Looking for an Agent

As soon as you read it you ask yourself, “Why?” Why in this day and age when everyone is self-publishing FB pages, posts, tweets, instagrams, blogs and books, does anyone need an agent.  An agent works with traditional publishers, a dying breed to say the least. Besides, does anyone read books anymore?

Could she be the right agent?

If most writers are like me, they are more interested in the writing process, the telling of the story than the selling of the story. Still, it’s much easier, if not simpler, to cut out the middleman or woman, especially in this electronic age, and publish books directly on Amazon, Lulu, or whatever available format one chooses. In fact, it’s so attractive a method that more books are published in this manner than the traditional method. So, why on earth does someone want to pursue an archaic method of reaching an audience, other than masochistic proclivity?

After pouring their heart and soul into their writing many new authors avert the tradition of groveling at the door of some publishing house. The move to self and independent publishing has soared into the stratosphere. Average sales reach into the tens of copies. 

Meanwhile old school publishers with their deep pockets and fancy marketing campaigns refuse to look at a book or its author unless they can sell thousands of copies in its first printing.  Not only that, their policy is not to negotiate or pay authors.  Authors, new or otherwise, present their work and are compensated through their agents.

Would you trust him to be your agent?

For the past eighteen months, since the completion of my first novel I have pursued literary agent representation. Most, if not all, do not accept unsolicited manuscripts, phone calls or visitors without appointments. The proper method of groveling is called the query letter. One cautionary tale—and there is nothing satirical about it—is anyone who asks for a reading fee to look at the manuscript is not to be trusted.  For this reason, legitimate agents, who receive a dozen or more of these queries each day, only ask to read material that peaks their interest and they believe they can market.

I'm just not sure about her negotiating style.

During this year and a half I have sent fifty-four queries, received twenty-six responses declining my offer, and understand the other twenty-eight are not interested either.  Although the standard response indicates selection is a subjective process and the respondent wishes me well in my continued pursuit of getting my manuscript to publication, it doesn’t diminish the sense of wandering in a cave looking for hidden treasure trying not to get hit in the head by a stalactite or trip over a stalagmite, all the while wishing I had worn something warmer and hoping I can remember my way back once I have found my destination.

Still, if I want to continue to poke fun at those who choose to self-publish rather than wander through illusive query caves, I have to pick up the pace. Not only is it time to get down to work on the second novel, it is time to send more than one query a week—those doing the math will know I am about twenty queries shy of that rate at this writing. So, look for an update in about six months, or better still have your literary agent contact me.  

Meanwhile Back at the Beach

One hundred eleven years ago when my maternal grandmother boarded the ship bound for America she had no idea she would never get the chance to sun bathe on the beaches of Crimea.  Her little shtetl outside Kiev was burned to the ground in one of the czar’s famous pogroms—picture Anatevka in Shalom Aleichem’s Fiddler on the Roof.  At five years of age she was unable to make a clear assessment of whether the sailors who laughed at her mother lighting candles were from Ukraine or other portions of the Russian empire.  Their amusement arose because they felt certain the red-haired peasant was confused and could not possibly be Jewish. Until most of mine fell out some of the remnants of the recessive gene appeared as highlights among my brown waves.

Crowd leaves beach as sunset approaches.

Speaking of waves, resorts along the Crimean peninsula are already feeling the economic pinch because Ukrainians, who make up sixty percent of their guests during warm weather, are booking in other parts of Europe. All the happy days are here again spectacle of Russian speakers welcoming the unmarked troops of rough and rugged Vladi Putin lose their luster when the rubles dry up. (It should come as no surprise the troops wore no insignia; after all, Vladi was top spook in the KGB.) Even Arseniy Yatsenyuk, who took over as Prime Minister of Ukraine, when Vladi’s buddy Vik Yushchenko was ousted, made concessions to his Russian-speaking constituents earlier in the week, saying Russia would remain an official language in Ukraine. He said it was the language his wife used predominately, "and she, like millions of other Russian speakers, does not require protection from the Kremlin.”  Of course, he can rest easy knowing the U.S. and E.U. will buy up vast quantities of Ukraine’s natural gas, if Russia tightens its grip on its oil supply in retaliation for the sanctions imposed by each.

Sun paints the sky red.
Photo courtesy of debbiedoesphotography.blogspot.com

In the recesses of my mind are many fond memories of times spent with my maternal grandmother during my youth in Milwaukee.  Not one involves a beach—none along Lake Michigan, nor any among the inland lakes of Wisconsin.  Perhaps that is part of the reason I always pictured Russia, and the rest of the countries previously bound together in the Soviet Union, as void of parcels of land covered with sand and scattered torsos lying next to bodies of water.  It was shocking to learn Crimea has long stretches of beach.  Not so surprising was finding out they are popular amongst corrupt Bolsheviks like the bare chested horse riding Vladi, who spent $60 billion on his winter Olympics, and his buddy Vik, who sold the apartment he bought for $100,000 to the people of the Ukraine for a mere $17 million.

Ocean swallows up sun.
Photo courtesy of debbiedoesphotography.blogspot.com

One of the reasons I may not recall ever seeing my maternal grandmother at a beach was the lack of opportunity. The swimming season in Milwaukee is three weeks in July.  Their temperature today will climb to a whopping forty-three degrees.  Certainly this was a factor in deciding not to waste the opportunity the weather provided in Southern California this weekend.  While the thermometer reached the 90 degree mark at home in Yorba Linda, it was a much more comfortable 85 degrees when we arrived at Laguna Beach on Sunday.  We ate lunch on the veranda of the Ocean Avenue Brewery, and sat listening to the various languages spoken by visitors to the beach as we waited for the sunset. Among the litany of voices the sweet sound of Ukrainian was heard. Crimea’s loss is California’s gain.

