Undead Letter Office

Which experience is scarier: Reading "Dracula" or going to the post office?

No need to choose--these two exquisite horrors are now combined in a new piece on The Huffington Post called "Undead Letter Office." This mashup explores the pressing question: What if the characters in a classic epistolary novel had to use the modern Postal Service?

Hope you'll check it out. And don't worry--it contains nothing liquid, fragile, perishable, or hazardous.

The Division of Child & Family Services Investigates Reports of Child Endangerment at a Stable in Bethlehem

CFS: Bethlehem, from The Huffington Post:


DIVISION OF CHILD & FAMILY SERVICES

FIELD REPORT

DATE: The reign of Cæsar Augustus, when Cyrenius was governor of Syria, in the days of Herod the king; Tuesday.

COMPLAINT: An anonymous epistle reporting a newborn infant living in unsanitary and possibly unsafe conditions.

INVESTIGATING AGENT: Nicodemus

COMMENTS: Accompanied by Rookie Agent Zebedee, I proceeded to the scene of the complaint. This was easy to locate as it was directly beneath an unnaturally bright stationary star shining in the night with a tail as big as a kite. (Agent Zebedee was once blown several leagues by a runaway kite and can verify the accuracy of this description.) The light from this star was so brilliant that we were temporarily blinded and had to feel our way around the property until our eyes could adjust. During this time Agent Zebedee fell down a well.

Entering the premises, we discovered the child living in a stable family environment, in the sense that the family was living in a stable. We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. He appeared to be in good health, but laying the child in a manger was irresponsible in my opinion. The animals quartered there had not been fed in some time, and a few were licking their chops. Fortunately our arrival served to draw their attention, though this resulted in Agent Zebedee suffering a nasty lamb bite to the thigh and some minor goring by a peckish ox. [See accompanying petty cash voucher to cover poultice expenses.]

The scene was chaotic, with people arriving and departing at all hours and various individuals loitering about. We questioned a couple who identified themselves as the infant's parents. Our suspicions were aroused when Mary, the woman claiming to be the mother, also claimed to be a virgin. (We never even asked.) The account given by her male companion, Joseph, gave us strong reason to believe he is not the child's biological father.

Also present were certain poor shepherds who had been abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. They said a chorus of angels, singing of peace on earth, good will toward men, had instructed them to seek out the child. Their own off-key singing, and some depleted wineskins in their possession, made us think there might be more to it than that. When Agent Zebedee asked the shepherds why this jubilee, they smote him on the head with a crook. They insisted their encounter with the heavenly host had left them "sore afraid," but we think they were just sore about their working conditions. Despite their claim of a supernatural encounter, we felt their decision to abandon their flock was more likely a job action to protest having to work the night shift.

While we were there three adult males arrived, dressed in fine garments and carrying gold and other valuable commodities. They were unable to give a consistent account of themselves--for example, they claimed at various times to be "kings," "magi," and "wise men from the East." They told us they came bearing gifts for the child, but frankincense and myrrh seem odd presents to give a newborn when what he really needs are a decent crib and a binky. We suspect they were actually well-to-do travelers from the nearby inn who went "slumming" for thrills in a rough neighborhood. Either that or they got lost on their way to the privy.

We found an unaccompanied little boy on the premises who was pounding a drum in an apparent effort to entertain the infant. The alleged mother, Mary, nodded as if to encourage this awful noise even though the monotonous rum-pa-pum-pum beat shook straw dust loose from the rafters, creating an unhealthy atmosphere.

Also contributing to this miasma were the cows, sheep, and other animals housed in the stable. They produced a powerful stench, swarms of flies, and substantial deposits of solid waste that Agent Zebedee had difficulty navigating. [See attached reimbursement request to cover one pair of soiled sandals.]

Among the livestock was a donkey named Dominick, brought from Italy as the mascot of a Roman legion. This beast was decked out in a harness of bells that produced a chingety-ching sound to accompany the animal's frequent hee-hawing. This racket alone was enough to prevent the infant from getting any sleep. When combined with the lowing and squealing of the other animals, the incessant drumming, and the raucous singing of the shepherds, the result was a dreadful din that was enough to drive one mad. Indeed, Agent Zebedee began twitching and moaning and made several attempts to put his head through the wall. [See accompanying request for indefinite paid medical leave.] Incongruously, in the midst of this ear-splitting uproar, a little lamb asked a shepherd boy, "Do you hear what I hear?"

