I’ve spent two years of what’s left of my life writing a book. It doesn’t matter what it’s about; it consists of just over 300 pages of non-fiction, still in need of some tweaking. I think it’s pretty good; and it has spent the last year sitting, in its bright pink three-ring binder, in the knee well of my desk. On the floor. Going nowhere.

That is because a year ago I hit the biggest roadblock ever created by mankind (personkind?). And no, it was not writer’s block. It was much, much worse.

Not knowing where to go with my book, I took the obvious next step: I bought a couple of books on how to submit one’s manuscript to the gods of publishing, and learned that you need to send them something called a “Book Proposal.” This turned out to be akin to preparing a Ph.D. thesis, or a 21st Century version of the Ten Commandments — the content and format are carved in stone, and thou shalt not veer from the path of righteousness unless thou hast a hankering to suffer wrath the likes of which thou hast never imagined.

Oy vey!

I must confess that I did a good bit of kvetching at this point. But eventually, when I had finally stopped screaming into my pillow, I set to work producing what I believed to be a reasonable facsimile of what the publishers are looking for: ten sections titled Background, The Story, Purpose, The Theme, Approach & Style, About Me, Format & Delivery Date, A Market For This Book, The Competition, and Chapter Summaries (all 26 of them, plus the Introduction, Prologue, Epilogue, and an Appendix), all topped off — like a big red maraschino cherry — with a sample chapter.

See what I mean? If “The Story” and “The Theme” seem redundant, you’re right. “Delivery Date” — who knows? And as to “A Market For This Book” . . . well, I thought that was the publisher’s job. Apparently not.

Anyway, I struggled through it and turned out a nice presentation. And then . . .

Then I started screaming again, because I realized I had not the slightest idea of where to send my masterpiece. So it was back to Amazon for another book (one that someone else had succeeded in getting published), this one containing information on every single publisher and literary agent in the United States — and there are thousands of them. Really . . . thousands.

And they all have different requirements.

Some publishers want just your proposal; others also want the entire draft of the book, which eliminates them completely because no one is getting their hands on my intellectual property without first signing a non-disclosure agreement (NDA). (Yes, I have a legal background.) Some want a print copy, others want a CD or flash drive, others want electronic transmission . . . and some want two or more of the above.

There are those who won’t even open your submission if you’re not represented by a literary agent (those people who take 15% off the top, but do have the contacts you don’t have with the publishers). And the agents all have their own very specific requirements.

Plus, there’s the big question of which of these thousands of publishers and literary agents are actually reliable. Other than the big names — the ones who would automatically turn their noses up at anyone who isn’t already a billionaire or a celebrity — there’s no way of knowing.

Someone did suggest self-publishing, so I bought another book and looked into that. It turns out to be a whole lot of work, requiring some talents (like design) that I don’t possess. And it’s very expensive, if you’re going to do it well — unfortunately beyond my means, after paying for all those how-to-get-published books. And besides, one of the incentives behind writing a book is eventually earning a bit of money as a reward for all of that time and effort — not spending thousands of additional dollars. So . . . back to square one.

And here is where I stopped screaming into my pillow . . . and began banging my head against the wall. Because if you’re a first-time author, and you’re not already famous (or infamous) for something else, you haven’t got a prayer of being noticed among the thousands of writers out there also banging their heads against their respective walls.

And that’s the whole point of this diatribe: If you’re nobody, you’re likely to remain nobody, because nobody wants to read what another nobody has written. Or that seems to be the common wisdom in the rarefied world of publishing. Unless, of course, you’re J.K. Rowling, sitting in a coffee shop, scribbling notes on paper napkins about a couple of kids named Harry Potter and Hermione and an owl named Hedwig in a place called Hogwarts.

So who am I? Well, unless you’re one of my few remaining friends who haven’t already left this vale of tears for (hopefully) a better afterlife, then I’m nobody you’re likely to have heard of, ever, for any reason. But I can tell you who I’m not.

– I’m not, for instance, a member of a royal family — ready, willing and able to peddle the family secrets, along with pots of homemade jam and my eternal soul, in exchange for enough money to feed a small town for a year.

– And I’m not (thank God!) related in any way, personally or professionally, to a smarmy ex-president — also ready, willing and able, etc., etc. . . .

– Nor am I the completely no-talent child of a famous actor, musician, dancer, or sports star — prepared to glide through life on Mommy or Daddy’s name.

– I’m not dating any of those famous people indicated above.

– I don’t belong to a dynastic political family, like that Irish nut from Massachusetts who had a couple of much smarter uncles and father.

– And I’m not under indictment; not being chased by the FBI, the CIA, the KGB, the Mossad, or any other scary people; or possessed of the state secrets of any country. Not as far as I know.

As I said, I’m nobody special, except to a few people who are stuck being my relatives, and a few others I’m lucky enough to call friends. But I once had a fascinating international adventure, and it’s still relevant to what’s happening in our world today; so I’ve written about it. And if there’s anyone out there who can tell me what to do with it . . .

Ah, forget it. I’ll figure it out.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/2/24