F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction Author

Comedy

The 3 Types of Editorial Corrections You Need To Know!

by

You Are A Writing Ninja! (image byGrywnn [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
You Are A Writing Ninja! (image byGrywnn [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
As I writer there are 7 things I need to know that will get me published.

There are also 13 things I need to know about publishing that will make me more successful than any other writer who reads about them.

4.5 steps that will forever banish writer’s block!

There are all these things…steps…that if I do them, the clouds will part and rays of blindingly glorious Heavenly Light will rain down upon me and I will be The Most Special Person in All of Publishing History.

All I have to do is follow them.

Right.

Well, in an effort to join the quantifiable fray of “enumerated success,” let me tell you all about the epiphany I’ve discovered that will lead to your success in the editing process. Because “knowledge is power” (and in three short weeks I’ll list 17 ways that knowledge IS power!).

With these 3 editorial techniques…you will become…A Writing Ninja.

The 3 Types of Editorial Corrections You Need To Know!

In editing there are three types of corrections every writer needs to be aware of. Sure there are other types of editorial corrections, and in a future post I’ll show you why, in 22 steps that can also make you godlike in your efforts. But for now making up 22 steps is too much, I’m not gonna do it…but three is easy.

So, if you want to be The World’s Greatest Writer, you need to master these 3 editorial corrections:

The Bad Dog

The “Bad Dog” is the correction you make by inserting new text into your original text in an effort to make things better. But as you work it, you find well, you’re not as good as you thought you were, and return to what you originally had, thereby proving, wait-a-minute—yes, YES!—I really am better than I thought I was! and keep what you’d already had. But what’s key, here, is that you did not delete the original text you meant to correct. All your original words are still there. So you simply “back over” all the newly inserted text, returning everything to the way it was.

“The Bad Dog” gets it terminology because when you scold a dog, the dog will usually come back to you, ears and body lowered in an attempt to “cute” its way back into your good graces. Here, in your editing process, you’ve essentially “cuted” yourself back into your own good graces in that you’ve proven to yourself that you knew what to do the first time around and should have realized you couldn’t improve upon your own work or words, because they were perfect to begin with. Bad dog, you!

But…in the style of Plighter’s Digest…and in the interests of blatant, “shameless self-promotion” (as we like to say in the writing biz) to further “drive home” the point that smart people already got three paragraphs ago, here is an example…using an overly huge example of my own writing, taken from my imminently successful short story, “The World’s Greatest Writer”:

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

So, if I were to correct a sentence, say: “He’s coming out, as it were!” and wanted to change it (note I didn’t say “correct” it, because, as we all know, my words are Golden so attempting to change anything is a meaningless and wasted effort…but since I am promoting myself, I have to give an example…), then back it out, this is what is would look like:

He’s coming out, as it were! ==> He’s making an appearance coming out, as it were! ==> He’s making an appearance coming out, as it were!  ==> He’s coming out, as it were!

The Revenant

The second editorial correction is a blatant effort to piggy back onto a successful movie by incorporating it into my blog post in the hopes (fingers crossed!!!) that all who search on The Revenant will find my blog post, follow it, then buy all my books. Boom. I’m (again) #TheWorldsGreatestWriter.

The Revenant is when you make a correction to a part of your (excuse me…I can’t stop laughing…because we all know my—I mean YOUR—Words are Golden…so no corrections are ever, really necessary…) text, realize the folly of your ways (and that you haven’t yet had enough caffeine to clearly realize this…)…then pull of a zippy “Ctrl-Z.”

Boom.

That just happened.

Your original words are back.

But though they are your original words…they’re not really the original words, because you erased them.

Killed them.

They are (like Star Trek’s transporter-beamed people) re-created facsimiles of the original.

They are…resurrected facsimiles of the words you killed.

But…you did the next best thing and brought them back.

The Revenant.

If you still don’t get it, here’s another swollen, self-serving example taken from my short, “The World’s Greatest Writer”:

“Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

“Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

“Had he come without his words?!

“Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

“Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

“The crowd again held its collective breath.

“He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

“Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.”

So, lifting from the above, here’s what The Revenant wold look like:

Where was the manuscript?! ==> Where was the burrito?! ==> Where was the manuscript?!

The Revenant is also known as “The Ctrl-Z.”

Going Rogue

The third and final editorial correction is a jump into the uncharted waters of Your Greatness. It is, simply stated, adding more words to your Already Golden Pulitzer Prize Winning Creation.

Again, to cite still yet another utterly self-serving example from “The World’s Greatest Writer”:

“And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.”

To employ Going Rogue, the above changes to:

“And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration. OMG.”

Did you catch that? What was added?

“OMG” was added at the very end. That is “Going Rogue.”

A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.

Be Brave!

So, in conclusion, the 3 types of editorial corrections are:

  1. The Bad Dog
  2. The Revenant
  3. Going Rogue

Now that you know this heavily guarded editorial “secret,” you, too, can reap the benefits of “professional expertise” in your own writing…and (hopefully) rush out and buy all my books—even those I haven’t yet written.

If you have not grasped all that I’ve written, catch my next piece, which will be “The 11.6 Ways You Can Better Understand What Others Are [Trying To] Tell[ing] You.”

My work here is done.

***********************

F. P. Dorchak is an award-winning author in his own mind and the bestselling author of nothing. But he talks a good game and is quite full of himself. His latest books are full of the above editorial corrections, which shows he actually knows very little about the craft of writing, but this gig is sure to correct that in a “Going Rogue” kinda way. Go buy his stuff. Now.

Related Articles

(Mr. Dorchak would like you to think that his work is so ubiquitous that it would be utter folly to even attempt to list them, here.)

The World’s Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

Related Posts

The World's Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

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The Eldredge Not

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Gold Tie
Gold Tie. Ohhh, You’re SO Smug. Just Lying There.

I bought this gold tie that I plan on “using” at my book signing next month. “Using,” as in “employing” a complicated “Eldredge Knot.” One of the characters, Émile, in my novel, Voice, wore the knot.

Damn him.

This is my journey.

Day 1

Performed unmentionable sacrifice to The Tie Gods. Soul will knot in Hell.

I unwrapped the tie. Bought it special. Amazon dot com.

Researched best Internet video. Watched it twice. Tried knot. Failed miserably. Sprained wrist.

Found other things to do…like Facebook, Twitter…yard work. Took a hike.

Day 2

Surfed the Internet. Checked e-mail. Avoided…The Knot.

Took a walk.

Carbo loaded. Iced sprained wrist.

Day 3

What?! This is really day 3?! Crap.

Better carbo load again….

Days 4 – 12…

Okay, so I finally (again) carbo loaded, hydrated (always, always hydrate!), and manned up.

Set a date.

Pre-dialed 9-1-1. Had first-aid kit handy.

I will do this.

Today.

Wife’s gone on a business trip. Must have no witnesses.

I removed the innocuous looking tie from its wrapper. Put on my BRIGHT royal blue shirt (it doesn’t come across in this pictures, but it’s ROYAL blue…like, really, really royal blue). I found that best video out there and began my sojourn.

The Eldredge Knot.

Yes…the famed, complicated, yea mythical knot.

Not for the timid.

I began.

This is the unsuspecting neck.

The Uninitiated, Oh-So-Naïve Neck.
The Uninitiated, Oh-So-Naïve Neck.

I watched the video.

Took the tie in both hands.

My hands trembled. I steadied them.

I began.

I flipped it.

I wrapped it.

I pulled it through.

I tightened that bad boy.

The Eldredge Not.
The Eldredge Not.

Uh, yeaaah. Knot exactly what I was expecting. Great. Now I pulled the other wrist.

I undid everything.

Took a moment (or 15) to get my head together. Shook it off. Iced the wrist.

I went back in.

Okay, I hit the paused selection on the video twice as many times this time…hydrated some more during the action…and

I flipped it.

Wrapped it.

