Ewriting: Real Democracy.

Everybody is writing books these days.  Since the birth of E this and E thats, anyone, fool or philosopher with access to the "cloud", can commune with their muse and cobble together a string of words into sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters and books.  Democracy in action.

Look, I'm doing it right now. Tap, tap, tap. One-fingered on my magic little iPad. Nothing to it.

But writing might be the easiest part for some folks. The tough part is getting someone to read our crap. I mean, our material.

Last Sunday I put the subject before my old pal, Eddie Salinski (celebrated writer and welder), over a brunch of KFC and Hostess Snowballs. 

Munching on a moist drumstick, Eddie lifted his eyes toward the popcorn ceiling of my living room, obviously lost in thought.

Al Qaeda Confirms: Osama's Dance Studio Still Open

By Robert J. Wetherall

Terrorist fears that Osama Bin Laden’s sudden headache will limit his activities have eased, according to reliable reports.

My good friend and mentor, celebrated author Eddie Salinski, says his sources confirm that Osama’s School of Ballet and Tap in Boca Raton will remain open.

As Eddie puts it, “Intensive training in ballet and tap have been a required part of terrorist training for years, ever since startled aides found Bin Laden wearing a pink tutu while molesting his favorite camel.”

Eddie reminded me that swarthy men wearing colorful tutus have long been a part of the Boca Raton street scene.  Locals believe the men are part of a troupe of circus performers, despite the AK-47’s casually slung over their shoulders.

Before his sudden onset of head trauma, Bin Laden had claimed that skillful execution of ballet moves would help aspiring terrorists in their more intensive training efforts. And he advocated up-tempo time-steps by tap-dancing suicide bombers as an effective way of entering crowded markets without causing undue notice.

I asked Eddie if he trusted these reports. (After all, our daily TV and news outlets haven’t picked up this news). 

“Who gives a rat’s ass?” he countered, a wide smile creasing his gnarly countenance.

“I love stories like these,” he said.  “There’s so much bull floating around in the press these days, you can’t keep up with it. Those crazy bastards’ll print anything, I swear upon my trusty Donald Trump Bible.”

“Not anything,” I said.

“Anything,” he repeated. “Want some proof?  Okey-dokey.”

He jammed a newspaper into my face and I looked at one of the headlines.

Something about the world coming to an end.

  

Writers are Very Special

As a writer of sorts, I’m fully aware of the trials, tribulations and sheer crap that we writers have to go through. But a brief discussion yesterday with my pal, celebrated author and welder Eddie Salinski, set me straight on this by giving me a view of the world through his unique looking-glass.

Eddie says he has no time for writers who walk through life with a hang-dog look of the maltreated and unappreciated--just because they’ve received several hundred rejections by publishers. And dodged insults from herds of high-fallootin’ literary agents who wouldn’t know a book from a submarine.

 Eddie says don’t let all this affect you. Rise above it, he says, because if you’re a writer, you are very special.  You are one of a kind, courageously carrying on a struggle against horrendous odds. Battle-toughened. Unique. A rare meteorite in a desert dune. Your friends cleave to you and hunger for your attention.  Your many enemies envy you.  The IRS doesn’t dare audit you.  You enjoy special discounts at Sammy’s Second-Hand Stuff.  Your family even lets you ride in the car with them.

Better still, Eddie says that if you’re a writer, acquaintances will think it’s cute when you’re self-centered, rude and obnoxious.  They’ll assume that, as a person of higher status, you play by different rules than those accorded more humble non-writing beings.

“But what if I’m a really stinky writer?” I asked Eddie softly. 

“Doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Eddie offered. “Nobody knows the difference!”

He patiently explained that even lousy writing is better than not writing at all. He assured me that even a dumb shallow statement looks much smarter on paper than it sounds when spoken, especially when enhanced by a cunning modern font.

Eddie’s confidence radiated from his wiry little body as he flicked a cigarette into the dry brush behind his trailer. 

            “Trust me,” he said, offering me a soiled hanky to dry my eyes.

There’s no denying that Eddie’s pronouncements about the literary world must be taken seriously, given the explosive success of his own works.  That’s why Eddie Salinski has become my Oracle of sorts. He knows whereof he speaks. So who are we to be filled with doubt?

So let’s man up, as they say.  Straighten those shoulders. Have the cajones (if available) to face your future with jutting, uplifted chin. Stare fate in the chops. March proudly to an upbeat drummer.

Instead of wasting time writing your name in the snow this afternoon, go mail off another pathetic query. Mark it “Eddie sent me” and hope for the best.

After all, you are special.  Now act like it.

Robert J. Wetherall

Last Flight Home;

The Making of Bernie Trumble

Forever Andrew

Available at

Amazon.com, penumbrapublishing.com

Literary Agents: Are They Human?

By Robert J. Wetherall

Now before you jump all over and start tearing me into itty-bitty pieces, let me explain:

A lot of writers have it in their noggins that literary agents, by and large, belong to some loathsome lower species, like folks in congress, roofing/siding salesmen, and TV evangelists.  And that they are greedy, lazy and about as useful as blood-sucking ticks on an old hound dog.

I myself went along with this thinking until my friend and mentor, Eddie Salinski (celebrated writer and welder) set me straight.

“Think of agents as victims,” Eddie said. “Forced to charge a substantial sums to evaluate (and sometimes even read) schlock from dawn to dusk. Wheedling money from expectant but unrealistic rabble for supplies, postage, paper and what-not.  Pleading with these sheep to chip in money for agents’ trips to writers conferences in god-forsaken backwaters like Bali and Monte Carlo.  And even demanding ad nauseum for agents to find time to pitch their work to publishers.”

“And calling agents heartless is really unfair,” said Eddie, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Some of my most memorable rejections have come from agents whom I know suffered great emotional stress from having to toss my work into the garbage.”

Eddie waved a bunch of faded letters in my face. I began scanning their contents, which oozed care and consideration.

Some brief tidbits:

“Your work is well-typed and your envelopes are well-stamped.”

“Your work makes me retch. Kindly send Tums with future submissions.”

“Send more cash for miscellaneous expenditures.”

“I will represent you when the Ice Age Cometh.”

“Your story is filled with characters that are well drawn and quartered.”

“I strongly recommend begging as an alternate career path.”

Eddie snatched the letters from me. “You can tell these folks felt really bad because my stuff wasn’t exactly up to snuff back then. They always treated me with the utmost courtesy and respect.”

“Yes, that’s obvious,” I heartily agreed.

So readers, you can see that there is definitely a real possibility that literary agents may indeed be part of the human family.

And in case this is true, I’m going to consider treating them with respect.