Published
I heard the owl call my name. Damned good title. And they say a title can’t be copyrighted. I heard the owl call my name… That might just do it. I mean, it’s just a title but I’ve written whole books with less inspiration. Three act plays without finding an idea until the final scene. I’ve walked out of my own work to hear someone say, “That was so profound.” Wanting so badly to ask them. Really? What?
You see, the thing is, to be published. That’s all.. just published. To walk into a room of strangers. You step across the threshold. Heads turn. There he is! You’ll be …. well, you’ll still be unknown but you’ll be a published unknown. “You know, of course, he’s published,” someone will say. “But who is he?” another will respond. “He’s published.” A smile. A nod. You’ve just walked into the room wearing the Emperor’s New Play.
Disconcerting. Frustrating. I mean, I’ve have some of the world’s greatest ideas …. The Iliad. …. The Road Not Taken… Thanatopsis …. Coney Island of the Mind … Hickory Dickory Doc … but have been the second person to get that idea. Is there no award in the literary world for second place? Baseball treats its artists better for God’s sake! Runner up in the 1964 World Series! “The Second Person to Write the Odyssey” See? No cigar.
A title. The title must sell the work. “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee!” Good God! Who cares about the content! I’d buy that title in a minute! “For Whom the Bell Tolls”… Ok… trite, but it worked once. “The Glass Menagerie.” “Slow Dance on the Killing Ground” “Ring Around the Rosie!” Just listen to those suckers ring!
For years I thought that publishers returned my poor prose for fear of my picture appearing on the dust jacket. Burl Ives on a bad day. Walt Whitman after Appomatox Santa Claus in Chemotherapy But it wasn’t that. I know photographers. I can pay photographers. Hell, I can send them my brother’s picture!
Something else was missing. Classical references? Only a university press would even notice. Alliteration? Smacks of the effete. And I could never sustain it over the long haul. Metaphor? They’d never get it. My dysfunctional childhood does not relate to the average American palate. Onomatopoeia? The word my combination basketball coach and English teacher thought sounded dirty. Boom! Bang! Pow! Dear God, I sound like a Presbyterian Alan Ginsburg. Shel Silverstein in heat.
Ok… that leaves only the crass… the commercial… the popular… Popular! The word makes all artists cringe …. until we become one! The lawyer novel. The cop novel. A book on etiquette. The kiss and tell.. the expose… What’s really in the back of Martha Stewart’s closet? Sordid adolescent tales from Hope, Arkansas. The celebrity autobiography… (See above… published but unknown.. forget that.) The answer is simple, I suppose. Aim for sentiment and score a bull’s eye. No, I couldn’t sustain that either. I once got diabetes watching the Sound of Music.
Art work is essential. The art sells the book. I mean who can’t write children’s literature with the right illustrator?
Or perhaps I should concentrate on my market. To thine own market be true. But…I mean, what the hell is my market? I’ll tell you. My market is whoever will buy the stuff. Check. Check mate. Catch 22.
“Elmer Gantry was drunk!” that’s it. The opening line. “My name is Ishmael!” “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” 211 more pages and I’ve got a hit on my hands.
Now.. to be memorable. If they leave humming the scenery, you know you’re in trouble. In theatre, it’s called “The 11th hour number.” It’s Hello Dolly. The Impossible Dream. I could Have Danced all night. Great. I begin with “It was the best times, it was the worst of times,” then end with “If I were a Rich Man!” All that’s left are the 211 pages in between.
You know, I can do this. Craftsman is more than a screwdriver sold be Sears. I can put all these things together tied neatly with a publicist’s ribbon scheduled to enter the market just before the Christmas rush and priced low enough to be the current hit stocking stuffer which no one reads. Or, God willing, perhaps even the saccharine stocking-stuffer which everyone reads. “The Brides of Cass County!”
I send it out. I wait.. Then this note.. this note. This stupid note in the mail. “Dear sir… does not meet our current needs: only one thing lacking: truth!”
Damn. Why don’t I ever think of that?