Hey, There's A Dead Guy in the Living Room

I Remain Not Dead

Jeff Cohen

A number of people have contacted me this week via email and social media to make sure that I'm not dead.

Spoiler alert: I'm not dead.

It seems that a man named Jeffrey H. Cohen passed away unexpectedly this past week and among other things, requested from beyond the grave that in lieu of donations to charity or flowers that people who wished to honor his memory might avoid voting for Donald Trump. 

Since I was not aware that Dr. Cohen (he was a chiropractor) had died, it was something of a surprise when I received an email from a friend that began, "I'm fairly sure this is not your obituary." Then when the story of Dr. Cohen's preference gained some traction in the news media, it was posted on Facebook. While I can't say the response was enormous, there was some concern over my welfare, which I found touching. I also had some concern that there were people who thought I was a 70-year-old chiropractor from Pennsylvania who wore cowboy hats and chewed tobacco. Granted, Dr. Cohen did also have a son named Joshua, as I do, but that and the name (my middle initial is not "H," by the way) were where the similarities ended.

Although I do admit I found the Trump thing pretty amusing.

As I touched upon last week, my name is not at all an uncommon one. I don't know how many people in the U.S. are named Jeffrey Cohen but I can tell you that I'm friends on Facebook with 22 of them and would have gone on to friend many more if Facebook had not sent me a message saying that they knew what I was up to and would not allow me to continue with it, leading me once again to believe that Mark Zuckerberg started the whole thing just to prove what a tremendous killjoy he could be.

Still, the idea that there were those who thought I might have passed on and were upset about it was oddly comforting. None of them were close friends or family, since they knew for a fact that I was alive and not a 70-year-old chiropractor from Pennsylvania, hats and tobacco or no. While the doctor and I do appear to have shared at least a somewhat similar sense of humor, I think I'd go beyond what he'd requested and stipulate that those who wanted to honor my memory should donate to one of Mr. Trump's rivals, preferably one from the other party.

Many of us have that fantasy played out in Mark Twain's Adventures of Tom Sawyer in which Tom attends his own funeral (everybody thinks he's dead) and hears what other people would say about him at that solemn occasion. I'd personally like to hold such a gathering before I shuffle off, mostly because I don't believe I'll be listening from beyond, but I doubt I will throw the soiree. For one thing, people would tend to be less honest with the guest of honor breathing and listening in the room. Also, it would absolutely reek of ego to do such a thing, and I hate letting anyone know that I have one.

So in case you were concerned, yes, I'm still a DEAD GUY but I am definitely not yet deceased, nor do I plan to be anytime soon. Of course, I doubt Dr. Jeffrey H. Cohen expected what happened to him either. There are no guarantees in life, not even the ones issued by the Sears company when you buy a new appliance. Sure, they say they'll fix your wall oven, but will they?

Anyway, in case you were one of the people who was worried, no. I'm not dead. 

Also: Yes, we made it through the blizzard of '16. Most loyal readers will recall that I hate snow unequivocally, so imagine what a great mood I've been in the past two days. But as such things go, we were lucky. No power outages, no water contamination, just lots and lots and lots of what TV weather reporters insist on calling "the white stuff" because apparently they've never heard of whipped cream. So much for El Nino giving us East Coasters a mild winter. 

 

P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 24 days.

One Step Up From Complete Obscurity

Jeff Cohen

First: Today is Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day in America. And while it is vitally important to remember the life and work of one man, let's keep in mind that what he did still needs doing, that what he was trying to accomplish is not yet close to complete. The day--and it is significant to have this day--is about equality for all people. That is far from the norm, so the work is not over. Whether you have the day off or not, it's a good time to think.

For reasons that aren't the least bit interesting or relevant (mostly as a way to avoid writing) I spent a little time trying to find out how many people in America share my name. Suffice it to say, I never did get a number. But that's not the point.

Along the way, I came across this chart, a list of people with my last name who are designated as "famous." And it was an interesting list. It does not deal with spelling variations, so Joel and Ethan Coen, for example, are not listed. But a good number of people--in this case, 250--are there, and they include some you would expect (Leonard Cohen comes in at #27 because a song of his was used in the soundtrack for Watchmen, which is just sad). The usual suspects are included, with Sacha Baron Cohen placing high and my namesake Jeff Cohen of the movie Goonies weighing in (sorry) at #3. The most famous person named Cohen is apparently Emory Cohen, and I've never heard of him. That's the way things go when you're old like me.

Still, 250 is a lot of names, albeit all the same at the end. So, as one does, I scanned the list for my own name. 

Let's be clear about this: I don't consider myself to be within driving distance of "famous." Most of the people who buy my books never even see my name on them, because it's not there. I've made my peace with that and actually enjoy it sometimes. I didn't get into this business for the fame, believe me. Because 1)There isn't any and 2)Who would want that?

However, I must file just the slightest protest. 

With GHOST IN THE WIND (now available in paperback and coming on audio Feb. 16!), I have now published 15 novels and 2 non-fiction books. At least eight more are coming in the future. So that's pretty good. And according to sales numbers I don't understand, the Haunted Guesthouse series alone has sold more than 140,000 copies. So the books are getting out there, and to some extent, so is my name. Many people with an interest in the crime fiction publishing biz will have a passing recognition of my name or a variation thereof if it comes up. That's sort of like being famous.

So if someone could explain to me how someone who served as "miscellaneous crew" on Ocean's Eleven is more famous than I am, I'd appreciate it (no offense, #125 Amy Minda Cohen).

One of the other Jeff Cohens, at #182, was the casting director for Till (sic) Human Voices Wake Us. The casting director? For a movie I have never heard of? That's famous?

This fame thing is a tricky business. No, I'm not envious of #192, Michael Cohen, who apparently is famous just for being himself, or #214 Sherm Cohen, who worked in the art department on The Spongebob Square Pants Movie. I'm sure they're nice people who do their jobs very well. But are they more famous than I am? It's a good question. Maybe they are.

To be fair, this list seems to have been compiled strictly by running a search on IMDb with the name Cohen in it, because all of the "famous" people are somehow tied to the film and TV businesses. For example, the famous gangster Mickey Cohen and ice cream mogul/activist Ben Cohen (who shares a name with my late grandfather) are not listed. Apparently there's famous and then there's movie famous.

In the end, it was interesting looking over the list and trying to figure out if I was more well-known than any of these 250 people. Probably not. And that's fine with me. Fame doesn't beckon to me: I prefer hiding behind E.J. and my keyboard. Let the books be famous.

But there were two interesting (to me) entries: #226 Eve Cohen, cinematographer for The Prometheus Project, shares a name with my daughter. And #246, Josh Cohen, writer of Scavengers, shares a name with my son. 

Because he is my son.

 

P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 31 days.

 

Out Came The...

 

Josh Getzler

 

It started the second day we were in Florida over break. My son Joe went to Hot Topic (!) in the Aventura Mall (!!) and came back with 13 new t-shirts. He was very proud of himself—he could wear a different band every Friday at school for the next three months, and never have to think about it.

 

To me, though, the fascinating thing was the selection of groups he chose—there was Nirvana, Bob Marley, Morrissey…OK, also Imagine Dragons, but you can’t have everything. (Full disclosure: I’m just trying to be snotty—we saw Imagine Dragons in concert last summer and they were a lot of fun, if man-bunned.)  

 

Then my wife Amanda texted me from the gym:

“My Alternative radio station just played Rancid. Have you ever HEARD THEM???”

 

“LA Clash.”

 

“OMG buy them NOW.”

 

Then we were trying to decide what to watch on New Year’s Eve. Second choice was When Harry Met Sally, but we ended up going with…Rocky. ONE. The first time I saw Rocky I was seventy blocks down in Miami Beach with my parents and Joe’s namesake, my grandfather, who needed to take a Nitro pill during the fight scene.

 

Was this 2016? Or 1976? 1985? 1997?

 

Then I looked over at the couch, and there were my daughters, one earbud each, watching Tyler Oakley or Todrick on Youtube, littlest in her new Panic! At the Disco t-shirt, and I knew that I hadn’t gone through a wormhole.

 

May everyone have a great 2016. And if you have a black coat, black shoes, black hat, Cadillac, so much the better…  

Why Not Be Correct?

Jeff Cohen

Let's say you meet someone at a... holiday party. He is introduced to you as Phillip, but when you say, "Nice to meet you, Phillip," (a time-honored way to remember a new acquaintance's name that has never worked for me), he says, "Please call me Phil."

Do you have a problem with that? Is that too politically correct?

If not, I don't understand the uproar (well, upmumble, anyway) that has been going on about political correctness. "The problem with this country is political correctness!" one candidate for President of the United States has cried. That's a statement showing someone's complete and utter ignorance of real problems in this country.

A group of people who share an ethnicity are clear that they wish to be referred to as "African-American." What exactly is the issue with doing that? What does it cost the society to treat people the way they ask to be treated (and the word change is, seriously, the absolute least the majority can do)? Some who meet me at said holiday party will wish me a Merry Christmas. I have never celebrated Christmas in my life, unless you count going to the movies and eating Chinese food, two things I might or might not do on that day except that nobody's working (except me) and nothing else is open.

Yes, it irritates me when people send Christmas cards. Not because I'm anti-Christmas (I have no skin the game and think only that the season goes on too damn long, the same criticism I have of the block party on my street every Labor Day), but because it shows an insensitivity I think is rude. You're celebrating Christmas? Enjoy yourself. I mean that sincerely. But to assume that because I am a human I do the same is to invalidate (on a very minor scale) my own identity. I wouldn't walk up to a total stranger and wish him or her a happy Chanukah. (To be honest, I wouldn't walk up to ANYBODY and wish them a happy Chanukah, but that's just me.) Why should I assume that person celebrates that holiday?

People complain because "Christmas parties" are sometimes called "holiday parties." Because apparently inclusion of other holidays dilutes the fun for the majority. Fine. Call it a Christmas party if that's what it is; I applaud your accuracy. But I won't be coming because I don't have anything to celebrate there. I'm not being obstinate and I'm not trying to make a political or moral point. I choose not to attend events at which I am not included. If there were a reunion of Korean War veterans, I would not expect to be invited.

Say that you should call such a gathering (the one in December, not the Korean War thing) a "holiday party," insist that the separation of church and state be upheld (and yes, that means no religious displays at municipal or governmental properties), and one is accused of participating in a "war on Christmas," possibly the most ridiculous concept of the past 20 years. And it's been a pretty nuts two decades.

There's no "war on Christmas," ladies and gentlemen. I hate to spoil your illusion, but there isn't. If it is a "war" for people outside the majority to ask for civility and courtesy while you're having a holiday, then you have a very odd idea of "war." The same is true in language. It's accuracy I'm hoping for, not linguistic gymnastics necessary to include every possible human being.

A restored movie palace near my home (well, sort of near my home) shows classic films one weekend every month except during the summer because it has not yet air conditioned the huge facility. And not long ago, I received an email informing me of the "holiday features" being screened. They were both Christmas movies.

Now, I have absolutely no problem with that. I can't think of a Chanukah film I would want to see, and I'm not sure there's ever been a Kwanzaa movie. The lame attempts at New Year's Eve movies (the holiday that comes closest to total inclusion) are not worth screening. So if you're going to show films during the month of December and want to tie them to the "holiday season," clearly Christmas films are the way to go.

But that's what they are--Christmas films. Don't call them "holiday movies." 1776 is a holiday movie; it centers on Independence Day. For that matter, Independence Day can be seen as a holiday movie, just as Die Hard is a Christmas movie. But the films being screened in this case were "Christmas in Connecticut" and "A Christmas Carol." They're about Christmas. Christmas is in BOTH titles. Own it. Call them Christmas movies because that's what they are.

Political correctness is about inclusion. It's about courtesy. It's about treating people as they prefer. I don't see a problem in that. 

And by the way, happy new year to all, except those who use a calendar other than the Roman. For you, happy one night and a day after! 

That was a politically correct statement. Who did it hurt?

 

P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 52 days.

Funny, it doesn’t Look…

     

Josh Getzler

 

This past weekend, I participated in a conference sponsored by the Jewish Book Council. I spoke to some writers and a guy who might want to become an agent, and I participated in a panel discussion with two other agents about the usual topics—how we really evaluate query letters, how much money can a first-time author really expect to make, and how quickly do we read. There was one fun question of “what two books would you love to have represented, and not Harry Potter?” (The Martian and Wolf Hall were the two that came to mind, and I might write a whole other column about that one.)

 

But the most unusual question, and the one most specific to this particular conference, came toward the end: What makes a book Jewish? Does it affect a book’s marketability if it is?

 

I thought this was a particularly good question because to my mind there are at least three different kinds of Jewish books (which, oddly, are different in feel from in particular specifically Christian (as a genre) novels, which often are considered Inspirational and somewhat proselytizing, and aren’t as often considered Mainstream. There are quite a large number of publishers and agents who put out or represent Christian books. Not so many who specialize in Jewish ones. (And let me be clear, I’m referring not to bibles or prayer books or commentaries on scripture. I mean novels.)

 

So as I thought about that questions, I came up with three different kinds of books. All in their own way Jewish, all different. So there’s nuance here, and a bit of knowing when we see it.

 

The first book is the most obvious—it’s when you have a book where the characters are Jews, where, their Jewishness is their reason for being in the story—The Chosen, as a famous example, The Counterlife by Philip Roth for another. If you aren’t interested in exploring what it means to be Jewish (whether because you know a ton about it, or nothing), it’s not going to be satisfying.

 

The second is much more cultural, and modern, and uses characters’ Jewishness perhaps as a spice, or a setup, to make a more general point. A good example of this is Jonathan Tropper’s This Is Where I Leave You, which takes place at a Shiva—a week of mourning where Jews gather after someone dies. But the book is less about Jewishness than about being part of a family, and how people deal with each other.  So it’s a framework, but it’s not the raison d’etre.

 

 The third kind of book is, to my mind, exemplified by Paul Goldberg’s forthcoming The Yid, which takes place in 1`953 in Soviet Russia and is about four people who go off and try to kill Stalin. While the title itself would indicate that this is a Jewish book From Word One, there’s an argument to be made that its Jewishness is actually virtually subconscious—the eponymous Yid is an old Jewish actor who also is a fierce warrior. There’s a Jewish doctor too. But the other two protagonists are gentiles—an African-American Communist (Think Robeson) and an almost feral Russian girl.  And while they speak Yiddish to each other at times, there is little talk of God and no prayer for this Yid. There is violence and danger and heartbreak and theater.

 

Yet the book is, at its core, utterly Jewish. That’s because it informs the author—a nonobservant Jew who himself fled Soviet Russia in the early 1970s—in his core. He writes a Jewish book because it would be impossible to do otherwise. His heritage, his experience, infuses his writing in every word. I suppose it’s closer to the way some of the African-American writers say that they have to write Black Fiction because they would feel incapable of writing anything else.

 

I felt pretty satisfied at the end of my answer to the question (although I felt like I might have gone on too long—but I just simply Got Going!).

 

And also by the way, I decided to talk about this not because I had a particular yen to talk about this because I’m myself Jewish or because I typically discuss religion. But rather because I feel like it is applicable to thinking about any genre, whether crime fiction (where a police procedural, a racetrack noir and a cat cozy are all under the same umbrella) or science fiction (similar differentiations) or romance. Sometimes a book is a kind of book because…it just is.

Here Comes the General

Josh Getzler

The past couple of months have seen something unique happen in my house. My wife the history teacher, our three teen/tween kids and I actually agree on how we wish to be entertained. With the exception of an occasional foray into the new One Direction album or a belly rub for Layla the Puppy, our home is All Hamilton, All The Time. At any time of day or night, when one of us is angry at the kids we will threaten to “send a fully-armed battalion…to remind you of my love…da da da DA da, da da da da Daaaai da da.”

 

Hamilton of course is the perfect intersecting area of our family’s Venn Diagram of Interest, where there is history, brilliant writing, hip hop (and almost every other genre of music you can think of) and politics all wrapped into a two hour musical. (Hey, maybe I love it so much because it is at any moment more interesting and inspiring than anything happening in the real politics of the present, but I promised myself I wouldn’t talk politics on the blog until March.) It’s gorgeously acted, a lock to win a clutch of Tonys, and is the brainchild of the guy from The Heights, Lin-Manuel Miranda.

Miranda, who at 35 is ridiculously accomplished (look him up), is also the cousin of a kid at my two older children’s school. The headmaster there locked him in to speak to the students early this fall, before the soundtrack to Hamilton was number 1 on the Rap charts and Miranda had  Freestyled with Jimmy Fallon and the show sold out until NEXT October. They let parents attend, and so last week Amanda and I went to hear what a theatrical genius would say to a bunch of teenagers.

Turns out that Miranda has his finger on the pulse not just of 18^th Century American history, but on the psyche of the 21^st Century Teen as well. He spoke without a note for almost an hour about getting to where he is now by surrounding himself with smart people, figuring out what he wanted to do, and then doing it, over and over, improving and tweaking and keeping his Ass in the Seat.

Our son the Artsy Theater and Music and Animation kid, was enthralled. He’d been into Hamilton since he saw it with Amanda over the summer when my back was out and he took my place. Miranda is a role model to him of the best sort, and when he heard that Miranda was going to be speaking at school, he stayed up until midnight for three nights drawing a cartoon of the cast of Hamilton entirely comprised of Looney Tunes characters. It was inspired, and he had the opportunity to give it to Miranda backstage (and then have his life made when Miranda tweeted a photo of the picture).

 

 

But what Miranda said and Joe understood, and what I thought was so cool and relevant for so many of the people I work with in my life in publishing is this: If you figure out (early, much of the time; but whenever) what you want to do—whether that’s writing a novel or composing a song or swimming fast or trading derivatives—you need to immerse yourself in it with great passion and intensity. You need to practice, even if you are gifted. You need to figure out the best ways to meet the right people, to put yourself in the most advantageous position possible, even if that is difficult and requires tremendous patience. (To paraphrase one of his most famous lines—possibly so inspiringly used because it is so much about his own ambitions—you need to figure out how to be in the Room Where It Happens.)

