BIZARRO BOOKS

Bizarro books.

I've read them. You've read them. Sure you have. You just didn't use that term.


Bizarro was the character from the Superman universe who was a mirror opposite of the Man of Steel, doing everything backwards.


Hence my photograph of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks.


He wrote backwards in them. Some say it was because he was left-handed. Others say it was because he was dyslexic {which would help explain his difficulty in completing paintings and assignments.}


Still others say it was to keep his secrets : dissecting human corpses was considered proof of witchcraft and necromancy by the Catholic Church in those days. I guess it's not smiled on by them when done by private citizens these days either.


But back to Bizarro Books :


You know the path of good writing : you create tension, you increase the dangers crowding in on your heroes, and you narrow the focus like a lab tech with a microscope. Your narrative is a spear hurled with all your creative might. And remember :


A spear has no branches.


Stephen King and Zoe C. Courtman both endorsed Justin Cronin's THE PASSAGE. That was enough for me. I downloaded it onto my Kindle.


While I was being forgotten by the Beaumont blood center at the wild gas station we couriers call "the Star Wars cantina" in Orange, Texas, I had an unexpected hour and a half to read 20% of it {between politely refusing four crack addicts the opportunity for affordable romance, that is.}


Mistakes happen. The couriers at Beaumont just plain forgot about me. But if that's the worst thing that happens to me all weekend, won't I be a lucky man?



But back to THE PASSAGE. One review said "I couldn't turn the pages fast enough." And he was right. I was skimming page after page while shouting in the van, "Get on with it, already, Justin!"


There was more backstory than story.



My mother was once a chaperone to one of my first junior high dances, and she came to me after two young ladies suggested I leave the dance with them and not my original date.


After the second one, she slipped silently beside me and smiled, "That one was very pretty, Roland. It must have been hard to say "no.""


I shook my head. "I'm going to stay with the one I brought, Mother."


"Those are wise words, son. And they apply to more than just a dance."


She started to ruffle my hair but stopped when I whispered, "Not in front of everyone!"


She laughed all the way back to her corner.



But "Stay with the one you brought" is good advise for writers, too. We get tempted to stray into sideroads of different characters. No. Stay with the narrative you started.


No detours, no matter how artistic they are. If they slow down the story, roadblock them in your mind.


Critics praise THE PASSAGE. But in the words of Bizarro : "I R not critic. I R audience. I pay 10 bucks. I get Arteest writing for self not reader."


Two-thirds of Justin's backstory could have been trimmed, making the story flow smoother, faster, and more enjoyable. {Trust me. If his book is made into a movie, it will be.} He wasn't building reader tension -- he was building reader frustration.



I love the poetry of words. When I skim through pages at a gallop, something is wrong. Those are just my opinions. But they were also my ten dollars. If he had been getting closer to the danger, to the supernatural mystery, I would have felt better.


No, I got the sense he actually hated the supernatural aspect of his story. Somehow he got forced into it, and he took every chance to veer away and write artistic literary fiction. I'm all for literary fiction. But don't promise me pizza and give me oat meal. I had my mouth set for pizza, darn it!

{I've just gotten through reading THE NEW YORK TIMES review of the book. In part it reads : "As Justin Cronin clearly knows, if you’re a writer seeking to slough off highbrow pretensions — to reject your early efforts at “quiet” fiction and write something with commercial appeal, something that will, if not conquer the critics, at least pay for your kid’s college education — you’d be wise to opt for a vampire novel.

Ballantine Books bought the trilogy for over $3 million, and the film rights to the novel sold before the book was completed. If there’s a class at Iowa on exploiting publishing crazes, Cronin surely aced it." }



I bought the thriller, CABINET OF CURIOSITIES, by the New York Times bestselling team of Preston and Child. I found the same bloated side trips into backstory that slowed down the narrative. I put it down to two authors losing track of their story and each other. There were whole chapters not necessary to the flow of the story. In fact, they made the book feel bloated. The premise, as in THE PASSAGE, was intriguing. It just got lost.


I bought another in the series, STILL LIFE WITH CROWS, at the same time. It is collecting cyber-dust in my Kindle. And we're talking an albino Sherlock Holmes who works within an X-Files type department within the FBI here. And I still won't touch it.



Ever hear someone tell a joke you already know? But they were telling it so badly, you caught yourself going, "Somebody just shoot. Me or him. I don't care. One of us has got to have relief."



