Kenneth Atchity's Blog, page 187

The Messiah Matrix Yale Alumni Magazine

LISTEN ... Fossil River Sample Chapter

Fossil River
by Jock Miller
Prehistoric predators threaten the U.S. economy.

Story Merchant Books Launches Another Ed Noon Mystery

Chapter One
SEND ME NO
FLOWER PEOPLE
It all really started with Lew Ayres and the Butterfly. And all that great war film footage from All Quiet On The Western Front. But that was 1930. This is 1968 and we've gone from butterflies to flower people. Maybe I'd better explain it all by degrees but the small details will have to come later. It's in the fine print, like some of those sneaky contracts you've had to sign before you die.First, you have to meet Memo Morgan again. Broadway's Mr. Memory, the man who knows everything. The photographic mind. Only there is no phony missing Shakespeare play this time and no one is about to kill Memo again. He's harmless now. But he's still Broadway in a checkered suit that is more Barnum and Bailey than Brooks Brothers.But I'm getting ahead of myself.Come with me down to the Grass Gardens, on the rainy night of February the 7th when it was trying to snow and settled for April showers. A lashing, flooding downpour that made Roseland just across the street look like a floating gambling ship.What happened could have happened any year. Any night. When a man is marked for the bullet that will kill him, it doesn't seem to matter when it was that you saw him last. The last time is always only Yesterday. Like Stan Ellin once said, when a man has a date with a bullet, the appointment is set in the long ago when he is still in his diapers.It wasn't Memo Morgan's bullet. Or mine, either.It was Louis's.Louis La Rosa.And this is all about who got Louis.The Grass Gardens was a modern scene from Hell. A man-made Hell, that is, where the Strobe lighting is going on and off with split-second quickness, making all the dancing couples freeze in poses of exaltation, pain, ecstasy and downright orgasm. The kids weren't dancing, really. Just swaying, tilting, grunting, groaning and assuming postures that had no resemblance to the skilful beauty of the Astaires, Kellys and Drapers. There wasn't a Charisse or Marge Champion in the mob, either. Whatever girls there were seemed to be all Ginger Rogers gone mad.It was just sheer body movement, in-and-out of time with the laborious efforts of what was charitably called a band on the big wide apron of stage that stood bathed in the ghastliest green, purple and violet hues that ever shamed Dali.Thump-thump-thump went a drum. Rah-rah-rah went a horn. Tinkle-tinkle-tinklesaid a piano. Under and over all the musical mayhem, a steel guitar cried and cried for the mass murder being performed on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. If there was a bull fiddle, it was out to pasture for this slaughter.I think they were playing Mozart, anyway. It was something lovely called Don't Run Your Damn Hands All Over Me but even though I'd had three martinis in Le Alpi just an hour ago, they couldn't kid me. It was daylight robbery on Mozart. I know the title only because some long-haired, jeans-and-jacket kid up on the stage apron was saying that over and over again. It wasn't much of a lyric.I was surrounded by assassins. The squirming, groaning couples fencing me in, revealed only in the flashing glares of the Strobe lighting, were all in their dangerous teens. I might have been Father Time, even without a beard, and Jean Martha, sounding like one of the old movie stars of my youth, was damned uncomfortable."Ed," she whispered, hanging on to me in an old-fashioned dance form, "please, let's get out of here."I nodded. "Soon as those damn hands stop running all over me. Pretty weird, isn't it?"Jean's sensible eyes weren't funny."It's—frightening.""Amen."The terrible voice of the band and the horrible bath of the stop-freeze lights was a nightmare, teenage style. An elbow away, a sweaty-faced, Messiah-bearded kid flung his arms high in human sacrifice and shuddered. His dancing partner, a taffy blonde who looked fifteen in a beaded sheath mini-skirt that showed off Sophia Loren country, shuddered back in reply. Whatever message was being transmitted, it was being shared by the sardine-jammed throng crowding the polished floor beneath our feet. Ooohhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh! moaned the mob."Are these our children?" I sighed. "Where are our parents?"Jean stifled a nervous giggle. "When we passed this place, I never dreamed—I'm sorry. I should have settled for Roseland.""You wanted to dance. I wanted to catch up on today's flamed-out youth. Well, we caught up. I wish I could throw them all back into kindergarten. Look at them.""I don't want to." She had her eyes closed now, hanging on to me like I was the last man on earth. "It's like a bad dream.""It's all of that, lady."She was about to say something else, but shut her lips tight as a pair of holy rollers banged into us. I flung a tight smile at the offenders, spotting their come-back leers in the intermittent magic of the Strobes. They were like grinning statues. The boy, his white shirt glowing luminously, for Strobe lighting will do that, showed a round moon face, swamped with a Beatle hairdo that needed about three pairs of scissors. The girl, her eyes bulging, her pink tongue lolling, her breasts pumping like gushers, had a mile-high beehive of hair that gleamed like neon in the flickering gloom.Thump-thump-thump. Rah-rah-rah. Tinkle-tirikle-tinkle. And