David Thayer

Dateline Wellington Leg: Resplendent in a blue serge and a snap-brim hat the earl emerged from relative obscurity for an impromptu press conference early this morning. “Wellington Leg will never be a Hohenzollern principality,” he vowed. His remarks were greeted with scattered applause from stranded judges on their way to the Mister Goth Contest. “Naval bombardment is hardly the way to introduce oneself to towne…” complained one official. Eddie of Eddie’s Book Nook reported brisk sales of Jane’s Fighting Ships, Lloyds List, and the Shipping News. A cardboard likeness of James Patterson was damaged when the destroyer “Prinz Wilhelm” launched an unprovoked attack late Friday afternoon.

The Sultan and his entourage played bingo at St. Gudile’s before repairing to their vessel. Mrs. Agatha Huffington of Lesser Prussia was detained briefly after claiming bingo without paying the entrance fee. Bishop Charlie Sheen was on hand to greet the Sultan and express his official pleasure at the regime change. “He has a big ship and loves bingo,” said the bishop. “Wellington Leg is in good hands.”

Some believe that the Sultan is pressuring the Dowager Princess into dropping her claim to the throne of Bavaria. Several members of the Detroit police department were aboard the “Prinz Wilhelm” anxious to press their case that the Princess attempted to rig the Super Bowl. Her remark that the officiating was “from hunger” drew the ire of the Imperial Consort who had the Seahawks plus three.

Martial music will commence promptly at three according to Graf Von Sitzbaedchen. Rumors that the earl would perform with the Hessian Hussars Orchestra were scotched by the Graf. The Hessians will do a Bob Seger medley culminating with “Hollywood Nights.” Each citizen of the Leg will receive a ticket for one free beer and admission to the fireworks show. “It’s all about hearts and minds,” said the Graf. “The lederhosen ban is lifted,” he added. “It’s a whole new ballgame.”

Aboard the Motor Yacht “Prinz Wilhelm” Lake Trasimere: In preparation for this summer’s Literary Faire the Sultan of Swat is throwing a party aboard his converted kriegsmarine destroyer “Prinz Wilhelm”. The mighty ship sailed into Port Wellington just before noon yesterday. Hizzoner and the entire Towne Council were on hand to offer unconditional surrender to the Sultan; one salvo from the ship’s deck guns caused Admiral Howe to realize the futlity of his “canoe defense,” wherein tiny wooden vessels were smashed to pieces assaulting the destroyer. The Admiral offered his sword to the Sultan’s Fraulein Huebsch, the former Lufthansa flight attendant who now serves as Minister of War.

The Earl is under house arrest until a plethora of book deals resulting from the swift victory are sorted out. “Certainly Fraulein Huebsch is a lock for a three book deal,” noted literary scout and impresario Lefty Gomez. “Hizzoner, the Sultan, no brainer there. Admiral Howe is delivering a memoir late Friday at an unnamed location near the Marquesas.”

Lefty thinks the Earl will be invited to the party after he surrenders his naval forces. His battle dinghy Forthright is beached near the Straights of Magellan. “Emperor penguins have seized the dinghy” claims field reporter Anna Nicole. “It’s really cool,” she added.

A curfew is in effect for Wellington Leg, Greater Goth, and much of the Barbary Coast. Residents are advised not to seek book deals until the all clear is sounded. “Oompah Night” at St. Gudile’s may be in jeopardy. DCI Borchardt has recovered a tuba thought lost in the bombardment. It may be claimed at the Wellington Leg Police HQ. Bring proof of purchase and valid ID. “Anyone claiming the tuba will be expected to demonstrate some proficiency,” Borchardt warned. Elliot Ness reporting.

Confession is good for the soul. That’s why after many months of masquerading as a lit blogger, and what a thin disguise it is when you look back on it, what with alien-abducted German tourists, rambling squads of market weight hogs, and ridiculous compound sentences, lederhosen, Emma Peel, Roman  soldiers, the Battle of Costco, crime without yellow tape, an imaginary staff, macaroni recipes, it comes as no surprise to anyone that this is not a blog about literature, it’s an infomercial penned by a desperate cabal of indviduals eager to exploit globalization in a new and harrowing manner.