And it’s not that this is completely new advice, for sure (although it was interesting that his view was so not about being well-rounded, but rather about being expert in your field of passion first, then smoothing out the edges). But what held Joe’s attention, and all 600 others’ in that room that day, was that this kid from Washington Heights, who made the first Secretary of the Treasury Hot in 2015 by making him a rapper, was saying it and was his own best example.

Notes from the Washington Mall

Josh Getzler

I was in Washington, DC last week to see some clients and meet about a couple of projects. A couple of things occurred to me as I wandered the streets of the Capitol on a ridiculously gorgeous Thursday in late October, on one of the first clear-headed and not sleep-deprived days I’ve had since the summer ended and I’d gone from Jewish holidays to a bat mitzvah to, almost inexplicably, adopting a puppy (who is beautiful and one day will be a perfect child, but right now is a gorgeous brown menace).

The first thing I realized was just how portable my job is. I was out of the office but had spaced out my meetings in such a way that I was pretty much able to resemble my usual email protocol without needing to put up an Out of Office message. I have a Surface tablet, which might as well have been made for a literary agent or editor—it allows me to use Office in full, read portably, see my email (which is Google based, so therefore looks the same whether I’m in Chelsea or on Connecticut Ave) and edit manuscripts in a smaller and lighter package than even a laptop (and has a detachable keyboard—it’s outstanding…). I spent several hours a day in my hotel room, by myself, better able to concentrate because I had nothing (beyond the internet and, say, solitaire) to distract me (and the wifi was iffy, so even that went better than usual). I submitted manuscripts, held calls (I use my cellphone a lot anyway), and the change of venue did me a world of good. Not that it’s not good to be back to the kids, dog, and general chaos of NYC, but that was a nice breath.

The second thing that was pretty stark was the way we now think of ebooks. One of the meetings I was in dealt with a graphic novel. All of a sudden, one of the non book-people in the meeting said “Wait a minute, is there even going to BE an ebook of this?” “Of course,” I said. “Well, do we need to negotiate rates or anything?” “No, it’s done in the boilerplate.”

Nobody even needed to say more. And the interesting thing to me was that the conversation was, in point of fact, all about maximizing the print edition through product placement and general branding. It was incredibly old-school thinking—and for this project, it will clearly be the driving force of sales. Now, part of our conversation dealt with the fact that the book part was only one of four separate pieces of a multi-platform brand that will ultimately have digital games, at least two apps, and (if we can clear a bunch of hurdles) a television series. So lots of screens. But the book drove the bus.

So I guess what I took out of the trip is that while the digital world enables me to do my job better, more efficiently, and from anywhere, our industry is getting comfortable, at last (at last? It was pretty quick…but that’s another story) with the place of the digital world alongside the traditional one.

And then I got home and saw that Amazon is opening a traditional bookstore. And we’re off to the races…

 

P.S. Here's where to give money to help Erin pay ridiculous medical bills.

 

We're Really Not Kidding. Help!

Josh Getzler

I'm away from my desk today, so I asked Jeff to put up again his post looking for support for our fellow Dead Guy, Erin Mitchell. It's plenty important enough that you can wait a week to hear about why you shouldn't write in the passive voice or curse in middle grade books, or whatever else I was coming up with today. Back next week. Go Mets (Yes, I said that--maybe my next post will be defending my right to say that after having worked with the Yankees for 9 years--or maybe it's obvious from that!)

We here at DEAD GUY are taking today to urge you to donate to what we believe is the worthiest cause on the planet.

Our very own Erin Mitchell.

As she has documented quite eloquently, Erin's been having some pretty serious health issues, and as anyone in the United States knows about such things, it has not been inexpensive. She is self-insured, so the bills are mounting pretty staggeringly. We believe Erin should not have to shoulder the burden alone while she's dealing with so much at the same time.

So there is a grassroots (that is to say, crowdsourcing) movement to try and help, which was set up by Ellen Clair Lamb. Many have contributed (including some on this blog), and if you are able to do so, we'd urge you to send what you can.

Anyone who has read Erin's posts here or encountered her elsewhere know she is an amazing woman, one whose wit and general good humor coexist with strong views and a sense of right and justice. She is being dealt a hand she doesn't deserve, and the overwhelming cost of health care in America should not be something she has to contend with when she's fighting a much more important fight. 

If you can spare a few bucks, we'd appreciate it if you would take a look. If you can't, why not comment below and let Erin know how much you like reading her here on DEAD GUY or elsewhere. In fact, why not do both?

She's already overwhelmed with a situation. Let's overwhelm her with how much people care.

We do. You get well soon, Erin. We want you back here on Fridays.

Death--Real Death--and Prejudice

Jeff Cohen

I went to a funeral a little over a week ago, one of a woman I didn't know well but well enough. One of her daughters is the closest friend of my daughter, and that was more than enough for me to want to pay my respects.

As it happens, this woman was one who fell in love with and lived with another woman. They didn't stay together forever, but they did remain close and raised their two daughters together. They set good examples and instilled excellent values--fairness, honesty, compassion--in their children. I can't tell you much about the deceased (and I am sorry about that) other than what I heard in the eulogies and observed the few times we met, but I can tell you about her children, and they are lovely, among the most admirable people of any age I know.

The two women who raised them were not legally able, in the years they were together, to marry in the state where I live (or at that time, any other). They did not have the protection of the government in many areas. Had the illness that took her happened even when the two women were raising their lovely daughters, there would have been no guarantee that one could have even visited the other in the hospital. There was no provision to share health care insurance coverage. Had it happened when the children were under the age of 18, custody could certainly have become an issue--the girls might have been taken from their mother.

Now, I am not a man of faith but I do respect those who are. And I believe in your right to think whatever you think. I even respect your right to assert these two women were living some kind of abhorrent lifestyle that you think they chose or could have reversed with some willpower or fervent prayer. You can believe as you believe.

You might think your book of faith would condemn these two women. You might think they are an accident of nature or that they are sinners who should have turned their backs on their own nature and repented. Perhaps any objection you have is not at all faith-based but rooted in a belief that there is a natural order to things and these people flew in the face of that. You are entitled to those views as I am entitled to mine.

But if you were to have met either of their daughters, seen what kind of young women they are, and then have seen the pain in their eyes when they had to lay one of their mothers to rest, I think you might come to the same conclusion that I would have already reached:

You're just wrong.

 

The inevitable commercial: The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband, the second Asperger's Mystery, is now available from Midnight Ink (hi, Terri!) at booksellers online and off. If you have questions, you know where to find me.

 

 

The Final Out of Michael Kay

Jeff Cohen

Just to follow up on some of the ideas I was discussing last week: I'm a lifelong fan of the New York Yankees. (You may despise me all you like, but I'm not changing my affiliation. Deal with it.) And, since I am not nearly wealthy enough to buy season tickets (and uninterested in making the two-hour hike to and from the Bronx 81 times a year), I watch almost every game on television, as the gods intended.

Hang on, writing fans. I'm getting there.

Seeing that number of games broadcast--and for us die-hards it's actually seven days a week for some stretches of the season--naturally we get to hear the announcers very frequently and pick up some of their verbal patterns. Each one has his own style (except Meredith Marakovitz, who has her own style). Some of the ex-players speak in such arcane detail about the swing of a bat or the release point of a pitch that I can feel I've never actually seen this sport before and must be watching it with the SAP button pressed on my TV because it's in a foreign language.

Others, the professional announcers who have not played the game themselves, are there to remind us there's a game going on sometimes (the ex-players tend to reminisce or explain a point for the next six plays). They usually provide play-by-play, telling you what you're seeing on the screen, rather than "color commentary," which is the inside story of the game, these days so overloaded with statistics it helps to be a mathematician to watch the Yankees play the Baltimore Orioles.

But the point to those of us who pay inordinate attention to words is that there are recurring patterns to the way people talk, particularly when they are required to do so for at least three hours at a stretch. Some of them are endearing (the genial and knowledgeable Ken Singleton shouting "Look out!" whenever a pitch gets a little too close to the batter), some are simply noteworthy (John Flaherty never says, "Joe Girardi should be pleased"; he says "If you're Joe Girardi, you're pleased." That would be fine, but I'm definitely not Joe Girardi). Some grate on the ear to the point of distraction.

And that brings me to Michael Kay.

The "TV voice of the New York Yankees," Kay possesses the voice we fans most often hear. Some adore him. Others want to run him out of town on a rail. The former must outnumber the latter, because he also has a radio show in New York talking about all sports, and he is certainly not in danger of dismissal from his TV job. I assume the same is true of the radio gig.

But he repeats certain words and phrases without mercy, and if you're listening closely, it can set your teeth on edge.

I understand the concept of signature phrases. Phil Rizzuto had "Holy cow!" (which was widely assumed to have been stolen from a previous sportscaster), and that never bothered me. Rizzuto was also the most idiosyncratic sportscaster in history and could be entertaining even --or perhaps especially--when he forgot there was a game going on. Which was not infrequent.

I get that every announcer is expected to have a home run call, although that seems odd to me. Why not just respond to the game as it happens? But okay, that's an industry standard.

The problem is, virtually every inning has a Kay trope. As the first pitch is being thrown, you can expect, "(Name of pitcher) is ready. (Name of batter) is ready. Let's do it!" Which is uncomfortable in and of itself. This is immediately followed by "and we are underway," in case you didn't know the game had started.

(Again, keep in mind that it's the repetition of the phrase, night after night, that grates. Doing it once would not be a problem.)

Each home run will be greeted with, "That's hit DEEEEEEP to (direction) field! Track! Wall! See ya!" Some of the wall scrapers, particularly in Yankee Stadium's right field, are not hit all that DEEEEEEP, but okay.  The reuse of the same phrase every single time makes the moment less special instead of more. It's like each home run is the same as all the others because they will all be described the same way.

The whole "see ya" thing is I guess a trademark. Every announcer likes to have a signature call for home runs. John Sterling, the radio voice of the Yankees, is famous--not necessarily in a good way--for his home run calls, tailored to each Yankee batter. (But then, John Sterling's description of a baseball game is a surreal affair from beginning to end, leaving the listener with the unshakable impression that he has somehow crossed the space time continuum and is now listening to a present-day baseball game being described by a fan of odd commercial segues and musical comedy from 1948. That's another issue entirely.)

Even in the obligatory statement of copyright (repeated each night so people can't pirate the broadcast of the game), Kay sometimes feels it necessary to insert himself into the announcement. He can't tell us not to use anything in the broadcast "without the written consent of the New York Yankees" and just read the words. He adds the word "aforementioned," as in "the aforementioned New York Yankees," presumably to alert the viewer to the face that he knows a four-syllable word. The one area where the words SHOULD be the same every night, and he wants us to remember who's reading the boilerplate.

When the team behind in the score has two outs in the ninth inning, Kay will say--without variation--"the (Yankees or other team) are down to their final out." Followed, when the batter has a two-strike count, with "the (Yankees or other team) are down to their final strike." It's the word "final" that grates here, because it's never anything else. There is no word "last" in Kay's vocabulary. There is just "final."

The repetition of words has an effect on the listener. It's not soothing and it's not congenial. It irritates. In writing (you knew I'd get to it, right?) quite often an editor will suggest a change in the manuscript when the writer uses a word too often, or uses it more than once in a short sequence. That's because reading is in many ways something we do with our mental ear--we hear the words as we read them--and that repeated word quickly becomes abrasive to the reader.

When that repetition--and the lack of spontaneity it represents--continues over 162 games in six months, it compounds itself. Too many final outs, too many tracks, too many walls, too many aforementioneds, too many let's do it-s. It becomes an illustration of why the mute button was invented.

For a writer, that's something to keep in mind. Don't irritate your audience. Use all the words you can without becoming a walking thesaurus. Mix it up. Reread your work and see if you might add more variety. Talking for three hours a night isn't the same as taking your time to write. Michael Kay can't go back and edit himself, and he has to keep an audience entertained for long stretches when not much is going on (and no, baseball is not a slow sport if you actually understand the game). 

But he still drives me crazy. "Last," Michael. It's a word. You can use it. Who knows; maybe you'll like it.

It's Not Just Backyard Grilling

Jeff Cohen

For those reading in the United States: Today is Labor Day. And before you start lighting the grill or emptying the pool (because it's the "official end of summer," which is the opposite of true), consider the meaning of the holiday.

Labor Day is not just about the value of hard work or the reward one gets from doing one's job well. Labor Day is about organized labor, something that has been under attack here for some time. And if you're offended by political discussions of any kind, this might be the time to stop reading this post. Because although writing books is my labor, that's not what I'm posting about this week.

We Americans like to believe that we value a day's work. But a look back into history from not all that long ago will indicate that perhaps that isn't always the case. We are happy to have the fruits of labor, ours and others', but until labor started to organize itself it was possible to undervalue a day's work in any number of horrifying ways.

Children could be made to work in factories. Workers could be required to labor under dangerous conditions for absurd numbers of hours without a break. Weekends were not sacrosanct. Neither were lunch hours, coffee breaks or safety regulations that kept going to work from being a hazard to your health or a serious threat to your life.

Let's not even discuss wages. Because you really couldn't then.

Organized labor (that is--brace yourself for the word--unions) made it possible to work hard and still have a life outside work. Negotiation with management made work something that produced the desired effect without destroying the people who created it. Labor unions are to thank for the five-day work week. The nine-hour work day. The lunch break. The illegality of sweatshop conditions.

Are there some labor unions whose leadership has become corrupt? Of course there are. But the idea that the abolition of unions will lead to the market regulating itself is absurd. If the past 100 years have taught us anything, it is that greed is a drug, and once given access to it, users will go to any lengths to increase their supply. The product of such conditions is a battered work force and decreased productivity.

So yes, say thank you to workers you know. Say thank you to yourself if you're working. Have respect for people who do their jobs every day, not just on Labor Day. 

And remember that this day is also meant as a reminder: Protect the rights of laborers, because without them we are vastly diminished.

Happy Labor Day, everybody.

Banned Book Week - Librarians as Warriors

This year, the American Library Association celebrates Banned Books on September 27, 2015. Even in this age of information, where movies are pirated, tweets captured for infinity the second they appear and are deleted, and criminals record and post their activities to the world, we still need to fight for the freedom to speak.  And be read.  And to ensure that others have the freedom and access to information.

In the next few weeks I hope to re-visit those "dirty" or challenged books that I thoroughly enjoyed in my youth.  I hope that you will also take a moment to appreciate being able read books that someone believed you shouldn't.  

Books are power.  

Looking back, I bet that books that were considered scandalous or dangerous are the ones that you remember reading the most.  And not always for the reasons one would expect.  For me, what turned out to be the most accurate depictions of reality were often the most shocking, disturbing, and memorable.

Quick Shots

Jeff Cohen

For reasons that defy explanation I spent some time going back over my own Facebook and Twitter posts last week. Don't worry; I haven't been hacked and nobody's suing me (as far as I know). But it did lead to a few short pieces I sort of liked that didn't show up anywhere else and didn't have another forum until now.

In other words, I didn't have a post for this week.

So here are a few highlights in case you're not connected with me on Twitter or Facebook. (If you'd like to be, click here or here!):

• It weirds me out when people post Happy Birthday wishes to dead celebrities. How happy is it going to be for them, really?
• The Man From U.N.C.L.E. movie opens next week. As a fan of the original series, I'm going to start not seeing it now.
• Bruce Springsteen: "I'm sick of sittin' 'round here, tryin' to write this book." 
  Me: "I'm sick of sittin' 'round here, tryin' to sing this song."
• After decades of careful observation and deep thought, I have come to an irrefutable conclusion: People are crazy.
• In keeping with current trends I'm releasing a new Aaron Tucker novel, Go Set Your Watch, in which it is revealed that Aaron is really a six-foot-tall Protestant with no sense of humor.
• What bothers me is more people seem to believe in a zombie apocalypse than in a climate change crisis.
• I have never considered Mickey Mouse an interesting character. Give me Bugs Bunny every time.
• This Wednesday will be my 30th anniversary as a freelancer. I wonder what I'm getting me as a gift.
• I have as much self-discipline as the next guy, assuming the next guy is Bart Simpson.
• I don't care how many years it's been, Ferris Bueller was a smug spoiled rich entitled brat who deserved comeuppance, not lionization.
• You're making a western about a guy and his three sons on a ranch called the Ponderosa. So where does BONANZA come from?
• I don't drink whiskey. Anything that tastes that bad should at least make you stop coughing.
• I have determined after exhaustive research that "Sunrise Sunset" is the most depressing song ever written.
• The only way you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps is if you're hanging by your feet.
• I mean, who names their kid "Opie," anyway? "Opie Taylor for the defense, your honor." Just not a good idea.
• Today I attended a faculty retreat. I wanted to make it a faculty advance, but apparently there weren't any other colleges we wanted to invade.
• The movie I'm REALLY waiting desperately to see? ISRAELI SNIPER: The Dr. Ruth Story.
• I get emails from the chief of the Rutgers police department every now and again. His name is Kenneth B. Cop. I can't tell you how happy that makes me.
• Most baffling movie title ever: Beach Blanket Bingo. What does that even MEAN?
• After the shark eats Robert Shaw in JAWS, he doesn't get the guy stuffed and mounted on a piece of driftwood to hang on his wall. All I'm sayin'.
• I'll listen to an audiobook of the Bible, but only if it's read by the author.
• Whatever happened to Centigrade?
• I don't believe in dumplings. I've never seen anyone dumple.
• Why aren't they called "bakies"?
• Yes, you said that out loud. Can we retire that joke now?
• I don't get a wax museum. I've always wanted there to be a wick coming out of each of the statues' heads.
• I'm not good at living in the moment. I can live in the epoch.
• You can't become a writer. You either are or you're not. You can become a GOOD writer.
• Can we have a list of Republicans NOT running for president? It would be so much quicker.
• Cheap horror movie idea: VILLAGE OF THE DARNED. It stars sock puppets.
• We should acknowledge that anyone who thinks s/he is qualified to be President of the U.S. must be crazy and is therefore ineligible.
• Has it never occurred to anyone else that Santa Claus is Jewish? Who else works Christmas Eve?
• It's hard for me to respect any man who voluntarily wears a tie every day to work.
• If there's anything older than yesterday's news, it's yesterday's sports news.
• Do you think anyone ever called Vincent Price "Vinnie"?
• Radical idea: How about we commemorate Memorial Day by considering the idea that maybe there's a better way to solve our problems than war?
• After the war on terror, can we go after melancholy? I hate that emotion.
• I had this great tweet I was going to use last night. But I've forgotten it. Trust me, it was hilarious.
• Quite frankly, anyone who can't believe it's not butter needs to try butter.
• He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. I think there's a case to be made that Santa Claus works for the NSA.
• People have to stop saying, "Merry Christmas Eve." I'm sure my daughter Eve is flattered, but we're Jewish.
• The analysis just came back. As it turns out, Soylent Green is actually made from kelp. Sorry.
• Stop trying to change the world. The world is fine. Change the people. They're the ones messing everything up.
• Nobody has a normal life.

