If Hell is a warm Coke, then let the sinning begin.

When New Zealand’s dairy industry went all greedy-guts, I stopped eating cheese. Anyway, it clogs the arteries.

When the price of petrol went up 30 cents a litre over the last three weeks of January alone, I parked the car. Anyway, walking is good for me.

When the crumbling economy cost me a full-time job and most of my freelance work, I tightened the budget reins. Anyway, who needs a plasma TV? And I’m nearly positive, if I wait long enough, my clothes will come back into style.

And so it goes — you adjust, you scrimp, you roll with the punches. You pray a lot. You cry a bit. You bang your head against the wall until the plaster loosens.

But — at the end of the day — you do survive.

And then comes a double whammy that I’m reasonably certain will crush the final drops of humanity from the broken husk that is my spirit.

You guessed it — my caffeine supply is under threat.

Oh, sure, we all know it’s an insidious drug but it allows me to get through each penny-pinching day without gathering up a vacuum hose, duct tape and car keys.

The first whammy: Starbucks — O Valhalla! O Elysian Fields! — announces world-wide cuts to stores and staff. Is it just me, or is that comparable to God downsizing angels AND manna?

And then — second whammy! — today I read how lower sales figures have Coca-Cola scrambling to rework its advertising campaigns by jettisoning the “Classic” from Coke Classic.

(Something about kids being confused by the term “classic.” Christ, if we dumped everything kids don’t understand, there’d be no vacuum cleaners or lawnmowers or clean dishes. Or imperial measurements. Or parents, for that matter. Or cricket. Oh, wait, no one understands cricket. Bad example.)

I know, it’s a mystery to me too how Coke could be in trouble. I drink gallons of the stuff, all by myself. Just ask the bathroom scale. And my bladder.

Although I will admit the “Classic” was a bit redundant. That’s akin to me referring to myself as Great and Wonderful when, like, it is already so obvious to everyone.

The “Classic” part only came about because, in April 1985, everyone at Coca-Cola died and was replaced by mindless drones with a plot to destroy the world. And that plot was called New Coke. I think it lasted 12 seconds. Or about 13 seconds too long.

You can hurt a man in a lot of nasty ways — I know, I’ve been married twice — but you mess with his Coke and you’re asking for a whole lot of trouble. Shake-the-can trouble. Chug-a-lug-and-burp-the-alphabet trouble. Laugh-until-it-spurts-out-your-nose trouble.

Goodness and justice and puppy dogs and girls in summer dresses did eventually prevail and the drones received a good and proper rogering. The “old” Coke made a triumphant return as Coke Classic and, after being renamed Coke II in 1992, the interloper finally faded into history seven years ago, to gather dust with other useless items: disco, boy bands, Dan Brown’s keyboard, Pintos, Paris Hilton’s acting career, George Bush, senior and junior.

You can well imagine my absolute horror at this double shot of bad news, arriving as it has so soon after the hardships of 2008 were dropped on my doorstep like a burning bag of dog doo.

I’m not ashamed to admit I would spend my wife’s last dollar on a bottle of Coke. Asked for a condemned man’s final meal, I’d request Coke and, um, you know, whatever the chef feels like throwing together.

If you told me Hell was a place where you were served nothing but warm Coke, I’d still skip merrily through the fires of eternal damnation.

Unless Hell, like Vegas, is a Pepsi town. In which case, I am pretty much hooped.

I’ll go tally the tears

The meek will inherit the earth, after which the cynical will stand back and mock them.

I came to that conclusion, amazingly enough, by being a fan of Survivor.

Observations of the human race based on a reality TV show might seem random at best — and just plain silly at worst — but lately it is from my perch on the couch that I’ve had my only view of my fellow Earthlings. Such is the lot of freelance writers and unpublished novelists who can seldom afford to venture much past the front gate.

With Survivor’s 17th season (Gabon) having concluded last night here in New Zealand (more than six weeks after its finale in North America, and barely two weeks before the 18th season is slated to begin in the more civilized parts of the world), I was finally able to return to Entertainment Weekly’s website without worrying about accidentally stumbling across spoilers that would ruin what little surprise still exists in my life.

And that’s when I started to worry about the future of the human race.

You see, Dalton Ross, EW’s self-proclaimed Survivor “expert,” baldly states that he dislikes both the Fallen Comrades and Family Visit sections of the show.