the steel guitar let out one enormous muted sob. The singer stopped his lament, fell to his knees and kissed the floor. The place exploded. Hand clapping, screams, giggles, whistles. Jean Martha wet her lips."After you, Mr. Noon.""My pleasure, Miss Martha."We stepped over a boy in his throes on the floor. The damn lights were still going on and off. The boy had got the message. It had left him limp and on private Cloud Nine. A thin white cylinder dangled between his fingers. I knew there wouldn't be any printing on it, even if I could have seen clearly. The band struck up another insane melody. Yo-yo-you—yo, yo, you-u-u-u. . . .Yo-yo was right. The joint was loaded with them.We weaved, dodged, threaded our way through the crowd. The Grass Gardens was still filling up. Shirts glowed, hairdos gleamed, red mouths looked like gashed-out pits. Skirts and sequins and beads and riotous colours kaleidoscoped."That boy," Jean said. "Pot?""Mary Wanna Smoke?" I gritted but I didn't feel funny. The right to revolt, rebel and say Screw you, Dad, has its limits. To me, the place called the Grass Gardens was something out of Poe by way of the Red Death. My blue nose was slightly out of joint.Jean huddled in her fur stole as we made the scene to the front door. She was a mystery writer and something of a short story specialist who had wanted to lap up some atmosphere. New York night-life. Mad Manhattan—that sort of thing. I felt a little sorry for her. The dream was completely gilded, tinselled and false in the Crooked City. Ask anybody who's had to live here.The pert, rather sensible-looking young lady who had sold us two orange tickets at the grilled window behind the golden rope only fifteen short minutes ago, simpered at me. Her eyes were blue and clear, untinted by hallucinatory pick-me-ups."Going so soon, Dad?""Yeah. We're splitting, Sis.""Too fast for you, Dad?""I'm too—" I had been about to make that old crack about old age but skipped it. "I have a message for you from Mom and Dad. Go home. All is forgiven."She tilted her head back and laughed. And laughed and laughed. She got the best of me. She didn't even bother with a comeback or a topper. Feeling thoroughly aced, I steered Jean Martha out to the sidewalk and the night, doing some broken field running among the assorted odd couples coming in. The Grass Gardens dissolved behind us, like the bad dream Jean had tagged it. The driving rain had slowed to a fine mist."Where next?" She smiled brightly on the outside world, out-of-place under the bold psychedelic neon that advertised the place. "Roseland?" She was changing the subject and I let her."Yeah. Roseland."We started down the block. My feet had begun to itch for the comfortable sanity of waltzes and fox trots. Maybe even a Peabody or a sensible samba. I felt that I had somehow sat in upon a collective insult to Terpsichore. Come back, Busby Berkeley, wherever you are!"Don't do that," Jean said."Don't do what?""You're frowning. And you look like you want to hit someone.""Do I?""Yes, you do. Ed, they're only kids. Trying to understand, trying to fit in. They'll grow up, same as everybody else does. But right now—nothing much makes sense to them. Vietnam, civil rights issues, phonies in power.""The bomb," I mocked. "Don't forget the bomb. That bothers them too, doesn't it?""Ed, Ed. Try to see their side of it—""Jean," I said. "You're beautiful but shut up.""Yes, Ed." She squeezed my arm and smiled. She has a nice smile. Which was why I took her dancing in the first place. "You're handsome but you talk too much. And think too much.""Not tonight I don't," I vowed. "The subject is closed."I mean it but there wasn't much choice in the matter. The brave new world we had just left jumped right up and pulled us back into its troubled waters. It was February, chilly, the rain had let up and Roseland bobbed like a life buoy on the waves but the Grass Gardens had a Forget-Me-Not up its phosphorescent sleeve.Even now it's hard to believe it happened.But—The world behind us, maybe fifty yards across the street, suddenly exploded. There was a fierce, ear-shattering, thundering earthquake of sound. I felt myself rising from my shoes, lifted by those old invisible fingers again, pulled from Jean Martha's arm and flung forward like a rag doll. The building across the way vibrated, turned upside down, veered at right angles and then sprung upright, spitting masonry, timbers, marquee, facade and neon. Everything. Shimmering in the thinning rain, the face of the Grass Gardenscollapsed in smoke, flame and thunder.The concrete earth trembled, the sidewalk split and my ears clanged like dinner gongs.From somewhere on the sidewalk, eyesight wavering, senses frugging, I saw the demolished entrance of the club through a dancing haze of pain and confusion.The place was on fire, the crumpled, devastated facade was yawning like the Pit. Flames raced, black smoke billowed. From inside somewhere, a hellish chorus of agonized, terrified screaming went up. The damn Strobes must have made it seem like the end of the world for those poor kids trapped inside—I saw Jean Martha, some twenty yards to my left, sprawled in the rain-drenched gutter, trying to rise. Her fur stole was coiled like a snake about her throat. She suddenly spread out in the gutter, collapsing like the rag doll I felt I was. She looked like a smoked-out cigarette.And then, like they used to say in the pulp magazines of the Thirties, Bedlam reigned.The whole world had gone to Pot.

