Dear Mr. Knopf:

I’m pleased to inform you that we would like to represent you in selling your script, My Dinner With Andre II: Desert. 

JUST KIDDING!!!  Since you write such funny lines, I knew you’d have a sense of humor about this (I absolutely read at least two full pages of your script that I found on my boss’s floor).  You also asked that “whether you accept my script or not, I would appreciate your opinion”.  That presumes that anyone in this insane office has the time to write to people like you.  However, I, in fact, have a little time this afternoon having spent the whole morning

throwing away bankers boxes full of scripts that just came in yesterday.  As the Executive Administrative Assistant to Head Agent Ryan Gossling (he was born Dirk Bogarde, but changed his name for business purposes), this is one of my principle responsibilities.  For some reason, being a recent graduate from Smith College qualifies me for heavy lifting, not that the tray of coffee mugs I transport when I’m not lugging boxes (the cocktails are in the afternoon, and they’re a lot lighter) disproves this theory. 

I looked you up on Facebook, BTW, and it looks like you graduated from college a year after my grandfather.  Doesn’t this give you a teensy-weensy little suspicion that maybe this agency might be looking for writers a little less, “seasoned”?  However, your IMBD page has a lot of scripts listed!  Some are even uncredited, which has to piss a person off.  Why else would you go to all that trouble?  I even saw some of those movies, I think, when our babysitter brought over DVDs (who has a DVD player anymore?  I do!  I work in film, after all).  The ones she let us watch, as opposed to others strictly reserved for her jerk boyfriend with the nose ring. Ick.

Google says you’ve also written books.  Aren’t books awfully long?  I mean to actually write?  You have to get so incredibly bored just tapping at the keyboard all day.  Unless you write at night.  I hear old people don’t sleep that much.  My parents have a whole bookshelf arranged by color.  It’s gorgeous.  Designed by eduardo.svengali.com, of course.  Whose isn’t?

Not that scripts are all that short.  I should know, since I have to lift them up and into the dumpster.  At least they have a formula you have to follow.  I have it on no uncertain terms the exact length of each act, the number of stage directions (like almost none, so why bother?), the size and type of the font, the width of the margins (down to, like, the millimeter) and the make and model of the binder (you can tell if it’s counterfeit by measuring the little holes.)  I know this because I’m told to throw out anything that doesn’t conform to these important standards, I mean EXACTLY.

So good news for you, sir.  You nailed it!  I mean Sherlock Holmes couldn‘t find anything wrong with your script format, and I’ve seen Robert Downey, Jr. play Mr. Holmes, so I know.  Amazing. 

This is why I’m writing to you, because I think you are the perfect person to help me write scripts.  Since no one wants to make your movies anymore, you probably have a lot of extra time.  I averaged a B+ in two courses of Creative Writing at Smith so I have credentials.  (My parents wanted me to lobby for the A, but I have my principles.) My sister’s ex-husband has published articles in magazines all over his town in Northwestern Connecticut, and though he hasn’t read anything of mine, he said I have potential based entirely on my personality. 

According to Google, your third divorce just concluded.  Congratulations!  So I know you still have the house in Beverly Hills, though I’m sure you’ll miss the ranch in Arizona.  I love horses, though they make me sneeze.  And I can’t help thinking about Christopher Reeve, who fell off a horse and became totally paralyzed.  As my Latina friends like to say, this is no bueno.  Superman?  I’m mean really. 

I’m guessing pool time is now a big part of your day.  I could come over to discuss.  I mean fully dressed.  THIS IS NOT one of those types of student/mentor situations. 

The thing about scripts I most want to learn is how do you write something people have to say.  I mean, isn’t writing you hear in your head different from speaking out loud?  I want to do this because my parents are hinting that maybe my rent in LA is a little too much to keep paying and since Mr. Gossling and his partners have nicer cars than even them, I could maybe have a big “so there!”

Thanks so much for reading all this, and I’m sorry they don’t want your script, but you know how great you are, and by gosh, you never give up!  (Keep telling yourself this.  It’s life-affirming.)

Sincerely,

Wrenlee

 

 

The Flaw of the Draw

In a follow-up to the previous article about Western movies, what does Niels Bohr have in common with Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood?

