Love Literary Style

by Karin Gillespie

  “It’s mainly a publishing term.”

  “I see. Well then, I bring the novel to the table. That’s my platform.”

  In fact, Aaron could actually stand on his novel, and it would serve as a platform in the traditional sense of the word. It was a large volume and could easily support his weight.

  “Of course you do. And your novel is definitely a vital component to the equation, but there are other matters to consider. You’d be surprised how much influence you already have. First there’s your family and friends. They’ll certainly buy copies of your novel.”

  “My father has already read the novel and didn’t care for it. I have a girlfriend, but she prefers romance novels over literary novels.”

  Rebecca playfully wagged her finger. “Come on, Aaron. You surely have more family and friends than that.”

  “I almost forgot. I also have an ex-girlfriend who owns a bookstore.”

  “That’s great.” She jotted notes on a legal pad in front of her. “Are you on good terms with her?”

  “The last time I saw her she tried to scald me with a hot cup of coffee.”

  One corner of Rebecca’s lips jutted down. “I see. What about work colleagues?”

  “I’m an adjunct, which means I scarcely interact with anyone on campus.”

  She rubbed her hands together. “Sounds like we have some work ahead of us. Have you thought about a website?”

  “No.”

  “We at Wilner strongly encourage authors to maintain a website. I can give you the names of some companies that specialize in author websites as well as book trailers.”

  “Trailers?”

  “It’s like a movie trailer only with a book.”

  “Forgive me, but don’t readers prefer to imagine the characters and situations in their minds? Isn’t that the whole point of reading a book?”

  Rebecca tapped her pencil against the surface of her desk. “You don’t have to have a book trailer. It’s just another publicity tool. Let’s move on. What is your social media involvement?”

  “Nil. I spend all my free time writing.”

  “Wilner encourages authors to have, at the very least, a Facebook and Twitter presence. I’ll send you a PDF with tips on using social media.”

  “I have to confess, I’m not comfortable with social media.”

  She raised an eyebrow so expertly plucked it seemed slightly unnatural. “We’ve found that authors who have a social media presence tend to sell more books.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to take out an advertisement in the New York Times Book Review?”

  She laughed again, although Aaron didn’t get the joke. “That’s a marketing issue, and I’m afraid a Times ad is not included in your current plan.”

  “Is it possible to contact the marketing people to suggest one?”

  “It’s not that simple. You may want to discuss marketing concerns with your editor; my bailiwick is publicity. Have you thought about doing some writing that’s off the book page? Perhaps you could write an essay on what it was like to grow up as the son of such a famous critic.”

  Aaron stiffened. Surely he’d misheard. “What was that?”

  “Your father’s Horace Flowers, correct?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It was in the materials Max gave me.”

  “I never mentioned it to Max.”

  “Your agent must have—”

  “I deliberately never told Andrea. I want my work to speak for itself.”

  “I understand, but from a publicity standpoint it doesn’t hurt to—”

  “Please don’t mention Horace Flowers in any press materials.”

  Rebecca’s pencil tapping grew more rapid. “Aaron, correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you aren’t particularly interested in publicizing your novel.”

  “Frankly I’m a little confused. Isn’t that your function?”

  “Well, it is, but we like to think of ourselves as partners with the author.”

  “Haven’t I’ve already done my part? It took me five years to write that novel. Will you be spending five years publicizing it?”

  Rebecca tossed the pencil across her desk and picked up the phone.

  “Maybe it’s time you talked to Max. I’ll have his assistant take you to his office.”

  Max’s assistant was pale and thin and wore a black dress with several zippers in illogical places. Her pace was slow and tentative because she, too, was hobbled by a pair of extremely high heels. She paused at an office door and opened it.

  “Your author is here, Max,” she sang out.

  Aaron had imagined his editor to be an older man in a bowler hat, three-piece suit and a gold timepiece on a chain. Thus it was jarring to see a middle-aged man wearing a white suit and a canary-colored shirt talking on the phone at a Lucite desk. Max was small-boned with brown hair that was blonde at the tips. He hung up the phone and shot up from his desk to greet Aaron, breathless and arms aflutter.

  “Welcome to the Wilner family.” Max’s gestures were theatrical and broad, and his voice was unexpectedly high-pitched. Everyone at Wilner seemed slightly manic; perhaps it was the easy access to Diet Coke. He clapped his hands together. “We are so excited about your novel.”

  “Thrilled,” the assistant chimed in.

  “I just got off the phone with Rebecca, and she said the two of you had a productive meeting. One teensy bump though.”

  Aaron frowned. Teensy wasn’t a word. He thought an editor would be more precise in his language.

  “Rebecca tells me you’re reluctant to mention your relationship with your father. Why is that?”

  “It’s not relevant to my work.”

  “She also mentioned your father didn’t like your book. We can’t imagine why. It’s stunning.”

  “Luminous,” added the assistant.

  “My father disagrees.”

  “And I’m sure that was devastating to you, but honestly, it’s not that uncommon. Not long ago I was reading Steven Martin’s autobiography. Do you know that it took his father forever to acknowledge his runaway success?”

