Finally... That Cigar! Now, Where'd I
Put My Lighter?
By Paul Clayton:
After having Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam named a finalist at the
2001
Frankfurt eBook Awards, I assumed that placing the book with a traditional
publishing house would be easy. I began sending the manuscript out
to
agencies and publishing houses. Over a year, I must have spent four
or five
hundred dollars on postage and stationary, without result. The rejections
were much better, however, scrawled notes of congratulations on photocopied
forms. But eventually I found a house, a POD (print-on-demand) publisher
called Booklocker.com. They've done a fine job with cover design
and making
the book available everywhere. At that point I thought my long, publishing
walkabout was over. But a couple months ago, I was surfing the web
and I
came across Colonel David Hackworth's web site.
Colonel Hackworth, author of Steel My Soldiers' Hearts, is the most
highly decorated living,
American serviceman. I sent him an email, telling him all about Carl
Melcher Goes to Vietnam, and asking if he'd be willing to read my book
and
give me a blurb to put on the back. I received a three word response,
"don't have time." Well, I thought, he probably gets requests like
that all
the time. At least I'd tried.
The next day I received an email from a Jay
Acton, Colonel Hackworth's agent. Mr. Acton said that the Colonel
had
passed along my email, and that he'd be willing to read Carl Melcher.
I
sent him the book and a week later he called me at work to tell me that
he
had read it in one sitting and that he would try and help me place it.
Within two weeks he had sold the book to Thomas Dunne, St. Martin's.
I'm thrilled, of course, and very grateful to Colonel Hackworth.
Not only is
the colonel a great soldier, but he's also a fine writer, in the tradition
of James Jones and Willie Morris, i.e., willing to extend a helping hand
to
another, lesser-known writer. My editor at St. Martin's tells me
that the
book will be published in the spring of 04, in hardback.
Finally... that cigar! Now, where'd I put my lighter?
(Clayton's previous article of his publishing experiences follows):
Close, but no cigar... Carl Melcher Goes
to Frankfurt
by Paul Clayton
They say, write about what you know. I did that, rendering my experience
in Vietnam into fiction, only to be told my story wasn’t gritty enough, my
characters not tough enough. Perhaps. My characters were like me and most
of the people I knew in Vietnam. We were all in the foothills of the learning
curve, clue-less, scared sometimes, young and dumb and full of hope. We
didn’t triumph; we just went on, just put one foot in front of the other.
That’s what I did after the first wave of rejections. I refused to cheapen
the experience of myself and my friends and turn it into mere entertainment,
page-turning thrills. But I was determined to publish. So I wrote a historical
series, deciding that I would come back later and send the Vietnam novel
to the next crop of editors.
I had more luck writing about Spanish Conquistadors and the Muskogee Indians
of the Southeast than I did American GIs in Vietnam, and the historical series
sold. A couple years later I again tried to generate some interest in my
Vietnam novel. I managed to get the late Willie Morris to read it. He liked
it enough to send out under his own letterhead. The first house he sent it
to declined. Then he died of a heart attack. Willie’s efforts on behalf of
Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam were a vindication for me, and for that I’ll
never forget him. I really could write, and Carl Melcher… was worthy of publication.
I continued writing and trying to find a publisher for Carl Melcher...
No dice. Out of frustration, I sold the electronic rights to a little ‘mom
and pop’ Internet start up eBook outfit, hoping that perhaps the book would
get a little attention, and maybe an offer from a small house. Four months
later it was named a finalist at the 2001 Frankfurt eBook Awards in Germany
along with the work of David McCullough (John Adams), Joyce Carol Oates (Faithless),
and nine other fine books. Note that in the first quarter that my ebook
was for sale, it had sold only eight (8) copies; now Frankfurt was buying
me a round-trip ticket and providing me with a suite at the Continental hotel:
further vindication for Carl Melcher.
Surely now I’d find a publisher, I thought. Strangely though, the Frankfurt
judges put my novel in the non-fiction category. I decided not to tell them
that they had made a mistake. If anyone asked, I would tell them that my
book was a “fictionalized memoir.” For a couple days, I was a celebrity at
work. Smiling people came by my cube to wish me luck. They all assumed that
my working days were numbered. I would be big, their faces and handshakes
said. I confess to getting caught up in a little of that, even though I knew
better. I’d already published and I knew how the publishing business worked
- everybody made money except the writer. But this should be different, I
thought. International recognition, hobnobbing with publishing megastars whose
books sold in the millionsI dreamed of beautifully-bound hardback books,
small publishing houses that lavished attention and encouragement on their
writers.
Before I left, I purchased a copy of Mr. McCullough’s and Ms. Oates’ books
for them to sign. They would not be able to sign mine since it was the only
finalist that was not available in paper, only in electronic format. A few
days later, nineteen religious fanatics smashed fuel-filled planes into the
World Trade Towers, the Pentagon, and the fields of Pennsylvania, slaughtering
more than 3,000 American innocents.
