N1BW — Where new stories find their audience

SAGE ADVICE

A novella on how to get published

by Dennis Posadas

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

If you had asked me what I thought about getting a book published before I had done it, then I would have said then that it was like a big black cloud that you couldn't see through. A nebulous set of activities. A walk through a park in the dark.

Who knows what really got an author published after he had completed his manuscript? I didn't really know what it took then. Though I'm not sure even now if I know what it takes to get published. All I know is that I somehow made it.

I remember there were times I was up at 4:30 am to write before work. There were early mornings when I went on a run just to get the blood flowing. But at other times, I just turned on the laptop and tried to write some new passages for my manuscript.

“Is that you honey? It’s only 4:30am,” my wife Betty said, a lazy statement from the bedroom. I had a light on in the study, but the rest of the house was still dark.

“Go back to sleep hon. I’m just doing some writing before going to work,” I said.

The house was quiet again except for the clatter of my fingers on the keyboard. Somehow that sound was soothing to my ears. On occasion that quiet would be disturbed by an occasional car passing by that early through our street. It seemed at that time that my mind was extremely creative and words just seemed to flow out through my fingers and into the document.

It all started in high school for me. For some I guess they blossom late. But no matter when you start, it’s either the printed word seizes you to be part of its world, or it doesn't. For some, all that could mean is that they devour a lot of books - particularly fiction, and especially novels.

But that's still a good thing. No good published author ever became one without having been well read. How could one be a good writer without reading? Impossible I think. For without the frequent company of good books, one cannot pick up technique and style from the great masters. From their graves, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dickens, and the other greats could still teach us a thing or two about writing from their published works.

For those who say they can wing it without reading, I say baloney. Reading good books may initially cause us to imitate authors we like and enjoy when we write, but that is a good thing. For eventually, that imitation of good style gives way to our own style. That is the tried and true technique. Those who just attempt to write without reading the classics are just setting themselves up for an agonizing defeat.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Like I said, at that time, I had no idea what it took to get published. All I knew was that I loved to read and write. I was always at the bookstore when my friends were drinking or playing billiards. Or somewhere else perhaps. But I do recognize the power of drink at certain times in unlocking some creativity from our formal selves. An occasional beer or glass of wine, or even a brandy or cognac helps for me. With drink, all we have to do is to keep it in check and not lose control.

Now back to the story and enough of the preaching. As writers love to say, show don't tell.

Anyway, I was almost done with my manuscript at that point, and had been querying several publishers via email. The ones I liked and I thought would consider the kind of book I was writing. It was always a good idea, I thought, to check out the various publisher websites and make a determination as to whether I wanted to send my magnum opus to them. Those with really lousy covers and a lousy website were the first ones I eliminated. Why the heck would I want to associate my work with a publisher who doesn't even know how to design a cover, or does so in a lousy manner?

But as a new author I also tended to shy away from the really big names. Sure I could dream that they’d pick my manuscript, but I could also dream about winning the lottery. So I decided I’d go for the small and medium sized independent presses. Size wasn’t necessarily a determinant of quality. I saw a few major presses that I didn’t really care for, and quite a few small and medium sized presses that looked like they knew what they were doing. Besides the big publishers asked you to first get a literary agent to represent you, and I didn’t have one at the time. Those agents were quite hard to get I heard, even harder than getting some publishers.

I wasn't getting anywhere at that point as I recall. It was at that time that I realized I needed professional help. No not the kind of professional help where you sit on a couch and explain your problems for a hundred dollars an hour. What I needed was a writing and publishing coach, someone who could handhold me as I pursued this journey. I did consider several persons, but on the top of my mind there was really only one author that I wanted advice from.

That author was Bill Cervantes. And this, as far as I could recall, was my story as I recall it, with some of my thoughts on the lonely, frustrating, but sometimes exciting world of book publishing.

- - -

Bill looked at me as he sipped his cup of hot tea. The acknowledged author and teacher of young authors was blinking heavily. Maybe an important thought entered his mind as he looked at me; the novice writer who dared asked his advice. Anytime now, he would probably tell me the secret of writing and publishing a book.

I had known Bill for a long time. Well maybe knew him in the sense that I always saw his books prominently shelved in the bookstores. He was a legendary author, who hit the bestseller lists at age 25 with his first novel, The Reluctant Prophet. Bill had since followed that novel with a string of hits every two years or so. So I felt lucky when he agreed to meet with me, a nobody in writing, in his home a few miles away from where I lived.

I let the cup of tea his wife had served me cool a bit, as it looked steaming hot. I looked across his shoulder, to the wooden plaque on the wall. You couldn't miss it even if you wanted to. Carved into the hardwood plaque in block letters it said:

WRITE A BOOK BECAUSE YOU WANT TO START A REVOLUTION AND CHANGE HOW PEOPLE THINK.

"What did you say your name was again? Oh yes, here it is. John Rivera. Nice name for an author," he said. I just smiled and took that as a compliment. Finally I drank the tea. Still hot but now more manageable.

He placed the ceramic green tea cup on the black wooden table. Then he looked at me with a killer stare, like that of a sniper who had seen too many dead bodies on the battlefield. He suddenly brought down the cup from his lips.

"Leila, you made this tea too hot again!"

The dutiful wife approached her husband. She took the cup from the table and tasted it. Her eyes squinted, as if to agree with him. She looked at me, as if in pain.

"Well if you had let it cool for a few minutes it wouldn't have burned your tongue!" she said.

The two looked at each other with eagle eyes, as if ready to claw each other out. I just sat there, looking at the exit in case something bad happened. Then the wife, Leila I believe her name was, suddenly smiled, bent down and kissed her husband on the cheek. Bill, without rising, suddenly embraced her. It was like the two had suddenly evolved before my eyes from a pair of hyenas about to claw each other out, to a pair of lovebirds who couldn't get enough of each other. Finally Leila left, taking the tea cup with her.

Bill looked at me again. He used his fingers to comb his grey hairs back. Which was I think unnecessary because he had enough gel in his grey swept back hairdo to harden it to almost like a cracker consistency.

But then I was here to learn about writing from Bill, the acknowledged Master himself. Who was I to question what he would say? Enough with the smart assed questions, I told myself.

"So I understand you want to write. As in write a book? And get it published?" he said.

"A book. Yes, I'd like to write a book. And get it published of course," I replied.

"You could have just said yes. You just repeated what I said. Minimize unnecessary dialogue," he said. I decided to make a mental note of that. Tough love I guess.

I took my manuscript, which I had gotten printed and bound at the local copy shop, from my lap and placed it in front of him. He opened it carefully, turning every page carefully. His eyes scanned up and down slowly, as if to carefully read my masterpiece.

I couldn’t believe it. A bestselling author was reading my manuscript! I wondered what he would say. Would he think it was crap? Or maybe the next best thing to chicken soup? Cool it John Avery, I thought to myself. Just savor the moment.

"Is this your first manuscript?" he asked. Was that a good thing or a bad thing if he asked, I wondered. Enjoyment now started to turn into worry.

"No. I have a previous one, a short one that I did a few years ago. But I felt it wasn't that good, so it just sits inside my hard drive," I said. He kept thumbing through my manuscript.

"Yes, it's really like that. Even I've had some early work that never got published. But like you I still keep it. Who knows, maybe in the future I'll revise one of those and churn out something new," he said. A passage from my manuscript seemed to capture his attention.

"You do know that Foreword is spelled F-O-R-E-W-O-R-D right?" he said. "Did you even spell check this manuscript?"

I was speechless. This was like dressing up for a business meeting with your best suit but then be told that there was a hole in your trousers. I couldn't tell him that my Word license had expired, and that I had taken to using the free version of WordPad with no spell checker. Oh my. He must think I’m a loser. This was not going well.

He could see in my eyes I was guilty. I knew it. He had that disappointed look, then calmly closed and slid my manuscript back to me. Then he stood up and combed his hair with his fingers. The calm had returned to his face.

"You may show yourself outside the door. Just come back when you have spellchecked and proofread this thing. Don't waste my time." His voice was firm, but there was no anger I could detect.

I stammered my goodbye, then grabbed my manuscript and headed towards the door. I think tears were starting to well in my eyes.

"Wait," he said. "I was a newbie author once. Sit down."

I walked almost like in a trance back to my seat like a schoolboy caught without his homework, unsure what to expect. Bill stood up, went to his filing cabinet and rummaged through it. Then it seemed he found what he was looking for, a yellowed ring bound manuscript. He placed it in front of me.

"The Senior and the Sea?" I said, looking at the manuscript. He looked across the room, as if unsure how to begin. I bravely took the yellowed manuscript, and flipped through some of the pages. I was a bit amused. The prose wasn't that good. In fact it was actually bad. I wasn't sure Bill really wrote it. If he did, it would come as a shock to many of his fans because his trademark pristine prose wasn’t in this yellowed manuscript.

After leafing through enough pages, I felt this manuscript reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite place my finger on what it was. All I could tell was it was about fishing.

"Lousy isn't it. I wrote that when I was nineteen and a sophomore in college. I wanted to try and imitate Hemingway," he said.

Suddenly it clicked. Of course! Ernest Hemingway's classic Nobel Prize winning The Old Man and the Sea. I couldn't believe he tried to make a knockoff. I tried my best not to stifle a chuckle.

"You tried copying Hemingway?" I asked. He nodded. Somehow my confidence returned. Hehe, I’m actually better than this guy, I thought. I even wondered what the inspiration for his first novel, The Reluctant Prophet, was. I decided not to ask.

Bill took the manuscript and placed it back in his filing drawer then went back. "Everyone starts out even subconsciously, trying to imitate but not really copy mind you, someone whose writing they admire. In my case it was Hemingway. And everyone who starts out, starts out bad. Or in my case, as you can see, really bad,” he said.

I thought, well you can't go wrong with old Ernest. But in this case, he did. I thought to myself how much this manuscript could fetch on the market. It would make a great conversation piece, at least with his fans and even his detractors.

Bill apologized for his outburst of my grammatical faux pas, and then said he also made mistakes along the way. "Really the only way you'll improve as a writer is to read a lot of the classics. The properly edited books and novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dickens, Rowling, or any good author you like. Read them all. You’ll like some of them, and you’ll hate some of them. But that’s not the point. It’s getting exposed to different styles and voices. Maybe eventually you'll develop your own style, but initially you'll end up imitating someone else's style. And that's fine, at the start," he said.