  The name Steve Martin rang familiar; Aaron wasn’t a fan of pop culture but sometimes pop culture was so pervasive it bullied itself into his world. For instance, Aaron had heard of the Kardashians, although he had no idea why they were famous or why people wanted to keep up with them. Perhaps they were a family of long-distance runners.

  “Was Steve Martin’s father a famous book critic?” Aaron said.

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t understand the connection.”

  “Touché. But my point is this: Even though your father said he didn’t like your novel—”

  “Correct.”

  Aaron didn’t see the need of getting into specifics.

  “But, you see, from a publicity standpoint, that makes the connection even more delicious.”

  “I’d prefer my novel to stand on its own merit. Even if my father loved Chiaroscuro, I wouldn’t want people to know about our family relationship.”

  Max and his assistant exchanged a look. The energy in the room seemed to fizzle.

  “It’s difficult to get attention for a debut literary novel,” Max said.

  “Almost impossible,” the assistant echoed.

  “There are thousands of novels out there. We try to find ways to makes ours stand out in the marketplace,” Max said.

  “Didn’t you just say my novel was stunning?” Aaron said.

  “Yes, indeedy,” Max said.

  “Is it possible the quality of the writing will attract readers?”

  Max and his assistant didn’t immediately respond. It was as if Aaron had proposed a radical new idea, and they needed time to process it.r />
  The sound of screams in the hallway broke the silence. Aaron startled, but Max and his assistant didn’t seem the least bit concerned. They exchanged a smile.

  “Someone must have gotten some excellent news about an author,” Max said.

  “Wasn’t Oprah going to announce her pick today?” the assistant said.

  “No. That’s tomorrow,” Max said. “Must be something else.”

  A tiny brunette woman rushed into the office. Her face was flushed, and she nearly stumbled over her shoes. “Another number one spot on the Times list for R.K. Harris!”

  Max clutched at his throat as if choking on his surprise. “Oh dear God, that’s fabulous news. I’m so thrilled for you and your author. That’s four in a row, correct?”

  “Five.”

  The woman rushed out of the office. Max smirked. “Show-off,” he said. “Now where were we?”

  “What a coincidence. I had drinks with Ross, or rather, R.K., yesterday. We went to grad school together.”

  Max and his assistant swapped a rapturous look.

  “Do you think he might be willing to blurb your novel?”

  “Uh…yes. He offered to endorse it,” Aaron said quietly.

  “Wonderful!” Max and his assistant said in unison.

  Aaron cleared his throat. “I turned him down.”

  Both faces fell simultaneously as if yanked by invisible puppet strings.

  “Why, for God’s sakes?” Max said.

  “He’s a genre writer. We have a completely different readership.”

  Max’s smile was brittle. “Actually, you don’t yet have a readership. Ross, on the other hand, has—”

  “Millions of readers,” the assistant said.

  “He’s considered a cut above the usual genre novelist, and he rarely gives blurbs, so that makes his endorsement all the more valuable,” Max said. “A nod from him could move thousands of units.”

  “Units?” Aaron said.

  “He means novels,” the assistant whispered.

  “Of course I did,” Max said.

  “You make it sound like it’s all about commerce,” Aaron said.

  “Crass as it may seem, Wilner is in the business of making money,” Max said. “Yes, we have more literary sensibilities than most imprints, but we still have to pay salaries. The only imprint I know that can publish whatever it wants, regardless of profitability, is Featherstone, but they’re partially supported by private donors.”

  Again, Aaron was regretful he didn’t receive an offer from Featherstone. He wished his agent had been more aggressive with them. Then he wouldn’t have an editor who thought a novel needed all sorts of extras beyond its literary worth to sell copies, as if it were a box of breakfast cereal.

  “Why not call R.K. right now?” Max said. “Tell him you’ve reconsidered.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Before I left he called me an uptight snob…”

  “Oh,” Max said.

  “And, in retaliation, I called him a sellout.”

  “I see,” Max said.

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said, but he wasn’t. No matter what his editor said, he knew an endorsement from Ross would completely mislead readers about his novel.

  “I don’t suppose you know Nick Windust?” Max said.

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Just a joke,” Max said. “I don’t recall him ever blurbing a book. Anyway, we’re going to get some galleys together soon and hopefully we’ll be able to find someone worthwhile to endorse your novel.”

  “Fine. Are we done with the publicity part of this conversation?” Aaron asked.

  Max exchanged a glance with his assistant. “I think we are.”

  “Good.” Aaron looked around the office; it was spacious but there was only one desk inside. “Where will we be working?”

  “Working?”

  “I assumed you wanted to put some final touches on the book while I’m here.”

  Max laughed. “No, Aaron. We’re done with the editing. In fact, your novel has been sent to copyediting. I’m afraid the days of an editor editing in the office are long gone. I do almost all my editing at home or on the subway.”

  “Then what do you do during the working day?”