Now, backstory can be done well. THE KEEP is an example. Nazis getting picked off one by one by a supernatural killer their greed let loose from its ancient prison.


The book did so well that the publishers snapped up F. Paul Wilson's second book. They re-named it THE TOMB. He pleaded with them : "There's no tomb in THE TOMB!"


In true Bizarro fashion, their actual response was : "Yes, but the readers loved your book, THE KEEP, so much, they'll snatch up this one with a similar title. By the time the readers figure out there's no tomb in it, the book will be bought and enjoyed enough for good word of mouth."


Which they got in Stephen King, who became the President of The Repairman Jack Fan Cub. {THE TOMB was the first in the Repairman Jack series of urban fantasies.} If you haven't tried one of those books, please get a copy of the tombless THE TOMB.



{Repairman Jack is a fixer of situations -- situations wherein someone has gotten a raw deal and wants to set things right. He has no social security number, no credit cards, pays no taxes, and makes every attempt to avoid the spotlight whenever possible.



The Wesphalen family is living under a curse; a death curse placed a century ago in retaliation for the murderous acts committed by a greedy ancestor.



Kusim Bhakti and his sister have come to New York City to carry out the curse and wipe out the rest of the Westphalen line. To assist with this task, Kusim has brought with him the Rakoshi, perversions of the human species brought about eons ago from the Otherness. You'll discover more about the Otherness in the books that follow.}



Such is the joy, you might say of selecting my own examples. True. So how about you? Have you ever picked up a book, caught up by the premise and a sampling of the prose, only to feel it bloated as if the author were being paid by the word?



Have you ever read a book someone raved about, only to feel it took forever to get to the point? And when it did, it was hardly worth the effort. The moral, being evil hurts people, is hardly earth-shattering.



Why do you read?



Is it for information, for research? I do that too. But why do you read fiction?



Isn't it to be caught up in a sense of wonder, of rooting for a character you care about?



The abandoning mother in THE PASSAGE was dealt with in such painful, long detail, I suspected Justin of enjoying inflicting abuse and abasement on a woman.



He truly only needed a third of that detail to supply the reader with her motivations. It got me hoping he wasn't married ... for the wife's sake.


Authors who spend fingernail-pulling amounts of time on the physical and emotional torture of their characters tend to make me think some of them might have issues with the parent of the characters' sex.



Have any of you felt like the author or the publishers teased you with a false promise, delievering another horse of another breed altogether? Which titles? What authors?



Feel free to tell me I'm full of apple sauce on this. It's just my take on the present world of publishing. I'm curious. And I bet our other friends out there reading this are curious on your take on this as well.

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And just because this song was playing on my computer as I was writing this here is :

THE DISTORTING MIRROR

Several of you have asked to see a photo of my hospital on stilts.

Sadly, like my character, Samuel McCord, I am a man of high hopes and low tech ... meaning I have no digital camera. But I do have this photo of the stilts before the hospital was placed upon them from the groundbreaking ceremony attended by former President Bush and actor George Clooney.

Fitting in with my post's title, these steel "stilts" are twice as tall as I am. Perspective is everything. Look at all the politicians we've elected, only to discover how stunted their high ideals are after the fact.

But the distorting mirror I'm referring to is fiction. Fiction is not reflective of real life. Unlike real life, fiction has to make sense. So we as authors fudge the facts of life to draw the reader in with the illusion of reality. As Stephen King said : good fiction is the truth within the lie.

What kind of literature did you first read? I mean the genre that you chose to read and not your parents? The question is important. I'll tell you why in a moment.

As a young boy recently moved to Lafayette, Louisiana from Detroit, Michigan, I was isolated because of my strange accent, my lanky height, and lack of relatives. I was the stranger, the outcast.

I found refuge in mythology.

My mother's tales of Lakota myths and Irish legends spurred me to investigate the school library on my own. I discovered Edith Hamilton's MYTHOLOGY : awe-inspiring tales of fearsome creatures, strong half-gods, and cunning heroes. Zeus wasn't my father, but I could sharpen my wits to become Ulysses, who confounded the very gods of Olympus. And the elegant, simple drawings by Steele Savage ensnared my imagination during boring classes.

I accepted these things as a child would -- uncritically. My only measure was if I enjoyed the story. Later as I grew a bit older -- able to reflect and reason, I found Sherlock Holmes and science fiction. And in those twin genres, I discovered the value of reason -- but then Ulysses had already taught me the treasure of a keen mind.