Let’s face it, you’ve been duped. Concealed in the text of each entry is the hidden message to buy things. Thirsty? You bet you are. Here are some of things you probably own as a result of reading this blog: Bunny slippers, some with ears, some without, but you can’t read The New York Times while wearing those things, can you? Sam Tanenhaus wore them to BEA but his feet were under the table. Let’s move on. After all Dan Conaway wore a gorilla suit to last year’s BEA, signalling a kind of rapprochement between the warring factions of bloggers and those stuffy establishment types with the leather footwear.

This is a bunny slipper blog. That’s my midnight confession and it’s midnight somewhere. I know you want to buy something now. You can’t help it.

The Seattle Post Intelligencer ran an AP interview with Jess Walter this past weekend. Walter’s “Citizen Vince” grabbed the EDGAR despite the fact that the novel is not a classic mystery. I’ve enjoyed all of his novels. Jess Walter is published by ReganBooks, who may or may not be in Los Angeles at this writing. Walter’s earlier titles include “Over Tumbled Graves” and “Land of the Blind” both of which are very good. “Citizen Vince” is being released in paperback.

Jeff Povey’s “The Serial Killers Club” landed on my doorstep the other day. I noticed the blurb from Eric Garcia on the jacket cover, and in the dedication Jeff Povey mentions his agent, Barbara Zitwer, who I think, repesents Garcia. I wasn’t crazy about “Darkly Dreaming Dexter” and didn’t care for the opening pages of “The Serial Killers Club.” The same goes for the dinosaur detective in Garcia’s novels. This is weird because I am a demographic bullseye for this kind of material, but instead of reveling and rejoicing, I’m fidgeting and fussing.

Critical Mass has a post by John Freeman about lit bloggers earning money from ads. Freeman points out that reviewers for print media aren’t exposed to the conflict of interest that receiving a quarter from Amazon creates for bloggers such as Max McGee and Scott Esposito. Scott and Max have several comments on the subject. I don’t think most bloggers would be influenced to speak highly of a book for a quarter or even fifty cents ( not 50 cent.) if publishers raised the bar, say to seventy five cents, my integrity would be totally compromised, and on a sliding scale of corruption, if offered a dollar I’d be forced to sing the praises of Martha’s latest, or gush for Macauley Calkin. That’s why this blog has no advertisements. Okay, that’s not why. I haven’t figured out how to put live links in my posts, let alone how to dock with corporate motherships in cyberspace. You know, I’ve begged Rupert Murdoch to buy this blog for ten million dollars. CBS? Morgan Stanley? Brother, can you spare a dime?

It’s that time of year when tourists in shorts and parkas appear on the streets. They’re a bit dazed by the weather, by the men throwing fish, the gales and the native aversion to umbrellas. After thirty or forty days of rain even the locals begin to grumble as they are tired of the forecast: a sunball shrouded by clouds with an artistic bolt of lightning on a field of black. The sun will appear Thursday. In San Jose. Hah. Canadians enjoy the balmy temps and hike through the city parks wondering what all the fuss is about. Icelanders are happy too.

Sooner or later the visitor will want a book. They enter Barnes & Noble and rejoice: it’s not raining! They are greeted by a staffmember who says “Yeah?” Since Walmart has the corner on the Old Guys in Vests B&N has Young People. These youngsters are suspicious sorts and wonder why you’ve come all the way from Tulsa, where’s it hot, to the Pacific Norhwest, where it’s cold.

The indies have climate control too. Remember if you’re planning a trip to Seattle or Portland, or Vancouver this summer bring the following items: sunscreen. You won’t need it but you want it in your suitcase along with a sunhat and Raybans. Maps: a good map will highlight areas most subject to flooding: visit those places first. Phillies gear. Very few people here hate the Phillies. If you’re visiting from the Scottish Highlands you may find the temperatures uncomfortable. Old guys in Ballard will say “she’s a scorcher,” if the temp is above 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Don’t pack books, we have those. Look for thoroughfares with awnings. Don’t be fooled if you see a sunball on the weather channel. That’s the weather in Dallas.