Read, read, read, he told me. "Then keep writing. Some, no most of it, will be bad. But just keep reading and writing. Eventually you'll improve," Bill said. He stressed that you couldn't be a good writer without being a voracious reader.

It was only then that I noticed what was obvious. He had a lot of books. Mostly on the shelves, but also a lot of those stacked on the floor. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Maugham, and other great classics mixed in with some contemporary books.

The yellowed manuscript? He said all successful writers have some early work that never makes it to publication. Aside from constant rejection, he also told me to prepare myself for work that would never see the light of day. Rejection, yeah I thought to myself. The writer’s constant companion. I already knew rejection too well. In fact I looked forward to never hearing from it again. Though I heard even the well-known writers still got a rejection note on occasion. Maybe not as much, but they still got those notes.

"My Sailor and the Sea manuscript will never be published. But that's fine. It was part of the publishing journey for me. You'll have your own body of early work that never sees print, but it’s part of the price to getting published. That's if you stick around with it," he said.

I didn't bother to tell Bill that I did have a few unfinished works in my hard drive. But I didn't want to linger anymore. He looked like he wanted to go somewhere. Maybe that, or I was just too overwhelmed and wanted to seek solace in my thoughts somewhere.

"Thanks Bill. I appreciate your advice. I won't waste it. And I hope you’ll allow me to come back with an improved manuscript," I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. Frankly I was both confident and dejected. It was a bit hard to explain, even to myself.

“Of course. Come back when you’ve made your revisions and cleaned it up,” he said. Then he got up and retrieved something else from his filing cabinet. It was a paperback with selected chapters from the classic authors.

“This is yours. Anyway I have a spare copy somewhere here. This book has some excerpts from good old Ernest, F. Scott, and the others. But I made some notes on the margins. See how I paid close attention to how they constructed their sentences, their passages, and their characters. It will give you an idea how you should read so you can write better,” Bill said. I took the paperback from him.

“Thanks Bill. I’ll read this as soon as I get home,” I said. Frankly, a paperback with his personal notes on it must be a collector’s item, I thought. I was extremely pleased to say the least.

He shook my hand and wished me luck. I showed myself to the door.

- - -

Outside his door on the way to my car, I looked at the manuscript that I had written. True I had not spent the time editing it, but that was because I was going to show it to Bill. He would have edited it for me right?

As soon as that thought entered my head, I suddenly dismissed it. Why would he copy edit it? Maybe he would provide feedback as to style, but it was my job as a writer to ensure that at least some semblance of editing and rewriting was done on my own manuscript. Or if I couldn’t do it, I should have hired someone or asked a friend I trusted to copyedit my work.

"You are right about that buddy." That was Bill's voice. What the heck?

I turned and looked up. There he was on the second floor balcony of his house, with his wife Leila. Both of them were smiling at me.

I thought, how the heck did he read my thoughts. I hadn't even spoken a word. That would have been flagged by an editor if this had been in a book. I could read the red ink mark on the manuscript: first person in omniscient point of view!

"You're right. I can't read your thoughts. I don't know what you are thinking now. But I just want you to make sure that your dialogue agrees with your characters inner thoughts. Even if I can't read your mind, you as the author should make sure your voice and point of view are correct," he said.

He was right. Often, new authors made mistakes about switching between the omniscient narrator point of view and the first person point of view. It was best, for all concerned, to just stick to one. If you were going to do first person, stick to that. If you wanted omniscient, then do that. But don't mix those up. Although some of the big writers could pull it off with their experimental work, but for new authors it was best to stick to the basics.

"I got that. Omniscient versus first person mistakes," I said. He nodded. "I will come back. I will check, edit and rewrite this manuscript as best as I can. Then, I'll come back and seek your advice Bill," I said. Then I held my manuscript up high with my outstretched hands for him and his wife to see. They looked at me with a quizzed look, as if to say I could do without the excessive drama.

But then he flashed me an ok sign with his finger. I waved goodbye then walked to my car. When I turned back, they were both gone.

Weird day.

- - -

That was how I first met Bill Cervantes. As I drove home that day, I thought of why I wrote in the first place. Some people write just because they wouldn’t know what else to do. Well at least in the sense of finding fulfillment. Of course, they would probably have a job that earns them their keep, but they write because it completes them. It gives them an outlet for their creativity, and makes their lives much more fulfilling and sane.

Then there are those who need to communicate something to the world, be it an earth shaking technical finding, or a topic that they can teach and find that having it as a book adds to the way they can spread their discovery, finding or learning.

There are those who have an argument and wish it to be argued with as much force and logic that they can muster. A book allows them to develop their argument fully.

There is also the entertainment factor. Some books are simply fun to read. Or they can scare us out of our wits. Or make us fall in love or hate a character so much.

But as for myself, I thought I fell into the group that had a desire to change the world through their writing. For me it couldn’t just be writing for its own sake. It had to carry a message that would change this imperfect world of ours for the better. I wanted to move men’s hearts and minds with a book.

Or maybe the best books were really catalysts for social movements, at least that’s what I thought.

I saw my house in the distance. I was almost home. This self-reflection on writing was good, I thought. At least it was clear to me why I was doing this. After all, the question as to why someone would write a book must be answered first of all by the author himself.

- - -

The next day, I faced the blank document on my word processor. My head was empty. Nothing. Nada. Writer's block had struck. The muse, so to speak, had left.

Just to add more insult to the pain, I got more rejection notices in my inbox. Plus the other publishers I had queried hadn't even bothered to respond. I felt like my rejections had their own rejections, so to speak.

Normally the numero uno advice for writers is to glue their pants to their seats so they won't concoct an excuse not to write. However in this case, the opposite was true. Someone told me once that one cure for writer's block was to do something other than writing. Go running. Catch a movie. Take the wife to dinner. Cook. Takeout the trash. Feed the dog. Anything that took the mind off writing. Then approach it again after with a clear mind.

I took the running shoes from the closet, laced them up and stepped off the door. The weather was cool outside, perfect for running. I started slowly after stretching, then picked up the pace slightly. Once I got my pace, running was like meditation. You were then free to think about various things. My relationship with my wife. The subtle differences between the different types of red wine.

This was great. My heart rate was at the right level. I tried to think of varied things but my book always seemed to try and enter my head. I resisted that. The point was to take a break and get it out of my head. Playing music that I enjoyed as I ran often helped.

I ran past the rolling lawns, past the fire trees. Zipped through the kid’s playground. Snaked through the running trail. I could see the mountains in the distance with their tops covered by cotton like cumulous clouds.

Then I took a quick shower, and afterwards I was like a new man.

But for some it wasn't that simple. Sometimes no matter what you did, you just needed to wait until the inspiration came. There were no fixed prescriptions, you just did what you had to do to get some inspiration to write. For me the running helped to clear my mind and bring the muse back.

So I picked up the copy of the paperback Bill gave me. I saw how each author wrote differently, in his or her own voice. Each had a personal style, but still adhered to the rules of proper grammar and syntax. On occasion, there was some experimentation in there. But as Strunk and White had pointed out in their famous little book on writing, it was to be done only if you knew what you were doing.

Now it was back to the chair and the laptop. I applied the proverbial glue between my pants and the chair in huge amounts. I also made sure that all my social media pages were closed, because they were just a distraction to writing. Come to think of it, if I collected all my social media commentary from the past, it would have probably been enough to fill an entire book and then have extras for dessert.

Someone had told me once, or maybe I read it in a book somewhere, that rather than think of taking a vacation somewhere to write an entire book, it was probably better to commit to writing a few words a day. After all, five hundred words a day written during the span of a month or thirty days was 15,000 words. Maybe not quite a novel, but you get what I mean. This compared to the typical notion that setting aside some time just for writing, well sometimes it works for some, but often it really doesn’t. So for me, it was the consistent tiny snippets of time regularly set aside for writing that worked. And so I did. I told myself a few weeks ago that I would do at least 500 words a day, every day. If I could do more, then better. But 500 words a day was to be my minimum.

After that I was like a madman unleashed. I wrote, edited, rewrote and re-edited my manuscript. I'm sure this will be perfect, I told myself. I can do no wrong, if I persevere. This and other white lies that I told myself actually helped in a way. They kept me psyched up into believing I could do it, so maybe it would actually come true.

Suddenly Betty peered over my shoulder. "Why are you using the British spelling for tire (as in tyre), and in the same breath using the American spelling for endeavor (instead of endeavour). That set us off on probably thirty minutes worth of discussion that I could have used for writing more passages.

But she was right of course. Thank goodness for that second pair of eyes to catch my mistakes. Every writer needs one. I knew some confident writers who felt they could proofread their own work. Maybe if you set aside the work for a few weeks then read it again after with fresh eyes. A big maybe. But having a second pair of eyes was even better – if you got along well with the other person and could accept his or her criticism.

BZZZZZZ. The darn alarm went off. Time to head off to work. Fortunately, I acceded to Betty and converted all the words to their American equivalents. Not that I didn't like the Queen's version. I do enjoy a pint of Guinness every so often. But this was my manuscript, my raison d'etre. There was no way I was going to let Anglo-American relations muck that up.

Anyway, I didn't have much time to write, but I kept at it for the next few weeks during every available moment I had. Since I had my tablet with me, during coffee and lunch breaks I could do some writing and editing as well. Though towards the end I realized that a lot of it involved rewriting and actually removing passages or even paragraphs that didn’t make sense.

I sipped the last of my Cafe Latte from my mug. Then I thought, this was proceeding well.

One time Betty again peered at my work. "That's fiction right?" she asked. "Who’s going to buy that?" Seems I get that question a lot these days from friends and coworkers.

"I guess people who just want to get entertained, and at the same time learn something will want to read it," I said. Explaining further, I said that people who wanted to learn how to do things, or why things or situations were in a certain way might gravitate towards nonfiction. "But there are things that fiction can do that nonfiction can't," I said.

"Such as?" she said. As she did this, she brought the French press she had been brewing coffee on from the kitchen and proceeded to pour some on a cup then handed it to me. The fine aroma of freshly brewed coffee was always a treat for both of us. I always liked that part of the day when we were having coffee together.

"Well there is context. You can try to explain the context through nonfiction, but sometimes even in nonfiction you end up giving a fictitious theoretical situation - you know, like when you say 'for example?'" I said.

Noting her quizzed brow, I said it was really up to the writer to determine what his objective was and how he would achieve it, whether through fiction or nonfiction. "It's all a matter of personal choice," I said.