Western quickdraw gunfights.

To be sure, few human endeavors (okay, male endeavors) are more idiotic than gunfights. I can’t imagine the genius who said, “Okay, boys, arm wrestling is fun and all, but we need more excitement. You and you, set down your beer, go out in the street, and shoot one another.” Then everyone (okay, males) cheered and chortled and ordered a further round of drinks before staggering out in the dusty avenue to burps and bangs, sparks and splatter.

Eventually Mother Nature winnowed the pool of foolish candidates. No doubt a few wives told husbands, “Your choice, Henry: At high noon, you can meet Pete in the street or join me at the train station where I’ll board the 12:05 back to my mother in Ohio.”

Later at the Short Branch Saloon:

“Henry, you yellow jelly-bellied, lily-livered, mutt-butt, rotted snivel-snotted, slimy slug of a coward, what do you mean you ain’t gonna gunfight me?”

“Uh, my wife gave me an ultimatum: show or go.”

“Did she? Listen, Henry, don’t tell no one, but Alma tole me same thing. She said I shoot you, she shoot me where I will live to regret it.”

“Did you mean what you said about jelly-belly?”

“Nah, that was whiskey talking. But the part about your mutt-butt, how does your wife tolerate that ugly saddle sore ass of yours?”

“Good to laugh, Pete. What say we get a drink, maybe invite our ladies like we used to?”

Reactive Advantage

Niels Bohr, Nobel prizewinning physicist, and contemporary and colleague of Albert Einstein, studied quickdraw gunfights. He wanted to know why the man who shot first died… at least in the movies. Bohr hypothesized initiating action takes more time than to react to the same movement.

Researchers call this reactive advantage. If you’ve ever seen a viper versus a cat, rabbit, or mongoose, the serpent rarely wins. The little furry animals are generally far faster than snake strikes.

A few years ago, neuroscientist Andrew Welchman of the University of Birmingham studied Bohr’s experiments. He worked out a simpler experiment and concluded Bohr was on the right track. Although Bohr won every faux gunfight (with toy pistols), there’s a little matter that it takes the brain about ten times longer to launch the reaction than the actual execution.

The Quick and the Dead

As mentioned last time, I very much like the second film of the Eastwood man-with-no-name trilogy, For a Few Dollars More. I felt it portrayed a flaw in the gunfight premise. In the movie, Lee Van Cleef and the bad guy wait for a musical watch chime to run down, after which the shootout begins. I wondered why wait? As the watch plays, why not draw, go bang, and apologize later. “Oops, I thought the music was done. My bad.”

I mean seriously? The bad guy is about to kill you. Why leave anything to chance?

At the risk of affronting my betters, I suggest two problems with Welchman’s and Bohr’s supposition.

1. Perhaps it made little difference, but in their experiments, no one’s life was on line. After their laboratory rundowns, they shook hands and went home for the night. They couldn’t feel the pressure of life or death. Also, many real-life shootouts were alcohol fueled, which could factor in.

2. Returning to For a Few Dollars More, in the beginning, a bad guy flees bounty hunter Van Cleef. He hops on a horse and gallops down the street.

   Van Cleef unhurriedly strolls to his horse and unrolls a small arsenal. He selects a revolver with a long barrel, takes careful aim, and judiciously pulls the trigger.

   Bad guy falls from his horse, but Van Cleef again takes his time, sights the baddie, and bang, he’s down for good. The scene represents a lesson learned from duels: Take your time. A duelist who shoots rapidly may compromise aim. One who takes his time can aim carefully while the other remains frozen.

Wyatt Earp agreed. He wrote, “The most important lesson I learned was the winner of gunplay usually was the one who took his time.”

The were admirable exceptions in the dark world of duelling. Occasionally a duelist would deliberately fire into the ground, leaving his opponent the moral dilemma of wreaking death or mercy. A wise choice, especially when combatants were former friends.

After the Show

In the early 1900s, gunmen (and Annie Oakley) who survived found themselves in Wild West Shows where they showed off their skills along with trick riders and rambunctious stage coach robberies, à la, WestWorld. As mentioned previously, my father as a child became acquainted with the last of the fancy shooters. They could literally shoot coins tossed in the air.