Don't Leave, Jon! We'll Be Good!

Jeff Cohen

No doubt you will be hearing much this week about the coming departure of Jon Stewart from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, which would seem to be virtually impossible but is happening anyway.

I've posted about Mr. Stewart before, so if some of what follows seems familiar, please indulge me. In my house, Jon Stewart leaving our daily television viewing is tantamount to being told there will never be ice cream again. It's unthinkable, even given the months we've had to prepare.

I'm angry with him for leaving us without the outlet of wit that can guide us through the rough times. For taking with him one of the few bastions of honesty and intelligence left in television comedy. For aging just a tiny bit slower than I am and having the nerve to want to spend more time with his wife and children.

I sincerely believe Jon Stewart has helped keep me sane (if you call this sane). Events in the world can test a person, regardless of one's political bent. I happen to agree with him on most issues, but I also believe he has been considerably more "fair and balanced" than others who might try to aspire to such ideals. There were plenty of Clinton jokes. There were times when President Obama was called out by the host. So don't tell me it's just because I agree that I laughed--out loud--pretty much every night.

But when things got really frustrating or awful, we could count on Jon Stewart to find perspective, to speak truth to power, to vent our own boiling emotions and express them in ways that were almost always hilarious. Try doing that sometime. Try doing it once. Forget four days a week for 16 years.

In my house, watching Jon Stewart has been a communal, family activity. My children, who were 9 and 6 years old when he took over the show, started watching as soon as they could understand the issues he was discussing. It became unthinkable to watch Jon Stewart alone. If one of us had to be out for an evening, it was common practice to avoid watching the Daily Show from the previous night (we TiVo the show because some of us aren't staying up that late and besides you can zap the commercials) and having, the next available night, a "Jon-a-thon." We never missed a show. EVER.

From Jon Stewart came Stephen Colbert and Steve Carrell and Ed Helms and Jessica Williams (who is going to be a comic talent for many years to come) and Kristen Schaal and Rob Corddry and Lewis Black and... many more. Guests ranged from a sitting president to music legends to actors and authors (!) and politicians and activists. Each interview was about something, even if it was just getting Jon and Will Ferrell to crack each other up. The questions were intelligent and showed thought. The interviewer was rarely caught by surprise. Kudos to the Daily Show staff. 

The same for the terrific writers. Was every joke a gem? Of course not. That's impossible. But the ratio of winners to losers was ridiculously high. Seeing Jon Stewart work up a head of steam on something that really riled him up was a thing of beauty. 

So I'm mad at Jon Stewart for abandoning us in our time of need (an election next year; Donald Trump; conventions; waiting for Clint Eastwood's chair to come back), but then, when is a good time? There will ALWAYS be lunacy that will no longer be skewered quite so ably. I get that it had to end sometime; I just hoped I'd be dead 50 years before it happened.

I will be watching on Thursday (or maybe Friday because some of us get up early for work and that's why the gods invented TiVo) when he bids us farewell. I'm sure it will hit all the right notes and be classy and irreverent at the same time. I have no doubt there will be homage paid by numerous celebrities and I imagine--or at least hope--there will be an honest sign-off by the host at the end of the show.

I'll love every minute of it and then I'll despair. No offense to Trevor Noah, about whom I don't know nearly enough yet, but he won't be Jon Stewart.

That kind of thing happens only once.

 

P.S. Happy birthday, Joshua B. Cohen! Sorry Jon's leaving on your birthday. 

I'll Keep My Atticus Finch, Thanks

Jeff Cohen

I'm not going to read the "new" Harper Lee novel, "Go Set A Watchman," and it's not simply because I have no idea what that title means.

For those who have been living in solitary confinement the last six months, "Watchman" is the second Harper Lee (everyone likes to say how she prefers to be called "Nelle" by her friends, perhaps to prove they belong in that category) novel, published a mere 55 years after the first one, "To Kill A Mockingbird," which you might have heard about.

I had some interest in the newly published (tomorrow, actually) book, but not the same as some very dedicated Lee fans. I came to "Mockingbird" very recently, having tried a number of times to read it and not pushing myself past the family genealogy offered in the first couple of chapters. (I finally got through it all as an audiobook read by Sissy Spacek, who did a lovely job as one would expect.) I was familiar with the film version, starring Gregory Peck in perhaps his most well-suited performance as the narrator's father, Atticus Finch, a man of incredible moral integrity at a time when it was easy to have none.

And that's why I won't be reading "Watchman."

According to the reviews and news articles about the publication of "Watchman," the story here is an alternate version of the "Mockingbird" characters and some of its events. In this version, Atticus, who had stood up for African-Americans in the beloved original novel, is a bigoted, closed-minded man who actually once attended a Klan rally and believes wholeheartedly in segregation.

Well, Ms. Lee is more than entitled to her versions of Atticus in any way she wants to write him, but I want my Atticus Finch from "Mockingbird" and no other. 

The backstory here--truncated for brevity and because I don't actually know what really happened--is that "Watchman" was an early draft of "Mockingbird," written around 1955, or as I call it, "the time that didn't exist because I wasn't born yet." It deals with Jean Louise "Scout" Finch, a woman in her 20s, coming home to the South from her current place in New York City and dealing with her aged father Atticus, who "has his good days and his bad days."

And that's all I know about the plot. From what I've read about the "new" Atticus, that's all I need to know.

As an artist, Ms. Lee has the right--no, the obligation--to portray her characters as accurately and truthfully as she sees fit. Whether this version is being published with her wholehearted approval might be questionable and then again it might not. Whether or not it should be published is not my call; it was hers, and she decided by signing the contract to go ahead. Once again, no author would want to be told he or she could not have full expression simply because the readers disapprove. 

But as a reader, I have rights, too. That clearly includes the right not to sully my own personal image of a character who had a serious impact not only on American fiction but perhaps on American policy. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed not long after Peck portrayed Atticus on screen. It would be a huge leap to consider that cause and effect, but to deny there was any impact would be equally inaccurate.

My view is that in the South--and everywhere else--at that time (and always) there were far too many "Watchman" Atticus Finches and not nearly enough "Mockingbird" Atticus Finches. I choose to celebrate a fictional hero who actually deserves that distinction. I choose not to change my view of him in a draft the author's original editor felt was not ready for publication. 

That's my choice, not Harper Lee's. Both her books will continue to exist. But I will have read only one.

Would Magic Mary XXL Be Okay?

Jeff Cohen

I must very respectfully--VERY respectfully--disagree with my colleague and friend Cynthia Chow. If you don't know what I'm talking about, scroll down and read Cindy's post from yesterday. I'll wait. 

Back now? Good. While there are many points brought up on which we are in complete harmony (the gross objectification of women's bodies in almost every Hollywood film ever; the need for society to lighten up a bit; the therapeutic power of bonding with friends of either or any gender), I do not buy her argument that the film (as in "a thin layer or coating," according to the Random House College Dictionary) Magic Mike XXL is a harmless excuse for grown women to behave like teenagers. Well, wait. Yes, I agree with that. It's the marketing for the film that I find distressing.

After all, that same argument could be made for grown men regarding such cinematic classics as Showgirls or Striptease, but I also believe in the idea of equal treatment. Does that mean I think the movie industry should turn out more movies about hot guys parading around in as little as possible to even the balance? Um... no.

If this movie had been made with the genders reversed, about a group of female strippers who do so out of the sheer joy of the act, and because it helps them to fund their art or their pizzeria or their Ph.D. ambitions and the marketing campaign was exactly the same, women would be lining up in front of every theater showing this film.

To protest. And they'd be right.

Consider the print ads. A shirtless guy with abs that can probably stop a scud missile spreads his legs and points at his crotch (whereupon is emblazoned the word "coming,"). Subtle, huh? To find a poster from a mainstream studio film that offered that kind of exploitation of a woman (by which I mean a poster that screams "Hot babe! And that's all we have to talk about in this movie!) you'd probably have to go back to the days of Raquel Welch. (What? Cavewomen DIDN'T shave their legs and armpits and wear eyeshadow?)

Now, again, let me be clear: I am not for one second suggesting that women haven't been exploited far more often and far more severely than men in this area. That's not even up for debate; it's a fact.

What I am saying is that if it's wrong for women, it's wrong for men, too. You can't look me in the face and say, "Hey, look what damage is being done to the body images and general world view of girls by all this sexism," and that look at Magic Mike XXL--come on, even the title!--and tell me, "Aw, it's just a little fun; what's wrong with that?"

What's wrong with that is it creates yet another in a miles-long series of double standards, which leads to confusion. It communicates the idea that we'll get mad if you reduce women to body types, but it's okay if you do that to a man. If men were to be judged strictly on appearance--keep in mind the idea of tall, dark and handsome--I would be living in a broom closet somewhere shunned by society.

As a writer, I quite often speak through the voice of a female character, and I'm going to start doing that a lot more in the coming months. I like to think that I treat those characters as fairly as possible. Nobody's perfect, and I'm probably less close to perfect than most, but I try. Kind emails and reviews have occasionally reinforced that belief. And it sure doesn't hurt that I've had female editors work with me on those books. (See last week, please.)

Saying you have to be respectful of women but not of men--or the other way around--is the wrong message to send. I do not by any means think that's what Cindy was saying; she was arguing in the name of fun, and I'm all for fun. I agree with her that this one film is not a trend; it's an anomaly. In the vast majority of cases the sexist exploitation is pointed firmly in the other direction. And I'm not offended by the ads or the existence of Magic Mike XXL. I'm a little disgusted, but that's not the same thing.

None of the offensive stereotypes of women--the dumb blonde, the cold professional, the scheming temptress--have been completely banished. Maybe they shouldn't be, depending on the story being told. But there are offensive stereotypes of men--the stoner dude, the ineffective "girly man" who dares to have feelings, the "ladies' man" who needs taming, the "bad boy" who can be saved by the right woman--that aren't even being addressed. My daughter tells me that's because men are in power and are therefore the class that doesn't need protection. She's a lot smarter than I am, and her argument makes sense, but that doesn't stop me from being pissed off over the double standard. 

I don't believe in censorship; I believe in being discerning in my choices. I did not see, read or otherwise engage with 50 Shades of Gray because, frankly, life is short and I don't have that kind of time. The same is true of Magic Mike and its apparently XXL sequel.

So I'm not suggesting a boycott or a ban. That's stupid; the market will bear what it wants to bear and that's the way it should be.

I'm saying instead, enjoy what you enjoy. But don't for a second pretend that it's right sometimes and not others. Unfair is unfair.

My morning with Connor, Joey, Shane and iJustine

Josh Getzler

I’ve been meaning to write this post for several weeks, but it kept getting shelved. But now that my girls are going to camp tomorrow, and I won’t be able to fact-check with them for two months, my hand is forced.

So as I was doing my annual tour through the Booksellers Expo (BEA) extravaganza in May at the Javits Center, I was struck by one of the huge banners hanging from the ceiling above one of the entrances. It was from the new KeyWords Press imprint of Simon and Schuster and featured the faces of four young, good-looking people: Shane Dawson, Connor Franta, Joey Graceffa, and Justine Ezarik. These four authors were going to appear on the Sunday following BEA at BookCon, which is part of the ComiCon-like piece of BEA that is open to the public.

I immediately took a photo of the banner and sent it to my daughters.

You see, the four authors are among my daughters’ favorite YouTubers, video bloggers who have created huge followings by bypassing traditional avenues of discoverability and appealing directly to…whomever by looking at a camera, smiling sheepishly, and talking. Then posting the monologue on YouTube and seeing who will respond.

To my daughters, these people are friends and idols and role models (but with excellent hair). To me they seemed charming and slightly inarticulate.

Thirty seconds after sending the photo to them with “Want to go on Sunday?” attached, I got the following text from the 12 YO:

YAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh Shwag Daddy!

And the following email from the 11 YO:

 

So clearly we had to go see them on Sunday.

When I bought the BookCon tickets, I received an email that contained, among other things, a link to a set of instructions as to how to deal with attending the panel with Joey, Connor, Shane, and (as she’s known) iJustine. There were paragraphs about getting there an hour in advance, which room to go to to get your wristband, then which line to wait in; also where to buy books, which would be the only way you would be able to take a photo with the authors.

Hmm. It was very John Green/Stephanie Meyer in feel, and I couldn’t imagine it being THAT bad. I mean, Joey has almost 5 million subscribers, and Connor 4 and a half million. But would anyone go OUT to see them.

Well, yes.

When Jessie, Ita, Ita's friend Avigail and I got to Javits, and made our way downstairs to the holding pen, we were 45 minutes early and around 400^th in line. And it was fascinating. EVERYONE coming to see them was a teenage girl (except for the occasional boyfriend and sporadic grey-haired chaperones). They were all drinking hot pink Frappuccinos  and looking…happy. On their cell phones. Posting photos of the line on Instagram that looked kind of like this:

 

We waited a long time. And every time someone Official came by to announce that everyone needed to stay patient, there were screams. Like, rock concert screams. The vibrations built.

And I need to say something: If it seems like I’m rolling my eyes at this, it’s because the bare description of the event was utterly the cliché of a parent taking a group of tweens to an event he’s not wanted at. But here’s the cool thing: It was at a BOOK convention, and it was SWEET. Everyone was totally well-behaved. There were nerds and cool kids side by side, and there was no drama beyond the vibrations.

Then they opened the door, and the thousand 11-17 year old girls went BATSHIT. I’d been to this room before for some events at BEA so I ran the girls to the far end and we found reasonable seats. A DJ was playing pretty loud music (for 10 in the morning) that everyone knew, and the place filled up within moments. The moderator came out, the lights went down, the YouTubers shuffled into the room…

And the place exploded like it was the Beatles (or maybe 1Direction). Girls were SOBBING, screaming, shouting incoherently, for a really long time. At that point I was bemused, because there was no way the next 45 minutes could live up to the anticipation.

And then I learned about the YouTube zeitgeist and why it’s cool.

You see, while so much of the internet is negative and dangerous and filled with predators and trolls, these folks (and a number of other vloggers) are People Positive. They are kind and understanding (and snarky but in a nice way) and empathetic. They were bullied and weird and nerdy and closeted, and when they turn on their cameras and just talk about their day, with their success and newfound life satisfaction, their audience gets a sense that they can succeed as well. Joey and Connor and Justine and Shane appreciate their success and LOVE their community. They give time and imprimatur to worthy  causes. And while they’ve certainly figured out a way to make a living talking on the internet, their message of tolerance and collective support is simply undeniably positive.

At the end of the formal interview, the moderator allowed a few questions from the fans. I had been, again, skeptical of the kinds of questions we would get. But the girls said I’d be surprised. And again they were right and I was…old. The kids asking questions were well-informed and articulate, and were asking questions more philosophical and less “ConnorIWannaMarryYou.” And the YouTubers took them seriously (even if they were funny and pretty vague in their answers), and everyone left empowered.

When we left the room, we knew that the rest of the day would be anticlimactic. We wandered the booths, which were beginning to be disassembled anyway at the end of a long convention. But all the girls could talk about was how amazing it was to see these people in person. We didn’t get to have our photos taken with them—the line for books was as long as the line was to get into the auditorium, and life had to go on. But I left feeling like I learned something good about society, at the very time when so much of our lives is taken up with analyzing tragedy. There is a community out there, of tweens who read and feel and want to be happy and can’t always figure out how to make that happen. And they are led by a pretty impressive group of near-peers, who reach out through their cameras and help a bit to show them how to Make It Through.

How I Know I'm a Good Father

Jeff Cohen

Someday, I swear I'm going to do it. I'll read the bumper sticker, then I will get up next to that car, honk my horn, get the attention of the driver next to me and point to the shoulder. I'll wait until he or she has pulled over and I will stop my car in front so they can't easily pull away. Then I'll get out of my car and walk to the driver's side. I'll gesture for that person to lower the window. And when he or she does, I swear on all that I hold true, I will ask them about their grandchildren.

I don't believe in Father's Day. Or Mother's Day, for that matter. Or Grandparents Day or Sibling Day or National Pie Day. I do believe in Ben & Jerry's Day because they give you a free ice cream cone so you'd have to be a maniac not to believe in that.

The so-called "Hallmark Holidays," dreamed up to generate gift, flower and greeting card sales, have always seemed a little hollow to me. My wife, who lost her father at the age of three, resented the days in school when all the kids would make a construction paper necktie to bring home. I see the point.

