Vincent Zandri's Blog, page 7
May 14, 2013
Lost in Time Lake Titicaca
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
The people here don't have clocks. They don't have watches, they don't have smartphones, and they don't have internet (as far as I can tell). They don't have any kind of device that chimes, rings, chirps, vibrates, or belts out the opening bars to some Lady Gaga song stuffed into their pockets. Thy don't need to be reminded of the time. Like one of my travel partners, Vadmir, tells me, 'In Russia, we have saying: those who are happy do not need to know what time it is." Such is the case when it comes to the Peruvian people who occupy LLachon.
A small community of maybe 2,000 residents who occupy a portion of pristine beach-side property along the north/west side of Lake Titicaca, the dark, leathery-skinned people of LLachon are as oblivious of the outside world and its turbulent troubles as an American toddler is of ObamaCare or the escalating conflict in Syria. They wear the traditional Peruvian clothing. The women dress in a half dozen skirts which are supposed to mimic the English hoop skirt of old. And the men dress very much in the old Spanish way--black trousers, white shirts, short black vest, a colorful hand woven fabric belt that holds both coca leaves and alcohol, and a fedora for a hat.
I'm currently researching the second book in my brand new Chase Baker series, so I came to this place to stay with a family who run a mountain-side farm and, at the same time, to absorb authentic Andean Peruvian culture. Considering Lake Titicaca is already about 12,000+ feet above sea level, breathing normally is not easy. Nor is climbing the better part of a small, terraced mountain with a fifty pound pack on my back. But my house "mama," a weathered but somehow bright-eyed woman called Francesca, is already cooking for me over a wood-fired stove. A piece of farm chicken, rice, several kinds of potatos, fava beans, all washed down with tea made from coca leaves.
After lunch, I help out on the the farm, watering sheep and stacking barley. It's hard work and at times I have to remind myself that I'm standing on a mountainside in the Andes and not transported back to one of my dad's construction sites for which I was the laborer during my high school and college days. As we near the end of the barley stacking, I turn to "papa," a man who goes by the name Luciano, but whom I am already referring to as Lucky Luciano. I ask him if he hunts the property further uphill. He doesn't understand me at first, so I demonstrate by making like I'm holding a rifle with my hands, and then mouthing the sounds, "bang, bang..." He laughs and in his hunched over, been-workng-far-too-many-years-hard-labor manner, begs me to follow him back to the main house.
When we arrive, he begins to explain to Francesca about what I want. Only, he's not making like a gun with his callused hands. Instead he's making like I want to smoke. Smoke something medicinal perhaps. Something that might transport me from this world to the outer world. He's got a small chin beard and mustache and he rubs them with forefinger and thumb like he, at sixty-eight years old, is ready to do a little partying.
But then Frnacesca begins to explain to him about what I'm really asking, and suddenly his smile dissolves. Sadly, there will be no smoking tonight. Only thoughts of cooking dinner, perhaps enjoying a Peruvian beer, then going to sleep early in a one room mud brick building attached to bathroom with no running water, but only a bucket filled with water for flushing a toilet with no toilet seat attached.
Maybe I should have smoked with Lucky Luciano. Maybe if I had, I would have no more need for watches, or clocks, or smartphones. Maybe I would have seen and experienced another life outside of the life I know all to well. A life of war, poverty, and political agendas. Perhaps there is something to this more or less ancient existence on Lake Titicaca. An existence that is lost in time, but happy to be so.
-----
CHECK OUT THE NEW "AMAZON LOCAL" PROMO FRO THOMAS & MERCER: “Get Started on The Jack Marconi PI Series (The Innocent and Godchild) with Select Kindle Books for $1 Each.” This is a national deal for all Amazon Local’s subscribers. It runs from 5/12 to 5/22.
Click here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html...
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
The people here don't have clocks. They don't have watches, they don't have smartphones, and they don't have internet (as far as I can tell). They don't have any kind of device that chimes, rings, chirps, vibrates, or belts out the opening bars to some Lady Gaga song stuffed into their pockets. Thy don't need to be reminded of the time. Like one of my travel partners, Vadmir, tells me, 'In Russia, we have saying: those who are happy do not need to know what time it is." Such is the case when it comes to the Peruvian people who occupy LLachon.
A small community of maybe 2,000 residents who occupy a portion of pristine beach-side property along the north/west side of Lake Titicaca, the dark, leathery-skinned people of LLachon are as oblivious of the outside world and its turbulent troubles as an American toddler is of ObamaCare or the escalating conflict in Syria. They wear the traditional Peruvian clothing. The women dress in a half dozen skirts which are supposed to mimic the English hoop skirt of old. And the men dress very much in the old Spanish way--black trousers, white shirts, short black vest, a colorful hand woven fabric belt that holds both coca leaves and alcohol, and a fedora for a hat.
I'm currently researching the second book in my brand new Chase Baker series, so I came to this place to stay with a family who run a mountain-side farm and, at the same time, to absorb authentic Andean Peruvian culture. Considering Lake Titicaca is already about 12,000+ feet above sea level, breathing normally is not easy. Nor is climbing the better part of a small, terraced mountain with a fifty pound pack on my back. But my house "mama," a weathered but somehow bright-eyed woman called Francesca, is already cooking for me over a wood-fired stove. A piece of farm chicken, rice, several kinds of potatos, fava beans, all washed down with tea made from coca leaves.
After lunch, I help out on the the farm, watering sheep and stacking barley. It's hard work and at times I have to remind myself that I'm standing on a mountainside in the Andes and not transported back to one of my dad's construction sites for which I was the laborer during my high school and college days. As we near the end of the barley stacking, I turn to "papa," a man who goes by the name Luciano, but whom I am already referring to as Lucky Luciano. I ask him if he hunts the property further uphill. He doesn't understand me at first, so I demonstrate by making like I'm holding a rifle with my hands, and then mouthing the sounds, "bang, bang..." He laughs and in his hunched over, been-workng-far-too-many-years-hard-labor manner, begs me to follow him back to the main house.
When we arrive, he begins to explain to Francesca about what I want. Only, he's not making like a gun with his callused hands. Instead he's making like I want to smoke. Smoke something medicinal perhaps. Something that might transport me from this world to the outer world. He's got a small chin beard and mustache and he rubs them with forefinger and thumb like he, at sixty-eight years old, is ready to do a little partying.
