David Thayer

This post will reveal exactly where book publishing is today. The utility of this sliver of information is dependent on your status. Perhaps most useful for writers, it may provide some comfort for readers, librarians, the innately curious, and of course, journalists whose job it is to be curious. Let’s end the speculation and get right to it: Book Publishing Today.

Non-fiction: you once read non-fiction for the same reason you ate your vegetables. Non-fiction is good for you. After a few major biographies, your life takes on clarity. You are Eleanor Roosevelt or Dag Hammerskjold. As a force for good, a fountain of facts, you reach out to friends and neighbors with the gravitas of the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Let the idiot across the street be a Keynesian, you’re a monetarist. Armed with BBQ for Dummies, you can cook too. Extreme non-fictionalists will attempt to repair household appliances. This is your era, this is a Golden Age of non-fiction.

Chain smoking readers of trashy novels, you’re in a world of hurt. An odd thing has occurred over the past four decades. The delicate flower that was publishing now resembles the Bank of New York. The curious thing about the Bank of New York is that it has no customers except other banks. They don’t want or need customers, they’re busy clearing transactions. It’s quiet in there. Money in digital form zips here and there, propelled by keystrokes. No one really understands how any of it works, but there is no need for deep analysis. Surrounded by granite, marble and polished wood, they toil, knowing that it must work, and somewhere there’s a person swathed in acres of blue pinstripe who keeps it all humming. This is The Chair. Near the Chair is the Committee who gather beneath The Portraits. All decisions are final. The Chair is vacated during the summer because it’s Too Hot. The end of the fiscal year is Far Far Away. Come autumn the Chair will return to read reports from the Committee; all is well. No customers? Customers are annoying, demanding, smelly in July and August, difficult to please, and when they assemble en masse, often unruly. After a busy few weeks come the Holidays, and after that, it’s Too Cold. The Committee will examine last year’s results with a view toward developing comparisons, examining trends, hiring consultants. All too soon it’s Too Hot again.

It’s Too Hot now. A warm front is moving from the Bahamas to Montauk Point; publiishing is thirsty work and no one in their right mind is going to try it this week. Trains to the south shore depart Penn Station on the hour. If you’re in Manhattan jump into Bethesda Fountain and wait for Labor Day. The forecast:

Chick Lit: partly cloudy with periods of dissent. Some fear of oversaturation at lower elevations.

Memoir: breezy, but storm clouds linger over Chicago. Prevailing winds should carry the day.

Crime Fiction: dark, but cats dogs and canaries enjoy the ocean breezes. Perfect conditions on Sheepshead Bay. Go ahead, dump the body.

Political Books: Dick Cheney’s daughter is a writer. Thunder and lightning from Ms. Coulter.

Ideal conditions in Beverly Hills for hiring ghost writers and finally getting that book done. Beware the personal trainer who knows a literary agent.

In the second Paddy Meehan novel Glasgow’s finest have a more prominent role than usual. Paddy is riding in the night car when she arrives at the scene of a domestic dispute. The cops are there interviewing the husband at the door. An injured woman in the background raises concerns until money changes hands. Everyone is bought off including Paddy. When the woman turns up dead the bribe becomes a curse; the fifty pound note has the man’s fingerprints, the sole proof he was at the scene of the murder.

Paddy is an excellent character, alternating between bravery and cowardice, as she attempts to put things right, hang on to her job, and expunge her guilt over the bribe. She is confused by her own ambition, struggling to come of age as an adult while sharing a bed at her parents’ house with her sister. The subplot involving Kate, a woman who has made off with a quantity of cocaine, ties in with the main story at the appropriate time.

Denise Mina doesn’t push Paddy off the edge in this one, preferring instead to have her protagonist grow up in the process of untangling a nasty mess. The main villain remains aloof from the story, but the minor ones provide plenty of angst. The Dead Hour elevates the crime novel to fine art.

