. I had to be quiet. From where I was sitting I could see the large bed at the other end of the studio, and I was not in the mood to talk to her right at that moment.

As a matter of fact, I was already thinking about a way to get rid of her. I still had some confectionary sugar and some bendable straws, which, when arranged in the proper way, would hopefully reveal a drug addiction. Honestly, I don’t have any experience with sniffing cocaine, but I have had my fair share of Law & Order on TV.

The trick had worked with Erin, knowing that her first boyfriend had overdosed a few years ago. It would be a crapshoot with Sandie, though. Chances were, she would never notice the set-up, and even if she did she might not know what it was. Another possibility was that she would be thrilled and jump to get herself a sniff. I determined there were too many unknowns, and I had to come up with a more sinister plot.

I looked at the computer screen for a few moments, unsure what to do with it. Then I decided to take a last look at the notes I had made during these past three months. Despite the prevailing headache, I couldn’t help but grin when I read the first entries. My status as a successful writer was bleak when I arrived here, but on Monday morning I would sign a contract with Sandie’s boss, Jonathan O’Keeffe, one of the heavyweights in the book publishing industry.

That same day I would return to my home and my pregnant wife in Montgomery Village in Maryland. Roughly two weeks later, if everything went according to the doctor’s prediction, we would have our first child, and I was looking forward to it.

Sandie grunted under the silk blanket and turned around, interrupting my frantic typing on the computer, while I was adding to my notes. Then I shook my head. There was no way the barely noticeable clicking would wake her. She was not a morning person either. She would sleep until the afternoon if I didn’t wake her, but at the same time I toyed with the notion of simply leaving the studio later this morning. Maybe I should spend some leisure time in Central Park without her, however, not without leaving a romantic note saying something like I didn’t dare to wake the sleeping beauty. She always fell for this kind of stuff. The idea of kicking her out today, or even at this very moment, was tempting, but I needed to wait until I had signed that contract.

I turned my attention back to the computer. It is remarkable how the memories and emotions of past events are refreshed when you keep a written record. Some emotions come back as they were, others, in view of the time passed, are different. I also realized how naive I was then. That had changed profoundly. My experiences with the people in the publishing industry had turned me into a ruthless bastard, and I was brilliant at it. I had truly learned playing their game.

Another look at the screen, checking the date of the entry, and I realized that it was three months earlier to the day when we met with Steve, a good friend of ours, to discuss our plan.

Saturday, August 9

The search for Sandie was not as easy as I had initially hoped. After seeing the work environment of Kerrigan &  Moore I assumed that it might be common practice to hang out with colleagues after work to kiss up to superiors and the such, most probably during a drink in a nearby bar, and there were many of them in the neighborhood. Stalking her, like waiting for her near the elevator shafts, came to mind, but only as a last resort.

My plan was to frequent local bars after business hours, befriend some regulars, and eventually ask them for Sandie. I was sure any decent or indecent heterosexual guy would remember her and would be willing to share his fantasies about her. Through the Internet I had created a sizeable list of bars around the Empire State Building within a perimeter of roughly five blocks. I could rule those out who opened late night, but still, the list was impressive.

My guess was that Fridays would be my best bet, but on the other hand I didn’t want to take any chances and I went out every afternoon. To tell the truth, I was thrilled to break with my usual routine, and any excuse in favor of my quest was welcome.

The only obstacles were my dates with Erin which usually started later in the evening. I had long showers and brushed my teeth extensively after each bar visit and before I saw her. When I left the building to see her I felt like I had transformed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hide, or vice versa, whatever persona was appropriate.

She still hadn’t told me she worked for Vanessa Corrigan, the top-notch literary agent, and I didn’t push it at this time. And even though we were officially dating I hadn’t slept with her, but I was sure, as soon as I needed to give her the final push, I had to stand up to the task in front of me.

All these thoughts went through my mind when I finished up my hair, ready to engage into another excursion of the New York bar scene. I had created a list of bars and the first stop tonight was the Double Door Piano Bar, about three blocks away from the Empire State Building.

The name didn’t lie. There was, in fact, a double door leading into the bar, and as soon as I entered I could hear the music from the piano on the stage in the far right corner. I didn’t expect to find Sandie here tonight. My intention was to check out the premises, maybe have a beer or two, and then continue with my list.

Attendance was low, which was no surprise for a late afternoon on a Saturday. I saw three people sitting at the bar, each of them separated by at least three empty chairs, and each of them nursing their drinks. I picked a seat close to the guy who also seemed to be the only one somewhat close to my age. The rest looked like they were all in their sixties, and while guys in that age range have the most vivid fantasies about big-boob blondes when they see them, I was not in the mood for that kind of conversation.

They didn’t have beer on draft, so I ordered a White Russian from the female waiter, an overweight woman in her late forties, who seemed utterly dissatisfied with her current job. I paid immediately, leaving some change on the counter, just in case I felt the urgent need to leave as quickly as possible.

The TV behind the bar was tuned to ESPN, and apparently they had a report on the New York Yankees, but, in view of the live piano music, they had the audio turned off. I learned the hard way that watching ESPN without audio is pure torture. I personally consider watching ESPN and listening to their incredibly incompetent commentators as painful, with audio or not, and I was ready to leave.

“You’re a Yankees fan?” the younger guy turned to me.

“I’m from Baltimore,” I answered truthfully.

“Well, that doesn’t answer my question,” he grinned. “Are you a Yankees fan?”

There was nothing aggressive about his tone, and I found that, for some reason or the other, I immediately liked him.

“No,” I answered. “Sorry, but I stick with the Orioles.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said and laughed. “That would be something if the Orioles would win the World Series this year. Doesn’t seem likely, though, the way things are going for them at the moment, but I sure would like to see that, and I am a Yankees fan.

So, what brings you to New York?”

“Business, just business. I am on an assignment until end of September.”

He nodded and took another sip of his Vodka Martini.

“By the way, my name is Dennis,” he introduced himself and reached over to shake my hand.

“Stuart,” I said. “Not Stu. If you call me Stu my mother will hunt you down and kill you.”

We both laughed and chatted about baseball for a while. He seemed to be very knowledgeable not only about baseball, but pretty much about everything that goes on in this world, and after a few more drinks he became more personal.

He told me the story about his father who was on the board of directors at several big companies all over the United States, and who had sent his son, Dennis, all over the country to learn the business of upper management.

“Last month it was San Fran,” he explained without any apparent enthusiasm. “For the next two months I will be staying here in New York. After that, who knows.”

He took a last sip from his drink and immediately ordered a new one.

“Honestly, I am not made for a life in New York City. I hope, at some time I will make it to Boston. I love New England! I went to college there. Until then I work ten to twelve hours a day, and after work, and on weekends, I drink six hours a night.”

His finger pointed upward.

“I have an apartment here on the twenty-fifth floor. Well, my Dad’s business owns it. It’s just very convenient to have a bar on the first floor.”

“Sounds like my life in New York,” I sighed. “I moved into town almost four weeks ago, and I just started exploring the neighborhood.”

Sipping on my fifth White Russian I felt comfortable enough to get more personal.

“Just to change the subject to something more enjoyable,” I grinned at him. “I am on some kind of a quest, if you can call it that.”

“Oh?”

“You see, I met this woman…”

“Oh God!” He mimicked despair and threw his arms into the air. “You know, Fred Flintstone once said, ‘Why can’t they invent something for us to marry other than women?’.”

Suddenly he switched into utter seriousness.

“Continue,” he said.

“I didn’t know Fred was a philosopher,” I said. “Anyways, the woman in question… Well, she works in the neighborhood, and I couldn’t possibly hit on her at work.”

He nodded.

“So, my thinking was,” I continued, “that she might go out for a drink after work.”

“Good thinking,” he responded. “I know where you’re going with this. So, what’s her name?”

“Sandie,” I answered.

“Sandie!”

He threw his arms up again, rolling his eyes, and causing confusion on my part.

“Okay,” he continued. “Let me see. Sandie. Tall. Long blonde hair. Am I right?”

I nodded, speechless.

“Blue eyes, right?” he inquisited further, holding his hands in front of his chest.

“Yes,” I answered. “Big blue eyes.”

He took yet another sip from his drink before he continued.

“Yes, I know her,” he finally said. “She hangs out here on occasion, usually Friday after work. Considering her assets you can hardly oversee her.”

He nodded to the older men at the other end of the bar.

“These guys over there go nuts over her every time she shows up. You can literally hear the popping sound when their eyes fall out of their sockets.”

We both laughed.

“I guess I should be coming here on Friday nights,” I said.

“You could,” he responded, “provided you want to wait another week. Or…”

He took a dramatic pause.

“Or what?” I asked impatiently.

“Well,” he grinned. “I know where she hangs out on a Saturday night like this.”

I was yet again speechless. I had been hopeful to find Sandie eventually, but I was surprised by the efficiency of how things developed during that night.

“Do tell, Obiwan,” I urged him.

He grinned, “I like that. Yes, I will be your personal Obiwan Kenobi, and I will teach you the ways of the force.”

“But seriously,” he looked at me, “she likes to go dancing at a nightclub in Union City, just on the other side of the Hudson River.”

He pulled a pen from the inside of his jacket, reached for a napkin, and wrote down the name and address of the nightclub.

“She usually doesn’t show up before ten p.m.,“ he said when he handed me the napkin.

That was plenty of time for me, and it would even allow me to see Erin that night. I would come up with an excuse to leave early, and still have plenty of time for another shower.

“I take it, you have been at the…,” I looked at the napkin, “…the Salsa VIP club?”

“Yeah. It’s actually a very nice place. Crowded, but with a nice atmosphere. They have the most efficient bartenders I have ever seen. These guys don’t forget a face or the drink that comes with the face.”

Suddenly, there was a thought.

“I don’t mean to be too forward,” I said to him, “But would you like to join me?”

He looked surprised, but, after a few moments of thinking about the offer, he shook his head.

“Thanks for the offer, but, while I could need a change from my daily routine, I don’t think I would be good company, and…”

He thought again.

“Heck! What did I just say? I need a change from my daily routine? Well, let’s do it! So, how are we going to do this? You want to hang out here until later and then take a taxi?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea. I’d prefer to be somewhat sober when we get there.”

“You got a point there,” he nodded. “Drinking water until then would be boring, and I could use the time to spruce myself up a little bit. How about I pick you up at your place, let’s say around nine thirty?”

He handed me the pen and another napkin.

“Well, it’s a date, then,” I said and noticed his face filled with surprise and something that might be interpreted as concern.

“Sorry,” I said. “That was just a bad joke. I am not gay.”

Dennis looked at me, and for a moment I feared I had spoiled the potential for a new friendship.

“Well, I am,” he finally blurted out. “I guess it makes sense to put all cards on the table before we run into any misunderstandings. Sorry, but if this is a deal breaker for you, let me know right now.”

I swallowed, searching for the right words to say. His confession came as a surprise, but my thoughts revolved around the fact that the only decent guys I had met in New York so far were gay.

“Oh, I understand,” he continued, sounding very disappointed.

“No, no!” I assured him. “That’s not a problem. You just took me totally by surprise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I assured him. “Hey, the guy who cuts my hair is gay, and I am very picky about who I allow to touch my hair.”

He grinned, and I was relieved.

“Okay,” he said, studying the napkin I had given him. “I will pick you up nine-thirtiesh at the Herald Towers.”

We shook hands, and within minutes I took off and walked back to my apartment.

I went out with Erin later that evening, and at the right time I feigned exhaustion and headache after having spent the entire night refining my novel. She was disappointed, but to my relief she let me go without a scene, wishing me well.

Dennis was in time, waiting in front of the Herald Towers, and I quickly entered his car, a black, brand new Acura ZDX.

“Nice ride,” I said full of admiration, adjusting the seat belt. “Daddy’s car?”

He nodded, “Yes. Well, actually it’s a company car, but in this case that’s virtually the same. Daddy is the majority stock holder.”

He checked the side mirrors and carefully pulled the car into the heavy Saturday night traffic.

“Being rich does have some perks,” he added.

There was slight tone of bitterness in his voice. I had noticed the same tone before, and it came out whenever the conversation turned to his life and especially his father.

“Maybe I’m reading too much into it,” I couldn’t help to inquire, “but somehow I get the feeling you don’t really enjoy your rich life as much as your Daddy probably expects.”

“You got that right,” he snorted, checking the mirror again and changing lanes.

“Daddy expects me to follow his lead, and at some time I am to take over his job. I am sorry, but a life with a family you hardly see or care for, including several cardiac arrests plus seven bypass surgeries, doesn’t really appeal.”

“Does Daddy know?”

“You mean that I don’t enjoy corporate business or that I’m gay?”

“Well, both.”

“The answer to both is no. Daddy doesn’t have a clue. He’s a hard core Republican, and he watches the 700 Club on TV. And he believes everything Pat Robertson tells him. Really, he knows him personally.”

I was impressed by the fact that his father seemed to roam in the circle of celebrities, even the questionable ones.

“I guess that includes the belief that homosexuality is a decease and can be healed through the help of God.”

Dennis nodded grimly.

“I don’t think that old Patty would put it in such unrefined words…”

He winked at me.

“…but that’s pretty much the guts of it. Needless to say, any confession toward my sexual orientation would be a waste of time. It would also kill him. On the other hand, I am what I am, and I like what I am. Neither my powerful father nor old, delusional Patty would be able to change that.”

We had finally reached the Lincoln Tunnel that would lead us across the Hudson River into Union City in the state of New Jersey.

“It’s gonna be another 20 minutes to get there,” Dennis explained. “The Salsa is close to Park Avenue over there.”

My thoughts were still with his personal situation, and I was curious.

“So, what is it you would like to do in your future life?” I asked. “Apparently, at some time you will tell Daddy that you don’t like corporate America, right?”

Dennis grinned and nodded.

“I’m just waiting for the right time, and, honestly, I don’t know when that is going to be. I just finished college last year, and right now I am thrilled with the fact that I am traveling the entire United States, and maybe soon even Europe.

“But I guess after a while all that will grow old as well. My dream is to find the right partner, move to Southern Vermont or Western Massachusetts and run a dairy farm or a grocery store, something that is a far cry from what Daddy is expecting.”

I laughed.

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

“You don’t strike me as a typical New Englander.”

“Well, not the way I am dressed now,” he insisted, pointing at his expensive black suit. “Believe, I don’t have any problems wearing an overall with plaid shirts and rubber boots.”

“Don’t forget the straw hat,” I teased him.

“Straw hat included.”

He didn’t seem to mind my teasing. I liked his great sense of humor, and that made us go along very well.

Dennis pulled the car into Park Avenue, and after a few moments he made another left turn. Judging from the slow speed he was maintaining at this point, I assumed we were close to the Salsa VIP club.