The number of people and animals present clearly exceeded the legal occupancy limit set by the Fire Pharisee. The radiant heat from the star, in proximity to the hay and straw stored in the wooden structure, presented a real risk of combustion. (In fact, the seat of Agent Zebedee's garment began to smolder, and he was forced to extinguish it in a trough of water, in fulfillment of the prophets.)

One other thing seemed odd: You have visitors coming and going all night and no one puts something out for people to eat?

CONCLUSION: I strongly recommend that the infant be removed from these premises and placed in the protective custody of King Herod at the palace. Admittedly, our stern monarch has not previously shown much sympathy for disadvantaged children, but since the star appeared he has expressed an intense interest in the number, status, and specific whereabouts of all the newborns of Bethlehem. He maintains his custom of stoning or beheading supplicants who displease him, so the agent assigned the task of appealing for sanctuary on the child's behalf should possess the utmost tact and diplomacy. I suggest Agent Zebedee.

Ahab at Starbucks

From The Huffington Post:

Whenever it was a damp, drizzly November in my soul, I would drop by Mr. Starbuck's for a steaming double-cupped grande vanilla latte with extra foam. Our industrious First Mate made a habit of buying coffee from local growers in whatever far-flung lands The Pequod made port -- from Brazil to Peru, from Sumatra to New Guinea -- hand-selecting beans at the peak of their ripeness and flavor. He would double-roast them in the same vats we used to render oil from whale flesh, then grind and blend them into full-bodied brews that bore aromatic hints of tropical flora and blubber. His potables were quite popular among the crew; in particular, I found his Spermicetti Breakfast Blend to have a dark, robust flavor that was more palatable then it sounds.

Such shipboard entrepreneurial enterprises were not unusual among seamen of the day. Many an evening Queequeg and I took our supper at the berth of Popeye, a sailor whose fried chicken and biscuits were counted a bargain; and Long John Silver was said to serve up a hearty batch of popcorn shrimp and hushpuppies for a reasonable price.

Captain Ahab was not known to visit Starbuck's often, nor to partake of his offerings. The Captain kept to his cabin and preferred the consumption of grog to coffee drinks. He was thought to consume the former in such prodigious quantities that it was common for members of the crew to jest that Ahab must have a hollow leg. This witticism was one of the few sources of mirth aboard The Pequod, the other being the assertion that the Captain's wife was named Peg.

One evening a cohort of the crew was gathered at Starbuck's, sipping their drinks and staring at their laptops (where they were carving scrimshaw). Outside in the passage we heard the approach of Ahab's familiar measured tread -- clip-clop...clip-clop... clip-clop. In he limped, a scarred, brooding figure, whose powerful chilling effect on the men was diluted somewhat when his ivory leg became momentarily stuck in a knothole. So fearsome was his countenance that none dared snigger at his predicament.

As Ahab hobbled further into the cabin Mr. Starbuck called out to a waiting seaman, "Here's your white mocha, Dick!" The Captain, who counted poor hearing among his sundry afflictions, misconstrued Starbuck's cry for an alarm that Moby Dick had been sighted. He became violently agitated and barked a confusion of orders at the men -- "In stunsails! Down top-gallants! Stand by boats! Over the side! Larboard! Starboard! Prepare to dive! Luff a point! Hoist the mizzen! Flush the heads!" Soon The Pequod was sailing in figure eights. It was some time before the Mate could convince Captain and crew that Moby Dick was not in the immediate neighborhood.

The White Whale was the object and focus of Ahab's vengeful wrath, but in truth his hatred extended to all cetaceans, no matter their shape, size or species. Some months earlier, on the occasion of Ahab's birthday, the Fourth Mate, Mr. Carvel, had surprised the Captain with his playfully configured comestible Fudgie the Whale. The Captain instinctively snatched up a harpoon and drove the iron straight through the frozen confection. To save face, he then ordered us to take it below and boil it down for the marzipan.

"I would speak with ye, Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab.

"Aye, sir," said Starbuck. "But first, might I get thee a cup of joe?"

"If ye must," growled the Captain. Starbuck then pressed him for his preferences, employing the arcane lexicon of his avocation as if he were a medieval alchemist. The captain grew increasingly perturbed as the First Mate wielded cryptic words such as grande, venti, trenta, and frappuccino.

"Damn it, man!" thundered Ahab. "Are ye speaking in tongues?"

"I'll just give thee a latte," said Starbuck, and set about preparing the captain's libation.

"I wish to speak again of Moby Dick," said Ahab.

