For the first time in at least a decade, I’ve reached out to a New York Times bestselling author to hopefully endorse a book I wrote.
It’s a new form of the querying process. You don’t like doing it, but you must. And it’s not that you dislike asking a particular author for this favor. You look up to these writers. They inspired you.
The prospect of rejection weighs on you. But as Hyman Roth of Godfather II fame once said, “This is the business we have chosen!”
So, it’s out there. Others will join it at some point, but you must start somewhere.
You can either be a Star Wars fan or a Star Trek fan. You can’t be both.
Well, you can, but I’ve found that people are particular to one of the franchises and know little about the other.
I’m a Star Wars guy. I grew up in the 1980s and was the perfect age for the original trilogy. Yes, Star Trek was around, and I dug The Wrath of Khan. (Who can forget William Shatner screaming “Khan!”)
It’s not that I dislike Star Trek, widely regarded as the thinking-man’s Star Wars. I never got into it. I’m vaguely aware of some of the lore, and I can do the Vulcan greeting. I even interviewed George Takei many moons ago.
So, I’m in no position to scrutinize the franchise’s newest offering, Starfleet Academy. I’ll leave that to others, and it seems there are plenty of people willing to do it.
Many Star Trek fans, I’m talking die-hard Trekkies, dislike it because, according to reviews, the show deviates from classic Star Trek storytelling (usually more on the scientific end of sci-fi, as opposed to the swashbuckling Star Wars adventures). They may have a point.
From what little I know about Star Trek, I’m positive that the Klingons of old were stand-ins for warmongering communists. Everyone knows that.
Starfleet Academy’s Klingon, Kraag (above), doesn’t seek an honorable death in battle, it seems. He seeks to discover beauty in life and enjoys watching birds. There’s not one thing wrong with this. I just queried an agent who likes bird-watching. There is, however, a teensy problem with Klingon warriors grabbing a pair of binoculars and squealing, “Ooh! There’s a fluffy-backed tit-babbler!” (Yes, that’s a real bird.)
That’s tantamount to Jabba the Hutt of Star Wars fame declaring, “You know, I really need to shed 500 pounds, eat more fruit, be less judgmental, and stop dropping innocent people into the rancor pit to be devoured for my amusement.”
It goes against everything we know about Jabba the same way prioritizing the spotting of a blue-billed cockatoo makes no sense for Klingons who pray for war and destruction.
And it appears whoever’s in charge of Star Trek is making the same mistake that Star Wars did under Kathleen Kennedy’s stewardship. Rather than stick with what works (Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Deep Space Nine were wildly popular and adhered to the franchise’s sophisticated takes on political and social issues), Star Trek now cranks out sophomoric dialogue and cliched storytelling geared toward, well, I’m not sure. The younger crowd? If so, don’t treat them like they’re stupid or talk down to them. Assume the audience isn’t swarming with bigots who need lectures about modern sensibilities. Nothing turns off an audience faster.
But I’m not that audience. I haven’t watched anything Star Trek in decades. And I’ve watched fewer Star Wars shows over the years. Too much of something good eventually turns everything bad because of the pressure to keep producing quality. It runs out. Maybe that’s where Star Trek is at this point. I hope not.
Maybe Star Trek, and Star Wars, for that matter, simply need new writers.
I’ve never self-published before. I’m old enough (50) to remember when readers at large frowned upon self-publishing. You’re not good enough for the Big Leagues. Why should I bother reading your crap?
Fortunately, that stigma, while not entirely gone, has been taken down a few pegs. Some of the most popular books (Legends & Lattes, Dungeon Crawler Carl, The Martian, We Are Legion [We Are Bob]) were all first self-published and are now massively successful. There are several other examples I could name.
So, it’s not that they’re not ready for the Big Leagues. They had to prove they were. And boy did they.
Many other authors got followers through independence, built a fan base, and were later picked up by the Big Five. It’s possible.
But when do you pull the trigger? At what point do you convince yourself that it’s you and nobody else?
I’m not there yet, but I am open to it. And I’d love to hear about when people reached their breaking points and hit publish on their own.
