Unusual things found in books

I do quite a bit of reading, which means I buy a lot of books -- new books and used books, hardcover and paperbacks. (eBooks too, but they don't apply to this post.) When I come across them, I also pick up books for a couple of neighbors who don't drive and therefore don't have access to treasure hunts.

On weekend I scour garage sales, thrift shops and used bookstores to satisfy my passion. I always find something interesting; sometimes I find more than words on a page.

People leave the oddest things behind as (I assume) bookmarks. I've found ordinary items such as dollar bills, bits of paper towels, paper clips, stuff like that. Sometimes, though, what's left behind is more personal and unusual.

Today, for example, I picked up a book titled You were Born for This by Bruce Wilkinson. This find looked unread and seemed the perfect choice for a neighbor who is quite a bit more religious than I. (She has a collection of Marianne Williamson works so I thought this would be a nice addition to her library.)

I almost always flip through a book before I buy it but today I was in a hurry (I had frozen food in the car.) so I bought it for its appearance.

When I got home, I riffled through the pages and noticed a piece of folded paper near the middle. It was a little tattered where a seal had been impressed, but the identity was perfectly clear.

A certified abstract of marriage for the groom and bride, married in September, 1998 in Clark County, Nevada.

Now, what should I do about this? Toss it? Frame it? Try to find the owner?

Better still (or in addition to whatever I decide to do) I suddenly found myself plotting a novel based on the find.

Hmmm. Maybe I should read Wilkinson's book -- it's about everyday miracles.

The Artist's Way -- Masochism

Last week I picked up a copy of Julia Cameron's 1992 book, The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity.

I read this book when it first came out but never followed any of the author's advice ... or at least I don't think I followed any of the author's advice. (I'll know more about that subject as I read it again.)

As I read, a particular passage hit home.

Judging your early artistic efforts is artist abuse. This happens in any number of ways: beginning work is measured against the masterworks of other artists; beginning work is exposed to premature criticism, shown to overly critical friends. In short, the fledgling artist behaves with well-practiced masochism. Masochism is an art form long ago mastered, perfected during the years of self-reproach; this habit is the self-hating bludgeon with which a shadow artist can beat himself right back into the shadows.

 Since I've been having a problem with the ending of my almost-finished manuscript, I realize what the author mentions here is part of the dilemma. As I begin to wrap up all the loose ends, I start to think about my first two eBooks and begin to doubt their value. I think: "I know they don't measure up to the work of more successful writers." I start to chastise myself for even trying to write this kind of stuff. 

I am, in Cameron's words, a masochist.

I don't think I'm unique.Am I? Do you go suffer artistic masochism? Do any of today's top-selling authors go through artistic masochism?

Guess I'll be reading the entire book again, this time with more attention to detail.

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My blogging mantra

When I first decided not to force myself to blog like a maniac I wasn't sure how much time would pass between posts. It didn't matter then and it doesn't matter now.

When I debuted this project I found myself clinging to the blogger's mantra: Post daily; post often. It was fun -- to start -- but as soon as it started to feel like a real job. You know, that nine-to-five drag we all experience.

Little Fella

I had to rethink the entire idea behind blogging -- my blogging in particular.. It occurred to me that this isn't about producing copy; it's about expressing thoughts, ideas, opinions, and information. It's also about putting things into perspective, not. the need to get every thought, idea, opinion or tidbit of information onto the web quickly.

Intermittent posting attests to a busy life. There's writing, hiking, reading, attending to social networking, emailing, eating out, visiting friends (in person or by phone), walking the dog, mowing the lawn, paying bills, shopping, and myriad other daily events (including trying to buy a house).

Intermittent posting also attests to an evaluation of what's being said. For example, I'm sure the world doesn't care that I have a new (unwelcome) roommate, a mouse I've dubbed Little Fella. (Okay, that might be a tweet, just for fun.) (Note to self: If it looked like Mickey, we'd have another store altogether.) So, why bother?

So, when blogging fits into the schedule, when there's something that meets my criteria ...

when the muse hits, I'll post.  

That's my blogging mantra. 

PS: In case you're looking for a humane way to catch a mouse, check out this unique approach.

Which books to take to your deserted island

As soon as I have time I will blog about the last meeting of the Las Vegas Bookmans Guild. April’s topic of discussion was created by Ann DeVere of Plaza Books: Name five nonfiction books you’d want to have with you on a deserted island.

Some of the selections were practical, some funny, some unusual and some personal.

Sadly, several members of the guild were unable to attend the dinner meeting. I’m hoping they’ll email their choices so I can include them, if not in the upcoming post, at least on an addendum.

How about you? Which five nonfiction books would you want with you if you were doomed to spend a long time on a deserted island?

That last of The Great Gatsby (I hope)

Image via Wikipedia

Last post brought a phone comment from a friend pointing to a hilarious look at The Great Gatsby.

Wish I had access to this when forced to read Fitzgerald in high school!

The Great American Novel

I can't ever remember yearning to write the "Great American Novel."

In high school, my English teacher, who often came to class with a massive hangover, was a  taskmaster -- not a hard taskmaster, just a normal, run-of-the-mill instructor who expected his students to excel. He required students to write one theme a week (due on Mondays) at least two pages long, memorize poetry, read at least one book a month (and do an oral and written review alternately), read Shakespeare, and spell like a pro. (He also tried to get the class to memorize the Old English version of Beowulf, which was a miserable failure for everyone and a big disappointment to him.)