Several years ago at a fair, I watched a quick-draw artist do his thing. He extend his right leg well forward so that his thigh was pointed toward and about even with his target. His draw and reholstering was so fast, it was barely a blur. The suspicious part of my mind wondered if it was a magic trick, one where he pretended to draw and reholster, while a bang sounded and a hole popped in the target.

On the other hand, a woman at the back of the tent sold VCR tapes. They could be slowed and studied frame-by-frame, which argued against trickery, a damn fast 20ms. What do you think?

From MM to WW

  

So far this month, the publication gods have been kind to me--at least with magazines. Not long ago at this blog, I mentioned that most of my stories these days were being written for anthologies. As soon as I would start writing a story to try at AHMM, EQMM, Strand, etc., I'd either see a tempting anthology submission call or I'd get an invitation from an editor to contribute to an antho, and off I would go in that direction instead. I doubt I'm the only one who does that. There's something appealing to many of us about writing stories for themed anthologies--they're not only fun, they're challenging. Also, if an editor is kind enough to invite me, I hate to say no. I think I've had to do it only once, and that was hard.

For the past few weeks, though, my stories have all been in magazines. And before you say Yeah, they came out around the same time, but you wrote and submitted them long ago . . . well, no, I didn't. All of these stories were written, submitted, and accepted recently. The truth is, it reminds me a bit of the old days, when magazines were pretty much the only markets out there for short fiction, or at least short mysteries. Anthology sightings were rare. (Either that, or I never knew about them.)

The three stories I'm talking about were published this month in Mystery Magazine, Strand Magazine, and Woman's World, all of which have been good to me for the past several years. (Counting my blessings, here.) In case you don't happen to see these issues but are interested in the kinds of mysteries those publications are currently running, here's a quick summary of each of mine.

Ravines, machines, and magazines

The first of those three stories, "Bad Eagle Road," appeared in Mystery Magazine's May 1 issue. It's a 2700-word cross-genre mystery set in the Pacific Northwest, about a team of anthropologists and biologists in search of Bigfoot. Recent sightings and evidence have pointed them to an area of caves and hollows that, unfortunately for them, has also been targeted by a group of wealthy and ruthless land developers much more interested in financial profit than scientific discoveries and the delays and inconvenience they might cause. But a discovery does happen when the team hikes to the site, in the form of a deadly encounter, and as a result, one of the monster-hunters who survives it winds up being hunted himself, by both man and beast. This story was fun to write because it's a mix of adventure, crime, and fantasy. Many thanks to editor Kerry Carter, by the way, who published it.

Next was another unusual kind of mystery, at least for me. It's called "Pushing Joe Carter," in the Spring 2024 issue of Strand Magazine. This one's set on the West Coast, and it's around 2300 words. It involves a prisoner convicted of murder and sentenced to death, which sadly isn't all that unusual. What is different is that this man, one Joseph Carter, has been selected to be the first person executed via a new and innovative method. The device to be used is a huge three-sided box installed at the edge of a cliff above the ocean, into which the condemned prisoner will be placed. Once he's inside, the rear wall of the compartment (nicknamed The Pusher) will be hydraulically moved forward, eventually forcing him out the open side and onto the rocks far below. The waves will take care of the cleanup, and the outcome is quicker and more certain than with any of the usual non-mechanical methods. A final appeal to the governor for a stay of execution has fallen short, and as the hour of Carter's death approaches and new evidence emerges of his possible innocence, his female lawyer continues to try to find a way to rescue him. I had a great time coming up with the plot on this one because it is so off-beat. Thanks as always to Strand editor Andrew Gulli for publishing the story. It's my fifth in a row, there.

The last of the three is "Guessing Games," another of my mini-mysteries for Woman's World, featuring southern small-town sheriff Charles "Chunky" Jones and his former schoolteacher Angela Potts. In this installment of the series, the sheriff and his bossy sidekick are trying to keep from bickering long enough to figure out a vague clue spoken by the dazed victim of a mugging before she was wheeled into the hospital for treatment. That sole lead to the attacker's identity--that he resembled the host of an old TV game show--is odd enough to seem impossible to solve, but--surprise, surprise!--Angela manages to do it. The question is, can the reader solve it as well? As some of you know, I've been lucky enough to sell a lot of these lighthearted mysteries to Woman's World over the years, and even though I suspect that my idea generator will one day run out of gas, that doesn't seem to have happened yet. I owe thanks to WW editors Maggie Dillard and Sienna Sullivan for publishing this one--the stories are always loads of fun to write. "Guessing Games" is in the May 20 issue, but has already appeared on newsstands. For those who're wondering, the on-sale date at WW is always eleven days before the issue date.