But then Frnacesca begins to explain to him about what I'm really asking, and suddenly his smile dissolves. Sadly, there will be no smoking tonight. Only thoughts of cooking dinner, perhaps enjoying a Peruvian beer, then going to sleep early in a one room mud brick building attached to bathroom with no running water, but only a bucket filled with water for flushing a toilet with no toilet seat attached.
Maybe I should have smoked with Lucky Luciano. Maybe if I had, I would have no more need for watches, or clocks, or smartphones. Maybe I would have seen and experienced another life outside of the life I know all to well. A life of war, poverty, and political agendas. Perhaps there is something to this more or less ancient existence on Lake Titicaca. An existence that is lost in time, but happy to be so.
-----
CHECK OUT THE NEW "AMAZON LOCAL" PROMO FRO THOMAS & MERCER: “Get Started on The Jack Marconi PI Series (The Innocent and Godchild) with Select Kindle Books for $1 Each.” This is a national deal for all Amazon Local’s subscribers. It runs from 5/12 to 5/22.
Click here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html...
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
May 3, 2013
What Will Happen If There Are No More Books?
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox:
By now you've probably heard about the big advertisement book-idea mogul James Patterson ran in the New York Times last week. I'm not going to tear it apart sentence for sentence because other writers like JA Konrath and JE Fishman have already done a far more intelligent job of it than I can ever hope to. But one sentence in Patterson's curious rant struck home with me. He asks, "What will happen if there are no more books like these..." and then he goes on to list a whole bunch of novels that have, in part, helped shaped the 20th century as we remember it, and in a few cases, the 21st as we are presently living it.
I can only assume that when Patterson says "no more books" he means no more "paper books." Which in itself is kind of ridiculous because in my mind anyway, a book is a book is a book (Thanks Miss Stein!), whether it's published in paper or on Kindle or Nook or papyrus or on the interior lenses of those new Do-It-All wonder glasses Google is currently perfecting--You know, the eyeglasses that will one day replace the E-Reader.
Okay, so let's, for shits and giggles, pretend that as of today, there are no more paper books. They're all gone, disappeared, library and bookstore shelves emptied of their contents. So let's take this little fantasy a step further and just for the sake of argument, let's say that Papa Hemingway is still alive and kicking at 113 years old (Not an impossible stretch considering today's abundance of centenarians and beyond...). Picture the scene: Papa comes lumbering into his writing room in the Keys (He will by now have moved back to Key West for practical and professional reasons). He's a little drunk from having downed a one too many Papa Doubles at Sloppy Joes after spending most of the day on the Gulf not fishing, but assisting with the new efforts to monitor fish populations in the wake of the 2010 BP Oil Spill.
Already he's getting hungry and smelling the wonderful dish his 7th wife Maria is cooking up in the kitchen. He wants to eat early tonight and get to bed at a decent hour so he can get up at dawn and bite the nail on his new novel which will be released not next year, but within three months of its completion as an e-book. Man, what he wouldn't give to have Max Perkins around right now, editing his work as he produces it. He recalls the days when a writer could get away with putting out one novel every five or ten years. Now he's got to put one out every six months. That's how much the reading public is devouring books these days.
Papa runs his thick hands over his beloved Remington portable, but then switches on his lap top, and waits for it to boot up. When it does he clicks onto the Amazon Sales Rank website like he always does automatically. He does this now not because he's wondering how he's performing for his publishers, but because, in this day in age, he's wondering how his publishers are performing for him. He still works with publishers, both big and small, but five or so years ago, he decided his audience was large enough that he would start his own indie label which would publish Papa books and stories exclusively. Why give the corporate bastards all the money and the rights? was his logic.
He stares at the screen, focuses on The Sun Also Rises, and feels his smile growing under his white bearded, suntanned face."Sun" is selling in the 2,000 range for Paid Kindles in the Amazon store.
"None male," he whispers in Italian to himself. "Not bad."
In fact, he goes down the list of the many novels he's published since his first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems was self-published in Paris in the early 1920s on a genuine old fashioned 19th century era printing press. All the books are ranking in the 2000 or below range, netting him a nice profit not on a semi-annual basis, but a daily basis.
He sits back in his wood and leather Cuban cigar makers chair and reflects on how much things have changed since he first started writing with pencil and paper. How the world has gone from the Carrier Pigeon in the trenches of World War I where he nearly lost his right leg, to smartphones and texts. How he used to spin ceramic disks on his phonograph but these days tunes into his own personalized Pandora digital radio now that the record stores have become more historical fact than his old neurotic buddy Scott Fitzgerald. He remembers crossing the Atlantic with his beloved Hadley on the Normandie but how he recently visited Paris via the business class of an Air France Airbus. He recalls horse drawn wagons delivering milk to his doorstep on the Left Bank and how now he can't bear milk unless it's Lactose free and bears the Whole Foods logo. He certainly recalls the days when the US Army issued cigarettes in the daily ration kits. But he was smart enough to quit that deadly habit a long time ago.
The only thing he truly misses about the past is bookstores like Shakespeare and Company. Now there was a bookstore. But then, he was never much for book signings, and he was never fond of chain bookstores especially when they wouldn't let go of the antiquated 1930s era policy of "returns" on books that didn't move within a few weeks. Then there were the bookstores, many of them independent, high school and university, who wouldn't carry his books at all because they weren't considered "politically correct." Screw 'em, he said then, and Screw 'em, he says now.
He certainly isn't crying for the major publishers who were the first to blame him when his books weren't moving and then the first praise themselves when they did move. Now, he entertains many forms of publishing and as a result, he's got more control of his work than ever before, and having lived his life as a rugged individualist, he couldn't be happier. Sure he misses paper books, but then he loves his new Kindle Fire. He doesn't have to travel with a trunk load of heavy books anymore, and he even gets to watch The Killers on it, the one movie based on his work which he actually likes.
He gets up from his chair, takes a glance at the book shelf that now contains photos of his family. His many wives, good and bad. His sons, his grandchildren, his great grandchildren and even a great great grandchild. He smiles wryly but proudly and he misses those who have passed before him. The curse of old age. He turns to the window, and from there he can see the sea. The eternal sea. He knows that tomorrow, the sun will also rise upon it and he will bite the nail as he has always done. That is something that never changes and he is as resolute in his calling than ever before.
"Papa!" calls the voice of Maria from below. "Before it gets cold!"