"Thou knowest my feelings in the matter," said Starbuck. "'Tis blasphemous to seek vengeance on a dumb brute. I have told thee this before."

"Hark ye," cried Ahab, "I strike at the inscrutable malice behind the White Whale! All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks--"

"Speaking of pasteboard, Captain, here's a little sleeve for thy cup, that thou wilt not burn thy fingers."

"Hmm? -- er, thank ye," said the Captain, accepting the cup from Mr. Starbuck. As he raised the brew to his lips, Starbuck said, "That will be $4.86," which caused Ahab to spew foam like a typhoon straight into the First Mate's face.

"Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab, his brow darkening like thunderheads on the horizon, "I would sail round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I'd pay five dollars for a cup of coffee!!"

"'Tis the customary price," said Starbuck firmly, "the same for Captain and seaman alike."

"Blast!" cried Ahab, and swearing oaths that were terrible to hear, he checked all his pockets and looked inside his lone shoe and the band of his Quaker hat, but came up empty. Then his stern visage brightened and he snapped his fingers. "There's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast!" he cried. He scurried out to fetch the coin as quickly as his mismatched legs would carry him, and we listened to his staccato steps sounding twice as fast as when he entered -- clipclopclipclopclipclop -- which faded as he mounted to the upper deck.

I immediately took out some foolscap and a quill and began this account of all that had transpired. Mr. Starbuck stood over me and inquired about my labors.

"'Tis a book," I told him, "a full account of our voyage."

"That's grand, lad," said he. "Perhaps when ye publish it, I could make it available right here. Folk like something to read with their coffee. Have ye a title for it?"

"I think I shall call it A Long Way Gone."

"That's a fine title for a whaling man's book," said he. "We'll make it a Starbuck's Book Pick!"

"Call me Ishmael Beah," said I.

Something Book Publicists Love to Hear: "Pretend I'm a Producer--Pitch Me My Book"

[From The Huffington Post]

This has happened to me more than once:

A publisher invites an author in for a let's-get-acquainted meeting to have an initial discussion about marketing and publicity. At a minimum, the editor, the publicist, and the marketing director are there, but the publicist's boss might be there too, and the agent, and some other people from marketing, or the art director, maybe the sales director, and someone to take notes -- in fact, this meeting could be so densely populated that people are spilling out the conference room door and tumbling into the hall.

And when the topic comes around to publicity, in front of all those people, the author turns to the publicist and says: "Pretend I'm a producer -- pitch me my book."

The author doesn't consciously mean to disrespect the publicist -- he or she is understandably curious about how the book will be presented to the media -- but even a moment's reflection will reveal what an appalling breach of etiquette this is.

What possible justification could there be for singling out the publicist in that situation? Unless the author plans to go around the table: Sales director, pretend I'm the buyer at B&N -- sell me my book. Editor, please edit this sample manuscript page for me. Publisher, please... do whatever it is you do.

Of course no one would do that. When an author enters a relationship with a publisher, it's with the understanding that everyone there is a professional and knows their job. That good faith should extend to the publicist as much as anyone else. Presumably the publicist didn't walk in off the street and attach themselves to the book -- they were assigned to it because they've established a track record of successfully publicizing books. They'd have to possess a level of skill and experience sufficient to earn the confidence of their colleagues, and therefore a place at the table (unless, as I say, it's really crowded -- then they might be squatting on the radiator or stretched out on the floor by the mini fridge).

In many instances, publicists will specifically ask to work on a particular book because they're pumped about the author or the subject. Putting them on the spot publicly is like throwing a bucket of water on a witch -- you can practically hear the hiss as their enthusiasm melts and dissolves into nothing.

"Pitch me my book" is essentially asking the publicist to audition. But publicists aren't performers, and despite the caricature of the loud, brash PR person, publicists can be reticent, even shy. Think about it -- they choose to spend their time drawing attention to other people, not themselves. Asking them to perform for the group is embarrassing and demeaning. And given the circumstances, even a veteran publicist's off-the-cuff pitch is likely to be underwhelming.

So what's a publicist to do when an author says "pitch me my book?" Some possible responses are:

• "No."
• "No way."
• "I'd prefer not to" (the Bartleby, the Scrivener strategy).

Another option is to turn the question back on the author. "What sort of producer are you?" the publicist might ask. "Are you with Good Morning America or RuPaul's Drag Race? Do you produce 60 Minutes or Dance Your Ass Off? Are you booking for Fresh Air or Mancow or Lewis and Floorwax or maybe Livestock News?..." The point here is that no single approach is going to be right for every producer or media outlet. The publicist will have variations on the pitch, or several different pitches, depending upon the outlet they're going after.