“In any case,” I said, trying to get the conversation to a conclusion before we entered the presumably loud nightclub. “Let me know when you make it. My family and I would like to visit you.”

“Oh, you’re already planning to marry Sandie and have kids?”

I swallowed and cursed myself for the blunder. At the same time I recovered fairly quickly.

“No,” I laughed. “I’m talking about me and my parents. The have never been to New England, but they talk about it all the time and how they’d like to spend some time there.”

I was relieved that he believed my little while lie, but at the same time I began feeling uncomfortable lying to him, and for a brief moment I contemplated telling him the whole truth. After all, he had been honest to me from the moment I met him.

Luckily, my momentary weakness didn’t have enough time to spread throughout my mental system. The large neon signs and a line of several hundred people made it abundantly clear that we had arrived at the Salsa VIP Club. To my surprise Dennis did not pull into the club’s valet parking lot. Instead he drove on, took another right turn, and then another, leading us into the backyard of the building.

Dennis noticed my confusion, and he grinned.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t bring you here to wait hours in line. I promised to get you into the club right around ten p.m., and, God will be my witness, you shall be there before ten.”

He parked the Acura behind a large trash dumpster, and we stepped out into the narrow driveway with all its fouls smell and, as I vividly imagined, rats and other night creatures.

Dennis walked around the car toward the building. There was a back entrance door with a small light-bulb hanging on top of the iron frame. Dennis took the two steps up and knocked several times at the door. After a minute the door opened, and a black guy, probably six feet eight inches tall, with a large chest and arms thicker than my thighs, impeccably dressed in a black suit, black shirt and black tie, stepped outside.

“Hey, Jamar,” Dennis addressed him, pulling out a hundred dollar bill and handing it to the man.

“That’s my friend Stuart,” he pointed out to me.

Without showing any reaction the black guy opened the door and nodded us inside, and it seemed he would slam it close in front of us if we didn’t proceed in a timely manner. Dennis and I rushed in while Jamar took a last glimpse at the outside, and then closed and locked the door.

He nodded at Dennis.

“I know the way,” Dennis said and dragged me with him.

The end of the long hallway lead to a large kitchen where an army of Mexican looking cooks was busy as a swarm of bees. The air was filled with the smell of good Mexican food and Hispanic yelling. Nobody seemed to notice us, and Dennis, watching the caravan of dark-haired waiters leaving and entering the kitchen, pushed me toward the large double swing doors, that lead us right beside the Salsa Club’s large cocktail bar.

We both took a deep breath and giving us a chance to observe the crazy scene that presented itself in front of us. The place was huge, and I estimated that it was already filled beyond the allowed capacity. I noticed three dancing areas, and all of them were full. They all had their individual speaker systems blasting disco music at the dancers with a power only surpassed by the jet engines of an airplane. It seemed the body-guard-style door people checking IDs had also strict instructions to be very particular about the dress code. This was not a place for blue jeans. Like Dennis and I, most of the guys wore black suits, and I didn’t see a single woman in pants.

“You’re on your own now,” Dennis yelled into my ear, fighting hard against the noise level. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be seen with me.”

He winked.

“Taxis are outside.”

He pointed toward the front door.

“Well, if you’re lucky you won’t need a taxi, anyways.”

Without waiting for a response he padded my shoulder, turned around, and disappeared into the crowd. His quick farewell took me by surprise, and I was stunned for a moment, but then again, what he said made sense.

I started surveilling the scenery in more detail and wondered how on earth I might find anybody in this vast mess. I decided to stay at the bar until I was more familiar with the surroundings, and I ordered a martini. There were about six, very busy and noticeably sweaty bartenders, all with the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up, taking care of their customers. Judging from my recent experience as a frequent drinker, they were the most effective of their trade I had ever seen. It took less than a minute between ordering and taking my first sip. Tips were left in large glass containers at the counter, and they were emptied time and again. I estimated these guys made several hundred of Dollars per head in one night, if not more, and I doubted they reported the full proceeds to the IRS.

My fascination with the bar’s operation had taken my attention away from the crowd for a few minutes, and I was not aware of the woman who stood right next to me ordering her drink. When I turned around she looked right into my eyes, and she smiled.

“Hi Stuart,” Sandie said.

Stuart Martin Berry, you are indeed a lucky bastard, I thought, and I grinned. Only a second later it dawned to me. This was getting serious, and for a brief moment I wondered if I was made for the task ahead of me.

Wednesday, July 30

Today was the day that we would meet Jonathan O’Keeffe, General Manager at Kerrigan & Moore, to introduce and discuss my book. To reflect the importance of the meeting for my personal future, I wore my black Armani suit, white shirt, and red power tie.

Even though I had sworn to myself not to take any chances, I had somehow missed to intensify my research on O’Keeffe, to learn more about the man and especially the human in him. Some personal information or knowledge of his political affiliation, I thought, might be helpful. My plan had been to wait for opportunities to throw some very innocent comments into our conversation that I knew would please him, like pretending we went to the same university, shared the same view on gays in the military, voted for the same President, and such.

Not having done my homework, I started to worry, hoping the lack of research would not bite me in the end, but I encouraged myself by emphasizing I had a brain and the ability to maintain a fruitful conversation at almost any level.

I walked up the stairs to Janice’s office, and as soon as I walked down the hallway, I could hear her voice. Apparently she was on the phone.

She looked at me when I entered through the wide open door.

“Hi Stuart,” she called out to me from behind the stacks of paperwork. “Man, you look dashing today! Would you mind waiting outside for a few moments? I am on the phone with San Francisco.”

I just nodded and went back into the hallway, taking the extra time to study the hideous oil paintings on the wall. Why Nancy asked me to stay outside, I don’t know. She didn’t do anything to keep her voice down. She sounded aggravated, and I could overhear her conversation from more than thirty feet away. It didn’t seem that things with San Francisco went well, but I didn’t say anything when she was finished and stepped out of her office with a stack of paper under one arm, and her large purse strapped over the other shoulder.

“There should be a taxi waiting outside,” she said, still looking a bit distressed. “I had called them and gave specific instructions to be here by 10:15.”

She didn’t look at me while she stumbled her way down the stairs on her high-heeled designer shoes that were in stark contrast to the otherwise plain dark dress she wore.

“I prefer to be early when we get there,” she said, a little bit out breath when we reached the outside. “Being in his position, a man like Jonathan O’Keeffe can easily forget about appointments, even with electronic day planner plus secretary. The sooner we remind him of our meeting, the better.”

The ride took about fifteen minutes, and according to Janice’s wishes we were way early. The publishing company of Kerrigan & Moore was located on the thirty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building, and, according to the floor plan, they owned the entire floor. After going through security, we had to wait a few minutes for the next elevator, and another few minutes later we stood in front of a gigantic glass wall with the name Kerrigan & Moore engraved in large letters.

To my surprise Janice held me back when I stepped forward to open the door. She nodded at the group of people behind us, all of who seemed to be employees of Kerrigan & Moore, to let them in before us.

Then she looked at me, sternly. “There is one thing,” she said. “I know you are married, but I have seen it too many times before. When we get to Jonathan’s office, please be prepared for Sandie.”

“Why?”

“She…,” Janice thought for a moment. “How do I phrase this?”

She put down the papers and stuck them between her ankles. Then she put out both her hands in front of her chest.

“She has some very large blue eyes,” she winked. “If you know what I mean.”

I nodded cautiously.

“Sorry, Stuart,” she continued while picked up her papers from the floor. “What I’m saying is, please don’t embarrass me by staring at her assets, and please, no comments whatsoever! Think of them as lifeless silicone implants, because that’s exactly what they are.”

She looked sternly at me.

“Are you with me?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, Janice,” I assured her. “I think I can manage keeping my pants up.”

She grinned, winked, and I stepped forward to open the door for her.

The interior design of Kerrigan & Moore was as impressive as the massive glass wall had promised. The floors in the reception area were mostly marble flooded with the light of hundreds of small halogen lights hanging from the ceiling. The seating areas were filled with – as far as I could tell – very expensive pieces of modern art, and the walls were full of paintings in the same style. All furniture was mahogany, and the seats were all in dark red leather.

“This is the general reception area,” Vanice whispered to me. “We sign in here, and Sandie will pick us up and escort us to Jonathan’s office area.”

She giggled. “You should feel a slight tremble of the floors right before she arrives.”

I mocked disapproval of her comments.

“Sorry,” she grinned. “I’m allowed to say that. I’m a woman.”

Other than the trembling of the floor, things took place as Janice had told me. She was also right about Sandie’s assets. Sandie was a very beautiful woman, and the additional silicone was, by any means, not necessary. With Janice’s warning in mind I managed to hold my breath.

Sandie didn’t say much other than a brief “Hi”, and a “Follow me, please.”

A minute later we arrived at another, very large reception area that was dominated by a monstrous mahogany desk that was apparently Sandie’s domain. Janice pointed O’Keeffe’s office out to me. It was located at the very end of the reception area. Sandie seated us in a seating area not too far away from her desk, but still far enough from O’Keeffe’s office.

“Mr. O’Keeffe will be with you very soon,” she said without a smile or any hint of sympathy. I waited to be offered a coffee or a cold drink, but nothing like that happened. Vanice and I sat in our very comfortable leather seats, and we didn’t speak for a few moments.

“Considering the complaints you hear lately from the publishing industry, they can’t be doing too badly,” I whispered to Janice, pointing at the luxurious surroundings.

“Well, actually, they’re not doing as well as they used to,” she whispered back, cautiously looking at Sandie who was busy working on her computer. “This is all about keeping up appearances.”

It made sense. After all, you don’t sell your furniture or move your operation to a more modest office space when the business is not doing well. The standard solutions, when the stockholders’ dividend or the top management’s bonuses are in jeopardy, are lay-offs.

“While we have the time, let me explain a few things to you,” Janice interrupted my socialist thoughts. She felt comfortable enough now to speak with a normal voice.

“When we get a book deal, either with Kerrigan & Moore or any other publisher —“

She looked briefly at Sandie who didn’t seem to pay attention to us.

“— there is a certain chain of events that will take place. Well, it’s not really a set procedure, because it varies slightly from publisher to publisher, and you, the author, are expected to cooperate – not advice, mind you – in any way you can.

As a first step, your book will be edited.”

“But,” I interrupted her, “I already had it edited!”

“Regardless,” she repeated. “First, your book will be edited. That’s just the way it is. That is part of their quality assurance process. It will make your book only better, if you think about it.

Secondly, they will work on the cover, and you may comment on it, but you won’t have a lot of say in that process. There are some independent publishers, though, who insist you provide the cover design for them, but, honestly, I gave up working with them. I prefer to work only with real professionals.”

She paused for a brief moment, and the she continued, “The next steps won’t involve you very much, either, but it is nevertheless important for you to understand what’s going on here. After all, the entire process can take up to two years, and some authors tend to grow impatient and start complaining. That doesn’t make my life any easier, and I can’t act as a babysitter all the time.”

“Two years?” I burst out. “I have to wait two years before my book finally comes out? What’s taking them so long?”

“Well,” she responded, not phased in the least by my outburst. Apparently she had seen it many times before.

“It could be less than two years. But now you may understand why traditional publishers are so cautious about accepting new authors. After all, this is a very time-consuming and expensive process, and traditional publishers take great pride in providing top quality in any aspect. Add to this that the majority of new authors only start to be profitable with the release of their fifth novel.”

I was stunned for a moment, but I understood and nodded.

“So, after the cover design,” she continued, “or even during, the responsible editors will have numerous meetings with the sales force to discuss market acceptance, marketing strategies, and so on. You won’t believe how important, for instance, a well-drafted synopsis can be for the success of your novel. Another mandatory aspect is to define your readership. It is so much easier to promote a novel when you know your audience and know where to place advertisements.”

She looked at me. “You remember your query letter, right? There is a reason why I asked you for a synopsis and to explain the potential readership. Jonathan will ask exactly the same questions, and we need to give him the right answers. And that’s why it is so important you are aware of the publishing process. The more you know about it, the more he will be confident that you cooperate rather than interfere in the publishing process.”

I nodded again. There was no need for words on my part. She was the professional, and she knew what she was talking about. I made another mental note to engage into more research of the publishing process.

Janice looked like she was about to continue with her lecture, but was interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Sandie’s desk.

“Yes, Mr. O’Keeffe,” Sandie answered, and I noticed how Janice straightened up in her seat, apparently trying to catch more of the phone conversation.

“Yes, Mr. O’Keeffe,” Sandie said again, after she had listened to her boss for a minute, then she looked at us and hung up the phone.

My heartbeat raced a little bit when she got up and walked toward us.

Finally, I thought, we will finally meet the man.

Then she stood in front of us, still without a trace of sympathy, while we got up from our seats.

“I am sorry,” she finally said, “but Mr. O’Keeffe has just been called due to an emergency. Mr. Kerrigan, who is currently visiting our Los Angeles office, requested his immediate presence there. Mr. O’Keeffe asks you to contact him again as soon as he returns.”

Janice kept her composure, but the disappointment was clearly written in her face, and I assumed I didn’t look much better at that moment.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she smiled at Sandie. “Any idea when he might be back?”

Sandie shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll never know with Mr. Kerrigan, and Mr. O’Keeffe usually likes to stay for golfing over the weekend. I’d say if you call next week I might be able to fit you in.”

“Thank you very much,” Janice oozed at her, and Sandie, without a word, turned around and went back to her desk.

“Listen, Stuart,” Janice turned to me. “Since I am in the neighborhood and have some unexpected extra time, I would like to take the opportunity and visit some more contacts in the neighborhood. Would you mind taking your ride home without me?”

“No problem,” I answered somewhat absent-minded. In my mind I was already breaking my head about what went wrong and how to proceed from here. For a brief moment I considered firing Janice on the spot, but realized that this wouldn’t do me any good. I wasn’t ready yet to act on my own. I still depended on her knowledge and her connections.

“I will call you next week,” she said, and I nodded.

“Is there a bathroom around here?” I asked her.

She pointed to the far right corner. “Just around the corner, and then on the left side. I’ll take off then. Have a nice day.”

Yes, I thought, what a nice day this is.

“Have a good one,” I said.

Janice picked up her belongings and rushed back to the main reception area.

After I was done in the bathroom, I stopped in the hallway to check the messages on my iPhone. I was half-hidden by a tall plant and watched Sandie for a second while I listened to messages from Sophie and Steve. I saw a door open on the other side of the hallway, and a man, who looked vaguely familiar to me, walked over to Sandie’s desk. He was a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a huge chest. He wore plain black pants, and a simple white shirt, all held together with red suspenders. His most striking feature was his horseshoe moustache, and I realized immediately who he was. Quickly I cut the voice-mail and shut off the phone.

“Hello, Mr. O’Keeffe,” Sandie called out to him.

