31th Aug 09 → The Sunday Cock ‘n’ Bull session

My day to write on the blog. I’m sitting at a table behind the front window of Starbuck’s monitoring the parking lot. I’m waiting for my friend Madison, the Mad Mutt, to arrive. We’ve a lot in common, as we are both orthopedic surgeons who aren’t practicing surgery anymore.

He calls these brunches cock ‘n’ bull sessions as in “we’ll have a little of the cock ‘n’ bull, and a venti.” Most of the time, we venti plenty, two old bone-bending curmudgeons who think they understand how the world works, even, as the ground shifts under our feet.

I guess, a former Marine Police Investigator isn’t going to call our meetings a hen party, but that is basically what they are. When we aren’t venting, we gossip, but with a manly attitude. No Latté’s, we go for Cappuccino’s no added sugar, and chocolate croissants warmed in the microwave. Crumb cake gets powdered sugar on your Tommy Bahamas shirts, or your front-pleated chinos, never know when you’ll need a little extra tummy room. They have to be dry-cleaned, not a good idea to soil them. The BWC agents at home call the white powder trace evidence.

We be men. Picture both of us flexing our Pecs while growling, ”Grrr.” The belly bounces, when old guys flex their pecs. Doesn’t happen when you are young and fit. Women straight from the gym in Reeboks, leggings and sports bras stare, wonder, and then move away. The baristas giggle. They think were flirting. To us flirting has one monogamous target, our in-house BWC agent. It works for me.

We talk about the kids. He has one, a female lawyer, Pam who is divorced and practicing law in Shrewsbury. That’s New Jersey for all of you who are geographically challenged.

I have two daughters neither of whom has taken the first step toward divorce, since they are both single, and never married. But they’re young and there’s time, hopefully for marriage without divorce. Marriage is sort of like playing golf, the fewer tries the better your score. Mulligans are frowned upon and costly.

Mutt is divorced and making a second attempt with fiancée Tink. It’ll work this time, since they’ve known each other for over eight years. She started out as his x-ray tech. For the last four or five years, she has lived in his shore home as a dollar-a-month tenant, because her crazy former boyfriend arsoned her Metuchen house to the ground. They slept in separate bedrooms until two years ago when The Fatal Blow happened. But now, even Pam accepts they are good for each other, making a family with her and Jayson. And that leads us to today.

Anyway, I watched a 735 BMW drive up with Pam behind the wheel. Tink was in the back seat with Jayson, playing a silly car game that had Jay throwing himself. Mutt gave Pam a real kiss, and got out. It was good to see the love. It wasn’t always that way, since Pam’s return to the shore. Misunderstanding fostered by ten years of non-communication, but that’s over.

Tink then exited the back door, and she and Mutt rehearsed a kissing scene from “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Bradjolina had nothing over my two friends. Get a room.

He was only getting coffee for god’s sake, and Starbuck’s has never been fatal. The man's been through Vietnam as an MPI and has survived gunshot wounds from the Mob. He's only going to drink coffee til you guys get back.

Tink got in the front seat, and they drove off, while Pam and Tink chatted away as if they were having the cock ‘n’ bull while Mutt was going to a serious commitment like rehab.

It’s a sunny Sunday and I figured Great Adventure. Mutt corrected me. “Right direction, wrong target, the Outlets.”
Jayson had begged to sit at Starbuck’s with us, but the rules for cock ‘n’ bull are no one under 18 allowed even with a grandparent. So he gets to play model for Tink and Pam.

Accessorizing, the female term for putting frilly things a young man against his will to humiliate him. Jay, so young yet so wise, saw what was coming. He was powerless to stop it.

Mutt thanked me for the saving him by creating a valid excuse to escape. He’d pay the bills and not participate in the shopping effort. Men are more into try-outs than try-ons.

I suggested we needed to take Jay to a ball game and teach him macho things. Mutt’s answer was “They can’t even walk in and out of the dugout without hurting themselves. They get hurt during rehab for heaven’s sake. They’re not men, they’re an infirmary waiting to happen, hospital ward fodder in a uniform.”

