Marco
In a former life, I tended bar at a Mexican restaurant. It was a hole-in-the-wall dump of a place, a converted Frisch’s Big Boy with a few colorful blankets and sombreros and piñatas tacked to the walls for “atmosphere.” The food was authentic, though, and we always got good reviews in the newspaper.
I started each shift by cutting dozens of limes into wheels for garnishes, mixing five-gallon tanks of margaritas, and generally prepping the bar for what we called “Fiesta Hour.”
Between 2PM and 7PM, you could buy jumbo margaritas and well drinks for half-price, and you could eat fresh tortilla chips and homemade salsa for free. In theory, the cheap drinks and free snacks were supposed to stimulate customers’ appetites. In theory, they would then order a plate of rellenos or enchiladas or pollo con salsa verde. In practice, however, quite a few patrons regularly came in strictly for the cut-rate tequila buzz and comp munchies.
One of those patrons was a guy named Marco.
Mid-thirties, tall and thin, stringy blond hair, big Adam’s apple, still lived with his parents.
He always ordered multiple margaritas on the rocks (light on the ice; he got more booze that way), multiple baskets of chips, and multiple tubs of hot and mild salsa. He never bought anything off the menu, and he never tipped me a dime.
But those weren't the main reasons I dreaded seeing him.
You see, Marco was a self-proclaimed perfumier. He had a “laboratory” set up in his basement, where he distilled oils and essences, spices and extracts--all sorts of exotic and volatile concoctions designed to titillate the human olfactory nerve. Drop-by-drop, Mad Scientist Marco filled tiny glass vials with these precious potions of his, and then mounted the vials in a briefcase for display. Sometimes he brought the briefcase to the bar with him.
There was only one problem with Marco’s fragrances: they didn’t smell very good. In fact, they stunk.
That’s not just my opinion. Everybody who ever smelled Marco’s products said they stunk. Popping the cork on one of his bottles was like unleashing the hounds of perfume hell. Imagine an elevator full of blue-haired, lipstick-toothed octogenarians, whose senses of smell died sometime during the Carter administration. Add a couple of funeral sprays, some rubbing alcohol, and maybe a dash of Pine Sol. Shake well.
Oh, he occasionally sold one of those vile vials, to a kindly cocktail server or a nearby customer who took pity on him. I even bought a bottle one time, only to pitch it in the dumpster on my way home.
Unfortunately, our patronage only encouraged him. He kept making more of that kerosene cologne, kept trying to hawk it during Fiesta Hour. Eventually, the restaurant owner had a talk with him. Marco didn’t come in very often after that.
Marco’s dream was to be a famous perfume designer. The way I see it, he went about it all wrong.
Shouldn’t you know a little bit about chemistry? Shouldn't you be aware of how various substances might interact with human glandular secretions? Shouldn’t you maybe spend some time in Paris or New York or somewhere studying with masters of the trade? Shouldn’t you analyze popular scents on a molecular level to see just what it is about them that turns people on?
Marco didn’t do any of that. Marco bought some smelly stuff through the mail, pumped it into amateurish-looking containers, tried to sell it from a briefcase at the cantina.
And he wanted to call himself a perfumier.
Sorry, Marco, but you have to earn that title.
Just as, in my opinion, writers have to earn the title of published author.
Anyone who can scratch out words on a page can have those words printed and bound and put up for sale on sites like Amazon. To me, that type of publishing is tantamount to bottling perfume from a basement lab and selling it from a briefcase in a bar.
In other words, it’s very likely that the end product will stink.
I was at a writer’s conference one time, outside smoking a cigarette, when a fellow attendee strolled up and asked for a light.
“What kind of stuff do you write?” he asked.
“Hardboiled. I’m working on a private eye novel.”
“Anything published yet?”
“Not yet. I’m still looking for an agent. How ‘bout you?”
“Yeah, I have a book out.”
“Really? Who’s the publisher?”
He named a certain POD outfit. "Here, let me give you one of my cards...”