Is there anybody out there? (Say it like Roger Waters did from Pink Floyd’s The Wall.)
They didn’t always. Michael Crichton didn’t have a website with a newsletter link when he released Jurassic Park more than three decades ago. Yes, he was well known for The Andromeda Strain, among other works. But he wasn’t tweeting, posting on Facebook and doing a Book-Tok dance.
Do people dance on Book-Tok? I honestly don’t know.
Anyway, to appeal to agents and publishers, even though you technically don’t need one, it makes sense to have one. I’m updating my website this year (much needed after a decade). And am trying to get followers. I’m terrible at it. And, frankly, I don’t want to, but not for a reason you’re thinking.
I’d love to have thousands of followers, and you must work to get them. That’s fine.
But with Twitter/X especially, you invariably get bombarded with the day’s events and what people think about them. Again, fine.
Once you start reading the tweets, you’re bound to get angry or annoyed because almost everyone on Twitter seems angry and annoyed. Take any political issue–Greenland, Minnesota immigration, the Buffalo Bills collapsing again (OK, that’s not political, but it’s up for discussion–and you will get heated, f-bomb-laced screeds on both sides of the issue, and it’s easy to get sucked in.
I rarely comment on anything besides joking to point out absurdity, or chiming in on something that’s universally accepted, like praying for Rob Reiner and his wife after their son murdered them. Yes, there was one lunatic who felt compelled to behave indecently, but he’s not worth mentioning.
You lose time (when you should be writing) and your mental health when you descend into that hole. So, loath as I am to do, I will venture on Twitter to post author-related things (not incessant sales pitches, which are tedious). But, like a bank robbery, I want to be in and out as quickly as possible. And if someone likes whatever I post or wants to engage in a civilized back-and-forth, great!
It is possible to ignore the noise. It is possible to disconnect (putting the phone away)! Hard as it is to do, you will feel better. Maybe that’s the key to true happiness. Powering down.
The Force Awakens, the fist new SW flick in a decade released in 2015, and it was fine for what it was (almost an exact replica of the original Star Wars). Then things slid downhill.
New (and uninteresting and uninspiring) characters were added. Beloved characters killed off. Millions of childhoods died in the process.
I liked The Mandolorian, and will see the movie involving him this year. But most of the other SW offerings (The Acolyte especially, but also Ahsoka, Obi-Wan, the Book of Boba Fett) lacked. Poor writing, unlikeable characters, and, frankly, too much of it doomed the franchise.
What always made Star Wars special to me was its rarity. Growing up in the 80s, we couldn’t wait for Return of the Jedi! It has been an eternity (3 years is an eternity to a 7-year-old) since Empire. And we got Jabba and all those creatures. It’s still my favorite for that reason.
Then 16 years passed to 1999 and The Phantom Menace. And it was bad. But bad Star Wars is like bad pizza. You’ll still eat it. George wasn’t at his best then, and the subsequent 2 films at least explained things leading to the beginning of A New Hope. We got some animated SW after that, but no more movies. Until the sale. Then awful movies and many cringe-worthy shows. We were saturated with Star Wars shows and movies not worthy of carrying that name.
It’s to the point where new SW shows arrive on Disney+ and I don’t bother watching. It’s not that it’s not the same as the original trilogy, it’s now mass-marketed junk. The original movies had groundbreaking special effects. Everything now is blue screen and motion capture. The magic’s gone.
Maybe Kennedy’s replacement will manage to right the ship, but it’s a tall order. Time will tell. And we’ll get our first glimpse this summer with the new Mandolorian movie.
Until then, the original trilogy’s on bluray and the magic’s still there.
DOHA, Qatar – Conservative raconteur Tucker Carlson declared a fatwa on the nearly 1 million Iranian dissidents protesting the benevolent Islamic theocracy that prioritizes the health and safety of its people.
“Israel and the United States infidels have ginned up malevolence among childlike Iranian protestors who now must be put in their place,” Carlson said from the balcony of his sprawling compound on the outskirts of Doha while waving to a throng of shrieking Islamic supporters and groypers. “To answer the question, ‘what should not be done to rioters?’ The scholars, myself included, decree execution of those who oppose oppression and rigid religious orthodoxy.”