Mutt is a fan of the Mets as I am. We have the insight of Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeons. Hell, in the past, I even met and spoke with some of the ones taking care of the Mets. The injuries this year create one of several conclusions.

One, the people talking to the media are lyin’ rats. When they say it is a small injury involving the ankle, it is probably broken in three places, and dislocated. For what purpose? Got me. With the way sports teams in the Metropolitan area reveal injuries, this could be the true problem for fans. Delusional expectations feed by false information. OR …

Two, the doctors don’t know what they are doing or are influenced by the team management to take a shot at a quick fix. Anyone who knows anything about histology and hematology knows that injecting damaged blood products into a healing area increases inflammation by adding fibrous precursors, causing more scarring. This prolongs healing, and makes it more painful, period. The scar needs to be stretched everyday for up to nine months. It is the immutable law of nature’s healing. It is not suspended because this player is a New York Mutt. Now they say Jose may need surgery. What are they doing? That’s rhetorical.
I think the timing on the Delgado surgery speaks for itself. A-Rod had similar surgery, and he’s back fighting for a pennant. The Mutts {Mets new name} – with all due respect to my physician colleague – timed it so they could pay a salary for a player who will miss at least 80% of the season and will become a free agent this winter. And thanks to Bernie M. there isn’t enough money left to re-sign him.

Anyone out there want to get paid millions while rehabbing in Florida and occasionally sitting on the bench of a major league team, joking around with your teammates. You could do worse. Then when things get really stressful, you could take time off and visit your family and newborn daughter in the Caribbean. Is that a sympathetic tear I see in your eye? Is it for Mutt and me or the injured players who are suffering so?

Then next year that player can negotiate a contract that will make a team pay him a million or two just to peek and see if he regained any of his past prowess. He makes money whether he has recovered fully or not.

Mutt ranted about how even the New York Nomads were having a better year, and four of them were indicted for throwing baseball games. You can read about that in the future, when he has finished writing that book. It doesn't have a title yet. It may not even be a complete outline, but it's there in his head, waiting.

Arthur Frank, our friend from the FBI, is a Phillies fan. Boyo, we can’t invite him to the cock ‘n’ bull sessions until it’s NFL time. His winter team is the Eagles. Then we can talk about hiring a felon for the backfield. Maybe Art worked on his clearance?

“Who let the dogs out?” Oh my bad. I don’t think they will play that song in Philly this year.

At least, we have ammo for the cock ‘n’ bulls this winter, when Art hangs with us, or takes Mutt to the range in Sea Girt for target practice.

Till then we’ll just have to stand the pain.

Lew P.

Mutt’s Journal 28th Aug 09

Friday morning office hours: Four second opinions for surgery and three independent medical examinations, two sent by AllState. One was a walking wounded, with a large herniated disc at L4-5 on the MRI associated with a missing knee jerk reflex and a sensory deficit on the anterior shin. AllState won’t be happy with the report, but that isn’t important.

The other examinee is healed but claiming persistent symptoms, a fraud without findings, awaiting the green poultice. I asked for several tests that will be accepted by the legal system as hard evidence of normalcy. Justice will be done, if AllState authorizes the test. When they fake continued injuries, they are reaching into the public’s pocket.

The last client was the centerfielder of the New York Nomads. He was having issues with balance, swallowing, walking and driving at night, no wonder they can’t beat the Sisters of Mercy’s girls softball team.

He already had a big work-up at a New York hospital, but the blood work and x-rays were normal. At 19 million a year, the team wanted him on the field, not in the infirmary. The doctors dismissed him as a drunk and the DUI stop in Florida during spring training, served as evidence, even though he registered zero on the BAC machine.

When doctors don’t know the answer, the patient is crazy or lying, or the objective test performed by a machine is wrong, because a doctor never is.

As a doctor, I know we generally believe this lie, to protect our egos. All physicians suffer from the same delusion, DOE, Doctor of Everything. That’s why so many go bankrupt running a restaurant or something. It comes with the hypocrite’s oath. Sorry I digress.

Josh Jones was accused of throwing Major League games. My daughter, Pam, is defending him, because George – her ex – is his business agent and sent the referral.