Questions

How about you? Have you found yourself publishing more in one kind of market lately, than another? Are you cutting back on your submissions to magazines because of the recent boom in (and demand for) anthologies? Which do you prefer? In the magazine market, which ones of those are your favorite targets for submissions? Are you sticking mostly to mysteries, or venturing occasionally into other genres? Anybody writing stories that involve no crime at all? How about cross-genre fiction, that mixes them up in the same story? Let me know in the comments.

So, that's that. If you happen to read any of these three stories, I hope you'll like 'em.

My next post will be more about writing than publishing: I'll preach about some steps in creating effective titles.

See you then.

English, Brother Tucker*! Do You Speak It?

 When most people say Old English, they're actually referring to Elizabethan English. The type found in Shakespeare and the King James Bible. The markers are the formal vs. informal second person and the attendant verb forms. "Thou," informal for "you," is rarely used these days, though the objective form, "thee" still puts in an appearance here and there. 

Miramax

 

But that's not Old English. That is merely an early form of modern English. You know. What you're reading this very moment. "Thee" and "thou" had a long, slow decline to the point where they still exist, but they often are used for effect. Some even think "thee" and "thou" are more formal. And yet the Spanish version of "thou" is tu, and my high school Spanish teacher informed us calling a total stranger tu was a great way to get slapped. Those speaking Romance languages take the separation of the familiar and the formal very seriously.

On the other hand, the late Queen Elizabeth and King Charles seem to have been annoyed by the royal "We," but questions of gender identity and the lack most languages have of a gender-neutral pronoun beyond "it" (which is awful for referring to people) has given rise to a singular "they." Some find this controversial. I find this the perfect excuse to dance on my tenth grade English teacher's grave.

But what is Old English, then? And, for that matter, Middle English?

By PHGCOM - Own work by uploader, photographed at the British Museum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5969131

 

Old English actually refers to Anglo-Saxon, the tongue that evolved from the Germanic of the Angles and Saxons who moved in after the Romans pulled out of Britain and the Norse of the Jutes, who had a great idea. They'd leave Scandinavia and build this colony called Kent, where one day, teenage blues nerds would reinvent rock and roll. Anglo-Saxon was a Germanic language, sounding quite a bit like Dutch with a syntax resembling Yoda speak. It even used a not-entirely Roman alphabet.

My youngest stepson used to complain loudly about the silent "k" in "knight" or "knife." I used to blame the Vikings, who added more Norse to the language. Silent "k" does not make linguistic sense in the context of English rules, so it must be their fault. Right? Nope. Silent K came over from Germany with those Angles and Saxons. The Celts, who'd been in Britain since before the Romans, shrugged and started using it when they dealt with the weird Germans (and those guys over in Kent. Who are still quite Kentish.)

The best example of Anglo-Saxon is the epic poem Beowulf. It has to be translated for modern audiences because the English of Alfred the Great is not even the language of Edward III, one of the first Norman kings to actually speak English to his subjects. As I said, the alphabet is different. The syntax is different. It's really another language. But it's not. It's just the prototype for what you're reading right this moment.

The translation of Beowulf I listened to on Audible was done by a translator from Ulster. Ulsterites are in a unique position when it comes to English, steeped in two flavors of Celtic languages along with English. This particular translator also spoke Irish. So sometimes, he used a Celtic interpretation of certain passages to translate into modern English. 

Geoff Chaucer, renaissance man
before the Renaissance

Then we come to Middle English, the language of Chaucer. And the language of Sir Thomas Malory. Chaucer we know because he was the BFF and brother-in-law of John of Gaunt, the ancestor of the current royal family. Chaucer was a regular renaissance man before there was an actual renaissance in England. (The plague had yet to wipe out a third of Europe.) Malory has been traced to one person, but might have been several.