  “Acquire manuscripts, act as an advocate for the books on my list, and, of course, have lunch meetings with literary agents. Speaking of which, I have another appointment. It’s been such a great pleasure to meet you, Aaron Mite.”

  Aaron had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Tomorrow he was scheduled to have lunch with his agent and then, thankfully, it was time to return home to Laurie and Dusty.

  He spent the next few hours in the New York Public Library reading. Laurie would be appalled by the way he was squandering his time in the city. When she heard about his trip she bubbled over with activity suggestions: strolling on the Brooklyn Bridge, eating cupcakes at the Magnolia Bakery, singing “Strawberry Fields” while visiting Strawberry Fields in Central Park. (She’d never been to Manhattan but got most of her knowledge of the borough from the romantic comedies she favored.) Those pastimes would only be enjoyable if Laurie was with him. Aaron had never been one to engage in a lot of leisure pursuits. Writing took too much time.

  He could only imagine what she’d think of his dinner that night: a turkey Subway sandwich, which he took back to his room to eat. No doubt she’d be sampling the street food or wandering into whatever restaurant caught her fancy.

  Aaron waited for his agent in the foyer of a restaurant called Buds. The space was airy with towering ceilings and heavy molding, and he suspected it may have been a bank in a previous incarnation. The hostess wore a black cocktail dress as if it were nine p.m. instead of noon.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. Behind him was a man with unruly salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy mustache. He wore a short-sleeve dress shirt and his tie appeared to be a clip-on.

  “Aaron, right?”

  “Yes?”

  He pumped Aaron’s arm. “Great to meet you, cowboy. It’s Bernie. Andrea’s assistant.”

  “Where’s Andrea?”

  “Sorry. She’s not going to make it today. I’m here in her place.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “No. She’s taking R.K. Harris out to a celebration lunch for hitting the number one spot on the Times list. She’s sorry but she and R.K. are like this.” Bernie crossed his fingers.

  “Should we cancel then?”

  “And miss out on a free meal? Are you nuts? I’ve got the agency credit card in my wallet, and I plan to put it through its paces. And there’s a couple of things Andrea asked me to pass along to you.”

  “Fine, then. I’m hungry.”

  The hostess showed them to a table near the kitchen. They examined menus which were oversized and cumbersome but listed only a few entrées in flowery hard-to-read script.

  “Do you have any recommendations?” Aaron said.

  Bernie shrugged.

  “I’ve never been here before. I usually pick up a liverwurst sandwich at the bodega. You want a cocktail?”

  “I’m flying later. Alcohol and high altitudes are a poor combination.”

  “Well, I’m having one. A Manhattan. Maybe I’ll even have two. Blame it on you. You know what they say about writers hitting the sauce…Hey, quit looking at me like that. I’m kidding.”

  Bernie’s speech was littered with clichés, but Aaron admired his casual ease. They ordered their food. Bernie opted for prime rib, and Aaron echoed his order because it was the only thing on the menu that didn’t have a lot of extra embellishments.

  “By the way, I’m a huge fan of your novel.” Bernie flapped a cloth napkin onto his lap. “Couldn’t put it down. A work of genius. R
eminds me of Karl Ove Knausgård’s My Struggle.”

  “Thank you,” Aaron said. Personally he found My Struggle to be overly long and self-indulgent, but no need to mention that.

  “When your MFA mentor sent it over, I marched it to Andrea’s desk and said, ‘You need to read this tonight.’ She told me to jump in the lake but to fetch her a cup of coffee first. I was a newbie and she didn’t trust my judgment yet. But I kept nagging her, and she finally read it and admired it, although she did think the main character was bleak as all get-out. Thought it would be a hard sell, and damned if it didn’t get rejected a lot. But I believed in your work, so I did some digging to see if I could find a sales angle. Boy, did I hit pay dirt when I discovered you were Horace Flowers’ son.”

  The drinks were delivered and Bernie stirred his with his pinkie finger and took a big gulp. Aaron ignored his ginger ale. He swallowed hard. “You were the one who told Andrea about my father?”

  “That’s right. And that’s why Wilner bought it. Don’t get me wrong; they liked the writing, but they couldn’t resist the publicity opportunities.”

  His father had been right all along; he was the reason Wilner had made an offer on Chiaroscuro. Aaron no longer had an appetite.

  “I don’t want to exploit my connection to Horace Flowers,” he said quietly.

  “You made that clear to Max, but I gotta level with you here, cowboy. The people at Wilner are getting annoyed with you, and that’s not a good thing. You need to throw them a bone or two.”

  “Such as?”

  “A website, definitely. And a social media presence: Facebook and Twitter should be enough to appease them.”

  “But I have no knowledge of either of those things. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “It’s not rocket science. Rebecca, your publicist, said she was emailing you a social media guide. Opening a Facebook and Twitter account is easy as—”

  “Pie?”

  “You’re reading my mind, cowboy. As for your website, get some college kid to throw one up for you.”

  “I don’t want to spend time on the internet. I want to spend time writing books. Authors are supposed to write, not post what they had for breakfast that morning.”