Betty looked at my manuscript on the screen and began to scroll through it. “I read somewhere that fiction is actually a good way to explain problems or concerns that have to do with how people relate to each other. Revolutions have even been inspired by novels, such as Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables,” she said. I pointed out many other books and novels that launched revolutions, or inspired them, such as Uncle Tom’s Cabin and other books that came at the right time.

“Yes, the novel is an ideal way to show the complications of human relationships and how this causes problems,” I said. It was the gold standard for depicting a social problem and giving the background and context for it.

I also told her that if a certain concept or argument fails to ignite passions in people, it might be because there is too much logic and not enough emotion in the way something is written. "The best fiction, in my opinion dear, is one that only plays around with contrived human situations but keeps the underlying facts straight and clear," I said. After those words rolled off my tongue, it hit me that I better make sure I used that piece of advice.

Though I told her, in situations like academic publishing, proper use of logic and data was the rule. "Though there is no reason you can't write it to communicate at least with educated lay readers," I said.

"Can you teach me how?" Betty said. I nodded. "Just watch what I do," I said.

She peered over my back saying nothing, just standing there, watching as my hand moved across the keys. I broke the silence. "There, it's done. I could use your help though, as a second set of eyes to proofread and give comments to the manuscript."

"You mean, like a first reader?" she said. I kissed her on the lips. "Yes, as a first reader. No matter how good a writer I may think I am, there are things that spell checking software can't catch," I said. She took a sip from her almost empty coffee cup and lowered it to the table.

"I get it. Just like I check your appearance like a little boy before you go to work," she said. Well, there she goes again. But then, that's why I married her.

"Sure, like that," I said. I stepped aside so she could take my seat and started reading my work.

- - -

Work was work, although it did have its great moments. Occasionally there were the interesting challenges. Mostly it was the type that required your immediate attention, and displaced everything else including the writing. But that was fine. It put bread and benefits on the table. I couldn’t complain.

One thing I noticed though was that it actually helped me to write better. The daily so-called monotonous and humdrum activities of life were actually fodder for a lot of my ideas. Not that I was going to write about what I did today or stuff like that. No not at all. It was more of, for example, how do you write about a corporate meeting if you hadn’t been to one. How do you give a fictional example of a discussion between an engineer and a finance person if you haven’t actually experienced or seen it. Examples like those. Work gave my writing a realism that no creative writing class could give.

This was why, I pointed out to Betty at one time that sometimes experienced people came up with really rich novels as compared to young writers from creative writing programs. “They’ve actually have a lot of rich experiences that they draw on for their fiction,” I said.

“How’s the writing?” my boss Joe asked. Joe was actually supportive. For him, anything that could make his staff more productive and think less about asking for a raise was good. We often chatted at least once a week in his corner office, a one on one meeting he gave all his direct staff so he could find out what was on their minds and to get updates on what they were working on as well as their concerns.

“Boss, can we talk about that raise I told you about in our last meeting?” I said. He looked at me, then looked out the window. It was drizzling outside and fog enveloped the buildings around us that day.

“You should do more writing John. I noticed your work has improved after you started your manuscript. I was a bit skeptical at first, but I can’t argue with results,” Joe said. It looked like he was avoiding the salary discussion. But I don’t give up that easily.

“Anyway boss, we’ve taken to eating mostly fast food these days. That wage you pay me isn’t really enough,” I said. He approached me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“John, don’t worry. If your book comes out, I’ll buy it,” he said. For some reason, I wasn’t exactly excited about having a guaranteed book buyer that time. He foiled my salary discussion attempt just like that. What a scrooge boss, I thought. He had his new flashy car and newly built palatial house. Contrast that with my beat up jalopy that was my sorry excuse for a car.

Both of us were talking and not really communicating. We were just spewing lines. I made a mental note to myself to not write dialogue like that.

- - -

Betty opened the door as I got back from work. The dinner table was set, with a new blue and white checkerboard tablecloth. I saw that a bottle of red Shiraz wine was open. She poured wine on both glasses and handed me one.

"What's the occasion?" I said. The food from the oven smelled good. It looked like she had cooked her delicious roast chicken with some potatoes again. I always loved that particular dish.

"Your manuscript. It's done. I went through it several times. I think it's ready," she said. The laptop was on as I approached the table. Sipping the Shiraz, I went through it at random, stopping at different passages.

"Okay, I'll continue pitching tomorrow," I said. "Thanks." It was really just a long day at work, and my body and mind was too exhausted to come up with anything for my manuscript. But I knew I would try perhaps in a while, as I had made a commitment to myself to do the 500 words a day at least.

She looked at me and smiled. Then she cut a piece of roast chicken for me and put it on my plate. She raised her glass. "To your book," she said.

"To our book," I said. Afterwards I just dropped the book subject and asked her how her day was. She seemed bright and cheerful, and her yellow dress just looked really stunning on her. She even managed to put on her reddest shade of red lipstick. I was such a klutz for not noticing that.

“You look nice,” I said. She smiled. “I thought you wouldn’t notice me unless I had a book cover and a few pages on me,” she said. She went on to discuss how her day went as she cut the chicken breast on her plate. But eventually she did steer back the conversation towards writing.

"I know there are no guarantees. I've heard some people endure countless rejections of their work from many, many publishers," she said. I nodded. She knew that it was the story of my life, at least for the past few months.

I nodded as I chewed the roast chicken, then sipped some of the Shiraz. "Writing and publishing is mostly an exercise in frustration. Writing the book may take time and effort, but getting the publisher unless you are well known, takes even more time and effort," I said. Sadly, some people don’t make it. They just give up I thought.

“But maybe that’s because they always kept submitting the same manuscript without making changes of improvements,” she said. Or I thought, maybe they were really just plain not meant to do it.

Maybe for some people this would seem like only certain people were preordained to do it. “Personally, I think if you did your best to clean up your writing with proper editing, your prose or poetry was clear and if you had something important to say, and you understood all the rituals and rejections of this industry, then there is no reason why you should get rejected,” I said. Although I thought to myself, it would be pretty easy to muck up any of those things I said.

She grabbed one of her books from the shelf. "What about university presses?" she said. I looked at the book and leafed through the pages. I told her that if I was an academic, probably I'd go for a university press, since the editorial selection for that type of a seminal book probably required the green light of experts in the field. "But what I want is a trade book, the one sold in bookstores. I'd like to mold the minds of the masses," I said.

She took the book from my hand and returned it back to her shelf. "There are popular books that do come out of university presses you know," she said. I nodded. There are exceptions to every rule, we both agree on that right? I nodded. Of course, I told her. The lines kept getting blurred on that distinction, particularly with some university presses.

We both discussed the pros and cons of self-publishing. "It's difficult, and how do you get people to believe your work. Especially if it's a serious topic, like an academic treatise? It really wouldn't work for that," I said. She tried to refill my wine, but halfway I declined. “I’m an unknown author, so despite all the hype about self-publishing, I’d probably still go with traditional publishers, given the choice. There are just too many things I don’t understand, and I’d rather just concentrate on writing a good book,” I said. She refilled the potatoes on my plate.

"Maybe granted for light, not so serious, short material, it may have its place. But it's hard to take seriously especially if no one edits your work and points out what you may have gotten wrong," I said. She nodded, sipped her Shiraz, and then fixed the pleats of her dress. I decided not to tell her about Bill's comment on my misspelling of the word foreword.

We toasted the value of having a second pair of eyes, an editor especially, to go through your work like a fine toothed comb. "Having a second person to review your work is always a good idea, especially if that person has a good command of language and is familiar with the topic you are writing about," I said.

We finished the bottle of Shiraz that night. We talked about other things. Yet unspoken was the hope that something good would come out of these efforts. Money? Fame? Change? Who knew. It was the hope that mattered. The only thing that mattered at that time.

- - -

Betty and I visited Bill and Leila back at their house a few miles away. Betty just joined Leila in the kitchen while Bill and I discussed how I could get a publisher.

"Can you prepare some coffee for us dear?" Bill said. He took a cigarette from his pack and offered me one. I declined, and he lit one up.

"Yes, Betty and I will serve it soon," Leila said. Both ladies went into the kitchen.

We heard some giggles then I resumed my discussion with Bill. Different publishers as it turned out, had different rituals on how they wanted to receive an author's manuscript. Some wanted the whole printed manuscript mailed in a certain format. Some just wanted an emailed chapter. Some preferred written correspondence, while some preferred email. I guess you just followed each of their rules to the letter if you wanted to play the game. Most, especially the established big houses, wanted you to engage the services of a literary agent first.

It was crazy though. Bill said some of these agents, especially the better ones, were just as hard to get as the publishers. But I tried looking at it from their point of view. Why waste your time with a nobody, especially if you were in the business of selling a manuscript on behalf of an author? You would probably go hungry if you treated this whole thing as a charity. But Bill, even if he had no problems getting an agent, argued the other view.

“How can you discover young and talented writers if you only look at the pool of people you know,” he said. Anyway, I agreed with him, but all I knew was that I was an unknown author who had no representation. So I guess I need to play the cards I’m dealt with. For now, if I was to get a publisher, it would be through my own means.

It's all a game, he said. Just a game. So you need to play by the rules.

I told him that as I went through the daily rituals of life, I just forgot about the manuscript for a while. I let it rest, and occupied my mind with other worldly, more practical things. Every so often, I'd send a new query, whether snail mail or email, as preferred by that particular publisher. I was always courteous.

"Good, all good. Always be professional when you communicate with these editors. Plus, the most important thing you will write will be your query letter, and the opening pages of your book," he said. "That's because those will be their first impression of you and your work. Else how can they judge you? Always be professional," he added.

He mentioned this particular writer who always wrote in pink stationery and put some perfume on her manuscript. “Don’t do those things. It just feels creepy or weird. I don’t think anyone even read what she sent,” he said. Bill also told me about one prospective author who tried to get updates via email from the publisher every day. “He probably thought he was the only author who dealt with that publisher, when in fact they get hundreds of pitches in their inbox on a daily basis,” Bill said.

Betty and Leila served the coffee. Nice bean, I thought, as I smelled the aroma. Plus this time, the temperature of the coffee was just right. And there was a nice slice of fruit cake that went along with it. Personally I loved fruitcake, though I knew a lot of people who hated it with a passion. So this was good. For me at least.