Anglo-Saxon was the predominant language in Britain for 700 years, from the withdrawal of the Romans to the Norman Conquest. Strange folk those Normans. They were Vikings. But not the Vikings of Sweden, Denmark, or Norway, nor the funny-talking English of the Danelaw, in central Britain. No, these Vikings had settled in France, started speaking French, and had radical ideas like banning serfdom and writing things down. From William the Conqueror (a much better regnal nickname than William the Bastard, which he was called as Duke of Normandy) to the final days of the Plantagenets, the court spoke French. The Church spoke French. Business was conducted in French. Anglo-Saxon faded because French was more compatible with Latin, then lingua franca. (Ironically, the term refers to French, a Latin-based language.) So English had to adapt.

If you go slowly, you can probably read the original text of The Canterbury Tales, Chaucer's sprawling series of tales from a cross-section of English society. (And I really want to pour a glass of wine over Prioress's head, but I was born around the time the Beatles because a studio-only band.) I said almost read it. The words, when read aloud, are somewhat familiar, but the spellings are almost phonetic. It still requires a translation, but it's almost word-for-word. 

Flash forward a century to Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, and not only is the original text readable, it looks like Shakespeare trying for forge a few entries into The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer lived near the end of the twelfth century. Malory retold the Arthurian legend (actually, the Norman appropriation of a Saxon forgery of a Welsh legend about a guy who likely was a Roman) around 1485, according to William Caxton's note at the end. That's only seven years before Columbus took a wrong turn at Hispanola and declared Haiti to be Indonesia. (The Carib tribe found this a bit confusing as they'd never heard of the East Indies. The East Indians found this hilarious.)

Middle English arose during the Norman Conquest and became the language of peasants and merchants who didn't give a fig about their French overlords. Since, by the time of Edward III, England had few French possessions, his sons and grandsons decided an English monarch should speak, yanno, English. Chaucer codified a lot of written English, so you can blame him for the confusing "-ough" construction, a tough construct that can be understood with thorough thought. "Should," "would," "could?" Yep. That's Middle English, too. Thanks, Geoff!

But Malory's collection and retelling of Arthurian tales was published around the time some Welsh guy with a dubious claim to the throne named Henry Tudor ruled England. (And Wales. The Welsh found this hilarious.) Your eyes might cross, but you can actually read Le Morte d'Arthur in the original text. The spellings are Middle English, but aloud, it sounds more like Shakespeare. And why wouldn't it? King Hank would begat Henry VIII who would begat Elizabeth, who would hand off the throne to her cousin James. Modern English is emerging. Not there yet, but it's coming. Publishers still update the language because English from a century prior to The Tempest still challenges the modern reader.

Unlike Anglo-Saxon, Middle English's day was only 500 years long. 

Then came Shakespeare. Credit a few other writers, including Marlowe, Francis Bacon, and so on, for joining Wil in codifying English. A few apocryphal accounts suggest English varied from town to town. But Wil's plays, along with Marlowe's and a few others', were performed widely. So, as folios and quartos became available via the printing press, English started to sound roughly the same with standard spellings taking root.

Of course, even then, it was not fate accompli. The informal "thee" and "thou" disappeared (though still spoken in parts of Yorkshire and Appalachia.) Americans changed the words "happyness" and "busyness" to "happiness" and "business." Writing from Washington, William Pitt the Younger, and Thomas Paine suggest spelling was more a guideline than a set of rules. In the late nineteenth century, a movement tried to simplify spelling, which changed "plough" to "plow" and "all ready" to "already." The movement, in my humble opinion, died out too soon, but Mark Twain now gets an edit when he isn't writing in dialog since he, like many of his day, disdained formal spelling rules. (But he had a hypocritical attitude toward adjectives.) 

The point is, of course, English is an ever-evolving language. From a Germanic tongue with some Latin suggestions and the odd bit of Welsh or Cornish to a mashup of Anglo-Saxon reshaped by French, absorbing more Latin, and making up its own rules today's language, English, as many like to say, is not so much one language, but seven welded together and roving in a pack to mug other languages in a back alley. Originally, English was written in runes. The runes are gone, but now memes are creeping in. You only have to show a picture of a woman screaming at a cat to understand the gist before even reading the text.

