Coffee with Ghosts

Prologue

According to the dictionary the prologue is supposed to be the introduction and a foreword is one as well, although intended to be written by someone other than the author. A foreword would be nice, but that’s for the popular or known. Being neither, I will probably be even less if this book is ever published. However if you’re anything like me, as a reader, you’d skip the introduction and go directly to the first chapter, diving into the story without testing it first. Many times the prologue is nothing more than a pontification, a venting for the author to further sway the reader into the same mindset. So it can feel too hot or too cold, like sticking your toes barely into the surface of a lake, which is seldom an indication of the temperature below or how you’ll feel once submersed into its depths.

I always thought the hardest part of getting a book published was writing it. Man, was I a fool. Writing a book is the easy part. Trying to get published stinks. You have to wade through a lot of shit to have your story put on the shelves of a book store. It also takes a great deal of endurance, a whole lot of luck, and a charismatic personality, or at least good looks. So really the chance of this story to being run through a press is pretty slim. After all, for this manuscript to go anywhere, it’ll have to pass through the hands of the very people that I slander.

Like any trying-to-get-published freshman, I got the starter books. There are writers market catalogs that are supposed to tell you what literary agents would want to represent you or what publishing houses would be frothing at the mouth to get ahold of your manuscript. Or so that’s what editors and assistant editors that now write these books, want you to believe. And like a complete moron, I bought every one, reeled in with a quote on the front cover by a famous selling author calling the catalog one of the most valuable tools for a writer new to the marketplace. The humor in this is that the famous author probably hasn’t had to bother with the mood swings of an agent or editor since Bret Easton Ellis was shitting pea soup in his Pampers. How would he know how helpful it is? Oh it can be helpful, but certainly not to the new and unpublished author. That is a new and unpublished author that has no celebrity status, a wealthy spouse, or a close friend at a publishing house that shares the same interior decorator.

I surfed the internet for advice, and received so much information that it all canceled itself out; get an agent, don’t get an agent, go directly to the publishing house, don’t go, self publish, don’t it’s vain, etcetera. I subscribed to writers magazines for all the latest tips, sent query letter upon query letter, some creatively poignant and others boringly concise for the jaded. I joined a couple writers groups where we all sat around and tried to be fair to each other while eating stale pastries, but that turned out to be a bunch of crap as well. No one was ever really impressed with another persons writing and if they were, jealousy always made the critique a little harsher. And if someone was impartial they’d come up with an over extended critique just to sound sophisticated.

Is that all a self esteem issue? Probably, but I don’t know that self esteem plays an important role for writers. If anything being neurotic would be an asset. Maybe I should make myself a little clearer. What I’m mostly referring to are writers of fiction, not non-fiction. Non-fiction writers need a great deal of self confidence. After all, they should be somewhat of an authority in whatever they’re putting to print. We fiction writers like to tell the truth as well, only we like to do it anonymously. We’ll weave a grudge in a mystery thriller, make up for our short comings in an action adventure, or give notice to our boring lives by writing a literary novel, where we simply change the names and places of actual events to insure that the protagonist, who is really one of us in fiction drag, is able to make the political statements and personal accusations that our friends have found trite many months and even years before. But I’m digressing.

I went to seminars and workshops, given by regionally popular authors. And I went to hear speeches given by nationally known authors. I bought copies of their books and had them sign the cover. When I asked them how they became published, they all had anecdotes instead of answers. Either they just wanted to get me out of the way for the cute college student standing behind me or didn’t want to give away the secret hand shake to their club. So when I signed up for a seven day conference in Louisville, to have the opportunity to live and circulate with people who cracked the publishing code, plus spent a great deal of time in the company of other struggling writers like myself, minus the stale pastries, I was certain something good would come out of it. It was hard to contain my excitement. I was overwhelmed by daydreams that had me walking away with a book deal knowing at the end of the conference that an agent and or editor would be waiting for my novel. I had scenes that I played over and over again in my mind where I came back home and told my boss to go fuck himself. Not in his office, but in front of coworkers, where they could marvel at my rebellion. I saw myself telling my wife pretty much the same thing and then taking my daughter for a month long vacation to Disney World on the advancement they’d pay me. Plus I had other reasons that I wanted my story published, needed it published.

Like many of my comrades, especially those in Louisville, I started writing late in life, though had the bug at a much younger age. I always thought there was plenty of time, reassuring myself with examples like James Thurber, who started later in life. But maybe that was a tall tale. A teacher told me that once and I never thought to research the life of Mr. Thurber. For all I know he could’ve been writing short stories when he had pimples and his voice was changing.

I almost want to say I started out too late, but I don’t want to discourage other writers or people like myself wanting to get out of that ho hum blue collar job or blue collar life, because there certainly are those miracle success stories, how few they may be. But it’s a much more embarrassing and compromising life than you think. If you thought it was bad working on an assembly line in some small factory where your coworker who calls you dude, is half your age, makes a dollar more an hour than you, and is in charge of making sure you wrapped, stamped, ground, pressed, sanded, or marked something the right way, it pales in comparison to how condescending, patronizing, or humiliatingly rude people in the literary business can be.