Maybe he finds them schmaltzy or overtly sentimental but his reaction is typical of Generation Whatever, that of poo-pooing anything the majority happens to be enjoying at the moment. The idea, of course, is to stand out by being in the minority.

If everyone else is cheering, Dalton is going to boo. If everyone else is wiping away a tear of happiness, Dalton is going to jeer. The subject matter doesn’t matter: He does it simply to be different, to be noticed for his negative noise.

Ross is also typical of the new breed of critics and writers whose schtick is to heap disdain on popular entertainment. These are the same people who are subsequently amazed at the proliferation of “sleeper” hits: movies that make millions despite bad reviews; TV shows that top the ratings even though they supposedly left reviewers dry-heaving.

I call their style contrary reporting and, frankly, it’s gotten old. It’s also gotten predictable.

Katherine Monk, a movie reviewer for the Vancouver Sun, hates action movies. That much has become obvious over several years and hundreds of trashed films. As a reader, I already know her opinion when I see her byline above any slice of celluloid bearing even a whiff of testosterone. And so I don’t even bother finishing the review. Why waste my time when I already know she is just going to bash it with her purse and her heels for being insensitive and lacking any social value.

But Monk is simply representing the sisters. Dalton Ross’s attitude is another kettle of sneers altogether.

If we lose our ability to sympathize/empathize, if everything in life is meant to be pointed at and laughed about and waved off as stupid or inane, what does that say about us as people?

If we’re not allowed to shed a tear or three when some dirt-caked, food-deprived reality show contestant gets to hug their spouse after three weeks of hardship in a remote jungle, then we have lost an essential part of what separates us from the beasts. And I’m not just talking about the ability to type.

Dalton Ross and his ilk may think they are somehow above the stinking masses who revel in this kind of TV. They may think they are too professional to be sucked in by manipulative editing and slick production values. That they are too intelligent to be entertained by anything geared towards the lowest common denominator.

Their opinions bear no resemblance to anything honest or heartfelt. Rather, they come across as pretentious and self-inflated and shallow. The phony mocking the phony.

They may think themselves somehow aloof and sophisticated and superior, but need I remind them that “cool” rhymes with “fool.”

Now excuse me while I go watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. That Ty Pennington makes me bawl like a baby every time.

I’m going to edit you, baby, all night long.

It was perfect timing, really.

Call it serendipity, the work of  a benevolent universe, or just plain dumb luck, but one day after I wrote about my TV addiction (blamed, like all good children, on my parents), proof that TV viewing can be immensely beneficial arrived in my e-mail.

I subscribe to several feeds but, unlike, say, dictionary.com and its pesky Word of the Day, the Survivor Fan Wiki actually cares for my well-being. And by well-being, I mean my sex life. And by sex life, I mean don’t tell my wife or she’ll want one too.

It’s all worked out rather nicely, actually. I signed up to the wiki to share the views of fellow Survivor fans. Now, it appears, I’m about to share their hidden immunity idols. This is the kind of Reward Challenge that really is worth playing for.

By now, you’ve probably guessed the good news. Yes, that’s right — yet another letter from a fellow Jeff Probst fan who saw my Profile (it must be a zinger, although I’ve long since forgotten what I actually wrote there) and who now wants to light my torch.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present *drum roll* Christiana!

nice to meet you.

My name is christiana, i just went through your profile when i was searching
for love, I have no options than letting you Know that I am infected
and affected by your profile on a dating site.survivorwiki.wetpaint.com
that is why i wish to have a relationship with you, I will also like
to Know you more,i will be very greatful to have you as my loved one.
so you can reply back to me through this address and i will also send
you my pictures. I believe we can move from here. But bear in
mind that Love has no colors barrier, no educational back ground barrier, no
socio-economic Barrier, religious, language, nationality or distance barrier,
the only important Thing there is love. I am waiting for your mail at
(christianai@****.com).
Thanks for your cooperation.
from
christiana.

This, I’m assuming, is why God invented the Internet. So the inhabitants of Planet Man — unshaven, undressed, slurping coffee while their morning breath steams up their monitors — can be infected by the virus of love. Because, as my dearest, darling Christiana so eloquently points out, love is the “only important Thing.” (Note the use of upper case — that’s so damn cute!)

Far more important, I’m assuming, than such trivial details as a green card or my bank account information or my credit card numbers.

I fall to my knees every day and thank www.godsoftheuniverse.com for the likes of Christiana. She is obviously someone who can peer beyond the rough edges to the true soul that lies within each of us. I know, because she fell in love with me based on little more than my profile. How can you doubt someone with that kind of insight?