THE MOVIE MURDERER
We have to back-track here. It's necessary or you won't know where this is going. So let's twist the hands of Time and go to Jim Downey's theatre restaurant on Eighth Avenue. Just a few hours before I took Jean Martha to Le Alpi and then to the Grass Gardens. The time was seven o'clock, nineteen hundred Army Time. I was meeting Jean at eight in Le Alpi. But before that, I had made a date with Memo Morgan in his favourite watering hole, Downey's.In the frantic Fifties, it had been mine too. A good spot to meet with actor pals, writers, producers and most of the Times Square crowd who make Show Biz their raison d'etre. That's French, of course, but I think it really means hell-on-earth, cross-to-bear and your-red-wagon combined.I parked myself in a quiet corner at the end of the long, grained-wood bar and set up office over a Beef-eater martini.The place was packed, per prescription. The back walls over the booths are lined with glossy, life-sized blowups of the movie and stage stars who have graced the boards of Broadway and Jim Downey's place. They look down at you from all sides. Over the top of the long bar, a montage of old newspaper headlines makes for a better view. It's kind of rattling I think to have Henry Fonda looking straight at you while you down a martini. Ethel Barrymore, bless her, doesn't help either. It's a helluva lot less personal reading about Lindy landing in Paris, the start of World War One or the sinking of the Titanic.Still, the room is alive with people, too. Big, little and small celebrities who talk, eat and relax even as you and I. The names range all the way from Jason Robards Jr. to Arthur Hill to Will Gregory. That night was no different than usual. Downey's was jumping.I spotted Dave Burns, still in his Hello, Dolly! moustache, growling affectionately at Jack Gilford above two schooners of beer. A table away, Chester Morris was doing a magic trick with the silverware on his table. They all caught my eye and waved hello. Two fine comics and a Hollywood oldtimer. Morris' smile was wide and honest. Ginger Rogers and Lauren Bacall were having an animated just-between-us-glamour-girls confab right in front of the cloakroom. You could smell the glitter and the gold that hung like celestial mists about their tall trim bodies. Two pin-up dreams from the green years of the long ago. Adulthood hadn't robbed them of one iota of sex appeal.Downey's is that kind of hangout. People who make ten grand a week rub shoulders with actors working for scale in off-Broadway shows. Also, you can find one fairly successful private detective with an office and secretary just off Times Square.The martini burned going down and I was mentally kissing Ginger and Lauren on their pink lips when Memo Morgan materialized at my elbow. Suddenly, he was there, as obvious as a brass band and as colourful as a Disney TV programme. The horseblanket coat was striped, the tie was right out of a baggy-pants burlesque comic and the face with its lumps, broken nose and gash-mouth shone like a tomato from under the brim of a borsalino that had to be a Charles Bickford reject. A dead cigar poked from his lips."Noon," he boomed. "You alone?""You always ask me that. My answer's always the same. I don't bring company when I make an appointment. What gives?"He didn't take the stool next to me but leaned in close, the cigar barrelling over to the other side of his mouth. He smiled.His grin hid his little eyes. Morgan's face was a fooler. Except for his eyes, he looked dumb and simple. The clothes always emphasized his bumpkin facade. But he had never fooled me. Broadway's Mr. Memory had once won almost a hundred grand on The Sixty Four Thousand Dollar Question way back in the dark ages of Television.Morgan cased Bacall and Rogers, sniffed the air and winked at me. The cigar was unlit and chewed down to the band."All Quiet On The Western Front," he said in a low voice. "You fill me in on the movie. Right off the top of your head. Then we'll talk."I shook my head, eyeing the last of the Beefeater. Same old Memo. The movie bits. The memory routine. He tested all his friends and even his enemies with memory tests. But never without a reason. Never without a motive that spelled money.I sighed. "Okay, memory man. 1930. Universal Pictures. Won the Oscar as Best Picture of the Year. Put the studio in the black and saved their bacon. Lew Ayres and the butterfly. Directed by Lewis Milestone. My choice for the best war film of them all. That good enough?""Ace," he breathed. "You're an ace. What about the boots?""Boots?" I echoed."Yeah. Boots. For walking. You dig? Tell me about the boots."I frowned. "Again. Slower, old buddy."Now, he grimaced and the cigar barrel-rolled again. His tiny eyes glittered. "It's seven o'clock, Noon. Guy's coming in here at once. That gives us two hours. So he knows we can't see the movie or go to a library or anything like that. But I made a bet. For seven big ones. You're my proof. He says he'll take your word. You tell him about the boots and I win seven hundred bucks. I'll give you ten per cent of the take."I grinned. Now, I understood him. "Tell me what the bet is."Memo Morgan looked happier. He relaxed a little."This guy says that I'm wrong when I said that the boots went from Ben Alexander to Russell Gleason. He says Owen Davis, Jr. Now I'm asking you. Am I right or wrong? You tell me. I met this gink in here at five o'clock and he says I don't remember right. We were all talking about war movies and the gab got around to All Quiet. Come on, Noon man. You yes me or no me. The guy says he'll take your word. He reads a lot of them letters you write into Films In Review and he says you rate with him as an expert.""You're the expert. You're famous for your memory. Why won't he take your word? Or wait until tomorrow. You could check with the New York Times or any film library in town. Even Million Dollar Movie must have a print on that old goldie.""Out-of-towner." Morgan's sniff was mighty. "It's you or nobody, sweetheart. We got a deal?"I shrugged. "You knew you were right all the time. Russell Gleason inherited the boots after Ben Alexander lost his leg.""Noon, baby. You always were the Ace. Can you make it convincing to this clown?""Depends. What's his name?""Tod Crown. Real estate man from Chicago. In town to pick up a piece of Merrick's new show. Loaded I guess. Wants a little action to while away the hours while Merrick splits up the angels.""If he wants action, he ought to try the track or the stock market. Wall Street could use his money. Things are pretty tight from what I hear.""Yeah. Yeah," Memo Morgan agreed. "The pound's gone down, ain't it? You could fill this guy in on a whole lot of All Quiet, huh? Just to make it look good?""Memo," I laughed, "don't hustle me. We're all movie buffs together. What you don't remember about All Quiet On The Western Front wouldn't fill a contact lens."He took his cigar out of his mouth and waved it. His tiny eyes shone with enthusiasm. "Oh, you don't do so bad, either, Noon man. I never met anybody else that could tell me who played Bill Powell and Gable as kids in Manhattan Melodrama. But you knew.""That meant something before Television, Memo. Now, it don't rate anything. Everybody can catch up now. I just happen to have a head like a sponge."He chuckled. "What are you drinking?""Beefeater. And you can buy me one. I've got a date with a lady in about one hour.""Nice-looking girl?""Are there any other kind?"We both laughed while he dug out one of his fantastic wallets that was a combination bill holder and all-purpose junk box. Scraps and stubs and bits of paper strained for freedom from the thing. Memo has a notation on everything. People are always asking him things—like where's Oshkosh, who's Yehudi and how high is up?—his memory isn't always enough. He has to prove it.Glasses clinked behind us. A woman laughed. A man's big voice rose on the punch line of a dirty joke. Morgan placed a grimy five dollar bill on the bar and motioned to the bartender.He eyed me with what I assumed was fondness as the Beefeater filled my empty glass."Russell Gleason, huh? Now who the hell would remember him except an ace like you? Man, you're tough. Too tough.""I remember every foot of that flick, Memo. Guess I've seen it maybe two dozen times. As a schoolkid and all the way up to right now. Here's to boots, boots, boots." I tilted my glass and he watched me. Memo Morgan does not drink.If you're unfortunate enough not to know that movie, Lew Ayres and his German schoolchums are rah-rahed into enlisting in World War One by their jingo schoolmaster. For the fine glory of the Fatherland, Ayres is followed into service by Ben Alexander, Russell Gleason, Billy Bakewell and Owen Davis Jr. Alexander is sent off to war with a fine pair of leather boots. When he becomes the first casualty of the group, losing a leg at the front, the boots pass on from man to man, with Russell Gleason being the first inheritor. I had always marveled at how Director Lewis Milestone had used the boots as a gimmick to depict the death of all the fine young men. The last legatee is Ayres, until he reached for a yellow butterfly while on sentry duty in the last month of the war and is picked off by a French sniper. To my mind, it is still the finest anti-war film ever made and nobody has ever replaced Louis Wolheim's portrait of the German Sergeant who became a second father to the kids at the front. Battered-puss Wolheim with his growl and his great humanity.I winked at Memo. "Who played Kat?"He sneered. "Louis Wolheim. You kiddin' me?""Just testing. And I suppose you do know who played Lew Ayres' mother?""Beryl Mercer."