Pulled it through.

Tightened it.

The Eldredge Garlic Press.
The Eldredge Garlic Press.

Dang it!

How th—

Hey, I’d been looking for that garlic press for two years!

Okay, fine.

Take a breath.

I can do this.

It’s just a knot. A knot.

Made of material.

Puts its pants on like everyone else.

The guy on the video says it’s not all the hard (really). If he can do…I can.

I extricated the garlic press from the folds…undid the tie.

Stared at it.

Wrung out my hands…yes, they were still a little sore…the wrists, tender…but I’d have to muscle through the pain. I work out. Focus. Forced reps.

I can do this.

I drank four coffees, five iced teas, and downed three handfuls of acai berries. Dipped in dark chocolate.

Breathe.

Breathe!

I went in.

This was it folks.

There would be no going back.

It was me…or the knot.

There would be no prisoners.

I flipped it.

I wrapped it.

I twisted it.

Pulled it through.

Tightennned it until my hands trembled.

Then I opened my eyes (that really helps, I found).

The Eldredge Knot.
The Eldredge Knot.

I cried!

It wasn’t perfect…but I’d done it.

I’d conquered Everest. I mean Eldredge.

I collapsed.

**********************

My wife found me two days later, having returned from her trip. I was dehydrated, delirious, 30-pounds lighter, my neck bruised…but I was none-the-worse-for-wear.

It took several sessions of intense Rolfing before I could recall anything.

The tie.

The…the Eldredge Knot.

I had been there and back.

Lived to talk about it.

And I’m never taking it off.

But, it is October.

Try it…if you dare. You will never be the same.

 

 

Going Indie — What I've Learned (So Far) — Quit Askin For Stuff!

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Okay, so this is what I’ve learned over the past couple of years of what promotion I’ve been able to do for my novels:

  1. Stop asking for things!
  2. Creating “events”? Only for romance authors and/or people (aka “women”) with friends!

All the conferences and discussions I’ve had about what to do or not do in the promotion of one’s work usually hits upon the above two immutables. “Immutables” because I’ve always heard that you should always ask for readers to write reviews and that in getting book signings, one should create an “event” and not just sit around like a bump on a log.

Well, I’ve tried to employ both of these directives. And in both cases I’ve: 1) felt cheap and telemarket-y, b) felt more than I really am, as in do I fancy myself a “Rick Castle“?, and lastly…have been overruled by the location-in-question.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

  1. In today’s Day and Age, if people like your work, they’ll volunteer or actually just do the review. It’s a thing now, for chrissakes. Everyone reviews everything. They review the weather, their relationships, their own reviews. I’ve found that if I’ve e-mailed the question, people who don’t want to review your work will simply avoid the question altogether. Yup, they’ll just ignore you. It’s like my wife asking me to clean out the garage (again). If you ask face-to-face, “Sure,” they say they will…as their tone drops and they don’t look you in the eye and scratch behind an ear (or check their Galaxy Samsung for sudden phantom messages–“Hey, gotta take this text!“)…and you feel cheap for having had to ask. So, quit frigging asking for reviews! Okay, fine. I hated asking for them anyway.
  2. Events?! Who the <expletive> wants to come to an “event” to buy a book? In fact, who the hell wants to be in any way bothered by that guy or gal behind the imposing desk with a saccharin smile on their scared little face? Nobody knows how to write anymore—so a signed book? What does that even mean? If they want anything signed (“Uh, do you mean that verified/trusted electronic security certificate thingee?“) they’ll either swoop down from behind your position and shove an iPad into your face…or they’ll go to the quiet book shelves deep within the inner Sanctum Sanctorum of the store…find your book…then search Amazon or Nook and download it—thank you very much, Signing Person, for bringing it to my attention! Now, go—get thee away from me and leave me alone—I’ll go find it elsewhere and NOT have to physically interact with you…but, um, I will tweet I walked by your table (unless you’re off-the-charts hot or are a famous Romance Author with chocolate or brownies and a frigging rose-in-a-vase on your oh-so-cutely decored table)…. #AuthorAvoidance.
  3. It seems that most of the locations I can get into are small and cozy. I get that. Heck, I even really like that. I’m not into pomp and circumstance and never have been. Local bookstores do like to cater to the local author and will do what they can, but: 1) they’re small…they don’t have enough room for “events,” 2) they’re cozy and their clientele like “cozy”…they don’t do things that annoy cozy, and 3) see 1 and 2. Cozy is good. I like cozy! Why are you bothering me with these “event” questions?! What—my own? Maybe not. Locations that do do “events” are Big Box. I’ve never yet gotten into a Big Box. I don’t sell enough. I don’t have enough friends (keeping reading).
  4. Who the heck do I think I am, anyway? Richard Castle?