Just as my professional life has grown a bit stagnant, this divine creature comes into my life to awaken my senses. I can see us together now: Christiana lovingly touching all my barriers and me, lingering over her letters to other lonely Survivor fans, red pen in hand, gently editing her words, kneading her sentences, massaging her paragraphs, running my fingers across her wetpaint.com.

Oh, yes, I see this relationship having a long and deep and meaningful future. That’s how infected I’ve become.

I can feel my blood pounding harder just thinking about her. I’m pumped. I’m engorged with excitement. I’m finally going to take my future in my own hands and squeeze it for all its worth.

Just as soon as her pictures arrive, of course.

Life viewed from the couch is remotely Amazing.

Last night, with my ass having set down roots in the seat cushion of my ’70s-era brown velour rocker, I watched the pilot episode of some American sitcom called Two and a Half Men. It was actually quite funny in places and, with luck, I predict a bright future for the show.

I know, I know, that was little more than some programmer’s eeeny-meeny-miney-moe solution to filling a 30-minute gap on a slow summer evening, but it’s a perfect example of how far behind the rest of the civilized world New Zealand is drifting.

Kiwis may not give a rat’s patooie that their TV schedule lags so woefully in arrears of North America’s, but I’m originally from Canada where, if the US networks fart, we check our pants.

It’s summer here of course, a fallow time in any culture when it comes to TV scheduling. The idea being we’re supposed to turn off the plasma, step outside and somehow revel in the glorious weather and long hours of daylight.

But there are only so many food groups I can cremate on the barbecue and green things in the garden I can yank out before I succumb to the urge to jam the cable from the satellite dish directly into my brain and assume my rightful place of worship on the couch.

Our 2009 season is starting soon but I already know some of the shows being trumpeted have since been cancelled by the likes of NBC or ABC, which isn’t exactly encouraging. And I have yet to read anywhere about when the next installment of The Amazing Race (the one that’s been over for months) might air here, despite the fact its host, Phil Keoghan, is a Kiwi, and the contestants actually visit NZ for one of their pit stops.

But it’s not all doom and gloom in my living room (as opposed to, say, the bedroom). Rather than be tempted to mould Australian (Kath & Kim) or English (Life on Mars) hits in our own image, we get to see the originals in all their glory. I’m hearing whispers that the Yankified version of Mars is decent, but I doubt it will touch the brilliance of its English inspiration, or its equally wonderful sequel, Ashes to Ashes.

I know what you’re thinking: “John, put down the remote, return that oh-so-yummy New Zealand ice cream to the freezer and go for a walk, you pale-skinned, chubby loser.”

To which I reply, around a mouthful of hokey-pokey: “It’s not my fault.” And,  ”I blame my parents.”

It’s true. My mother will watch anything whose title ends in “Idol” or begins “Dancing With  . . .” If there was a show called “Dancing With American Idols on Figure Skates” — well, that would pretty much describe heaven, now wouldn’t it?

You want to call my mother? Better check the TV listings first. You want to drop in for a visit? Where’s the TV Guide?

I have a brother who takes great glee in showing up while Mother is engrossed in one of her favorites. And you thought Simon Cowell could be cranky  . . .

Our lack of quality TV may be one reason why my parents won’t be visiting Napier any time soon. Well, that and a 14-hour flight and some $4,000 worth of airfare.

Too bad because, strangely enough, the new season of American Idol started its run in New Zealand mere days after premiering in North America. Yes, it is a sure sign of the Apocalypse, but somehow it also reminds me of home and family.

Because I just know my parents are  watching Two and Half Men as well. Sure hope it gets renewed for a second season . . .

The 2008 G-String has a particularly unique bouquet

The hospital was my first clue.

“We’re lost,” I say.

Viking Woman stares at me from the driver’s seat.

“Ya think?”

It isn’t supposed to be this difficult. We’re taking Brenda, a friend visiting from Canada, on a tour of Hawke’s Bay wineries and have headed to the same general area — Bridge Pa — where, two months earlier, my sister and I conducted our On Yer Bike Winery Tour. So I should know where we ‘re going. And I thought I did, right up to the part where we drive past the hospital in Hastings, with not a single grape in sight.