Thousands of unarmed Iranian citizens clogged streets in cities throughout the Islamic Republic that has fostered peace and prosperity since 1979. Carlson said his decision to speak publicly came on the heels of the Iranian mullahs streaming clips of Carlson praising the regime in Persian on the mostly blacked-out internet.
“A bombing campaign against Iran will set off a war, and it will be America’s war,” Carlson said. “Don’t let the propagandists lie to you.”
Carlson then pleaded with the protestors to avoid destroying the three-story black-and-white palatial estate in Tehran’s vibrant Vanak neighborhood.
“I purchased that property last month and plan on hosting the mullahs and my brother, Buckley Carlson, so we can denounce the United States as no better than North Korea,” Carlson said. “Please don’t throw rocks through the window or burn it to the ground. Failure to comply will result in immediate execution.”
Carlson then spent the next five minutes hysterically cackling like a little girl.
Cartoonist Scott Adams died today after a long battle with prostate cancer.
That’s the first thing he’ll be remembered for. He cartooned Dilbert for roughly three decades until he said something completely stupid–the second thing for which he’ll be remembered. And he has nobody to blame but himself. A few years ago, he discussed on his podcast the results of a poll in which, according to the New York Times, only 53 percent of Black Americans agreed with the statement, “It’s OK to be white.”
“If nearly half of all Blacks are not OK with white people — according to this poll, not according to me, according to the poll — that’s a hate group, and I don’t want to have anything to do with them,” he said on the podcast episode. “And I would say, based on the current way things are going, the best advice I would give white people is to get the hell away from Black people.”
Yikes! There’s really no way for that one to be taken out of context. We have the full context in which he said it. And by the numbers, more than half of the polling sample isn’t racist. There’s no way around the ugliness of what he said.
Now, do I believe that Scott Adams ran around with a white hood, the way former Sen. Robert Byrd, D-WV, did once upon a time, and attended cross-burnings? No. Then again, I don’t know Adams. I never listened to his podcast, and I never particularly enjoyed Dilbert. I’m sure it was fine in its day, but I wasn’t a cubicle worker then and didn’t appreciate the humor. Same thing with Doonesbury. Give me 1980s Bloom County, The Far Side, and Calvin & Hobbes, please.
You will likely hear in the days ahead people complaining about the media maligning a dead guy who can’t defend himself anymore by bringing up his previous awful comments.
Sadly, Adams, a grown man in his 60s at the time, was in control of his words and spoke them. This wasn’t some off-hand Tweet he posted in his teens. It was in 2023. It’s the way it is.
He said one of the last things he did in life was convert to Christianity. Good for him! I’d like to think that he’ll make it to heaven and chat with Robert Byrd about what and what not to say around Jesus Christ. (Byrd denounced his former beliefs and served for decades in the Senate.)
I hope Adams rests in peace and is remembered more for the good things he did in life and for the joy he brought to pencil-pushing bean counters.
Goodfellas is almost out of my system, but I couldn’t resist the following, based on this scene and after reading Nicholas Pileggi’s Wise Guy:
We were wise guys, yes, but gods among men otherwise. It all started when I met Jimmy “The Irishman” O’Houlihan, one of the best hijackers in Queens, who took me under his wing when I was a kid.
“You ever rat me out and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear,” Jimmy told me when he shook my 10-year-old hand. “Now, drive that semi-truck of stolen cigarettes to Sheepshead Bay so we can unload them.”
“I can’t drive,” I said. “My feet don’t even reach the brakes.”
“Fuckin’ mutt,” Jimmy said in the most endearing way possible. “Let me find some blocks to tie to the brake and gas pedals.”
That’s how it started. A 10-year-old boy steering a multi-ton death machine across the city. Jimmy would’ve been so proud of me had a rival crew not hijacked me and stolen the cigarettes.
Jimmy found out who did it, whacked ’em, and recovered the cigarettes.
“Next time I’ll give you a gun,” Jimmy said. “Now, go inside and watch Sesame Street.”