“Hey, Sandie,” Jonathan O’Keeffe, who was officially sitting in a comfortable leather seat of a corporate jet on its way to Los Angeles smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey, greeted her.

“Is she gone?” he asked, scanning the reception area suspiciously. I stepped a little further behind the plant.

“Ms. Vandenberg?” Sandie asked. “Yes, she left a few minutes ago.”

“Sorry, you had to lie for me,” he explained. “I can’t stand that woman!”

Sandie nodded, but didn’t say anything. O’Keeffe, obviously relieved, turned around and went back toward his office. He nodded at me, said “Hi”, and quickly closed the door behind him. I stood there, struck with yet another disappointment and breaking my head what to do now in view of the new development. I surprised myself with how quickly I came up with a solution, and I spent another minute programming my iPhone.

When I was done I calmly walked over to Sandie’s desk, and she looked at me, first surprised, then blushing with embarrassment.

I grinned at her. “Don’t feel bad,” I said. “I understand. I can’t stand her, either. Starting tomorrow I will look for another agent.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, almost pouting.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “It’s not like I need the money.”

I turned to leave, but looked back at her.

“By the way, you have the most striking eyes I have ever seen on a woman.”

That remark, I was sure, would make her day, and I was assured she would remember me now anytime and anywhere. It seemed she wanted to say thank you, but at the same time my phone rang. The iPhone has the most amazing features. You can even schedule a call to yourself.

I stopped, quickly pulled the phone out of my pocket like I was waiting for a very important call and answered. Through the corner of my eyes I assured that Sandie still paid attention.

“Hello?”

A step further to the door, but then I stopped again.

“Hi, Dad! Who? No, no, I don’t need to talk to him!”

I hesitated yet again. “Okay, put him on.”

I opened the door.

“Hello, Mr. Spielberg.”

From the corner of my eyes I noticed Sandie’s immediate reaction.

Another step out of the open door.

“Okay. Steve.”

I was almost outside now, but kept the door open.

“I do love your work, Steve. My Dad had told me he wanted you to direct his next movie.”

The door was now closed, and I tucked the phone into my pocket.

So, you think my acting was a little thick? Think again. That little performance was only the very first step.

That day I swore to myself, I would take care of Sandie and especially Jonathan O’Keeffe without Janice’s help. That same day, after enduring yet another disappointment, I had made another step toward my transformation into a ruthless bastard.

Next: Chapter 9

Friday, July 25

It seems impossible to live in the heart of New York City and not have a life, but in less than two weeks, my life had turned into a mind-numbing daily routine. The only leisurely activity came in form of an extensive morning workout using the in-house facilities, or jogging through Central Park, followed by a long, hot shower and a healthy breakfast.

The rest of the day was filled with spending time on the computer, maintaining my blog, contributing more entries to various online forums for writers and poets, and checking for information that would help me to prepare for the marketing activities needed for my book as soon as it was released. All in all, I was busy with what the industry calls “building a platform.” The equation is easy. If nobody knows you, nobody will buy your book. So, you better get your hands on that keyboard and write, at every opportunity that presents itself, about yourself and your work.

I also checked for some appropriate literature related to writing, which, I knew out of experience, can be difficult. Most books on the topic shine through their titles, while the content is, to put it politely, questionable.

The problem I have is, how come that most of these authors who write about writing a novel can’t provide a track record when it comes to writing a novel? How can you write about writing a novel when the only book you wrote is about writing a novel? Now, that is getting confusing…

Usually, as a matter of principle, I don’t buy any books that promise the reader the guaranteed path to success, but, I guess, every now and then I needed a slap in the face. That slap in the face came with buying and reading a book promising a new path to riches by creating a revenue-producing web site or blog. The author claimed to make in excess of $4,000 a month with only one website.

Well, I thought, maybe I could put my own blog into use and create some income. But what I got was a 150-plus pages collection of mindless blabbering that read like the presentation of a motivational speaker. There was absolutely nothing in this book that was new to me, because you can easily find exactly the same information free-of-charge on the Internet. There was close to null profound information on how to create a revenue-producing web site and, more importantly, how make it work – as I said before, just mind-boggling bla, bla, bla, and… bla.

I managed to curb my disappointment, and I even found a positive pitch. That book represented yet another affirmation that only effective bull shitting pays in the publishing industry.

Nevertheless, I didn’t miss to leave an unfavorable review on Amazon.

When I was done with my rant, I felt the need for yet another shower, and then it was time to prepare for the poets’ reading and performance at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue.

I had thought long about what to wear and decided for the Steve-Jobs-Look, black jeans, black shoes, and, despite the high temperatures, a black turtleneck. To complete my nerdy poet’s appearance I had bought some fake eyeglasses with dark rim and tiny glasses in a local drugstore a few blocks away from the Herald Towers.

I checked my appearance in the large bathroom mirror, found the result to be convincing, and I grinned. In fact, I was ready for the next major step into bull-shitting universe, and, surprisingly for me, I looked forward to it. Maybe, I thought, I had spent too much time in seclusion and was in dire need for some entertainment. A comedy act would just do the job.

The walk to the bookstore was interesting. I had just left Herald Towers when I realized I was still wearing my wedding band, and I cursed myself for the stupidity. It took me several minutes to pull the ring off, and when I finally had accomplished such difficult a task, I continued with massaging my ring finger, assuring there would be no more visible ring marks.

My odd walking style would have raised an eyebrow or two in my hometown in Maryland, but, after all, this was New York, and nobody paid any attention to me.

I arrived at the Borders store well before seven p.m. This was my first time at such a performance, and I didn’t want to take any chances. An early arrival gave me enough time to check out the premises and attendance and to assure a seat in the first row. There weren’t too many people there, but I suspected that might change quickly.

I took the time to get me some coffee. In accordance with the image I was trying to reflect, I ordered an organic Café Latte with soymilk.

Then it was finally time for the performance. They had set up an area in the back of the store, right next to the children’s books section. There were about fifty seats, arranged in a semi-circle around the far corner, a plain wooden chair in the center and a microphone on a tripod in front of it. I counted about twenty-five people, mostly women in their thirties, but couldn’t make out if Erin was already here or not.

An elderly lady stepped in front of the microphone, and she started with the usual tipping on the microphone followed by a “Does this thing work?”

After she was assured everybody could hear her, she continued with a nervous smile, “If you would take your seats, please. We are ready to start our little matinee.”

I made sure to get a seat in first row, cautious not to offend anybody by cutting him or her off, but the intended politeness, as it turned out, was not necessary. A swarm of the women present had remained close to the chairs in first row, but didn’t show any intention to take a seat. They dissolved pretty rapidly as soon as I sat down, and within seconds there were women sitting right and left of me, busy with rummaging in their purses, tucking in their eyeglasses, putting on some lipstick or rouge, or pulling out a notepad and pen.

As soon as there was a relative silence in the room, the elderly lady looked around and continued, “I would like to welcome everybody to our poets’ reading and performance matinee here at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue.”

She introduced herself as Terry Morgan, a native New Yorker, author and poet, and she continued with thanking Borders Bookstore for the opportunity to hold the matinee and gave credits to the people who had helped organizing the event.

When the applause subsided, she introduced the first reader, and from then on things became rapidly boring, even irritating at times. I was yet again assured that poetry was not my forte, may it be writing poetry, and definitely not listening to poetry. Nevertheless, I mimicked intense interest for each performance and applauded enthusiastically like everybody else around me.

I had lost track of time when Terry came back to introduce another reader.

“I now have the distinct honor to introduce to you the very talented Erin Walters.”

She started reading from a sheet of paper. “Erin is originally from Boston, Massachusetts, where she also graduated from Harvard University. She has won several prices for her poetry and her short stories, including a first price for the Boston Library Short Story Contest just this last year. She now lives in New York where she pursues a career as a writer, and she hopes to have her first collection of poems published some time in the near future.”

I reminded myself to engage into more intense research before starting any more adventures like this one tonight. I knew practically nothing about Erin.

Terry turned toward Erin who waited on the side.

“Erin, would you do us the honor?”

Erin walked over and thanked Terry for the comforting introduction. She stood in front of the microphone, maybe about ten feet away from me, and I took the opportunity to watch her more intensely. She had a pretty face with some beautiful blue eyes.

If only she would lose about thirty pounds, I thought. Add to that something more exciting than the dull dark gray pants and shirt, and she would be a beautiful woman. Erin noticed my looks, which didn’t help ease the tension she very obviously felt and she blushed. Quickly responding, I mimicked embarrassment, and after a few seconds she managed to compose herself.

“The following is called ‘Illuminating Journey’,” she hushed cautiously into the microphone.

Personally, I wouldn’t categorize her poem as illuminating, but excessively melodramatic with a definite hint of suicidal tendencies, nothing I would recommend for bedtime literature.

But, naturally, when she was done I applauded and acted like I was exhilarated by an outstanding performance. Erin smiled and thanked the audience. Then she glanced briefly at me, blushed again and walked away. I didn’t make the mistake of following her. I was sure she would stay around, and I had to keep up appearances that included listening to more mind-numbing performances.

Shortly after nine p.m. Terry returned for another announcement.

“I would like to thank all these wonderful poets,” she said, “who inspired us with their illuminating art.”

She looked into her papers.

“I believe, it is now time for some further unscheduled performances. If anybody would like to step forward and read us their poetry, please feel free to do so.”

She scanned the audience and noticed my raised hand.

“You, sir?” she pointed to me.

I nodded, yes, and Terry invited me to take my stand behind the microphone.

“Hi,” I spoke into the microphone, and everybody answered with a friendly “Hi.”

“My name is Stuart Martin Berry.”

My audience responded with a, “Welcome.”

I cleared my throat and continued, “Actually, I am not much of a poet. I am more into writing novels. But I thought I’d give it a shot. So, take it easy on me, will you?”

I heard the giggles from the first row, and I peeked into the audience to see if Erin was around, but I couldn’t see her.

“This one is called ‘Cosmic Heels’.”

I blushed and corrected myself. “Sorry. Cosmic Wheels. Wheels. Not Heels.”

I grinned sheepishly and I felt embarrassed, but the dreamy eyes on first row comforted me, and the rest of my performance went without further incidents. As my father had recommended, I had searched the Internet for the lyrics, and I had memorized them for the last two days.

The applause was plenty, especially from first row, and I felt relieved. I didn’t bother listening to more of the same bore, and after thanking my audience I proceeded immediately to the coffee bar where I had to wait in line for the next coffee.

When I finally had my hands on the long yearned coffee, I noticed a young, skinny guy who looked like he had not slept for the last two days, dreadlock hair, filthy beard, seriously worn-out jeans, and the whole enchilada. In fact, like with every heavy smoker, I smelled him before I saw him. He came over to the table where I stood sipping my coffee.

“Hey, dude,” he said in a voice that sounded like he had spent the last ten years head down in a whisky barrel.

“That poem you recited,” he  coughed at me. “Awesome, man! And it even rhymed. Awesome, man! Awesome.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“No problem, man. No problem. Awesome, I say!”

I was glad he turned away, and I didn’t have to maintain another uncomfortable conversation.

“He is right,” I heard a voice behind me, and I turned around. “That was a heck of a poem!”

“Erin!” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“Oh,” she blushed, “you remember my name.”

“Of course I do,” I smiled at her. In my mind I cursed myself for the slip of the tongue, but I revived quickly. “How could I possibly forget your name? I have to say, your poem really spoke to me, and I am looking forward to buying your book.”

She looked embarrassed. “I don’t know about that. First, I need to find a publisher.”

“Yeah, I know,” I assured her. “I have been trying to do just that for the last two years.”

“I am surprised you prefer writing novels, though” she said. She still looked uneasy and shy, and I imagined the efforts it must have taken her to overcome the fear of approaching me and most likely being rejected by somebody she deemed way out of her league.

“Your poem was extraordinary!”

“Thank you,” I said, trying not to release the full power of the charm machine. Looking at her and her behavioral pattern, I was sure she would be an easy victim, and I knew better than to overwhelm her during this first encounter. In her mindset we had met for the first time. I was sure she didn’t recognize me from the conference the other day, especially after the power haircut I had received the next day.

“Are you coming, Erin?” I heard a female voice calling.

Erin looked at me. “That’s my roommate, Nancy. We’re about to meet some friends at the ‘Night Owl.’”

“That’s a small bar about two blocks away,” she added, “mostly frequented by local artists and writers. Maybe you would like to join us?”

“Oh, I would love to!”

She smiled. Then she waived toward her roommate.

“We’re coming!”

She turned to pick up her jacket, and then she turned back to me and looked me straight in the face.

“This may sound a little strange,” she said with an awkward look on her face, “but I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” I encouraged her.

“Do you or have you ever used any drugs?”

“What?”

“Well, cocaine, opium, crap, dope, grass, mojo… Whatever it’s called.”

I was shocked.

“I haven’t even heard most of these terms,” I answered truthfully. “No, I am not on drugs. Never have been. Never will.”

She smiled.

“Sorry about that,” she said, and her face suddenly grew dark. “It’s just that my last boyfriend overdosed on cocaine, and I am trying to stay away from anybody who is a part of that scene.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said and made a mental note to stay on coffee and water for the rest of the night. If I was serious about getting an appointment with Vanessa Corrigan, it was more than imperative to keep up appearances.

Nancy, a perky girl in her early twenties, long blond hair and a body that fit perfectly into the low-cut and very tight jeans, came over and without any restraints checked me out, head to toe.

“This is Stuart,” Erin introduced us.

Nancy just kept on looking straight at me, and then, after a few awkward moments, she turned to Erin. “Hey, I forgot to ask you. How’s your boss treating you these days? Is she still the same bitch she always was?”

She winked at Erin. “I mean I’m not up to looking for another roommate in case you’re quitting.”

They both giggled.

“Don’t worry,” said Erin. “Believe me, I do need that income.”

They went off, arm in arm, and Erin looked back at me, assuring I was following them, and turned back to Nancy.

“And by the way,” she laughed at her, “you were right about her. She needs to get laid very soon or, otherwise, she is going to explode. Believe it or not, but just yesterday she told me – and I have no clue where that came from – anyways, she told me she hadn’t had sex in the last nine months. She even said, any semi-good looking male hunk could just take her right over her desk, even if it meant she would have to pay him afterward.”

They both laughed out loud, while I followed them, pretending not to pay any attention to their conversation, but busily adding some notes on my iPhone’s notepad.

Next: Chapter 8

Tuesday, July 22

The first week after moving into the Herold Towers was agonizing for me, because there was virtually nothing on my calendar. I had an appointment with my agent, Janice Vandenberg, but she was on a business trip to visit publishers on the West Coast, namely San Francisco. She had promised to promote my book, and we would talk about the result the day after her return. That day was today, and the appointment was in the afternoon.