Guest Post: Are New York Publishers Still Relevant?

 Penny C. Sansevieri

For years New York publishers (also called legacy publishing or corporate publishing) were at the top of the publishing food chain. They decided which books were released and when. They created books that started pop-culture trends and, in a word, they ruled the world. But as we've evolved through the publishing mecca and other, viable options presented themselves, the issue of how to publish and whether the big New York publishers still control the industry is very debatable. Even bigger are the issues surrounding what, if any, value these publishers bring to the author. Great industry equalizers have been eBooks, eReaders and, of course, the often-hated and always mysterious Amazon.

During Digital Book World in New York, this topic was pretty heavily discussed. In fact, Dana Beth Weinberg presented on this very issue, why publishers should be worried about losing their author base. The Indie Math, as she calls it, would show that authors who have self-published could potentially earn more money than if they had published traditionally: http://www.amarketingexpert.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/2014-01-15-10.55.41.jpg
The real problem with this is that while publishers are aware of the options that authors have, they still do not feel that their existence is in jeopardy. Or, most of them don't. I have spoken with a lot of publishing colleagues who are in-house at publishers who completely get that the axis of power has shifted. The author now holds all the cards. Let's celebrate that for a moment because I remember when I was first in this industry and self-publishing (now renamed the ever-trendy indie publishing) was the little stepchild never invited to the table. If you self-published you were considered somewhat akin to a bottom-dweller. Sorry if that's harsh, but it's the truth. New York looked down at self-publishing, and I know this firsthand because I've always self-published and, frankly, I've been proud to jump on this trend. When I started my business some thirteen years ago, someone in publishing asked me why I'd even bother to spend time on the self-published book or promote the author of such a tome. My answer was always the same: don't judge what you don't know and even if you know it, don't judge. You never know where the great ideas will come from or the things, like print-on-demand or the initially poo-pooed Kindle e-Reader, that will change the world.

So, back to my original question: are the New York publishers still relevant? The answer is: "it depends" and often, just flat-out "no." I think it's time that we offered publishers a glimpse of the future, a future that is not all too far off and where they have to prove their relevance to authors. Everything that was once exclusive to a publisher has become much more accessible to authors. If you're trying to decide if you should wait for a publisher, perhaps it's time to reconsider that question altogether.

Let's have a look at where publishers have succeeded in the past and how that's changed:

Book Production: At some point during Digital Book World one of the speakers showed a survey that indicated that authors generally felt that publishers could do a better job of creating a marketable book than they could. They worried about things like editing, cover design and general market segmentation. Many authors still feel publishers can do a better job, but guess what? They can't. We work with a number of high quality self-published titles and, for most of them, I'd dare you to find something about them that screams self-published. These days, there is a font of information out there for authors who are willing to educate themselves enough. The competitive advantage is in the hands of the author who can go the distance with this and, if you do it on your own, you could end up making a lot more money.

Distribution & Bookstore Access: There was a time when only publishers could get you into a bookstore or airport store. That's simply not true anymore. You can get distribution, and you can get yourself into a bookstore, gift shop, or airport store.

The Ring of Fire: This is perhaps one area that scores an advantage for the publisher, and it's something I call the ring of fire. This is the process by which a book is filtered through the publisher's system and a process that really helps educate authors and gets them ready for the hardcore process that is publishing. During this process you'll have an editor requesting changes, you'll be tinkering and rewriting until they feel it's perfect enough for publication. It's hard and often humbling and it helps an author realize how tough it is out there, I mean really tough. With 3,500 books published every day in this country, be good or be gone, and remember: hope is not a marketing plan.

Media and Marketing: Most often authors feel like this is where publishers succeed, and for the authors who actually get some marketing for their book, this is probably true. I know a lot of very talented publicity people who work in-house and believe me when I say that they know their stuff. The problem is this: there isn't always an aggressive marketing and publicity budget assigned to each book. In almost 90% of the cases, authors have to do their own marketing.

Money: The all-important driver behind book publishing is the bigger question: "Will they make any money?" The challenge with this question is that no one knows, at least not with any certainty. Publishers (understandably) have become more risk averse, publishing titles by authors who have huge followings or who are celebrities. This becomes somewhat of a challenge for the rest of us, especially if you're considered a newbie, no-brand, non-following author - which is, candidly, most of us. Is the money really better on the other side? What about author advances and such? Well, as the link shows above, the advances may not bear out, given the higher sales percentage you can get self-publishing your book. And advances have also shrunk in recent years, which is, again, understandable. The caveat to this is that you can embrace the indie revolution, and forgo traditional but you have to think big time. Especially if you're a newbie. By "big time" I don't mean hoping for a movie deal, but rather holding your book up to a set of very high quality standards. So, that's the long answer. The short is answer is: yes, you can make as much money or more by self-publishing, but you have to do it right.