I told Bill that at the end of each working day, I'd check my email or my mailbox. Most days there was no reply. On certain days, there would be an email reply from a publisher. My heart would race a little faster as I opened the email. But then I’d be prepared for a letdown.

I told him I'd been getting replies like: Not for us. Thank you for your submission.

“Yeah, get used to it,” Bill said. He told me that even he still got some rejection letters on occasion. “Maybe not as much as you or even me when I was young. But I still get them. Rejection is par for the course for all writers,” he said.

I thought about his comment. That was my forty second rejection over the past fifteen months. Rejection must surely be the writer's constant companion. But that didn’t make it any easier. Was all this time I spent writing this manuscript all for naught? Will this just be something on my hard drive? Or should I post it online, or just publish myself online as an e-book? I asked him these questions, and I must admit he tried his best to answer them.

Betty and Leila cleared our coffee cups and cake plates and went back to the kitchen. Bill and I moved to his living room, where his books were.

"The publisher didn't even address you by name. Actually who knows. Maybe they rejected a whole bunch of you newbies in one swoop," he said. For most new writers, a comment like that would have hurt, but one thing about writing was, if you want to get published, you have to learn how to take a lot of rejection. A lot of rejection.

“If they address you by name and reply with a personal message, then that’s good. At least you’re not getting an impersonal reply. Remember, publishing is a trust and relationship business. Editors want to be able to trust the future of their publishing houses with your book, and they want someone they can work with,” Bill said.

Bill read parts of the manuscript again. This time I was more relaxed in his presence. I looked around the room. His bestsellers were on top of a grey steel filing cabinet behind his mahogany writing desk. A collection of small colorful Italian Murano glass figurines adored the front of the desk. Behind it lay his laptop, open and perhaps with his latest work open.

"John, do you remember the phrase 'show don't tell,'" Bill said. I nodded. "You have too many explanations here. Try to have some scenes in here, and less dialogue. Even for non-fiction writers, I give this advice. If they try to become too theoretical, I tell them to give some lay-friendly examples so they don't lose their readers," he said.

“Instead of explaining something, at times you need to describe a scene. It has to be something visual, with words that they can picture in their minds,” he said. For example:

The mountain was beautiful.

The mountain had a breathtaking greenish blue hue in the late afternoon. Cottony cumulous clouds covered the jagged peak, which looked like an inverted ice cream cone with the top chopped off.

He told me we were all in the entertainment business. "What do you mean by that?"

Bill leafed through my manuscript then sipped his coffee. "Look, you might have the ultimate cure for cancer in here for all I care. But the thing is, if you're going to bore the reader from page one onwards, no one is going to read your book. Assuming you got them past the cover, if it doesn’t look interesting from the start, maybe they’ll stick around for a few pages but eventually they’ll drop your book. You need to give them that compelling reason to finish it from start to end," he said.

“Writing is a craft. There’s some logic to it, but part of it is art. Use the power of words to communicate, but you also need to write in an enchanting way to get people to pay attention to you, to read you. It’s both what you write and how you write it. That’s where the power of words comes from,” Bill said.

He insisted that each sentence either revealed something new, or moved the book forward. "There is no room for fluff in a book. Get rid of filler. If the scene was introduced without revealing anything new about the characters, about the problem or it doesn’t advance the story to the next level, then get rid of it," he said. But in the end, he stressed the need for a balance. “You’ll know from experience once you’ve mastered it, when you need to do a scene, when you need to put in some dialogue, and when you just need to mention something,” he said.

Bill said there were no set formulas for balancing it, like one third dialogue, one third scene description, and one third inner thoughts of the character. “It doesn’t work that way. You’ll know it when you read it. Somehow you know that your book has too much dialogue, or too little scene description, or too many inner thoughts. You’ll just know from experience,” he said.

Bill talked about the importance of craft in writing. We actually spent a lot of time discussing it. “Craft is something you develop after writing for a while, with the intent of picking up tips and improvements from great writers you’ve read,” he said. He pointed to the classics on his shelves. “That is why I have those. That is why I have read, and continue to read and pick some ideas, from those masters of the writing craft,” Bill said.

Betty and Leila excused themselves to go walk in the garden. Bill and I acknowledged them, then thought maybe it would be a good idea to walk outside. It was actually a lovely summer afternoon. The birds were chirping, and the sun was low on the horizon which meant it was now a bit cooler outside. All four of us strolled through Bill’s garden, lovingly tended by Leila. The red roses were in full bloom. Leila plucked one and told me to hand it to Betty. Betty was quite pleased, and she held on to the rose as we walked.

“I’ll tell you something about reading the classics though. First time you read a classic work of say Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or even the newer authors like Paul Auster or Haruki Murakami, you read it the way everyone reads it. You absorb the story right?” said Bill. I agreed with that.

“Yeah, but then the second, the third, the fourth, and so on time that you read whatever author whose style you’re trying to understand, you no longer just pay attention to the story. You pay attention to how he or she constructs a sentence. Word choices. Do they like long or short sentences? How they handle dialogue. How they setup a scene. You look at everything, maybe even go into their psyche about why they did it that way. Only then will you begin to understand what is meant by style. Not in a shallow sense, but in a real sense,” Bill said.

That comment of his made me pause a while. “Wow. I never thought of it that way. Actually dissecting how an author writes? Not just reading his work, but actually taking it apart, sentence by sentence. Knowing why they pick certain words. I mean, wow. I never thought of it that way,” I said. I was still in awe about what he just said.

“Yes, this isn’t an easy thing we do. Amateur hour is easy, but if you want to play in the pros, you need to do certain things to be better,” Bill said.

After a while Bill and I walked back inside. He offered me a cold beer, then opened two bottles from the fridge.

"Oh, and maybe I already told you this before. Don't speak in the passive voice. It's boring!" he said. He sipped his beer, then started typing two sentences.

The car was driven by me to the store.

I drove my car to the store.

"Which one sounds better?" he asked. I pointed to the second sentence. "This one," I said, pointing to the first sentence.

Aim for a balance, he told me. “If it’s rendered with too much slang and street language, it ceases to command respect. On the other hand, if the tone of voice of the book is too formal, then no one except academics will read it. And only because they have to,” he said.

Bill said most people who aren't used to writing for many people often adopt a formal tone. If you are writing a formal paper, then by all means be formal. "But when you shift to writing for the mass market, use the active voice. Most new writers use the passive voice because it's safe. But remember, what I said?"

We both chuckled. "We are in the entertainment business," we both said. I made a note to myself to drop the passive voice and to look out for when I subconsciously used it.

"Finally, the adverb is not your friend. Look at these two again," he said.

He walked across the floor lightly so she wouldn't hear him.

He tiptoed across the floor so she wouldn't hear him.

Bill explained that the first one wasn't really wrong, but it could be written better. So the second one was better. "Remember, it's about entertainment first and informing or convincing them second. If they don't pick up and read your book, you've accomplished nothing," he said. I again took note of that important piece of advice.

Betty and I left their house that day with mixed feelings. I was still confident I would eventually get my book published, but when? It was pretty frustrating to say the least.

- - -

And so I just continued with the grind of life. Taking the trash out before work, making sure the cat didn't mess with it, and all the daily rituals before leaving to face hours of gridlock before reaching the office. My boss Joe and I would still have that funny dialogue where I’d bring up the raise, and he would say that he would buy my book when it came out.

Every so often I'd see a publisher imprint in the bookstore and check it out on the web. I was now looking at smaller presses, not the conglomerate mega publishers. I didn't have an agent, so my best chances lay with lesser known, but often better quality publishing houses run by people who really loved books.

“Are you going to buy that book dear?” Betty asked. No, I told her.

“Then why are you bringing it with you to the cash register?” she said. I just shook my head and returned it to the shelves. The bookstore clerk was looking at me in a funny way, as if to say, there’s this dolt who doesn’t buy any books but just spends his time browsing at the store.

- - -

One summer day in May, I received this reply in my inbox.

Dear John - Sorry for the late reply, we've been swamped with pitches over here. I took a look at your sample work. It sounds interesting. Unfortunately, we only publish nonfiction books at this publishing house. Might be better if you try other publishing houses that publish this type of work. Please do checkout our website for a list of the types of books we publish. Thanks, Johnson McGee

I looked outside the window. Joe was leaving the parking lot in his shiny new red Mercedes coupe. Self-doubt was starting to creep in. Though the publisher did address me by name, it was still a rejection. Worse, it was rejected and it never had the chance because they didn't publish my kind of writing. Damn! I should have done my research first and not just send queries and first chapters blindly. I frankly just felt defeated at that point.

Though on the bright side, as Bill had mentioned, this editor had at least made a personal email that wasn’t a form letter. So on that point at least it was good. Even if it was still a rejection. Trying to find the silver lining in those dark clouds of rejection, even if it was sometimes hard, somehow made things better.

Still I was losing hope. Even if I had psyched myself for the numerous rejections I could expect, it was getting to me. It was just too much frustration to handle. I needed to talk to a friend. I thought of my old buddy from college, Jack. Maybe he could help ease my frustrations. I called him on his mobile. Fortunately, he was just about to leave work and we could probably have a round of beer before we both went home.

At the bar with my best friend Jack, I poured out my frustrations. "This thing is starting to ruin my life Jack. It's all I think about. It's like unfinished business that nags at you until you finish it," I said. The bartender knew what we both liked. He opened us two bottles of our favorite micro brewed beer.

I toasted Jack, and told him about my travails with publishing. Then we also talked about work, and our personal issues. You know the type. The type only men can talk about.

But it must have been something I said about past hang ups that got him started. I mean it was probably something I just said in passing, and I don’t even remember what. But apparently Jack was waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Frankly I thought this had been over many years ago, but apparently it wasn’t.

"I still can’t get over Bessie man. How she left me just like that," Jack said. Then he proceeded with his usual thread about his old flame and how she suddenly left him.

I suddenly regretted giving him an opening. We had just barely started to drink I know, but then I took the half bottle of beer left and swigged it all down in a few seconds, then stood up. I took my wallet, picked out a few bills, and left it on the counter.

"Jack I have to go. I thought we were going to drop this subject. In fact I think we agreed we were no longer going to talk about this. It’s done man. I need to do something with Betty tonight sorry. These beers are on me," I said. He turned to me, sipped his beer.

"Well thanks buddy, but don't you have time to talk about Bessie and me?" Jack said.

I looked at him and put my hands on his shoulders. "Jack, I've heard this story endless times from you every time we have a drink. Get over it. She left you five years ago," I said. Granted my voice was slightly louder than usual because the customers nearby suddenly turned to us.

