So, adrift, me and the butchered great American novel (see last post), I turn to the source of all of man’s accumulated knowledge. As G.W. Bush called it, “The Google.” How to get published…
I The Googled all kinds of stuff – self publishing – literary agents – how the fuck do I get anyone to read this mess – editors… I need an editor, one who is not insane.
I stumble on this one site, looks very legitimate. They don’t take every submission, they only accept ten percent; acceptance is practically a sure bet to a huge publishing deal. They want the first chapter, synopsis, a bio…
I set out to work. I want this. I want this bad. I begin my twenty or twenty-first edit of chapter one. I edit, I polish, I hate, I scream, I post on Facebook, people say, “It’s good, but there is a typo on the third paragraph.”
I scream some more. I plot revenge. I edit some more. I write some more, I post some more. I reply, “I meant to spell Louisiana with a ‘W’ in it, it’s called poetic license, you dick.” I hate the English language and everyone on Facebook.
I write the synopsis, I write a bio. My bio sucks, do I mention the horse thieves? Probably better to not…
I think back lovingly of Dave/Doug. I hated him, but he wasn’t such a bad guy, except for the tweed and his politics. I hate fucking tweed and Ted Cruz. I hate Doug/Dave again. I move forward. I thank the Facebook likers, I swear I’ll unfriend every one of them. Finally after another week it’s ready. Just under the “deadline.”
I send it.
I wait.
I Google.
I start reading; I find this thing is a scam. Another week passes and I get this official looking letter. I’d been “accepted.”
Now, for only about $2,000 they will start presenting my work to agents and publishers. All I need to do is sit back and figure out where in the back yard I’m going to bury all the bags of money I’m going to make.
My short list of people I want to strangle becomes more manageable.
It’s now April, then early May. It’s been three months since I stopped writing and started this editing process. Edit this…
I soldier on. I’ve talked to this guy, Rob, but there is obviously something very wrong with him. He’s methodical and helpful, insightful. Almost a guide, like a friend in the business. I figure he must be the most devious snake oil salesman who ever lived. Sucking you in with friendship and sound advice… Maybe the most nefarious of all the snake oil salesmen. Foolishly, I set him aside as a fallback…
I start talking to another guy so slimy I’m sure he leaves a trail when he walks. My kind of guy. A kind of spirit guide. I send him some of my work. As expected, he says it is the best example of pen to paper or font to word document ever created. He wants to work with me. My manuscript is nearly perfect in every way.
He sends me a nice email back detailing how for only $4000 he will edit my work and prep it for Createspace. I calmly read FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS!?!?!? WHAT THE FUCK?!!! I was better off with Dave/Doug. For $4000 I could have hired someone to write this nightmare and done something constructive, like pimping or politics.
Next up: If this thing was only on paper, I’d burn it and roast marshmallows.