He feels a start in his heart. He knows he'd better get himself to the table before she tosses the meal out the window. But at the same time, he's thinking about a certain young woman he recently met at Sloppy Joes bar. A strawberry blond, with a figure to die for and legs that go all the way up past her shoulders. What did she call herself? A professional blogger? Not a reporter, but a blogger. Oh well, time to commit that new word to memory. For Papa, words have always held a special fascination, no matter where or how they are printed or spoken. But he's made plans with this special new strawberry blond. They are about to visit the border country where Turkey meets Syria in order to write about the civil war going on there. For Papa it will be yet another war and another book, but for the blonde, it will be her first experience in Indian country. It will be a romantic time for them both. Just like it was for he and Marty Gellhorn during the Spanish Civil War. What's old will be new again and all's fair in love and war.
"But how will I break the news to Maria?" he asks himself, feeling the pangs of worry fill his considerable stomach.
Poor old Papa. Some things just never change.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
By now you've probably heard about the big advertisement book-idea mogul James Patterson ran in the New York Times last week. I'm not going to tear it apart sentence for sentence because other writers like JA Konrath and JE Fishman have already done a far more intelligent job of it than I can ever hope to. But one sentence in Patterson's curious rant struck home with me. He asks, "What will happen if there are no more books like these..." and then he goes on to list a whole bunch of novels that have, in part, helped shaped the 20th century as we remember it, and in a few cases, the 21st as we are presently living it.
I can only assume that when Patterson says "no more books" he means no more "paper books." Which in itself is kind of ridiculous because in my mind anyway, a book is a book is a book (Thanks Miss Stein!), whether it's published in paper or on Kindle or Nook or papyrus or on the interior lenses of those new Do-It-All wonder glasses Google is currently perfecting--You know, the eyeglasses that will one day replace the E-Reader.
Okay, so let's, for shits and giggles, pretend that as of today, there are no more paper books. They're all gone, disappeared, library and bookstore shelves emptied of their contents. So let's take this little fantasy a step further and just for the sake of argument, let's say that Papa Hemingway is still alive and kicking at 113 years old (Not an impossible stretch considering today's abundance of centenarians and beyond...). Picture the scene: Papa comes lumbering into his writing room in the Keys (He will by now have moved back to Key West for practical and professional reasons). He's a little drunk from having downed a one too many Papa Doubles at Sloppy Joes after spending most of the day on the Gulf not fishing, but assisting with the new efforts to monitor fish populations in the wake of the 2010 BP Oil Spill.
Already he's getting hungry and smelling the wonderful dish his 7th wife Maria is cooking up in the kitchen. He wants to eat early tonight and get to bed at a decent hour so he can get up at dawn and bite the nail on his new novel which will be released not next year, but within three months of its completion as an e-book. Man, what he wouldn't give to have Max Perkins around right now, editing his work as he produces it. He recalls the days when a writer could get away with putting out one novel every five or ten years. Now he's got to put one out every six months. That's how much the reading public is devouring books these days.
Papa runs his thick hands over his beloved Remington portable, but then switches on his lap top, and waits for it to boot up. When it does he clicks onto the Amazon Sales Rank website like he always does automatically. He does this now not because he's wondering how he's performing for his publishers, but because, in this day in age, he's wondering how his publishers are performing for him. He still works with publishers, both big and small, but five or so years ago, he decided his audience was large enough that he would start his own indie label which would publish Papa books and stories exclusively. Why give the corporate bastards all the money and the rights? was his logic.
He stares at the screen, focuses on The Sun Also Rises, and feels his smile growing under his white bearded, suntanned face."Sun" is selling in the 2,000 range for Paid Kindles in the Amazon store.
"None male," he whispers in Italian to himself. "Not bad."
In fact, he goes down the list of the many novels he's published since his first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems was self-published in Paris in the early 1920s on a genuine old fashioned 19th century era printing press. All the books are ranking in the 2000 or below range, netting him a nice profit not on a semi-annual basis, but a daily basis.
He sits back in his wood and leather Cuban cigar makers chair and reflects on how much things have changed since he first started writing with pencil and paper. How the world has gone from the Carrier Pigeon in the trenches of World War I where he nearly lost his right leg, to smartphones and texts. How he used to spin ceramic disks on his phonograph but these days tunes into his own personalized Pandora digital radio now that the record stores have become more historical fact than his old neurotic buddy Scott Fitzgerald. He remembers crossing the Atlantic with his beloved Hadley on the Normandie but how he recently visited Paris via the business class of an Air France Airbus. He recalls horse drawn wagons delivering milk to his doorstep on the Left Bank and how now he can't bear milk unless it's Lactose free and bears the Whole Foods logo. He certainly recalls the days when the US Army issued cigarettes in the daily ration kits. But he was smart enough to quit that deadly habit a long time ago.
The only thing he truly misses about the past is bookstores like Shakespeare and Company. Now there was a bookstore. But then, he was never much for book signings, and he was never fond of chain bookstores especially when they wouldn't let go of the antiquated 1930s era policy of "returns" on books that didn't move within a few weeks. Then there were the bookstores, many of them independent, high school and university, who wouldn't carry his books at all because they weren't considered "politically correct." Screw 'em, he said then, and Screw 'em, he says now.
He certainly isn't crying for the major publishers who were the first to blame him when his books weren't moving and then the first praise themselves when they did move. Now, he entertains many forms of publishing and as a result, he's got more control of his work than ever before, and having lived his life as a rugged individualist, he couldn't be happier. Sure he misses paper books, but then he loves his new Kindle Fire. He doesn't have to travel with a trunk load of heavy books anymore, and he even gets to watch The Killers on it, the one movie based on his work which he actually likes.
He gets up from his chair, takes a glance at the book shelf that now contains photos of his family. His many wives, good and bad. His sons, his grandchildren, his great grandchildren and even a great great grandchild. He smiles wryly but proudly and he misses those who have passed before him. The curse of old age. He turns to the window, and from there he can see the sea. The eternal sea. He knows that tomorrow, the sun will also rise upon it and he will bite the nail as he has always done. That is something that never changes and he is as resolute in his calling than ever before.
"Papa!" calls the voice of Maria from below. "Before it gets cold!"