The problem, I eventually surmise, is my reliance on the Hawke’s Bay Winery Guide rather than a standard map. The Winery Guide does a really nice job of putting white numbers in blue squares to mark the location of various wineries and vineyards. Where the guide falls down is in the minor details, little things like showing roads connecting when, in reality, they never do intersect.

“It’s the map’s fault,” I say.

Viking Woman: “You’re always blaming your tools.”

Me: “I have a lot of tools.”

Viking Woman: “You are a tool.”

And so it comes as a relief when we stumble across the Triangle Red Tasting Centre. Not because Sis recommends the wine here (the only thing interesting about its Drama Queen rose is the name) but because it allows me to swallow my Planet Man pride and ask where the hell we are.

The Tasting Centre does have a new product from when Sis and I were here in November: a 2008 Sauvignon Blanc with a French name (Flying Mouton) made in New Zealand for an Asian company (Ohsawa Wines). As the song notes, it is indeed a small world.

According to Viking Woman, this vintage needs to age a bit longer. “It’s still got too much of a bite,” she says.

As a non-drinker and soon-to-be designated driver, I sniff at the liquid in her glass and nod knowingly at the bouquet.

We meet Gordon Hall at Alpha Domus. Gordon is working at the cellar door because his regular employment — that of a touring storyteller — has suffered from the country’s overall stagnant economy. We don’t ask for a story, but Gordon tells us one anyway, after determining we are Canadian rather than American.

He does all the voices as he describes the very real nightmare of crossing the border into the U.S., where an ill-timed blink is all it takes to have you bent over a table, cheeks spread, while a burly guard snaps on the latex gloves and calls you Sugar Bitch.

In stark contrast, Gordon tells how crossing into Canada was like being greeted by a neighbour at the back fence — he was practically invited home for a meal.

It is a good story and we are feeling so proud of our home country and all it stands for that we promptly buy three bottles of wine. Call me a cynic, but I can’t help wondering if that border crossing story changes depending on the nationality of Gordon’s customers.

It’s at this point Viking Woman hands me the keys. “I’m feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges,” she says.

That much was evident two stops later at Ngatarawa. (Maoris are going to wince at this, but visitors here are told that the “g” is silent. Viking Woman and I have enough experience with the language to know that isn’t case. The “ng” is pronounced, just as it is in English with a words like “song.”)

Neither Viking Woman nor Brenda are pronouncing anything correctly — in any language — by this time, having swallowed every sample to date. Frank, the fellow behind the counter, seems to enjoy their giddy banter. He eagerly poses for photos and later, when Brenda waves off a sample, saying she is finished, he continues to pour while informing her, “I’m not finished with you yet.”

What Frank has doled out is a Gewurztraminer but, because customers tend not to order this wine lest they stumble over their tongues, Frank winks and tells us to refer to it as G-String.

When I ask Brenda to describe the G-String’s bouquet, she leans in close and whispers, “Fishy.”

OK, then. I’ll just be biting back my laughter over here. Oh, look, something to photograph.

I wander back to Frank and the ladies a few minutes later, just in time to hear some wine’s bouquet being compared to “dirty old man’s socks.” Later still, I glance over to find Frank has invited Viking Woman behind the counter where they are both staring at the computer screen that doubles as the display for the cash register.

It’s just about this time Frank’s co-worker marches over, uses her best stage-whisper voice and informs him there are other customers to be served. We buy a bottle of wine, if only to save Frank’s job. At least I hope he still has a job.

We finish our tour at Trinity Hill where John, one of the trinity of owners, is also charmed by the ladies. So much so he digs around and produces an opened bottle of 2004 Homage Syrah, a red which sells for $120 a pop.

John explains the three-pronged assault good wine has on your senses — the initial burst in your sinus cavity, followed quickly by a full-bodied sensation on your palate, and rounded off by a long finish.

When I ask Viking Woman if there really is a difference between a $120 bottle and a $20 bottle, she nods enthusiastically.

Too bad we don’t have $120. And we don’t need it today because, when John is momentarily distracted, we make a hasty exit and head home. This time, I let someone else read the map.

Oh, and just for the record, it’s pronounced Gah-vertz-tra-me-nur. Somehow, I still prefer G-String.

Publish or Die! Part 4

Here in New Zealand, if you ask a Kiwi a question for which there is seemingly no answer, the reply will be: “How long is a piece of string?”

I’m reminded of the impossible answers every time I draw near to the stone walls of Castle Publish. It’s here I encounter the first line of defence against howling mobs brandishing their manuscripts.