Josh may not reach the hall of fame in Cooperstown, but after twenty minutes examining him, I know he’ll make the hall of fame of arrogant asses. We consulted anyway, because we are professionals, and he’s sick, physically.

Tink said his aura is sickening, but that should be differentiated from physical disease. The difference between smelling rotten eggs and eating them is the degree of involvement. Doctors smell the cooking, friends of Josh, well you get the picture.

I’m convinced he isn’t bright enough to figure out how to throw a game. He’s lucky to remember how to throw a baseball, or find his way to the ballpark in time for the game, while riding in a limousine with the driver using a GPS.

His disease interfered with his ability this year, but next year he’ll bounce back. I know what ails him. I can get him the cure. I’m a doctor; I know it all.

With the humor of the supernatural, dark thunderhead clouds filled the sky at the end of office hours. Tink laughed, because I had promised Jayson an afternoon at Point Pleasant on the rides. Apparently I didn’t know the weather report. Omniscient for less than a day, so goes life.

The Monmouth sky is deep enough to hold thick black clouds that cause sudden street floods and thunder that rattle Anderson Windows, both panes like Spanish maracas.

Pam had client appointments all afternoon at her Shrewsbury office, and release Jay to our custody. It takes two adults to control a single hopped up eight year-old on a mission of exuberance. He had day-cared all morning. He is getting used to calling Tink, Bubby although she isn’t much older than his mother. I am getting used to calling her snookems, in public, which drives the young guys who want to hit on her absolutely crazy. Yeah, I said absolutely. Her vocabulary is rubbing off on me too.

We reached Jenkinson’s and bought a strip of tickets, as Jayson eyed the rides. I asked him about visiting the Aquarium.

“Grandappy, I like dogs like Bubs, not fish. Fish are yucky. You can’t pet ‘em.”

So we went to the rides. Tink rode the tilt-a-whirl with Jay because I get carsick and have flashbacks to helicopters in Nam. I’m too large to get in the small train with him, so we watched him circle the yard. He begged to go to the water slide, but we all wore Bermudas and t-shirts.

“Next time big guy.” I winked at him and he winked back.

It started to rain. We still had 8 tickets, but I used all 8 to buy a kiss from Tink – the bargain of the day – and she stowed them in her carryall.

Jay asked, “We come back tomorrow?”

We ate at Jenkinson’s Pavillion. The rain didn’t stop, so we drove home to the shore house to wait for Pam. Jay laid out in front of the television and couldn’t care less that nothing in the house was moving except Bubs. She only wagged her tail sitting at the foot of the couch while I read the JBJS. Tink napped.

Dinner tonight at Punjab Ocean Palace owned by my Friend Singh Mack, Chicken Vindaloo. Jayson brought his six-shooter, because he’s sure not all Indians are friendly like Uncle Mack. Too bad I don’t have FBI protection anymore.

The Mad Mutt goodnight.

Mutt's Journal

I now have a co-author who will be writing about his world. His name is Dr. Madison Muttnick. He is the main character in a series of mystery novels, some of which are actually already in manuscript form. He visits me daily at my home and tells me about his world.

He is an Orthopedic Surgeon who is semi-retired after his stroke. He still performs second opinions and Independent Medical Examinations in his brand new office at the hospital annex. It represents part of the settlement which was made at the end of The Fatal Blow.

His x-ray tech, Tinker Belle, Rose Mary Angelucci, is now his fiancee, but she still works with him. His daughter Pam is a lawyer with offices in Shrewsbury. His grandson Jayson lives at the shore house with Tink and Pam, and a white standard Poodle that Pam still calls Bubbles, but everyone else calls, Bubs.

The Mad Mutt will be blogging on this site with daily activities at the shore. He is presently working on the diagnosis of Josh Jones who is the multi-million dollar center fielder for the New York Nomads.

All characters mentioned in his journal are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to people, alive or dead is purely coincidental. Reference to world events and actual places that exist are made to ground the scenes in reality. Not all the places actually exist, and not all the events actually took place, except in the Mad Mutt's mind. Which according to Sartre would make them real to Mutt. Go figure.

If this world as described by the Mad Mutt seems real to you, then I thank you for believing. If it seems preposterous, then I am sorry. It is written to entertain and to have fun. The real world with its problems and its solutions is at times too real. Mutt always escapes successfully, and it is my pleasure to bring you along.