I was the toughest kid in the mob daycare center. The other kids’ parents gave them extra lunch money so they could buy something to eat after I shook them down. I always kicked some dough back up to Jimmy. The other families knew who I was with and never said a word.
I made book on who’d win the spelling bee, and would beat up anyone who wouldn’t misspell ‘dog’ when I told them to. I organized Uno games, and God help the kid who tried marking the Wild cards. The daycare administrator once asked Joe “The Piano Player” Moscone why all ten of his fingers were broken. He kept his mouth shut and never played Bach the same way again.
Our Monopoly games involved real money. I forced the players to pay protection on their houses and hotels. And if they didn’t, they’d get melted green and red blobs on Boardwalk and Park Place. Anyone who went directly to jail got a black eye for being sloppy.
But those were the guys I grew up with. When we became old enough to drink, which was 18 back then, we met at Paul “the Arsonist” Giglione’s new pub after his old one burned down.
There was Frankie “the Wop” Bugliati, Vinny “the Daigo” Vincense, and Bobby “the Dignified Italian” Pucinni who despised Frankie’s and Vinny’s nicknames.
Tommy “the Snitch” Genovese was a regular until recently. I have no idea why he suddenly disappeared.
Haruki “The Blowfish Poisoner” Ishigawa sought to establish the Yakuza in Queens, but he was the only Japanese gangster in town, so he hung with us. Marco “the Insult Master” Francesa once called Ishigawa “the nipster.” I thought it was kinda lazy, but Ishi took it in stride, chuckled, and asked Marco if he’d ever tried fugu and if he would like to. I’m not sure if Marco enjoyed it. I haven’t had the chance to ask him because he’s been in the hospital for six months.
I don’t think I ever paid for a drink in my life. Paul “Pope Beneficent” Gagliardi took care of me. I always made it a point to go to church for him. Then I’d meet my mistress right afterward at the track.
Nobody ever walked up behind Billy “the Paranoid Schizophrenic” Batty when he was sitting at the bar. The last guy who tapped him on the shoulder ended up with his face chewed off while Billy screamed in between chomps, “The voices! Why are the bunny rabbits so loud!” Yeah, we avoided Billy at all costs.
We always busted “Fat” Andy Ciccio’s balls because he was morbidly obese and practically sweated butter. Then he went and lost 300 pounds, and we started calling him Andy “the Bulimic who Ruined His Teeth” Ciccio. I liked “Fat” Andy better.
We ate chicken parmesan until buttons popped off our shirts and teased the old-school capo Vito “the Wordsmith” Bossonaro, who sipped anisette while doing his crossword puzzle. His days of pounding whiskey ended when he broke too many wooden barrels. We bought him a punching bag soon after.
It was the mafia’s golden age, before the bad times, before mob boss Anthony “the Neocon” Porchetta started a war against the Toscano Crime Family because its boss, Luciano, didn’t pay his Monopoly protection money to me on time. The thing is, he did. I was hungover and forgot to give it to Anthony.
Hey, wait, you’re not recording any of this, are you?
The following post started as a draft more than a decade ago, when I was actively promoting my books. I’ve not asked another author for a blurb in years, but I likely will start that process in the next few months.
I know of a writer who has blindly asked a book signing’s featured author to endorse the writer’s work, resulting in the author agreeing to look at the manuscript. I would imagine this is done after the event concludes and the aspiring writer gets a moment of the author’s time to make the pitch. Maybe they hit it off? If that works, who am I to say don’t do it?
But I take the approach that you don’t want to put an author on the spot to say yes or no. Think about it: when someone asks you out of the blue to do something that takes up your time and that you weren’t expecting, how do you feel? More often than not, you feel put-upon, but you say yes out of a sense of obligation.
I want an established author to read my work because he or she wants to, not because of undue pressure.
That’s why writing a professional pitch (yes, another damned query letter), to me, is more desirable. It allows the recipient author to sit back, ruminate, and make an informed decision. I emailed a blurb request to a New York Times-bestselling author of numerous books. I didn’t expect to even hear back from the author. Not only did I hear back, but the author specifically stated it was my professionalism (and the premise of my book) that initiated the reply. The author told me to check back in a few months to see if there was an opening in the author’s schedule.