Cachet: The cachet of being published by a big house once was a big deal and I think that for many this still holds true. The media was sensitive to self-published books and often didn't feature them, not because they didn't want to or had a bias against them, but because they were, in a word: garbage. But now that the bar is being raised and authors are beginning to understand the expectation of the industry, this is changing. So that cachet isn't really having the publisher's name on the book, it's about having a book that looks like it came from a Simon & Schuster or Random House. Get the picture?

So in looking at all of the above, authors have to wonder why on earth they'd even go with a big house. Yes, why indeed? Now publishers, realizing that there is money to be made in self-publishing, are offering self-publishing as an extension of their brand and this creates even more confusion. Penguin bought Author Solutions but if you publish with Author Solutions it does not, in any way, make you a Penguin author. Problem is, many authors think that's the case. In fact, last week I got a book sent to me by an author who said he was published by Penguin. He wasn't. It was Author Solutions. When I attempted to explain this to him he became upset and thought I was selling him some misaligned bag of goods.

I get that buying Author Solutions was probably a great business decision for Penguin. But as we see more and more of this, the issue of publisher brands is going to get even murkier and hard to define. As they find ways to remain relevant, despite the fact that the earth is shifting beneath them (and often in the author's favor), it's becoming more and more difficult to survive.
Maybe instead of trying to find ways to expand their brand into self-publishing, these publishing houses should be looking at ways to keep their traditional arms more attractive to the author. One has to wonder if, at some point, savvy authors will weigh a potential contract against going it on their own for more profit and more creative license, and I think that this is a big point that publishers are missing.

The problem in the industry, and I would say that this is the biggest problem, is that so many still don't get it. Donald Maass wrote a piece for Writer Unboxed last week that illuminates this point with stunning clarity: the industry does not get it. They see this as a class issue (at some point in his piece Maass refers to the self-published group as "Freight class") (http://writerunboxed.com/2014/02/05/the-new-class-system/). It was infuriating and frightening at the same time. Frightening because despite this self-publishing revolution, no one wants publishers to go away. We do, however, want them to get it. The revolution has arrived, it's knocking on their door and no matter how long they decide to bury their heads in the sand or write blogs about the class distinction and other outdated notions, it is taking over and changing the way we see the industry.

People keep comparing publishing to the music industry, but I think that's wrong. Sure, there are similarities in that they both faced changes they weren't willing to deal with, but the issue of publishing goes much deeper than that. Technically, we're talking about an industry that, if it doesn't change, could face extinction. You can produce a book for a lot less than you can produce an album and with far fewer people. Elements of the music industry will never go away, but big players in publishing might and that's a shame.

When faced with a changing business model, you can either learn how to be a part of the publishing revolution - or step aside and let the revolution take over.


Follow Penny C. Sansevieri on Twitter: www.twitter.com/bookgal

Reposted From The Huffington Post

Take Back Our Civil Liberties! Check Out Beatrice Edward's New Book

Beatrice Edwards, executive director of the organization representing Edward Snowden and four other NSA whistleblowers, argues that we now live in a Corporate Security State, where the government is more interested in protecting the companies that serve it than the citizens who support it. Heavy domestic surveillance, political persecution of dissenters, the threat of indefinite detention codified into law—how did we get here? And is there a way out? Edwards details how intelligence agencies took advantage of 9/11 to illegitimately extend the government’s reach. Corporations, she shows, were only too eager to sell them expensive surveillance technology, as well as share data on customers and employees using the bogus threat of an imminent “cyber war.” This is why the Justice Department isn’t going after the institutions responsible for the financial collapse of 2008—government and business are partners in crime. But Edwards offers a plan to fight back and restore transparency to government, keep private information private, and make democracy a reality once again.



About the Author
 
 
Beatrice Edwards is both the executive director and the international program director at the Government Accountability Project, which is currently one of Edward Snowden’s legal representatives. She holds a master’s degree in Latin American studies from the University of Texas and a doctorate in sociology from American University.

Guest Post: How to Get More Reviews on Amazon.com

Penny C. Sansevieri

These days, we hear a lot about book discovery. As more and more books hit the market, readers are deluged with choices and authors are struggling to get in front of new readers and even existing fans. Recently Bowker announced that the number of books published each day in the US is up to 3,500. This does not include all eBook data since many eBooks are published without ISBN numbers that Bowker can track. What this has done is create a strong need for a reader's voice. Reaching these readers, however, is another matter entirely.

What's an aspiring publisher or author to do? Well, it's time to get serious about being seen in places where your reader will find you. It's time realize the things that are important to your reader: reviews and engagement. Authors who focus on those two things alone are head and shoulders above the rest.

More Reasons to Love Reviews
The other reason to love reviews is that the more reviews you get on Amazon the more visible your book becomes. This is largely due to the Amazon algorithm which is based on a few things, one of which is the number of reviews you get to your page. It's called Social Proof and Amazon loves it. More reviews on your page push your book higher in search ranking when someone enters your book's search term into the Amazon search bar.

Different Types of Reviewers, Do They all Matter?
Reviewers, like anything in marketing, are very relationship based. That's why it's often easier to get reviews for your second or third book, but first-time authors, don't worry - I'm going to show you a tip in a minute that can help you double or triple the amount of reviews you get.
There are a few different types of Amazon reviewers. Let's look at each:

Top Amazon Reviewers: These folks can review anything, not just books, and they often do a lot of reviews. I had one reviewer tell me she once posted 100 reviews a month on Amazon. These reviewers also get a lot of credibility in that their reviews are often accompanied by attributes such as Hall of Fame Reviewer, Vine Voice and Top Ten Reviewer.