I believe that fathers, mothers, cousins, and any other assorted relatives or acquaintances should be given respect--when they deserve it. I don't think setting aside one day so Home Depot can email me gift suggestions "for Dad," as if Home Depot were my sibling and my father hadn't died in 1995, makes a ton of sense. If you father was a good man who did his best to raise you the way he believed was right, you shouldn't need Home Depot to remind you to appreciate him.

That said, yesterday was Father's Day. So let me tell you about my children, because they are the measure of how good a father I have been since roughly 1989.

On Saturday evening, my luminous friend Linda Ellerbee held a party for the staff and families of Nick News, the program she had produced, often written and always hosted for the past 25 years. Because my son Josh was an intern at Linda's Lucky Duck Productions for two summers when he was in high school, we were invited.

And while the food was wonderful, the company genial, the setting trendy and the drinks free (always a plus), the highlight for me was hearing from Lucky Duck staffers who hadn't spent much time with Josh in seven years tell me what a great guy he is.

At a party where people were saying good bye to a program and in many cases a job they have known for a quarter of a century, they took time out to mention my son's talent, his affability, his honesty and his creativity. It was an emotionally charged evening for many. The chief editor of the program made a point of coming to me and saying, "I love your son" a time or two when he could have focused his attention on people he's seen every day since the first Bush was president.

And the thing was, I agreed with everything they said. Josh is a stand-up guy. He hasn't let his challenges (well chronicled here and elsewhere) stop him. He isn't completely where he wants to be yet professionally but he's certainly on his way. And he's done it without compromising his values or losing his sense of humor. He's not always easy, but he's always good. 

Later that evening we were visited by Josh's younger sister Eve, who usually lives in New York City for now but was passing through on her way back from Philadelphia. Now finishing her first year working with a program that tries to help high school students in less-well-funded New York high schools have a better chance at college, she bought me a Dunkin Donuts iced decaf (it was Father's Day) and then went back to finish up her last week with some students she's really grown to love. No matter what she says after a rough day.

She has become a remarkable young woman. Always paying attention, a very good listener, a funny and insightful conversationalist, committed to her ideals and dedicated to helping others, she is all the good things her mother has always been. And she has my hair. (Not the hair I'm using, but you know.)

At a gathering of her program to celebrate the end of the school year, certain first-year participants were called upon to create slam poems about their supervisors. Guess who was one of them. And her work (which was nothing but kind and appreciative, never snarky) got the kind of laughs and applause her father can only dream about.

Eve will be back in the Bronx teaching young people geometry next year. She'll do all she can to get through to each one, will use her humor and her creativity and her considerable intelligence. With some students she'll make a huge difference. With others she won't, but not for lack of trying. And when she finishes that program she'll go make a difference somewhere else. We don't know where or what she'll be doing, but trust me, she'll be great at it.

So that is the measure of a father, I think. And a mother. And an uncle, an aunt, cousins, a grandmother and each other and all the others they've known who have added and shaped. They have become really good people. And while the job of being a parent (I refuse to accept the idea of "parenting" as a verb) is never done, at some point you're no longer raising someone; you're watching someone continue to grow.

That's what Father's Day really is. It's about who your children are. So they are exactly what kind of father I am.

Wait till…

Josh Getzler

For the past four years, my family has bought season tickets to see the New York Liberty women’s basketball team. We were hooked in the end of the 2010 season, when the Liberty made it to the WNBA playoffs behind guard Cappie Pondexter, and 14,000 fans chanted “MVP, MVP” in Madison Square Garden even as the hated Atlanta Dream beat them in heartbreaking fashion.

What followed was exile followed by decline. The Dolans of Cablevision, who own MSG, the Rangers, Knicks and Liberty, decided to renovate the arena during WNBA season for three years. So the family bought our tickets and schlepped out to Newark, where we watched the team get older and more injured and eventually dropped out of contention.

Dolan even hired the (formerly) hated Bill Laimbeer of the 1980s and 90s Detroit Pistons “Nasty Boys” to coach the team, and…it just didn’t work. Even a return to MSG last season with a new star—Center Tina Charles—to work with the ever-intense Cappie, saw a tired and fractured club. They didn’t make the playoffs, and then, in typical New York basketball fashion, didn’t win the ping-pong ball draft lottery to get a top-two draft pick.

And then they did an extraordinarily odd and unaccountable thing: They hired Laimbeer’s former teammate and ex Knicks coach Isiah Thomas to be President of the Liberty and part owner. While that was a head-scratching decision to begin with on merit—Thomas’s reign with the Knicks was risible—it was his departure amidst a sexual harassment scandal that made his Liberty hiring so tin-eared. The Liberty has an executive in waiting in Teresa Weatherspoon—T-Spoon, a former Liberty Star, has been in the front office for years now. She is of the team, and beloved by the fans. Instead they hired a man to run the team whose tenure with the Knicks was so poisonous that there were pages of depositions that described his disrespect for the women who worked for him. On opening night there were 20 people in “Liberate the Liberty” t-shirts picketing outside the Garden calling for his ouster. How could this possibly work?

We decided in the end to keep our season tickets. We love the games. The players, as I’ve said in this space many times, are extraordinary role models for both our daughters and our son; and the fan base is much more relaxed and diverse that the fan base of the Knicks or Rangers. And tickets are around a third as pricey. And the game, as years have passed and more and more players come from big-time women’s college basketball programs, has gotten better and better.

So tonight was our first game of the season. Over the past off-season, in a sad but probably strategically advantageous move, the Liberty traded away Cappie and several other core players. It was a new bunch, and they had been blown out of their preseason games. Our expectations, I will tell you, were low.

And then the Liberty went out and blew out the Indiana Fever. Tina Charles was outstanding. But what gave us hope, what made us want to come back not just because we are fans and that’s what you do, is that the young players, drafted out of Cal Berkley (Brittany Boyd) and U Conn (Kiah Stokes), were extraordinarily strong, gifted, and energetic. There is depth and talent, and it was without Epiphany Prince, the star on the other side of the Cappie Pondexter trade. The players were bouncing down the court, rather than wheezing. And the Garden was rocking more than it did through the entire wretched Knicks season (there is a reasonable chance that the Liberty, in a 34 game season, will win more games this year than the Knicks did over 82 games this year).

I know this isn’t a publishing column. But on the other hand, it’s about passion and entertainment and family and the business of leisure. There are similar challenges in marketing the WNBA to trying to sell mysteries or middle grade fantasies. And in the same way that I want my column to make people read books, I want them to watch women’s basketball. I’ve got the season tickets—if you want to come with me (and I know you! Yes, that’s important too…) let me know. I’ll buy the beer.

Okay, Yogi!

Jeff Cohen

One week off of flogging my own work for this commercial announcement.

Two days ago, Americans and those around the world commemorated the 71st anniversary of the beginning of the Battle of Normandy, otherwise known as D-Day. One young sailor who participated in that invasion, a gunner's mate on the USS Bayfield, was named Lawrence Peter Berra.

You might know him as Yogi.

Later a Hall of Fame catcher, coach and manager of the New York Yankees, a manager of the Mets and a coach on the Houston Astros, Yogi Berra carved out a remarkable career in sports. He also established a scholarship at Columbia University that still exists 50 years later. 

Yogi became incredibly popular as a homegrown philosopher, although he himself admits that "I didn't really say all the things I said." Some of those Yogi-isms were indeed written by public relations agents but they were working with the personality of the man himself. Yogi has become much more than a baseball figure; he is known worldwide by people who have no interest in the game.

After all, how many other ballplayers have had animated bears named after them?

But he's much more than that. Having established the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center on the campus of Montclair State University in New Jersey (where Josh and I took the accompanying photograph), Yogi--because it is disrespectful to call him anything else--has become a strong advocate of education. He is a staunch supporter of the U.S. military and an ambassador for Athlete Ally, an organization promoting LGBT rights in sports.

He is a remarkable man and, at 90, still serves as an example of how to do things right.

There is a petition online to urge President Obama to award Yogi the Presidential Medal of Freedom in recognition of his service and his remarkable life. I am a lifelong unapologetic Yankee fan who never saw the man play, although I did once sell him a pretzel. So I've signed already.  But even those who detest the team (and I understand that on some occasions) should see the wisdom in signing that petition. 

As of 11:25 p.m. Monday, the petition is 5000 signatures OVER the necessary 100,000, so thanks to everyone who helped and okay, Yogi! Hope we hear good news soon!

The man is a national treasure. No joke. Let's acknowledge that formally. Sign the petition.

BEA Week--just kind of sneaks up on you!

Josh Getzler

Last week, as we were cramming everything possible into Thursday and early Friday before Memorial Day weekend, I suddenly realized that the short week was going to be even shorter. Or, in some ways, endlessly long. It is BEA week, which I love on one hand (as I've said in this space many times I LOVE trade shows. Have since my baseball days, when we used our tote bags to pick up t-shirt designs and bobblehead dolls instead of ARCs and publisher catalogs...); and also know that it's going to be unexpectedly inefficient.

That's because unlike the London Book Fair or Bouchercon, BEA is on US Publishing's Home Turf, so there's no packing, and we just sort of say "OK, who has what meetings on what days?" We never take into account that the schedule gets packed, and that it takes 45 minutes to get to or from the Javits Center from anywhere. Including, say, Los Angeles.

Which is not to say I'm looking forward to the BEA's upcoming move to Chicago etc--I LIKE being able to take the kids to school and then schlep over to 11th Avenue. And I know my friends reading this in their hotel rooms are not at all sympathetic to these (really halfhearted) complaints. But that's the fun of BEA week--NY publishing professionals get together to complain. Largely about everything related to the Javits Center, from the lines for coffee (long) to the distance you need to walk everywhere (long) to the wait on the wifi for your email to load (long). Sarah Weinman tweeted it well last night:

Sarah Weinman     ‏@sarahw                   12h12 hours ago               

Tomorrow is the first day of officially complaining about BEA

 

Have a fun conference everyone, if you are able to go. And go to see Geoff Rodkey and Toni LoTempio sign books on Friday (not together, but simultaneously), and pick up lots of cool tchotchkes. And celebrate books.

Some thoughts on the state of Foreign Rights for books

Josh Getzler

First, please allow me to apologize for my odd and not always timely posts the past few weeks. I’ve managed to go from Passover to the London Book Fair to having my back go out to a death in the family, so the juggling of life and work and writing and generally being efficient has been…challenging. The fact is, this particular post has been percolating since I was in London, in the middle of April.

Three years ago, I went to the London Book Fair for the first time. HSG had just begun, we wanted to announce our presence (with Authority—kind of like Nuke LaLoosh in Bull Durham). And while I met with lots of fascinating people, the overwhelming feeling I had when I returned was that there had been an atmosphere of great apprehension around Earl’s Court. European publishers were unsure how stable American publishers were; how the emergence of digital media was going to cut into international sales (if they were); and with growing economic instability in some of the larger European countries (Spain, Italy, Greece), whether folks who were having trouble putting food on the table would be overly interested in a paranormal romance.

So I was curious as to what the atmosphere was going to be this year, in a new venue (with its rights center tucked away in a corner approximately ten miles from the entrance to the Olympia) with continued economic unrest in Europe but the publishing world somewhat more stable. E-books have begun to be more predictable; the latest mergers and squabbles have been completed and resolved. I know our business at HSG has improved in the past two years, with more sales and a sense that business was rebounding. The issue on everyone’s minds has more to do with marketing and discoverability than whether publishers would survive to next year.

And while I certainly heard some difficult news from a number of territories—Spain wanted only books that already came with enormous buzz and preferably a film deal attached, for example—it was heartening to hear from the Japanese market, many of my British colleagues, and even the French. A little. Between espressos. And only reluctantly.

And then there were the Germans. First of all, I’m incredibly fortunate to work with one of the great people in publishing, Tilo Eckardt at Mohrbooks (whose name we at HSG have, almost inevitably, shortened to the less accurate but hipper T-Lo.). And it appears that my clients’ writing has dovetailed with the German market’s needs. Or perhaps, the German economy is simply strong enough that their publishers are willing to take greater risks than many other places. Regardless, in the past six months I think we have sold eight or nine projects there, far more than in any other territory. And this week, we were the beneficiaries of an auction between two houses on a book by one of our Dead Guy bloggers that had been bought by another of our bloggers…but I’ll let our writer make that announcement…very early next week.

Notes from back spasm

Josh Getzler

Well, I had one really great blog post planned today about CrimeProm 2015, otherwise known as the Edgar Awards, which took place last week and were extremely cool (even though I ended up being The Guy You Don't Want to Sit Next To, since both my Client Steve Hockensmith and my seatmate on the other side Ben Winters didn't win their categories. But they were lots of fun to schmooze with nonetheless, and congrats to everyone who did win. The Death Montage with the song Warren Zevon wrote while he was dying was a little macabre, but, you know, crime fiction...)

 

Then this afternoon the New York Liberty, the women's basketball team my family is obsessed with (particularly my tween girls), hired Isaiah Thomas to be its president, in an extreme case of Tin Ear. Let's see: Zeke has been such a disaster as a coach and talent evaluator that I probably wouldn't let him near the Ramaz Middle School Girls Soccer Team which has been outscored 39-4 in its four games this year. But then there's the sexual harrassment suit that ran him off the Knicks the first time. Just what you want, PR wise (never mind in the workplace) for a team that is striving to be a group of badass role models for future female athletes. It's horrible. See this article for details : http://www.sbnation.com/2015/5/5/8553115/isiah-thomas-new-york-liberty-knicks-raptors-pacers-cba-fiu

But then I got home, said hello to my son...and couldn't straighten up. So I'm writing this like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, and need some Advil and scotch to loosen it up. Daughter #2 offered to rub my back, felt the spot of the spasm and said "Holy" and then a word that is unbecoming for a 12 year old. So On to next week. When I'll talk more about books and less about basketball or backs.

https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CB8Q3ywwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DdNTToXKgwZc&ei=jG9JVaXCMpKWyATNi4DoDA&usg=AFQjCNF2WkdBjAXFKCc4OSiDScrEhRcmiA&bvm=bv.92291466,d.aWw

 

(Tired) Thoughts from the London Book Fair

Josh Getzler

I got into London at 9:30 this morning and had my first meeting at 12. Yep, it’s London Book Fair time again, when everyone says to me “Oh you lucky man, you get to spend the better part of a week in London.”

I, on the other hand, say “Oh, you mean I get to have 28 meetings in 48 hours in a crowded zoo of a Rights Center, trying to remember if my next meeting is with Spain or Germany, whether I’ve met with this person or not, and am I ever going to eat?

Yes, it’s fun, and I love it. I mean, I’m beat—I have slept two out of the past 36 hours and my first meeting stood me up. But I started my day with a lunch with my wonderful client Elaine Powell, ended my workday at a cocktail party for a publisher, and am writing this at a pub with a pint of Trinity Pale Ale. So, I mean, life doesn’t exactly suck.

And I got to spend my day talking to people who spend their days the way I do—thinking about the best books they’ve read recently and how they can convince the most people to buy those books. They just do it in Portugal or the Netherlands or Israel, which is the point of the London Book Fair—it’s a gathering of book folks from around the world who want to figure out what’s Out There.

Publishers advertise their lists in Trade Show booths, sure. But everywhere you look people are sitting across from each other with notebooks or tablets, talking about their books—how certain markets can’t sell paranormal romance while others are dying for dark domestic dramas; which countries need a hardcover publication to show you are serious, while other countries have basically frozen their market until their fiscal situation improves.

There is an abundance of air-kissing and cardboard espresso cups, of eye-rolling and shrugging and tweeting. When I worked in baseball, my wife always said that I enjoyed the Winter Meetings trade show more than I had any right to; I believe the same is true of the London Book Fair. It’s part class reunion and part convention, with elements of speed dating and fraternity rush. But with books. In London. Where you can end your day with a pint of Trinity.  

 

Je Suis Cartoonist--Guest Post

Joe Newman-Getzler

 

(Note: A rational, thoughtful take on the Charlie Hebdo shootings, from the perspective of a 15 year old artist who sometimes likes to be a bit edgy. It brings you up short, doesn't it...? JG)

On January 7, 2015, two masked men attacked the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine famous for its cartoons, killing 11 people and injuring 11 more.  This news shocked the world, as many were surprised that a magazine intended to make people laugh could lead to so much bloodshed. Certainly, the news surprised me. Seeing as I am a cartoonist myself, it definitely made me both worried and fascinated by how simple drawings on paper could lead to something like this.

For those who don’t know, Charlie Hebdo’s cartoons are generally designed to provoke. Many of their cartoons depict taboo subjects, such as the sex slaves taken by Boco Haram militants; a threeway between the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and several covers depicting the Islamic prophet Muhammad (“100 lashes if you are not dying of laughter!” he says on one of them).

Of course, there have been many cartoonists in the past whose cartoons have been designed to provoke strong emotions. As far back as 1831, Honore Daumier drew a portrait of the French King Louis-Philippe entitled “Gargantua,” which showed the king as a Goliath-like beast swallowing sacks of money fed to him by his subjects. The cartoon was prevented from being printed, and both Daumier and his editor Charles Philipon were sentenced to jail time and had to pay a fine. But by then, word had already gotten around about the drawing, and its notoriety led to Daumier and Philipon finding work again[1]

Another notable cartoonist to rebel against the system was Ralph Bakshi. Bakshi was an animator for the animation studio Terrytoons in the 1960s before moving on to make independent feature films. His first, Fritz the Cat, based on the underground comic by R. Crumb, became the first animated feature to earn an X rating. Bakshi’s films tended to be about New York City and the goings-on of its seedier denizens. One of his most notable films was Coonskin, a modern-day take on Song of the South that depicted three black main characters leaving the South and coming to Harlem, only to be confronted by oppression and discrimination. The film was wildly controversial upon its release, with the Congress of Racial Equality protesting its release and the film’s original distributor pulling out, despite the fact that the film was meant to satirize ethnic stereotypes, not reinforce them.