The Mad Mutt and Tink were in the office Friday morning and spent the afternoon with Jayson at Pt. Pleasant. For full details check tomorrow's post.

Dr. Lew

Birth Announcement: Dr. Madison Muttnick 90,000 words, 47 chapters and 356 double-spaced pages long, the Fatal Blow.

Dr. Madison Muttnick was conceived in the basement of a bar in New Brunswick, among the sterno-heated aluminum chaffing dishes filled with chicken marsala and a fleshy white fish whose exact identity remains unknown. It’s not as sleazy as it sounds. In September 2008, Tumulty’s was the site of the New Jersey Satellite meeting of Mystery Writers of America. My friend Arthur had been urging me to write murder mysteries, as Darth Varder to my Luke. I had refused to come over to the dark side until that date.

The guest panel that night included Mary Jane Clark, Jane Cleland, and Jeff Cohen. Chris Grabenstein moderated the meeting. The writing of a murder mystery with three or four tent poles as landmarks, clarified the anatomy of the mysterious literary birth canal. They set the path for the Mad Mutt to spring forth without Caesarian sectioning of my brain. Arthur and the above listed group must therefore be considered Aunts and Uncles of the good Doctor.

In the past, 1985 and again in the 1990’s I started a murder mystery, and each time I aborted it for lack of enthusiasm. I wasn’t ready for parenthood. In 2009 I am the proud father of a novel. Want to see snapshots? Three murders, one wounding via gunshot, an attempted poisoning, and a heart attack with a stroke as the residual, there are also multiple acts of deception. My little one is so precocious.

My mind’s fertile womb nurtured the seed into a 90,000 word murder mystery in which the protagonist, Dr. Madison Muttnick is a middle-aged orthopedic surgeon with an inflated sense of righteousness. He learns that being right can get you killed. The cliché is write what you know, so you have a platform and expertise. I am a retired orthopedic surgeon who discontinued practicing rather than practice medicine that saw the patient as an inconvenience on the way to a bill.

The Fatal Blow is not an only child. Prior to its birth, I created an 115,000 word mainstream novel called Aphrodite and the Frog King. First time parenthood teaches the sire and the author significantly. Re-writing and editing a 600,000 word novel down to 115,000 is a whole MFA program by itself. A literary PhD equivalent is gained through re-writing and editing the synopsis and the chapter outline. The child matures to adulthood through experiences.

A&tFK had no platform and therefore was lost in the crowd, unseen, failing to grow to its full stature. It is confined to my laptop on just rom space and electricity, the computer equivalent of bread and water. It continues to grow in my mind, but stagnates in its development in binary digital flesh.

The Fatal Blow will not remain as the only Muttnick mystery for long. Another embryo grows in the womb. As Mutt recovers from his stroke, he will become involved in another mystery, involving one of his daughter’s clients who is accused of murdering her husband, an abortion practicing Ob-Gyn. Meanwhile, Tink, Mutt's young girlfriend, becomes accidently pregnant with Mutt's child.

So my family of writings will contain one mainstream novel, one murder mystery and a murder mystery on the way. I didn’t even need an ultrasound to deter the new little one’s genre.

Oh and PS as in publish or sink, we will be having a birthday party of sorts for Dr. Madison Muttnick, although the partyers will not know it. Arthur is planning another Satellite meeting of the New York Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America for October 21, 2009. If you wish further information or to be informed of the plan, contact the New York Chapter of Mystery Writers of America, or leave a message on this blog.

The April 29, 2009 Mary Higgins Clark Award Cocktail Party

As a new member to Mystery Writers of America, I attended a cocktail party the evening before the Edgar Awards in New York City, April 29, 2009. It was held at the Lighthouse International.    

It was an opportunity for writers to meet other writers, literary agents, and editors. Mary Higgins Clark, the grand dame of suspense, gave out the Award named after her and sponsored by her publisher, Simon and Schuster.   

My medical murder mystery, The Fatal Blow, was in the final stages of polishing, and so, I went to pitch, meet and learn from experts.