It's a great thing to get a top Amazon reviewer to consider your book but they are tough to target. Does it mean you should ignore them? No. We'll talk more about how to creatively target them in a moment.

Amazon Reader Reviewers: These are readers who just love books. They aren't part of the top list like the high profile Amazon reviewers, but they can also review a lot of books. Their reviews are thoughtful, insightful, and thorough. They tend to be very genre focused, which means that they stay true to one genre, possibly two. Many of them are also on Goodreads, which is another reason why it makes sense to be on that site, too.

Consumers: Do consumers review books? Yes, but according to a review statistic I read recently they don't review a lot. Often only 1% of consumers will review a book they read, but I'll show you how to quadruple that number for your next book.

Bloggers: We love bloggers. They have this tireless passion for books and if you can get them to review yours, this relationship can last the length of your career. But keep in mind that while book blogger relationships are great, not all of them review on Amazon so if your goal is to really populate that page with reviews, you'll want to make sure they do.

Curious about how to find great book bloggers? You can search for many of them on Google and search "book blogger" + Your genre. You can also go to sites like: http://bookbloggerdirectory.wordpress.com/ or http://www.blogmetrics.org/ to find bloggers in your genre.

Different Ways to Find Amazon Reviewers
A quick Google search will take you to this link: http://www.amazon.com/review/top-revi.... The problem is that this link takes you to an endless list of reviewers you now have to ferret through.
As you will see, the list has two tabs on it, Top Reviewer Rankings and Hall of Fame Reviewers. The Hall of Fame list is really the top of the top. If you can get picked up by one of those folks, you're golden. Not all of them review your genre, and some don't even review books. There are other ways you can reach them, though.

Some authors I know will just find reviewers based on other, similar titles. You can do this by going to books that cover the same or a similar topic and see who has reviewed their book on Amazon. You follow the reviewer's link to his or her Amazon profile page, look for an email address, and send a pitch. It's a very time-intensive way to get reviews, though it's 100% worth it. If you start this process early (i.e. before your book is published), you'll be able to target these folks as soon as your book is ready to go.

The other way to find reviewers is to use the following search string, which I've seen a few times in various formats. Keep in mind that this search string isn't an exact science, and I've also found that it works better for some genres than for others. First, let's take a look at the search string structure:
Search String in Google: 
http://www.amazon.com/review/top-revi... "Top 500 reviewer" "Romance"

Or you can also use:
http://www.amazon.com/review/top-revi... "Top 1000 reviewer" "Romance"

The string is broken down as follows:
1. First is the site you want to search: http://www.amazon.com/review/top-revi... this is the profile link on the Amazon page--that's the URL you are searching from so you must include this in your search string.

2. Next you want the Top X reviewers, in this case I recommend putting in 500 or 1000. You won't pull up that many, but it's a nice high number to shoot for. Why the difference in the number? Because I recommend that you search it both ways. Oddly, though you're just changing a number, each of these searches may produce different results.

3. Next up is the genre. I put in romance here but yours might be mystery, sci-fi, etc. Whatever your genre is (fiction or non-fiction), put it there.

When you do this, you still have to sift through the results. Keep in mind that not all Amazon reviewers list their email address on their profile so you may have to hunt for them by searching their name and their blog (most Amazon reviewers have blog sites they repost their reviews to).
If you're willing to continue your search, you can also try this search string: 
http://www.amazon.com/review/top-revi... "Top 500 reviewer" "Young Adult Fiction" "E-mail:"

Note the spelling of the term e-mail. For the purposes of finding the right reviewers, we want to mimic how the term e-mail is referenced on the reviewer site.

This process, while time-consuming, can help you start building your top Amazon review list.

How to Double the Amount of Blogger Reviews You Get

You've now identified the bloggers you want to pitch and they also review on Amazon. You know that they get a lot of review requests, so how will you make yours stand out?

Last year I conducted an experiment. I wanted to see if there was a way I could double or triple the amount of reviews I could get if I were an unknown, newly published author. If you've ever attempted to get reviews, you know it's never easy as a first-time author. You're lucky to get one or two at the most. I always tell authors to personalize their pitches whenever they can because it'll net more review requests. Most of the time authors sort of nod in agreement, but I suspect that very few actually do this. I mean let's face it; it's a big time suck to personalize pitches, right? You have to go to their blog, find their name, look up some of the books they've done reviews on, see if they're right for your book and then pitch them. Seems like a lot, right? Now I'm going to ask you to take this a step further. I want you to include some personal information on them, too. I did this anytime I could and, as I said, I tripled the amount of review requests I got for this unknown author. In some cases I quadrupled the amount.

Turning Your Book into a Review Machine

We all want to turn our book into a sales machine. Now I'm not taking about turning your book into a cross-promotion tool (though that's good, too) I'm speaking about getting your book to work for you in other ways.

We've worked with many first-time authors, but earlier this year I had an idea I wanted to try. I wanted to find a way to encourage readers to review the book by adding a specific request. We asked the author to include a letter in the back of her book asking for reviews. She reminded readers how important their voice is. Did it work? Yes. In fact she's got well over 70 reviews of which only 10 were solicited. Remember, this is a first-time author with no history online and this book was self-published. All of these things worked against her and still she succeeded in getting tons of reviews. Were they all five-star? No, but that's not the point. Let's face it, a book page that's populated with tons of five-star reviews is pretty suspect anyway. All of the reviews are authentic, written by real readers the author engaged with. Want to know another secret? These readers are now part of her "tribe;" she stays in touch with them and lets them know when her next book is out.
How did she ask for reviews? She crafted a letter to her readers. Here's a sample of the letter we included in the back of her second book. You can see the letter here: http://www.amarketingexpert.com/getting-reviews/

Keep in mind that as I mentioned earlier, generally only 1% of consumers review books on Amazon. Using this letter helped to beat that average by a lot.