And how I discovered the joy of reading influenced my style of writing. As you no doubt have noticed, mythology plays an important part in my writing. The lyrical poetry of Homer and the other Greek playwrights molded my sense of the dramatic and of expression.

Yet, even as my soul demands magic and poetry, my mind is not satisfied unless I put reason behind the mad sorcery of my hero's adventures. In essence, I do not write pure fantasy or pure science fiction -- but a blend of the two, mixed in with the genre of the detective -- hence the frontier detective, Samuel McCord, part poet, part philosopher, and reluctant policeman.

But what of the distorting mirror?

Inside my, and your, brain is a compact world composed of all we have seen and experienced. From that well, we draw for inspiration and stories. Yet, that compact world is not THE world. We haven't experienced everything. And the conclusions we have drawn from our experiences are as flawed as our limited grasp of the truth, colored as it is by culture, custom, and character.

Our novels are merely distorted reflections of what we have experienced. Even we will admit that more is unknown to us than what is known. Which to me is quite all right : myths spring from the unknown and our trying to fill in the blanks.

History has proven to us that what was considered science last century was merely flawed, failed conjecture. Which to me is just fine : science fiction springs from those awesome two words : what if?

So my fiction is a blend of myth and science, history and conjecture, ending into those wonderful words : what if the impossible was possible? What then?

In the calculated lies of my fiction, I leave certain questions unanswered, certain areas shadowed for the reader to fill in.

Remember the scariest movie monster you ever flinched in fright from? You never got a clear glimpse : just flashes of scales, slit eyes, and red, sharp teeth. That was enough. Your imagination filled in the rest with enough to give you shudders for sleepless nights afterward.

Besides, I do not know everything, and the artist in me craves to be honest. The mythic beginning of things is always shrouded in mist and mystery. Yet, this I do know :

In life there is dark as well as light -- and sometimes the dark wins. I try to portray the full picture of what I know in my fiction. The fanciful scientist is often the one who makes the greatest discovery.

I guess you could call my genre : science fantasy. Cold, hard facts can often lead us into the shadows where the dark unknown is waiting for us to reveal our minds' limitations and our fragile grasp on sanity and life.

So now, I re-ask you : what kind of literature did you first start to read of your own free will? Look at what you are writing now. Look at how you write it. Can you see the seeds of your style, your genre, in your first chosen books?

Let me know what you first started to read. Tell me if my theory is reflected in the genres in which you write and the manner in which you write them. Let's share secrets over the cyber-campfire, shall we? Bring your own cyber-marshmellows.
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Here is Tarja singing "I Walk Alone" that has special significance to Samuel McCord's fate at the end of FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE. The video is done in the style of a Brothers Grimm's tale :

A HOSPITAL ON STILTS?

Ever see a hospital on stilts?

You could have yesterday ...

if you had driven with me down what I call "the Last Exit to Eden" :

The Creole Nature Trail.

I don't often drive to the small rural hospital at the end of its winding roads. When I do, I take the opportunity to enjoy the sights and sounds of this last taste of wilderness that civilization affords us.

We've talked about symbolism yesterday. The first stop of my journey was laden with symbolism : the gas station situated at a lonely crossroads, appropriately named "4 Corners."

My half-Lakota mother told me often of the spiritual power in the crossroads spinning off to the four directions, of the personal impact of our individual decisions, and of the crossroads of my birth.

I was born in a hospital built at the hub of a crossroads. As a young child, I listened intently to the story Mother repeatedly told me : that for each child born at the crossroads, an angel and a demon came for possession of the child's soul.

"Mine, too, Mama?"

"Yes, little one. Yours, too."

I remember swallowing hard. "What happened?"

"They fought, fought hard. At first they used fiery swords."

"Wow."

"But each was as fast as the other. Then, they wrestled. But both kept slipping out of each other's holds. Finally, they began to arm wrestle, pitting the strength of their spirits one against the other."

This time I couldn't swallow. "Who won, Mama?"

"Neither."

"Neither?"

"They are fighting inside you still."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now. But soon one will win."

"Who?"

"The one you choose, little one."

"I choose the angel!"

"Not with words, Roland. With actions. With each dark action, the demon grows stronger, the angel weaker. With each hard choice of doing what is right, the angel grows stronger, the demon angrier."