My friend Mr. Art (his name concealed to protect the innocent) provided transportation into New York. At the door, I found Chris Grabenstein the President of the New York chapter. He is always pleasant. He introduced me to another new member from New Jersey. We spoke briefly, our mouths full of nosh, and our spirits elevated by the atmosphere.        

Mr. Art then introduced me to C.J. Box who is one of his favorite authors. Mr. Box discussed the use of cyanide as a murder weapon in his mystery – the next night his book won an Edgar Award. He was generous with his time and enthusiastic. His joy in writing and communicating was blatant. I could even understand him through his Wyoming accent.  

Mr. Art also introduced me to Dr. D.P. Lyle – there is something mysterious about two first initials instead of a first name - who is an expert in forensics. He has published several mysteries and an authoritative book on Forensics. He is a cardiologist by vocation. He had consulted for the US boxing team during the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. He discussed meeting Muhammad Ali, Evander Holyfield, and others. He will answer questions concerning medical situations in mystery writing via e-mail. He is a great resource for a mystery writer. He shares his time so willingly, and thereby becomes a role model for others.  

The first agent I spoke with actually introduced herself and asked if I had a book to pitch. My name tag listed M.D. after my name, and that may have spurred her interest.  She listened to my pitch and asked for my manuscript when it was ready, voluntarily giving me her card. Whether she likes my writing or not is not the point, I expect if I live long enough and keep improving, someone, sometime, somewhere will. The dignity with which she interacted with me, and the simple courtesy shown to me, made her special. When you talk to an agent, you should be sizing them up as they appraise you. This lady impressed me.    

I found a coven of lady literary agents after Mary Clark Higgins presented the Award named for her. I stood patiently beside them waiting to be acknowledged. I waited and I waited. One agent looked me in the eye and turned away. I’m married over thirty-seven years, but I had flashbacks to college mixers and rejection. I know they had a long day with a symposium and such, but she looked embarrassed that she made eye-contact.

Eventually, my patience paid off as one of the four said, “Hello.” I introduced myself and asked if I could pitch my almost polished manuscript. She politely agreed. To be totally fair in the setting of the discussion, Mr. Art waited as my wing man, and in the wings to pitch his work as well. So I guess to agents, we were double trouble and she could have felt double-teamed.

Guys you know the girl who when you asked them to dance politely gave you that one dance and the minute the music stopped, she ran back in the protective circle of her friends, yeah well, more flashbacks.         

The agent listened to my pitch and voluntarily asked for my manuscript when it was completed. Using my intuition, I surmised she was honest in wishing to read my first fifty pages. She lacked the enthusiasm of the first agent.   

Mr. Art queried as to her tastes in writing style. She answered with several important things that would make her interested in a manuscript. She mentioned a famous client of hers as an example of the writing she favors. In that way, she tried to impress me, so maybe she really did want to read my manuscript, or maybe she was bragging. Once again, the level of professional deportment, allowed both agent and would-be-writer to leave the encounter with their dignity intact.

Mr. Art then introduced me to an agent he had met before. She knew him by name. He mentioned that I too had a manuscript whose completion was imminent. The agent maintained a conversation with Mr. Art, which was about Sleuth-fest and other events that they had attended. She interacted with me as if I were a wall. She made sure that neither Mr. Art nor I could initiate any conversation that involved the art of communication, writing and or manuscripts. She abruptly walked away, in mid-discussion with my friend to visit with someone else. I would take that as a bad sign as to a working relationship. Mr. Art suggested she is more interested in female writers. I could not be sure, as all I learned was she wasn’t interested in listening to me, at all. Good for her, live long and prosper, bitch.       

I have performed over 120,000 interviews – history taking – as a practicing physician. I have learned to read faces much more than adequately. I felt slighted by her behavior. However, at the MWA chapter meeting April first, Judith Kelman advised me that I should expect to be treated like contaminated dirt by some agents. As a writer you must have a contracted ego and immediate amnesia for situations such as that. I guess I’m an elephant, too bad for me.       

I therefore thank all the agents who treat writers with respect and show courtesy. I know they don’t have to, but when they do, writers should appreciate the effort. If writer and agent are to work as a team, and if the agent is looking for writers to work with, how could they behave in any other manner? That’s rhetorical. 