I had spent most of my time with what is called “building a platform.” Building an author’s platform was apparently one small, but nevertheless extremely important step toward recognition in the publishing industry. I had learned that each aspiring author should have his own web site, a so-called blog, and write about his work, and so I did at nausea. Reviews were important, too, and you can hire services to do that for you. Another aspect was participating in writing contests. I was tempted to write my own reviews with made-up names, and add references to prices I had won in various contests. Well, I hadn’t actually won any price, but who would take the time to verify the source?

At the same time I researched to find online articles that were even remotely related to the topic of my novel, and, if possible, add a reader’s comment, not without adding a reference to my novel. The storyline of Rules of Extortion had to do with the blackmailing of interns who worked at the White House, and, believe me, there are tons of articles written on the White House and its employees.

I was also a member of several Online forums where authors, published or not, gather to share or to ask for information. The dynamics of the various forums can be bizarre at times. One particular forum, sponsored by yet another vanity publisher, seemed to be the domain of two seasoned authors, both with a list of published books longer than my arm. Nevertheless, I had never heard of them. Both – let’s call them James and Jeannie – had taken on the task of mentoring the unpublished wannabes, and they would not allow anybody to piss on their turf. One newcomer, for instance, dared to offer unique advice on self-publishing, and she received a severe written bashing, and she withdrew, realizing that she had wasted her time.

What all forums have in common is the huge number of members who jump on every newcomer to wish him or her well, not failing to mention their own accomplishments, and “by the way this is the hyperlink to my web site.” This behavioral pattern is especially common on forums that are organized like social web sites a la Facebook. I found one guy, the author of a bestselling book on self-improvement, who had “befriended” roughly 20,000 other members, and you can bet that the total number of members was roughly 20,000. He probably spent several hours per day to befriend new members. Well, everything it takes to promote your work.

Promoting your book, as I had learned, takes more of an author’s time than actually writing it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there yet, but I had already learned all the dirty tricks of book promotion, and you can believe me, there are a lot of them.

Needless to say, but I was more than ready to start promoting my book as soon as Janice would find me a publisher. However, I was determined to keep all my options, and one of them was Vanessa Corrigan. In my mind I had already developed a strategy of how to get in touch with her, and that strategy included pursuing her assistant Erin Walters, but first things first. First I needed to see Janice and find out what she had accomplished to assure my success.

Janice’s office was located at West 26th Street near Chelsea Park, not very far from the Herald Towers. Yet again, the central location paid off, and I chose to seize another opportunity to indulge a newfound passion, walking through the streets of New York City. The sky was still cloudy after an early day rain, and temperatures were in a comfortable range.

For the first time since I lived in New York I was not wearing my standard washed-out jeans, but some nice black pants and a fitting polo shirt, a combination that would be accepted as business-casual in a corporate environment. Still, it was suitable for the weather and, after all, the occasion.

I had no problem finding the small office building, and, once inside, the receptionist pointed me to the hallway leading to the upper floors.

“Ms. Vandenberg’s office is on the third floor,” she told me. “Second door to the right. Sorry, but there is no elevator.”

The second door to the right was wide open, and there was no sign indicating that, in fact, this was Janice Vandenberg’s office. I looked inside and cautiously knocked on the door.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Come on in,” I heard a female voice from the inside.

Janice Vandenberg was a lady in her early sixties with long, dark red hair that she had tucked up supported by some huge needles. She was standing with her back toward the door, fumbling with some papers that she tried to stuff into an overflowing drawer.

She briefly turned around and said, “You must be Stuart.”

I nodded.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. The desk was a total mess, filled with huge piles of paper, and I was wondering whether or not I would be able to see Janice behind the desk. I removed some more folders from the chair and put them cautiously on top of the pile that seemed to be the smallest.

Otherwise her office looked neat, but it was very small, lacking the storage capacity needed for the daily amount of paper a literary agent like Janice had to deal with. There was only one window facing to the North, keeping the room in a constant dusk, especially on a cloudy day like today. I looked further around the office to find her computer, but to my surprise, there wasn’t any, and I wondered how she received and wrote e-mails. I remembered that she had insisted to put her name in the subject line, which struck me as a little odd, but, naturally, I complied with her request.

“Sorry about that,” Janice said when she was finally finished with fighting paper, and she sat down in her chair, pushing her reading glasses above the hairline.

“Well, you’re a cute one,” she said with a winning smile, but then she was all business.

She pulled out a familiar looking folder that contained my manuscript, the query letter on top of it. I was surprised she still had my papers, considering the mess in front of both of us.

“Stuart, your query letter really convinced me,” she continued. “Very nice work! You wouldn’t believe the number of queries I receive on a daily basis, and I am long enough in the business to see a winner.”

She frowned, “Most of them aren’t, though.”

I could clearly remember the day that I had read the first draft of the query letter, written by a professional in the business. Apparently, you can’t catch an agent’s attention by explaining in common-language words how well written your book is, and everybody would be happy to have read it.

Literary agents require a more “scintillating” approach, “Hollywood-English” as Steve called it. Two-hundred Dollars later my novel was “of all-embracing appeal for the public readership” and it “reflected the brilliant enthusiasm of conflicts in the political arena combined with true-to-life human anguish.” I was impressed. I thought my novel was good, but it became better with the profound use of five-dollar words in the query letter. Apparently, the contrast in style between query letter and the actual manuscript didn’t raise any red flag.

“Anyways,” Janice woke me up from my thoughts. “I believe, your novel has potential, and I ran it by my contacts on the West Coast.”

I straightened up in my seat, full of anticipation.

Janice smiled at me, “There are two publishing houses in San Francisco who want to meet you!”

“Great!”

I was excited, and I asked, “When?”

“Well,” she cautioned me, “it is not going to happen within days. First, I needed to know if you are available for the trip.”

I nodded. “Anytime!”

“Okay,” she smiled, and scribbled something on her notepad. “Secondly, I need to make another appointment with them. My guess would be, it will be in another two weeks or three. How does that fit into your plans?”

“Fine by me,” I answered eagerly. I was excited. Things were moving!

“By the way,” Janice reminded me. “Did you bring the contract?”

“Yes, I did.”

I opened my briefcase, pulled out the papers, and handed them to her. Sophie had forwarded a copy to her company’s legal department, and they had determined the contract contained some minor flaws in regards to exclusivity and termination conditions, all of them in my favor, but I didn’t tell Janice. Sophie had agreed with Steve, who had recommended keeping all my options open.

“You have your signed copy, right?” she asked, looking at me over her reading glasses, and I nodded.

She checked the last page, assuring that, indeed, I had signed the contract. Then she tucked it into the folder with my manuscript inside.

She looked at me. “Nevertheless,” she said, “In addition, I would like to set a meeting with Jonathan O’Keeffe. Have you heard of him?”

I shook my head, “No.”

“Well, you must have heard of Kerrigan & Moore Publishers,” she insisted. “They’re right here in town.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, either.

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed. “Kerrigan & Moore!”

“Okay, same thing,” she said. “Jonathan is their main man. Nothing goes without his approval.”

Suddenly, she seemed a bit excited.

“As a matter of fact,” she called out. “Let’s call him right now!”

She reached over to pick up the phone, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. A young woman with long blond hair, dressed in tight jeans and tight white shirt, stood in the doorframe, holding up some papers.

“Sorry, Ms. Vandenberg,” she said. “Debbie had asked me to bring over your e-mails.”

“Thank you, Nancy,” Janice smiled at her and reached out for the papers. Nancy stepped into the room, and while she walked by my chair, she attempted to check me out, and almost ran into Janice’s arm.

“Sorry,” she blushed and ran out of the office.

Janice shook her head in disbelief and casually put the papers on another pile.

“I don’t have a computer,” she explained. “Debbie, the CPA next door, is a real techno-freak, and she receives my e-mails. I’m too old to learn this stuff.”

“Anyways,” she continued, picked up the phone and dialed a local number.

A few moments later I could hear the muffled sound of a female voice answering the call, and Janice smiled.

“Sandie, darling,” she oozed into the phone. “It’s Janice Vandenberg. Listen, can you check if Jonathan is available to talk with me?”

She waited a few seconds and looked at me again. “I’m on hold.”

Sandie was back a minute later.

“Yes,” Janice responded. “Oh, that’s too bad! Sandie, darling, can we set up a meeting with him then?”

She was put on hold again, and she whispered to me, “He’s in a meeting with corporate management.”

“Yes, darling!” She listened.

“Let me check my calendar,” she said, and looked into the air for a few moments.

“Yes, July 30th works fine,” she continued. “How about some time in the afternoon?”

She listened again.

“Okay, 11 a.m. it is. Thank you, Sandie, darling! Have a nice day!”

She hung up and grinned at me enthusiastically. “We’re in!”

I had made notes, while she was on the phone.

“There were times when I could call Jonathan directly,” Janice complained, rolling her eyes. “Now that he is such a hot-shot in the business you have to go through his receptionist.”

She shook her head and looked at me. “You didn’t hear this from me, but she’s a whore!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah! She’s dreaming of a movie career, and she sleeps around with everybody in the movie business.”

I made some more notes.

“It didn’t work in Hollywood,” Janice continued her rant.

“Apparently she had exhausted all available resources there,” she giggled, “and that’s why she came to New York.”

The phone rang, and Janice picked it up.

“Hello, this is Janice Vandenberg.”

She listened for a while, and then she said, “Can you hold on for a minute?”

She turned to me, holding the phone to her chest.

“Stuart, darling, are we done here?”

I started packing my belongings.

“Yes, I think we’re all set.”

We shook hands.

“See you on the 30th,” she smiled at me. “Be here around 10 am, will you?”

I nodded and left the office. Needless to say, but I was in high spirits. After all, I finally had an appointment in New York and two possibilities in San Francisco. Who could ask for more?

As soon as I was back in my apartment I called Steve and left him a message, telling him about today’s progress. Then I wrote an e-mail to Llysha, who had turned out to be an invaluable sounding board. Wherever she was, her answer came quickly.

“Congratulations,” she wrote. “However, and I don’t mean to burst your bubble, keep on going, and success will come one way or the other.”

I have to admit, her comment did dampen my enthusiasm a bit, but I also trusted Llysha’s expertise. To find some distraction, I started some preliminary research on Jonathan O’Keeffe and his publishing company, Kerrigan & Moore. He was indeed a heavyweight in the business. He had started his career at Kerrigan & Moore as an office clerk more than thirty years ago, and through his great talents he had worked his way up into management. His official title was now General Manager, and, according to sources in the financial industry, he held a twenty percent stake of the business. I made a note to check him out in more detail.

Steve called later, and he confirmed Llysha’s assessment of the current situation.

“Don’t trust anybody in the business,” he advised. “I’m not saying, Janice is not to be trusted. However, agents can only do so much, and sometimes they are being sent on a run-around, yet again, without bad intentions. That’s just how the business goes.”

A bit more sober than just a few hours ago, I sat and thought about the next step. I decided to continue with my previously developed strategy of pursuing Vanessa Carrington to become my agent. First, I had to get in touch with her assistant and pursue her to arrange a meeting with her boss.

I started checking the local listings on various New York related web sites, and finally found an entry pointing to a poets reading and performance matinee at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue. It also showed a listing of participants, including one very talented Erin Walters.

The last line showed, “Walk-Ins will have a chance to recite their work between 9:00 pm and 10:00 pm.”

That line triggered another idea, and I called my Dad immediately. He was retired, and I was sure he would be home, working on some paintings or sculptures, all the things he loved doing until he was forced to follow my grandfather’s financial consulting business. Before that he was a free-spirited mind, hair down to his shoulders, John-Lennon glasses, flower-power movement, the whole enchilada.

“Hey Dude!” I yelled into the phone when he picked up.

He laughed. “What’s up, son?”

“Hey, Dad, I need a groovy poem.”

“What?”

“I am planning to attend a local poetry performance, and I would like to recite something cool. Something from your time, something psychedelic would be perfect. These guys are really into that kind of stuff nowadays.”

“Why don’t you write your own?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, I tried that, but first, I am incredibly lousy at it. Secondly, the performance is on Friday, not enough time to come up with something good.”

He thought for a moment, and then came up with an answer.

“Cosmic Wheels,” he said.

“What?”

“Cosmic Wheels. Donovan. Scottish singer and songwriter. Look it up on the Internet. The lyrics should be somewhere out there.”

And then he started singing, “That’s why I’m stumbling down the highway – On my boots of steel – I should be rolling down the skyway – On my Cosmic Wheels…”

I loved my Dad. He was a cool guy.

Next: Chapter 7

Tuesday, July 15

The Herald Towers Apartments are located on West 34th Street in the Garment District of Manhattan. It is twenty-six stories high and its three prewar towers, in the shadow of the iconic Empire State Building, accommodate 690 luxury residential units. The location, nestled at the crossroads of all major New York City subway lines, was more than perfect for me.

The taxi ride from the hotel to my new residence for the next three months took a mere fifteen minutes, and, while I was relieved to leave my depressing room at the Riverside Studios, I was not prepared for the stark contrast between the hotel and the apartment building. The lobby alone would have been more than acceptable for any grand hotel in the neighborhood.

“Your belongings arrived yesterday,” said the concierge, a middle-aged woman in a navy blue dress, as she handed me the key to my studio. “They are in your apartment.”

I had travelled very light for the first two nights in New York City, only my computer and a duffle bag, just enough to provide the bare necessities of life on the road. Sophie had arranged to have the bulk part of my luggage delivered through UPS, courtesy of a large insurance company in the Washington D.C. area.

My studio was located on the eighth floor, and the concierge pointed me to the elevators, but, first, I was burning to check out the exercise facilities. My plan was to keep in shape and, as I did at home, work out on a daily basis. I was not disappointed by what I found. The room was huge, and there were all kinds of exercise machines, enough to entertain a whole football team. Even at this early hour when I arrived there were already a good number of people, women and men alike, running, climbing, pumping, and sweating.

I walked back to the elevator, where a young man, dressed in short workout pants and a very tight, very sweaty T-shirt, already waited at the door. He was medium-sized like me, but slender and, without a doubt, very muscular. I guessed his age somewhere around the early thirties. His most significant features were his spiky blond hair and the golden earrings he was wearing.

When the door opened we stepped inside, and he hit the button to his floor.

“Which button can I hit for you?” he asked in a very polite tone.

“Eighth floor, please,” I answered.

“Already done,” he grinned. “That’s my floor, too.”

He looked at my small luggage.

“You’re a new tenant, I assume.”

“Yes. Just arrived this morning.”

“Well, welcome to Herald Towers,” he said. “No matter how long you will stay, you will enjoy it. It’s a great place.”

“Looking forward to it.”

We stood there, wordless for a few more moments, until we reached our floor, and we stepped outside. His apartment was three doors down from mine, and, while I was fumbling with the key, I called out to him.