He feels a start in his heart. He knows he'd better get himself to the table before she tosses the meal out the window. But at the same time, he's thinking about a certain young woman he recently met at Sloppy Joes bar. A strawberry blond, with a figure to die for and legs that go all the way up past her shoulders. What did she call herself? A professional blogger? Not a reporter, but a blogger. Oh well, time to commit that new word to memory. For Papa, words have always held a special fascination, no matter where or how they are printed or spoken. But he's made plans with this special new strawberry blond. They are about to visit the border country where Turkey meets Syria in order to write about the civil war going on there. For Papa it will be yet another war and another book, but for the blonde, it will be her first experience in Indian country. It will be a romantic time for them both. Just like it was for he and Marty Gellhorn during the Spanish Civil War. What's old will be new again and all's fair in love and war.
"But how will I break the news to Maria?" he asks himself, feeling the pangs of worry fill his considerable stomach.
Poor old Papa. Some things just never change.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
April 25, 2013
MOONLIGHT FALLS Comes Full Circle
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Six years ago I was surviving as a freelance journalist and sometimes foreign correspondent. I hadn't published a full-length novel since 2001 when Dell published, Godchild, the second in the Jack Marconi series. I was beginning to think I would never enter back into the game again. Even then, I still had no idea about the power of e-books and digital publication, so I was still schlepping manuscripts the old fashioned way: via snail mail and via an agent who schlepped via snail mail. In the end, a small traditionally based press took the book on. I signed a traditional deal for traditional percentages. Hey, what did I know?
Now I have the rights to my first Dick Marconi novel back. And now, for the first time, the novel that started it all is available from a digital-heavy indie press that knows how to publish, market, and distribute e-books--StoneHouse/StoneGate Ink. I should know, Over the past two years, I've sold literally hundreds of thousands of copies of my novels with them. So many that it led to a seven book deal with Thomas & Mercer of Amazon Publishing.
Introducing for the first time, again, MOONLIGHT FALLS
Moonlight Falls
Six years ago I was surviving as a freelance journalist and sometimes foreign correspondent. I hadn't published a full-length novel since 2001 when Dell published, Godchild, the second in the Jack Marconi series. I was beginning to think I would never enter back into the game again. Even then, I still had no idea about the power of e-books and digital publication, so I was still schlepping manuscripts the old fashioned way: via snail mail and via an agent who schlepped via snail mail. In the end, a small traditionally based press took the book on. I signed a traditional deal for traditional percentages. Hey, what did I know?
Now I have the rights to my first Dick Marconi novel back. And now, for the first time, the novel that started it all is available from a digital-heavy indie press that knows how to publish, market, and distribute e-books--StoneHouse/StoneGate Ink. I should know, Over the past two years, I've sold literally hundreds of thousands of copies of my novels with them. So many that it led to a seven book deal with Thomas & Mercer of Amazon Publishing.
Introducing for the first time, again, MOONLIGHT FALLS
Moonlight Falls
April 21, 2013
Eggs in a Basket
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Writing is a business.
Think of yourself as (Name Here) Inc.
Which means, change the title of this blog to, Your Eggs in BasketS...Plural.
It's a tired cliche..."Don't put all your eggs into one basket." But you know what gets even more tired? Being broke all the time.
If you want to be a successful writer...a writer who actually makes a good living, eats, travels, enjoys life...then learn to write not only in many different styles and even genres, but don't give up the journalism either. When one thing isn't doing it for you or your wallet, something else will. By splitting up your time between several forms of fiction, be it novels, novellas, film scripts, novel adaptations, etc., along with several forms of journalism, photo-journalism, pro blogging, etc., can you ensure yourself steady and meaningful work.
Take it from one who knoweth. Back in the late 1990s, when I landed my first big book contract, I chucked journalism like a bad habit. When the book deal went south a couple of years later due to a corporate merger, I was left with zero means for earning an income. I had to pretty much beg news media outlets to give me another chance. Which they eventually did. Now, I have several new book contracts, but I still maintain my journalism chops. Never again will I be caught with my pants down around my ankles or my baskets empty of eggs.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
Writing is a business.
Think of yourself as (Name Here) Inc.
Which means, change the title of this blog to, Your Eggs in BasketS...Plural.
It's a tired cliche..."Don't put all your eggs into one basket." But you know what gets even more tired? Being broke all the time.
If you want to be a successful writer...a writer who actually makes a good living, eats, travels, enjoys life...then learn to write not only in many different styles and even genres, but don't give up the journalism either. When one thing isn't doing it for you or your wallet, something else will. By splitting up your time between several forms of fiction, be it novels, novellas, film scripts, novel adaptations, etc., along with several forms of journalism, photo-journalism, pro blogging, etc., can you ensure yourself steady and meaningful work.
Take it from one who knoweth. Back in the late 1990s, when I landed my first big book contract, I chucked journalism like a bad habit. When the book deal went south a couple of years later due to a corporate merger, I was left with zero means for earning an income. I had to pretty much beg news media outlets to give me another chance. Which they eventually did. Now, I have several new book contracts, but I still maintain my journalism chops. Never again will I be caught with my pants down around my ankles or my baskets empty of eggs.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
April 14, 2013
Gone, Baby, Gone
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
In the wake of Writer's Guild Pres Scott Turow's death of the great American author rant printed this past week in the NY Times, I thought I would take a roll call of those professionals and professional organizations whom I had the pleasure of working with back when I was first published by one of the Big 6 Mega-Houses more than ten years ago now.
--The agent...GONE
--The acquiring editor...GONE
--The acquiring editor's boss (the editor-in-chief so to speak)...GONE
--My marketing manager...GONE
--The office in the Bertlesman building...GONE
--The imprint...GONE
--The independent bookstore where I did my first signing..GONE
--The major chain bookstore where I did my second signing...GONE
--The other major chain bookstore where I did my third signing...GONE
--The other, less popular major chain book/CD/DVDs store where I did my fourth signing...GONE
--The post office from where I used to snail mail my queries and manuscripts...GONE
--The book page in the local newspaper...GONE
...Okay you get the point...I'm sure there are a few people and things I've missed here, but when you look at the evidence in bulleted fashion you begin to understand the ever changing nature of this business and why authors such as Mr. Turow (and he is a great author for certain), who more or less cling to tradition, are a bit glum about the future.
But be it the climate, geography, society, technology, the orbit of the earth around the sun, or simply the recipe of Coca Cola, things change. Existence is not static. It's always moving one way or another. We don't read off of cave walls anymore. We have Kindles for that.
Some of the people I've worked with, published with, played with, laughed with, gotten gloriously drunk with, even played music with along the way were pretty great, and many have moved on to greener pastures, mostly in other industries. I'm greatful for the opportunities extended to me back then. Only one person I know of remains an editor at a big house. So you see, as writers, we must always be flexible and willing to adapt. Or, in the words of a fellow author, we must find ways to survive.