And as I’ve further considered the above items-of-interest, I’ve realized that I’d never heard any of these things uttered from, well—don’t shoot me, now—a guy.

Yes, a guy.

There, I’ve said it.

I’m not one of those who hammer on gender differences (am not a fan of those who do), but this really is quite pronounced and can be proven in a court of law. I’ve heard these directions uttered from legions of female authors (and most writers/authors I know are women…um, as are the agents, the editors, and well, you get the picture…). Usually somehow affiliated or associated with romance (friends, Romans, or Country…women…).

Now, don’t get me wrong, I always say more power to the author who can sell any of their wares, especially on a recurring basis. But, these romance authors are writing to an audience that is, well, there really is no other term for it—rabid—about their world. Their genre. <Expletive>, their authors! So, it comes as no shock to me that “creating events” and asking their readers to review their work is not out of line.

In fact, I was at a conference once (I wasn’t) and had seen (as far as you know…) where a romance author was in conversation with a rabid reader fan (RRF), had (“casually”) brought up the subject of reviews, and before the author had completed her sentence, the RRF had shouted “Done!“, arms thrust high into the air (nearly dislocating her shoulders—I saw the tears creeping out her right eye), one hand holding her Nokia like a Crusaders’ sword, shouting,”Reviewed! 5,000 likes!”

Or maybe I didn’t. Can’t remember. The Fog of Conference.

As to the having tons of friends part, that also is usually tied to women.

Sure, you say, guys have friends.

No. Not really. We don’t.

We have buddies.

There’s a difference. Guys don’t flock en masse to anything that doesn’t involve beer or sports, and still, we don’t “flock” and we don’t “attend events.” We just all happen to end up at the same place. At once. To drink beer. Yell. Fart, belch, and slap each other (briefly) on the shoulder and move on to the next beer. Quote sports stats. Where’s the BBQ?

Women are supportive of each other.

Men drink beer. Eat grilled meat.

So all this only works if you’re a woman, a romance author, or have tons of friends.

Or are Richard Castle.

Related articles

Going Indie — What I’ve Learned (So Far) — Quit Askin For Stuff!

by

Okay, so this is what I’ve learned over the past couple of years of what promotion I’ve been able to do for my novels:

  1. Stop asking for things!
  2. Creating “events”? Only for romance authors and/or people (aka “women”) with friends!

All the conferences and discussions I’ve had about what to do or not do in the promotion of one’s work usually hits upon the above two immutables. “Immutables” because I’ve always heard that you should always ask for readers to write reviews and that in getting book signings, one should create an “event” and not just sit around like a bump on a log.

Well, I’ve tried to employ both of these directives. And in both cases I’ve: 1) felt cheap and telemarket-y, b) felt more than I really am, as in do I fancy myself a “Rick Castle“?, and lastly…have been overruled by the location-in-question.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