(I’m trying not to be gender specific because I don’t want the author to be hit with requests that he/she might not want.)
A few months passed, and I noticed the author was appearing at a book signing not far from where I lived. Rather than simply show up and say, “Hey, remember me?” I again wrote the author, said I knew about the appearance, and that I’d like to attend to officially introduce myself. I heard back almost immediately: attend!
I did. I bought a copy of the author’s book at the appearance, got an autograph, and made a friend (not a buddy-buddy, let’s-drink-beers friend; but I’d like to think a writing friend who couldn’t have been kinder to me). The author said to send the ms. And eventually, I was provided with an excellent blurb. I couldn’t have been happier. The author told me that whatever I was doing, to keep doing it.
Another thing to keep in mind: don’t be a pest. If an author agrees to look at your manuscript, state a deadline for when it would be ideal to receive the blurb, and that you’ll check back at the start of the deadline’s month to see where things stand. (Seeing that my release date was 18 months off at the time of my signing a contract, I had a seven-month window to get blurbs–although there’s always wiggle room, especially if Stephen King manages to get back to you. Dream big, baby!) My point: don’t write the author every month, much less every other week, to see if the author has tackled your manuscript. Just don’t. ###
I wrote that more than 10 years ago and it still makes sense to me, and I’ll be following my own advice soon!
Facebook feeds offer up some of the most random tidbits. For instance, this morning it notified me that Gramma, the 141-year-old Galapagos Tortoise, died in San Diego. Turns out it happened in November. What struck me was one of the lines regarding her demise: “Her loss has been felt around the world.”
Hold your horses. Kennedy’s assassination was felt around the world. More recently, putting politics aside, Charlie Kirk’s murder was felt across the globe. When Princess Di was killed in that car crash? Absolutely felt around the planet.
Do you remember where you were when you learned Gramma the Tortoise died? Yeah, right here, right now, reading this. So, I did some investigating and here’s what I learned.
Gramma’s exact date of birth is unknown, but “experts” estimated her age at roughly 140 years old, meaning she was born around 1885. Do you know who the US president was in 1885? Neither do I, let me Google it. OK, Grover Cleveland. The San Diego Zoo, where she lived since 1928, stated she lived through 20 US presidents! She lived through two World Wars. A bunch of pandemics. Disco. Pretty much everything good and bad in modern US history.
Yeah, but Gramma doesn’t know any of this. She’s a tortoise. Last I checked, they don’t think about world affairs or domestic politics. They think about “where the hell is my fruit bowl?” and “I haven’t left my enclosure in 75 years.”
Here’s how ABC News reported on her: “Throughout her time in San Diego, Gramma, a ‘quiet and constant presence,’ transformed from a black-and-white photograph to an ‘ever-endearing social media star,’ with countless videos shared of the reptile crunching on her favorite snacks, the zoo said.”
That’s sobering. A dead tortoise has more followers on Twitter than I do.
I’d like to wrap up this story as a bittersweet yet feel-good one. But I can’t because of what the Los Angeles Times reported: Gramma “was euthanized after suffering from increasing bone deterioration because of her advanced age.”
They murdered Gramma! Who the hell made the San Diego Zoo god? Aren’t you supposed to respect your elders? And not put them down because you think it’s time for them to die? Apparently, and unsurprisingly, not in California. “Hey, Gramma, you’re moving slower than normal. Let’s get that lethal drug cocktail ready!”
Gramma had absolutely no say in the matter. A bunch of goons probably lifted her up, and Gramma’s thinking, “Yay, they’re taking me inside! That’s where they keep the cactus fruit that I enjoy nibbling on. Hey, wait a second, why does everybody look so glum? And I don’t see any cactus fruit, just a bunch of bottles with skulls and crossbones on them! And a guy flicking his finger against a syringe! What the hell is this?”
Gramma’s dead. Probably against her will, but at least they didn’t strap her into a chair and electrocute her. May her memory be a blessing. And if you’re elderly and live in the San Diego Zoo, try not to stumble.