I was expecting Jack had moved on, but apparently he hadn’t yet. Just before I pushed the bar door, I heard him shout.

"Same with you John. You need to give up your book. You're just a wannabee writer. You've been rejected more than forty times by publishers!" Jack said. When I heard that, it dawned on me Jack and I weren’t that different. It was the same with me and my writing. I refused to give up on it just as he refused to give up on Bessie.

But his case was different wasn’t it? I had hope, and he didn’t.

I just left him there holding his unfinished beer. I didn't have the patience or didn’t have the time to psychoanalyze what Jack said and what I was going through. Maybe he was right. Maybe I just refused to admit it.

But then again, a lot of writers had some type of neurosis or hang up. Maybe that’s what made them better writers. I didn’t know how to answer that. It was time to go home.

- - -

On the way home, I felt I must have been too hard on Jack. Well sure his story of unrequited love bored me to death. But then I thought, wasn't that the same as an author who was passionate about his book talking about nothing but his book? I mean, there were times when I caught myself doing that, even with Betty. And then she would remind me that there were other things that needed to be discussed. Or that on occasion, I should pay attention to her. You know, those things.

Well many writers seemed to be caught up in their own self-importance. Not just their own, but also their work, their manuscript. I wasn't one of them. I was perfectly aware of when to savor and get caught up in my own world, my own writing. I knew when to turn it on, and when to turn it off. I wasn't like the typical caught in their own world author. I wasn't like Jack being caught up with Bessie.

Or was I actually like Jack? Caught up in my own self-importance? I thought about it carefully as I passed the red stoplight that I might be like Jack. Oops, now why did I just do that, I thought.

Suddenly, the flashing lights of a police car pulled me over. Where did that come from? The officer stepped out, in his black smart looking uniform. Well lucky me, it was a lady cop. I'm sure I'll weasel my way out of this one, I thought to myself.

"License please," said the female cop. I pulled out my wallet and got my license, which I handed over to her. Just then I remembered that Betty was expecting me for an early dinner at the park, after which we would go out!

"You passed the stoplight. Did you have a drink?" she said.

"Officer, no. Sorry, my mind was deep in thought about something," I said.

"Well, whatever it is that you were thinking of, may I suggest you pay close attention to the road? Lucky you that there is hardly any traffic at this time. But the next time you might not be so lucky. A car could come from the other side at high speed, and crash into yours. So your problem might turn out to be the least of your problems when that happens," she said.

I apologized profusely, and realized she was right. I was criticizing Jack for talking endlessly about Bessie, and here I was unable to go on with life's daily routines without knowing when not to think too deeply.

"I'll let you go again this time. I see you have a wedding band. I'm sure your wife and kids would appreciate seeing you alive. Whatever it is you are thinking about, think about it at the right place," she said.

I thanked her again profusely and apologized. I was late for my date with my wife. The book and publishing could wait. That ability to shelve something that I was passionate about, was going to be key if I wanted to succeed in both this and in my own life. Because there were others around me, other important things, and it wasn't just about books.

- - -

Betty decided we were going to sort of have an early dinner at the park that day. The sun was just about to set, but the wind was blowing gently. It was a nice day, the remnant of a sunny one. Kids running around with their parents having fun. Someone trying to practice his soccer moves by kicking the ball on to the goal post. He wasn’t very good as he failed to score a goal after several attempts.

Betty and I just sat on the bench and enjoyed the park view. She unwrapped the chicken sandwiches she had made, and handed me one along with a soda pop. I saw no point in telling her about the incident with the female cop.

"I don't want to have to be the one to say this, but don't you think you should give this up? I mean rejection by more than forty publishers? Doesn't that tell you something?" she said. A kid zoomed by quickly in front of us on a bike. An elderly couple who were both eating ice cream followed slowly behind.

Slowly I chewed a bite off the sandwich and swigged my soda. "The thought has crossed my mind that maybe this won't happen. But there's no harm in trying more publishers, is there?" I said.

"I don't know John. You've been at this for some time. It isn't healthy, it's like an obsession for you," I said. I put my arm round her shoulders. The sun was almost gone by this time. The boy practicing soccer had packed up and gone home.

Betty started packing up. She looked annoyed. "Look," I said, "if by fifty publishers I haven't clinched anything, I'll give it up. I'll delete the manuscript from my hard drive." She could see from my forced smile that it wasn't an easy thing for me to say. The emotional attachment on my part was there for the entire world to see despite my denials.

"I don't want to force you to do that John. But I think if it's not going to happen, you need to be practical. Otherwise, it turns into an obsession," she said. I nodded and told her I agreed. Though she knew that hypercompetitive individuals like me had a hard time admitting defeat and throwing in the towel. But maybe in this case, it was the thing I needed to do. Learn how to cut and cut cleanly if nothing was happening. The thought of being like Jack in the bar suddenly made that thought easier to accept.

Although I still held out hope. "It's just a test of will. Mine versus theirs. It's just a matter of time and patience but eventually mine will prevail," I said. She agreed with that.

We left the park that day. Though she agreed with me, my shoulders were a bit drooped, and there was less bounce in my step. I felt she was right, and that all this pitching and writing may have been all for nothing. That’s what potentially hurt the most. The fact that all my efforts might just go to waste.

- - -

Bill agreed to meet me at the coffee shop near my office. There was a lunch crowd, but fortunately the owner found a small table at the back near the kitchen. Bill smoked a cigarette then put it out on the metal ashtray near the ketchup and mustard. I was first going to give him a comment about smoking and his health but then decided to just go straight to the point.

"I think I'm about to give up. This social media and whatever platforms you asked me to do while I am finishing my manuscript, well they take up some of my time. Actually a lot of it. I'm not seeing any return on investment on my time here Bill. Maybe I just wasted my time and yours," I said.

The waitress brought us our coffee and sandwiches. Bill stirred some cream slowly into his coffee cup. He seemed to take pleasure in the patterns that formed with the milk froth. He didn’t say anything for a while and just stared at the lunch crowd. Some of them knew him and tried to engage in some small talk with him, but they moved on to their tables. Then he sat up straight and looked at me.

"John, forget all about the social media and all the publicity you are trying to develop to attract publishers. That's icing on the cake. The question is, why did you write this book? Was there a burning desire on your part to do something?" he said. He grabbed his sandwich and starting eating it.

I told him that it was always my desire to pass on some of what I knew, what I held dear, to others. "Of course there was a burning desire there," I said, "because I feel I have something important to say." He put down his sandwich and took a sip of coffee.

"Was the desire enough to make you run through a brick wall?” he said. That was pretty graphic, but it made me think. “I’m still here,” I said.

“That metaphor of running through a brick wall is probably closest to what you need to feel to be a successful author. Do you remember that plaque on my wall, the wooden one?" he said.

I paused for a while. "Something like write a book because you want to start a revolution, and change how people think? Or something like that," I said.

"You got it. That's why you write. You don't write for self-aggrandizement. Jeepers, we've enough of those with the vanity presses and all. You write because you have a message that you need to get out, otherwise your chest will explode," he said.

Bill leaned in closer. "This book of yours, that's your message. It’s your manifesto. You see my friend, if you are going to let the naysayers beat you down, then you're already beaten. I mean I've read your book, and I think there is something important in there," he said.

“You think so? Coming from you that’s a compliment,” I said. A far cry from the first time I had met him when he almost kicked me out of his house, I thought.

“Yes I think you have something important to say. The point is not to give up. Publishing is a hard endeavor. Some people take years to get published,” he said.

The crowd was starting to leave to return back to their offices. Bill was almost done with his sandwich. He crumpled the wax paper wrapper and placed it on his plate.

"Look, there are no guarantees in this game. If the odds are there are one out of a hundred publishers who will accept your work, then you have to run the whole gamut of the one hundred publishers and risk rejection to see if you can get one. Even then you might strike out totally. But at least you can say to yourself that you tried," Bill said.

He was right. Publishing was not just an ordinary activity like selling candies in the store. It was one of humankind's most important activities. The exchange of thoughts and ideas was what made humans more advanced than the other species. But it wasn't going to be easy. It was going to be a small hole in a very big wall probably a hundred feet high and a hundred feet wide. A very small hole, I thought.

"Thanks for the pep talk Bill. I'm still in the game," I said. Privately I thought to myself, still in the game until the fiftieth publisher says no.

"John listen. Let me give you my most important piece of advice on publishing. If you never had a burning desire to write a book, don't start one. If you are writing one because you just think it’s cool, don't. Don't start it, don't finish it, and don’t even try to get it published. Because if you yourself aren't fully convinced that your idea is important, how the heck do you expect others to feel the same way. It's going to show man. You are going to produce crap," Bill said.

I finished my sandwich and coffee. There was almost no other customer in the coffee shop except us. I asked for the check, and paid it. He didn't argue. It was the least I could do for all his help.

I asked him if he thought that there were books that shouldn't be published. I held my empty coffee cup in my hands.

"I don't know. Maybe something that brings the human spirit down and has no value in bringing any aspect of life up. Maybe something like Hitler's Mein Kampf?" Bill said. "But books that uplift who we are as humans and affirm our value, definitely I think those need to see the light of print."

But then he explained that since an Editorial Board was only human, they did occasionally make mistakes in judgment. “Their decision is not necessarily personal. Well that’s if you’ve done your best to rewrite and fact check your manuscript. They’re only exercising a judgment. That’s it. Don’t take it personally,” he said.

"Before you go John, as we might not meet again after this. Like I said, you need that fire in the belly to sustain you. But in communicating with these editors, you need to be calm, collected and act professionally. Now I know you've been calm in dealing with these rejections. Getting rejected is par for the course here buddy. Lose the attitude, but don't lose your cool, they're just doing their jobs. If it's going to happen, it's fated. It's going to happen. If it’s not, then accept it and move on," Bill said.

I let his words sink in. I was being torn apart. Bill didn’t want me to quit because that was how publishing worked. Betty wanted me to quit at some point as a practical matter. Somewhere in between the two, I thought to myself, was the right path for me.

With a firm handshake and profuse thanks from my end, we both parted ways. It would probably be a while before I would see him again.

- - -

Sometimes it was difficult, with life’s daily challenges, to keep writing. But there were also times when you needed to take a break. Not just a break of a few minutes or a few hours to relax and think about other things. I’m talking about leaving your first draft and not looking at it for a few days or even a few weeks. Now that may seem counterintuitive. If the key to finishing a draft of a manuscript is to do a few words at least every day consistently, then why stop?