I was fortunate to talk with an agent I had meet in the past. She is a little ball of fire, whose personality lights up a room. She spoke at our writer’s group and I know that she respects and wants to aid young and new writers. I consider her a friend, who would be willing to help, even if she isn’t representing me. To create that feeling between an agent and a writer, an ease of talking, is a goal for both parties.     

I was able to meet with two other young agents – under 30 – who had the enthusiasm of day old codfishes. You know the silvery eyes that say enough, when will he stop talking. The in an effort to hasten the conclusion they say, “Ok, send it me.” The begging for their card and the referral to their web site, they personalize it by saying, “Just follow the directions on the web.” How special did that make me feel?

They mean to say, just leave me alone. In their defense I am sure they had a long day. They probably wanted to BS with their friends at the party. I am sorry I disturbed you. Please accept my apology, but not my submission. By rejecting me, you are doing us both a real favor.  

Take this exactly as I mean it. I am not the next Hemingway, closer to the next two-ton Tony Gallento. If I was however the next James Patterson, how would they ever know. When I send them my manuscript, will it ever be read, or will it go straight from the mail chute to the greased chute to the reject/shredder pile.

I have saved the best for last. I spoke with Mary Higgins Clark and her daughter Carole. They were cordial, sweet and patient. Writers who have succeeded to the level at which they have, could be superior, sullen, snide, cynical, or sarcastic. They represented the antonyms of these words. The respect they showed me pumped my enthusiasm to go home and finish polishing that manuscript.   

Mary, I wish you health and continued vigor. Standing next to you, I felt the energy that drives you forward, and the joy that life brings to you. I wish that you continue to possess these gifts, for you and your readers. I wish your reading public, another twenty novels to drive their imaginations. I look forward to visiting with you this summer. It’s a plan.   

April 1, 2009. My first New York Chapter meeting of Mystery Writers of America as a member.

The monthly meeting of the New York Chapter is routinely held on the first Wednesday of the month at the National Arts Club, 15 Gramercy Park South in Manhattan. The brownstone generates an atmosphere of yesteryear, and gentleman’s club with cigar smoke and a private bar. Art works and sculptures grace the corridors that are lined with plush couches and red velvet covered club chairs. But the real reason to partake is the information a neophyte author can gain from the people attending.

The meeting’s topic Authors & Agents: The Search For a Meaningful Relationship. The subtitle: They meet. Fall in Love. Tie the Knot. Publish happily ever after.

I arrived early because it was the first meeting in New York City that I attended – I attended one that was held in New Brunswick last November, before I was a member. I explored the brownstone, while the board members met in the dinning room. I found a second floor sitting room and chatted with an author, who had published a thriller some years ago, and presently wished to sell a mystery novel. We commiserated on the difficulty in cutting down your story to the acceptable lengths of our genre. It always seems the really good stuff has to go. Yet in retrospect, we write that good stuff for ourselves, and cutting it out, makes the book more directed towards our audience. We also batted around several theories on story development thriller versus mystery.

At 6 PM the cocktail party started. I was lucky enough to spend time talking to S.J. Rozan whose latest novel Shanghai Moon had received excellent reviews. Her agent Steven Axelrod was with her. During our discussion, Judith Kelman another well received and successful author, who third husband is a physician on staff at Cornell Weill Medical Center, joined us. As you can imagine, listening to experience is an education for a neophyte writer. S. J. Rozan and Mr. Axelrod offered words of kind advice. It’s nice meeting good people.        

In the past, I have spoken with Jeffery Cohen, who is a friend of Mr. Art. He is the regional vice president and in charge of new membership. He has several published mysteries with one to be released in April. I took the opportunity to ask about manuscript length and he was more than happy to volunteer help in that area. His agent, Christina Hogrebe, spoke during the presentation as well.  

About 40 people attended the meeting and during dinner we sat around in tables of ten or less. I renewed an acquaintance with Mr. Paradise who is a mystery author from New Jersey. I met him while attending the Backspace Writer’s Conference last summer. We chatted during dinner. There were other interesting people at my table including: One was a former south New Jersey police detective; another was an author who had a piece rejected by Atlantic Monthly but was asked by the editor of that magazine to submit more of her work, and several others who tagged along with friends to the meeting. You have to keep your ears open, because you’ll learn things that you would never think about. 

