The following is personal writing that not many blog readers will enjoy. Oh well. That’s me.

Some back and forth with a literary agent in NY revealed that she can’t recommend approaching a publisher these days. As a lawyer, her remarks have to be very carefully read. Very very carefully. As a lawyer, her remarks are likely worth my net worth per word.

I’m interested in the psychological effect her remarks had on my writer brain. “You write well, she writes.” I ignore that. ‘Publishers are in distress these days, have gotten too big and won’t take a chance on a memoir that is not by a celebrity, has no special hook, and is not of the highest literary quality.’ (A paraphrase and not a quote.) I assume this rules me out. More importantly, it makes my book seem actually another huge waste of time in my eyes. “A novel is fiction of a certain length that has problems.” Look out and about at the vitriol aimed at the genre I chose: ‘memoir was once reserved for those who, at the end of life, had lived one worth writing about.’ What did I write about? Getting laid, taking a few courses, and a series of acid trips. Oh, and being scrutinized by post collapse humans. Most self serving and unlikely. This is borne out by the fact that I can barely get even my own friends to read it, and that only if I bike chain them to it and make them eat the key. The one I’m working on now is much much better, much much more commercial. I think that because I’m working on it now. (The minute self doubt creeps in, I found out, you’re dead.) But if one is going to keep writing books, and if one’s goal is to make money at it, and if the only venue available is the ebook, then, Mr. Beck, we’ve got ourselves some thinking to do.

So I looked at the Konrath again, and at some of his guest bloggers. I also looked at some who offer a critical rebuttal of his strategy. “Remind me again why we even need publishers?” ‘The story happens in the reader’s mind, is between the reader and the writer, and it doesn’t matter what the medium is.’ Most importantly: Konrath claims to be earning $100,000 per MONTH from his ebook genre fiction. If you don’t need a publisher, I wondered, why do you need an agent? I read a discussion which dealt with the fact that not all agents are created equal. ‘Some agents dump you after they fail to sell the first book. Some just keep taking more books and, in some cases, keep failing to sell. This drives some people to self publish. (Ebooks or Paper.)

The esteemed New York agent wrapped up the back and forth with the remark that ‘you need a lawyer to handle your copyrights competently.’ She also reminded me that her agency can sell books these days under current conditions (and now I’m enlarging on her dense sentence) because they are industry leaders. Fact. That red welt on my face is where she just smacked me. For the first time in my life it felt good. I wonder if I might have the B&D gene after all.

The best rebuttal of the Konrath approach concerned literary, as opposed to commercial. Literary won’t sell at Konrath levels, maybe not at any reasonable break even level, and maybe not at all. Literary needs help in the market. It needs help to even find a market. I don’t think it matters how literary it is; what matters is who wants to read it. The format might matter to a reader. I myself want my literature on paper. I’ll read it digital if I have to, but if I don’t I wont. I can’t see reading a kindle on the crapper.

Why don’t I just plunk myself down and write a thriller? You know, cop the style? I ‘write well,’ and it won’t matter what I write about. This is the ‘Why don’t you?/Yes but…’ game. Why don’t you?

Yes, but… Writing a book takes gumption and work. I can’t see wasting my words on a genre I don’t even like to read.

So Del and I bought a ton (well not a ton, but 40 reams) of paper. We also plunked down for some toner. She found a two for one deal, and was very proud of her acumen. I thought as I carried it into the house, ‘how many books am I going to be writing before I kick off?’ Not this many, likely. It turns out that my little editor brain can’t operate without a red pencil in hand while staring at a print out. So I at least need to print out a copy for proofing even if I’m selling an ebook. And I really do want to send people hard copies. Nothing says hello like a three hundred page doorstop! Include a cd and a pencil. Genius knocking.

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Live music is the other obviously expendable item in our lives, next to paper books.

In the studio last night, I was playing for a non-major ballet class. Why am I doing this at the height of my game? Because the non-dance-major general student population that takes these ballet classes is financially important to the department, and I want to be a good doobie. Because the young instructor is worthwhile as a collaborator, and she asked me nicely.

But it is a bit like the above story about the renowned literary agent in reverse. I might have been just ok when I got out here to Illinois, but by now I’ve gotten dance accompanying down. So when I sit there doing this gig for people who’ve been dancing in the regional studios to recorded music, the effect, as I can plainly see by the joyous faces coming at me is revelatory. I am on a mission to demonstrate that this is what it is like to dance to live music. It is not just any old live music but it is really good live music. I can kick ass at this gig because I’ve learned it and earned it. The iPod cannot, as I do, observe the ongoing dance and get under the movement, adjusting to the needs of the the dancers moment by moment. That these classes are not on the order of professional level dance training is irrelevant. These students are passionate about it and they give it all they’ve got. Some of them are pretty damned good. The teacher, though young, is excellent. She has everything one would want: force of personality, good material, and the ability to demonstrate with her matchless equipment. She’s under the spell of a mentor at the moment who, unfortunately, claps. I don’t mind the clapping when it’s competent. But there can be only one tempo reference in a dance class; that of the musician, me. In this case, I’m keeping mum about it, because this teacher is worthwhile, I don’t want to harsh her mellow, I am able to work under these conditions, and it is not worth the trouble it would cause to bring it up as a problem. (JT says I should.)