What's next. 

^Apologies to Quentin Tarantino, but I can't use the original line in this forum.

From the Annals of Unforced Errors: RFK Jr and Kristi Noem

But this is not an unforced error.  RFK Jr. didn't go out and actively seek a brain worm, and he hasn't been bragging about it:  his undisclosed health issues, from the brain worm to the mercury poisoning (10 times the recommended limit in his blood),  - all of these were in a legal deposition and had been available for quite a while to the earnest researcher.  

Why in a legal deposition? Because he was getting a divorce from his second wife, and wanted to show that memory loss and cognitive decline meant his earnings were going to go down, meaning he shouldn't have to pay as much alimony.  

What may turn out to be an unforced error is the article he did for Inside Edition, in which he talked about his daily "fistful of supplements" and testosterone replacement therapy - but don't call them steroids around RFK Jr., because steroids are bad (LINK) - while providing hunky pictures of himself doing pushups and going as shirtless as Putin (all that was missing is the crocodile).  

Why would this be an unforced error?  Because men who take testosterone replacement, a/k/a anabolic steroids, often get "mood swings, runaway irritability, and a general inability to listen to anyone else, but they also tend to find their mental functioning—especially their memories—going through a certain Swiss-cheese transformation. The holes in what they recall keep getting bigger."  (LINK)  Testosterone supplements can also cause heart trouble, heart attacks, and strokes, but details, details... 

Okay I can't resist:  The irony of a man who is 1000% anti-vaccination putting anabolic steroids as well as "a fistful of supplements" in his body on a daily basis...  

But the worst unforced error is the diary that RFK Jr. kept in the early 2000s, with a file called Cash Accounts, "where he recorded the date of the infidelity, the name of the woman involved, and a code of numbers, ranging from 1 to 10, representing the performance of certain sex acts."  And there were a lot of them.  His second wife read them during the divorce proceedings, and it sent her into a literally suicidal depression, but not before she shared them with others. You can read some of the grotty details here:  (LINK)

Look, even Samuel Pepys knew enough to use code to record his philandering.  Granted, it would be better to never have an affair, but today that seems to be impossible for politicians and entertainers.  

 Of course, the Queen of Unforced Errors has been Governor Kristi Noem who has kept the fire hose going at full force:

• Killing the puppy in the gravel pit. 
• Killing the male goat in the same gravel pit because it was smelly.
• Claiming to meet Kim Jong Un and staring him down.  
• My favorite part of that one is "I'm sure he underestimated me, having no clue about my experience staring down little tyrants (I'd been a children's pastor, after all)."  Since when are Sunday School teachers called "children's pastors"?  And isn't calling your students "little tyrants" just adding more mud to the pile?  Or is it gravel to the pit? 
• Claiming to have cancelled a meeting with French President Emmanuel Macron because of his "pro-Hamas / anti-Israeli comments."
• Promising that if she got to the White House, she would say "Commander, say hello to Cricket."
• Going on news media all over the country and blaming the puppy (by the time she was done, Cricket sounded like another Cujo), the he-goat, the "woke" mob who don't have the guts to shoot a puppy in the face, the unnamed ghost writer who wrote it all and got it published without her ever knowing, despite the fact that she posted a publicity still of her reading the audio version.  (How do you record something you don't read?)  

Well, after a number of media interviews, almost all of them scathing (when Newsmax tells you you're not on the VP list anymore, you're in trouble), she did a classic runaway, worthy of Monty Python:  cancelling her appearances on Fox News and CNN because of snow back in South Dakota.  LINK 

 (NOTE:  Some snow fell in the Black Hills May 6-8; they're used to it, and some folks went snowmobiling. By May 12, the weather was in the 60s, and the streets were clear.) 

Oh, and Fox News host Greg Gutfeld responded to her cancellation with a brutal interview of her anyway, with Dana Perino taking Kristi's role.  I think she's toast at Fox, too. (LINK)

SEVEN OUT OF NINE!

And finally - yes, Governor Noem has now managed to get banned from seven out of the nine Native American reservations in this state. Crow Creek, Sisseton-Wahpeton Lake Traverse Indian Reservation and the Yankton Sioux Tribe are the latest three to get thoroughly fed up with interviews like this one:  (LINK)

Kristi Noem and Elizabeth Vargas on News Nation, May 8th, 2024:

“But we have the cartels set up in South Dakota,” said Noem.