Perhaps the publicist's best recourse is to say: "I didn't come prepared to do that today and I don't want to waste everybody's time. You and I should talk separately and work together to develop some effective pitch angles." And then follow through on that.

Obviously not all publicists are created equal, and not all publicist-author matchups work out. If you're an author and have specific cause for alarm or you're just getting a bad vibe from your assigned publicist, take it up with your editor. Otherwise, give your publicist the benefit of the doubt. And please don't ask them to audition--they already got the part.

The Doggies of War

[From The Huffington Post]

This publishing season is thick with new and forthcoming memoirs by Bush administration insiders, from Donald Rumsfeld to Condoleezza Rice to Dick Cheney to President Bush himself. Now comes the most stunning inside account of the Bush administration to date: On the Spot: From Dog House to White House, by President Bush's dead dog Spot.

On the Spot was written with the help of the president's mother, Barbara Bush, the acknowledged authority on writing for household pets (see Millie's Book, 1990). In this new volume, Mrs. Bush demonstrates an unsuspected psychic ability, enabling her to act as the medium through which the spectral Spot tells her own remarkable story. For this reason, On the Spot marks an historic first: An inside look at a former President by a former First Lady channeling a dead dog.

Despite Mrs. Bush's involvement, however, this is Spot's unexpurgated story.  Not one woof has been omitted.

Spot, an English springer spaniel, and her companion Barney, a Scottish terrier, had the run of the White House and witnessed many key events of the Bush administration. Barney quickly gained a reputation as a "bad dog" -- he was the only one in the White House who refused to roll over for the president --and Spot emerged as Top Dog of the First Family. She remained so until, in failing health, she was put down in 2004. From beyond the grave, Spot describes:

• Why she was called Spot: Credit goes to the president and his knack foringenious nicknames.
• Her arrival at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and the terrible surprise left by Socks, the Clintons' cat.
• Her pampered life as a White House pet: While other dogs settle for chasing the postman, Barney and Spot chased the Postmaster General.
• Her knack for being in the right place at the right time: When President Bush calls Donald Rumsfeld on the carpet, Spot is in the room going on the carpet.

From her unique, close-to-the floor perspective, Spot provides the "lowdown" on key administration figures. Among her revelations:

• Donald Rumsfeld wears Argyle socks with his blue suits.
  
• Dick Cheney's ankles are swollen to six times normal size.
  
• Colin Powell wears combat boots.
  
• Condoleezza Rice also wears combat boots.

Spot's most valuable role, however, is as a keen-eyed witness to history, as the following excerpts illustrate:

"The world believes President Bush choked on a pretzel. I was alone with him when it happened--only I know the truth. It was actually a Liv-A-Snap..."

 "Richard Clarke came into the Oval Office. He urgently wanted to talk about the Presidential Daily Briefing entitled 'Bin Laden Determined to Strike in U.S.' The president glanced at it and said, 'A little fuzzy, isn't it?' Then he rolled up the report and rapped me on the nose with it because I'd gone on the carpet again..."

 "George Tenet told the president that CIA intelligence indicated that locating weapons of mass destruction in Iraq would be a 'slam dunk.' The president said, 'George, you want to talk intelligence? You want to talk slam dunk? Watch this.'  He crumpled a piece of White House stationery into a ball and tossed it on the floor. I dutifully picked it up, carried it to the wastebasket, and dropped it in. The president threw his hands over his head and yelled: 'Score!'..."

"Colin Powell warned the president about 'the Pottery Barn rule -- you break it, you bought it.' The president said, 'I don't get it.' Then he said, 'Hey, watch what Spotty can do. Play dead, Spotty! C'mon girl! Play dead! Spot! I said play dead! C'mon, you stupid dog...'"

"The night before the invasion of Iraq, the president said, 'Spotty, they're sayin' we're gonna be greeted as liberators. What do you think? Is it gonna be a cakewalk or is it gonna be rough?' I told him, 'Rough! Rough!' But the president didn't listen. He just made me fetch a tennis ball..."

"Everyone was confused by the president's estimates of how long the U.S. would be in Iraq. You have to remember that the president made his calculations in dog years..."

On the Spot is a startling political exposé by an insider who knows where all the bones are buried -- including her own.

Also available in audio, e-book, and rawhide editions.