As dessert started, Chris Grabenstein, the regional President, transformed into the panel moderator. He has a sharp wit, and always is entertaining. The two agents and both authors described how they met and formed a partnership, using a format ala Hiroshima Amour. The agent’s and the client’s versions meshed closely, so no one was embarrassed. They exposed the unique working relationships between each successful authors and agents.

Questions and answers followed with no shocking inquiries or comments.

The meeting was adjourned and I rode the NJ Transit train home to Matawan. I certainly received my money’s worth from the meeting.

why readers read what writers write

I may have an obtuse angle to my approach to what my audience is looking for, but I think readers read, what writers write, because they are filling a knowledge gap. Human information behavior is such that when we feel we lack knowledge it makes us uneasy, anxious. That feeling drives us to capture the missing knowledge or fill that gap.

It sounds strange but lets look at the most obvious case - exception - that proves my rule. Suppose you have a favorite author, who you love for style or content or storytelling ... whatever. He, she or it has written a new book, will you read it? Why? Because you don't know what the author has written, and it might be enjoyable. An author with a following plays on the knowledge gap to create interest in his or her new book. That's what advertising is for, to create your anxiety. 

More generally, romance readers want to see how the heroine gets her man. Thriller readers want to know what mayhem the antagonist is creating, and how and if the protagonist can stop it. Mystery readers want to know who dunnit, and how the detective will figure it out. Students read textbooks for the same reason, a lack of specific knowledge. 

As an author we must remember to focus on the goal of our work, to fill the audience's knowledge gap. That is why they came to us in the first place. That is knowing your audience.

So if we are smart authors, we will use our accumulated knowledge to create an interesting gap at the start of our book. The opening must be a tension filled hole, presented at least partially dug, worthy of the protagonist efforts to fill it, and mysterious enough to hold tension, and suspense to accompany the reader's anxiety. Although holes are always empty, our hole must be conveyed as real enough to allow our readers to identify with the situation and the characters, or if it is a fantasy, odd enough to be totally unreal. Not hard at all, this craft called writing.

The hook is really just a well dug, deep, complex hole that the rest of the book fills, shovel by interesting shovel. Each clod of dirt must hold the reader's attention, and therefore must be strewn with sparkling items - whether they are valuable or not is for the reader to decide. 

The author's decision is whether the shovels should be sufficient to fill the hole completely for our readers, so that at the end of the novel they won't need a bridge to cross to the other side. 

Modern writing and especially those authors who are trained in the superior MFA programs around the country, seem to think that filling the hole half-way and leaving the reader to climb down and walk across to climb up the far side is OK. They surmise that creates reader involvement. I like having the readers involved by watching the shoveling till the hole is level with the ground, and then they can walk to the other side with lower anxiety levels. But then maybe those well trained writers are not as obsessive as a retired surgeon. 

That is my major tiff with well trained inconclusive writers, but that is for another day. Today we know why readers read what writers write, no gap in knowledge there.  

Literary Agents Aren’t the Writer’s Enemy – Lower Personal Standards are.

Unpublished writers are always lamenting that Literary Agents are the enemy, intercepting their gifted pieces and preventing exposure to a major publisher. They are the Evil Empire of the Literary agents (EEL for short), absorbing power from the dark side. Maybe that is why we print manuscript on white paper, to counter the effects of the literary dark side.