Disbelief, horror and anger gripped the world. Days passed. The nation
grieved. Would I still go, people asked? I wondered, what did my little book
matter in comparison to all that had happened? A week passed. Americans were
urged to “go back to their lives.” I thought about it. The Book Fair was
still on, but there were security concerns. I had to RSVP. I told them I
would attend. These fundamentalists could not be allowed to put civilization
on hold. And, yes, some of my reasons for going were selfish; publishing people
would be there, reviewers, newspaper writers. But I was worried. Would terrorists
attempt to commandeer my plane? No, I told myself. They couldn’t do it again.
Could they?
Not many people were flying when the time came to go. I did what I did
in 1968, what Carl Melcher did when told he was going to Vietnam, I put one
foot in front of the other and got myself onto the plane. ‘Going on’ is what
most people do, the masses, simply putting yourself in harms way and blindly
trusting in God, the fates, something, to see you through. My dad had that
quality. When we were kids and a bully’s dad was chasing my brother and I
(I’ve long forgotten what for) and the boy next-door, we ran into our respective
houses. The enraged dad pounded on both doors screaming abuse. My neighbor’s
dad pulled their curtains down. My dad stepped outside. Together with my
mom, us kids watched through the screen door as dad got the stuff knocked
out of him. The guy was big and heavy, but dad only got a few punches in
before he was on the ground and being pummeled, and us kids crying bloody
murder. Fortunately the cops showed up quickly and dad didn’t need hospitalization,
just a little beefsteak for his eye. Despite his bruises, though, I’m sure
dad felt good about himself; I certainly was proud of him. Going to Vietnam
was a little like that. You just ‘stepped outside’. Yeah, I got roughed
up a little, but I was nineteen and lucky, and I mended, just like my protagonist,
Carl Melcher.
Being short listed at Frankfurt was intoxicating, and as I sat in the
plane, I worked on my acceptance speech (not because I was sure my book
would win, but because they told us in the information packet to start drafting
one, and, of course, I could dream, couldn’t I?). I wrote about how the
Frankfurt Book Fair was a high water mark of civilization, an international
bazaar of ideas, information, argument, criticism, stories and myths, the
epitome of what fundamentalist ideologues hated (remember Salman Rushdie?).
In my speech, I incorporated a Darwinian explanation of what I thought was
swimming in the soup of the 21st centurya homicidal strain of Islamic fundamentalism,
infiltrating a complacent, Christian West, with an over-emphasized “turn-the-other-cheek”
mentality, a genetic defect which could doom it to extinction, while other
cultures (Russia, China, India, Africa) watched from the sidelines, waiting
to see how things would turn out.
In between my writing and my beers, I turned around to look down the aisle
at the other passengers. Anxious, mostly-Anglo eyes (yes, I found that comforting),
blinked back at me. We would get there safely.
The Frankfurt Book Fair was wonderful, but my fantasies were better. I’d
imagined heightened securityMr. McCullough, Joyce Carol Oates, Bill Cosby,
myself, and the other writers, sipping sherry and smoking fine cigars as
we discussed the day’s issues in a cherry wood-paneled meeting room in the
deepest part of the hotel. Suddenly we’d be spirited away by Uzi-armed soldiers
after the hotel received an anonymous tip. This would happen several times,
but we would always manage to stay one step ahead of the bearded bomb-throwers.
And having read some of Ms. Oates stories, and seen her picture, I fantasized
further. After all, I was divorced for two years now, and lonely.
So much for fantasy. In reality, the American counter-attack on the terrorists
in Afghanistan was launched the day I flew out, and neither Ms. Oates, Mr.
McCullough nor Mr. Cosby made it to Frankfurt; nor did most of the other
writers. Out of the twelve finalists, only three or four of us flew in for
the event. The Awards Ceremony was impressive, held in the old Frankfurt Opera
House. We arrived in limos, exiting onto a red carpet as cameras flashed.
I didn’t win any prizes and neither did Mr. McCullough. Mr. Steven Levy (who
could not be there) won first place (non-fiction) for Crypto: How the Code
Rebels Beat the Government. Eric Nisenson, a fine writer who did make it,
and told us wonderful stories about time spent with jazz legend, Miles Davis,
won second place for The Making of Kind of Blue. Ms. Oates won second prize
(fiction) for Faithless, and Amitav Ghosh (who also could not be there) received
first place for The Glass Palace.
Afterwards there were cocktails and hors d’ouvres, chit-chat, then back
to the hotel and bed. The next day I went to the book fair. There was a
moving, minute of silence for the victims of 911. Afterward, I went to the
pavilion where the Literary Agencies were located, hoping to find someone
to represent Carl Melcher… An attractive young woman told me that only those
who had invitations were allowed in. I showed her my finalist announcement.
She smiled apologetically. “Sorry.”
The flight back was uneventful, thank goodness. I went back to work, returning
the understanding smiles of my co-workers. In the evenings I watched a lot
of TV and it seemed to have a healing effect on me. Things slowly returned
to normal. Three or four weeks later I started writing again.
Note: Since Frankfurt, Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam has sold an
addition four (4) copies in electronic format. The Frankfurt eBook Awards
have been discontinued. And Mr. Clayton has finally found a print publisher
for Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam.
Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam is available at Booklocker.com .