Real Family Values

During the past couple decades I have learned how little I knew about family values.  Most of this knowledge has been courtesy of the outreach provided by politicians who have made preservation of these values their mission. After all, they have said, what is more truly American than the family?  In fact, one architect of the plan to restore order, pointed out it is the role of conservatives everywhere to maintain these values in the face of liberal and progressive agendas that seek to undermine this holy institution and bring about change.

Deb standing by her exhibit
at last Friday's Art Walk in Fullerton

Having grown up with Ozzie and Harriet, Donna Reed, Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best, I don’t know how I failed to notice the collapse taking place right before my eyes. One of the key indicators according to these concerned citizens is the blatant disregard for the sanctity of marriage. Half of all such unions end in divorce. I am a victim of divorce. We even elected a president who was divorced. (One of the great mysteries for me is explaining how the only person we ever elected president who had been divorced, Ronald Reagan, became the heart and soul of the conservative movement in this country.)  As a result, a number of the younger generation and the formerly married are choosing to skip over the ritual and just live together.

Further disintegration occurs when these co-habitaters begin having children.  According to at least one member of Congress it is bad enough when people cross our borders and give birth to unwanted citizens, but when our own young people become so disrespectful of the appropriately sanctioned process it should sound an alarm in all true Americans who cherish real family values.

My 86 year old mother with my oldest daughter, Beth,
who will make her a great-grandmother for the first time
in about 6 weeks.

Deb with her sisters. Conservative politicians gave them a
family values exemption because they live 2,000 miles away
in Wisconsin.

For the past few weeks I have been helping Debbie prepare for her third photography exhibition. Unlike previous exhibits, we needed to borrow a canopy and arrange for lighting, because it was outdoors at night. The venue was the mall outside the museum on Wilshire Boulevard, which served as the site for the Fourth Anniversary of the Art Walk in Fullerton.  If I remember my lessons from Ozzie Nelson and Ward Cleaver, not to mention my own father, the role of a good husband is to support his wife. The husband of the jeweler, who shared the same boutique—Lolo’s—as her sponsor and space under the canopy, told me how he had been helping his wife set up her display for years.  Apparently, he also received instruction in family values. I forgot to ask him if remediation from conservative politicians was the main source for his rehabilitation.  At any rate, it was clear they were on the right track because his young teenage son and daughter lent a hand.

A key influence in recognizing the talent my wife developed and encouraging her to make her photographs available to more people has been my sister-in-law.  Maria was among the first to purchase some of Debbie’s photos and recently purchased a couple to hang in my brother’s office.

While my brother and Maria, who find it difficult to stay awake after long days during tax season, were unable to attend, my own sister came to support her sister-in-law. After driving more than four hours from her home in Paso Robles, she brought our 86 year old mother with her to participate in the night’s festivities, which included walking around the exhibits and purchasing dinner at one of the food trucks. I’m not sure how much attention my sister or mother pays to conservative politicians, but they do seem to exemplify real family values.   

Ellen Said It Best

Millions of people tuned in to watch the Academy Awards presentation last Sunday night.  A few thousand people were unable to watch the telecast because their neighborhood lost power as a result of one of the most brutal winters on record.  During the broadcast the host, Ellen DeGeneres, acknowledged the severe snow and cold crippling much of the nation. She said we were suffering here in California due to the rain. Yes, some elegantly dressed diamond encrusted starlet had to carry an umbrella to keep her hair from being ruined.

A rain spattered window.

Seven weeks ago I posted a blog reporting how Southern California was no longer weather deprived, because the Santa Ana winds were blowing.  These winds bring hot air off the desert and leave a lot of debris in their path.  While they provide us with the warm dry air that brings tourists clamoring to our state, they are also responsible for making the vegetation turn into tinder for massive fires.  Even without the winds, the lack of rain makes the threat of water rationing a grim reality and limits the agricultural production of the state, which delivers about a quarter of all the fruits and vegetables found on grocery shelves throughout the nation.

Drivers need to take extra care on snowy roads.

When I wrote my bit about not being weather deprived I failed to mention we had no measurable precipitation in the New Year.  It didn’t seem too funny since according to meteorologists, at least up until last Thursday night, this was the greatest drought on record in California.

Having grown up in the Midwest, it seems odd to become concerned about rain, even if it’s the hundred-year storm.  We don’t do anything small here. The natural balance to the most severe drought in history is rain coming down in such heavy streams the gauges measure it at more than an inch an hour. Accumulations exceeded five inches in a single day in some areas.  Flooding actually forced some people to abandon their hillside homes.  The amazing thing for me is natives don’t understand thunder, because it happens so rarely here.  Most of them turn to see if they are going to be victims or witnesses to a drive by or whether somebody’s Mercedes backfired.

It has been a year of snow followed by cold followed by snow.

Like most Californians what I love about the place is the monotonous repetition of sun-filled warm dry days.  However, for the sake of the nation and the desire to see its economic recovery continue, not to mention the fear of having the already high price of Southern California tap water skyrocket into the stratosphere, I wholeheartedly welcomed the rain.  Not only that, being retired, I didn’t have to travel the freeway, where those raised in this dry climate don’t understand the need to slow down when the surface of the road becomes wet. When they go up to the snow-covered mountains they put chains on their tires, but they never slow down. The number of cars flipped over due to slick surfaces is astounding.

So, the next time you see some overpaid no talent super star carrying an umbrella that isn’t coordinated with the rest of her attire stop along the red carpet to give an interview be sure to tweet her a note of appreciation for the sacrifice she made so you can enjoy fresh produce grown right here in the U.S.A.