I believe that if you have the desire to write, write by all means. If nothing else it’s good therapy. Although I’m certain that there are a lot of Virginia Woolfs and Robert Frosts out there that never put pen to hand. Then again there are those Virginia Woolfs and Robert Frosts that did put pen to hand and their work, no matter how fresh, may never be brought to light. Instead, I just want hopeful, starry eye’d writers to be prepared and thick skinned. Literature is a big business and I don’t mean there’s a lot of readers out there waiting for your book to come out in paperback. I mean that there are a lot of people waiting to make money off those of us with an active imagination, and that’s not so much for our material, as for our desire to bring it into the light.

The most I have to gain by this story making it to market, is that my daughter will always know that I’ll be there for her. The least is as an obligation to share it with other writers or those that are considering it as a possible career change. Rejections are powerful, even the subtle ones. And the more personally attached you are to your manuscript, the more devastating the rejections seem. Though this is redundant and a no brainer to those who’ve been through the mill. However a writer always writes, no matter their motivation or situation. Sometimes it consumes us, because it becomes a big part of our life, an undisclosed memoir. But it’s not the only part of our life. It is a need for most writers, because it not only helps us to discover who we are, but many times where we need to be.

1

By Saturday I was still pissed and confused, wondering why I was still here. The week seemed to have turned into a farce really, to bargain with people that had exclusive claims on marketing the written word, six literary agents sitting on the panel. No, actually they ended up sitting in a row behind two long tables pushed together in a 50’ x 50’ room with only a 9 foot high ceiling, and thinking they deserved better, stuck to sit eye level and unable to peer down on their audience of fifty writers. Oh, I take that back, forty nine writers. I could sit wherever I wanted to. I could’ve sat in the fucking rafters if there were any. God, they knew all the questions those poor wannabee writers were going to ask, I could read it in them, and it sickened me. Sickened me because it’s become such a routine for them. But they were good. All six of them, trust me, acting as though every question was original, sitting with baited breath and replying with that well rehearsed look of concern. However a condescending note trailed their voices, and all but a few of the writers could pick out the cord, and some even sensed what I read; that not one of them at that time had any intention of taking on any new clients.

These shits are trained apes—all of them. No I take that back. They’re trained beavers, building dams against working class literature. Anyway, these agents would’ve complained about the conditions if they didn’t like the free trip, business write off, and the adoration. It’s true, they didn’t show it on the surface, but they liked the control and power, playing grownup in front of their nervous and less savvy peers. They were the thirteen year old girl baby sitting her eight year old brother. All smug and well educated pricks with sheep skins from ivy league colleges. Multi-linguist, knowing not to display any superiority in their interviews. But their colors still rained through the evening before at dinner, used to being difficult in New York restaurants. Some of the attendees were able to watch them and it was disarming for those who really thought they had a chance, then wondering if they’d look as embarrassed as waitresses did.

These were the goddamn professionals. The cream of the crop. They had a reputation to live up to. The New York experience for writers. Please, I’ve never seen so many narrow minded liberals in all my life. But these asshole’s knew that they were needed, wanted, even desired and that’s a good feeling for them. Well hell, for anyone right? Maybe they weren’t desired for their bodies—except of course for the blonde agent that was sitting in the middle with the vee cut black top, and the brunette on the end if she would’ve loosened up a little bit and shit that bug out of her ass. Then again her attitude did excite a couple of the guys. But they were really desired because they held the chance for everyone at the conference to make a name for themselves, and that’s what everyone wanted to do.

Few at the conference liked their life and the way they were treated. They all wanted to be treated better. Who could blame them? Actually, who can blame anyone for wanting to be treated better? Honestly? Consider all the ads that tell us to follow our dreams. This was it for a lot of them, not exactly spring chickens. Most thought of this new career path as the end of the road, knowing they weren’t going to get very far in the jobs or lifestyles they currently had. They wanted to travel in the circles and society that those jaded professionals did. They wanted to live, be recognized and not feel like another unheard apparition. They wanted to be given the same respect. Or at least have someone once kiss their ass. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen for anyone Saturday morning. Well, not for the unpublished writers anyway. None-the-less most everyone thought there was that last chance, even me. Can you imagine? I could see through these people, proving that conferences were becoming increasingly less an opportunity for new authors and more an opportunity for literary agents to get away, as well as published authors to milk their own self worth. And yet there I was another bone head thinking my manuscript was going to be picked up as the break away novel for the year. No matter what, you seem to always hang onto that fleeting chance. But this is too far ahead in the story. Let me back up a little bit.

The first day of this story really began six days prior, on Sunday with writers arriving from morning til night. For most it wasn’t the first time, they’ve been coming to this conference every year. For a few though, it was the first time, coming with high expectations, and thinking their writing was the best. Little did they know it wasn’t. It wasn’t because they didn’t think anyone else could really write. They knew no one else at home could, because no one at home really understood their material, their artistic vision.

Everyone smiled when they walked into the dorm where they were supposed to check in. Many were familiar with one another, shared a hug or a hand shake, then got their room key from Jim Laird, this years new director. Some lingered around wanting to see who was coming in. Some went straight to their rooms to unpack and set up shop for the week, even putting a family picture on their desks. A