So I thought about that after I had finished my draft. It was something that Bill told me. Maybe it’s different for some people, but Bill and I agreed on this point. Besides, I thought, it also marked a personal victory in the sense that I was able to finish the draft.

“Once you finish a manuscript, leave it alone for a while. That could take a few days or longer. Not too long of course, but enough for you to get a fresh mindset so that when you review your work, you’ll spot some errors that you may have made when you were too attached to it. It’s hard if you don’t do that. You need to reset your mind before you review it and afterwards always send it to a second pair of eyes,” Bill once said.

For the next two weeks Betty and I just went our normal ways. But on the third weekend we drove off to a mountain retreat three hours away from the city. I had always liked driving there. We’d always play this game about who would be the first one to spot the first pine tree. Then stop at a point with a breathtaking view of the sea in the distance. After the first time we passed by, we stopped taking photos. But each time we went the view was different. The best one I recalled was when there was a slight drizzle, but the sun shone through in the distance and gave the dark cloud in the distance a silver lining. The shimmer at that time was also visible in the sea. This trip it wasn’t like that, but it was just as spectacular.

“So normally at this time I would expect you to be talking about your book or your writing. What happened?” she said. I told her I was just taking a break. “It’s actually good. Sometimes you need to take a break and get a fresh perspective,” I said.

“As with other things,” she said. I took the cue and placed my arm around her shoulders. The weather was chilly up the mountain. We just strolled through the grassy knolls and the fir tree hillsides like young kids. It was fun.

Then it was back to reality again. The weekend was over.

It was also back to my writing. So I looked at the manuscript again. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, this time I had it printed. It was tempting to think that by using the word processor checker you could find all the errors. But sometimes the error was conceptual. It was something that the spell checker couldn’t really find. Looking at it with fresh eyes, on a printed manuscript, really helped me edit it better, in my opinion. There I was with my red pen, encircling errors that I would correct in the document. Sometimes it wouldn’t be an error per se, but I’d think of a better way to say it.

“Are we going out tonight,” said Betty. No I told her. That night I was going to review my manuscript after a few weeks of not looking at it. Nothing was going to change that. Nothing.

“Yes, but that movie you were waiting for, tonight’s the last night. The funny one with Sid Carlson and Bess Taylor,” she said.

I paused for a few seconds. “Let’s go,” I said. The book could wait.

- - -

I got an email from Bill Cervantes in my inbox before sleeping. He had read my manuscript again and had some comments.

He wrote that I needed to have a story structure in my manuscript for it to read better. I typed back, what for? Betty was seated in bed, reading a novel before sleeping.

Just a few seconds later he replied back. According to Bill, even nonfiction books needed some logic in the way they sequenced their information. I thought, as I typed in reply, that of course since a human would read the work, definitely the information should flow logically. But my book was fiction, so I wondered what he meant by story structure.

The phone rang. “John, sorry for the evening call, but it will be quicker if I just explain it to you on the phone,” he said. I told him to go ahead and not to worry.

“Ok great. The typical story structure is called a three act structure. The first part is where you introduce the characters and their back story, and introduce the main conflict that the protagonist has to overcome including what the antagonist is doing to slow him down or stop him,” Bill said. Ok, like in the movies, I told him.

“Yes of course, like in your typical movie. The climax is of course that short part where the conflict gets resolved. Normally in favor of the protagonist of course if you want a happy ending. Then after that you close the story so it makes sense. The boy and girl walk off into the sunset and all that,” he said.

I asked about breaking the rule, like in some of the Avant-garde art films and books that I had read before I wrote my book. “Yes, you can do that of course. It’s your book. But the three act structure is a tried and proven story structure that many writers and filmmakers have used to become successful. Besides, you’re not a household name yet. If ever you become one, maybe that’s the time you can experiment. And let me tell you, even then, it doesn’t always work,” Bill said.

He said that literary novels could do that if the emphasis was on the inner voice and dialogue of the character as opposed to the plot and structure. “Are you writing a literary novel?” Bill asked. “Maybe eventually, but not this one. This one’s going to be more plot driven,” I said.

Betty signaled me quietly if I was going to take more time. I whispered that it wouldn’t take too long. I was also getting sleepy anyway.

“Some of those Avant-garde experimental novels and films, unless you like those, go nowhere with most people. They just can’t see where it’s going,” Bill said.

Betty was done with her novel. I just told her it was Bill on the phone, but she had already figured that out. She just turned off her side lamp and proceeded to go to sleep.

“Anyway John, I recommend in this case that you revise your manuscript and use the three act structure. Maybe that’s one reason why the publishers keep declining your manuscript. Maybe they don’t feel the work has an emotional pull. Maybe you’re just saying events that don’t really grab the reader and make him empathize for the protagonist. Anyway, that’s just a suggestion. It’s your book of course,” Bill said.

I agreed with Bill and told him I would consider it. It was getting late and only my small reading light illuminated our bedroom. “Thanks Bill. That’s really useful advice for me,” I said. We said our goodbyes and I hung up.

I’ll work on that tomorrow, I thought, before shutting off the reading lamp.

- - -

Early the next morning before work, I thought about what Bill said the previous night. Although I did agree with him that the three act structure was a good idea, somehow the thought of fitting my manuscript into that story structure didn’t appeal to me. I wished that I had thought about that before I started the manuscript, I thought.

Somehow I missed the fresh appeal of a blank piece of screen where I could type and be creative. But then I told myself, editing is also creativity. It might not be as exciting as writing a new manuscript, but fixing and checking your own work has its own highs. It was just that I had spent a lot of time already on this manuscript. But then, I wasn’t going to get anywhere if I didn’t fix this first.

Betty was still asleep but she would be awake soon. Anyway, if I don’t start this I’ll never do it. So I might as well, I thought. I would never be a real published author if I wasn’t prepared to do the dirty work. It wasn’t all about writing with a drink beside you on the beach while watching the waves break into the dunes. No sir, it was about doing the hard work of writing, reviewing, editing, revising, rewriting, and all the little things that would make your manuscript read better.

As my fingers typed on the keyboard, the rhythmic sound of the keys soothed my ears as I thought. I sipped my mug of coffee and put a large dollop of vanilla ice cream left over from the other day. It was so quiet; all I could hear were my fingers on the keyboard, the drone of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the electric clock.

I looked at the manuscript. It’s all about the reader and his experience with my book, I told myself. It wasn’t about me or what I thought my book ought to be. The sooner I placed the reader on a pedestal and thought about how he or she would be affected by my words, the better my book would become.

Betty awoke earlier than usual. She saw my mug of coffee with the ice cream and decided to have one herself.

“Morning dear. I see you’re already doing what Bill suggested last night,” she said. She sipped her mug. A cute little ice cream mustache formed on her upper lip. I decided to give her a morning kiss to scrape it off. She obliged. This ice cream coffee is really good, I thought.

Then I returned to the clackety clack of the keys. “Yeah, he said I should use a three act structure, just like in the movies. You know, where you introduce and buildup the characters for a while, introduce the conflict that the protagonist has to face, have a climactic scene with the antagonist, and then end the story with a conclusion,” I said.

“A typical American film. What about the Europeans? They have lovely films too you know. Sometimes though I don’t know what they mean,” she said. I told her Bill and I had that same discussion.

“Some authors can get away with experimental work. Experimental literary novels sometimes don’t emphasize plot and structure. They often dwell on the innermost thoughts of the characters,” I said. She decided to heat some bagels in the toaster and took out some cream cheese from the refrigerator.

I kept typing. It was almost 6am and I still had to dress up for work.

- - -

The next morning, Betty read the business section of the newspaper. She pointed out to me the news item about Albacore, one of the big hedge funds that had defaulted because of their large holdings in a particular company that had been cooking its books.

I wasn't paying much attention. I was looking at a small news item on the back page that had caught my eye.

"What's that?" said Betty. I showed her the back article in the business section. It was an article about Sycamore Press, a small but up and coming publisher, and how they planned to publish more tech fiction to beef up their lineup. I was moderately excited, but kept it cool. She seemed more fired up about the idea than I was.

"Well what are you waiting for? Go ahead and pitch it to this Sycamore Press," she said. Their editor, a certain Jane Austen, was mentioned in the article. I remember thinking to myself, wow what an appropriate name for a book editor. Jane Austen. I wondered if she was also an author.

Calmly I put my coffee cup in the sink and washed it. "I'll do that," she said, "you go on with what you have to do." She took my cup as I walked over to the computer, and looked at Sycamore Press on the web. After looking up the email address of Jane Austen on their website, I modified the standard query letter I had and was about to send it off. Well, here we go again, I thought.

"Wait. Don't say 'Dear Editor.' Address her properly, as in Dear Ms. Austen," Betty said.

I was such a klutz. Of course. In my hurry to almost send out that email, I forgot to check if my correspondence was perfect. Fortunately Betty was there, without too much emotional attachment to the situation, to guide me.

I pressed send. I may need to wait a day, or a week, a month, or maybe a reply would never come, I thought.

- - -

I often did a lot of thinking after I had sent a query or a submission, especially during my first few attempts at connecting with publishers. Initially I remembered the inappropriate multiple emails that flooded the editor’s inbox. Or the early times that I was too informal with my emails. I mean, I never said Dear Editor or something like Hey Chris, but during the first few times it wasn’t as polished as my later pitches.

“There’s a certain formality to this old world business. Be formal but not stiff,” said Bill during one of our previous chats. I could understand. I had been the recipient of many wrongly composed emails asking for all sorts of stuff, whether asking you to buy something or do something. Instinctively I felt I knew how to send an email properly.

Aside from that there was a certain skill that in hindsight helped me be a better author. It was the ability, once I had sent that email, to think that it would be okay if they rejected my work. That combined with the ability to forget about the submission first and concentrate on other things that needed to be done. That demanded that I compose my email carefully, look at it and make sure everything I wanted to say was there, send it and then forget about it.

That wasn’t always easy for some writers, I heard. Some of them were so anxious that they ended up bugging the editors in the different publishing houses. They may have been good or even great writers, but their anxiousness ended up ruining their chances of getting published. Although you did need to follow up on occasion, but maybe after a few weeks, and not a few days.