Dateline The Earl’s Parlor. The Wellington Leg Literary Faire, to be held this year during a waning moon, will adapt the runway approach according to embittered dogsbody Urquhart Depew. Depew, speaking off the record through an open window, reported that the committee members were divided over the concept, with attractive people in favor while the less attractive expressed gloom over the development. Depew, darkly handsome and moody, said he had no difficulty pitching agents from the runway. His author photo took first prize in last year’s Faire and he was offered a book contract by a Mrs. Greta Aznevour of the prestigious House of Greta GMBH. “I only had the photo last year,” Depew said. “This year I have the book.”

The Earl plans to wear a suit of armor and in all probability will be rolled into a ball and pushed down the runway. His performance of Papa Was a Rollingstone, adopted for French Horn, frightened many agents at last year’s event. “He has a sequel to Voltaire’s Miasma in manuscript,” confided Rear Admiral David Wells. Mr. Wells, chair of the Temperance Society, has entered a graphic novel in this year’s contest. “It’s a category killer,” he said. Although troubled by gout and a swollen knee, he vowed to be ready when the curtain goes up.

Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe will read from Her Lyrical Poetry during the opening ceremony. In preparaton for the event, DCI Borchardt and his flying squad have placed traffic cones along Great Jones Street from Visigoth Boulevard west to the onramp to the 405. After a driver spilled RC on her PC in her RV near the campus of USC, police are cracking down according to a WPC with the RCMP. “Like DC we’re concerned about RC on the PC.” Plans are on the QT for traffic control said a QC from HQ. Police cadets are relieved of PT until the AC is working again.

The agent of my dreams for the crime novels has requested the manuscript of The Working Dead. She read Flamingo Dawn last year, liked the writing, didn’t like the way the story was presented, which I understand. All the POV characters in Flamingo Dawn are presented in real time staggered by order of their appearance rather than sequentially. The novel begins at noon the first day and ends at noon on the second day, but the opening scene takes place at 10pm on the first day. The chief of NYPD’s Intelligence Division is killed in a home invasion. The names of every undercover cop in the city are in the hands of a vicious killer. Time is of the essence and the lead detective has to figure out who killed Walt Bergman and why before cops begin to die. The detective is involved with the dead man’s wife and she’s fled to LA. Did she kill Walt? Is everyone overreacting? Does the main character want to solve the crime? None of the characters understand what is happening until the end.

Back to the request. If you write enough and submit enough you find yourself in odd circumstances. Here are mine: I have an agent but he doesn’t like crime novels. He reps a thriller I wrote called Ways to Die in the Congo and some non-fiction. We agreed that I’m on my own for the crime books. Flamingo Dawn is in the final round of consideration by a publisher. The Working Dead was written before Flamingo Dawn but I never marketed it beyond showing it to an agent ot two. I envision The Working Dead as book three in a series but I wrote it to stand alone because I couldn’t predict which of the books might be sold first, if ever. I have four of these manuscripts featuring the characters from the series all designed to stand alone or stand together, written over a period of five years. When my “first novel” appears it will likely be my fourth or fifth or tenth depending.

I’m delighted this agent asked for The Working Dead. The book is set in San Francisco with a side trip to Venezuela. An old flame approaches the main character who finds her in the arms of a colonel from Venezuela’s Interior Ministry. Her family operates a gold mine under threat of Nationalization. Her father and her husband have borrowed money from mobsters while they fight the decree. The detective learns that his family is involved and discovers the truth about a thirty year old homicide involving a labor organizer representing tunnel rats ( The Working Dead.) Anon.

A summary of police activity in Wellington Leg, Goth, and environs for the week ending June 9, 2006. The Crime Report is sponsored by The Earl’s Own Green Stuff, an Elixir. To achieve literary success today you need an edge. Nothing will make you edgier than Green Stuff, an Elixir.

A man wearing a Dick Cheney mask frightened passersby on the Boulevard of Broken Screens late Tuesday night. That same evening Vandals sacked the sleepy village of Hippo Regius for the second time this month. “There is a connection,” said DCI Borchardt. Police caution pedestrians not to engage the fake vice president in conversation. The perpetrator is thought to be wearing feather armor and considerable quantities of Aqua Velva.