“Hey. You should know,” I said, grinning and nodding at his haircut. “I am looking to get a good haircut in the neighborhood. Any recommendations?”

His answer came surprisingly swiftly, “Eddie’s Salon. It’s down the road next to Old Navy. Ask for Tommy. He’s the best! As a matter of fact, I know he has an opening this afternoon at five.”

I frowned. “To be honest, I don’t like guys cutting my hair. I’d prefer a female touch and, don’t get me wrong, some passion.”

“Oh, not to worry,” he assured me. “They’re all gay at Eddie’s. Will that do?”

“Perfect!” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said and turned again to walk over to his place.

“By the way,” I called again out to him. “I am Stuart. What’s your name?”

He turned just briefly and winked at me.

“Tommy,” he said, and then he disappeared into his apartment.

I shook my head and grinned, and then I opened the door and stepped inside. I had expected some luxury inside, but I was surprised by the mere size of the studio. For a minute I admired the Oriental rug covering parts of the beautiful hardwood floor, the king-size bed covered with silk sheets in the far corner, the large antique mahogany desk, the huge flat-screen TV on the wall, the black leather couch and love seat, and the huge table with a top made from black slate. There was a small, but beautiful kitchen fully equipped with brand-name appliances, all of them the best of the best. The bathroom was of similar quality, but the studio’s best feature was the huge walk-in closet, where I also found my luggage.

I spent some time with hanging my stuff, then I had a long and hot shower, something I had skipped at the hotel this morning in anticipation of a more luxurious setting later in the day. After I was done, I briefly called Sophie at work and left her a message that I had arrived at the apartment. As usual, she was hard to reach during office hours, being busy with all sorts of meetings and interviews. I worked on my computer for a little while, and worked through the information I had received on the New York City subway system. After all, I would most probably use it very frequently.

Then it was time for my haircut. I walked the short distance to Eddie’s Salon. It was one of those hot summer days in New York City, the temperature hitting the mid nineties even this late in the afternoon, and the foot traffic on 34th Street was enormous. You see tourists from all over the world, and I learned quickly how to recognize them easily. They are the only people to stop at red lights at pedestrian crossings. A true New Yorker pays attention to traffic, not the lights, and sometimes not even that.

I was slightly sweaty when I arrived at Eddie’s Salon, and it was everything you would expect from a salon in this location without being overbearing. Everything, exterior as well interior, screamed expensive, but whoever did the design, did it with extraordinary taste. In view of the environment, I felt a little misplaced here, wearing my washed-out jeans and a short-sleeve shirt, but nobody seemed to be worried when I stepped in.

“Can I help you?” asked a young guy behind the reception desk. With his painted fingernails and the amount of jewelry he was wearing, there was no need for him to explain that he was gay, but his appearance and his sexual preferences didn’t concern me. His service was no-nonsense and very professional.

“I have an appointment with Tommy,” I answered.

“He will be right with you,” he said politely. “Please feel free to take a seat over there.”

He pointed to the large seating area, then he picked up the phone and dialed a three digit number.

“Tommy,” he said after a few seconds, “Your five o’clock is here.”

Then he hung up and continued with some activities on the computer behind his desk.

Less than a minute later Tommy appeared, we shook hands like we were old friends, and he lead me to his chair and asked me to sit down.

“Let me see what we have here,” he said as his hands combed through my hair. “It definitely needs a cut, Stuart. How would you like it done?”

“I tell you what,” I started, but hesitated as one of Tommy’s colleagues came by to seat another customer next to us.

As soon as Tommy’s attention was focused back on me, I continued, “I need something more progressive. Why don’t you just go ahead and make something out of it that would make you swoon.”

I had made sure to emphasize the “you” in the swooning part, and to my surprise I noticed the Tommy’s colleague looking at me in utter disapproval, but Tommy didn’t notice.

“Alrighty then,” he grinned, “I think I can do that!”

After washing my hair, we returned to the seat, and while he was cutting my hair we engaged into a lively conversation. First, he asked where I was from and how I came to New York. I told him the truth, that I was from Montgomery Village in Maryland, and that I was here temporarily for business. It turned out Tommy was born not too far away from my hometown, and we talked about places we both knew. I was still a little irritated by the guy at the next chair, who, for some reason, did not seem happy about overhearing our conversation.

“Are you going to watch the MLB All-Star Game tonight?” Tommy changed the subject, peeking over to his colleague. Apparently, he had noticed the disapproving looks from the other side, too.

“I guess I will watch it from home tonight,” I answered. “Are you with the Yankees this year or, as I would hope, with the Orioles?”

“Sorry,” he laughed, triggering yet another bad look. “I love the Orioles, but I still believe the Yankees have a better chance to win the World Series this year.”

Then he added proudly, ”Actually, I do have tickets for the All-Star game.”

I had forgotten, but the game was at New York’s Yankee Stadium this year.

“Unfortunately, my boyfriend doesn’t like any sports,” he added wryly, “and I had to ask somebody else to go with me.”

He peeked over to his colleague, who had turned away.

It was time for the hair-dryer, and when he was done and had brushed off the hair from my shoulders and neck, he asked how I liked the result.

“Great!” I said. “Exactly what I needed! You’re a genius!”

Yes, it was indeed a hotshot haircut. Sophie wouldn’t have liked it, though. Her taste was a bit more conservative, but at the same time she would understand. I was here not only to sell my novel, but to a great part also myself.

Tommy walked me over to the register, and I paid and made reservations for the next appointment. The price was horrendous, but I also thought it was worth the result. Sophie had encouraged me to get only the best of the best, and that’s what I got.

I turned over to Tommy to hand him his well-deserved tip.

“By the way, who’s the charmer over there?” I asked him, nodding to the chair next to Tommy’s.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s my boyfriend Paul.”

I felt a little embarrassed.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“That’s okay,” he laughed. “He can be a prick at times.”

And then he blushed. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Now I get it. He’s jealous of you!”

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I am not…”

“Not gay?”, Tommy responded, raising his eye-brows in mocked disgust, but then he laughed. “I knew that from the second I saw you. Unlike some people I know…”

He looked over to his boyfriend, and then turned back to me.

“…I don’t think with my sexual organs. I actually have a brain.”

We both grinned.

“He treats me like shit, though,” Tommy continued in a more depressed tone. “He doesn’t appreciate me at all. Maybe some jealousy is just the right thing for him.”

“Well,” I said and turned toward the door, “I’ll see you around I guess.”

Then I looked over to Paul, and I had an idea. I made sure he was watching us when I reached out for Tommy and caressed his cheek.

“Thank you, honey,” I said loud enough for Paul to hear us. “Call me!”

Tommy looked at me, surprised at first, but then he grinned and mouthed a “Thank you.”

Next: Chapter 6

Monday, July 14

I had consulted with Steve about the idea of going to the conference. After months of participating in various Online forums, writing entries after entries to “build my platform”, I was sick and tired of receiving advice and critique from other amateurs. My hope was to meet world-class professionals whose brain I could pick.

Steve had warned me, though, not to expect too much in terms of learning how to become a better writer, or even get closer to a book deal.

“Just go and look,” he said with a grin like he was sending me out to be the victim in TV’s practical jokes and bloopers show. “Get a first look and feel of the publishing world. Don’t expect to learn anything as a writer. See this as a social study. There is no better opportunity to study this bizarre species in their native habitat. Learn how to be one of them.”

Then he added, “I can promise you that you, the regular human being, will be angry at some time, but whatever happens, stay calm. It doesn’t make sense to release your anger. It may make you feel better, but these people won’t have a clue what ticked you off. People in the publishing world don’t have the same emotional responses as regular human beings.

“You must understand, they all live in happy-land, and they always find the best in every situation, may it be a success, or a miserable failure. They’re almost like a religious sect without a god. Instead they indulge in a bizarre form of self-worshipping. Go play their game, and you will get along.”

I had paid my registration fee in advance, and had also mailed a form to request a personal meeting with Roger Washington, one of the most respected literary agents in the business. Months ago I had received a letter from him, saying he had read my manuscript and that he liked the story, but he advised to cut the word count by about twenty percent, and I should send the revised manuscript as soon as it was done. I spent two frantic days and nights to cut the word count, and on the morning of the third day I mailed it per overnight express. I never heard from him again.

Traffic was not horrendous for a typical Monday morning in New York City, but the taxi ride still took almost an hour to reach the convention center just outside of Manhattan. I went through the usual registration procedure, and received my personal badge and a program guide.

The first item on my agenda was a workshop called “The Writer’s Daily Workout,” and I was looking forward to some advice on daily writing routines. I realized I was already ten minutes late, and I rushed to find the conference room on the second floor. Instead of using the elevator I chose to run up the stairs rather than waiting for the next car going up, carrying my heavy bag that, besides my laptop, also contained roughly one-thousand sheets of paper, a copy of my novel, formatted to the required standards.

I checked the signs at each of the eight entry doors until I finally found the “Concorde” room. I opened the door and peeked inside, cautious not to interrupt the session in progress.

I was shocked to see roughly fifty people inside, hopping and doing jumping jacks as commanded by the female instructor, a woman in her sixties wearing her very tight, pink aerobics outfit and way too much make-up.

Confused, I checked the sign on the door again, and assured it did, in fact, refer to the conference’s workshop as listed in the program. I shook my head in disbelief.

“Yes, hopping around in your living room will make you a better writer,” I heard a female voice behind me, and I turned around to look at a beautiful black woman, roughly two inches taller than I, and very slender. I guessed her age to be somewhere in the mid-twenties. She wore some very expensive looking glasses with a thin black rim, and her hair was short, but curly.

She peeked over me to watch the ridiculous scene in front of us, and she grinned.

“Healthy mind in a healthy body,” she joked. “That’s what it’s all about.”

“This is your first conference, right?” she asked.

“Yes. Can you tell?”

“Oh, the look on your face was precious!” she laughed.

“Sorry,” she added and padded me briefly on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to belittle you.”

“No apology necessary,” I answered. “I’m here to learn.”

I had to ask.

“They really mean it, right?”

“Oh, you can bet on that,” she answered with another captivating smile. “But I can tell you, this is one of the worst conferences I have seen so far. They’re usually better than this.”

She looked at me, openly and without restraint checking out my body. “You look like you work out on a daily basis. So, I guess you won’t join them.”

She nodded into the conference room, and I shook my head, no.

“Hi, my name is Llysha,” she said, reaching out to me, and we shook hands. “I don’t know about your plans, but my next workshop is in about another hour. How about a cup of coffee? There is a cafeteria in the basement.”

“That’s fine by me,” I answered. “By the way, I am Stuart. And… how to you spell your name?”

She laughed and spelled it to me, and then we took off to the cafeteria. I told her my story of being an unpublished author and that I had come to New York to find a publisher, but omitted the details of my agreement with Sophie.

Llysha had just graduated from Columbia University, and despite her young age she had already written, but not published, five novels.

“I wrote them pretty much for myself,” she explained. “I never contacted any agent or publisher, so I don’t know whether I am good enough to pass as a writer or not. My ultimate goal is to be either a journalist, or being somehow involved with publishing. I just love to read and, of course, to write.”

I, in turn, had no doubt regarding her writing abilities after she told me she had also written various articles that were published in the New York Times and The Washington Post.

Then it was time to part. Our schedules didn’t match at all, but we were sure we would run into each other today at some time or another. I genuinely liked her, and I dared asking her for her e-mail address. I held up my hand with the wedding band as proof that I was not trying to hit on her, and she laughed and handed me a scrap of paper with the address on it.

“See you around,” were her last words before she disappeared into the crowd.

The next topic on my agenda was supposed to be the highlight of my visit, the fifteen minutes that were granted to me to talk to Roger Washington. A very nice, elderly lady took care of me when I arrived at his registration desk, and I had to wait roughly ten minutes. Then it was my turn to be in the presence of one of the divine beings in the publishing industry.

Roger Washington was a heavy-weighted man in his late sixties, thinning hair, and wearing thick-rimmed glasses with huge lenses. I introduced myself, and we shook hands. He didn’t bother getting up from the chair behind the small fold-up table, which struck me as a little odd, but to each his own, I thought.

I watched him when I mentioned my name, and I didn’t see any reaction that it did ring a bell with him. Well, he is a busy man, I thought, so I fumbled with my computer bag, and it took a minute to pull out my manuscript, revised and the word count cut by roughly twenty percent, and put it on the table.

I mentioned the title, Rules of Extortion, explained the characters and the plot while he paged through the manuscript, and, yet again, he didn’t show any reaction, which didn’t help to calm my excitement. I have to admit, I was very nervous, but I worked hard not to show it.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Very interesting plot,” he said, and I felt relieved. He paged further, stopping every now and then to read another excerpt.

When he was finished, he smiled at me. “I think we’ve got something here. Very nice work, young man!”

My heart made a jump of joy, and in my mind I saw myself storming out of the conference center with the cell phone glued to my ear and telling Sophie that, after all, I would be home much sooner than expected. Fortunately, I hadn’t mailed the contract to Janice Vandenberg yet. I had an appointment with her the following week, and I had promised to deliver the signed contract in person. Now, with the new development, I would just call off the meeting. She would understand.

Washington grunted as he leaned over to hand the manuscript back to me.

“Let me tell you, how we proceed from here,” he said, still smiling and folding his hands in front of his enormous gut. “Your manuscript has some great potential, and I am very interested in representing you. However, before I can present your work to a publisher, it needs some small adjustments. I believe, it is in need of more substance. You are rushing too much. I recommend you increase your word count by, let’s say, thirty percent, and then you submit the manuscript again to my office. We will take care of it from there.”

The virtual punch in the stomach left me speechless for a second, but then I remembered what Steve had told me about anger and his advice not to retaliate.

I smiled at Washington, stuffed my manuscript back in into the bag, got up, and shook his hand.

“Thank you very much, Sir,” I said enthusiastically, “I will get to work right away. It was a great honor to have met you.”

Yet again, he smiled, apparently pleased with the outcome of this meeting.

“I will call you,” he said.

Sure you will, you bastard, I thought and smiled at him while bidding good-bye.

Once outside I took a seat in the reception area, trying to digest what had just happened. A short while later I realized without measurable satisfaction that I had made my first successful step into the bull-shitting society. For a few moments I contemplated going back to the hotel, but the thought of the depressing room was not tempting. I decided to go for a full dose of this bizarre life form.

The next session was held by Vanessa Corrigan, another top agent from New York City with a list of bestselling authors unmatched in the business. According to her bio she had received her BFA from the University of Cincinnati, and earned the degree of Juris Doctor at the Pace Law School in New York. After law school she made her first experiences with the publishing industry by working in the legal and contract department at Simon & Schuster. Only two years later, combining her desire for creativity and a keen business sense,  she started her own agency, Vanessa Corrigan & Associates.