These defenders are the literary agents and they will gladly eat you alive for breakfast and then later pick their teeth with your ribs.

In a scenario straight from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, there are magic words required to pass into the promised land beyond the battlements but these words have nothing to do with uttering “Open Sesame” and everything to do with a query letter.

But while the query is the key, the shape of the keyhole keeps changing, depending on which of the gatekeepers you talk to (or website you visit).

From what I can gather, the format can be broken down into three paragraphs:

1) hook

2) brief synopsis

3) publishing/pertinent education, if any, or at least some experience/knowledge you brought to the writing process (in my case, I lived in Rarotonga, the setting for my book; the lead character gets a tattoo just like mine; the protagonist struggles to cope with strong female characters and that is pretty much the story of my life).

Those are the basic tools you will need. How you embellish the toolbox depends on which person is describing the ideal query letter. The maddening thing is, I’ve come across agents who, after giving an example of what they considered to be the perfect pitch, still rejected it.

Say what? Is the Spanish Inquisition still alive and well and no one bothered to inform us poor writing wretches how much torture we will need to endure on the path to eternal enlightenment (or at the very least, a movie contract)?

Let me get this straight — you can do everything right and still be wrong? Why does that sound like every inhabitant of Planet Man?

If no one in the industry can agree on the perfect query letter, then isn’t rejecting a manuscript based solely on a query letter akin to looking at a birth certificate and announcing the baby is ugly?

When I walk into a bookstore and peer at the thousands of books on display, my first thought is not, “Wow, look at all that talent!” Rather, it’s, “There is no frickin’ way every one of those writers produced a better query letter than me.” My second thought is,  ”There is no frickin’ way every single one of those books is better than mine.”

This is not me being an egocentric, deluded prat. This is me stating a fact. To date, everyone who has read Brown Girls (in its POD format or manuscript) has enjoyed it.

Sample comments:

LR: ” . . . just finished! Brilliant. With a few minor tweaks it should, without doubt, be in every major bookstore.”

ML: “I loved the book, my friends loved the book, and we are still waiting for Brown Girls 2.”

JB: “(It drew) me in, and that’s exactly what you want.”

If the general public is already sold on my book, how then do I convince the gatekeepers to read it?

While I ponder that, can you please pass me the string.

Publish or Die! Part 3

It’s been a good news/bad news kinda day in my ongoing quest to publish my novel, Brown Girls.

Let’s start with the good news because a smile can hide so much pain:

My great and kind and oh-so-talented friend, Calgary-based novelist Jeff Buick (and, yes, I am sucking up to him big time), remained true to his vow to start 2009 by removing Brown Girls from his In box, if only to stop me rubbing against his legs like a hungry cat.

He sent me several comments, one of which read: “So far I like it. It’s drawing me in, and that’s exactly what I want.”

I did mention that Jeff is a class act and a superb author, right? Check out his website (jeffbuick.com) and then get thee to a bookstore and buy all his novels. 

 

And now the bad news: my first form rejection letter of 2009 has arrived.

I found Nathan Bransford’s blog (nathanbransford.blogspot.com) via a tag surf on WordPress. Nathan works for Curtis Brown out of an office in San Francisco. His blog site is very informative and I recommend all wannabe writers check it out and read/heed his advice and tips.

The one thing that caught my eye was Nathan’s insistence on dashing all hope, ah, automatically rejecting everything, ah, answering all communiques as quickly as possible. His thought process is along the lines of, why let all these pesky queries from mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling losers clog up my e-mail server?

And, true to his word, I was rejected in a matter of a mere 15 hours. I’m guessing it only took that long because Nathan’s office was closed for the day when I sent my query and so I was forced to wait until he had his first morning coffee in hand before he summoned the firing squad.

I present his letter verbatim:

Dear John, Thank you for your recent e-mail and for reading my blog, I appreciate it. I regret to say that I don’t feel that I’m the most appropriate agent for your work. However, opinions vary considerably in this business, and I wish you the best of luck in your search for representation. Best wishes, Nathan

I present my blog post answer verbatim:

Dear Nathan, Thank you for your prompt reply. As I mentioned in my carefully-crafted query letter (designed by following your instructions to the letter and still, like an IKEA shelving unit, somehow coming up a few screws short), no one wants to stand on the trapdoor for 12 weeks while the man in the black hood fiddles with the lever. Better a quick drop into oblivion than days of bright and shiny hope. My only regret is I will not be paying you the commission when Brown Girls is published. And it will be. The next time I’m in San Francisco, I shall look for you, sitting on a corner, selling pencils out of a cup. I may actually feel a slight twinge of sorrow for you. Or it might be pity. I’m not sure, because, as you well know, opinions tend to vary considerably. Best wishes, John

 

If you’ve formed the impression that I’m not about to fawn all over literary agents who’ve rejected me, while also not giving a rat’s bum that this attitude may somehow result in me being blackballed by the entire industry, then go to the front of the class.