A Little Known Amazon Tool
Did you know that you can respond to a review on Amazon? Using access to your Author Central account you can now write a note thanking the reviewer, or, you can let the various reviewers know that you have another book out and ask them if they want a free copy for review. To gain access to your Author Central Page, go here and log in using your regular Amazon login: https://authorcentral.amazon.com

Once you're inside you'll see a header. Click on Customer Reviews. Once you click that button, it'll take you to this page where you'll see a bunch of your reviews. Under each review you'll see "Add a comment"--this is where you want to click. That will let you respond to the reviews. It's a great way to connect with your readers on Amazon!

Reviews and the process of getting them has gotten more challenging and time intensive as new books continue to flood the market. Reviewers have a lot of choices. But if you're smart about your efforts, and leverage Amazon's features wisely, you can really boost your book's exposure, and your sales. One final note on Amazon reviews. Sometimes in order to get reviews, you need to become a reviewer. I'm not suggesting you compete for their top review spot, but instead help other writers in your market by reviewing their books. It's not only a great way to pay it forward, but they may offer you a review, too.


Follow Penny C. Sansevieri on Twitter: www.twitter.com/bookgal
 
This Blogger's Books and Other Items from...

Reposted From Huffington Post

STORY MERCHANT BOOKS - FEBRUARY BEST SELLERS

Mrs. Mike
by Benedict Freedman & Nancy Freedman


Write Time: Guide to the Creative Process, from Vision through Revision—and Beyond
by Kenneth Atchity

The Messiah Matrix
by Kenneth John Atchity
A gold coin reveals the true origins of Christianity.


So Help Me God
by Larry D. Thompson
An abortion gone wrong pits church against state.

Writing Treatments to Sell
by Chi-Li Wong & Ken Atchity


Summer's Winter
by Robin Johns Grant
A passionate, well-wrought mystery by a Christian novelist to watch.

Guest Post George Fowler: Cuba Libre

James P. Farwell 

In the movies, evil bad guys are often stupid and hire stupid people to do the wrong thing. Fidel Castro shows that evil people can be very smart, and find bright people who do the right things in advancing their goals, no matter how twisted. In My Cuba Libre (Beverly Hills: Story Merchant Books, 2013), eminent maritime attorney George Fowler has written a very insightful memoire of growing up in Cuba prior to Castro's revolution, while leveling a searing indictment of Castro's rule. Fowler exposes the dark underbelly of a repressive dictatorship that persists despite media reports - he is especially critical of The New York Times - that Castro is receding into the background and turning over power to his brother Raoul.

Castro is still the string puller. And the strings he pulls are often around the necks of dissidents who criticize him or challenge his ham-fisted regime. "There is no questioning Castro's intelligence," Fowler acknowledges. "He is brilliant, manipulative, and resourceful." Anyone who doubts that can read part of the eloquent defense that Castro delivered at his trial after an armed attack in 1953 on Moncada Barracks failed. William Safire has hailed it as a classic example of exceptional rhetoric. Castro sounds like Thomas Payne, not Joseph Stalin, in accusing the Fulgencio Batista regime of precisely the blood-thirsty crimes that on seizing power Castro perpetrated, describing the Barracks as a "workshop of torture and death."

It was a lie. As a University of Havana law student, Castro earned the nickname dirtball, writes Fowler, a reputation he feels Fidel managed to overdo during a long career in power. Many feel that Batista gave up prematurely and could have defeated the revolution, but he chose to flee with his cash, leaving behind the hapless citizens of a country that was prosperous and had a growing middle class. Fowler points out that in a population of only 7 million, Castro has since 1959 sent over 500,000 Cubans through prisons and concentration camps, and argues that the dictator's henchmen shot between 15,000 and 17,000. An extensive security apparatus monitors behavior and conversation.

Even slight infractions can send a citizen to infamous prisons like Kilo 5.5., infamous for using sleep deprivation, or the G-2 prison of Santiago de Cuba, where cells are kept at very high or very low temperatures with prisoners stripped, thrown into isolation chambers, and awaken after twenty minutes - causing irreversible psychological damage. Cuba may be situated 90 miles from Florida, but Castro's agents, Fowler cautions, are active inside the U.S. and act vigorously to murder dissenters inside U.S. waters who try to aid refugees escaping from the Communist dictatorship.

Fowler's prose is concise and clear, but his passion is evident on every page, as he calls for the U.S. to indict Castro criminally, and warns that tourists who see a charming, benign Havana are seeing a carefully orchestrated charade that hides the ugly, everyday reality that Cubans confront. Only Fidel's death will bring change, insists Fowler, and opening up trade or giving the regime access to foreign currency through commerce or tourism will merely prolong the suffering of Cubans.

A good part of the book - in many ways for me the most interesting - is Fowler's account of growing up in Cuba as a young boy and his family. Today a wealthy, esteemed expert on maritime law with an international reputation, he was born to wealth. But the revolution sent his family into severe financial straits. He worked during high school as a construction worker, and studied at a very tough, disciplined Jesuit high school in Puerto Rico before college and law school. He earned his success the old-fashioned way: through hard work and talent.

Still, his portrait of pre-revolutionary Cuba is fascinating. His affection for his large family runs deep in his roots, and his parents and grandparents - successful in the sugar business - emerge as vivid, colorful, fascinating individuals in their own right. Havana and the life they led was exciting, and while the wealthier classes enjoyed an elegant lifestyle, Fowler is emphatic that prosperity was shared and that the family went out of its way to ensure the well-being of those it employed.