So, why do I bring up Daumier and Bakshi? Because their cartoons may have provoked many people, but they still had an overall point. Daumier was making a point about how the king was getting wealthy off of his citizens’ hard-earned money, and Bakshi was showing the life of the lower-class and the injustice of racism. The Charlie Hebdo cartoons to the untrained eye, seem to do little but provoke for the sake of provoking, and maybe a laugh now and then. Is there any underlying message in this cartoons? Or are they just there to provoke?

Luz, a cartoonist who survived the attacks, stated that “Since the ‘60s, [it] has always sought to break taboos and shatter symbols and every possible type of fanaticism.”[i] In that sense, there’s nothing wrong with what the Hebdo cartoonists do. Certainly, fanaticism of any type could be taken down a peg, and cartoons have forever been a way to take the high and mighty and bring them down to the level of the common man (although it is ironic that a magazine intended to attack fanatics was then attacked by fanatics). It puts a face behind the cartoons, and, to some, it stops the cartoons from being completely mean-spirited attacks on religious and social beliefs.

Frankly, I think everyone has a right to speak their mind about certain subjects. That’s what freedom of speech is all about, right? So, in that sense, the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists have every right to continue making their cartoons. But the question is, should they? You see, a cartoon depicting Mohammed isn’t just offensive to the Islamic radicals who burst into the offices. They’re offensive to anyone in the Muslim faith, as their law strictly dictates that none can create depictions of their prophet (not to mention anyone who has respect for other peoples’ customs). By not just drawing the Prophet, but also drawing him in very degrading positions, they don’t seem to be doing much more than pointing and laughing, like schoolyard bullies. They have a right to do it under free speech, but it still feels pretty insensitive toward an entire religion.

Does this mean that the shooters were justified? Absolutely not. Whether or not the cartoons were offensive, violence is never the answer, and killing people just for their art is an example of stifling freedom of speech. Though the cartoons can be considered offensive, they still had the right to make them. But, like I said before, it does get you to thinking when simple strokes of pencil or pen on paper can lead to reactions like these.

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[1] Cartoon Brew

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[i] VICE News

 

The Importance of the Concert T-shirt

Josh Getzler

Last night, my wife Amanda and I took our two older kids—almost 16 year old Joe and 12 year old daughter JJ—to see Billy Joel play his monthly club date at Madison Square Garden in an intimate performance for 19,000 of his closest friends. Amanda and I had seen him a few months ago, and these two of our three children went crazy and begged us for tickets as a Chanukah present. (Child #3, 11 year old daughter Ita, declined the ticket because the names of the musicians were not Harry, Liam or Niall, and the only thing that matters is 1D, duh (eye roll).

The night before we went, Amanda and I had a discussion of what kind of concessions crap the kids would be allowed to eat and drink, and whether we’d try to get sandwiches through security. But then we got to the discussion of whether part of the present was a concert t-shirt if they enjoyed the show, Amanda was skeptical. “They’re forty dollars and they’ll grow out of them. They don’t need shirts.” I was appalled, no more so than because she was wearing my tattered tie-dyed Dylan and the Dead t-shirt from 1987, which she co-opted to knock around in because of its worn perfection.

Let me tell you my feelings about concert t-shirts. I fundamentally believe they are ineffable symbols of growing up; they provide memories of happy moments, of watching musicians you have heard playing songs you know, pumping your arms and tilting your head back and singing; or pogoing in a club or holding hands during a date.

In my high school, wearing your t-shirt from the previous night’s big concert—at the time it would have been the Rolling Stones or U2 or Springsteen or the Dead, or for one month in eighth grade The Kinks; and if you were in certain social groups Black Sabbath or Rush or even Dio; or in others the Ramones or in others The Smiths—gave you stature, signified who you wanted to be that day. (It also was a big deal if you wore one of those t-shirts on a Tuesday or Wednesday because that meant your parents gave you a degree of freedom, and also could afford to get you frivolous tickets to a band on a school night.)

Of course, those t-shirts from the early 80s didn’t cost any $40. They were ten dollars in the parking lot of the Brendan Byrne Arena, and they were black and they had the dates and cities of the tour on the back. Often they had three-quarter-length jersey sleeves in different bright colors—I remember a Jethro Tull Broadsword and the Beast jersey with incongruous powder blue sleeves that I wore until I couldn’t see Ian Anderson’s freaky eyes anymore. But I could replay that concert better than if I could see videos on YouTube when I put on that t-shirt, much in the way that I could remember being underwhelmed by the long and not-terribly-exciting show that the Dead put on with Dylan that day at Giants Stadium. I just loved that particular tie-dye shirt.

And the concert t-shirt was also the symbol of a particular time. By the time I was in college I no longer needed a concert shirt—I had limited spending money when I went to see bands, and usually bought beer instead. So these thin, faded shirts got thinner and more ragged (and eventually considerably snugger) as I got older, and became the memories of adolescence with their own kind of nostalgic purity.

So when I looked over during Only the Good Die Young and saw the kids laughing and singing along, I knew that we needed to do it. There were no black market shirts in the lobby of the Garden, or in the corridor leading to the subway; so we went to the stand and got them their shirts. A little better quality, and softer and somewhat more artsy--and neither kid wanted the jersey--but cool. They both wear uniforms stop school so they couldn’t wear the silent brag of the Morning After t-shirt (but they had posted about the show on Facebook and Instagram anyway, so that was taken care of before the second encore). But when I came home and JJ ran out of her room to say hi, she had on her Still Rock n Roll To Me shirt. And I felt unreasonably proud.   

A little Perspective On a(nother) Snowy Morning in Chelsea

Josh Getzler

 

On one hand, I’m tired, stressed-out, and am juggling a million important things in work and at home. I want my children to be happy and well-adjusted, the bills to be paid, my clients to be satisfied, and have a chance to talk to my wife over supper before 9:30 on an average weeknight. And it’s snowing. Again. I never want to see my boots and gloves again.

On the other hand, I have boots and gloves and a warm office and a family that loves me (most of the time). I am trying to tweak plot points in novels and arguing over marketing plans, not singing doo-wop in the subway for handouts or dodging rockets in Donetsk or wondering whether my job will still be around in six months.

Plus my son just asked me whether I think 16 is a good age to start listening to Led Zeppelin.

Have a good day, and watch out for those bustles in your hedge rows.

Win a Free Audiobook, and RIP, Mr. Nimoy

Jeff Cohen

It was difficult this past week to hear of the death of Leonard Nimoy. Like so many others, I was a pretty serious fan of Star Trek from its first airings (yeah, I'm old), and Spock always appealed more than the other characters to me. 

He had that conflict between his natural tendency to see everything in terms of cold, objective logic and the need to understand his human side, which would react to things more emotionally than the character might want to admit. He was a beautifully conceived character, but he wouldn't have worked half as well if he'd been played by another actor (as we've seen in recent years).

The need to keep raging emotions in check while understanding their importance was what kept the character interesting. And Nimoy, who must have understood him on a basic level, once told director Nicholas Meyer (Wrath of Khan and Undiscovered Country, among others) that he never played Spock as a character with no emotions.

Instead, he played the alien as a man trying to keep his emotions in check. That makes all the difference.

Yes, some of the plots were downright silly and the special effects on a TV budget and schedule in the 1960s could be laughable. But Spock was never anything but dignified and in the parlance of the time, cool. He could outperform humans on almost every level, but was content to live among them and observe. 

Leonard Nimoy brought that to the role. Did he bristle at being thought of as Spock and nothing else? On occasion, he did; it's true. But he did not disparage the role or the people who had embraced it, sometimes to the point of embarrassment. 

Hey. I was nine years old and it was Star Trek. Cut me some slack.

Many years later when I was going through my unsuccessful screenwriter phase, I wrote a screenplay that had some connections to Star Trek, although it took place in contemporary America and didn't use any of the original characters because I wasn't stupid. I'd probably shudder to look at that piece of work today, but at the time I thought it was pretty good and I was hoping to get it noticed somewhere in Hollywood.

So I sent a letter to Leonard Nimoy asking if he'd like to consider directing the script.

To my astonishment, I received a letter (this was back when there were letters) from Mr. Nimoy's company saying he'd very much like to read the script. And you can believe that a copy was in the mail that very day.

I don't remember how long it took to receive a response, but I'm sure at the time I thought it was an eternity and I did my best not to pester anyone at Nimoy's company about it (I'm sure Josh can picture me waiting by the phone, only younger). But eventually another letter did arrive.

It's probably not a huge surprise that Nimoy passed on the script, since when you scan my IMDb page, you'll see I don't have one. But he did send a personal note.

He wrote, "I read your script with great interest, and your fondness for the material is evident. Although I am not going to proceed with it, I'd advise you to keep writing." I quoted that from memory.

It was a time when I needed any little bit of encouragement, and getting Mr. Spock to tell me I should keep writing did the trick. It was something he didn't have to do--most other Hollywood types would have sent a form letter or gotten an assistant to write the note--but he clearly saw that the script meant a lot to me, and wanted to connect personally. 

I never forgot that, obviously. 

Rest in peace, Mr. Nimoy. You were a good actor who had one iconic role, which is more than most get. You were a talented director, a good writer and I don't know much about photography, but I'm willing to bet you had some talent there too. You were kind to me at a time I needed it, and even though I tried to explain that the one time we met for about a half a minute, I don't think I sufficiently communicated that thought. Thank you. You will be missed.

 

P.S. There's a new contest going on! Win a free download of the audio version of  The Question of the Missing Head by E.J. Copperman/Jeff Cohen! See details here or here.

Big Pride

 

Josh Getzler

 

OK, most of the time I don’t talk about any specific sales I make. I like to get into more general discussions of publishing, trying to give whatever insider impressions of the industry I can from my experiences without talking overmuch about any of my clients individually. It’s kind of like when my middle daughter tries to trick me into saying that I love her better than my other kids. I roll my eyes and say “Yes honey, you are the best middle child I have.”

So, 51 clients of mine, there are no favorites (except YOU…right. You.) Now I’m going to talk about two deals I was able to announce the past week. It’s remarkable that they appeared on the same weekly Deal Report from Publishers Marketplace, since I’ve been working with them, combined, for longer than I’ve been in Publishing! So congratulations Tania Roxborogh and Paul Goldberg—I’m incredibly proud to have sold your books.

I met both of these talented writers when I was still at Writers House, learning to be an agent. Paul Goldberg, a muckraking journalist in the world of oncology, had written…a novel about four Soviet intellectuals trying to kill Stalin. Tania Roxborogh, a teacher and accomplished author in her native New Zealand, had written a sequel of sorts to Macbeth, which was about to be published by Penguin New Zealand. She wanted to cross over to the United States, and approached me to represent her.   Her book, Banquo’s Son, was a top-five best seller in New Zealand and won several end-of-year awards, and the sequels also were best sellers Down Under.

Goldberg, in the meantime, co-wrote a nonfiction book about the over- and under-treatment of cancer victims with American Cancer Society Chief Medical Officer Dr. Otis Brawley, which was published successfully by St. Martin's Press. And we periodically showed editors Levinson’s Sword, as the novel was called, but while everyone recognized Paul’s writing skill, which is prodigious, it was such an odd, unconventional book that we knew it would take a particular kind of editor to take it on.

The issue with Banquo’s Son was a bit different; it had to do less with whether it would be read than where it would be placed on the shelves. That’s because it’s a coming of age story, but where the protagonist starts book 1 as a 21 year-old, he ends book 3 as a twice-married father. The series is, as we say, a Razzle: It’s not a candy, not a gum. Too old to be YA…but it feels like YA. We needed a publisher where shelf space was less important.

And in the end, right before we left for Christmas, we found our homes. For Goldberg’s cross of Lear and Pushkin, now called The Yid, we found James Meador, who’s the head of publicity for Picador and Henry Holt. James wanted an unusual, but brilliant novel to take on and edit as a special project. And getting to know James, I understand precisely why he loved and appreciated The Yid.

We ended up with Emilie Marneur at Thomas & Mercer with Banquo’s Son because of Emilie’s marvelous handling of another book I represent, Elaine Powell’s novel about a knight and a nun during the reign of Henry II. One day Tania asked me whether it would make sense to try Emilie for Banquo. I’d gone to Amazon’s children’s division when we submitted the book as YA. But it’s not a traditional thriller. But Emilie understood that Tania’s novel of politics, love and adventure could potentially find the kind of audience that Elaine’s The Fifth Knight and its sequel has.

I can’t wait to find out. Watch out in a year for The Yid and Banquo’s Son. And if you’ve been out with a book, either looking for an editor or an agent, discouraged at the wait, think of Banquo’s Son and The Yid.

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar

Jeff Cohen

WINTER GARDEN, FL--I'm taking a few days to enjoy not being in New Jersey in February with my family, so this dispatch is being typed a while early. If somehow it has become irrelevant in the interim (like if the film business suddenly vanished this week), my apologies.

So the world is going to Hell in a Buick Regal, Jon Stewart has left us bereft, Brian Williams... I don't really care... the presidential election (U.S.) is a mere 21 months away, you should just get your kids inoculated for goodness sake, and the publishing business is no doubt preparing to lose its collective mind over some new tome that is, invariably, not mine. Okay. Let's discuss what's really on our minds.

The Academy Awards.

Six nights from tonight, the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts & Sciences will hand out some trophies and there will be the inevitable overuses of words like "courage," "amazing," and "best crew in the business" in acceptance speeches.

I have no desire nor ability to accurately predict the winners of said statuettes, but I will be riveted to my couch, loving every minute of the interminable ceremony. I love the spectacle and the sheer goofiness of it all, so don't call my house during the Oscars. We're occupied. Or pre-occupied. Or something.

While I still object to the idea of more than five films nominated for the best picture category (that's just pandering and it's silly), I did make more of an effort to see those movies than I normally do. Eight films, and I saw seven, since I have no interest in the sniper thing, mostly because I've never seen a Clint Eastwood movie that didn't need a half-hour cut out of it simply for pacing.

So here are my impressions, for the remarkably little they're worth. Your opinions may certainly vary:

Birdman: I'm told that one either loves or hates this film, and I firmly fall into the latter category. What others saw as bold and inventive I saw as pretentious and showy. I didn't care about any of the characters, thought the shot-in-in-one-take gimmick was distracting, and had to take painkillers to undo the damage of the almost-all-percussion soundtrack. I have no problem with Michael Keaton winning for his performance, because I really like Michael Keaton and think he should have won for something else.

Boyhood: A snorefest of the highest order. Again, a gimmick that's impressive, but does not necessarily translate into the great film others believe they've seen. Instead, we get people just sort of hanging around for no particular reason and they get older as it goes on. Okay. The 7-Up documentaries are considerably more compelling, and those people are real.

The Grand Budapest Hotel: I am actually not a fan of Wes Anderson because there's only so much arch I can take before I go into painful withdrawal symptoms. But I liked this one better than most, the cast is came and it's nice the Academy is recognizing something that at least tries to be a comedy once in a while. Like most films, this one suffers from not having enough Bill Murray.

The Imitation Game: Biopics are a rough genre. If it's not a documentary--and by definition it isn't--the filmmakers will be criticized for inaccuracies that are inevitable when trying to make a piece of popular entrainment (in other words, a good movie). So this one is better than most, and suffers from the same problems as others: It's reverent without being absolutely accurate, is really made to show off a performance rather than a story, does so well, and ends up being fairly forgettable when all is said and done.

Selma: Another biopic. Sort of. The first movie to portray an actual human Martin Luther King Jr. and that is admirable. It tells a specific story without trying to be a one-stop-shop for the Civil Rights movement. It has a distracting cameo by Oprah Winfrey (probably to help it get made) and only pays a certain amount of lip service to Dr. King's flaws, which isn't a huge problem. It's compelling and watchable, if a bit slow in spots.

The Theory of Everything: Biopic. The last one on this list (again, no sniper here), and very much of a type. See everything I said about The Imitation Game above, and it'll pretty much be true. Eddie Redmayne gives a remarkable performance, as did Benedict Cumberbatch. He probably deserves to win an award. But Michael Keaton. And in this case, the odd thing: Not enough science. We're not really clear on what makes Stephen Hawking the phenomenon he became.

Whiplash: In my mind, the best of the bunch. I'm no fan of modern jazz (particularly when they try to play it too darn fast), and would rather face a firing squad than a prolonged drum solo (See: Birdman), but this film made me care and put me on edge. It's really a monster movie, with J.K. Simmons as the monster, and doing a remarkable job. Miles Teller as his terrified and singleminded protege is equally good in a less flashy role. I'll be rooting for this one knowing it has zero chance of winning the prize. 

My family also, as has become our custom the past few years, saw the animated and live-action short films (but not the documentaries) nominated in those categories. (They're probably playing somewhere near you, and you should go.) It's not as interesting a bunch as last year's, but the consensus around the homestead here is that the Disney animated short Feast will win, which is okay but not as good as if  A Single Life would. In live-action, we're rooting for  Boogaloo and Graham, knowing that something more depressing like The Phone Call has a better shot.

Either way, after this all-too-brief sojourn into warm weather and theme parks is over, we'll be back at home, wearing lots of clothing and watching the far-too-long awards ceremony. 

It's one of the best nights of the year.

 

P.S. If Jon Stewart's Rosewater had been nominated, it would have come in second after Whiplash. I certainly liked it better than whatever's going to win. You should find it on Netflix or elsewhere.

P.P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in four days. Spring is almost here.

Not Really!

Jeff Cohen

And then there's the news you only wish was fake.

It was announced and confirmed today that Jon Stewart will be leaving The Daily Show sometime this year. And while I see the logic and good sense that goes into that decision, my initial reaction was the same as most others I've seen.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

For the better part of two decades, Stewart has been the safety valve holding the sanity of thinking America from blowing off and putting someone's eye out. And as he's grown into the job, he's become simply the best at something others have tried to do and never come close to equaling.