Next week in Corte Madera, California the Book Passage Mystery Writers Conference will feature Denise Mina, Martin Cruz Smith, Jackie Winspear and other notable authors at their annual three day conference. Jamie Raab of Hachette Books and Barbara Moore of Midnight Ink will represent the publishing side at the three day event. Literary agents Kimberley Cameron, Amy Rennert, and Larry Kirschbaum will be in attendance.

Patrick Quinlan, author of “Smoked” a thriller you should read, is working with Rutger Hauer on a biography of the actor.

If you can’t make it to Book Passage PNWA is having its conference in Seattle next weekend. This is a big conference expected to draw over a thousand attendees and, yes, there will be coffee.

The Trial of the Century has been postponed until Monday. Motions filed with Hamilcar Frist, Presiding Magistrate, included big fat ones, two with ribbons, and one bearing the Imperial Seal. Court reporter Catharine of Aragon thinks jury selection will drag on for weeks. A motion for a change of menu was denied. “The jurors will be offered takeout from Hadrian’s Wall and Ludmilla’s House of Beets. No one is happy about that.”

Hotel space in Wellington Leg is at a premium according to hospitality experts. Soldiers from the Prima Germanica legion have filled the inns and taverns near the estuary. A centurion and his optio are on the prosecution’s witness list, leaked to the press by defense attorney Frankie Pins. Frankie placed a dismal third in the recent mayoral election and has returned to private practice. He’s representing Mandy Rice-Davies and promises an acquittal. A special call for fat men with shifty eyes: if you’re a fat man with shifty eyes please contact Mr. Pins for jury duty and a chance to win a car from Bill’s House of Cars on the Romantic Road. Mr. Pins is offering cash incentives to prospective jurors and the opportunity to serve in a genuine Roman legion. “It’s a twenty year hitch, but meals are included.”

Anna Nicole reporting.

The Honorable Hamilcar Frist of the Princess Bench will preside over the trial of the century according to sources at The Courts. The matter at hand is the Barratry Trial of the Earl of Watership Down, his embittered dogsbody Urquhart Depew, and a third defendant, the lovely and mysterious Mandy Rice-Davies. Rice-Davies faces additional charges including blogging at sea, perching, lending aid and comfort, posing as a sports editor, and resisting. The charges are the culmination of months of investigative work by DCI Borchardt. If found guilty, the Earl would be stripped of his two book deal with Wellington Leg Premier, forfeit land and titles, and likely become a greeter at the big box emporium in the village of Hippo Regius.

Details are sketchy, but Mrs. Anderson-Cooper, Prosecutrix, has dispatched her most feared minion, Ponce Descartes, to represent The Crown. This reporter has learned that Descartes has checked into the elegant midtown hotel The Spackled Gnome. He was seen dining with members of the Bar, bold and confident in a dove colored Armani with his signature ascot ruffled at his throat.

The crown’s principal evidentiary display will include a dented Roman helmet and a turnip. In an exclusive to the Druidical & Literary lurid photos have been stockpiled along with damning statements, shocking revelations and explosive forensic analysis to be provided by expert witness Graf von Sitzbaedchen. Since the crime of Barratry can only be committed at sea, the courtroom is being repainted torquoise.

It is believed the defense will call The Dowager Princess. Whether her regal self can be compelled to offer testimony is not clear. “Hamilcar Frist serves at the pleasure of Herself,” said legal reporter G. Gordon Dean. “Her intentions are not yet clear.”

Hundreds of media outlets will descend on Wellington Leg putting a strain on city services. DCI Borchardt denied reports that police interviewed an emperor pengiun. “There was a pengiun at headquarters,” he said. “It had nothing to do with the earl’s trial.”

Bobble head dolls of the principals will be available in the historic rotunda’s Gift Shoppe. Jury consultant Roberta Fife will assist the Prosecutrix in selecting 12 registered voters for service during the trial. “We’re looking for fat men with shifty eyes,” she said. “And women in stiletto heels.”

