I’m what used to be known as a “good egg.” I’ve played by the rules all my life. My fuse is absurdly long and slow to burn. Dogs, children and crazy people gravitate to me like groupies to young musicians with too much hair. I suffer fools gladly, probably because I belong to their tribe.
Lately I’ve been feeling like more of a fool than usual. Back in May, my wife left me for a man of uncertain gender identity. (My wife always liked ambiguity better than I did; that should have been a tip-off.) Anyway, she has my forgiveness: to each his own and all that.
Then the stock market imploded, taking half my nest egg with it. I depended on that nest egg because I’m one of those most abject and ill-favored creatures of our time: a professional freelance writer who isn’t a celebrity. We non-celebrity writers are lucky to find an occasional table scrap at the feast. We gaze with envy and disbelief while literary eminentoes like Sarah Palin, Tina Fey and Joe the Plumber gobble their multi-million dollar advances in our presence.
That brings me to the third calamity in this year’s trifecta of tribulation: my writing career has been stopped like a Dodge Dart running up against a Mack truck. My agent, a jolly New York preppie and former college classmate, professed to love my darkly humorous essays. He envisioned the possibilities: just as Fran Lebowitz chronicled the Baby Boomers in their ascendancy, I’d speak for my generation as it trudged down the long slope to oblivion.
Meanwhile, I prepared two collections of my essays for publication: Lifestyles of the Doomed, a Menckenesque grab-bag of cynical social observations, and the even bleaker Extremely Dark Chocolates, a ruefully funny series of meditations on mortality. I mailed the packages, and I waited for my moment… my two moments.
I heard nothing from my agent for a couple of soul-shredding months. Finally he replied: this was a terrible time to be selling my essays, he said. He had made a phone call or two; the editors wanted nothing but celebrity names and youth-oriented humor. (Ever heard of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell? That was the model to be emulated.)
My agent suggested ripping the essays apart and mining them for their edgiest nuggets — something to grab the under-30 crowd. I said thanks but no thanks.
So here I stand, unrecognized and unpublishable while plumbers, sitcom stars and semiliterate Alaskan governors win VIP treatment (and megabucks) from a tottering publishing industry. Well, at least I’m still standing after my triple-whammy year. My arms and legs still work. I still have my original head, though I could probably use a new one at this point. But how do terminally frustrated writers like me redeem their thwarted careers?
We could self-publish, of course. But that option still carries a stigma — the pungent whiff of “loser” wafts from it like cheap perfume. We could search for new agents — and submit ourselves to a grueling, heartbreaking year of slights and rejections. No thanks; I’m getting too old for that ritual.
I say it’s time to hoist the black flag and turn pirate. Yes, you heard me right. The good egg is ready to turn bad on his own behalf — on behalf of all writers of merit who can’t survive in today’s inclement publishing climate.
When professional book people no longer reward intrinsic merit, we have to take matters into our own hands. Publishing has to be more than a private club operated, as it clearly is now, for the benefit of millionaire celebrities and anemic, inbred M.F.A. litterateurs. You have to wonder if Mark Twain could find a publisher today.
So how do we fight back? I only have a few half-cooked ideas, but they’ll get us started. First we have to ignore the rules, which are made to protect the system. Query letters? Hell — how about marching into the editorial offices of the nearest publisher and demanding to be read? Sure, we might get ourselves rudely evicted, but think of the publicity! We could camp out on their steps until we’re heard or arrested, whichever comes first. The point is that we have to start wheedling, defying, cajoling and performing end-runs around the gatekeepers. We have to be bold and reckless enough to risk the ire of editors and agents, the whole sorry system that’s designed to reject anyone who doesn’t fit the current (and woefully shoddy) Zeitgeist.
We thwarted ones need to swap ideas, band together and sound off about the pusillanimous, risk-averse, celebrity-obsessed mentality that’s driving the entire book business into the ground. If we wait much longer, the current publishing firmament will topple like the dying tree that it is. Then all of us will have to self-publish, and good luck getting noticed!
Are you with me? Aarrrrrhh, mateys, let’s raid the ship!