“They are set up?” asked Vargas.

“They are set up in South Dakota,” said Noem.

“How do you know that?” asked Vargas.

“Because I’ve seen the pictures, and our investigators have interacted with them,” said Noem. “In fact, we had a cartel member kidnap an FBI officer just last week. You know it is well known, and they are able to operate on those tribal reservations because they are protected.”

Now, granted, it may be top secret and all that (and if so, what is she doing talking about it on national news?), but nobody up here has heard anything about an FBI officer being kidnapped in the last two weeks.  But two weeks before that, a Rapid City judge did sentence three people to federal prison for carjacking/kidnapping an FBI agent (not knowing that he was an FBI agent) in 2022.  Does that count?  (LINK)  Yet another unforced error… 

No, you can't make this stuff up, but I wish you could.

LESSON OF THE DAY:

When you have a nice little political career going,
don't take it to the gravel pit.

MEANWHLE, BSP:

My latest new story, "At the Dig" is in Black Cat Weekly #138. (HERE)

And let's not forget the wonderful anthologies, Murder Neat, and Paranoia Blues, both available on Amazon.com which have, respectively, my "Bad Influence" and "Cool Papa Bell" in them:

  (HERE)

   (HERE)

Enjoy!

Saying Uncle

I am delighted to have a story in the May/June issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.  "Professor Pie is Going to Die" is about an actor who starred in a local children's TV show in the sixties, returning to that city for a nostalgia fair, and finding out some people there don't like him. Don't like him a LOT.

I wrote a piece about that at the AHMM blog, Trace Evidence, and you might want to read it before we go any further. It talks about the hundreds of local kiddie shows that were on the air during that era.  But I want to write about one that started a little later.

I read the Wikipedia article about this program and it disagrees with my memory on some important points. Of course, Wikipedia is never wrong so be warned, because you are about to read what I remember hearing when I lived in New Jersey.   You can always check out their view.

When I was growing up the Garden State had zero TV stations (okay, there was an educational channel in Newark, but no kid worth his yoyo would watch that).  

But in the seventies cable television came along.  There was one such station in West Orange which made its living entirely on infomercials, but the FCC said they also had to make some cultural contribution.  So in 1974 they put out an ad for someone with experience in children's television.

What they got was Floyd Vivino.  

He had no experience in children's television.  He did have a sense of humor, some wacky friends, and the ability to play the piano.  What he created was The Uncle Floyd Show, which was a cross between a children's program and a satire on children's programs.  To say the structure was loose is like saying Antarctica is chilly.  Someone once told Floyd "I'd love to see your outtakes" and he said "You do.  Every day."  One episode consisted mostly of Floyd arguing with repo men who wanted to collect the station's piano.

The show had comedy sketches and puppets and music.  Not just Floyd's piano either.  Hipsters adored him and he therefore attracted some of the hottest bands of the time: the Ramones, Bon Jovi, Blue Oyster Cult, and Cyndi Lauper, to name a few.  David Bowie wrote a song about him, and explained that he had been introduced to the show by another fan, John Lennon.

Uncle Floyd even put out his own recordings.  I remember his puppet Oogie being interviewed on the hippest music station in New York and bragging that Floyd's new single was expected to sell "in the high dozens." Here  he is performing it live.

Like many kid's shows Floyd's received art from his admirers. He would show the camera a drawing submitted by little Jimmy in Brooklyn, age 23, or Bobby, 19, of Greenwich Village.  All reported with a straight face, of course. 

The show ran until 1988.  Not surprisingly Floyd has performed in various media and revivals to this day.

All of this has very little to do with my story in Hitchcock, but I guess it's part of my story in real life.

A Thousand Miles from Nowhere

Presenting the Edgar Award for Best Short Story.
Photo by Aslan Chalom.

I returned home after two weeks on the road to find myself hip-deep in unanswered email and facing looming deadlines on several projects. After five days (as I write this), I seem to have the email under control, but the deadlines haven’t changed.