Alternate side of the street parking regulations will be suspended and then reinstated without warning according to Constable AJC Constable. “Park at your peril,” he warned. Constable is expected to be the Crown’s key witness. The turnip has been secured in an evidence locker. Geraldo reporting from the underground parking structure adjacent to Jimmy Stones Park.

Literary agents who blog are now a fixture. Miss Snark has found an audience for her upstream view of the the industry, but other agents, like Jennifer Jackson and Kristin Nelson are blogging. Ms. Jackson has links to her clients who blog, an innovation that makes sense. I’m not certain what the status of Agent 007 is these days, but agents are on my mind. If you’re not sure what a literary agent is you may want to cling to that innocence, but if you’ve just finished the novel a decade in the making, the fun has not even started. If you want to have that novel published by a major house you’re going to have to find an agent.

I met my agent in a hallway during a conference. We didn’t talk about what I was working on. He was taking a break from the pitch sessions underway at a hotel ballroom. Steven J. Cannell approached to ask where the urns had gone, which I took to be a philosophical question, where have the urns gone? Bert told Stephen we were out of coffee until the three o’clock break. Cannell nodded, looked at me and said, “where have we met before?” Hollywood? Bali? The rooftop garden at 90 Pine Street? The correct answer on the tip of my tongue was: Nowhere have we met before.

Bert’s theory is that people who work in Hollywood assume they know everyone and when they go to other places like Portland, Oregon, they bring this assumption with them. If I’m talking to you it’s because I know you, otherwise why would I talk to you in the first place? I was thrilled. So, Bert and I talked with Cannell until a wrangler appeared to whisk him off to a radio interview. That left my future agent standing with me in the wake of implied celebrity. Cannell said it took him eight years to find an agent for his series of novels.

Eight years. He wrote The Rockford Files. I was musing about this tidbit when Bert’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?” My first impulse was to deny this accusation, get busy shifting coffee urns, make myself useful. But I nodded and admitted that I didn’t know Stephen J. Cannell, that we hadn’t met on Bali or the roftop garden at 90 Pine Street. Bert handed me his card. A few months later we signed a contract. This is one way to meet an agent.

Now I need an agent for my mystery series. Bert doesn’t like crime fiction. I’m querying and submitting. I hadn’t thought about the necessity of having two agents, it was difficult enough landing one. But this is the age of specialization and I don’t want an agent trying to sell stuff they don’t enjoy themselves. An agent requested The Working Dead. I ‘ll send the manuscript today and start working on something else. Anon.

In a scandal without precedent the literary blog “One More Bite of the Apple” has been taken over by characters whose existence is in doubt. Page Seven reporter Concetta Comedia della Arta asserts that reliable sources with impeccable literary credentials have confirmed her breaking story. Concetta has devoted weeks to analyzing various posts from the blog while lunching at the fabulous Chez Stadium, her only means of transport an AMC Hornet. “This is not about me,” she said. “This is about a scandalous deception and literary hoax.”

Concetta’s Page Seven Exclusive entitled, “Roman soldiers? I haven’t seen any Roman soldiers,” is a hard hitting look at the supposed invasion of California. “My friends on the coast tell me everything is cool,” Concetta said. “If LA were under seige would Brad and Angelina have returned?”

While it is not clear who Brad and Angelina are, Concetta’s next point is damaging: “The blog is supposed to be about literature, right? That’s like books and boring stuff like that. What does throwing turnips and emperor penguins have to do with books? If the Dowager Princess tried out for the Jets why isn’t she at mini-camp?”

The storm of allegations brought this rebuttal from Wilfredo Tagesblatt Vice President of Development: “i’m sure Concetta has no axe to grind even though she was fired from the Druidical & Literary. That’s the real scandal here.”

Waltraut Frothingmunster, Postmistress of Wellington Leg, and author in her own right, agreed with Mr. Tagesblatt. “These tabloids will stoop to anything to sell papers,” she said. “My front garden is knee deep in Marie Calendar Boston Cream Pies. Perhaps Concetta would like to stop by and help me clean this mess up.”