She ruffled the hair on my head lightly. "Choose wisely, son. Choose wisely."

Sometimes in that dark night of the soul we all must face at times, I can feel them struggling still. And then, it is oh, so hard to choose wisely. But I try. I try.

But we began this post by talking about a hospital on stilts. They are more huge concrete pylons than stilts ... yet, that little boy from long ago is still alive inside me.

Hurricane Rita scoured all evidence of Man from Cameron Parish with its gouging fingers of wind, hurled debris, and tidal waves of surging water. So all the structures are now built on stilts of wood or concrete. It is so odd to pass a mobile home, towering some 20 feet in the air ... so tall it takes three tiers of stairs to reach its front door.

Not that there are many structures to be found further along these lonely roads. And down the misty stretch of concrete, there is a long, winding "S" of a curve under towering Cypress tree sentinels that I love to drive. It is beautiful beyond my meager power to describe.

After pulling out on the straightway, I looked for my old friends who seem to know when I am coming : a small herd of wild horses. And I was not disappointed. There they were, alert heads up, tails swishing in expectation.

They happily took up our old game : racing alongside my van ... which I slowed to stretch out our fun. I had a new friend for the second time in my wanderings here : a lone egret sailing gracefully above us as if curious at this odd ritual between part-Lakota and horses.

It actually swooped down in front of my van and around it in an elegant dance of grace and beauty. And as I always do, I rolled down my windows to drink in the sounds of the pounding hooves, the gusting winds, and the haunting cry of distant hunting hawks. But as with all moments of breath-stealing beauty, it was over, the horses pulling off to other games, other interests. I waved a bitter-sweet goodbye to them and drove onto the strangest bridge I have ever driven over.

It sweeps high up, twirls like an "S", then slowly descends to a road with water and isolated islands of vegetation as far as you can see. At its apex, the clouds were dark and brooding as if Estanatlehi, The Turquoise Woman of Lakota myth, was showing me her anger at Man's ugly, oily destruction of her Gulf waters.

As I reached the top, I slowed, taking in the scalp-tingling view of what the world must have appeared before Man, and I seemed to hear The Turquoise Woman murmur in my ear : "Be careful, Little Lakota. Veer not to the left nor to the right. For eight lonely miles there is no shoulder to this tiny road. Break down here, and I will show you all the mercy BP is showing me."

The second largest population of alligators in the U.S. reside here, so it was not unexpected to see one rise up from the waters beside the small road at the foot of the bridge. Our eyes met. Two species regarded each other in a moment brief yet enlongated as strange encounters sometimes are.

Its yellow-flecked slit eyes were cold windows into reptilian memories of times when Man was yet to be and scaled monsters walked the earth as savage kings. But I sped by, and the spell was shattered. The alligator slipped silently beneath the dark waters, searching for easier prey.

I finally made it to the sprawling "hospital on stilts" as the little boy inside me insists on calling it. It was eerie and quiet. I remembered the last time I'd been there.

A mother and her little girl had walked out of the hospital. I waved at the little girl and winked. Catching me by surprise, the girl giggled and ran staight to me, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist in a happy hug. The mother came up to me, shaking her head in wonder.

"It must be that you have such kind eyes," she said.

I smiled at the memory and walked into my hospital on stilts.
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And here is the song I listened to over and over again on my blood run along the last exit to Eden :


And in keeping with showing movie trailers for movies that I think might be fun :

MASKS

How many masks does your novel wear?

Each person we meet wears a mask. Beneath that mask lies several faces ... all true in different seasons. But those seasons are known only to the heart of the one wearing the mask. We have to guess.

Life is a masquerade. The dance steps are complex. And sometimes our feet get stepped on. Why should they not? Each person dances to the music they alone hear.

Sparked by K.M. Weiland's excellent post[ http://wordplay-kmweiland.blogspot.com/ }, I was looking at the masks in my historical fantasy, RITES OF PASSAGE.

Of course, my use of "mask" is a facade itself. I use it in one sense to mean symbolism. Do you use symbolism in your novel? Do you use the interweaving of names, objects, and experiences to stand in for universal truths in your story?

You don't have to. I do it for me. I do it for those who would re-read my novels and discover something new with each new visit.

The names in my novel mean something : Samuel from the Hebrew 'Shemu'el' : heard of God. Those in crisis and pain cry out to God in my novel, and in stalks Samuel.

