I’m an apprentice to Harland Singh—he’s a Nobel Prize winning writer and I’m his nephew. I shadow him to learn the art—but unfortunately, printing is a failing trade.
My uncle became great before personal computers and social media—it’s a different game now and he knows it. Nobody’s interested in hard cover books, certainly not at his prices, unless they decorate using books as art—maybe then, but otherwise forget it.
“Find your own voice, John,” Uncle Harland says. —Okay, that’s kind of like leaving Hansel and Gretel in the middle of the forest to find their way home—not bloody likely.
Three months of sitting through a Florida heat wave and listening to Uncle’s rants have taught me nothing—other than writing today is no country for old men.
Uncle Harland wouldn’t make it in today’s market—his literary fiction would be considered niche marketing and no sane publisher would risk the dinero. We’re witnessing devolution and the dumbing down of America.
People would rather play computer games than read a book or think too deeply—thinking takes time, and time is money.
“It’s sad to see the young turning cynical,” Uncle says. “Youth should be a time of idealism.”
In a world of shoulds and coulds, that’s one to grow on. Gee, thanks Unc—excuse me while I kiss the sky.
Back in my Toronto state of mind, I’m no further ahead then when I headed south to sit at the ascended master’s feet. My social platform sucks—I lost a couple of hundred Twitter followers, and Facebook and Linkedin just aren’t cutting it.
It seems everyone wants to self-publish on Kindle, just for the hell of it. Most of the people I tweet to or invite into my circles or link up with are doing the same thing I’m doing—pushing their book. It’s mighty discouraging.
Just a few years back, if someone said Indie, I’d think Raiders of the Lost Ark—not any more. Now, even if you have a publisher, they expect you to do most of your own promotion and marketing.
What I know about monetizing is about equal to what the Pope knows about the Vatican Bank—in other words, not bloody much.
“You’re just a ray of sunshine,” Kelly smirks.
She barely puts up with me lately because I’m nothing close to visible light—more like a malevolent black hole. My crushing gravity sucks the life out of everything and then swallows the light too.
One day I’ll collapse into nothingness, or maybe pop up in some alternate universe, where being a writer is a calling—not an audition for The Voice.
“I like your gravitas,” Gloria Swanson says. She’s attached to the Lightman Group—one of the largest east coast literary agencies.
“You’ve already got a platform and what’s more unusual, you can write.”
I’m looking at her blue-eyed, curly, redheaded vivacity and wondering where all her energy goes. She could light the Great White Way—she lights up a room just by entering it.
“But if I rep you, you’ll have to tone down your controversy.”
“Gee, I thought I was pretty staid—a positive guy.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “One little sexist remark or politically incorrect comment can turn off hundreds of potential readers.”
“Okay, I get that, but where do I draw the line between my private self and my commercial self?”
She looks at me with tsk tsk eyes, but neatly sidesteps my puddle of piddle.
“Don’t think commercial self—think public voice—finding your own voice is a delicate balancing act.”
“What if I screw up?”
“That won’t happen—leave it to me—I’ll manage you and handle the optics. You’ll be the next Nicholas Sparks.”
Making a million on my first book sounds cool to me. Like Ringo says, all I gotta do is act naturally.
A month later and my newfound identity is rubbing me raw.
Gloria has me doing signings, usually for bookstores in malls. She’s given me a checklist of do’s and don’ts and high on her list is schmoozing with the bookstore staff—“They’re the ones who’ll push your book—don’t turn them off.”
Sounds easy, but she doesn’t have to deal with these types.
“John Geddes—wasn’t your mother an actress on Dallas?”
I smile at the bespectacled, pudgy manageress, who’s running the book signing for today.
“No, that must be my aunt Barbara you’re thinking about.”
The lights go on. “Ah yes, Barbara—she was a feisty woman.”
I nod sagely while wondering if I might sell her some Florida swampland close to Uncle Harland’s retreat.
“We had a girl in her last week—dressed up like a vampire in a long black cloak—sold a lot of books for me. Vampires are big now.”
“The Geo Cache Murders is a murder mystery—Bella Lugosi just wouldn’t cut it.”
She looks at me icily. “You could have dressed up like Sherlock Holmes,” she sniffs.
My hands are itchy—I want to wring her neck.
“Next time I’ll dress up,” I smile—after hell freezes over.
Gloria arches an eyebrow. “Well, how many books did you sign in two hours?”
“Sixteen, I suppose—I probably could’ve signed more if I brought my detective costume.”
She laughs, and then says, “Don’t be cynical, John—the little people out there know what customers want. Maybe we’ll send you back in costume before Christmas and see if sales improve.”
“How’d you like the newspaper interview?” I ask her.
“It was good when you stuck to our strategy—I think your comment about Washington D.C. rolling up the sidewalks on Sundays won’t go over well in the Capitol.”
“I was looking for a decent place to eat—that burg’s a ghost town Sundays and most nights after midnight.”
“Well, maybe you should stifle those remarks—they don’t help sales.”
“The reporter thought I was hilarious—he wrote a favorable article.”
Gloria smiled thinly. “Ah yes, but we gave him a complimentary copy of the novel and he’s not the public who’s buying your book. If we send you to Washington to promote the novel, don’t alienate the residents.”
“You have a lot of rules,” I pouted.
“We have a lot of money invested,” she countered.
I stare out her windows at the New York skyline. The setting sun’s a solemn red—matching my mood.
“We’re going to send you to the U. K. next—maybe the Sherlock Holmes costume might work over there.”
My heart sinks with the setting sun.
Maybe Imelda Staunton was right when she said agents have to get you into a box to accommodate their limited imaginations.
One thing I do know, if I stay in that box, my voice will no longer be heard.
Needless to say, I don’t go to the U.K. I also drop Gloria Swanson as my agent.
A few weeks later, Uncle Harland calls on the phone.
“How’s the battle going?” he asks.
I tell him about my agent and he laughs. “Sounds like you’re finding your own voice,” he says.
“I thought having your own voice was a matter of developing a distinctive style and cultivating your own literary personality.”
“Well, it is, but it’s also having the guts to stand up for what you believe and doing what’s right for you. In the end, that’s what shines through in your writing and makes you unique.”
I’ve changed my mind about Uncle Harland—I think he would still make it in today’s market.
Every real writer, like a prophet, can speak to any generation—not because he makes up stories—but because his voice carries the ring of truth.