While in today’s publishing market the literary agent is the gatekeeper for most publishers, any writer who thinks the problem through realizes that the gatekeeper is on his side.
The economics is a simple problem with an obvious solution. A literary agent makes money when he sells literature to a publisher. He receives a percentage of the royalties due the author. If he sells nothing, he makes nothing. If he sells a best selling book, he’s in the money ala Dan Brown and his agent. So it behooves him to FIND SALEABLE works. That is in fact what he lives for, works that are so superior they could sell themselves with little effort from him. That is a rare gem in deed, but he or she will settle for a work that can be marketed to a publisher with a reasonable expectation that it will sell successfully to the public, making all three money. Money makes publishing happen, period. A few years ago a book on identifying road kill in its native form, completely flattened, became a best seller. The subject is not important, the market is.
The alliance of the dollar creates bedfellows out of the writer, the publisher and the literary agent. Has there ever been a stranger ménage a trois?
Because the agent is the first step toward publication, it might be helpful to understand what makes an agent think that a manuscript is good/great. The first sale of the manuscript is between the writer and the agent. The sale involves both the manuscript and the writer (your personality could prevent a sale, make sure the agent has no reason to be annoyed with you). When a literary agent represents your manuscript, it is both your and his reputation that is on the line. To paraphrase an Indiana Jones movie: he will choose wisely and carefully.
The choice starts with submission to the right type of literary agent. While some agents are generalists, most have a special interest and thereby, specific contacts with editors who favor certain types of stories and genres. You should research your target literary agents and not waste the time of those that would not be interested in the next Hemmingway because they specialize in Slasher fiction. You must also research the format of submitting the query. Does the agent take e-mail queries? They are easier to send and delete. Do they accept unsolicited submissions? Do they only accept snail mail query letters? Is the agent not accepting new clients at this time? If you send the manuscript via e-mail attachment, what format (RFT, Doc, Docx, etc.) is acceptable to the agent? REMEMBER, pleasing the agent is paramount, they have the keys to the kingdom of publishing, you cannot enter without them as an escort. In the past that was not true, but today that rule is written in permanent marker and signed in blood.
You should make sure there is not a mistake in your query letter, whether they be typo’s or factual errors, ie address Francis Bacon as Ms. Bacon. One mistake and the agent might toss the letter. You must be docile and accept that their rule is absolute, do nothing to piss them off.
Write the query letter as a representative of the book, which might include using the same tone and voice or explaining the premise in such exciting terms that the agent can’t help but be interested. REMEMBER, you are marketing and selling your novel, no one can know how great it is if you do not tell him or her.
The second and smaller part of the query letter should state why you have the special ability to tell the story. What qualifies you above all others for this manuscript? Sell yourself. I meant that in the nicest way. You’re not a hooker.
Make sure the manuscript lives up to the hyperbole of the letter. Is that an oxymoron or a paradox, either way “x” marks the spot. If the manuscript is probably not going to find an audience (sell the hell out of the first printing) then it probably will never make it off the slush pile. The numbers are simple for a hardcover 20,000 copies makes it a mild success, and for paperbacks 50,000 copies, the more the better.
And remember that publishing a manuscript is a never-ending effort. Even when the publisher accepts it, there will be re-writes, editing decisions, choices concerning the cover, and an all out effort to publicize the book in any manner legally allowed (monetary constraints not withstanding).
So after writing a manuscript that the agent thinks meets the standard to allow it to be published with a happy monetary result, the work has only begun and the writer transforms into the publicist. That is the Happy Ending.

where have you been?

It has been a few months since I last posted other than Outlaw Words. I've been around the world and back again. The Philadelphia Writers Conference in June was the first time I pitched my book, Aphrodite and the Frog King. A literary agent asked to see the first three chapters, but after reading them decided that they were not her type of book. So back to the drawing board.

I took a vacation out West to the National Parks at Grand Teton, Yellowstone -- did not see Yogi -- and Glacier. There is nothing in the world as spectacular as the Road to the Sun through Glacier National Park. 

August found me reading two pages in two minutes at the Backspace Writer's Conference. Once again I was lucky enough to interest a literary agent. This time with my writing and not just the concept of the book. The manuscript is in his office at this time.

Comparing the two conferences, PWC was more about the mechanics of writing with workshops. I took a short story workshop that was excellent. The BksWC was more about how to get published and presented many successful author who were more than willing, to spend time with anyone to help make their goals more obtainable. 

Both conferences delivered what they advertised. 

My writing has advanced significantly over the summer.

Next posting I will report the speech of Mark Travani at Backspace. As a editor he delineated in simple terms what a manuscript must contain to be reviewed and published. 

Read constantly, think writing, write every day, constant improvement, satisfy yourself.