Is he the answer to their prayers? I do not say. By the time of FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, Samuel has become agnostic. The irony is that he, no longer having the heart to believe in God, is still the answer to the prayers of those in pain.

Meilori means 'beautiful laurel.' The irony there is that the eternal woman feels neither beautiful nor a winner {laurels were used in Ancient Rome to fashion victors' garlands.}

Google 'DayStar and Isaiah' to find the possible scope of Samuel's enemy. Another irony when you realize Samuel's eventual disillusionment with the being he calls the Great Mystery. The irony increases with FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, when Samuel's very lifestyle becomes Renfield's, the vampire-priest, main reason for clinging to the faith his best friend no longer has.

The transatlantic steamer Samuel finds himself on is the DEMETER, the name of the Greek Corn Goddess who in myth contends with Hades. Samuel befriends a little psychic girl on the voyage whom he likens to a small Corn Goddess. And she is instrumental in fighting DayStar.

The ship's voyage in itself is a symbol for the journey all of us take on the unpredictable seas of fate. Many of the doors aboard that ship take people to places far different than they expected ... just like the doors in our own lives.

Phrases are repeated throughout the novel. I will only state one example . Twice, once in the middle and again at the ending, DayStar gestures to Samuel when he means to sacrifice him and sneers Pilate's words, "Behold the Man."

{Go to my Bad Boy blogfest post to read the first incident.}

Masks.

They, too, are used as symbols in my historical fantasy : the young girl, Rachel, is murdered and her face removed to be used as a mask by the killer. Masks are worn by the passengers to hide their true motives for being on board. Some remove them. Some change masks. Others see through those of others. Still others realize that the face they thought was their own was, in fact, a mask worn to protect and conceal their fragile illusions.

At the end of the novel, Samuel has been run through with a broadsword. He is on his hands and knees, alone and dying. Elu's face appears to him in the spreading pool of his own blood. And the Apache shaman speaks to him.

{Elu’s words were cruel whips. “Where is the Dyami I remember? Or was he but a mask you wore when the battle was easy? Are you going to die like some beat dog on your knees? Or are you going to stand on your own two feet like the warrior Meilori believes you to be?”

His voice thickened. “What is it to be, Dyami? A beat dog or a warrior who bares his teeth at the approaching darkness and pulls his enemies down with him into that last night?”

I managed a crooked smile and croaked out, “Woof.”

Elu stiffened, then smiled so sad it was a pain to see as I used the butt of my rifle and lurched to my feet. Still I would have fallen if I hadn’t had the Pope’s broadsword to use as my second crutch. I swayed and almost fell. Somehow I stayed on my feet.

Taking in a ragged breath, I took one weak step. Then another.

My heart became stone as I heard Elu again. But he wasn’t speaking. He was singing. Singing my deathsong. I nodded to the growing shadows.

“Reckon so,” I said to the darkness.}

Those aren't all the symbols I used, of course. I don't want to bore you. I just wanted to ask :

Do you use symbols in your novel?

Are you aware of the underlying themes of your novel?

Those themes, those symbols are the rudders that direct the flow of your novel's story. If you are unaware of them, you are not in control of your narrative. And that's how novels run aground. Don't let yours be one of those that do.

Symbolism, themes, ironies -- they all work best when not noticed. Our major task as a writer is to tell a rousing, entertaining tale. Our main goal is to keep our reader on the edge of her/his seat, so caught up in the tension and striving that they find themselves lost in the narrative. And when they look up at the clock, they are amazed at how much time has flown by.

The symbolism, themes, and ironies mixed in artistically will add depth to their enjoyment of their reading without their ever really noticing them. They are the spices of the meal ... not the meat of it. The teacher in me adds them for my own pleasure. The artist in me strives to introduce them subtly and gently. I just wanted to ask you if you added symbolism, themes, and ironies to your novel as well.

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Odd to say, zombie movies can be symbolic of modern man's fears of civilization and progress reducing him to a puppet of the system, dead to the real meaning of life. However, I don't think this movie uses that kind of symbolism :

SO YOU'RE A WRITER?

Billy and Bobby, two children, were sitting outside a clinic. Billy happened to be crying very loudly.

"Why are you crying?" Bobby asked.

"I came here for a blood test," sobbed Billy.

"So? Are you afraid?"

"No. For the blood test, they cut my finger.