He was a little crazy, especially on those hangover days, but most of us were diligent students, and we complied. (That's what we did back then.)

Other than Shakespeare, we had few required reading lists. However, one of the must-read books was The Great Gatsby. According to this teacher, F. Scott Fitzgerald had penned THE Great American Novel when he wrote Gatsby.

Gasp.

I read it.

I hated it!

Let me clarify that because hate is a strong word.

These characters, I thought, were boring. Some rich dude filled with angst over a lost love; a rich woman (the former love) who seemed empty headed; a guy cheating on his wife (Gatsby's former love) and who probably beats her (He does smack his mistress.); and a narrator, a presumably sharp young kid (He seemed dull to me.) who leaves the Midwest and heads to New York where he's supposed to be looking for a job but instead, hangs around boozy, boring,unhappy people.
In my review, I mentioned that I didn't like any of these people, to which I was told:

"You're not supposed to like them."

Well! Who would have guessed.

We teenagers had enough angst!

To me the book was like those soap operas my grandmother watched every day, and if that's what the Great American Novel was supposed to be like, I never wanted to write it!

I'm sure I never will write the Great American Novel. I just like to write, so I do.

Rejected manuscripts, query letters, resumes: A response

Note: Vin Suprynowicz is the critically acclaimed author of several works as well as a nationally syndicated columnist. (I read him on the Las Vegas Review-Journal website.)

When Vin tried to leave a comment pursuant to my post about whether it’s okay to query more than one literary agent at a time, Blogger rejected it as too long. “AFTER I GET DONE, your robot tells me I've exceeded the 4,076 character limit,” he wrote in an email. “Is that 600 words? I write 1,200 words while I'm waiting for the teakettle toboil.”

To this introduction I add that Vin said what I wish I’d have been astute and brave enough to write.

  The old model, pretty dysfunctional for half a century anyway, is collapsing before our eyes.

The unspoken assumptions are: 1) I need a big-time New York publisher because only that person/outfit has the money and expertise to publish my book in attractive, professional form, get it professionally reviewed and get it into bookstores. Therefore, 2) Because hardly any publishers will still look at an unsolicited manuscript, I need a New York literary agent to open the gates to one of those publishers.

But read the final page of Richard Russell's 2006 "Book collector's Price Guide." He reports the effect of the calcification of publishing into the hands of a few green-eyeshade houses is "to freeze the state of literature and writing in general, keeping it within the bounds of the type of writing that has a 'winning track record.'" As a result, "Books published in the last decade in the United States will, over time, become worthless and fit only for the dollar bins. ..."

He's right. The shelves and tables are now full of ill-written derivative potboilers, shoddily bound. Anything new and refreshing tends to come from "outside the system," often in small press runs, 500 copies run off as a lark by some science fiction club or a socialist bookstore in the Haight or the Minnesota chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars.

Agents are told to "Go find me someone who can write just like ..." James Patterson, John Grisham, Alice Walker, whoever. They don't expect to find these people in the slush pile. You'd be FAR more likely to attract an agent's attention if you said you could prove you'd had a homosexual affair with Mitt Romney, "but I can barely write a grocery list; can you find me a ghost writer?"

THAT they know how to pitch.

And they pretend to serve at the altar of "literature"?

I once had a New York agent (actually signed a contract, the works) who's since written a book about "how to write a best-seller." All he ever did was ask me with great urgency whether I could "crank out a fictionalized biography of David Bowie in six weeks." By the time I got him an outline, five weeks later, he'd moved on to some other scheme, based on a different lunch with some other impresario.

The "rule" against multiple inquiries is for the convenience of agents and publishers, who pretend they're still a gentleman's club editing Scott Fitzgerald with pencils and sleeve garters and rubber cement, and thus further pretend to be outraged over the implication that they should get in a quick bid for your services, rather than watching you grovel at their feet for a month or two before moving on to woo their equally unattainable cousin in the next block. They act as though they're Scarlett O'Hara and you've just announced you intend to propose to the 40 prettiest girls in town, announcing you'll marry the first one who says "Yes." 

It's not a courtship; it's a business. (If it's a courtship, send flowers and ask if they prefer the missionary position.)

Why send out what amount to 40 form letters, a month apart over three years, when you can mail them all the same week?

Either way, 3 to 7 percent will reject you with a form letter, the rest will never reply at all. And I say this as someone who's made my living exclusively as a writer for 40 years, all of my books printed at professional binderies, all produced with private investment capital, with not a penny of the proceeds owed to any German banker pretending to be a publisher nor to any Sarah Lawrence graduate pretending to be a "literary agent."

The Internet is destroying their distribution monopoly; the rest of their haughty house of cards will collapse soon.

The expensive collectibles of tomorrow, Mr. Russell concludes, will be unusual, innovative books "subsidy published" in small press runs today ... the same way Poe subsidized the first printing of "Tamerlaine," the same way John Grisham subsidized the first publication of "A Time to Kill" by Wynwood Press in 1989.(Current value of a nice single copy: $4,000.)

And today's academics and "publishing professionals," far from being on the lookout for the new and the good, will reject it out of hand, Russell concludes, realizing that "a 'new' novel makes their years of knowledge, study and expertise obsolete."

-- V.S.