I had checked her out months ago when I did my research on literary agents, and I hadn’t dared to apply at her office. According to an article in the “Us” magazine she spent an annual $20,000 just for hair-do, not mentioning the outrageous expenses for designer clothes and jewelry.

According to a sign on the outside wall, the session room had an official maximum capacity of 200 people, but I had trouble to find a free spot on the floor.

And there she was in her red dress, the beautiful shoulder-long blond hair, wearing more jewelry and make-up I had ever seen on a single woman. She was properly introduced by her assistant, some Erin Walters, a chunky early-thirties woman whose appearance was in stark contrast to that of her boss. I guessed that Vanessa treated and paid her underlings like dirt. Erin did, nevertheless, a great job introducing the star of the session, and her boss was greeted with thunderous applause.

Vanessa, almost ripping the microphone out of Erin’s hand, welcomed everybody with a bright and self-assured smile. Being a professional in the business, she did not miss to mention how humbled she was - Yeah, right - to be here and being greeted in such warm ways. Then she was all business.

“First,” she smiled, “let me tell you what you need to do to get your book on Oprah!”

Frantically, I opened my computer bag to pull out pen and paper like everybody else around me, but somebody reached out and put her hand on mine to stop me. It was Llysha. She smiled and shook her head. Then she nodded toward Vanessa Corrigan as if to say, “Just wait and see.”

Vanessa watched her audience for a few seconds, never losing the winning smile and then proceeded by telling everybody to write down a certain toll-free phone number. I looked around and watched everybody scribbling on their notepads. I looked at Llysha, worried I might miss out on something, but she just smiled.

“When you call that number,” Vanessa continued, “somebody will take good care of you. That number is Dial-A-Prayer!”

She broke out into laughter, while I watched hundreds of faces turning to disbelief. She continued her speech, but for a few moments I was not in a condition to listen. In my mind I wondered why they hadn’t scanned each visitor’s baggage. It would have been easy to smuggle a gun onto the premises, and if somebody did, he or she might have been tempted to shoot Vanessa Carrigan right here and now. In a different scenario I imagined some hysterical woman running onto the stage and strangling Vanessa with 200-plus people giving a standing ovation.

To my dismay, nothing like that happened.

“How about another coffee?” Llysha suggested, but I declined.

I nodded toward Vanessa. “This is the best performance on effective bull shitting I have ever seen in my life,” I said to her. “I’d like to stay around a little longer and learn from the master.”

“Shht!” some people around us complained, shaking their heads, angry about the impertinence of distracting their attention to the goddess on center stage.

Llysha winked at me, and cautiously, tip-toeing through the mass of people sitting on the floor, made her way out of the room. I could only guess, she had seen it before. I, for my part, was fascinated with Vanessa Corrigan’s energy and dynamic performance. From that day on, I made her one of my prime targets. If I could get her as my agent, success would be certain.

To her credit I have to admit that she was right about the odds the aspiring authors encounters when it comes to landing a publishing contract. She explained very precisely the difference between fiction and non-fiction publishing. An author writing non-fiction books already knows his reader group, and advertisement is usually less cumbersome and far more cost-effective. If you write, for instance, about the secrets of the Grand Canyon you place an ad in National Geographics and numerous related web sites, just to name a few options.

Writing and publishing a novel, as she explained, is a totally different ballpark. Just to name the greatest obstacle for a new author, there are hundreds of thousands of new publications each year in the United States alone, and it is impossible to stand out in the crowd unless you receive massive support from your publisher. And then, still, you are competing per default with the heavyweights like Dan Brown, John Grisham, Stephen King, and others. Add to this the reluctance of the established publishing houses to take on new authors. It does happen, but only to a few, very privileged and talented writers.

Those who don’t make it, I may add, read writer’s magazines and spend hours on a daily basis communicating with other wannabe-writers through Online forums, and I was one of them.

Vanessa continued by making a case for literary agents as the only solution to success, but also explained the vast catalog of rules that a writer has to follow to get an agent’s attention.

“If you sense some frustration here,” she said, “then you are absolutely right. As a literary agent I receive literally thousands of inquiries per year, and, believe me, out of those thousands there are only two or three a year that I feel comfortable with.”

She held up a piece of paper. “Let me give some examples.”

“This one here, for instance… ,” she mumbled, put on her reading glasses, and then she cited, “My new novel is based on very offensive stuff and may not be suitable for most.”

Everybody laughed, but Vanessa apparently was not amused. “Needless to say that his grammar was off in more ways than you can imagine.”

“Here’s another one,” she said and cited again. “My story is based on a movie. I don’t believe in hard work and copying ideas seems be more intelligent.”

Laughter again. She held up the papers again.

“Believe it or not, reading this crap, to one degree or another, is ninety-nine percent of my workload. Usually I try to write a nice rejection letter when I see some hope, but most inquiries are not worth the effort. In addition we receive at least one insulting phone call or e-mail per day, and, believe me, ‘bitch’ is one of the modest insults I receive.”

She cited some more bad inquiries, and we had a good laugh, but from there on the presentation became dull, mainly because she described the publishing world without offering any real help for the audience in front of her.

I left the session a few minutes before it was over. My intention was to beat the crowd, and it paid off. As soon as I was outside I noticed Erin Walters standing next to the entrance door, engaged in a call on her cell phone. She seemed totally oblivious of her surroundings, and she didn’t notice me at all, but I could clearly overhear her conversation.

I did everything not to raise any suspicion, so I fumbled with my computer bag to pull out the program in an apparent attempt to check for the next event. I had also pulled a sheet of paper and a pen, just in case I would need it, and it turned out to be a smart move on my behalf.

“Yes, the 25th,” I overheard her saying. “That’s Friday next week. We all meet at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue.”

Then she listened to the caller, and continued, “Well, I am scheduled for 8:15 pm, but the actual performance starts at 7:00. I am so excited!”

She giggled, and I made some notes. Park Avenue was less than two miles away from the apartment I would move into the next day. Suddenly I was disrupted by the stampede of people leaving the session, and I watched as Erin hastily finished her phone conversation. Then she rushed against the stream of people to attend to her boss.

It took some effort on my side to escape the steady flow of people looking for their next session. Then I saw Llysha in a chair in the large seating area, working on her laptop. As I walked over, she noticed me and released her trademark smile.

“Are you going to see the keynote address?” I asked her, but she shook her head.

“Actually, I’m pushing it time-wise,” she answered. “I am volunteering at a local homeless shelter, and they’ll start serving food in about an hour. I need to go.”

She started packing her belongings, and we shook hands.

“It was sure nice meeting you,” she said.

“Likewise.”

“Let’s keep in touch,” she said on the way out. “Let me know how it went with the keynote address.”

I watched her leaving, and then I took my heavy bag and followed the crowd to the main conference hall. Originally, I had looked forward to see Alexander Barrister, best-selling, internationally acclaimed author of more than twenty novels which made it all into the New York Times bestseller list. According to the program his books were published worldwide in about forty different languages, and he had sold over eighty million copies of his books. He had just released his latest novel, and he currently toured the entire United States and Canada, making appearances at bookstores, and other “worthwhile events” such as the writers’ conference in New York.

The way the day had gone so far I wasn’t as enthusiastic about his keynote address anymore, and it remains true that low expectations prevent further disappointments. As it turned out, Alexander Barrister lived up to the low expectations. First, it seemed like he wasn’t quite sure why they had invited him, but then he talked about his pre-author life, how he had worked in a bookstore to make a living, how he wrote his first novel mostly at night, and so it went on. His second novel was eventually turned into a Hollywood mega-buster, and now he enjoys his life in Beverly Hills, five million Dollar villa and Rolls Royce included, where he had just finished his last novel. On a final note, he wished all of us good luck with our writing projects. Then he said his thank you very much and have a nice day.

Later in the day I spent some more time on the premises, mostly to sit with my laptop and writing e-mails. The thought of going back to the hotel was still not appealing, and in my mind I made plans on how and where to get drunk most efficiently. Tomorrow morning, finally, I would move into my luxury apartment on 34th Street.

I wrote to Llysha, giving her two versions of the keynote address, one as honest as I prefer to be, and another one adjusted to the readers in the publishing world. “Let me know how I’m doing,” I wrote in reference to the second version, and I grinned when I hit the Send key of my e-mail program.

As they say, sometimes life is stranger than fiction, and, ironically, one of my first tasks as an editor was being a speaker on a writers’ conference. It was organized by our magazine and financed by one of the greatest sharks in the vanity publishing business. A few days later I wrote an enthusiastic article for publication in our magazine, also citing the positive feedback we had received. In all honesty, most of the feedback I made up myself, and others I modified slightly to reflect a more positive attitude.

Needless to say that my superiors were satisfied with my contribution to the happy writers’ world.

Next: Chapter 5

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

Saturday, June 21

Steve arrived late, as usual. Knowing him and his profound lack of punctuality, we had asked him to come by around 6:00 pm but had prepared supper to be served at 7:00. Despite our efforts, he beat us yet again. He arrived at 7:30. I had prepared a black bean soup that, thanks to Steve’s late arrival, needed several refills of chicken broth while simmering on the stove.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he said in an apologetic tone, standing in the entrance door of our home and shaking off the rain from his coat.

“Traffic was hell. You must be starving by now.”

“No, not really,” I answered, chewing on the remains of the baguette my wife and I had started eating a few minutes earlier.

“Come on in, Steve.”

I hung up his coat in the hallway, and led him to the kitchen where we sat down at the large table. Sophie and I had only one bowl of soup. We were not hungry after eating a whole French bread by ourselves. We just sat there, shooting the breeze about this and that, and watched Steve, who seemed to enjoy the soup.

Our friend Steve McCullum is a freelance journalist, and we had invited him to pitch our latest idea to him.

A few months earlier I had finally managed to find an agent who promised to find a publisher for my first novel “Rules of Extortion.” Nevertheless, we, my wife and I, had begun to worry about the slow progress. Then, a few nights ago, my wife, who was in the second trimester of her pregnancy, came up with her proposal.

“Honey,” she called out to me while I was preparing for bed. “We need to make a decision. It is June, and the baby is due October third, which leaves us a little over three months before I leave my job.”

Sophie was the manager of the Human Resources department of a major insurance company just North of Washington, DC. Her annual income was in the neighborhood of $120,000 then, enough to indulge a comfortable lifestyle, and allowing me to follow my dream of becoming a writer. She worked long hours, while I stayed home to write, clean, and cook. Cooking had never been my forte but, with the help of a fast Internet connection, I managed to find some easy recipes for the cooking-impaired. Let’s not talk about my cleaning skills at this time.

“The merger has gone well,” she continued, “but we are reaching a critical milestone. Mergers inflict layoffs, and this is where my expertise is required.”

She sat up in bed, groaning a bit, and stuffing a pillow behind her back. Then she looked at me.

“What I’m trying to say is that I will be buried in work for the next months, most probably all the way to the due date.”

I opened my mouth for a response, but she stopped me by holding up her hand.

“Hear me out,” she said.

“Come October,” she continued, “there will be no income, and we will live from our savings, unless your book hits the jackpot. I doubt it, though, the way things are going at the moment.

“Don’t get me wrong. I do love your novel, and I like your agent – at least what I know of her. But I do have the feeling that we need to power things up a bit to make it happen.

“On the other hand, the savings will not last forever, especially with a baby in the house.”

She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

“Here is what I propose,” she finally said. “Your agent lives in New York City and so does the majority of her contacts in the publishing world.”

She turned toward me.

“I want you to move to New York for the next three months and, with your agent’s support, promote your novel to everybody in the industry. We won’t see much of each other, anyways, so why not do it.”

I thought about it for a few seconds.

“Can we afford doing this?” I asked cautiously.

She nodded.

“I will give you a budget,” she said. “You can use it at your discretion, but I recommend you buy some nice suits, ties, and shoes.”

I frowned.

“I know,” she laughed. “I prefer seeing you in tight jeans and a wife-beater shirt, but as they say, desperate times call for desperate actions. And not to worry, all expenses are tax deductible. I talked to our accountant about this.”

I sat there to think about it a little longer, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to the idea.

“Does the budget include rent for an apartment?” I asked. “Living in a hotel for three months seems a bit excessive.”

She shook her head.

“I have already pulled some strings,” she said. “The company owns an apartment right in Manhattan. You’re going to like it. It comes with a laundry service, security guards, concierge, and exercise facility, the whole enchilada. It is usually reserved for the executive management when they visit the parent company.”

“Great!” I said. “But, if you don’t mind, I would like talk to Steve before I leave. I’m sure he has some insights. I also would like to know what he thinks of the idea.”

“That’s fine by me,” she said.

Then, after a deep sigh, she delivered the bad news.

“There is one catch, though.”

“What is it?”

“If, after those three months, you don’t have a book deal, I want you to find a regular, paying job.”

To tell the truth, I felt stunned for a moment. I am not afraid of working, but suddenly I saw my whole writing career being flushed down the toilet.

Sophie looked uneasy. She knew what she was asking, was not easy for me.

“The savings will not last forever,” she explained, “and…”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted her. “I understand.”

I saw her eyes tearing up, and I leaned over to kiss her.

“I love you, Princess,” I said, “and that’s all that counts in my life.”

She smiled, while the tears were running down her cheeks, and she nodded.

I knew how difficult it had been for her to make a choice between a high-paying career and having a baby. We had agreed to start a family long before we got married, but at the same time she enjoyed her work tremendously. We knew we would find a way out of this conflict eventually.

That night I could hardly sleep, and I couldn’t wait to tell Steve. When the time came, he listened to our reasoning without a word, but he nodded occasionally, while working on his third refill.

“So, what do you think?” I asked impatiently as soon as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Well,” he responded calmly, “to be honest I cannot tell you, yes, this is going to work. Neither can’t I say it won’t. Heck! I sound like a lawyer! Let me say, I would sure as hell like to know how you will be doing.”

He got up, took his empty bowl and put it in the sink where he rinsed it with hot water. Steve can be notoriously late, but he is neat.

“That being said,” he continued, looking at me over his shoulder, “I would say, go for it!”

He turned around and dried his hands on the kitchen towel.

“Go,” he said, “but don’t go without being prepared. You don’t have much time, and to be successful you need to turn to the dark side, Anakin.”

He winked, and I laughed.

“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.

He pointed towards the living room where Sophie had prepared a cheese plate with grapes and apple slices. Next to the plate stood a bottle of Pinot Grigio and three wine glasses.

“Let’s sit down,” he said.

He made himself comfortable on the couch and, casually, pulled his pipe from a pocket within his jacket. Then he realized what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“No, that’s okay,” Sophie laughed at him. “You’re the only person allowed to smoke in our home. We both love the smell of your tobacco.”

Steve, relieved, retrieved the pipe yet again and started the procedure of stuffing the tobacco and lighting the pipe. He took a first, deep drag, while Sophie filled our glasses.