As Bobby heard this, he immediately began crying profusely.

Astonished, Billy stopped his tears and asked Bobby, "Why are you crying now?"

To which Bobby replied, "I came for a urine test!"

************
Besides being a terrible joke, what does that have to do with writing?

Perspective.

How you feel about your particular situation in the writing game is mainly perspective.

If you're a best-selling author like Stephen King, you have to knock it out of the ball park every time or critics start to murmur that you've lost it.

If you're a steadily employed author with not one best-seller, your publisher is beginning to think you will never be worth the effort he has put into you.

If you've just had your first novel published, you know unless it pulls in huge sales, the sentence from the publisher in these harsh economic times will be : one and you're done.

If you've just been taken on by an agent, you hourly log onto your inbox that never seems to have an email, saying your book has been picked up by a publisher.

If you're in the midst of sending off query after query, you seem to be knocking on the door of an exclusive club -- and you're wearing leper robes.

Lesson : Enjoy the journey.

You're alive. You're pursuing your dream. It may come true. It may not.

Grow in your craft. Appreciate the blog friends you make along the way. Hum to yourself as you write. Make your characters laugh as they face their destiny.

Have fun. Life is too short. It is fragile. Appreciate the beauty you find along the roadside of this journey of becoming published.

You won't be the same person tomorrow that you are today. The window of opportunity to grasp a cyber-shoulder of a fellow struggler may be closed tomorrow.

Take a moment to draw in a deep breath. Scan your cyber surroundings.

It is the dawn of your soul each time you lay down your worries to see what has been right in front of your eyes all the time.
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Post Script :
Chuck Sambuchino, GUIDE TO LITERARY AGENTS, has requested interested blogs to contact him at : literaryagent@fwmedia.com if they would wish to review or talk about his new book, How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack (Sept. 2010).

Today's cartoon is again from the comic genius of Chuck Ingwersen :
http://wordsandtoons.com/2008/07/

And in keeping with yesterday's movie trailer, here is one for a movie that just might be fun :

HOW TO GET AN AGENT FAST!

One sentence answer :

Make the sale for her.

Before you get your hackles up, bear with me for a second.

I didn't say it was fair. It's just how to get an agent fast. You make the sale yourself.

Then why do you need agents in the first place?

Cliff Notes answer : Most publishers won't look at you without one. Agents will fight for you to get more money for a long list of rights you know nothing about, and when your editor moves on, your agent will make sure you're not shoved to the bottom of the stack (which you will be if you don't have an agent.)

All right. How do you make the sale for them?

1) Make your own market :
Conventional wisdom says start your own blog. Be unconventional. Make the "Pet Rock" of blogs. How?

You do daily posts. Don't groan. You need to build a following. Daily posts will do that for you.

You make short posts for shorter attention spans.

You make each one funny. Be the Christopher Moore of blogdom. How?

Nothing is shorter than a one panel cartoon. Create a zombie Ziggy (creation by Tom Wilson.) Call him "Nearly Dead Ned." Place him in a post-apocalyptic New York City.

First cartoon :
Ned is happily eating his own forefinger. The caption reads : "The trouble with finger sandwiches is that none are as good as homemade."

Second cartoon :
Ned is looking odd at a cobwebbed skeleton by a doorway. The skeleton is wearing sunglasses and a badge " Help the Blind." The skeleton is pressing a door buzzer under a sign which reads : "School for the Deaf."

Third cartoon :
Ned is lumbering down a street in the red light district. He has passed two bars. One advertises : "Live Nudes." The second : "Undead Nudes."
Ned is stopped in front of the third with his now classic puzzled look. Its window reads : "Don't Ask."

You do a year's worth of cartoons. Pick the ones with the largest number of favorable comments. Bind them up and submit to agents with the comments to each attached, along with the daily stats for your blog.

{Now, obviously this is just an example of an unconventional "Pet Rock" blog. You have to use your own muse to take off and run with the concept.}

2) Fan the flames of off-line and on-line interest :
Get multiple college newspaper reviews of your novel. Guest-blog on others' more popular blogs. {As Anne Gallagher has done in her insightful article on the popular GUIDE TO LITERARY AGENTS :

http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/The+5+Stages+Of+Querying.aspx }

Get a local reporter to do a review of your novel for your local newspaper. Hopscotch that into another review from the newspaper of a near-by town.