Plus, there goes the tiniest hope I had of ever being interviewed on The Daily Show.

It seems somehow unfair that Stewart will leave but Fox News gets to stay on the air. One can only hope that there will be a replacement host for The Daily Show, and my vote is in for Jessica Williams. Be bold, Comedy Central.

But whoever comes next should be very different. There's no point in trying to duplicate what Stewart has accomplished. It's as if Derek Jeter isn't going to be the shortstop of the Yankees anymore and someone else would have to step in to... what?

Crap. I forgot.

The world is going to be a less funny place soon. While one wishes Mr. Stewart well in whatever it is he decides to do next, it's hard to believe he'll be the best in the world at it. To watch that man build up a head of steam on an issue and then let loose with some of the smartest comedy on the planet was (and still is, for a while at least) a thing of beauty.

If you're incredibly lucky, you get to do that once.

So here's the thing: Thank you, Jon Stewart. You did something important and you did it amazingly well. You kept it going for a long time and it never wavered in quality. You were fair (yes he was, right wingers--there were Obama and Clinton jokes), you were honest and you were hilarious. That ain't easy.

And replacing you? Not possible. 

Email Revenge

Jeff Cohen

Dear Email Scammers:

I've been receiving your product, unwillingly, for some time now, and I feel you could be doing better. Quite frankly, one would have to be a baby giraffe of below-average intelligence (for baby giraffes) to fall for the nonsense you have been sending me (mostly through gmail, which tells me something, although I don't know what).

So I'd like to point out a few of your marketing errors, if that's okay with you. If not, you may unsubscribe to my criticism by clicking here.

* I speak English. You clearly don't. Why do you think I would click through to a site when I have no idea what you're pretending to offer? About seventy percent of it is in a language I don't speak.

* As an atheist, the subject line "Yours in Christ, Dear" doesn't really hold a lot of appeal for me.

* It just isn't possible for me to win the British Lottery four times a week. (Is there a British Lottery?)

* I don't know anyone named "Mrs. Reverent Simon."

* I really don't need to know "How to drive him wild."

* Thanks, but I don't need the enhancement "medications," either.

* I'm glad you seem to have abandoned the Nigerian prince thing (Nigeria is a federal constitutional republic and does not have princes), but I really don't buy the whole "obscure-relative-leaving-me-a-fortune-in-deepest-Africa" scenario, either. My ancestors came from various shtetls in Eastern Europe. If you think they had anything to pass down to me, you're even more gullible than you think I am.

* No, I'm not going to click through in a panic because you say there's a problem with my PNC Bank account. I don't have a PNC bank account.

* Don't try it with the bank I do have an account with, either. I'll go straight to their web site without touching your link, thanks. Then I'll report you.

* "This message comes to you from (E-MAIL PROVIDER)"? Seriously? "E-MAIL PROVIDER"? In parentheses? You're not even trying anymore.

* No, I don't actually need a loan from someone I've never heard of. But thanks for asking.

* I don't want to see your "pictures," and I don't really believe you're a lonely but beautiful woman just hear (sic) from Bulgaria looking for true love. I'm married, anyway. But you're really a guy in an undershirt in Missouri hoping you can phish my credit card numbers. You can't.

* The messages in all Hebrew? I appreciate your taking note of my last name, but I don't read Hebrew. Not since 1970. And then only because we'd already booked the catering hall.

* "Hello, Dearest" isn't going to make it as a subject line for me. Even the people I hold dearest don't address me like that.

* No, I don't need a job, thanks, and I don't want to be a mystery shopper, anyway. Nice try, though.

* There is a 0% chance I--or anyone else--will believe there is such a thing as the "Coca-Cola Lottery."

* Not interested in your "business proposal."

* If I were indeed your "dearest friend," odds are I'd recognize your name.

* I'm a writer, so words and such mean quite a bit to me. Misspellings, bad punctuation and simply ridiculous syntax just alert me to the fact that you're lying. Don't insult my intelligence. Lie to me with a little dignity next time.

 

P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 11 days.

Snow Day and Syllabus Wrecking

Josh Getzler

So today was a snow day, after a Snowmageddon that wasn’t, at least in New York City (OK, at least in Manhattan). But since I don’t cross-country ski to work, I stayed home and watched Columbus Avenue be empty of cars. I thought I’d get a ton of reading done, but it was more phone calls with clients and wrangling recalcitrant children who didn’t want to do their homework when there was perfectly good loafing to be done instead.

The other thing this storm did was cause my first class of my teaching gig at NYU to be cancelled. It was awful. I felt like a marathoner who pulled a muscle walking to the starting line, or an astronaut when liftoff is aborted at “5…4…3…NONONO.”

I mean, I had BUILT to Monday. Wrote beautiful slides on OneNote (love that OneNote!), thought of the anecdotes to tell, emailed my students with guidelines and suggestions, carb-loaded…and then at 2 PM, “NONONO.” And now not only do I need to wait till next week, but I have to rejigger my syllabus completely. We’re being given permission to extend two classes by a half-hour each (our classes are already 2 ½ hours, so the students will be very excited, I’m sure, to go till 9:30 PM a couple of times), and we’ll be losing an hour and a half of class time. For a seven-session course, this is a serious issue.

The other thing is that I’d based the course (which is about the Role of the Literary Agent) on working through the life-cycle of a book from First Query through a year after publication, and had pretty specific places to end lessons. Now we’ll have to adjust, and it may not be elegant. My wife and mother, both veteran teachers, are looking at me with benign amusement. Apparently my stress-dream that I’m in the right classroom at the right time with only one student and nobody else showing up is both normal and adorable. What can I say? At least I wasn’t naked, too.

And it’s funny—I LOVE teaching. I spoke to a multitude of classes about baseball when I was in that part of my life, and have given so many Query Letter and Pitch seminars in the past 8 years that I have a patter and confidence. But I’ve heard my wife and mother talk so often about “their” classrooms—they have great ownership of their space, and it was one of the aspects of teaching that I’m most looking forward to feeling. Now I’ve got to wait a week.

And all because of a storm that, in my old stomping grounds of Watertown, NY, they would have called “flurries” and not even called for extra plows. (Yes I know, the radar was awful and I wouldn’t be so smug in, say, Old Lyme Ct or Cape Cod. And I’m GLAD the Mayor was overcautious. He’s in an impossible situation, and I am glad he chose to be aggressive about it. I just, for once in my life, was bummed to have a snow day.)

Selma and the State of the Union

 

Josh Getzler

Last night, Amanda and I took the whole family—eyes a-rolling and smartphones in hand, to see Selma in commemoration of MLK Day. And for two hours we were all gripped. There are all kinds of discussions and online complaints about what was added or emphasized or neglected in the story of the conflict, marches, and violence in that period of the Civil Rights Movement. But honestly, they were beside the point, and I think one of the real strengths of Selma the Movie was that the decisions Ava DuVernay made ultimately cast great relief on the biggest of the issues. It’s a big, broad, statement movie, and it works.

One of the most powerful scenes was when President Johnson appeared before both houses of Congress to urge them to pass the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The kids understood extremely intensely what had gone into getting the President into that room to make that speech.

As we were leaving the theater, one of the kids mentioned that this evening was going to be the State of the Union Address. They know that Amanda and I watch it every year, talking to the television, keeping score of the points the president makes (ANY president) and when he falls flat. How often the Speaker or the VP falls asleep, how often one side or the other stands and claps. But this time, we’re watching a little differently, thinking about how inconceivable it would have been to both the majority of the marchers in Selma in 1965, and the people within and without politics trying to stop them, that a president who looks like Barack Obama could be giving a State of the Union Address.

Now it’s time for us to go watch. We’ll get back to publishing next week.

 

No. I Won't Follow Your Cat On Twitter

Jeff Cohen

1. I will not follow your cat.

2. I will not follow you just because you follow me. I have to know who you are. I'm funny that way.

3. I will feel free to post about my books and urge you to buy/nominate/vote for them.

4. I assume you will feel free to ignore me if you don't want to read stuff like that.

5. I will use Twitter to say stuff I think is funny. If you don't, that's entirely your right.

6. I will occasionally say political stuff. Again, your option is to block, ignore or argue with me.

7. I will block you if you get personal in your arguing with me. I won't get personal arguing with you.

8. I still won't follow your cat.

9. I will follow famous people--if I respect their work--and try to get them to notice me. Isn't that what Twitter is for?

10. I won't follow people I know to be dead. What if they respond?

11. I WILL follow some people I know to be fictional, if they're entertaining about it.

12. My baseball-to-posting ratio will be higher on Twitter than elsewhere. I'm an impulsive fan.

13. I do not expect you to follow me unless you want to. 

14. I will post about television, movies, sports (well, baseball), current events and things other than books. 

15. I will not post to anyone in my family, because none of them has a Twitter account.

16. I will check my Twitter account multiple times per day.

17. E.J. Copperman's account will be checked every once in a while.

18. Maxie Malone has a Twitter account. That almost never gets checked.

19. I will follow other authors, especially if they're actually friends.

20. I will not pay much attention to the number of followers I have. Perhaps I should.

21. I will follow the President of the United States. The fact that he follows ME confuses me a little.

22. I will block you if you try to impose your religion, political beliefs or sports affiliations on me. If you just want to state what they are, that's your business. Don't tell me what to do.

23. I will not always use "cozy" language on Twitter. I don't really have a problem with any word in the English language, depending on how it's used.

24. If you use one of those un-cozy words to insult or provoke me, I'll block you. I don't use them that way.

25. I will not use the word "tweet." You can if you want to.

26. No. I'm not following your cat.

27. I will certainly consider following you if you're glad that pitchers and catchers report in 31 days.

A Cozy Proposal

Josh Getzler

I was talking to The Redoubtable Danielle this afternoon, not long after she got back to the office after having coffee with an editor from one of the bigger publishers out there. This editor had passed on one of Danielle’s submissions, a cozy mystery where the amateur sleuth is a sommelier, because it was too edgy. Danielle was frustrated—not so much at the editor, who liked the book (with good reason—it’s excellent!); but at the prevailing sense that the ability to sell these kinds of books is more and more difficult, and the requirements more and more specific.

“She told me that the only cozies she can sell are with crafts and knitting and cats and polite murders in book clubs,” she said.

NOTE! Before my successful cozy clients think that we are disparaging them: We are NOT. We love you. We sell you. You succeed. We are talking here about having the ability to expand what’s acceptable to be able to give readers a wider variety of books to read, so the market as a whole grows and there’s a bigger total readership for your books too. (Toni, we really do love you J)

Now mind you, cozies are only one type of crime fiction, as I’ve discussed before, and so have any number of other bloggers here on Hey Dead Guy. Terri Bischoff, whom I love and who publishes at this time four series I represent, just gave a very spot-on description of cozies this weekend, and is talking about other kinds of mysteries this coming week. There are procedurals, historicals, noirs (though, as my former colleague Dan Conaway told me many years ago, “noir will break your heart.”), and novels that don’t quite hit a formula head on.

But there are certain publishers, with particular imprints, that specialize in the cozies (many of which are mass-market paperbacks, and now many of which are e-first), and which, if you look at their New Release shelves at B&N, are indeed publishing one croissant-baker series after another carpentry series after a third driving school series (none of which are necessarily real series, but all plausible). They take place in small towns (a driving school mystery in, say, Boston would be too edgy, but not in Missoula), and they are comfortable.

Much of the time, they are also good. Again, that’s not my issue. My issue is that I think we’re glutting the market, and that cozy readers are going to become, frankly, bored.

So Danielle and I—after bemoaning the pass—started to spitball what would work, and here’s what we came up with.

We think there needs to be a chick lit for cozies—younger, more urban, maybe slightly sexier, maybe at times with greater darkness—aimed at the same market romance publishers were working toward with New Adult. We can call them the Hunger Games/50 Shades On The Subway readers (and yes, while it’s sort of funny to put those two together, they were the dominant books of that market for the past couple of years). It would allow for the post-grad-school sommelier solving a murder in Napa, or the actress in her first Broadway play whose rival falls off the rigging (did the hot stagehand do it?) or the young woman doing teach for America who has to deal with the disappearance of one of her students.

We feel like there is a model here that can work. We’re not trying to reinvent the industry. Just keep it from being wrapped in yarn.

One final word:  Again, please understand that this is NOT a screed against cozies. Far from it. It’s a plea for our creative colleagues on the Buy Side to break out of the box. Not a huge amount—just a little! But it could really make a difference.   

Sunday Night Memories

Josh Getzler

This past weekend, two men died. Mario Cuomo and Stuart Scott were from different generations, with very different career trajectories, and other than both being fathers and public figures—a politician and a sportscaster—didn’t have much in common. Governor Cuomo was 83 and died of heart disease hours after his son followed in his footsteps and was sworn in for his second term as governor of New York. Stuart Scott, who has two teenage daughters, died of cancer—which he publicly fought for the past seven years—at 49.

I had a real reaction to these deaths. Not simply because they were figures in two of my longest-held pastimes, politics and sports. It was because Mario Cuomo and Stuart Scott, bridging decades, reminded me of Sunday nights.

When I was 11 or 12, I used to listen to a transistor radio under my pillow after lights out (c’mon, Mom, you knew). Most of the time I listened to whatever local New York team was playing, whatever sport. One Sunday night, though, it must’ve been football season, or the Knicks were on the West Coast, or the Yankees had played in the afternoon, because there was nothing on. As I flipped though the stations, I stumbled on a guy talking in this thick New York accent, not a newscaster. He said something like “This is Lieutenant Governor Mario Cuomo, taking your calls for the next hour. I’m here to help.”

The next thing I knew, it was an hour later and I was hooked. He was friendly to some callers, combative to others. He had a rough job—New York was going through tough times and lots of people were angry or depressed. But what I remember was thinking, in my pre-teen way, that he was smart and he was kind. Now certainly not everyone will agree with the kind part—read Jonathan Mahler’s masterful Ladies and Gentlemen the Bronx is Burning to see a terrific take on the complexity of Cuomo’s early political career navigating the cesspool of local borough politics—but everyone knew he was smart.

From that point, I was a fan of Governor Cuomo, even when he seemed to dither about whether to run for president; even when he occasionally descended into the muck of negative politics. I think my obsession with the political process started those nights listening to a young Mario Cuomo tell Florence from Brooklyn that he’d look into why her neighbor was allowed to keep chickens in the back yard.

After I graduated from college and moved into my first apartment—a studio with a lovely view of the Hudson River until Donald Trump built high rises directly in front of my building—I began to watch SportCenter on ESPN, almost always The Big Show at 11 PM. I spent several years watching Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann revolutionize the highlight show, and it was as much a part of my night as listening to the radio under my pillow growing up.

Eventually ESPN started a second station, and Stuart Scott joined ESPN2 for a while, then shifted over to work The Big Show, mostly in those days with Rich Eisen. And while Dan and Keith and Berman and Craig Kilborn were in some ways the dorks who took over, with their catchphrases and snark, Stuart Scott was a whole different thing. He was as cool as the other side of the pillow, to use one of his own phrases. He brought hip hop to SportCenter, made it even quicker. And like Lieutenant Governor Cuomo, he was so clearly smart and, it certainly seemed, kind. Sunday nights as a twenty-something watching Stuart Scott on ESPN were like Sunday nights as a kid listening to Mario Cuomo on the radio. It was the end of the weekend. I was tired and a little tense because I knew the new week was beginning, but I wanted to listen or watch. I knew I’d be entertained, and I often learned something. After I got married, Amanda and I would watch SportCenter a bit less often (though I’m lucky to have married a woman who shares my twin obsessions), and we saw Stuart Scott’s health decline. We saw him a couple of months ago for the first time in quite a while and were taken aback by how gaunt he looked. But he still had a twinkle, still put over the catchphrases, still entertained.

Look, I didn’t know either Stuart Scott or Mario Cuomo, and my perception of their character was shaped completely by what I saw and heard and read about them. But I know that, decades apart, they affected me in similar ways, on Sunday nights.   

Comedy Is Dead. Long Live Comedy.

Jeff Cohen

(That's me on the right!)

Personally, I have little to complain about with the year just ended. Yes, there are tweaks I'd have made here and there, not everything was perfect, but professionally and personally, I'd have to rank it among the better years, particularly of late.

But 2014 was a disastrous year for comedy.

In the course of those short 12 months, we lost (among others) Sid Caesar, Harold Ramis, Joan Rivers, Jan Hooks, Mike Nichols, David Brenner, Rik Mayall and possibly the most painful of all, Robin Williams.

Living comedians weren't exactly having the best of times, either. Ask Bill Cosby (who in all likelihood has not deserved to have great times for some decades now). 

The Colbert Report ended its nine-year run. Craig Ferguson left The Late Late Show with no immediate announcement that he will be continuing his incredibly subversive take on a talk show anytime soon. 

And late in the year, a relatively stupid stoner comedy from the guys who brought you Pineapple Express actually started a real international incident, to the point that the President of the United States had to answer questions about a Seth Rogen movie at his year-end press conference. There were threats of violence, although to date none has been perpetrated, thank goodness.

There were no comedy films (particularly non-animated ones) in the Top 10 of the year's box office grosses, according to a web site devoted to such tallies. There were all of three in the Top 20. Then you have to drop down to #34 to find another, and get to Dumb and Dumber To, which is a comedy technically in the sense that it isn't a drama.

Things were somewhat better on television, as has been the case for a number of years now. Discounting popular (if somewhat predictable) tired standbys like Two and a Half Men (who's the half-man now?), TV comedy has settled into a sort-of uncomfortable but sporadically interesting groove with such cool-but-funny shows as Veep and Transparent. 

