Copyright © 2005 by Blake Charlton. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
From: Blake Charlton
To: My Peoples
Date: Oct 6, 2005 12:06 AM
Subject: Everything I Needed to Know about Being a Writer I Learned in Middle School.
***Hi, I'm sending this email to you because a) I think you're awesome and b) at some point you expressed interest in updates on my book. If this isn't the case and you'd rather not get such diatribes about writing, publication, and the early 90s, simply reply with the subject heading: TAKE ME OFFA THIS STUPID LIST, BLAKE! We now proceed with the regularly scheduled email.***
So, when you had a crush on someone in middle school, did you go and tell them? Of course not. It would be as unconscionable as wearing your clothes backwards or-if you went to middle school in the early 90s-wearing your clothes forwards (Don't pretend like you weren't listening to Kriss Kross).
Back to your crush: clearly *clearly* you made a friend approach someone in your beloved's entourage. A report was brought back, and if positive the friend was sent back for negotiation. At the end of the stomach-cramping early adolescent non-encounter you'd come away with a comment like: "Brad might ask you out this week if he doesn't ask Megan out first", or "Jenny won't say no if you ask her to dance unless it's during 'Stairway to Heaven'."
Maybe we don't wear snap-bracelets or listen to PM Dawn anymore, but otherwise a mid-20-something writer has a life unchanged since junior high. Take my situation: two weeks ago my agent calls me to tell me that while things didn't work out with Doubleday, there are other fish in the sea. I'm interested. "I think Tor likes you," he says with a you-rascal-chuckle, "they think your book's cute."
Oh really. Tor (the company, not my brother-in-law) is a science fiction / fantasy house. Sure, it's the most prestigious SF/F house, but still I'm not sure it's hanging out with the 'cool' kids. Matt's got other ideas; he butters me up with talk of the editor I'd be working with and the potential for success.
Okay, it's sad, but it's true: when you were in middle school and a bunch of your friends thought someone was hot, you started to think they were hot too. As previously noted authors = 7th graders, ergo in a few days I'm day dreaming about Tor and (if I were a girl) I would have been inking its name along with heart-shaped doodles on the margins of all my pages. I emailed Matt with the green light.
Then it strikes: a week ago, Matt calls his contact at Tor; they exchange thoughts about the latest puff paint colors and then move on to my manuscript. I get an email a few minutes later telling me that Tor is defiantly going to call me sometime before Friday to make an offer (i.e. pay me money).
All week I tote my cell phone about as if it were a religious icon and jump half a foot in the air every time it rings. But alas, they did not call.
By the next Monday, I'm weak in the knees and asking Matt in a shaky voice if Tor still likes me. Was it something I said? Does this shirt make me look fat? Is my head too shiny? "It's okay, Blake;" he says, "it's just a change in the fashion. It's cool to be late in publishing. Think of it as a trend. Remember when we went around wearing all our clothes backwards? Well this is a bit like that; when Tor says 'this week' they really mean 'next week'. In fact 'next week' is the new 'this week'. They'll definitely call next week."
So I wait diligently for the 'new' this week (that being this week [really, like this week you and I are bumping in around right now]). But despite my waiting, all's quiet on the eastern front. I email Matt. I wait. There's no response. At least no immediate response. Finally Matt calls. "Tor's not going to call you this week," he says. "There's another book they've started talking to, and it's the Jewish New Year, and then it'll be Columbus Day, and then the Frankfurt book fair is coming up. They'll call you next week. Promise."
It was at this point that I realized 1) my grip on sanity was becoming dangerously tenuous and 2) the myriad connections between jr. high and publication about which I have just informed you all.
So if you're interacting with me you can expect bouts of improbable remarks and scattered daydreaming with a chance of excitable chatter later in the week. (Hmmm, you might be the son of two psychiatrists if...you present your prevailing moods in weather forecast form.) And if you're not interacting with me, you should call/write me to witness said improbable remarks and scattered daydreams.
I miss you all and can't wait to catch up.
-blake