3) Make a book trailer of your novel.
Using the students from a local university, create a book trailer. Utilize public domain music and images. Splice the images with teases from your novel. Put the book trailer on your blog and on YouTube. Advertise your book trailer on the blogs of your friends, in the local newspaper, and in the local college newspaper (hawking the fact that you used students from said college.)

4) Petition your local newspaper and those free newspapers at the doors to every grocery store to do free reviews for upcoming books and movies. Keep a record of each and every article you do for different newpapers with names and dates.

5) Be sure you state all of the above quickly and tersely at the end of every query to every agent.

And there you have the five easy steps to get an agent fast. They might even work. May we all get agents faster than we believe possible.
{Cartoon by the comic genius, Chuck Ingwersen http://wordsandtoons.com/2009/05/ }
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And a movie that succeeded due to its unconventional take on a classic subject is :

MESMER'S ... I HAD LUNCH WITH DEATH TODAY ... CHARACTER INTERVIEW PART II

Mesmer's.

It's right down the block from Meilori's. It's where Samuel McCord goes to have lunch and to chat with the famous, the infamous, and the stray hungry orphan.

The word on the French Quarter streets is that if you're so hungry you don't mind risking your life and sanity, go to Mesmer's.

According to my friends, I don't have that much sanity to lose, and anyway, I was invited by Sam himself. And he owned the place, though he joked that the cat, Mesmer, was the actual owner.

The place was just like I imagined Hicock's bar in Deadwood might have looked. The very modern and willowy Amanda Carr was singing "Easy Street" to the jazz music of Kenny Hadley's band.

I sat across from Sam, all in black : from his wide Stetson, jacket, silk shirt, jeans, and boots. His large Spanish spurs were silver ... as was his Texas Ranger star. He smiled like a lazy wolf at me.

"So this Genie gal said you didn't ask any questions in your interview with me, did she?"

"Yes. You have to admit it was cut off kinda short."

A sleek tabby the size of a small dog jumped up in the empty seat next to him, causing the screech of wooden legs against wood floor. She leaned forward, looking nothing so much as if she were whispering to him. He smiled wider.

"Mesmer said it saved your sorry hide."

"She talks to you?"

"Yes. Won't talk to anyone else but me. And to her mother, Bast, of course."

"Bast is her m-mother?"

Mesmer whispered to Sam again. He chuckled. "She says you repeat the obvious a lot. But that her daughter, Gypsy, warned her about that."

"She's my cat's mother?"

Mesmer looked disgusted at me, then there was the sound of breaking dishes in the back. She stiffened. She leapt down with the grace of a stalking panther.

Sam shook his head sadly. "I warned the kitchen staff Mesmer hates butterfingers. They thought I was joking."

A few seconds later there were screams, sobs, and slamming back doors. He turned to me. "That sound like a joke to you, partner?"

"Sounds like I better have the price of this ice tea and not have to wash dishes back there."

"The tea's on me, Roland. The ice comes from the melted snow of Eden."

"The Eden?"

"You going to keep on repeating what I say, or ask me a straight-out interview question?"

"Ah, all right, why did you pick New Orleans as your adopted home, Sam?"

"It picked me, son. Back in 1848, Baroness Pontalba built me the place that came to be known as Meilori's. And before you ask -- she built it for me in gratitude for saving her life in Paris."

I opened my mouth, and he held up his right gloved hand. "Long story. Sad one. And she isn't here to give her side of it."

He rubbed his face wearily with that hand. "I didn't ask her. But ... but it meant a lot to me. First home I had since I was fifteen."

To change from what looked like a painful subject, I asked, "What do you think of modern New Orleans? It's grown so much since 1848."

"I don't see much of it, son. When I could still ride a horse down its streets, I ranged far and wide. Now ...."

His eyes looked past me down distant, painful horizons. "Now, I stay in the French Quarter. When I get to itching to see the high, lonely mountains ...."

"You risk your life foolishly by entering Elu's unstable mirrors."

I jerked at the touch of the words in the dark air. They were like icicles given life ... as if the cold moon had been given vocal chords. I looked up. Damn.

I had written of her. I had known sooner or later I would meet her. I had just hoped for later ... much, much later.

Eyes of living winter looked down on me. "So do all mortals, Roland."

I started to rise. A slender hand that felt as if it had been kept in the deep-freeze touched my shoulder lightly. Long hair of winter frost trembled as her head was shaken in a gesture of "no."