A few days after sending the email to Sycamore, Betty asked me if the editor had responded back. “No, but it’s fine. These things take time,” I said. Our dinner that night was roast chicken again. It would have been nice with some red wine again, but we forgot to pass by the store that day.

I recalled my first few rejection notices. Once I got the typical “not for us” decision, and I shot back a negative email to that editor. That probably got me nowhere with him and earned me an addition to his list of writers that he wouldn’t even reply to in the future.

I had to learn the hard way that while we authors loved our work, the gatekeepers in these publishing houses had to deal with many people like me. They had to make decisions that weren’t personal or were not necessarily a reflection of my work. It could be as simple as the statement they often made.

Not for us.

“So you’re saying they’re not attacking your work when they do that?” Betty asked. We were having this discussion in our car as we were driving to the store.

“Of course not. These editors, they have to deal with all types of cuckoo crazy writers. Some of them even use special stationery or put perfume on their pitch letters. So it’s best not to be one of them. They won’t want someone who is going to unload all their problems or lose their temper every time something is delayed or goes wrong. Just like you and me they don’t need the emotional baggage. Their salaries aren’t that great anyway. They’re in it because of their love for books,” I said.

Though privately I thought, just saying not for us, without benefit of some type of personalized message, was also inappropriate on the part of the receiving editor. Though frankly I could just imagine that these editors must have been really tired of seeing submissions with the word Foreword misspelled as Forward. I knew the feeling.

“I see,” Betty said. “I just wish you could also see it from my point of view the way you see it from theirs whenever we have an argument,” she said. We both had a laugh about that point. But she was right. It would also be great if I could also use that skill of empathy at home.

“But I’m glad you have that skill. Not many people have that. I’m sure the publisher would appreciate an understanding author who puts up with their delayed responses,” she said.

“So is it writing skill that gets one published?” Betty asked. The store was near, so I looked for a parking space. Fortunately it was a light day, so we got one quickly. This one was going to be a quick trip, just to buy some basics like bread, butter and eggs. We finished that business quickly and resumed our discussion on the way back.

“Yes of course. Mastery of the craft that comes after a long time of writing is key. But without the ability to avoid bugging an editor or to go ballistic on every rejection note, I think any author would have a hard time dealing with publishers in this nineteenth century business,” I said.

I told her that there were too many legends in their own mind who thought they were going to be the next great novelist or author. If you feel that way, keep it to yourself. Be confident but be humble and professional. Take time to master the craft. Don’t take rejection personally and just get used to it. I told Betty that it was the best way to get published.

“Patience, with a quiet confidence coupled with proper communication etiquette. Makes sense,” Betty said. I told her she got that right.

- - -

The reply came two weeks after. In the publishing world, that’s just like a second. I held my breath as I opened the email. I had to read it twice just to be sure.

"Betty, come see this," I said. She stood behind me looking at the message.

Dear John - thank you for your wonderful submission. I have looked at the sample chapter that you sent. It is extremely well written and I would definitely like to see more.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Austen

Editor

Sycamore Press

Betty hugged me from behind. I replied back to Jane and attached the complete manuscript. It seemed to take an eternity to attach the file. Then I pressed send.

An indescribable feeling of warmth and joy enveloped me, and seemed to relieve some of the stress I had been feeling over the past few months. It had been some time since I had tasted success in this arena of writing. Just being able to send out the sample chapter, was to me, like progress of some sort. Even though I knew the editor would probably, statistically speaking, end up rejecting it along with many others.

"Let's go to sleep. It's been a long day," I said.

"A long but fruitful one," she said. I hugged Betty. She had helped me through my journey and put up with my publishing fantasy ever since it began.

I didn't expect to hear from Jean possibly for at least three months. That was to give them time to read and reflect on my submission, and to discuss with their Board. I just went about my normal business but did from time to time, well actually all the time, check my inbox for updates.

So it was a pleasant surprise when she replied back to me at the end of the second month.

Dear John - it was indeed timely that you had sent your manuscript two months ago. Fortunately, our Editorial Board was meeting during that time and I was able to include it in the proposed manuscripts we were going to deliberate on. That is highly unusual, but the good news is they came back today with a decision.

We're going to publish your book.

Congratulations,

Jane

I stared at the screen for at least a few minutes. I saved that email just to be sure. Betty opened a bottle of Cabernet she had kept in the fridge. We drank some of it, but since I had to be early the next day, decided not to drink too much. But fortunately I did, as I couldn't have slept thinking about the book. I managed to sleep like a baby that night. My coworkers thought that I had been given a raise or something. It sure felt that way to me. I seemed to have that kind of smile you couldn’t wipe off your face, no matter how much you tried. Understandably so. I had gone through a gauntlet, gone through so much, before achieving this point of elation.

I called Bill the next day to give him the news. He was extremely overjoyed. "Told you so," he said. He even agreed to send in a blurb, those short sayings they have on the cover to attract buyers. I thanked him profusely over the phone. He said no need. Helping out a new author who could succeed with his help was thanks enough for him.

The next few weeks were uneventful. Then in mid-September, Jane sent me the publishing contract. I called a lawyer friend who had some experience with publishing contracts, and she advised me about what changes to suggest to their standard contract.

"Most important John is, you need to keep your copyright," she said. I kept that in mind. I sent the contract back to Jane, and she explained to me what they could and could not change. That led to a few more days of emails to thresh out the changes. Sycamore actually gave me the copyright in their template contract, but I heard that a lot of publishers took it for themselves in their contracts.

There were other provisions in the contract, and so I went through it line per line. Some things I felt I couldn’t accept, but the others were easy to accept. The thing was to read and review it properly, propose certain changes, but also be prepared to accept certain things.

One point of contention about the royalty was whether it would be based on the publisher’s net profit, or if it would be based on their gross receipts. But eventually I told myself that money wasn’t the reason why I wrote the book. On the other hand, I thought the royalties would help, given my circumstances.

Finally after about a week I said to Betty, I think this contract was something I could live with. Jane had told me that Sycamore agreed to raise my royalty rate by at least a percentage point. They drove a hard bargain, but I could accept the final terms of the revised contract. Besides, if I kept hammering at some demands, I might lose this one. Win the war, lose a battle, as they say.

I printed several copies of the book contract, signed it and mailed it back to Jane. I couldn't wait to get started.

- - -

Joe my boss called me into his office that morning. I was still in a daze and could swear that the ground I was walking on was a cloud. I did manage to close the door to his office and sat in front of his desk. He sat down on his expensive Aeron chair and just looked at me.

“Well, I don’t want to waste your time here John. You’ve been doing your work so well that I’ve decided to give you a raise,” Joe said.

I was speechless. I wasn’t sure if this was a joke. It was like I had won the lottery twice.

“Well?” he said, waiting for an answer.

I stood up. I don’t know what came over me and went to his side and shook his hand.

“Thank you boss! My wife Betty will be very pleased to hear this. I’ll be an even better employee and make more profit for the Company,” I said. He smiled upon hearing that.

“Well that’s good John. How’s Betty? How’s the book by the way?” he asked. I went back to my side of the table.

“She’s fine Joe. And the book, it’s going well. Well actually not just that. I also got a publisher!” I said.

“Well well, it’s looks like I am actually going to have to shell out money to buy your book. I didn’t think you were actually going to be published frankly, but that’s good,” he said.

I said my thanks again. I was happy for the raise and the publishing contract. I didn’t want our conversations to revert back to the way they were some days back.

Now that is how dialogue should go, I thought to myself.

- - -

I got back the countersigned Sycamore contract from Jane a few days later in the mail. Then Jane finally introduced me via email to the actual editor who would help me with my work as Jane was primarily the acquisition editor. Her job was to acquire manuscripts for the publisher, and not to actually do the editing work.

Hi John - hope all is well with you and your wife. Since we already both have the signed contracts, we need to work on the book in order to make a summer season launch next year. Rick is one of our senior editors, and he will personally be editing and guiding the manuscript through the process. He will help you with our house style, which is not too far removed from the Chicago Manual of Style that you might be accustomed to. Anyway, he will take over from here.

Best,

Jane

We started work almost immediately. Rick was quite friendly, and suggested some changes. Most of the changes I agreed with, some I decided to keep. Although some I didn’t agree with, as I felt that by doing so, it would read as if I didn’t write the book. He liked the fact that I had used the three act structure. “Some authors don’t use it, so sometimes I do wonder where the story is leading the reader,” he said. But he did add that in some cases, some fiction books could work without the three act structure.

We also discussed about style of writing. “My job is not to stifle your choice of words or sentences, but merely to bring those to an acceptable level of writing. Voice is an important consideration for a book. People have to believe that you wrote the book. The people who know you well know how you speak and write. We all come from different places, were educated and raised differently. So my job is just to make you the best you can be, word wise,” he said.

I was glad Rick and Sycamore Press wanted to preserve my voice. “A book is a way of having a one way talk with another person at another time. Once you’ve hooked the reader, you are taking him or her to another world. One that you created for the reader. So you need to make it perfect. Just like a nice dinner. Anything that distracts from that, be it a typo or wrong grammar, distracts from that experience. And that’s what we publishers bring to the table. We bring out the best in your manuscript so that together you can have that conversation of the mind with your reader,” he said.

I remember reading about authors who ended up with so-called famous publishers, but weren’t too happy with the way they were treated. You know, that “we’re the big and famous publisher, and you’re just one of many authors we have to deal with” type of condescending attitude. So I guess it wasn’t just a matter of getting a well-known publisher, but also dealing with people who were really going to do their best to make your book the best it could be. So with that score, I felt I was lucky in ending up with Sycamore and in having Rick edit my work. Liking and getting along with your editor, was I felt, important in making your book a good one.

Rick reminded me that while an author’s voice was important, certain rules held true no matter who the author was. For example, adverbs were not my friend.

"He firmly closed the door is a weak sentence. Try saying, he slammed the door," he said. He was trying to show me the power of language. It was there that I realized the value of an editor. Not just to correct my work and improve it, but also to hold my hand through the process of publishing.

Finally after probably seven back and forth revisions of the manuscript, we both agreed it was done.

Rick also gave some suggested cover designs. I was going all over the place with my suggestions, which was probably the reason he explained to me what the purpose of a cover was.

"A cover is like a billboard John. It’s not really art work more than it is a billboard or a sign to attract buyers. Sure it should be attractive, but more importantly it should attract your attention from a sea of hundreds if not thousands of books on the store shelves. From twenty feet away or so, it should capture your attention and scream at you, as if to say look I'm here," he said.