Ms. Comedia della Arta conceded that she did see an emperor penguin in police custody late yesterday afternoon. “That doesn’t mean that the rest of this stuff is true,” she said. Concetta also admitted that her appearance on Letterman may be on hold. “I’m standing by my story. The blog is out of control.”

Dateline: Pine Barrens, Fifteen Miles from Wellington Leg: With a skeleton crew working this holiday the Druidical & Literary Annual Picnic will be held in Gosford Park near milemarker 33 off the Trees of Mystery Boulevard. Staff and their families will be the guests of publisher Oliver Castinstone who, in a holiday memorandum, praised the D&L’s owner The Vast Corporation and their Chairman Sir Bigby Vast and his ne’erdowell children Roland and Drusiila. “Without these patrons the D&L would be forced to accept product advertisements compromising journalistic integrity, muddying the waters, and blurring the lines between hard news and frivolous commercialism.”

Sir Bigby praised the recent coverage of the Roman invasion. “Both Roland and Drusilla are riveted by the ongoing saga of the seige of Wellington Leg. Roman forces in the region represent a demographic poorly served by Wellington Leg’s existing shoppes and emporia. To that end we have purchased land on the Isle of Mitch, with a view toward building a Super Mall anchored by a nine hundred thousand square foot bookstore and casino to be named Gamble Tome.”

Local merchants have put signs in their windows that read: “We do not accept lumps of silver.” Other signs of warning include: “No chain mail, no helmet, no service.” Indeed, added Sir Bigby, the commander of the Valeria Victrix has complained that, “My men are discouraged from spending their pay in Wellington Leg.”

Mrs. Anderson-Cooper, Prosecutrix, echoed Sir Bigby’s concerns. “Without a Super Mall the entire region is suffering. I am sending forth sheriffs from the Tower to enforce holiday shopping regulations and to bring the consumer an array of choices hitherto unthinkable.”

Employees of the D&L and their loved ones will receive one free beer “as an honorarium,” said Sir Bigby. Toddlers and babies will be presented Sir Bigby dolls in lieu of beer. DCI Borchardt urges everyone not to throw their bottles from moving cars. His Sir Bigby doll was stolen from police headquarters. “Return the doll,” Borchardt said. “No questions asked.” Shoppes on Visigoth Street will open at noon. Large quantities of turnips had blocked traffic, but city engineers have piled the vegetables near the statue of Venus in Blue Jeans. The earl’s hogs had pushed the turnips “several dozen yards” creating a hazard according to Borchardt. “The hogs fled…an indicator of their guilt in this matter,” he added. Bobby G reporting from Stairwell C.

Aboard the “Prinz Wilhelm” near the Isle of Mitch: the story thus far: Roman forces on the Isle of Mitch are building a causeway from the island to Wellington Leg. If they succeed they will march across the causeway landing within yards of Eddie’s Book Nook in the heart of towne. The Earl, having struck the first blow, forced by needs of routine maintenance, has withdrawn to gather more turnips. The battle dinghy “Forthright” has run aground on the grainy sands of Gastropod Alley. Wellington Leg is defenseless in the face of the onslaught. The towne’s only hope may be the mysterious Mandy Rice-Davies, Mata Hari, sports editor, as she blogs aboard the “Prinz Wilhelm” many miles from shore.

Dear Diary: We have in the course of things seized many perch. Even as I share my thoughts in real time I know the end is near. The Sultan of Swat is no fool. He has questioned me closely about the pennant race, the mysterious proficiency of the New York Mets and other matters, some too delicate to reveal. He grew suspicious when I failed to reveal Pedro Martinez’ Earned Run Average. I fear the worst.

The “Prinz Wilhelm” is coming about. Her mighty bow cuts the dark waters as I scan the horizon. Lights are flashing in the distance. The rendezvous at sea is about to unfold…I hear the heavy tread of his footsteps ringing on the deck. I shall recline on the divan as though awaiting him. My fingers find the button…the door is opening. He enters my chamber frowning until he sees the television screen.