"None rise for Death. All fall at her touch."

Sam, in a voice of distant thunder, said, "But not today, Rind. I invited him here."

Her smile flashed like a knife from out of the shadows. "Yes, you did. I am merely here to answer questions ... just like you, Samuel."

She sat. The corners of her full lips rose. Strange shadows masked the rest of her long face. Why haven't I described her clothes?

They kept changing. Like clouds moving over the face of a brooding moon, they continually shifted. Must have been something to do with how she was Allwheres, Everywhere at each moment. Something like that would have given me a headache.

Glittering eyes of ice stabbed into mine. "It does much worse to me than the bestowing of a headache, Little Lakota."

If Sam's customers noticed the constant change in dress, they didn’t show it. Over the years, his restaurant had become notorious for being the in-place for lovers of the occult and haters of humanity.

Made for an interesting mix. Sometimes it took all the skill he had gained from a long life as a Texas Ranger to keep things civil. Sometimes even he failed. A shudder took me, and I looked into the mirror on the wall to my left.

I didn't see my face. No, only the mahogany bear face of Sam's blood-brother, Elu, stared back at me. A chill settled deep within me.

He was wearing war paint. War paint. What was going on? Something was in the wind. And it wasn’t the coming of Summer. And with that thought, Elu disappeared. I frowned. Message delievered, Elu. Whatever the heck it was.


Rind was currently wearing a black leather Roman centurion sort of outfit. Its short kilt of leather slats showed off her long legs to advantage. The smile died from the icy face regarding me.


“End of the journey, dawn of the night,” murmured Rind.


Like most things Rind said, her words would only make sense when my world lay in ruins. Her voice was like icicles dancing across a frozen lake, and her eyes were the glowing fire of winter sunset clouds.



Blackness swirled around her like a living thing. She was of the night and of eternity. In all Sam's time with her he had never caught a complete glimpse of her long face, for to look full upon Rind was to die.



She was like The Thunderbird in that respect. But her power dwarfed even that being's frightening abilities. Good thing she was Sam's friend. Of course, she was a friend that one day would literally be the death of him. But still a friend.


Hopefully, she was my friend, too.


She was no longer dressed in a short-skirted centurion outfit of black leather. Now, she was wrapped in a form fitting toga whose dark fabric seemed to hold whole solar systems glittering within it. As Renfield always said, Rind had flair to spare.


In words of December frost, Rind murmured, "Of everything, a little stays. The line of your mother's chin stayed in your own. The dry silence of your father's desertion stayed in your heart."


Sam said low, "Rind, play nice."


She feather-stroked my cheeks so lightly the frostbite would heal in only weeks. "I will answer whatever question you ask -- except for the one all mortals fear to ask me."


Sam clucked his tongue at Rind, wet his fingers in my tea, and touched my cheek. It tingled odd. And I knew two things : my cheek was healed; and the ice in my tea was truly from the melted snow of Eden.


He turned to her. “Late at night when I drift away, I can hear you calling. And it is always the voice of a friend.”

She sharply turned her head away. “Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes bitter wisdom.”

Dressed suddenly in a short-skirted version of a Nazi S.S. uniform, Rind sighed, “Our race is so used to disguising ourselves from others that we end up disguising ourselves from ourselves.”

Sam shook his head. “You think I call you friend ‘cause I don’t know you. Maybe I don’t. Then again, maybe I know you better than you think.”

The blackness wrapped tighter around her. But I still saw her outfit had changed to the blood-stained, skull-adorned armor of Kali. She turned to me sharply.


"I am called elsewhere. Ask your question of me. Now."


What would you ask Death? Think of all she has seen, of all with whom she spoke, of all the mysteries she's seen revealed. Two words blundered from my lips.


"Why Sam?"


She stiffened, her nails growing long and sharp. Her eyes deepened in her face. The shadows started to part from that face. Then, they slowly masked her features again.


"The heart knows no reasons. It only feels. And you asked, not for yourself, but out of your friendship for Samuel. That is why you live."


The living shadows wrapped around her like a cloak. "Today."


And she was gone. Sam sighed like an open wound. "Son, you're gonna give me gray hairs you keep on with these questions."


"Your hair's already moon-white."


"See what you've done?"


We both laughed. But it was strained laughter. The empty chair beside Sam didn't seem to be laughing either. And it didn't feel empty at all.

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