“First of all,” he started, “let me state that most people in the publishing industry work hard and they know what they’re doing. There are, however, a great number of inepts, as I call them, and even more sharks, who destroy the good reputation of the industry.

“The real problem, though, comes in form of the big guys in the publishing business looking only at instant profit, and if you as the author cannot deliver it, you’re outta here. There’s nothing wrong about profit thinking, but, in reality, the current system kills the chances for all writers with a less-than-Dan-Brown potential.

“I have never told you this, but many years ago I wrote a novel, and I found a publisher for it. The book sold a mere 1,381 copies, a vast disappointment for my publisher who had invested in an initial print-run of 10,000. A sales record like mine makes it virtually impossible to land another contract with any other publisher. My novel writing career was over.

“Another problem is the great number of inept literary agents, who would reject Ernest Hemingway – if he was still alive – because he did not follow their submission guidelines. Let me add, that agents usually dwell in Hollywood-talk, and, as far as I know Hemingway, he talked straight.

“By the way, how much did you pay for that query letter?”

We had hired a professional service to draft us a query letter to contact literary agents. We learned that without a proper query letter we would have no chance finding an agent. I looked at Sophie, who is the number cruncher in the family.

“About two-hundred Dollars,” she answered. “Including the editing service plus several revisions, mailings, etc., we have spent a total of roughly two-thousand Dollars so far.”

Steve nodded like he had anticipated the answer.

“You see,” he said, “you need to spend a substantial amount of money before the industry even raises a finger to support you. And when you are published, they even expect you to take over most of their marketing activities – on your own expenses, of course.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense to look into self-publishing?” Sophie asked. “I mean, with the money and efforts involved, what is the real difference between looking for a publisher or just doing it all by yourself?”

Steve smiled.

“There speaks the business woman,” he said. “You have a valid point, and, in fact, there is a growing tendency towards self-publishing. However, the harsh reality is that the average self-publisher does not sell more than five hundred copies, and most of them are given away to friends and family.

“In all consequence, don’t underestimate the power of the established publishing businesses when it comes to bring your book into the market. I would still go the conventional way rather than doing everything myself.”

He moved to pick up another piece of cheese and took a sip of wine.

“You mentioned the sharks in the business,” I reminded him. “Who are they?”

“Oh, they are everywhere,” he grinned. “There is one very important fact you need to know. There is a massive market for those who prey on the unsuspecting, aspiring writer. This is a billion Dollar business in the United States alone, because, nowadays, everybody wants to be a writer.”

He pointed to the stack of magazines on the side table.

“I see you have subscribed to my most favorite useless magazine. Toss it over, please.”

On top of the stack lay the latest issue of a magazine dedicated to writers. I picked it up and handed it to Steve, who took it and paged through it.

“Not that I need to look for an example,” he said with a devilish smile on his face. “Almost every page is full of them. Unfortunately, these guys are in no position to live without bad and misleading advertisement.”

It took him a few seconds before he felt satisfied with what he found.

“Here we go!” he said. “Look at this.”

We saw the headline in big letters - Job Security, Freedom of Freelancing, Hiring Freelance Writers, Apply Today!

“Looks like a good opportunity to make some good money as a writer,” Sophie looked at me. “Why didn’t you apply? You’re a good writer.”

“Oh, don’t!” Steve protested. “In business jargon they’re called content aggregators or, in not as polite terms, a writers’ sweatshop. Their main purpose is to produce content for their websites or those of their clients. You will work for far less than minimum wage, and you might be better off flipping Hamburgers at a fast food joint. Also, by voluntarily working for a sweatshop you help them stay in business, and, even worse, victimizing other writers. In all consequence, you will quickly become a part of the problem. But besides my ideological view there are other obstacles.

“You see, there are some very smart business people at work, and they are extremely resourceful when it comes to lure more writers to work for them. They give you the impression that you can write everything you are passionate or knowledgeable about, let’s say, politics, environmental issues, history, and such. The truth is, even though politics is one of the categories they offer, the vast majority of their work opportunities are for writing articles on operating a dishwasher, changing the spark plugs on a John Deere lawnmower, and more of the same nature. They give you the manufacturer’s text, you re-word the whole thing, and you may make a measly fifteen Dollars a pop, but mostly it’s less than that, more like five Dollars in most cases. They promise, you can build your reputation, because your name appears under each article. I fail to understand, how writing about dog whistle training techniques, and more of the same nonsense helps a writer to gain reputation.”

He noticed our disbelieving expression, and he added, “I kid you not. That article has been written, as was one about drawing a Greek helmet.”

Steve shook his head and continued turning pages.

“Look at this here,” he called out. He seemed aggravated.

“This is an article where they interviewed the CEO of this dubious business.”

He pointed to a paragraph.

“This is where they write about him bragging – and I quote, ‘Most of our writers don’t even create enough income in one month to pay their weekly grocery bill, let alone a mortgage.’

Well, you can play the system and make a living with rearranging some words in less than an hour and post the result virtually unchanged as your own work. However, this is only the beginning. As I said, there is a lot more.”

He went through some more pages, and then showed us another advertisement.

He grinned, “I could go on for hours about this magazine, but I’ll spare you most of it.”

“This is their largest advertiser,” he continued, holding up the magazine showing a full-page advertisement. “They promise, they will publish your book, and, really, they will. You will get a listing on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other online bookstores. They also insist they do the cover design for you and that comes with a price, of course. They will press you skillfully into buying their editing service and their useless marketing kit. They squeeze easily several thousand Dollars out of every unsuspecting writer without any concern whether the book has a chance in the market or not. They only want your best, and that’s your money.”

“How much are the royalties?” asked Sophie, “I mean, provided you actually produce some sales.”

“If you’re clever – and most writers aren’t business people – you do some research to find out what other works in your genre go for. Then you subtract the printing cost and the publisher’s share. You may end up in the negative, so you increase the sales price, and then you end up in an unacceptable price range. I am sorry, but it’s a lose-lose situation. To answer your question, the royalties per book are most probably in the neighborhood of a couple of Dollars, provided the sales price is somewhat competitive.”

Sophie made some calculations in her head.

“So,” she said, “Let’s assume you spent about three-thousand Dollars. Is that a reasonable number?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, absolutely! If you add the registration fee, the editing service, marketing, and the cover design, you’ll get there easily.”

“Okay,” Sophie continued. “Assuming you make about two Dollars profit per book, you must sell 1,500 books before you even start to make profit for yourself.”

“As I said before,” Steve responded, “selling more than five-hundred books is extremely hard for the self-publisher, and, in all consequence, that’s what they still are. The so-called publisher doesn’t do anything for you, unless you pay for it. They provide a service for money, but they are not publishers in the traditional sense. The official term in Vanity Publisher.”

“But,” I intervened, “isn’t it possible that your novel gets some publisher’s attention and they would like to take it over?”

Steve emphatically shook his head.

“No way!” he said. “Any self-published book is automatically tagged with a red flag. Self-publishing, in view of the traditional publishing world, is a synonym for lack of talent.

“And even if your book sells well, and you try to offer your second novel to them, they treat you like you have a deadly virus. Don’t ask why. For a normal human being with a basic sense for business, just like you and me, nothing really makes sense in the publishing world.”

He leaned toward me.

“But seriously, I am not saying, everything they do is wrong, but the people in the publishing world, especially literary agents, have developed their own, specific social patterns. If you want to beat the system within three months you need to play their spiel. You need to be ruthless. Actually, you need to go beyond ruthless. You need to turn to the dark side.”

He sat back, grinning, and puffing his pipe.

“Can you do that, Stuart?” he asked. “Can you play a ruthless game?”

“Well,” I answered, “we have already made the decision, and I still like the idea, especially in view of the three month limit. I don’t want to give up without a fight.”

Steve nodded. “I think you should try it. After all, you have a brain, and, if I might add, you got the looks. It might just work.”

We remained silent for a little while to digest what had been said, and then we turned our conversation to more delightful topics. It was after midnight when Steve left, and Sophie and I went to bed soon thereafter.

Before she turned off the light, Sophie turned to me.

“I would like to add one more thing to your New York adventure,” she said. “Please, take what I will tell you now without a response or question. I want to say it once and only once.”

She sighed.

“Steve said, in order to be successful, you need to be beyond ruthless. I believe that he is right, and I want you to be successful.”

She closed her eyes.

“When we start this little endeavor, we will apply a strict Don’t-ask Don’t-tell policy. I would like you to know that, in those three months, you should do whatever it takes. You have my permission to do anything, and I mean anything. There is only one rule: Don’t ever tell me what you did. Just get the damn contract.”

With these words she turned around and turned the light off.

Next: Chapter 3

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Sunday, September 21

I woke up with a headache and checked the alarm clock. It was Sunday at 2:24 in the morning. Sandie and I had been partying all night, and the mixture of alcohol and cigarette smoke was never a good combination for me.

Sandie lay beside me, and, as usual, was totally covered by the silk blanket. I leaned over and cautiously removed the blanket to have another look at her huge, heaving breasts, and I shook my head. Sandie was a very attractive woman, and I was sure her breasts, in their original size and shape, were as perfect as the rest of her body. Why a beautiful woman like her would mutilate her body and have a pound of plastic added to either side is still beyond me. Her argument was the pursuit of an acting career, and I didn’t question her. After all, she still believed I was the son of the executive director of MGM Studios. I had made the title up on the fly, and I had to play the game.

I pulled the blanket back over her and cautiously stepped off the bed to go to the bathroom. I looked into the mirror and shook my head. I had looked better than the man who looked at me from the other side of the mirror. I turned to open the bathroom closet and retrieved a bottle of Advil.

For a moment I felt tempted to swallow the entire content but decided against it. I took two pills, walked over to the kitchen section of my Manhattan studio where I threw in the pills and gulped down a glass of water. I shook my head in disgust, and then I just stood there to decide how to go from here.

The choice was between going back to bed or doing something else. That something else, I decided, was to sit on the couch with a large glass of Seltzer and starting up my laptop. I had to be quiet. From where I was sitting I could see the large bed at the other end of the studio, and I was not in the mood to talk to her right that moment.

As a matter of fact, I was already thinking of a way to get rid of her. I still had some confectionary sugar, a razor blade, and a small plastic pipe, which, when arranged in the proper way, would hopefully point to a drug addiction. Honestly, I don’t have any experience with sniffing cocaine, but I have had my fair share of Law & Order on TV.

The set-up had worked with Erin, knowing that her first boyfriend had overdosed a few years ago. It would be a crapshoot with Sandie, though. Chances were, she would never notice the set-up, and, even if she did, she might not know what it was. Another possibility was that she would be thrilled and jump to get herself a sniff. I determined there were too many unknowns, and I had to come up with a more sinister scenario.

I looked at the computer screen for a few moments, unsure what to do with it, then I decided to have a last look at the notes I had made during these past three months. Despite the prevailing headache I couldn’t help but grin when I read the first entries. My status as a successful writer was bleak when I arrived here, but on Monday morning I would sign a contract with Sandie’s boss, Jonathan O’Keeffe, one of the heavyweights in the book publishing industry.

That same day I would return to my home and my pregnant wife in Montgomery Village in Maryland. Roughly two weeks later, if everything went according to the doctor’s prediction, we would have our first child, and I was looking forward to it.

Sandie grunted under the silk blanket and turned around, interrupting my frantic typing on the computer, adding to my notes. Then I shook my head. There was no way the hardly noticeable clicking would wake her. She was not a morning person, either. She would sleep until the afternoon if I didn’t wake her, but at the same time I toyed with the thought of simply leaving the studio later this morning. Maybe I should spend some leisure time in Central Park without her, however, not without leaving a romantic note saying something like I didn’t dare to wake the sleeping beauty. She always fell for this kind of stuff. The thought of kicking her out today, or even at this very moment, was tempting, but I needed to wait until I had signed that contract.

I turned my attention back to the computer. It is amazing how the memories and emotions of past events are refreshed when you keep a written record. Some emotions come back as they were, others, in view of the time passed, are different. I also realized how innocent I was then. That had changed profoundly. My experiences with the people in the publishing industry had turned me into a ruthless bastard, and I was good at it. I really had learned to play the game.

Another look at the screen, checking the date of the entry, and I realized that it was three months earlier to the day when we met with Steve, a good friend of ours, to discuss our idea.

Next: Chapter 2

Foreword

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless magazine, Writer’s Digest. Well, it is not totally useless, since it provided me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing. Just the other day, I found yet another advertisement that made my blood broil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.
To put it in a nut-shell, today’s publishing world is a shark tank. There is a great number of sharks out there, circling the waters, prying on the vast number of wannabe-authors who will never have a chance to sell their work, but are nevertheless naive enough to spend their money with useless services. It is a shame that a magazine such as Writer’s Digest is in the business to support these dubious businesses.

Through my research I found that the market for nonfiction on writing and publishing is cluttered ad nauseam. The majority of these works are – excuse my French – full of crap. Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is what I am currently doing. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.

Read It Online

Since I am having so much fun and success with maintaining my blog, why not post the progress on my newest novel on the world wide web? The best promotion for your first novel is the release of your second, and I didn’t have the patience to wait that long. Promoting and selling your first novel is by far the toughest task in the business world, and the profit per sold book is ridiculous, not mentioning the virtually non-existing return of investment. Promoting my writing using an aggressive, yet very inexpensive method, and on top having so much fun doing it, seemed to be the logical consequence.

Next: Prologue

Disclaimer

Needless to say, but nevertheless enforced by legal counsel, what you are about to read is based solely on the author’s imagination.

Also needless to say, writing and publishing this novel was absolutely possible without the support of the so-called experts in the writing and publishing industry.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all writers, talented, but ignored by the system.

Prologue

My name is Stuart Martin Berry, and until last week I was an editor for one of the largest magazines dedicated to the dream world of writers and poets. Like many of my ex-colleagues, I am also a failed novelist. My first and so far last novel, a thriller titled Rules of Extortion, never made it into publication. That dream ended almost two years ago, and, with my pregnant wife pressing me to get a job that, in fact, created sufficient income, I considered my writing career as being over and done with.

For a short while after my failure, literary agents, snobby bastards that they are, treated me like I was the carrier of a deadly disease. But they started kissing up to me as soon as I got my job as editor for the above-mentioned magazine. Until then, during an intense three-month period of shamelessly promoting my book, I had learned my lesson on effective bull shitting. Suddenly, if you believe my job description, I was not a failed novelist, but an accomplished author, who had decided to share his knowledge with the aspiring writer, to offer advice and inspiration. These days you see my photo in various publications, printed or Online, identifying me as a top expert on all aspects of fiction writing. My job included, among many other things, writing about writing without being allowed to write something substantial like, let’s say, a novel.