I'm an American author and I've survived and then some.
I'm still here. Gonna be here for a while longer.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
In the wake of Writer's Guild Pres Scott Turow's death of the great American author rant printed this past week in the NY Times, I thought I would take a roll call of those professionals and professional organizations whom I had the pleasure of working with back when I was first published by one of the Big 6 Mega-Houses more than ten years ago now.
--The agent...GONE
--The acquiring editor...GONE
--The acquiring editor's boss (the editor-in-chief so to speak)...GONE
--My marketing manager...GONE
--The office in the Bertlesman building...GONE
--The imprint...GONE
--The independent bookstore where I did my first signing..GONE
--The major chain bookstore where I did my second signing...GONE
--The other major chain bookstore where I did my third signing...GONE
--The other, less popular major chain book/CD/DVDs store where I did my fourth signing...GONE
--The post office from where I used to snail mail my queries and manuscripts...GONE
--The book page in the local newspaper...GONE
...Okay you get the point...I'm sure there are a few people and things I've missed here, but when you look at the evidence in bulleted fashion you begin to understand the ever changing nature of this business and why authors such as Mr. Turow (and he is a great author for certain), who more or less cling to tradition, are a bit glum about the future.
But be it the climate, geography, society, technology, the orbit of the earth around the sun, or simply the recipe of Coca Cola, things change. Existence is not static. It's always moving one way or another. We don't read off of cave walls anymore. We have Kindles for that.
Some of the people I've worked with, published with, played with, laughed with, gotten gloriously drunk with, even played music with along the way were pretty great, and many have moved on to greener pastures, mostly in other industries. I'm greatful for the opportunities extended to me back then. Only one person I know of remains an editor at a big house. So you see, as writers, we must always be flexible and willing to adapt. Or, in the words of a fellow author, we must find ways to survive.
I'm an American author and I've survived and then some.
I'm still here. Gonna be here for a while longer.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
April 6, 2013
Don't Read Your Reviews
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
There's a great scene in the recently broadcast HBO movie, Hemingway and Gellhorn in which a drunk Papa spots a book reviewer from across a crowded bar, and taunts the man into a fist fight.
"Hey you...Critic!" Hemingway belligerently shouts at the smartly dressed man. "Critic, come here!"
The critic in question is supposed to be Max Eastman who, in the early 1930s accused the macho Hemingway of being a sissy with no real hair on his chest. Whether Eastman was trying to be literal or just tooling with Hemingway is still up for conjecture eighty years after the fact. But I can bet that if the great Papa were still alive today, the nasty review would still be fresh in his mind and just as hurtful. So it went in make-believe-movie land that, when confronted face to face with his less than favorable reviewer, Papa not only tore his shirt open to reveal real chest hair, but he attempted to knock Eastman's teeth down his throat (In real life this altercation occurred in NYC in Max Perkin's Scribner's office. Eastman and Hemingway wrestled around a bit with the critic supposedly gaining the upper hand in the fight, prompting Papa to start laughing and suggesting they share a drink.).
The point here is not critics or macho stances or even boys being boys. The point is that, man or woman, we all loath reviews. Rather, we loath the bad ones. But as writers in the digital age, we not only have to sweat out the professional reviews, we now are forced to put up with the amateur reviewers. I recall a lecture given once by John Irving when I attended the Breadloaf Writer's Conference back in 1991 in which he explicitly stated that he would not review a single book by an author without having read his entire library first. That's the kind of care a professional reviewer puts into his reviews.
Today however, we place a whole lot of importance on reviews that come from amateurs who know as much about writing a proper review as they might flying a 747. That said however, their reviews are not taken lightly. They are considered a crucial component in the sales, or lack their of, of any given author's books. In other words, the more bad reviews an author receives the better the likelihood that his sales will stink up the joint. The converse is also true.
As authors, we don't have a whole lot of power when it comes to who reviews our work, be it other jealous authors cowardly hiding behind a clock of anonymity, or a spiteful ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, or simply someone who doesn't know their ass from a hole in the ground. But then, in many ways, it's a Godsend that so many non-professionals will take the time to lend their opinion about our novels and therefore help spread the good word.
Thank you!
But all too often, these same reviewers will go out of their way to say nasty things about a book, and this mean-spiritedness translates into one star reviews that inevitably hurt authors who are trying to make a living.
Imagine if you a will a world in which the reviewer must state his or her occupation and we, the writer, in turn, get to observe their performance for the day and write our own review.
1 Star ... "This Lawyer Really Sucks"
"When I sat down in court to observe this lawyer in action today, I expected great things. After all, everyone is talking about how great he is. But his opening argument bored the hell out of me. It was full of cliches and the whole thing was slow moving. I won't be attending anymore opening arguments by this lawyer."
Ok, you get the point.
So, what to do then in a world in which the amateur rules?
Don't read the reviews. Good or bad, just don't read them. Instead spend your time writing the best books you can. Then, in the end, you will know that no matter what anyone says, your book is as good as your could make it. A book that will stand the test of time. A book that will put hair on your chest.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
There's a great scene in the recently broadcast HBO movie, Hemingway and Gellhorn in which a drunk Papa spots a book reviewer from across a crowded bar, and taunts the man into a fist fight.
"Hey you...Critic!" Hemingway belligerently shouts at the smartly dressed man. "Critic, come here!"
The critic in question is supposed to be Max Eastman who, in the early 1930s accused the macho Hemingway of being a sissy with no real hair on his chest. Whether Eastman was trying to be literal or just tooling with Hemingway is still up for conjecture eighty years after the fact. But I can bet that if the great Papa were still alive today, the nasty review would still be fresh in his mind and just as hurtful. So it went in make-believe-movie land that, when confronted face to face with his less than favorable reviewer, Papa not only tore his shirt open to reveal real chest hair, but he attempted to knock Eastman's teeth down his throat (In real life this altercation occurred in NYC in Max Perkin's Scribner's office. Eastman and Hemingway wrestled around a bit with the critic supposedly gaining the upper hand in the fight, prompting Papa to start laughing and suggesting they share a drink.).
The point here is not critics or macho stances or even boys being boys. The point is that, man or woman, we all loath reviews. Rather, we loath the bad ones. But as writers in the digital age, we not only have to sweat out the professional reviews, we now are forced to put up with the amateur reviewers. I recall a lecture given once by John Irving when I attended the Breadloaf Writer's Conference back in 1991 in which he explicitly stated that he would not review a single book by an author without having read his entire library first. That's the kind of care a professional reviewer puts into his reviews.