But as with most things, once the TV business settles on what is the new exciting thing, it replicates that thing mercilessly until you're sick of it even when it's done well. Veep  begets Alpha House which is a variation on House of Cards which in turn leads to... who cares by then? I believe it was the radio comedian Fred Allen who once said, "Imitation is the sincerest form of television."

So with the end of 2014 comes a sincere plea: Let's hope there are more laughs this year. With everything else that's going on, we could certainly use them.

Happy new year, everybody!

Pitchers and catchers report in 46 days.

(Mostly Amazon) Shorts for Vacation

Josh Getzler

 

So tomorrow morning the whole Newman-Getzler family is going on our annual pilgrimage to (right near) Miami, where countless Jews have descended over the decades. We’ve gone to visit Amanda’s parents for almost two decades now. And we’ve gone from newlywed explorations of the neighborhood to years of annual visits to Jungle Island and Monkey Jungle and Seaquarium, to what we expect this year’s trip to comprise: Many days of reading by the pool, watching our ridiculously grown-up kids sit and squint at their smartphones while binge-watching How I Met Your Mother and 90210 (the new, horrible version). I was thinking about this tonight as I packed, and then my Facebook feed bing-ed and I saw that I had my Year In The Life montage showing up. Yes, I posted it. But here’s my impression of 2014 in little nuggets of (mostly publishing-related—and to that end, mostly Amazon-centric) information.

1)      The Amazon-Hachette (and S&S/Macmillan/etc) fight illustrated that while retailers may want to treat books the same way they treat, say, corn flakes, there’s a lot more blowback when the creators of the product are people rather than extruded grain. Does that mean that the Preston group was 100% correct? Well, not necessarily, since it was making the fight personal when it really was, in Godfather terms, Only Business. And now we have détente. I don’t particularly think that the end result will be good for authors in the long run, since I see both publishers and retailers thinking of ways to maintain their margins, and that will inevitably come at the expense of the artists. But at least the books will be available for sale.

2)      While the Amazon  folks may have been the Dark Lords of retail, their (genre fiction) publishing divisions were rock stars, and were by a wide margin the most effective marketers and promoters of their books in the industry this year.  They understand how to create a long tail of sales, and how to use both older books to promote frontlist, and new books to breathe life into backlist. Of course, many people would say that they are able to do so because they are, you know, part of Amazon, and that’s a possible anti-trust issue. And, well, it may be. But this whole situation is complicated, and you know they will use whatever leverage they have to succeed

3)      That being said, the NON-genre-fiction divisions of Amazon publishing were…less impressive, and shed staff as the year went on. Many of my agent colleagues agree with the assessment that, while Amazon is awesome at promoting books with a specific audience, it is less effective when the market isn’t as apparent, when discoverabilitiy of a book is a bit more organic.

4)      That discoverability, in this new age of digital marketing, is still the Holy Grail. We can’t sell books effectively by tweeting or posting on Facebook or Tumbler—there’s simply too much chatter. That’s the challenge we’re seeing, and it’s getting us to very interesting returns to old-school book marketing—co-op dollars spent to get books placed on front tables or landing pages on websites. And who has the money to do that? Traditional publishers. Not independent authors (mostly), and not hybrid (Whatever)-Slash-Publishers (mostly). We may be seeing the worm turning back. Fascinating stuff.

5)      2014 also showed me how great it is to work in a real office, with my colleagues surrounding me, with the comfortable collegiality of popping into co-workers’ offices to collaborate on submissions lists or even to commiserate on a particularly painful pass. I spent 2013 in a kind of exile on 80^th Street, working through the idea that “hey, you can do this job from anywhere.” But ultimately we humans are social creatures, and we need consistent interaction in order to be effective and—I think, anyway—happy.

6)      Finally, the combination of shoulder surgery, my daughter’s bat mitzvah, the increasing grey I see in my hair every time I change my Facebook profile (or look in the mirror in the morning J), and the fact that I’m about to go to my 25^th college reunion remind me that…I’m just hitting my prime. Now I need to pack for winter break in Miami. Happy New Year!

Farewell Baroness James

Marilyn Thiele

There are people, institutions and even physical objects that we unconsciously assume will always be around.  They become part of the fabric of our lives, and we merrily roll along forgetting that nothing lasts forever. I’m not thinking of the important elements, family and friends, whom we treasure and see or at least communicate with frequently, but the ones that are called to my mind when a memory is triggered or a significant event occurs.  As I grow older, I find that people and places that have been a piece of me are disappearing with greater frequency.

This week it was P. D. James. I knew her only through her novels and can’t claim any personal loss. And I was well aware of her age. Yet somehow I was expecting another Dalgliesh novel. And another.  There won’t be any more, and despite the multitude of wonderful authors sitting in my “to be read” pile, I am sad.

I discovered P. D. James when An Unsuitable Job For a Woman was published in 1972. I was in my real “coming of age” years, out of college, working, living on my own and unattached. I was finally able to read free of the English Major’s syllabus. Cordelia Gray was my first exposure to a fictional female private eye, and she embodied the independence and ability to succeed in a “man’s world” to which many of us young women aspired. (Remember, these were the early days of “Women’s Lib,” and we all knew how hard it was to be taken seriously.) I thought at the time that this was James’s first novel, and only later discovered the early Dalgliesh mysteries. I was disappointed that there were only two Cordelia Gray books and always hoped for more. But we soon had Kinsey Milhone and V. I. Warshawski as role models.

Much has been written about Adam Dalgliesh, his quirks, his character, his depths, especially in the last few days. I appreciate the “humanness” with which his creator endowed him, making him so much more than a detective. But I am a plot lover, and what I enjoyed most about the books was the way P. D. James set up the crime for the reader long before it occurred. My favorite is probably Original Sin, perhaps because the background is a publishing house. As was typical in a James mystery, we are dropped into the daily life of the characters. The rivalries, grudges, betrayals and slights are slowly exposed. The murder doesn’t take place until almost halfway through the book, and, by then, the reader has identified several potential victims and perpetrators. James was not fond of the female mystery writers of the classic age, saying that their characters were one dimensional and stereotypical. She refined their plotting by creating believable characters with multifaceted personalities, keeping the reader guessing about motives as well as means and opportunity.

The one P. D. James novel that has haunted me for years, and which I still recommend to readers, is The Children of Men. It is not a mystery, but poses the question, “How would we as a society and as individuals behave if we knew that we were the last generation of humans on earth?” It’s well worth reading if you haven’t.

So from my youth through my years of work, marriage, parenthood, and now looming retirement, there was periodically the gleeful word that another Dalgliesh novel was due to be released. They weren’t annuals, and that made them even more special. And there hasn’t been one for six years. And now we know for sure that there won’t be. I’m grateful, though, that P. D. James and Adam Dalgliesh were around all this time and are a little piece of who I am.

Bill Cosby's Sad New Legacy

Jeff Cohen

There's what I want to think, and what I think. They're not the same thing.

Like many people, I have watched in morbid fascination over the past few weeks as allegations have multiplied against Bill Cosby. This past week, as they reached a crescendo, it was almost impossible to avoid the rising furor.

Let me say right off the top that I think sexual assualt of any kind is a horrendous, reprehensible crime that should be prosecuted and punished to the maximum extent of the law no matter who the accused party might happen to be. And at the same time, I have no knowledge whether the allegations are true or not. It is not for me to judge.

But it will be impossible to enjoy the comedy the same way ever again, no matter what. And that is what is personally hitting home right now. More than anything else, the Bill Cosby story now makes me sad.

A month of two after his son was shot to death Cosby gave an interview during which he said (and I'm paraphrasing) that people would see him and they would look sad. And that especially bothered him.

Imagine what he's seeing now.

That is not to in any way minimize what it has been said happened to a growing, seemingly large number of women over a very long period of time. If the allegations are true, their suffering is much more serious than anything that happens to fans of a comedian. For those women to find some measure of justice would be far more important.

For me, though, the accusations have damaged, perhaps beyond repair, a mental connection to an influence that helped formed some of the way I think. That's not easy to absorb.

I've posted here before about the way Cosby's stand-up comedy impacted me when I was a child, how it helped form some of the way I use language, which is (let's face it) a large component of what it is I do for a living, and even more, how I express every thought I have. I can't say I don't have some reflexive speech patterns that started when I first heard the man do comedy.

It's not the "America's dad" persona that is most destroyed for me. That was a period after I was an adult, when I could be more critical and had already formed my own personality. I'd seen the other iterations of Cosby before that. And he was one of those entertainers whose work I truly admired, a storyteller and observer with almost no peers at all. I thought Bill Cosby, if we were to meet, would understand me.

Now it would seem I, along with much of the culture, had misjudged him badly. Or that he was remarkably good at projecting an image that was completely contrary to his true character. If that is the case--and maybe even if it transpires that we never know for sure--the damage, on my side, has been done. 

Much as I'd like to say that one can separate the art from the artist, I'm not sure I'll be able to listen to "Go-Karts" or "Track and Field" again the way I once could. To admire the way the comedy was constructed like a piece of music, the rhythm and the pitch of it. To immerse myself in the amazing speed with which the comedian could create characters and situations, switch back and forth from one to the other and have them pay off.

If what is being claimed is true, a number of truly awful crimes were committed by a person we thought we knew. It is perhaps that idea--that we thought we knew someone most of us had never met--that is especially hurtful right now. There's a strange trust between an artist and those who connect emotionally with the art. And when that bond is broken, the art can be broken, too.

Selfish as it is, I'll miss the Bill Cosby I once really admired. Too bad he probably wasn't real.

Boundaries

Josh Getzler

Last week, alert client Elaine Powell tweeted an article at me about a new feature of some UK writers conferences: Dog Walks with Agents. The title of the article in the Bookseller was "Literary Agents Try To Change 'Distant' Image"

It seems that at two literary festivals in England, one of the featured events was a morning jaunt where agents and authors bonded over their dogs, thus humanizing the agents, who might otherwise be thought of as foreboding or unapproachable.

Hmm.

I had a bunch of thoughts about this, all of which were surprisingly negative. I say surprisingly because a) I am a huge dog person, having spent much of my life cohabiting with various retrievers; and b) because I have made a serious effort since becoming an agent to be Out There and approachable. I have spent a lot of time at conferences. I am active on Twitter and Facebook, and have written this blog weekly for more than three years now. So why was my visceral reaction to roll my eyes at such a benign (and likely fun) event?

As I parsed it, I realized that there were two things. The first is that the places I spend most of my time talking to authors at conferences tends to be at the bar (along with everyone else!), where people organically gather at these confabs after a long day of panels and pitches. It’s not forced and it’s not scheduled. (Sometimes it can get sloppy, but that too can say something—how much to do want to work with the agent who starts spilling secrets after a couple of vodka tonics? Maybe it’s a strikeout, but to some, maybe a home run…) I don’t find it to be filled with peer pressure, and agents assume they are going to chat with people they don’t know—with the invite and the plane ticket is the unspoken understanding that you’ll hold court in the lobby.

The second issue I had with this article had to do with the assumption that agents are scary and intimidating and unapproachable, and they will be humanized through their relationships with their pets. There are two things about this: The first is that fundamentally I find that the vast majority of agents (like the vast majority of editors and the bulk of writers I meet, for that matter), are very nice and human (at least in small doses). We enter this business, as I’ve said any number of times in this space, because we want to LIKE things, to say YES, even though we ultimately reject the majority of queries we receive. But our mindset is largely positive and we at least TRY to be optimistic. So we’re approachable. Not like a golden retriever, but not like a komodo dragon, either.

But the other thing that I realized is that, while I am very happy to hang out at the bar with writers who either just finished pitching their manuscripts to me or are going to in the morning, I do think there is a very reasonable desire to be slightly distant from writers who are not clients. My social media persona (as is true with many of my peers), is what I want it to be, by and large. If you look me up, you will know that I play drums, love women’s basketball, am active in my synagogue and with some animal rights groups, am married with kids, and represent a lot of crime and historical fiction, some children’s books, and Other. And that’s fine. In fact, it’s more than many of my colleagues would put out there, but I think it’s enough to be interesting without oversharing.

My clients often know me better, but then, we have a closer relationship, and it’s a two-way street. They can know more about what I think about things, or some of my views. But I think it’s appropriate for there to be a bit of distance between agent and prospective client.  

Finally, I was wondering why walking a dog with me would give you an indication as to my knowledge of the crime fiction market, or how well I line edit (Sheila Boneham, don't kill me!!!!). Now I’m not being obtuse—I know that what breed of dog I have can give as much of an indication as to my personality as the brand of scotch I drink, and I can talk about noir with Frisbees as easily as with tumblers. But in the same way that certain manuscripts can be written perfectly well but have a tone that’s just slightly off, so too is the Dog Walking at the Lit Conference.

Couple of Quick Things for Publishing Geeks Like Me

Josh Getzler

During the past few days, there have been two interesting developments that are worth noting, and thinking about if you are a book person and deal at all with the digital world.

The first thing, which happened over the weekend and broke Twitter, was that an author, Kathleen Hale, felt that she was being trolled by a reviewer who gave her latest book one star. She described what she did to engage in an article for the Guardian (UK), which may be found Here. All hell then broke loose, with writers and bloggers and readers taking sides (or at times specifically NOT taking sides) as to whether a writer should engage with a reviewer. Some of the best discussions were written in Jezebel and on Smart Bitches Trashy Books and on Chuck Wendig's blog. For the record, I think it's a very bad idea for an author to engage with a reviewer for many of the reasons that will be apparent if you read all of these articles. 

The second thing that happened is that Simon and Schuster and Amazon reached an agreement to stave off an Hachette-like stalemate over ebook pricing. Is this agreement (as well as a few smaller publishers' agreements over the past few weeks) the signs of the dominos beginning to fall in a quasi agency-model fashion (details as to what that means can be found most clearly on Publishers Marketplace), or is this an aberration? For myself, given that the biggest series I represent is coming out in April from Little, Brown--of Hachette--I at least hope we are inching toward industry peace. 

 

Don't Do As I Say OR As I Do...

Jeff Cohen

Note: For an update on the MISSING HEAD CHALLENGE, see below. You'll want to read this.

Seriously: Have I ever given you any indication that I know how to get thousands of people to look at a blog piece? On a good day, I get 200 people to visit here.

You're a little ticked off now, right? Think I misled you?

But marketing is a necessity to the author. (Don't ask, "The author of what?" Just go with it.) It's not about trickery and it's not about lying to the reader. Do those things and you might get someone to take a look. Once. What are you going to do now that you've annoyed them? What have you accomplished?

I can't claim to have the magical formula that will bring the thundering hordes to your blog post, your Facebook page, your web site or your front door. Anyone who tells you they know for sure is lying or mistaken. But I can tell you what certainly DOESN'T work, and I can say so with confidence, since I have tried each one and watched it fail in a spectacular fashion.

1. Promising a visitor something you can't deliver. (See above.) This is especially good at getting people mad at you. Because the intelligent ones will realize immediately that you're a fraud, and the less intelligent ones will try what you advocate, fail, and blame you.
2. Making general statements based only on your experience. If you want to blog about yourself, that's fine. I do it sometimes, and posts about my daughter, my dog and my wife have attracted some of the larger audiences I've gotten here. But don't try to extrapolate your experience and make the reader think it will definitely apply under any circumstance. You don't know, because your experience is just that--yours.
3. Stating something without doing the research. If you want to make a statement, make it. But be sure you're right. I have gone off on a tear at times here and made statements that, when I was typing them, felt great--only to find out I was astonishingly wrong. Colossally wrong. I mean, wrong. Check first.
4. Politics, religion--what could go wrong? Everything. Write about the "forbidden" topics if you want. That's your right. But go in knowing for sure that your opinions are definitely going to piss some people off. And maybe you know in your heart they're just wrong, and what the hell--maybe they are. It won't convince them of anything and it won't make them less mad. It's fine to do if that's the kind of blog you want, but don't be naive about it--you're going to annoy. Be prepared to deal with the consequences.
5. Making your post a flat-out sales pitch for your book. I have done this one (see two weeks ago, sort of) and I promise you I will do so again. That's perfectly fine--this is a forum about crime fiction and I write crime fiction. The reader is always free to click elsewhere. But doing nothing BUT hawking your book is just going to bore and irritate. The fiction you write isn't the only place you have to worry about entertaining an audience. And by the way, I have a book that came out last Wednesday and another coming in less than two months.

This week's reminder: The MISSING HEAD CHALLENGE is now extended to this Wednesday, October 15! Before then, buy a copy of THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD by E.J. Copperman/Jeff Cohen and take a photo of yourself with the book (or title page of the ebook). Post said picture on Facebook or Twitter for all (especially me, so tag me on it) to see. For everyone who does that on  I will donate $3 to ASPEN, the Autism SPectrum Education Network, and our own Josh Getzler's HSG Agency will match the donation. And our own Terri Bischoff's Midnight Ink will match THAT donation. And our very own Marilyn Thiele will add $1 each, to bring the total to $10 per picture! That pledge is good for the first 100 people to post--be one of them! 

Also: I'll be at the Barnes & Noble in East Brunswick, NJ on Tuesday (Oct. 14) at 7 p.m., talking (because try and get me to stop), signing and taking MISSING HEAD CHALLENGE pictures with anyone who has a copy of the book. Come by if you can--Cathy Genna of the B&N there really knows how to put on a show!

#BOOKCULTURE

Josh Getzler

 

Thanks to everyone for your good wishes while I was out with the shoulder surgery. Still barking a bit after two weeks, and I've got an I-Can't-Shave beard going and am still sleeping upright on the couch. But getting there. Thanks to Danielle Burby and Todd Moss for posting the past two weeks.

 

One of the more exciting things that happened in the past month is that Book Culture, an independent bookstore that lost its lease uptown, announced that it was reopening in one of the retail spaces below my apartment building. And instead of putting up the usual brown butcher's paper to cover the windows during renovation, they put up a happy sign telling the story of the return of a bookstore to the former site of an older store, Endicott Books, which was one of the inspirations for You've Got Mail.