Sequels

Over the years I've noticed a strange phenomenon:  An author will write a bestselling novel, which then becomes a successful movie.  When the time comes to write a follow-up, the author writes a sequel not to the original novel, but to the movie!

On The Huffington Post I offer four examples of writers who've done this for various reasons:  Alistair MacLean, Brian Garfield, David Morrell, and Paul Gallico. 

Those examples go pretty far back, but I suspect this is still going on.  If you know of any more recent examples, please share them.

And think about this:  Does this ultimately have to do with a film's power to supplant its literary source material in the minds of its audience--and perhaps even in the mind of the author?

Publishing Shows a Prophet

Several big names in publishing have come out with their predictions about the future of the industry: Richard Curtis, Bob Miller, Jane Dystel, Richard Nash, and probably a lot of others too.

I couldn't wait to get in on that action: Whatever you say you come off sounding like a sage, and you can relax in the certainty that no one is ever going to check back to see if you were right.  I could do that in my sleep!

As a matter of fact, that's exactly how I did it.  In the style of Edgar Cayce, the Sleeping Prophet, I had myself put into a clinically induced R.O.M. state (Resonant Olfactory Music)--the level of sleep where snoring occurs.  It's just like R.E.M., except there's no indie band named after it.  There I experienced a prophetic trance that produced several startling predictions about what's in store for the book business.

You'll find them in their entirety on The Huffington Post.  If you don't have time to read them all, let me sum up the future of publishing in just two words:  Rodeo clowns.

A Nice Christmas Present From The Huffington Post

The good folks at The Huffington Post books page have adapted my recent piece about "The 10 Best Years That Are Books" into a snazzy slideshow, now called The 10 Best Books That Are Years (fans of SEO will understand the reasons for the title change).  A nice present for Christmas Eve!

Speaking of which:  In honor of this special day, here's the return of my guide to Lesser Known Characters From Dickens's A Christmas Carol, back from the dead like Marley's Ghost.

Good Yule, everybody!

The 10 Best What?

I'm pretty tired of the endless "10 Best Books of the Year" lists that are spilling out all over the place, so I came up with what I hope is a novel variation on the theme: A list of The 10 Best Years That Are Books, up now on The Huffington Post.

You may not realize it, but such a year is staring us all in the face right now: 2010, the coming new year, which became a book in 1982 with Arthur C. Clarke's 2010: Odyssey Two. What a prophet that man was!


UPDATE 12/22: A nice mention of this list in the publishing enewsletter Shelf Awareness.

A Very Merry Un-Christmas to You

Scrooge. The Grinch. Satan. To the list of Christmas's greatest antagonists, you may now add the Book Flack. Just a few days into the holiday season and already it's got me PO'd. I'm steaming like a mug of hot cocoa, God help me.

I'm happy to say that I have responded by lashing out on the Huffington Post. In a piece called A Grouch's Guide to Un-Christmas Books, I've offered guidance to help you navigate the holly jolly overkill of the holidays by means of carefully selected reading material--un-Christmas books. These are books that take place at Christmastime, but in terms of tone and content are quite at odds with the season.

With an un-Christmas book, you're covered when the Christmas tree huggers in your life insist you should be merry and bright and reading a Christmas book. At the same time, it allows you to indulge your own dark Yuletide impulses...

I'm happy to say that the piece was picked up in the publishing newsletter Shelf Awareness today. It's comforting to know I'm not alone.

Hat Trick

With this blog post, I'm blogging about another blog post I wrote on The Huffington Post, which in turn focuses on my other blog, Classics Rock! That's a triple play by anyone's standards--even I have trouble following it. I'm hoping to drum up more input for Classics Rock!, which features songs based on books and authors--I'm running out of ideas (though I hope you'll visit tomorrow for a song that's appropriate to November 11th).

Emily Dickinson's Ceiling

There's a news story going around to the effect that Emily Dickinson's ceiling collapsed. It's all true--last weekend, a portion of the ceiling in the parlor of Dickinson's residence, the Homestead (now part of the Emily Dickinson Museum), collapsed, damaging some furniture and breaking bric-a-brac and no doubt throwing off the meter of some of her poems as well. What caught my eye was the fact that the plaster "was not original to the house." Could it be that Ms. Dickinson herself effected some repairs some time during the 19th century?

The answer is revealed in a newly discovered Dickinson poem that I just wrote this morning called "On My Ceiling Falling On Me." It's available on the Huffington Post, so I hope you'll take a look.