Would you smile and wave at the driver who just cut you off in traffic, playing nice on the slim chance you might meet one of his workmates sometime in the future? Me neither.

I’d flip him the bird and, given the opportunity, kick him up the ass.

Welcome to Publish or Die!, bitch.

If you’re going to piss all over my dreams, don’t expect me to shake your dick later and compliment your accuracy. Not in this lifetime, friendo.

Publish or Die! Part 2

I’ve just been informed Brown Girls is alive and well and making someone money. Unfortunately, that someone is not me, the person who actually wrote the book.

If that sounds a bit confusing — after all, these Publish or Die! posts are all about following Brown Girls on its journey to mass circulation — permit me to explain.

The suspense thriller, based on events and people I met while living in the Cook Islands, was ‘printed’ by PublishAmerica in 2004.

Notice that I didn’t say ‘published.’

That’s because PA is a Print On Demand (POD) company, meaning it prints a copy of one of its writers’ books only after it has been ordered and paid for. Yes, it does save warehousing costs, but if no one orders your book, not one copy will ever see the light of day.

This is how POD works, as opposed to a vanity press, where the author pays upfront for the actual printing process, just as you would for a business card or brochure.

But, in a relationship that seems somehow incestuous, PA makes it real money from its stable of writers. These keyboard tappers tend to be so excited about finally having their work ‘accepted’ after years of negative responses from mainstream publishing houses, that they  tend to order entire boxes filled with freshly-minted copies of their masterpieces.

They envision setting up a table in their local bookstore and spending entire weekends signing autographs for an adoring public.

The reality is slightly grimmer. It involves shuffling those same boxes of books — still mostly full — around the garage before, one sad day, putting all of them on the curb for the recyclers.

PA does little in the way of marketing and zero in the way of placing its product in actual bookstores. But all that information is easily found on the Internet and those people who sign with PA without doing some kind of research should not be allowed to whine later when their local Borders refuses to stock their deathless prose.

I knew going in what I wanted: a book with my name emblazoned on the cover, something I could hold in my hands like a new baby, one I could be assured wouldn’t grow into a teen and want to borrow the car.

And that’s exactly what I achieved. PA has a professional enough website (publishamerica.com) and actually pays royalties to its writers. If you squint in the right light, it could pass for a real publishing house.

Like all good PA writers, I bought copies of my own book. I, at least, had enough foresight and discipline and math skills to order only as many as I knew I could dispense. I gave away some copies, I donated another to my local library for all posterity, and then sold the rest to close friends and distant relatives — and very few actual strangers.

So when I hear used copies of Brown Girls are being offered for sale on both chapters.indigo.ca and amazon.com — not just copies, but signed copies — I can’t help but wonder who is flogging my work. 

I’m not terribly upset — I’d rather have the book circulated and read than gather dust on someone’s shelf, to be forgotten forever. My only regret is not making a cent from the $18.71 US being charged by Amazon or the $45.50 CDN it will cost you on chapters.indigo.ca ($65.64 CDN for a “clean and nice copy”!).

Now that PA has relinquished the publishing rights, I can only hope those sellers will use some of what they’re earning off my labor to buy Brown Girls — newly edited, freshly trimmed — when it returns to the marketplace.

I think that’s the least they owe me.

This is my son, Stunned Monkey Kidney Liver, Jr.

(This post inspired by the story ‘Jack and Sophie making names for themselves,’ published in the Jan. 8 New Zealand Herald.)

It seems strange to think my name is now on the endangered list.

John is in the Bible, for crissakes. Several times, if memory serves. The greatest band in the world (uh, that would be the Beatles, my young, annoying, rap-addled  friends) had a member named John.

My father’s name is John. His father’s name was John. I’m John III, John 3.0 — a sequel to a sequel. I’m my family’s version of Revenge of the Sith.

