Author: Writer guy

Confessions of a Saint – Part I

Writer guy

In the mid ’90s a magazine declared Red Bank, New Jersey the hippest town in the state. Bold as that assessment might sound to those from other counties, it was true at the time. At least for me.

Met The Wife in Red Bank in that period. It was a million to one chance, which I very nearly squandered. Fortunately, I reversed course and secured a date. For political reasons–her very, very large boyfriend–we labeled it a black and white photo discussion over coffee and sandwiches.

Kevin Smith set up a production company on Broad Street, long before he dreamed of Hollywood Hills. There were gourmet coffee shops, restaurants, antiques, and musicians on every corner. Bruce Springsteen shopped in town. Red Bank had a vibe and media blessings; good tidings buzzed all around us. And a poet, Bob Simmons* appeared at odd moments on a bicycle.

He lived in Sea Bright, a summer town on the shore, and rode to Red Bank after work most nights on a rusty Schwinn with a notebook in his back pocket.

By profession, Bob caddied at an exclusive golf course, then gambled the earnings through the winter. When he needed extra cash, he got hit by cars. He was the master of the 5,000 dollar settlement. Several of the cases might have generated big cash awards and landed him on easy street, but Bob didn’t get hit to get rich. He got hit because he rode his bicycle poorly when drunk, and not much better sober. The way he figured it, his needs were humble, and money corrupted a man. Bob hated corruption.

When the settlements paid out, Bob shared the winnings. Free dinners, smokes and whiskey for his crew. He was generous like that, and we all paid him in kind when he was down on his luck. He was loved. I spotted Bob cigarettes and cheeseburgers like the rest of the guys.

He had an awful lot of talent, especially when it came to writing. Every so often, usually after a night on the town, out came that notebook and Bob unleashed some verse. Normally, I don’t care much for poetry, it’s too steeped in meter and meaning for my working class tastes, but Bob had a way with the pen and page.

This year, I’ll be the same age as Bob Simmons back in the glory days, and I decided to find him.

To be continued…

* Bob Simmons is not his real name.

Things have changed

Writer guy

Copy protecting a manuscript the official way via the Copyright Office can take upwards of six months. Registering the Ridge Runner, the precursor to the novel, took five, for instance. Add in the cost, which is $45 USD, and usually I opt for the poor man route. It’s faster, cheaper, and less onerous to seal up a short story and mail the package to myself before showing it around. Given the amount of time invested in a novel and potential financial upside, a 45 dollar tag seems more reasonable.
Lo and behold my TX certificate for The Last Track arrived in the mail today–an end to end turnaround of 8 weeks. Pretty incredible considering it necessitated heavy governmental oversight in the midst of three major holidays.

So to the Register of Copyrights, Marybeth Peters, whatever you did to streamline the process, much thanks! I’d send cookies, but that would probably land me on the wrong kind of watch lists.

Meeting One

Writer guy

Around two today, I meet with one of the Final Three–a crew providing feedback for the novel. This meeting marks the third to last stop before shopping the novel. Once implementing the revisions from the Final Three, I’ll read the novel twice more, then do rigid line edits of the first fifty pages. There’s a reason for the cutoff point.

Fifty pages marks the traditional upper bounds for a partial manuscript request; agents ask for about that much content if they like a query. Occasionally an agent might opt for the whole project straight out. A full manuscript request happened just once for me without a partial first, and I have read that occurs very rarely, so I shall not expect it.

The point is that the manuscript be ready at a moment’s notice to submit in whole or in part when a request for material arrives. The only work necessary is prepping the envelope and going to the Post Office.

I do not come to this point in the road lightly. There are a finite number of agents who handle fiction, and there isn’t a lot of wiggle room for second impressions. Whatever I shop around has to be quality. While I may have doubts about a project as a marketable concept–a certain amount of second guessing is unavoidable, the alternative being arrogance, which is its own demon–I stand by the story and the time invested without a regret. What’s on the page will be the best I can do. Beyond this round it’s getting older, not necessarily better. Therefore, more edits will not grind out further improvements, only delay the process.

I’ll post more about the Final Three on the 12th, after meeting with reader two.

This is love

Writer guy

Mr. Rogers is a hero of mine. Yes, that Mr. Rogers, the beautiful day in the neighborhood man. As a child I watched his show daily. So why the approbations for the elder TV personality? Well, beneath his sensitive exterior, this Presbyterian minister packed mafia don clout.

Right from Wikipedia:

On the eve of the announcement that Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood would cease production of new episodes, TV Guide interviewed Rogers and led the story with an anecdote. Apparently, Rogers had been driving the same car for years, an old second-hand Impala. Then it was stolen from its parking spot near the WQED studio. Rogers filed a police report, the story was picked up by local news outlets, and general shock swept across town. Within 48 hours, the car was back in the spot where he left it, along with a note saying “If we’d known it was yours, we never would have taken it!”

First Rule of the neighborhood: You do not boost Mr. Roger’s ride. The second rule: If you boosted his ride, put it back, yo.

More on Mr. Rogers.