Today however, we place a whole lot of importance on reviews that come from amateurs who know as much about writing a proper review as they might flying a 747. That said however, their reviews are not taken lightly. They are considered a crucial component in the sales, or lack their of, of any given author's books. In other words, the more bad reviews an author receives the better the likelihood that his sales will stink up the joint. The converse is also true.
As authors, we don't have a whole lot of power when it comes to who reviews our work, be it other jealous authors cowardly hiding behind a clock of anonymity, or a spiteful ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, or simply someone who doesn't know their ass from a hole in the ground. But then, in many ways, it's a Godsend that so many non-professionals will take the time to lend their opinion about our novels and therefore help spread the good word.
Thank you!
But all too often, these same reviewers will go out of their way to say nasty things about a book, and this mean-spiritedness translates into one star reviews that inevitably hurt authors who are trying to make a living.
Imagine if you a will a world in which the reviewer must state his or her occupation and we, the writer, in turn, get to observe their performance for the day and write our own review.
1 Star ... "This Lawyer Really Sucks"
"When I sat down in court to observe this lawyer in action today, I expected great things. After all, everyone is talking about how great he is. But his opening argument bored the hell out of me. It was full of cliches and the whole thing was slow moving. I won't be attending anymore opening arguments by this lawyer."
Ok, you get the point.
So, what to do then in a world in which the amateur rules?
Don't read the reviews. Good or bad, just don't read them. Instead spend your time writing the best books you can. Then, in the end, you will know that no matter what anyone says, your book is as good as your could make it. A book that will stand the test of time. A book that will put hair on your chest.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
March 31, 2013
The Narcissist
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
We create and carry on conversations with ourselves. We live as much on the interior as we do the exterior. Perhaps more so. We make sure to catch passing glances at ourselves every time we walk by mirrors not because we think our hair might be out of place, or something might be smeared on our lips, but because we are the most important person in the room.
We wake up and we prop ourselves up for the day's work head, convincing ourselves that we are the best at what we do. No one can beat us. We are brilliant and the world is ours for the conquering. We might have spent the night besides someone else. A precious loved one perhaps. But we have most definitely slept with ourselves and we will face the day with ourselves.
We Google ourselves.
We check our Amazon rankings obsessively.
We check to see if our name pops up in the news.
We imagine that our marketing peeps think only of us.
We send proposals and stories to editors and agents, and wonder why they don't get back to us
within the hour.
We cheer ourselves when the work is going well and beat the shit out of ourselves when it is going
terribly.
We measure our life, deadline to deadline.
We break hearts because it's the romantic thing to do.
We drive by a car wreck and see a story in it.
We drink too much, eat too much, exercise too much, nap too much, sleep too little, worry a lot,
ignore problems, and put off the bills.
We dream of escape while escaping, envision dirty sex while making love, feel pain when
laughing, keep to ourselves when socializing in our favorite bar, make ourselves the center of
attention at a dinner party in someone else's honor....
We are narcissists and novelists and our world revolves around us. Notice I'm writing from the "We" POV. Whoever said there is no "I" in "We" ain't never been to a writer's conference. There is no bigger collection of "I's" in the world than a writer's conference. Still we feel compelled to attend. After all it will help propel the career forward...My career.
So, novelist, what will you do with yourself today?
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
We create and carry on conversations with ourselves. We live as much on the interior as we do the exterior. Perhaps more so. We make sure to catch passing glances at ourselves every time we walk by mirrors not because we think our hair might be out of place, or something might be smeared on our lips, but because we are the most important person in the room.
We wake up and we prop ourselves up for the day's work head, convincing ourselves that we are the best at what we do. No one can beat us. We are brilliant and the world is ours for the conquering. We might have spent the night besides someone else. A precious loved one perhaps. But we have most definitely slept with ourselves and we will face the day with ourselves.
We Google ourselves.
We check our Amazon rankings obsessively.
We check to see if our name pops up in the news.
We imagine that our marketing peeps think only of us.
We send proposals and stories to editors and agents, and wonder why they don't get back to us
within the hour.
We cheer ourselves when the work is going well and beat the shit out of ourselves when it is going
terribly.
We measure our life, deadline to deadline.
We break hearts because it's the romantic thing to do.
We drive by a car wreck and see a story in it.
We drink too much, eat too much, exercise too much, nap too much, sleep too little, worry a lot,
ignore problems, and put off the bills.
We dream of escape while escaping, envision dirty sex while making love, feel pain when
laughing, keep to ourselves when socializing in our favorite bar, make ourselves the center of
attention at a dinner party in someone else's honor....
We are narcissists and novelists and our world revolves around us. Notice I'm writing from the "We" POV. Whoever said there is no "I" in "We" ain't never been to a writer's conference. There is no bigger collection of "I's" in the world than a writer's conference. Still we feel compelled to attend. After all it will help propel the career forward...My career.
So, novelist, what will you do with yourself today?
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
March 22, 2013
The "Romeo Killer" Murder(s) by Moonlight...
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
I don't always make stuff up.
Sometimes, I borrow from what's happened, or happening all around me. When I sat down to write Murder by Moonlight a year and a half ago, I already knew that I wanted to base the newest in the Dick Moonlight detective series on a tragic axe murder, and attempted murder, that had occurred fairly recently in a sleepy little white-bread suburb outside of Albany, New York called...get this...Bethlehem.
The axe murderer in question, an attractive, well educated young man by the name of Chris Porco, had already been tried and imprisoned. Despite repeated appeals he remains incarcerated, and it's more than likely that a max security prison will be his home long after his good looks abandon him and his prison Bic pen tattoos have faded to faint blue.
Basing a fictional story on a real event is just that. You borrow from what's already been reported (in this case, some great work by local Albany journalists Steve Ferrance of YNN News Network and Brendon Lyons of The Times Union), and then you add your imagination to it. The real stuff...the stuff that is already out there readily available in the public domain...provides the base or seed of the story. You, as a novelist, provide the soil, the sun, and the water. You grow it into something that it already is, but also into something much more than it is--a fictional work that is greater than the sum of its true parts.
You following me here?
