By White Feather
There was a small storage room and restroom attached to Paula Hollingsworth’s office. That is where she spent the ten minutes she had between clients. Sometimes she would use the restroom facility. Sometimes she would grab a bite to eat or do some stretching (sitting at a desk all day is not exactly healthy). But the one thing she always did during her precious ten minutes was smoke a cigarette.
Noticing a small clock atop one of the filing cabinets, Paula realized that her break was over. Tamping out her cigarette in an ashtray, she then popped a Tic Tac and sprayed the storage room liberally with a can of air freshener. Returning to her office she took a deep breath then pushed the intercom button on her phone, “Lilly, please send in my next client.”
An elderly man entered her office. He had long scraggly gray hair, a salt and pepper beard and one side of his wire frame glasses appeared to be held together with white tape.
“Please have a seat.” Paula looked at her date book, “So you are Eduardo Laughinghorse?”
“Yes I am.”
“Welcome and thank you for choosing my consulting service. So what’s your story?”
“My story?”
“I’m a writer’s consultant and agent and I take it you are a writer. So what is your story and how can I help you?”
“Well… uh… yeah, I’m a writer. I’ve been doin’ it for decades. I’ve got several books that I’ve self-published. None of them have made it to the New York Times bestseller lists. I’m not very good at promotion or marketing or whatever it’s called. I’m totally focused on writing. Well, I decided that I wanted to try and get my latest novel published by one of the big name publishers so it gets read by more people and… and so that I might actually make some money.”
“I see.” Paula leaned back in her chair. This was a story she had heard a million times. “Okay, I want you to pretend.”
“Pretend?”
“Pretend that you just walked into the office of an editor for Scribner’s or Random House or one of those big publishers. I’ll pretend that I’m that editor. I’ll show you how that editor thinks and what they are looking for.”
“Okay.”
“The first thing the editor is going to do is look on the cover of your manuscript to read the title and author. The second they see, Eduardo Laughinghorse, the jig is up. You struck out before you even got in the batter’s box.”
“Batter’s box?”
“Eduardo Laughinghorse is not a name that sells. No one is going to buy a book with that name on the cover. And no publishing house will print a book with that name on the cover. First things first, you’ve got to come up with a better name… one that sells, one that can become a brand.”
“But it’s my name.”
“Not if you want to get on the bestseller lists. You need to come up with a hip, likable name. Most authors don’t use their real names. You know, initials are very popular right now. Think, J. K. Rowling. Think J. D. Salinger. Think F. Scott Fitzgerald. Maybe you could keep Eduardo but Laughinghorse? Come on. What the hell kind of name is that anyway? It sounds like some kind of joke user name on social media. I’m just telling you for your own good that you’ll never sell books unless you come up with a different name.”
“But it’s my name.”
“Okay. It’s your name. I’m just telling you that you won’t last more than sixty seconds in an editor’s office and no respectable publishing house will even talk to you.”
“I see. I guess I could think about that.”
“Well, think hard because it’s true. Think of something really, really catchy. What you have to realize from the start is that you’re not selling books, you’re selling a brand.”
“I’m not a tube of tooth paste or a roll of toilet paper.”
“Eduardo, I’m trying to help you here. I’m telling it like it is. In today’s world nothing sells unless it is branded. Eighty years of television and thirty years of internet has conditioned people to only buy things from brands that they trust and enjoy. If there is no brand there is no sale. And the name is only part of that brand.”
Dejected, Eduardo looked down at his hands in his lap.
“Publishing houses invest in brands, not people. They’ll insist that you do book tours and TV interviews and attend events. Not only do you need a snazzy name but you need a great photograph. No one will buy a book with a photo of an ugly author on the back cover. We live in a visual world. People need an image of the author to hold in their minds before they’ll even consider reading their writing. So it’s got to be a pretty picture. Maybe you have a photograph of when you were younger that you could use?”
Eduardo looked up at her with an expression of profound fear, “Absolutely not! I don’t do tours or book signings or live interviews. And I have never put a photograph of myself on any of my books that I’ve published and I never will.”
“Why not?”
“The great Native American warrior Crazy Horse never allowed his image to be photographed or even drawn by an artist. He believed that if his image was captured then a piece of his soul was captured, leaving him vulnerable to psychic attack. While I believe that, too, my primary concern is losing my God-given right to privacy. I don’t want anybody to recognize me as I’m peacefully walking down the street. I may be the last human on the planet whose image is not recorded in the corporate facial recognition databases. And I want to keep it that way. I refuse to give up my God-given right to privacy!”
Paula took off her glasses then slapped the palm of her hand against her forehead. What a stupid writer! she though silently to herself.
“Listen Eduardo, if you want to become famous, if you want to sell books then you simply cannot do it without giving up your privacy. It’s a fact. Besides, there is no such thing as privacy anymore in today’s world. Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it have a photo of you on it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well see there. You’ve already given up your privacy. You can’t drive a car without a driver’s license and you can’t sell books without a photograph of you on the back cover. It’s a harsh reality that you must accept if you hope to be accepted by a big publishing house and if you hope to sell any books at all.”
“But I just can’t do that. I will not give up my privacy. I’m trying to sell my art, my writing, not ME. My writing is really good. Did you read my book that I sent you?”
Paula shuffled through a stack of manuscripts and books on her desk, “Ah yes, here it is. The Killer’s Tricycle?”
“Yes. Did you read it? If you did then you know how good it is.”
“I’m a very busy person. I don’t have time to read books. Besides, it doesn’t matter how good it is if no one buys it. Selling books isn’t about the quality of writing. It’s about the quality of marketing and promotion. You can’t hide behind your work. You and your writing together are what creates a brand. And without a brand your writing may as well not even exist. By the way, I’m almost afraid to ask but why do you refuse to do book signings? That’s a very important part of selling books.”
“Two reasons. First, I just can’t bring myself to write in books. I never, ever, ever write or highlight in books. To me that is a sin. Books are sacred objects. Writing in them is like spray-painting a church or temple or painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa. Once a book is written in it is ruined.”
“Secondly, I don’t do book signings because someone might show up to the book signing with a camera.”
Again Paula took off her glasses and slapped her forehead, this time even harder. Spying the clock on the wall she realized that she still had twenty-five minutes left with this idiot.
“Eduardo, I hate to break it to you but today EVERYONE has a camera. It’s called a smart phone. Privacy no longer exists! If you want to be a writer and also maintain your privacy you’re gonna have to live in an igloo at the North Pole and transmit your manuscripts back to civilization and I guarantee you those books will never sell.”
“I don’t have a smart phone.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Paula put her elbows on the desk and leaned toward him, “Listen Eduardo, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. I am going to refund your three hundred dollar consultation fee. As long as you’re still living in some other reality then there’s nothing I can do for you. I can’t charge you if there’s just nothing I can do for you. Really, all I can do is wish you luck.”
“So you won’t be my agent?”
“Oh hell no.”
Eduardo slowly stood up. Turning, he headed for the door leading out of the office. Just as reached the door he abruptly turned around and walked hastily back to Paula’s desk. Reaching across the desk he grabbed the copy of The Killer’s Tricycle and put it under his arm then left the office.
Paula was in her store room with a lit cigarette in hand in record time. As she luxuriated in the smoke going through her she thought back on when she used to be a writer trying to make it. Thank goodness she quit writing and became a writer’s consultant. The money is way, way better but then again she had to put up with stupid, stupid writers like Eduardo Laughinghorse.
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Copyright by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Thanks for reading and subscribing…
brilliant - sums up the stupid publishing value system rather well xxx