“Sports Center, my dear?”

Interleague play is all but over.

The Sultan is deceived! “Come, my precious, tear yourself from the Phillies. I will make you my queen.”

Whew, that was close.

In a surprise move early Sunday the mayor of Seattle and the City Council agreed to surrender to the commander of Roman forces. The brief ceremony, held in a Belltown condo, ended weeks of fighting. The Romans launched a multi-pronged assault on the city from their bases on Vancouver Island. Three legions came ashore under cover of darkness, according to eyewitnesses. “It was over before it started,” said Elliot Bey a crane operator. “Alki and Ballard were the last holdouts.”

Indeed the battle for Alki Beach nearly broke the invasion when a team of bikini clad volleyball players greeted the Mars Victor Legion as it stormed ashore. “The Romans broke ranks,” said Professor Moriarity. “They flirted with disaster.” The battle for Ballard ended when Goth forces suffered the loss of their 1984 Volvo 240D stationwagon. With Ballard’s defenses breached the invaders captured the fish ladder and a bakery on Market Street. By noon Sunday it was over.

Roman infantrymen were seen visiting Pike Place Market where lancers from the Decima Claudia Legion speared fish to the applause of tourists. They visited the Jimi Hendrix Museum. At his Belltown headquarters the commander of the Mars Victor Legion watched reruns of “Fraser.” “They’re beginning to understand us,” said the Professor.

The fall of Seattle leaves Portland exposed said Admiral Howe. Units from the Decima Claudia have begun to throw bridges across the Columbia River. Seattle’s new name will be Castra Livia Regina Invicta according to the mayor. “It’s catchy,” he said. The Mariners, in contention in the AL West, will be provided new caps with CLRI and SPQR logos. “I guess we’re the Castra Livia Regina Invicta Mariners now,” said a spokesperson. “Either way, we’ve got to beat the Padres.”

Goth and Ostrogoth commanders believe their Volvo is “beyond repair.” With mobility limited they expressed doubt as to whether an effective counterattack could be launched. Geraldo reporting.

Paucity Square, Wellington Leg: the newsroom is deserted on this Saturday. Assigments editor Lucretia Borgia has left sticky notes instructing your reporter to bring you the news from the Leg, Goth, and Henley Hornbrook. We begin our coverage at the Harbour Steps where the finest minds have gathered to observe the fog shrouded Isle of Mitch. The Earl has parked his vintage Hispano-Suiza and is strolling toward the water’s edge. His latest novel, Rimbaud, has been delivered to Ueberagent Lydia Careerbreaker, but now he must decide if the Prima Germanica Legion has fled these environs. Admiral Howe has alerted the fleet: to test Roman intentions the Admiral will send them an unsolicited manuscript. They’ve chosen “Her Lyrical Poetry” in the hopes of winning the garrison’s favor.

The Earl is boarding the battle dinghy “Forthright”. Though unscathed in his last encounter with enemy forces he wears the battle residue of his own Turnip Meringue. He’s dressed for combat in yellow pantaloons, rustic leather jerkin, and a Bavarian hat. He carries a surrender demand from the Dowager Princess whose ancestral home is littered with pound cake hurled from a Roman catapult.

The fog is lifting. The band is playing “I Got You Babe” in the hopes of demoralizing the massed legion. Manning the oars is Eddie, of Eddie’s Book Nook. Now that “The Devil Wore Prada” is out Eddie has volunteered to row across the icy waters of Gastropod Alley.

The Earl is halfway across. He loads “Her Lyrical Poetry” into a mortar tube and fires. The manuscript sails across the green waters toward the Isle of Mitch. All eyes are on the distant shore. What will the Romans do?

Organ interlude.

“Incoming!” We flee the Harbour Steps caught in a barrage of rejection slips. “They couldn’t possibly have read the entire manuscript,” Admiral Howe concludes. “I will tell the Princess that this means war.”