He handed me a business card and walked away. He avoided me for the duration of the conference, preferring instead to hang around with other “published authors.” I felt like grabbing him by the collar and shouting you’re not published either, you punk, but of course I didn’t. Anyway, I doubt my harsh words would have penetrated his cloud of arrogance.
There are no shortcuts to becoming a published author. You have to earn the title by landing a contract with a legitimate publisher, and that can take years of hard work.
Some folks would rather throw up a lab in the basement and start hawking product right away (throw up and hawk being the key words there).
That’s their choice, I suppose, but I really don’t see the point.
I started each shift by cutting dozens of limes into wheels for garnishes, mixing five-gallon tanks of margaritas, and generally prepping the bar for what we called “Fiesta Hour.”
Between 2PM and 7PM, you could buy jumbo margaritas and well drinks for half-price, and you could eat fresh tortilla chips and homemade salsa for free. In theory, the cheap drinks and free snacks were supposed to stimulate customers’ appetites. In theory, they would then order a plate of rellenos or enchiladas or pollo con salsa verde. In practice, however, quite a few patrons regularly came in strictly for the cut-rate tequila buzz and comp munchies.
One of those patrons was a guy named Marco.
Mid-thirties, tall and thin, stringy blond hair, big Adam’s apple, still lived with his parents.
He always ordered multiple margaritas on the rocks (light on the ice; he got more booze that way), multiple baskets of chips, and multiple tubs of hot and mild salsa. He never bought anything off the menu, and he never tipped me a dime.
But those weren't the main reasons I dreaded seeing him.
You see, Marco was a self-proclaimed perfumier. He had a “laboratory” set up in his basement, where he distilled oils and essences, spices and extracts--all sorts of exotic and volatile concoctions designed to titillate the human olfactory nerve. Drop-by-drop, Mad Scientist Marco filled tiny glass vials with these precious potions of his, and then mounted the vials in a briefcase for display. Sometimes he brought the briefcase to the bar with him.
There was only one problem with Marco’s fragrances: they didn’t smell very good. In fact, they stunk.
That’s not just my opinion. Everybody who ever smelled Marco’s products said they stunk. Popping the cork on one of his bottles was like unleashing the hounds of perfume hell. Imagine an elevator full of blue-haired, lipstick-toothed octogenarians, whose senses of smell died sometime during the Carter administration. Add a couple of funeral sprays, some rubbing alcohol, and maybe a dash of Pine Sol. Shake well.
Oh, he occasionally sold one of those vile vials, to a kindly cocktail server or a nearby customer who took pity on him. I even bought a bottle one time, only to pitch it in the dumpster on my way home.
Unfortunately, our patronage only encouraged him. He kept making more of that kerosene cologne, kept trying to hawk it during Fiesta Hour. Eventually, the restaurant owner had a talk with him. Marco didn’t come in very often after that.
Marco’s dream was to be a famous perfume designer. The way I see it, he went about it all wrong.
Shouldn’t you know a little bit about chemistry? Shouldn't you be aware of how various substances might interact with human glandular secretions? Shouldn’t you maybe spend some time in Paris or New York or somewhere studying with masters of the trade? Shouldn’t you analyze popular scents on a molecular level to see just what it is about them that turns people on?
Marco didn’t do any of that. Marco bought some smelly stuff through the mail, pumped it into amateurish-looking containers, tried to sell it from a briefcase at the cantina.
And he wanted to call himself a perfumier.
Sorry, Marco, but you have to earn that title.
Just as, in my opinion, writers have to earn the title of published author.
Anyone who can scratch out words on a page can have those words printed and bound and put up for sale on sites like Amazon. To me, that type of publishing is tantamount to bottling perfume from a basement lab and selling it from a briefcase in a bar.
In other words, it’s very likely that the end product will stink.
I was at a writer’s conference one time, outside smoking a cigarette, when a fellow attendee strolled up and asked for a light.
“What kind of stuff do you write?” he asked.
“Hardboiled. I’m working on a private eye novel.”
“Anything published yet?”
“Not yet. I’m still looking for an agent. How ‘bout you?”
“Yeah, I have a book out.”
“Really? Who’s the publisher?”
