What a Crime Fiction Writer* Thinks When...
Another author is given a huge advance on a new book:
My book's as good as that one. (It must be my agent's fault.)
The Edgar nominations come out, and the author's work is not among them:
This thing is so political.
The Edgar nominations come out and the author's work IS among them:
These people really get my work. They've always recognized the absolute best coming out in this genre.
The author's work is reviewed negatively on Amazon:
These people just like to flame writers they don't know. I'll bet he never even read the book.
The author's work is reviewed positively on Amazon:
It's the opinion of the real readers that matters. This person knows more than The New York Times Book Review, those snobs.
The author's latest work fails to find a publisher:
Legacy publishing is dead. It's time to go the self-published e-book route. (It must be my agent's fault.)
The author's work finds a publisher quickly:
Finally, someone who understands how hard I've worked! (I must send a note to my agent to thank the editor.)
Harriet Klausner reviews the author's book:
The author finishes typing "THE END" on the current manuscript:
That's the best work I've ever done. This will not only earn me millions in royalties, it might break through genre barriers to be short-listed for the National Book Award. I am finally on my way.
The author looks back on the manuscript after receiving the editorial letter:
That's the worst work I've ever done. What was I thinking? How can I possibly turn this thing into something publishable? My career is over.
An aspiring author asks the author to read a manuscript:
Can I claim to be suffering from macular degeneration? Do I believe in karma? I don't want to GET macular degeneration! How well do I know this person? Oh, just hand the damn thing over!
Michigan. Where do YOUR ideas come from? (Cue "Hooray for Captain Spaulding")
Stephen King comes out with a new book:
Jeez, Steve, take a vacation, will ya? Go someplace that isn't Maine, soak in some sun--it won't hurt. The Red Sox aren't going anywhere this year; take October and November off.
An editor asks for cover art ideas for the author's new book:
I'm no artist; I have no cover ideas. Isn't this supposed to be someone else's job? I'll suggest something, but I hope they come up with something better--I really haven't got a clue.
The cover art is shown to the author:
Didn't anybody read this book? This doesn't look a thing like what happens in the story! Why don't they listen to the author's ideas? (It must be my agent's fault.)
The author is stuck for a blog post at the last minute:
I'll try to stretch one joke into 500 words! (It must be my agent's fault.)
P.S. It's almost never the agent's fault.
Just a note: 35 years ago yesterday Julius Henry Marx passed away at the age of 86, and not that many people noticed because Elvis Presley died only three days earlier. Rest well, Groucho.