Upper Hand Strasse was evacuated early Wednesday after “I Got You Babe” was heard from the interior of a lime green AMC Hornet illegally parked beneath the monument to Hizzoner on Brick Lane. Mayoral candidate Franklin “Frankie Pins” Pincermovement was shaken up after his Volvo Juggernaut struck the Hornet. Next Tuesday’s runoff election will proceed according to sources inside Tammany Hall. “A lot of dead people will be disappointed if the election is postponed,” said a spokesperson for the mayor.

Police responded to a complaint filed by Ms. Lydia Careerbreaker of Gosford Park after she reported receipt of an unsolicited query letter. CSI Dante Rosetti steamed the query letter open with a Smythe Steamer before being rushed to the lab. CSI Rosetti may have been exposed to dreadful prose according to the Prosecutrix, Mrs. Anderson-Cooper. “His report is full of dangling modifiers,” she added.

Finally a SWAT unit was dispatched to the Pre-Raphaelite Bar and Grill after a fight broke out between modernists and naturalists. The war of words degenerated into a shoving match according to Eyewitness Mrs. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi. “They can’t hold their liquor,” she said.

SWAT officers removed a jukebox from the premises but were unable to prevent a recurrence of “I Got You, Babe.” None of the officers had any change according to a source at headquarters. The jukebox was tossed into the Bay of Biscay where the Spanish fleet lay at anchor. The armada withdrew shortly after midnight, probably fearing incipient madness among their troops. Honore de Balzac reporting.

Dateline Wellington Leg: At a dedication ceremony held entirely under water Randall “Too Tall” McHugh, COO of the Earl’s Own Telephony Service, announced the world’s first wind powered blog. Entitled “Wellington Leg After Dark” the blog will devote itself to the sometimes seamy world of night clubs, speakeasies, gambling dens and houses of unpeakable acts that come to life after sunset. “All along Great Jones Street and Lesser Hamilcar Boulevard these dastardly establishments flourish under the gaudy glaze of raw neon.” The Wellington Leg Better Business Bureau and Rotary, itself powered by wind, has condemned the proposed blog as “both harmful and fraught” although it cannot be denied that gambling and gamboling often go “arm in arm and hand in glove.”

The technology behind the wind powered blog has been debated for years. “It’s expensive,” says City Manager Man Mountain Muldoon. “Those wind machines don’t come cheap.” Indeed the first attempts at wind powered blogging ended when the RSS Feeds were bitten clean through by the Dowager Princess’ Prized Pomeranian Mister Galahad. Many of the feeds were shredded by the Leg Water Authority’s ill advised street cleaning program. “This is madness,” said Professor Moriarity. He is working on a steam powered blog. Oliver Castinstone reporting.

Somewhere between the threat of asteroids striking the earth and the state of publishing is an elusive truth. That truth is captured in a single word, luck. Michael Allen of Grumpy Old Bookman used the word in a recent post, an excellent essay on his view of publishing. The word is luck. Some cultures devote considerable energy to the contemplation of luck and there is a fair amount of blues music devoted to the subject. You know its bad luck when the dame you’re head over heels for turns out to be on the lam or the guy of your dreams starts building mashed potato forts while watching the sky. It’s not bad luck if you drive an AMC Pacer or don’t like The Big Lebowsky. That’s bad judgment.

If you insist on being a writer then you know what’s coming next. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya? Much of the literature devoted to writers emphasizes skill, the development of craft, and other difficult stuff that require hard work and patience. Not enough is written about luck, bona fortuna, kismet and karma. This blog aims to change all that and we’re going to start right now with a brief exercise designed to improve your luck.

Take the most recent pages you’ve written on your WIP. Yes, you can print on both sides of the page because this is a draft. Take your pages to a major intersection in your town, city, village or hamlet and begin handing them out like those people who hand out restaurant flyers. Be polite, but be firm. So you’re out there and you’re wondering if this is a good use of your time, that inner critic, oops there goes the Archbishop, that sort of thing. Now you’ve handed out all but one page and the last person you meet is Jane Friedman, CEO of Harper-Collins. Jane is a little disconcerted at first, thinking you’re a panhandler, but you’re giving, not taking, and she reads both sides of the page, cries out in awe and offers you a gigantic book deal on the spot.

Lucky? Not really. Someone stealing your AMC Pacer? That’s luck.