He named a certain POD outfit. "Here, let me give you one of my cards...”
He handed me a business card and walked away. He avoided me for the duration of the conference, preferring instead to hang around with other “published authors.” I felt like grabbing him by the collar and shouting you’re not published either, you punk, but of course I didn’t. Anyway, I doubt my harsh words would have penetrated his cloud of arrogance.
There are no shortcuts to becoming a published author. You have to earn the title by landing a contract with a legitimate publisher, and that can take years of hard work.
Some folks would rather throw up a lab in the basement and start hawking product right away (throw up and hawk being the key words there).
That’s their choice, I suppose, but I really don’t see the point.
Views: 93
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by John Dishon on
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POD (print on demand) is a technology, not a business model. I feel it is important this distinction is made.
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Permalink Reply by I. J. Parker on
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I don't know about that. I have met my editor and my publicist in person in Penguin's headquarters. I like the personal connection with people who work with me on all my books.
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Permalink Reply by Jude Hardin on
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It's good that iUniverse is getting some titles into brick and mortar stores. That's a big plus, IMO, because most self-publishing companies don't allow returns.
And if iUniverse customers really get everything that's advertised, the prices quoted aren't bad.
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Permalink Reply by B.R.Stateham on
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What bigoted horeshit.
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Um, care to elaborate, B.R.?
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Christoper Paolini was first published by a POD publisher. I think his books are in the Top 5 for his genre. There are others who first started out POD and then went to traditional publishing.
To say that you are an author ONLY if you have been picked up and published by a traditional publisher is like saying Picasso is a bad artist because the people in his paintings look funny. And believe it or not, there are a lot of people who think Picasso is a bad artist.
By the way, in the earlier remarks about agents and publishers weeding out the bad writers--ever read a guy by the name oif Glen Cook? His fantasy The Chronicles of the Black Company is absolutely unreadable. Yet he was published by a traditional publishing house.
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Of course there are exceptions, but the fact remains that the vast majority of books worth reading are published through traditional channels.
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No, it's only been assumed. If not, then provide some evidence.
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There gazillions of self-published novels on Amazon. Go read gazillions of first chapters. Get back to me.
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So now we're judging book based on only one chapter? I bet you wouldn't like it if someone did that to your book.
Anyway, only reading self-published novels available on Amazon is not even close to the "majority" of books. In fact, traditionally published books aren't being sampled at all, so it still isn't evidence.
Anyway, what you provided isn't evidence. You're telling me to go get the evidence myself. Okay, I will....
All right, I just read the first chapter of every self-published book on Amazon. Every one of them was better than any traditionally published book I've ever read. So actually, you were wrong. Self-published books are way better quality than traditionally published books.
Man, it's so easy coming to conclusions using your standard of evidence.
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So now we're judging book based on only one chapter? I bet you wouldn't like it if someone did that to your book.
An agent or editor might give an unknown five pages. If s/he is lucky. Welcome to the real world.
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You can't make a full assessment of a book without reading the whole thing. Agents and editors aren't trying to do that anyway. They're trying to find a work they think will sell. They don't have time to read the whole thing.
What would you think if a reviewer for the New York Times, for example, only read the first chapter of a book before reviewing it? Does that reviewer have enough knowledge of the book to do it justice in a review? If I gave your book a positive review after only reading a chapter you might not think anything of it since we all like praise, but what if I gave it a negative review? You might just say that I hadn't read enough to pass judgment on it and that it is not a fair review.
Anyway, the problem with your original statement is that you claim that it is a fact that the majority of books worth reading are published traditionally. But there's no way anyone can know that for a fact because whether a book is worth reading is subjective and because no one has read even close to a majority of books.
We only assume your statement is true because of our limited experience, that the few self-published books we've read weren't as good as traditionally published ones, but it is not a fact.
How many self-published books have you read? Is it equal to the amount of traditionally published books you've read? If it's not, then you don't have enough information to know if your original statement is true, even according to your own personal tastes.
But yeah, in the real world, most books aren't given an equal chance, or arguably a fair chance.
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