  1. In today’s Day and Age, if people like your work, they’ll volunteer or actually just do the review. It’s a thing now, for chrissakes. Everyone reviews everything. They review the weather, their relationships, their own reviews. I’ve found that if I’ve e-mailed the question, people who don’t want to review your work will simply avoid the question altogether. Yup, they’ll just ignore you. It’s like my wife asking me to clean out the garage (again). If you ask face-to-face, “Sure,” they say they will…as their tone drops and they don’t look you in the eye and scratch behind an ear (or check their Galaxy Samsung for sudden phantom messages–“Hey, gotta take this text!“)…and you feel cheap for having had to ask. So, quit frigging asking for reviews! Okay, fine. I hated asking for them anyway.
  2. Events?! Who the <expletive> wants to come to an “event” to buy a book? In fact, who the hell wants to be in any way bothered by that guy or gal behind the imposing desk with a saccharin smile on their scared little face? Nobody knows how to write anymore—so a signed book? What does that even mean? If they want anything signed (“Uh, do you mean that verified/trusted electronic security certificate thingee?“) they’ll either swoop down from behind your position and shove an iPad into your face…or they’ll go to the quiet book shelves deep within the inner Sanctum Sanctorum of the store…find your book…then search Amazon or Nook and download it—thank you very much, Signing Person, for bringing it to my attention! Now, go—get thee away from me and leave me alone—I’ll go find it elsewhere and NOT have to physically interact with you…but, um, I will tweet I walked by your table (unless you’re off-the-charts hot or are a famous Romance Author with chocolate or brownies and a frigging rose-in-a-vase on your oh-so-cutely decored table)…. #AuthorAvoidance.
  3. It seems that most of the locations I can get into are small and cozy. I get that. Heck, I even really like that. I’m not into pomp and circumstance and never have been. Local bookstores do like to cater to the local author and will do what they can, but: 1) they’re small…they don’t have enough room for “events,” 2) they’re cozy and their clientele like “cozy”…they don’t do things that annoy cozy, and 3) see 1 and 2. Cozy is good. I like cozy! Why are you bothering me with these “event” questions?! What—my own? Maybe not. Locations that do do “events” are Big Box. I’ve never yet gotten into a Big Box. I don’t sell enough. I don’t have enough friends (keeping reading).
  4. Who the heck do I think I am, anyway? Richard Castle?

And as I’ve further considered the above items-of-interest, I’ve realized that I’d never heard any of these things uttered from, well—don’t shoot me, now—a guy.

Yes, a guy.

There, I’ve said it.

I’m not one of those who hammer on gender differences (am not a fan of those who do), but this really is quite pronounced and can be proven in a court of law. I’ve heard these directions uttered from legions of female authors (and most writers/authors I know are women…um, as are the agents, the editors, and well, you get the picture…). Usually somehow affiliated or associated with romance (friends, Romans, or Country…women…).

Now, don’t get me wrong, I always say more power to the author who can sell any of their wares, especially on a recurring basis. But, these romance authors are writing to an audience that is, well, there really is no other term for it—rabid—about their world. Their genre. <Expletive>, their authors! So, it comes as no shock to me that “creating events” and asking their readers to review their work is not out of line.

In fact, I was at a conference once (I wasn’t) and had seen (as far as you know…) where a romance author was in conversation with a rabid reader fan (RRF), had (“casually”) brought up the subject of reviews, and before the author had completed her sentence, the RRF had shouted “Done!“, arms thrust high into the air (nearly dislocating her shoulders—I saw the tears creeping out her right eye), one hand holding her Nokia like a Crusaders’ sword, shouting,”Reviewed! 5,000 likes!”

Or maybe I didn’t. Can’t remember. The Fog of Conference.

As to the having tons of friends part, that also is usually tied to women.

Sure, you say, guys have friends.

No. Not really. We don’t.

We have buddies.

There’s a difference. Guys don’t flock en masse to anything that doesn’t involve beer or sports, and still, we don’t “flock” and we don’t “attend events.” We just all happen to end up at the same place. At once. To drink beer. Yell. Fart, belch, and slap each other (briefly) on the shoulder and move on to the next beer. Quote sports stats. Where’s the BBQ?

Women are supportive of each other.

Men drink beer. Eat grilled meat.

So all this only works if you’re a woman, a romance author, or have tons of friends.

Or are Richard Castle.

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