 

This weekend, my wife and I were taking a walk and saw that there were a bunch of brightly colored stickies on the window of the store. Turns out that an anonymous Upper West Sider decided to create an Old School Pinterest board and put out a bunch of sticky pads and Sharpies and asked the neighbors to write notes about the new store, take photos, and post on Twitter with #BOOKCULTURE. And they did. And the neighborhood is truly giddy. More next week, but here are a couple of very happy pictures.

 

 

What happens on a debut book tour?

Todd Moss

 

This week I’m very pleased to welcome as guest Tuesday Dead Guy author Todd Moss, whose Golden Hour (Putnam) is available at all the usual outlets, plus airports, train stations, Costco, and think tanks everywhere. Todd has been let loose the past few weeks, following publication; but his experiences may have been slightly different from what either he or you might have expected.

I had no idea what to expect from the book tour for my debut thriller THE GOLDEN HOUR, released September 4th. I’d written several nonfiction books and had spoken in front of groups about foreign policy hundreds of times, but this was my first foray into fiction and certainly my first book tour. It’s been strange, nerve-wracking, and pretty cool all at the same time.  Here’s what I think I’ve learned so far.

 

It’s okay to be excited. After all the hours alone in the office and alone in my head, the novel is now, finally, out there. And people who’ve heard about it, want to meet the author. I’ve been really struck at the number of friends (some I haven’t seen since high school!) who are both giddy and gracious about my first novel. Most haven’t even read it yet, yet it’s been tremendously gratifying and humbling to receive the flood of emails, Facebook messages, and even knocks on my front door. I’m a guy who normally shirks away from being the center of attention, so I’ve had to force myself to soak it all in, to take a few moments to just enjoy it. And even at 44 years old, it feels good to make your parents proud. 

 

Yeah, no one knows you… yet. While friends and family have been pouring it on thick, no debut author has a fan base. This means any “book tour” sounds like a grand affair… but it’s not. I’d assumed that book signings would be at big box bookshops in cities like New York, Los Angeles, perhaps Atlanta and Chicago. Nope. After two launch events in my hometown of Washington DC, my publisher sent me to independent shops in Arizona and Texas. At first, I didn’t quite get it either. Then it was patiently explained what should have been obvious:  “No one knows you yet. No one will show up, especially in the big crowded markets.”  So instead, my stops have been specialty crime and thriller bookshops. Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale organized an intimate discussion about my book and, in an age of ISIS and Ebola, the role of America around the world. Murder by the Book in Houston hosted a reading and Q&A with around forty thriller fans.  Just as importantly as these in-person events, both shops provided a marvelous platform for tapping into their enthusiastic reader networks. Even if you aren’t generating lines around the block, it’s still exhilarating to sign a tall stack of your own books! (Note from JG--This was the best photo we had--it was after Todd had already signed the tall stack, and folks were carrying their own copies to him by then. Because even better than signing the tall stack is SELLING OUT the tall stack...)

 

 

A modern tour is much more than bookshops. I keep hearing that the halcyon days oflarge crowds to meet authors are largely over for all but the most famous writers.  So, in addition to a handful of select bookshop appearances, I’m talking about THE GOLDEN HOUR at lots of other venues that can draw interested crowds. Since my thriller revolves around a professor who works inside the U.S. Government, I’m speaking at colleges (Columbia, Pomona, Texas A&M, Tufts, Harvard) and related professional associations (World Affairs Councils, think tanks). I’m also promoting the book through radio, newspaper opeds, social media, and even a few TV shows. Each of these hits relatively small audiences, but they accumulate. These efforts, I hope, will build fan momentum for the next book… and maybe even a more ambitious second tour?

 

In the end, that’s the point: lots of small steps toward a fan base who will love your book, tell their friends, and (fingers crossed!) buy the sequel. 

 

Todd Moss, senior fellow and COO at the Center for Global Development in Washington DC and the former top US diplomat for West Africa, is author of THE GOLDEN HOUR, the first in the Judd Ryker series from Penguin’s Putnam Books. Todd is represented by Josh Getzler. 

Derek Jeter and Why He Matters

Jeff Cohen

Let us consider for a moment Derek Jeter.

Assuming you are not living on Jupiter, the news might have passed by your eyes and ears that Mr. Jeter, who is an employee of the New York Yankees, will retire, in every likelihood, late next Sunday, the 28th of September after a 20-year career with the firm. 

Non-sports fans: I promise there will be some relevance beyond baseball statistics, but you'll have to bear with me.

My daughter and I went to see him ply his trade Friday night at his office, 161st St. and River Avenue in the Bronx, New York. While not the same office in which he began his illustrious career, it bears the same name: Yankee Stadium. And don't think for a moment we were there for any reason other than to pay our respects one last time.

He was as gracious a host as ever, helping to produce a win for the home team with two hits and some nice fielding plays. And he tried his best not to notice the fact that the crowd of more than 40,000 people gathered there had done so specifically to see him and not the rest of the team, since this has been a dismal season for the home squad, and the immediate future is better not considered at all because it will be like this, except without Derek Jeter.

I'm a lifelong Yankee fan and make no apologies. In my five decades of paying attention to this team, I have not seen a player as beloved as Jeter. I saw Mickey Mantle play in person, and he was basically a god in the sport. I lived through the bleak years and saw Don Mattingly as the only bright light on the dark horizon and he was adored in the fans' eyes. But neither of them was Derek Jeter.

In five years, give or take a few months, Derek Jeter will be in Cooperstown, New York to be enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. That is not debatable; it will happen. And while his statistics in the sport are indeed impressive, he was never the flashiest player on the field. Many mediocre players hit more home runs. Even in his younger days there were those who questioned his fielding range. Now a group of statistics cultists explain how he's really not all that good a player. 

They're wrong, but that's beside the point. Derek Jeter is the ultimate Yankee, the face of all Major League Baseball, because of his parents insistence from a very young age that he behave like a gentleman and be responsible all his life. He has not disgraced them, ever.

Dating supermodels, actresses and anybody else who might grace the cover of Maxim? Sure, he did that. Have a little practical joke fun with teammates, acquaintances, even reporters? Yeah, that was part of the deal with Jeter. Did he ever give an interesting interview? No. The answers were bland and information-free, and that led to zero scandals and no horrifying revelations. Did he let us in to see what the innermost Jeter was like? Sorry; that was for family and friends. Mostly family.

What Jeter gave the fans was his best effort, every single time. It's unfortunate that most players don't run as hard as they can on every ground ball, because they know they're going to be thrown out. Jeter ran every time. Every time.

In an era where sports news is a combination of police blotter, financial reporting and pharmacology, Derek Jeter (while making boatloads of money, let's be fair) has always been about the team first. He did what it took to win, and he won a lot. His statistics were secondary--the only thing that mattered was whether or not the game was a victory. A season without a World Series title was a failure. End of story.

Derek Jeter will retire universally respected throughout the world of sports. He will be given a ceremony Sunday to send him off in grand style, and he'll get it at Fenway Park, home of the Yankees' most bitter rivals. Expect the fans, who have booed Jeter for decades, to stand and cheer, and mean it.

If you are not a Yankee fan, a baseball fan or a sports fan but read this blog each week or (hopefully) each day for perspective on the publishing business, consider this: Once he retires, Derek Jeter could literally do anything he wants to do. Star in television and film? He could. He hosted Saturday Night Live some years ago and did not embarrass himself. Become a media mogul? Sure, it's possible.

Could he devote himself to charitable works? His Turn 2 Foundation has done a lot to help kids live healthy lives and turn away from drugs and gang violence in tough areas. Jeter could certainly make that his key focus.

Famous as he is, Derek Jeter could do all those things, and probably will do some of them. He's said he wants to travel, that he would like to start a family. He has mentioned the possibility of owning at least part of a Major League team (Josh, could you advise him on that?). At this time in his life, it is not an overstatement to say that anything he decides to do is a strong possibility, and that he will probably be successful at any or all of these things.

But the first venture that will definitely be on Jeter's agenda after the hoopla dies out next Sunday and then there is no more Derek Jeter in baseball? 

Derek Jeter is starting his own publishing company, an imprint of Simon and Schuster. You have to love a guy who likes books.

This week's reminder: The MISSING HEAD CHALLENGE is scheduled for--waddaya know!--16 days from today, on October 8! Buy a copy of THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD by E.J. Copperman/Jeff Cohen and take a photo of yourself with the book (or title page of the ebook). Post said picture on Facebook or Twitter for all (especially me) to see. For everyone who does that on Pub Day (which you might have heard is October 8), I will donate $3 to ASPEN, the Autism SPectrum Education Network, and our own Josh Getzler's HSG Agency will match the donation. That pledge is good for the first 100 people to post--be one of them! 

U2, Spam, Amazon, and Competing On Price

Josh Getzler

Like many of you (I’d guess most of you), I received a very cheerful email from iTunes this morning, letting me know that I was one of the lucky 500 MILLION account holders music lovers who received, free of charge, the new album by U2 in their iTunes library. Then they said the following:

 Never before have this many people owned an album — let alone on the day it was released. This is a big moment in music history. And you're a part of it.

OK, let’s talk about this for real for a minute. What U2 did, fundamentally, was participate in a publicity program not unlike a Kindle free book promotion, only iTunes eliminated the step where you need to get the ebook into your device—it simply put it there. And frankly, that’s fine, if perhaps cheesy. But then to call it “a big moment in music history” where “never before have this many people owned an album” is eye-rollingly disingenuous. What’s more, it speaks to numerous arguments about value/worth/price of a product.

When I began to work in minor league baseball in 1996, I took over an organization in upstate New York which had, for five years, effectively given away its tickets to every game through a (badly thought-out and inefficient) coupon system that made it unnecessary for any fan to pay for a ticket. The previous operators reasoned that they would make their fiscal nut by getting people into the park for free, then having them purchase food, beer, and merchandise. Didn’t work. Going to a game was thought of as, first and foremost, a Cheap Night Out, and fans were not in fact spending more money on hot dogs because they had budgeted a certain amount for the evening and then had more because of the free tickets. Rather, they spent the same amount or less, because everyone knew that the tickets were going to be free—they had no value, so there was no real savings. The first thing we did when we arrived in town was to set a real value for tickets—albeit a very low number—and while fewer people came initially (because they resented paying for something all of a sudden which had previously been free), those who did actually spent more on food and merch because their expectations had shifted from being a Cheap night to a Fun night.

There have been lots of conversations recently, in the Hachette/Amazon fight, over the way Amazon has stated that less expensive ebooks sell more copies, and therefore will pass the break-even point with the current pricing models and make authors more money while charging less to the customer. I think there are legitimate arguments to be made on both sides of this. But there is also a significant danger in basing a policy on lowering prices all the time for all products. Amazon itself saw this a few years ago when WalMart stood up to it, and there was a Race To Free for a number of titles. For one or two instances, a retailer can deal with it (and the authors were receiving full royalties so they didn’t suffer, even as it cost Amazon and WalMart money—much as Apple is losing sales on U2 albums in the interest of a splash and enormous distribution). But as a policy…tough to maintain. Amazon clearly believes it has the winning algorithms to make more money for itself while charging its customers less and paying its authors more. If it emerges victorious, we will have to see.

Which brings me back to U2. I’ve been a fan of this band for more than 30 years (JEEZ!)  I saw them for the first time at 16, and again at 43. I’ve bought all their albums, and worn out many of them. They haven’t been particularly in the forefront of my mind since I saw them at Giants Stadium a few years ago and thought they were…fine. But when I’m on shuffle and Sunday Bloody Sunday or Beautiful Day or Magnificent comes on, I realize that they are the hall of famers they are.

They also release a TON of odds and sods and remixes and dub versions and acoustic demos, so when I got word that they were releasing their new album for free, I figured it was one of those. Which is to say, because it was for free, I figured it had (virtually) no value. It was just going to be a gimmick, and would be worthy of the eye rolling, and would take U2 further out of the middle of my consciousness.

Then I actually listened to it, and thought it was terrific. It’s new, but hearkens back to The Old Stuff I Love, and feels like a real ALBUM, with an overarching theme (albeit a possibly pretentious one, but hey, it’s Bono) and soaring choruses etc. And I suspect, that by simply spamming it to half a billion people, they’ve actually UNDERSOLD it. How about that?

 

Quick Note: I’m going to be going on the Disabled List for a couple of weeks for shoulder surgery. This slot will be taken by some terrific guests—Danielle Burby will write next week, and author Todd Moss (The Golden Hour) the week after. See you down the line! 

 

Leave Your Ice Bucket At Home!

Jeff Cohen  E.J. Copperman

Much has been made of the truly impressive campaign for ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease) this summer that raised (according to some reports) as much as $100-million by getting people to pour ice water over their heads. Others here have posted about this, and it is not my intention to discuss it at all other than to say that I was one of the people getting ice water poured over their heads, and while I am glad to have done it, I would greatly appreciate it if you would never look at the video of it happening, ever. Or at least until I lose 40 pounds.

In the light of that campaign, however, I am offering a challenge of my own, and as with the ALS Foundation, mine will benefit (although certainly not to the tune of 100 big ones) a very worthy cause and simultaneously will serve an interest of my own--namely, getting people to buy one of my books.

Exactly one month from today, on October 8,
THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD, the first Asperger's Mystery by E.J. Copperman and Jeff Cohen (and there will be more on that match-up in coming weeks) will be published by our very own Terri Bischoff's Midnight Ink. It concerns a man named Samuel Hoenig who answers questions for a living and, as it happens, has a condition called Asperger's Syndrome, which until fairly recently was a disorder and now is... something else, according to the geniuses who classify such things. (Don't get me started.)

Hopefully interested readers will have seen the reviews by Publishers Weekly and Booklist, who very much enjoyed the book, and Kirkus Reviews, which... I honestly don't know, but they reviewed it. And I read the review. And I still don't know.

But we're drifting off the point. Because THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD does discuss Asperger's and it is central to the series--Samuel narrates the tales himself--I'd like to benefit an Asperger's-related group as well as drawing some attention (hopefully) to the book itself.

So here's the deal: THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD has a publisher's suggested retail price (Terri will tell you) of $14.99. It can probably be found for less. (It's a trade paperback.) So if you buy one, you're not spending tons of money. But you'll be benefiting some people with Asperger's Syndrome and their families.

How? All you have to do is this: Buy a copy of THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD on the day it's published, Wednesday October 8. Take a picture (or have someone take a picture) of yourself with the book--or if you buy it as an e-book, a picture of yourself holding your reader with the title page of THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD showing. No PhotoShop allowed.

Then post that picture to your Facebook or Twitter account. Make sure I see it by friending me on Facebook or following me (in either guise) on Twitter (@jeffcohenwriter or @ejcop). For each person who posts such a picture that I get to see--and that all your followers on either or both social networks get to see--I will donate $3 to ASPEN, the Autism Spectrum Education Network, an excellent support group for those who have family members with AS related disorders, based in my home state of New Jersey, where the Asperger's Mysteries are set (and where the incidence of autism-related disorders is about the highest in the U.S.).

ASPEN was one of the first places we contacted when our son was diagnosed with Asperger's back when nobody had heard of Asperger's. And we found help, information, support and programs that were all incredibly useful and are paying dividends with our Josh (not Josh who blogs here) every single day. I even used the president of ASPEN, Lori Shery, as a character in one of the Aaron Tucker novels. She was really helpful then, too.

So by buying the book and posting your picture, you'll be getting a book that hopefully you'll enjoy and ASPEN will get $3. That's up to 100 people, and only on publication day of Wednesday, October 8. I'm not made of money. (And even if I were, it'd be weird to send pieces of myself to pay for stuff, wouldn't it?)

That's the deal. A fun mystery about a guy with Asperger's trying to find a missing frozen head and you get to feel good about helping a very worthy cause without having to spend extra money. What's not to like?

I'll be reminding you about the MISSING HEAD Challenge over the next few weeks. If you want to pre-order the novel at your local bookstore to make sure you'll have a copy in your hands on pub day, I'll be they'd be happy to help. But those are the rules: Up to 100 people, pictures proving you have the book (no fair sharing the book with friends--make them get their own copy!), posted on Facebook or Twitter, on Wednesday, October 8. 

Do you think we can hit the 100 people? I'm hoping to have to write a $300 check!

Synchronicity

Josh Getzler

I’ve been having the funny feeling the last couple of weeks that I’ve been regressing back to high school. It’s not simply that I ALWAYS feel nostalgic this time of year, as the kids get ready to return from the summer. But this summer vacation has been filled with reminders of my days with big hair and long overcoats and bright yellow Walkmen.

 

 

 

 

First I read Eleanor and Park on the advice of the 12 YO, and it took me back to the Smiths and the Replacements and XTC (and bright yellow Walkmen); then last night we watched The Breakfast Club with the kids, and between the layers and overcoats and the Molly Ringwald Dance and Simple Minds I was back to Junior Year, wondering if I would also lose my soul when I grew up.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZINZmN1_GM

 

Tomorrow I’m going to Washington, DC for a couple of days of meetings and the launch of Todd Moss’s Golden Hour (had to get that in!), and I’m back to being a Congressional Page at 17, watching Live Aid and running around the Capitol Building in the roastingly hot DC summer. Then in the fall I’ll be seeing Sting’s new musical The Last Ship, and I’ll be back in my very enthusiastic high school band trying (enthusiastically!) to play So Lonely. And I just looked through the musical offerings in DC Thursday night. The Buzzcocks are playing a little club. The last time I saw them it was around 1988, and I was in college. And I just got my 25^th Reunion notice. My son just finished watching Weird Science while my daughter was listening to Marlene On The Wall.

 

All we’re missing is a Soviet Premier threatening to use Nukes…oh.