BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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Old buddy/roommate Rich was in New York City to see one of his clients. We had drinks.
He said he’d like to do a revised edition of his crisis management book. “Social media changed anything. I gotta update it.”
I thought it was a good idea. I reminded him that one, I was no longer with his original publisher, and two, the cheat that got his first edition onto the bestseller list was no longer possible.
Along about the second drink I convinced him that he ought to self-publish it. Rich could still use the “National Bestseller” line on a second volume. His past, current, and potential clients could afford a hefty price for the book. He had all their email addresses. The margins for him as author and publisher on a high-priced book would be terrific. He’d make a lot of money.
I promised to connect him with a few folks who knew the ins-and-outs of self-publishing.
At the start of our third round of drinks Rich told me about how his firm was doing more global work, working with some “tough amigos,” and how his firm was helping the CIA by placing agents in his firm’s global offices. Those offices provided perfect coverage for the agents.
“But it’s funny,” Rich said. “I get to know some of these guys. We talk, we have some good times and then one day they’re just not there. They fail to show up at the office. Gone! Poof! I don’t know if they’re dead or have moved onto a new identity or territory or operation. It does cause me to appreciate the darker side of all that goes on out there. You know, the stuff that’s gotta be done for the greater good.”
I told him he should use all of that to write a thriller, “Assuming you can still write like you once did, I’d be first in line to try and publish it.” (See that? I’m always looking for the next book. It’s annoying and exhausting.)
We talked about the newspaper biz, the book publishing biz, and TV. Rich said, “It’s easy these days, for a guy like me to manage the media. Other than the Times [New York] and the Post [Washington] what’s left of newspapers is owned by a few flawed guys. All of them have gotten in trouble along the way, and I’ve bailed them out. So now I call them up, and issues are, well, taken care of.
“Same with TV. One TV network—owned by a guy I’ve got on a monthly retainer he fucks up so much—controls the sanity, or lack of,” Rich smiled, “of half the country. They do whatever I ask.”
“What about book publishing, isn’t that—”
Rich burst out laughing. Then after a minute (maybe three) he quieted and just shook his head.
“Sorry, buddy, but nobody gives a fuck about book publishing. It’s slow, it’s old, it publishes history, annoyingly high-brow literature, and celebrities who come and go in the time it takes you guys to make a book and find a couple of readers.
“Whereas with TV I can click my fingers and the whole country is on board overnight. Click my fingers again and newspapers follow suit and there’s just something about words in a newspaper that makes the bullshit on TV seem legit. But book publishers, nah, I don’t waste my time. You book sorts have no impact on me or the real world.”
Depressing.
Then with the last few sips of our third round of drinks, he said, “Matt’s thinking about running for senator. The Heinz seat.”
I nearly choked on my olive.
And the gin urged me to share the weird Heinz/Brallier Hot Dog Cookbook story (the one Freeman made possible) with Rich, but I kept my mouth shut.
“You good with that,” he asked.
“With what?”
“With Matt running for Heinz’s seat. The election for a full-term senator comes up in six months.” Rich paused, looked me in the eye, then continued, “Nothing in Matt’s past that you know of that might cause you pause?”
This is weird, I thought.
“No, not at all. It would be very cool for our old roomie and buddy to be a senator. And I gotta admit, I’m not surprised. Matt and I talk a couple of times per month, and he’s been busy as hell in Pittsburgh and Harrisburg, on more committees than anybody I know.”
“Good,” Rich nodded.
I headed back to the apartment. The doorman handed me a long box labeled “FRESH FLOWERS.” How sweet. Probably from somebody I helped out with a publishing issue of some sort.
Sally was asleep, I locked our door, and opened the box. It was filled with dead flowers and a note: “I want MY royalties.” That pissed-off Einstein guy. Feels like he’s getting closer.
I fell asleep, thinking, that was a weird Rich conversation, especially the are-you-OK-with-Matt-running-for-senator question.
Tomorrow: Robert Parker, his dog Pearl, Freeman, and me