This weekend the Lifetime Channel (I know, gag!) will present a Docu-Drama (I use capital letters because the word looks so much more...well...dramatic), called, "Romeo Killer: The Chris Porco Story." Like I did with Murder by Moonlight, the writers of this television motion picture borrowed from documented reportage and then added a little artistic license to the equation. A lot of artistic license from what I'm told.
But the problem now is that Mr. Porco has gotten wind of the film and is trying to have it canned, claiming it "is an unlawful use of his name for trade purposes because he said it's a largely fictional and unauthorized account of his story. (You can read the whole Times Union story here)."
Hey Chris, aren't you like, an axe murderer? Aren't your God given rights not exactly what they used to be?
This isn't the first time I've been made aware of the convicted killer's, let's call them, media complaints. Just yesterday, Murder by Moonlight, came up in an NPR roundtable program in which the topic of discussion went something like this: Does a convicted murderer and all around psychopath like Porco bear the constitutional right to stop a movie or book based upon his crimes in a court of law?
Well, that court has spoken and so far its Porco 0 - Writers/Media 1.
And that's a good thing.
I can't think of many fiction writers who don't borrow from reality one way or another, My novels The Innocent (As Catch Can), The Concrete Pearl, and even The Remains all borrow from some actual events that have occurred at one time or another. Michael Connelly (a former newspaper reporter), often hangs out with the cops in order to steal a story or two from the real world. Hemingway used to risk his life in battle in order to harpoon a good and clean and true story. Dan Brown messed with Jesus for God's sakes. Martha Gellhorn reported and, on occasion, turned the reportage into short stories and novels that would never sell. Even Albany's William Kennedy has derived a nice livelihood and achieved the pinnacle of literary greatness writing about scumbags like Legs Diamond. Somehow, I doubt that old Legs' extended family has, ummmm, a leg to stand on should they consider suing Mr. Kennedy.
I think I'll watch "Romeo Killer" this weekend. It looks like a sappy adaptation of a true life event, and no doubt the writers will tug at the heartstrings of its predominately female audience while scaring their panties off (imagine being attacked with an axe while sleeping in your bed at night?). If nothing else, it will be interesting to see what it is real and what is fabricated.
Tugging at viewers heartstrings while scaring their panties off...Come to think of it, that's precisely what I've tried to do in Murder by Moonlight.
_ _ _
To grab a copy of the Amazon No. 1 Bestselling Hard-Boiled Crime novel,
MURDER BY MOONLIGHT, go to...
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
http//:www.vincentzandri.com
I don't always make stuff up.
Sometimes, I borrow from what's happened, or happening all around me. When I sat down to write Murder by Moonlight a year and a half ago, I already knew that I wanted to base the newest in the Dick Moonlight detective series on a tragic axe murder, and attempted murder, that had occurred fairly recently in a sleepy little white-bread suburb outside of Albany, New York called...get this...Bethlehem.
The axe murderer in question, an attractive, well educated young man by the name of Chris Porco, had already been tried and imprisoned. Despite repeated appeals he remains incarcerated, and it's more than likely that a max security prison will be his home long after his good looks abandon him and his prison Bic pen tattoos have faded to faint blue.
Basing a fictional story on a real event is just that. You borrow from what's already been reported (in this case, some great work by local Albany journalists Steve Ferrance of YNN News Network and Brendon Lyons of The Times Union), and then you add your imagination to it. The real stuff...the stuff that is already out there readily available in the public domain...provides the base or seed of the story. You, as a novelist, provide the soil, the sun, and the water. You grow it into something that it already is, but also into something much more than it is--a fictional work that is greater than the sum of its true parts.
You following me here?
This weekend the Lifetime Channel (I know, gag!) will present a Docu-Drama (I use capital letters because the word looks so much more...well...dramatic), called, "Romeo Killer: The Chris Porco Story." Like I did with Murder by Moonlight, the writers of this television motion picture borrowed from documented reportage and then added a little artistic license to the equation. A lot of artistic license from what I'm told.
But the problem now is that Mr. Porco has gotten wind of the film and is trying to have it canned, claiming it "is an unlawful use of his name for trade purposes because he said it's a largely fictional and unauthorized account of his story. (You can read the whole Times Union story here)."
Hey Chris, aren't you like, an axe murderer? Aren't your God given rights not exactly what they used to be?
This isn't the first time I've been made aware of the convicted killer's, let's call them, media complaints. Just yesterday, Murder by Moonlight, came up in an NPR roundtable program in which the topic of discussion went something like this: Does a convicted murderer and all around psychopath like Porco bear the constitutional right to stop a movie or book based upon his crimes in a court of law?
Well, that court has spoken and so far its Porco 0 - Writers/Media 1.
And that's a good thing.
I can't think of many fiction writers who don't borrow from reality one way or another, My novels The Innocent (As Catch Can), The Concrete Pearl, and even The Remains all borrow from some actual events that have occurred at one time or another. Michael Connelly (a former newspaper reporter), often hangs out with the cops in order to steal a story or two from the real world. Hemingway used to risk his life in battle in order to harpoon a good and clean and true story. Dan Brown messed with Jesus for God's sakes. Martha Gellhorn reported and, on occasion, turned the reportage into short stories and novels that would never sell. Even Albany's William Kennedy has derived a nice livelihood and achieved the pinnacle of literary greatness writing about scumbags like Legs Diamond. Somehow, I doubt that old Legs' extended family has, ummmm, a leg to stand on should they consider suing Mr. Kennedy.
I think I'll watch "Romeo Killer" this weekend. It looks like a sappy adaptation of a true life event, and no doubt the writers will tug at the heartstrings of its predominately female audience while scaring their panties off (imagine being attacked with an axe while sleeping in your bed at night?). If nothing else, it will be interesting to see what it is real and what is fabricated.
Tugging at viewers heartstrings while scaring their panties off...Come to think of it, that's precisely what I've tried to do in Murder by Moonlight.
_ _ _
To grab a copy of the Amazon No. 1 Bestselling Hard-Boiled Crime novel,
MURDER BY MOONLIGHT, go to...
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
http//:www.vincentzandri.com
March 16, 2013
Suddenly, The VOX is Back in Action
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Most of you know that the "Blogger" version of the wildly popular The Vincent Zandri Vox, has been out of commission for some time. It just disappeared one day, like some of my wives. But now, again, like some of my wives, it has now miraculously, re-appeared.
Like they say, God and Google, work in mysterious ways.