But a popular name in our family does not, apparently, translate to present day New Zealand. A perusal of the recently-released list of most popular baby names for 2008, as registered with the Department of Internal Affairs’ office of Births, Deaths and Marriages, shows my magnificent moniker floundering way down at No. 54, tied with Cody and but a single usage ahead of Luca. Luca? WTF?

I guess I shouldn’t complain. Being at 54 is actually an improvement over the past two years, when John ranked 61st in 2007 and could do no better than 63rd in 2006. In the only other two years on the IA press release, John sat at 47 in 2005 and 46 in 2005.

John, it seems, is in the crapper.

In case you were curious, the top five boys’ names in New Zealand last year were, in order: Jack, James, William, Samuel and Joshua. All solid names. All with history. Most with Biblical roots. And all, sad to say, working to push John off the birth certificate and out of the spotlight.

Having said that, it must be noted that, at one time, Jack was a derivative of John, similar to the relationship Bill and Will have with William, and Bob to Robert. In fact, to his family, my father was known as Jack, to avoid being mistaken for his father when it came time for chores.

To the rest of the world, he was John, meaning there were two of us in our household when I was growing up. That was always fun when someone would call asking to speak to John. Dad wound up chatting to several of my friends, while I had to deal with his work buddies. All fun and games, I assure you.

But, according to the NZ Herald piece that first stirred me to think of the name game, the dawn of a new century has seen Jack become an entity unto itself, no doubt inspired by 24 and Lost and those Pirates of the Caribbean movies (at the risk of putting too fine of a point on it, yes, I am our family’s version of  At World’s End.)

The result is that I can no longer lay claim to even a small piece of Jack from way down here at 54.

One solution to this abhorrent lack of John-dom would be to father several more children and name them all after myself, following in the honored footsteps of Michael Jackson’s assorted Prince Michaels. But Viking Woman tends to frown at me whenever I mention further offspring and then inquires as to where “John” ranks on the list of 2008 obits.

I have a strange feeling that’s her way of saying no.

In the interest of equality, New Zealand’s top five girls’ names for 2008 were Sophie, Olivia, Ella, Isabella and Charlotte.

All fairly standard and all comfortably old-fashioned in an age when celebrities appear to name their children by throwing darts at a dictionary.

But lest you think all Kiwis are quaint and slightly boring and a bit on the timid, unadventurous side, Internal Affairs also released a list of names it refused to register.

How would you like to go through life answering to Fish and Chips? What about Mower, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucy or Sex Fruit?

What part of “Just Say No To Drugs” did these people not understand? Oh, right — none of it.

Publish or Die! Part 1

Publish or Die! is dedicated to tracking my novel, Brown Girls, through the publishing process. These particular entries will record my dealings — good, bad and ugly — with literary agents/agencies.

Am I granting these people/companies exclusivity? Oh, hell, no! OK, let me rephrase that. If sample chapters or the entire manuscript are requested, then yes. If only  a query letter is requested, then . . . oh, hell, no!

Think about it — in what other situation in your life would you let your entire future rest in the hands of a complete stranger for up to 12 weeks while you sit and twiddle your thumbs? You don’t visit just one car dealer when you’re buying a vehicle. You shop around for the best deal when you’re looking for a new computer.

So why wouldn’t you be on a constant, unrelenting hunt for a literary agent? Look, the cruel, unvarnished truth is this: 99.9 per cent of every query you send out is going to be rejected, probably without being read. To waste 12 weeks of your time — while some agent spends five seconds of theirs — waiting to be told “No” is total and utter madness. Plus it’s just plain silly. And unproductive.

Somewhere along the line — in a classic example of the tail wagging the dog — the power shifted from those who actually sweat their guts out to produce the product to those who merely flog it between martinis and soy lattes. If no one wrote another word, all those agents and editors and publishers would have to get real jobs. Just like yours.

You want my book? Step up, baby. Crap or get off the pot. You snooze, you lose.

And if this sounds like I’m biting a hand I’m hoping (and praying) will feed me, then I’m going to enjoy every bloody mouthful in the process.

So let’s get on with it  . . .

 

Agency: BookEnds LLC

Website: bookends-inc.com

Date queried: Jan. 7, 2009

Particular agent: Kim Lionetti

Material sent: E-mailed query letter only, as per instructions on website.

Why this agency?: I first saw it mentioned in a WordPress blog and then read a few good comments about it on the Web.

I’ll let you know the results from this query, and all others, in future installments of Publish or Die!