I thought that made sense. We settled on a cover with a glossy modern bold blue font over a white matte cover. There were others that were also compelling, but in the end I took his advice. It had to be something that fit the tone of the book, and could be seen from afar. Some of the more artsy type covers were nice, but I couldn’t read what the title was from several feet away.

"One cover designer I know tears up the cover design if it doesn't elicit that split second primal response he is looking for," said Rick. I thought, that's a bit extreme. But then with books, you sometimes don't get a second chance with the customer, especially with several thousand titles on their shelves. He didn’t have to, but Rick also showed me the fonts they were going to use. The typeset galley was a precursor of the thing I wanted to have the most.

He also explained to me the purpose of the back cover copy. “Along with the cover and the blurbs, it’s the hook that helps you reel in the customer,” he said. We worked on that until we were both happy with the whole book package.

We worked on all those. Back and forth. A few changes here and there. Then our job was done.

Oh wait, I forgot. I had to acknowledge the person who helped me complete my manuscript. I made sure it was in the book.

To Betty, with love.

- - -

As I awaited my copies in the mail, I did talk to Rick about e-books, paperbacks and hardcovers. It was a discussion about the pros and cons of each, but at the end of the day I thought, it really didn’t matter.

People, especially the older generation, associated paper books with libraries and bookstores. For many, I thought, these were fond memories of sitting with a book on the beach curled up with a drink and a good book, or in libraries where they could peruse all kinds of titles from great authors.

But I often saw the more tech savvy youngsters and even the not-so-young ones carrying tablets and e-book readers, reading a digital e-book. It seemed to give them just as much pleasure, I thought, as compared to reading a paperback book with acid-free paper and a nice type font.

“That shouldn’t really matter,” Bill advised me once in a phone call. “That’s like that debate between analog LP records and digital DVD discs. It’s only your words and the story that should matter. Whether it’s in a digital format, or in print, once you start reading it, only your story should matter,” Bill said.

I was becoming, like Bill, no longer technology centric. He was right. It was the words that mattered. No matter what technique they would invent in the future, a book was a book was a book no matter what.

- - -

The mailman arrived the next day. I knew what he was carrying. He was carrying the samples of books I was to receive as per my agreement with Sycamore. Betty closed the door then watched as I basically destroyed the packaging in my excitement.

There it was. The glossy bold blue fonts of the title over a white matte cover. The feel and look of acid free paper. I liked the modern fonts that they used, the clean simple but elegant look that the book projected. And across the top of the front cover was Bill's blurb.

John Avery Fernandez makes an important statement with this book - Bill Cervantes

While I did say to myself that the medium didn’t really matter as much as the words inside, I had to admit that this was a beautiful paperback. Sycamore Press really put a lot of work into making it look sharp.

It would definitely stand out on a bookstore shelf. Plus Sycamore Press was also going to make it available as an e-book. So I didn’t have to worry about that. Now all I had to worry about was how to market the book. Fortunately Bill had advised me to setup a platform, both in traditional media and in social media. But that was another story for another day.

That day I just wanted to savor my victory. There it was, the passionate statement about a change I wanted to see in the world. Now I could think about the talks I wanted to make, the opinion editorials I wanted to write, just to both plug the book and also explain to the public what the fuss was all about.

Here was the most credible of public statements, a book. My book. And it was worth all the effort and frustration I put into it.

- - -

Betty and I were having dinner at a newly opened Italian restaurant in town the next day. The place was packed, but we had managed to secure a table without a reservation. The brick walls were lined with pictures of various celebrities like Sophia Loren, Sylvester Stallone, and even Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Logos of various Italian companies. Ferrari. Cinzano. A photo of the A.C. Milan football team. Their wine rack on the side looked pretty complete.

The waiter was able to get us a nice corner table. A red rose on a white vase along with a bottle of red house wine acted as placeholder for the white tablecloth. The seats were spartan, and yet you could tell from the packed crown that the food was good. Magnifico as the Italians would say I guess. The waiter poured each of us a glass of Merlot. Betty toasted to my new book and to the raise. We had overcome the odds. We were still around.

“Now that you’ve done it, was it all worth it?” Betty asked. I could barely hear her from the noisy din of the other diners. She repeated her question, this time leaning towards me. I could smell her perfume and her presence coupled with my achievement and the ambiance of the place, made me feel a sense of joy.

“Yes. It was worth it. No hesitation about that. Despite all the hurdles, definitely worth it,” I said. I told her that maybe because we lived in a world these days where you could publish your opinion online in social media as soon as you had thought of it, the gauntlet of having to go through the rejection of several publishers was a throwback to the way it was done in years past. I was searching for the words.

“I can’t describe it honey. Maybe it was something like when you said yes to my proposal. Well sort of,” I said. She laughed.

I wasn’t the type to just say I would do something and not do it. I had said a long time ago that I wanted to write a book, and so I did it. That was something now checked off on my bucket list, although I knew that it wouldn’t be my last book.

“A book is still considered the final word on a subject matter. Not that these are infallible. As for fiction, these things last almost forever. It’s probably one of the closest ways you’ll get to forever in this world. I mean, look at Aesop’s fables. How old is that right?” I said.

“Who knows? But I get the point. Congratulations dear. You’ve encouraged me to do my own writing. Although I don’t know if I’ll seek publication. I’m not like you. I give up easily,” she said. The seafood pasta and the pepperoni pizza suddenly arrived. We each took turns on the bottle of parmesan cheese, sprinkling it liberally on our food. Betty took the virgin olive oil bottle and started to sprinkle some on her food.

Despite the noise of the crowd, I thought of how the writing process itself was relaxing for me. Not just the writing, but finally accomplishing the entire book publishing process. It gave me a sense of fulfillment. Some people played golf to relax. I preferred the sound of a keyboard and a glass of wine beside me. Maybe I wouldn’t have a hole in one, but I would fill up a void in a particular bookstore shelf somewhere.

“Sir,” the waiter said, “that gentleman and his wife over there said they would pay for your dessert. I’ll serve your tiramisu after your dinner.” He pointed to a couple seated on the other end of the restaurant. It was Joe and his wife Courtney. As soon as Betty and I looked, they both waved at us.

Betty and I stood up and walked toward them, snaking through the various tables. Some kids were running around with their young parents trying to catch them. It was chaos, but in a family sort of way, which made it festive.

“Hey boss, thanks for the dessert,” I said. We had some brief small talk with them and exchanged pleasantries. Courtney was a few months pregnant. We complimented her and Joe. “Congratulations too on your book and your salary raise John,” said Courtney in return. I told her Joe was a great boss, and it was a pleasure to work for him.

Joe told Courtney how my writing seemed to have improved my work. I told her in return that it was because I had such a great boss. Joe was extremely pleased with that. “We better stop here before I give you another raise,” he said. We all had a laugh on that one.

“See you at work tomorrow John. Congratulations again on the book,” Joe said. We walked back to our seats as we said our goodbyes. Our waiter was kind enough to have kept our table briefly. Some people were leaving, but more people were still waiting outside for a table.

Betty and I resumed our conversation from where we left off as we each grabbed another slice of pizza. “You know dear, it was also touch and go for me. I wasn’t always sure I could make it. It was you in a way who kept me going,” I said. She seemed surprised about that. “You mean you couldn’t have done it without me?” she said. I took a sip of the Merlot and finished chewing the seafood pasta.

“Of course. Didn’t you see the dedication in the book? While writing may seem like a solitary pursuit, in reality it’s really hard to do that without the support of friends and family. So my advice to you is to just keep going with what you’re writing. Don’t worry, I’ll help you out. As for the rejection, just take that one rejection slip at a time,” I said. I told her that most people just dreamt of writing a book and then made up all sorts of excuses why they couldn’t come up with one.

“If you look at the amount of time they waste on social media, and sum up all the words they had typed in a year, that would be enough to fill up a thick book,” I said. I told her that if only people took the time to carefully arrange their thoughts, and spent their energy revising and backing up their arguments with data, a lot of people would be more productive instead of just wasting their time commenting on various things in social media.

She agreed. “A lot of people just post nonsense anyway. If you think about it, a lot of that time and their thoughts are simply wasted. Though maybe for some that’s how they offload some of the stresses they encounter in their lives,” Betty said. Not everyone wants to write a book anyway, we both agreed. “But for those who have something really important to say but don’t say it, I feel they are wasting their potential,” I said.

I told her anyone could come up with an excuse why they couldn’t do it. “Just try. You’ll never know. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. But at least you can tell yourself you tried,” I said.

“Then it’s settled. I want to go through the entire publishing process as well. Whether or not I make it is another matter. The point is, I’ll try. With your support of course,” Betty said. We were almost done with dinner. The waiter brought our complimentary tiramisu dessert to our table. We both tried it. It was exquisite, and capped the dinner nicely.

I poured the remaining contents of the Merlot bottle into our glasses. Then Betty offered a toast. “To us. To our writing. No matter what the future holds for both of us. We’ll tackle it together,” she said.

I couldn’t have said it better. We both felt that day was both a celebration and a beginning. Both the end of a chapter and the start of a new one. To me personally, I felt relieved. But I knew that this meant I would do it all over again. And it was good that Betty would join me in my journey, not just as my inspiration but as a fellow author as well.

“You know what dear, your next book should be about the writing and publishing journey. You know, some tips for prospective authors like me who want to get published. I mean, you have so many insights to share to encourage more people to write and share their ideas,” Betty said.

Hmm, interesting idea. “Let me think about it. That sounds interesting. But what would I call that book?” I asked. Betty dabbed her lips with her napkin to remove some cream from the tiramisu, then took a sip of her Merlot.

“That’s simple. Call it Sage Advice,” she said.

I laughed. That was a simple title that said it all. Life was good.

About the Author

Dennis Posadas is the author of Leap: A Sustainability Fable (Singapore: Pearson, 2015), Greenergized: A business fable on clean energy (UK: Greenleaf, 2013), Jump Start: A Technopreneurship Fable (Singapore: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2009), and Rice & Chips: Technopreneurship and Innovation in Asia (Singapore: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2007). He has been a chip industry engineer and a consultant for various clean energy, tech incubation, and crypto/blockchain projects.

His opinion pieces have been featured in Bloomberg BusinessWeek, Forbes, YaleGlobal, The Guardian, South China Morning Post, Straits Times, Japan Today and other publications.

He lives with his wife and children in the Philippines.

You’ve reached the end of the available work.