Just a quick update, MURDER BY MOONLIGHT, my newest Moonlight to date is out and about and scoring big in Europe. I'd like to see it score here in the US as well, so please buy a copy for your Kindle or E-Pad or whatever...Or grab a paper copy. Thomas & Mercer has put together a beautiful book. Now this novel is a bit more graphic and scary than some of my others, so be prepared. But it has huge twist at the end that will leave your pits a-sweating...
Cheers and happy reading!!!
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
Most of you know that the "Blogger" version of the wildly popular The Vincent Zandri Vox, has been out of commission for some time. It just disappeared one day, like some of my wives. But now, again, like some of my wives, it has now miraculously, re-appeared.
Like they say, God and Google, work in mysterious ways.
Just a quick update, MURDER BY MOONLIGHT, my newest Moonlight to date is out and about and scoring big in Europe. I'd like to see it score here in the US as well, so please buy a copy for your Kindle or E-Pad or whatever...Or grab a paper copy. Thomas & Mercer has put together a beautiful book. Now this novel is a bit more graphic and scary than some of my others, so be prepared. But it has huge twist at the end that will leave your pits a-sweating...
Cheers and happy reading!!!
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By MoonlightVincent Zandri
March 10, 2013
Should I Go to Writing School?
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.wordpress.com/20...
I get asked this question a lot for obvious reasons. I went to writing school and I’m not afraid to advertise that fact. I’m proud of what I accomplished there back in the mid to late 1990s. The work was hard, but enjoyable since writing and reading were also a hobby at the time, and the students, for the most part, were good, decent people.
Of course, there were some assholes who couldn’t wait to shit on your work as soon as walked through the workshop door. But many of these same people are history now, not having published a word once they were given their diplomas. Most likely they now sell insurance or have drunk themselves to death. One can only hope.
But at the time, writing school was a necessary evil for me. I had no idea I would actually write for a living. I thought I would live the cush life of the writing professor. You know, write a novel every five years or so, publish it with a small publisher, bang the crap out of my pretty young adoring female students. Seemed like a nice life to me. But in order to live that life, I first needed my MFA.
These days, for the most part, MFA programs are a scam and a sham. They have sprung up all over the place simply because of the demand. People feel like writers when they are enrolled in a writing program. Problem is, after dropping 30 or 40K it’s more than likely they will never see their work published commercially. They might venture to self-publish, now that DIYing it is hot shit. But the work will probably be mediocre and not attract an audience the way a work published by a major publisher could (or a hotshot indie publisher/small press).
But writing school was a good time. I drank like crazy, spent days and nights on speed, fucked like a rabbit, and yeah, got some writing done too. It was an escape, but not entirely. I was there to work hard and work hard I did. I was determined to be a success one day. Image
Was the experience worth the cost in the end? For me it was. My creative thesis turned into my first full-length power novel: The Innocent (or, As Catch Can). Mind you, the version I worked on at school was very different. The writing teacher who advised me during my last semester suggested all sorts of cuts and revisions, which I did to please him. But as soon as I got back to New York, I put the cuts back in and reversed the revisions. The book was originally bought by Delacorte Press only a year after graduation in a mid-six figure deal, and went on to sell hundreds of thousands of copies. It still sells at bestseller levels today now that it’s on its third publisher in 13 years. So much for writing school advice.
So, do you need to go to writing school?
The choice is entirely yours. You will meet some like-minded people who will be your friends for life, and you meet some of the most crappy souled assholes in the world who want nothing more than to crush you and your talent. They are the jealous type. You will meet professors who are old and washed up and who will hit on you. But you will also meet some genuinely great teachers who embrace the fact that teaching writing is as much a spiritual calling as the writing itself.
I’ll say it again. The choice is yours. Do you want to be a serious writer who makes his or her living from words? If that’s the case, writing school can teach you a lot. It’s what you make of it. But if you just want a place to escape to in which you can play pretend writer, save your money and sell insurance.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By Moonlight
I get asked this question a lot for obvious reasons. I went to writing school and I’m not afraid to advertise that fact. I’m proud of what I accomplished there back in the mid to late 1990s. The work was hard, but enjoyable since writing and reading were also a hobby at the time, and the students, for the most part, were good, decent people.
Of course, there were some assholes who couldn’t wait to shit on your work as soon as walked through the workshop door. But many of these same people are history now, not having published a word once they were given their diplomas. Most likely they now sell insurance or have drunk themselves to death. One can only hope.
But at the time, writing school was a necessary evil for me. I had no idea I would actually write for a living. I thought I would live the cush life of the writing professor. You know, write a novel every five years or so, publish it with a small publisher, bang the crap out of my pretty young adoring female students. Seemed like a nice life to me. But in order to live that life, I first needed my MFA.
These days, for the most part, MFA programs are a scam and a sham. They have sprung up all over the place simply because of the demand. People feel like writers when they are enrolled in a writing program. Problem is, after dropping 30 or 40K it’s more than likely they will never see their work published commercially. They might venture to self-publish, now that DIYing it is hot shit. But the work will probably be mediocre and not attract an audience the way a work published by a major publisher could (or a hotshot indie publisher/small press).
But writing school was a good time. I drank like crazy, spent days and nights on speed, fucked like a rabbit, and yeah, got some writing done too. It was an escape, but not entirely. I was there to work hard and work hard I did. I was determined to be a success one day. Image
Was the experience worth the cost in the end? For me it was. My creative thesis turned into my first full-length power novel: The Innocent (or, As Catch Can). Mind you, the version I worked on at school was very different. The writing teacher who advised me during my last semester suggested all sorts of cuts and revisions, which I did to please him. But as soon as I got back to New York, I put the cuts back in and reversed the revisions. The book was originally bought by Delacorte Press only a year after graduation in a mid-six figure deal, and went on to sell hundreds of thousands of copies. It still sells at bestseller levels today now that it’s on its third publisher in 13 years. So much for writing school advice.
So, do you need to go to writing school?
The choice is entirely yours. You will meet some like-minded people who will be your friends for life, and you meet some of the most crappy souled assholes in the world who want nothing more than to crush you and your talent. They are the jealous type. You will meet professors who are old and washed up and who will hit on you. But you will also meet some genuinely great teachers who embrace the fact that teaching writing is as much a spiritual calling as the writing itself.
I’ll say it again. The choice is yours. Do you want to be a serious writer who makes his or her living from words? If that’s the case, writing school can teach you a lot. It’s what you make of it. But if you just want a place to escape to in which you can play pretend writer, save your money and sell insurance.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Murder By Moonlight