Fowler's beautiful wife, Christina, hailed from a similar background, and endured a heart-breaking experience at the age of 12 when Castro jailed her father and her mother managed to get her out of Cuba. Christina was one of the "Peter Pan" children, placed on an airplane with her sisters after Castro goons smashed their dolls, and sent to the U.S., where stern Catholic nuns shipped her to a cold, inhumane existence at a Catholic school in Indiana until a farming couple took Christian and her older sister Mercedes in to live with them. The story has a happy ending: Castro released and exiled her father, and the family reunited in Laurel, Mississippi.

Fowler has a formidable intellect and he is a relentless advocate for his ideas, but writing the book, like the experiences he has gone through, proved deeply emotional for him. That he makes no effort to conceal the pain and hurt that he and those he have known strengthens this compelling story, which anybody interested in Cuba ought to read.

Story Merchant Books Launches Richard Pena's Last Plane Out of Saigon

Foreword: The WallRichard PenaRecently, the Traveling Wall—a smaller replica of the National Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C.—came to my community in Austin, Texas. My wife Carolyn, whom I have known since before I went to Vietnam, thought that we should go visit it. For me, and many other Americans, viewing the Wall is an emotional and somber experience. This time was no different.The Traveling Wall spanned the length of our local high school football field. We walked slowly past the etched names of all the soldiers who died or went missing in Vietnam. I saw one woman making a rubbing of one of the names with charcoal and a sheet of paper. For her, bringing the soldier closer in that way might have made the hurt a little more bearable. Seeing her tears, I knew that her pain had lasted for a very long time. “It will never go away,” I thought to myself.Loved ones had left all sorts of mementos and flowers by the memorial. There was even an old newspaper clipping of one soldier’s death announcement. We slowly walked the length of the football field before turning back and revisiting the names a second time.A young boy, about ten or twelve years old, walked towards us. He, too, was paying tribute to the fallen in his own way. By the look on his face, I could tell he was seeking some understanding from the memorial. He wore a red and black football jersey, the colors of the local high school. The school had recently won three state championships, and he must have been proud. One day, I thought, he might even play on the team himself and maybe even compete in the state championship. I sighed and prayed that he would have the opportunity.Each of the names represented a real loss. Carolyn wondered out loud what each person would have become, given the chance. She reflected on all the hopes and dreams that went unfulfilled because of the war, on what a waste it was—not just for the families, but for our country.As we walked past the thousands of names—Donovan, Olson, Watson, Salinas, West, Yardoch, Neu, Viado, Stokes, Young, Torres, Spillner, Castle, Lopez, Zeller, Magee, Lafever—I felt only sorrow and regret. Most of these lives had been extinguished just as they were beginning. I no longer felt anger, for I had learned to accept this reality long ago. But like all the times I visited the Memorial in Washington, D.C., it felt as if I had been punched in the stomach.In that moment of sadness, I wanted to reach out to those brave soldiers who died. What would they want now, some thirty-seven years after we left Vietnam? I feel they would want the truth to be told. It is for the sake of the 58,286 soldiers whose names are etched on the Wall, their families, the 3,100,000 soldiers who served in the Vietnam War—and, most of all, the truth—that John Hagan and I have pushed this book to publication.While stationed in Vietnam as an operating room specialist, I kept a record of my wartime experiences and reflections. I left Vietnam on the final day of the American withdrawal, on one of the two very last planes out. Upon my return, I put the manuscript in a cardboard box, where it remained hidden away in the garage or attic for thirty-seven years. I knew that the American public had mostly overlooked the war, an important moment in their nation’s history. But everyday responsibilities kept me busy, and I went on to quietly live my life. It wasn’t until 2003, when I led a law delegation to Vietnam, that I realized the true significance of my departure on that final day.Hanging on a wall of the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City was a photo that depicted Americans troops boarding the final planes out of Vietnam. The inscription under the photo read, Last Plane Out. Carolyn and I both immediately recognized a much younger me in the photo, carrying my law school briefcase. I had never seen this picture before. The Vietnamese consider this photograph to be one of the iconic images of war, but to my knowledge the American public has been unaware of its existence.Per the Paris Peace Accord signed January 23, 1973, America was to withdraw from Vietnam in sixty days. Those of us on the last two planes left on the sixty-first day. The American press was gone, the brass was gone—nearly everyone had left. I noticed a Viet Cong soldier taking a picture of. As I boarded the plane, I had a sense that someday the photo would surface.Many Americans believe that the “end of the war” came in 1975 with the evacuation of the U.S. Embassy via helicopter. The photos of that event are deeply etched in our collective memory. However, historians know that American military involvement in the Vietnam War actually ended in March 1973 with the withdrawal of the last American combat troops. To this day, I am glad that I was one of the last ones out. At the time, I was relieved to know that no additional American soldiers would be sent to die for that war.I would like to thank John Hagan for his tireless work—without him, this book would not have been possible. It was John who had me pull my manuscript from the attic and who understood its historical significance. The core of the book consists of journal entries I wrote while serving in Vietnam from 1972 to 1973.I would like to thank the People To People Citizen Ambassador Programs for selecting me to lead the law delegation to Vietnam. Because of them, I was able to discover the Last Plane Out photo hanging in the American War Museums in Ho Chi Minh City. I thank the American Bar Foundation for its support and encouragement.I would also like to thank my family and friends, who tried to understand and accept me back into “The World” when I returned. I would like to thank my wife, Carolyn Malley Pena, for her understanding, love, and support throughout these years. Above all, I would like to thank all those who continue to remember Vietnam and work to provide medical care for the veterans of all of our wars.As you read the following pages, please understand that I wrote these words in real time as the war was happening. Stakes were high and emotions were raging. These are the truths as I experienced them.Please remember, this is only an interpretation.The truth, of course, is far stranger.

Southern California Writers Association Highlights Kenneth Atchity

Southern California Writers Association

Newsletter
Volume 13, Number 3 -- March 2014

SCWA  March Newsletter Featuring KJA