Another essential part of my work as an editor was to keep up a dream world for the tens of thousands of wannabe-writers who made the mistake of subscribing to our magazine or the even more useless online forum. Let me explain to those not familiar with the publishing business, a writers’ magazine cannot exist without the vast number of delusional writers who will never have the slightest chance of ever being published. In order to have your book published you need to be good and, as I was told from day one, the vast majority of our subscribers weren’t.

I was also directed to keep the information in my articles at a fairly superficial level and use ample motivational nonsense to keep our readers happy, everything to convince a dying man that he will beat the odds eventually and live a long and prosper life.

My personal favorite was a series on dealing with rejections, and you can bet most of our readers have been rejected numerous times, by agents and publishers alike.

Besides advertisement we made our main income through online writers’ workshops, and the depthless articles that filled our magazine ad nauseam were the best marketing tool for that. And for God’s sake, I was not to write anything that might interfere with the dubious business of the sharks that paid substantial fees for full-page advertisement in our magazine.

All that wasn’t difficult for me. As I said, bull shitting was one of my acquired talents.

Jilly Cooper once said, the male is a domestic animal, which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things. I am living proof to validate that statement.

Well, the bull-shitting time is finally over, and, honestly, I hated every single day. Deep in my soul I am an honest guy. Unfortunately, honesty doesn’t pay the bills.

Fortunately, though, about four weeks ago, my wife Sophie had accepted a job offer for a $150,000 annual salary plus benefits, and I had offered to be a stay-at-home Dad.

Our daughter Magda is now almost two years old, and my wife was itching to get back to her former job as the manager of the Human Resources department of a major insurance company based in Washington, D.C.

I have not yet decided what I will do during the copious spare time between play-group-mornings and afternoon walks in the park. Llysha, another aspiring author and a good friend of mine, had jokingly suggested starting our own publishing business, and she touted BBS, Inc. as the business name. BBS stands for “Baffle me with your Bull-Shit”, and, believe me, the name alone was a guarantee for success in the publishing industry.

To stay with the truth, I am done with writing. I am with Groucho Marx who once said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” Nevertheless, I am burning to take a last hit at the system. It deserves it.

While we’re at it, my name is not Stuart Martin Berry, and events and names have been changed to protect my family, especially my wife. I will tell you about the weirdest three months of my life, during which I tried to find a publisher for my book. My wife had given me totally free reins to do whatever it would take to get a book deal. Her only request was not to share any details of how I got there.

Next: Chapter 1

For a short time after the release of my first novel The Bleeding Hills I felt like living in a mental vacuum. The work on the novel and researching the background information was intense, and that intensity vanished the day we submitted the finished work for distribution. It is said that the actual work comes when promoting your novel, and I engaged into a number of marketing activities, some of them not as effective as others. Nevertheless, I learned a lot about the market, for instance, by reading printed as well as online publications.

The idea for American Male Prostitute came after reading my favorite, most useless magazine, Writer’s Digest. Well, it is not totally useless, since it provided me with enough information to learn about the bizarre world of book publishing. Just the other day, I found yet another advertisement that made my blood broil, and I was ready to get my hands on that computer keyboard and add a flaming entry to my blog. Maybe, I thought, I’ll make this a series and share my experiences with every new, aspiring author.

To put it in a nut-shell, today’s publishing world is a shark tank. There is a great number of sharks out there, circling the waters, prying on the vast number of wannabe-authors who will never have a chance to sell their work, but are nevertheless naive enough to spend their money with useless services. It is a shame that a magazine such as Writer’s Digest is in the business to support these dubious businesses.

Through my research I found that the market for nonfiction on writing and publishing is cluttered ad nauseam. The majority of these works are – excuse my French – full of crap. Then I remembered the saying “Don’t anger me or I will write a novel about you”, and that is what I am currently doing. There is no better weapon than writing a novel about the industry. They deserve it.

Originally, I had in mind to publish American Male Prostitute as a regular paperback version, but during time I found that I was quite successful with promoting my personal website, FrogenYozurt.Com. I created FrogenYozurt initially to promote my first novel, The Bleeding Hills, but as it turned out, I had way too much fun writing about pretty much everything that interested me. According to my web statistics FrogenYozurt experiences continuously increasing web traffic, and that little fact encouraged me to go with a not-entirely-new idea of book promotion.

Since I am having so much fun and success with maintaining my blog, why not post the progress on my newest novel on the world wide web? The best promotion for your first novel is the release of your second, and I didn’t have the patience to wait that long. Promoting and selling your first novel is by far the toughest task in the business world, and the profit per sold book is ridiculous, not mentioning the virtually non-existing return of investment. Promoting my writing using an aggressive, yet very inexpensive method, and on top having so much fun doing it, seemed to be the logical consequence.

You can see the result at http://www.AmericanMaleProstitute.com, meaning you can read the novel free of charge. Please be aware that this is a work in progress. Instead of adding to and modifying my novel in Microsoft Word I will continue writing through WordPress – the technology behind the website. In addition I hope to receive feedback from other writers, wannabe-writers, or just regular readers. I am looking forward to a lively discussion with my readers.

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The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

American Male Prostitute - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

It is safe to assume you came to read this entry due to its title, Chocolate Jesus. Some of you may find it intriguing, or provocative, or challenging, or bizarre, or… Whatever you call it, it got your attention, and that is my point.

Just today I found an entry in the Online forum at AuthorNation.com (in my personal opinion the most civilized forum for writers). A fellow author complained about a book that apparently sells very well in the United States, but whose title he found somewhat annoying.

The book in question is I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell by Tucker Max. Let me quote from the product description section at Amazon.com: “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women than is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a raging dickhead. But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way: I share my adventures with the world.”

First, as we all have noticed, the title is catchy, and, in my very personal opinion, there is nothing wrong with that. I am reminded of Al Franken’s “Rush Limbaugh is a big fat liar.” I have to admit I haven’t read it, but the title sticks, and what I heard about the book, it is not about Rush Limbaugh.

Secondly, the author is very provocative and, as it appears, very successful. Whether we agree with his style or not is of no consequence. Tucker Max is not only a writer, good or not doesn’t matter, but he is definitely an outstanding marketer for his book.

I, for my part, have learned a good lesson on the importance of title design and how to get the attention of potential readers. That lesson, however, came after I started writing my newest novel American Male Prostitute. My intention was to be provocative but, unlike Tucker Max, my book has a real storyline.

And, by the way, Chocolate Jesus is a song by Tom Waits on his CD Mule Variations. I remember the day when I checked his large collection of CDs in a local music store. Just reading the titles of his songs was pure fun. The actual performances, however, did not appeal to me. There are some good ones, but mostly it is not my (very personal) taste. Nevertheless, since that time I can always point to Tom Waits’s music when it comes to recommend potential book titles.

Here are just a few more examples (Haven’t checked if they already exist as a book title, though):

• Cemetery Polka
• Tango Till They’re Sore
• Lie To Me
• Little Drop Of Poison
• Fish In The Jailhouse
• What Keeps Mankind Alive
• The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me)
• Pasties And A G-String (At The Two O’Clock Club)
• Bad Liver And A Broken Heart
• Better Off Without A Wife
• Warm Beer And Cold Women
• Drunk On The Moon
• Just Another Sucker On The Vine
• Is There Any Way Out Of This Dream?
• You Can’t Unring A Bell
• I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You
• Grapefruit Moon
• Little Trip To Heaven

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

American Male Prostitute - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I felt, I should be writing an update on my novel American Male Prostitute. I am still in Germany (see also my blog entry The Lonely Cold Hotel Room), and traveling here, plus the preparation, took all my attention away from writing. I am finally in the right mind set, and whenever I have time to write I make good progress, usually between 2,000 to 3,000 words per writing session.

As a general rule-of-thumb, a good-sized novel should have at least 60,000 words, and the 60,000 word mark is my ultimate goal. In all consequence, I could write a novel in less than thirty days, if only I had the time. Add to this two months of fleshing-out, proof-reading, and editing, and, theoretically, I could publish four books a year…if only I had the time.

The current word count is a little over 16,000, and the first draft will be in the neighborhood of 40,000. Adding another 20,000 is not difficult. The scaffold is up, and filling the interior with more details is as intriguing as writing the first draft. It is always a thrill to watch the story line take turns that you hadn’t expected, even while you’re writing it.

That being said, I will now add a few more thousands of words.

American Male Prostitute - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Okay, things are getting a little weird. I am putting in a lot of work to promote my novels and, consequently, my web site, but I did not expect the e-mail inquiry I received today from Bruce in New York in regards to my new novel American Male Prostitute.

It reads: “I am very big in this business… shall we say. And I’m very curious about the research you’ve done on your novel. (AMP). We should talk. Bruce”.

Okay, here I think this Bruce guy may be in the publishing business, and maybe he was provoked by my not-so-nice comments about the industry. I was nevertheless cautious and I wrote back:

“Hi Bruce, I am always open for discussion about my work, but before we do that you should identify yourself. Apparently, you know who I am…;-)”

The answer came quickly: “I have BEEN an “American Male Prostitute”… off and on…mostly on… my entire adult life… I have loads of experiences… and am still in “the business”, as we call it. I’d love to hear more about your novel… etc. Feel free to call me, if you’d like to.” He added his phone number (Note: The little “…”s were his, not mine).

Well… Okay… Dear Bruce, if you want to learn about my novel, please feel free to actually read this blog. The title of my novel is meant in an ironic way; it has nothing to do with prostitution in the common sense. The main character in American Male Prostitute uses, among other things, sex to promote his first novel. That’s all, and I’ll leave it at that.

American Male Prostitute - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

You think the title is a little strong? Well, maybe, but there is a truth behind it.

I am sure there are some good ones out there, but I stay with my statement when it comes to the majority of literary agents. As a business man I am appalled by the lack of business sense these people display to the public, especially when it comes to rejecting writers not because they’re not talented but due to primitive reason such as violation of the submission guidelines.

As a background information, I started writing technical literature in 2005 and I never even considered going through an application process; I jumped immediately into self-publishing and my business, Copperhill Media, is now officially a micro-publisher with distribution through Ingram. I have just published my first novel, The Bleeding Hills. I self-publish simply because I just don’t have the patience to look for the right agent and find the right publisher, a process that usually takes years before your work is published. The whole process is extremely ineffective and it does not fit with my sense for business.

I developed my case against literary agents after reading my most-favorite useless magazine, Writer’s Digest. Well, maybe not so useless, since the content convinced me that their preference for established publishing did not agree with me.

Okay, back to the agents… The September 2009 issue of Writer’s Digest includes an article Real Queries That Worked, sub-titled Agents share queries that hooked them – and insights on what made them effective. A remark for the novice: In order to find an agent - Writer’s Digest will gladly sell you a list – you need to submit not only your manuscript – or an excerpt thereof – but also a synopsis, which all makes sense. Through the query – in layman’s terms a cover letter – you need to convince the agent that your novel is the best thing since, let’s say, The Da Vinci Code. There are services - Writer’s Digest will gladly sell you a list – that will write you such a letter, and, naturally, they would like to be paid for it.

Wait a minute, you might say. Isn’t that like writing a cover letter that you include with your resume? The answer is, yes, the process is very similar. I know out of experience that many HR professionals, sitting in front of a pile of resumes submitted by hundreds of people applying for the same job, start their selection process by merely scanning over the cover letter. If they don’t like it, it’s out. After that they look at the remaining resumes and actually check for job qualification. Apparently, literary agents work very similar.

In all consequence, writing a professional looking author query is important, and it makes sense to hire a professional service to help increase your chances.

So, what’s wrong about this process? Okay, first of all, submitting a cover letter with your resume or submitting an author’s query with a manuscript are two very different things. An HR professional looks for one – the best – person to fill a particular job, and, naturally, competition is tough.

A literary agent may end up with the same number of queries on his/her desk, but in the end each of these applications could bring them the next John Grisham, Stephen King, or Dan Brown. Add to this that each query is submitted by a potential customer who, with the sale of the first book, shares his/her income with the agent. This being said, wouldn’t it make sense to read the query regardless of appearance or if it complies with submission guidelines?

As a business man I would concentrate on the synopsis and make the educated decision whether or not the submission has enough potential for another bestseller. I believe in looking at the actual result of the artist’s work.

The Writer’s Digest article mentions the example of an actual query praised by a real agent, saying “…I was hooked and knew I wanted to read…” the author’s work.

Let me quote from the letter: “I believe this book to be of broad public appeal in that it combines the scintillating fervor of scandal with the true-to-life detachment of history.” It goes on like this – in best lawyer’s English – and, honestly, if his work is written in the same style I personally wouldn’t want to read it – it doesn’t read like, let’s say, Dan Brown. It did, however, convince the agent, and, apparently it doesn’t matter if the letter reflects the writer’s style or not.

Well, maybe I still got it wrong and agents just prefer to receive a clear and precise synopsis, but will nevertheless have a look at the manuscript.

It also seems that agents are increasingly using “modern” technologies such as … e-mail! Some of them ask only for information without the actual manuscript. Many agents need to be convinced first that the writer can prove a writing experience, can provide a marketing plan, has won several prizes in writing contest, etc.

Personally, I have not won any prizes – didn’t even attend any contest – but, yes, I do have a precise marketing plan. With a good marketing plan in place, why go through an agent and publisher? If you need to provide the expertise, why not publish yourself? And, by the way, does my novel have anything to do with this process?

Let me add to my case by quoting some agents’ comments as listed in the September 2009 issue of Writer’s Digest:

- We prefer a (e-mail) query before you send us your ms (Manuscript)…Queries sent with attachments will be deleted unread.

- Only (written) queries with SASEs will receive responses. I generally respond to all queries within four weeks. I now accept e-mail submissions, please include my name in the subject line. (Meaning that person is new to Internet technologies and receives e-mail through another source.)

- Allow 60 days for a reply.

-  All submissions should be free of spelling and grammatical errors. (Duh!)

- Due to overwhelming number of submissions we cannot respond to all submissions, we cannot respond to all queries, but we do read them and will contact you if interested. (If not, they don’t bother to respond.)

-  If she’s interested in your work, she will respond within four weeks. Snail mail submissions will not be reviewed.

- If you haven’t heard from her within eight weeks, please assume she is passing on your project. (Now, that reflects an attitude I wouldn’t want to deal with as a writer.)

- I always welcome submissions from new authors. Follow the submission guidelines on the agency website. (Oops! That’s a good one! This is how it should be!)

- Agent responds in six to eight weeks.

It goes on like this.

Anyways, here are some tips on selecting an agent:

- Check out the agent’s web site. Doesn’t have one? Don’t even bother dealing with him/her.

- Check the web site for submission guidelines and see if you like it.

- Is there a procedure in place? You would not only like to know what is important to them, but also what they will do for you. After all, you are the customer.

As usual, if you feel the urge leave a comment, whether you agree with me or not. I’d like to hear from you.