Though I could have taken my laptop with me while I traveled and worked on some of the pending projects, what I like most about getting away is actually getting away. I often find myself refreshed when I return home and ready to dive back into work.

This time was different. I was away from home for a longer period of time than usual, and, though I was neither writing nor editing, I didn’t have much time to relax and rejuvenate. I attended Malice Domestic, visited the venue for this summer’s ShortCon, attended the Edgar Awards Banquet and various receptions affiliated with it, and then was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters. So, much of my time was spent surrounded by other writers, and time spent surrounded by my peers—as valuable as it is in so many ways—isn’t relaxing. It’s inspiring and it’s energizing, but it certainly isn’t relaxing.

Temple has a solution. She has us scheduled for a short getaway the weekend before this posts—a quick jaunt to Shreveport, La., to see Dwight Yoakam in concert at the famous Shreveport Municipal Memorial Auditorium where Elvis Presley made both his radio debut and television debut on the Louisiana Hayride. We may also do a bit of sightseeing, and I’ll definitely indulge in some Cajun cuisine.

Email will stack up again, and whatever deadlines I haven’t met prior to leaving will await my return.

But I’ll return relaxed.

* * *

ShortCon

The Premier Conference for
Short Crime Fiction Writers

Alexandria, Virginia
Saturday, June 22, 2024

Join acclaimed crime fiction professionals for an immersive, one-day event and learn how to write short crime fiction, get your stories published, and develop and sustain a long-term career writing short.

Your day will include:

* Three hours of in-depth instruction on how to craft short crime fiction from New York Times bestselling novelist and multiple-award-winning short-fiction author Brendan DuBois. 

* Insider-look at the world’s leading mystery magazines by Alfred Hitchcock’s and Ellery Queen’s Senior Managing Editor Jackie Sherbow.

* Career lessons from short fiction legend and author of almost thirteen-hundred short stories—Michael Bracken.

* Wrap-up discussion led by short crime fiction rising star Stacy Woodson.

* Breakfast, lunch, and refreshments prepared by Elaine’s Restaurant—Northern Virginia’s literary hub in the heart of Old Town Alexandria.

* In-person networking opportunities created exclusively for short crime fiction writers.

* Literary connections that will last a lifetime.

Learn more and register: https://www.eastcoastcrime.com/#/

* * *

The weeks since I last posted have seen multiple publications: “Four Minutes” appeared in Dark of the Day (Down & Out Books), Kaye George, editor; “The Big Snip” in Tough, April 22, 2024, and “Bermuda Triangle” in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May/June 2024.

Additionally, three anthologies I edited or co-edited were published: Notorious in North Texas (North Dallas chapter of Sisters in Crime); the Malice Domestic anthology Mystery Most Devious (Wildside Press), co-edited with John Betancourt and Carla Coupe; and Private Dicks and Disco Balls: Private Eyes in the Dyn-O-Mite Seventies (Down & Out Books).

In Memorium

I first met Susan Rogers Cooper, in 1990, when Elmer and I had the Grand Opening of our bookstore, Mysteries & More, in Austin, Texas. She had this gorgeous red hair and was wearing a white dress. She was beautiful and as we became friends I learned she was even more beautiful inside. We became BFFs, traveling to mystery cons together and rooming together each time we went.  

Our husbands hit it off and I can't remember how many holidays we spent together, mostly at Thanksgiving oy 4th of July. Usually at their house but a couple times at mine.

She and Don had a teen-age daughter, and by her Senior year, Evin, wanted to do a little part-time work in the store. She and Elmer worked that out, giving him some needed Tuesday afternoons off. 

Flash forward to 1998:

I really wish I had pictures from way back in the 1900s (circa 1998) when Susan & I went to New York City, but we didn't have cell phones back in those ancient times  to photograph everything right then and there. 1998  was the year we were both nominated for a Edgar award. That's the annual mystery writing prize given by The Mystery Writers of America, in case you might might not have heard of such things. Susan was nominated for Home Again, Home Again for Best Paperback Original while I was nominated for Best Critical/Biographical for Deadly Women, along with my Co-editors Dr. Dean James, and the late, Ellen Nehr.

 Naturally, we were astounded to be nominated, BUT in the same year? Fortunately, Susan's book is fiction and mine is non-fiction so we weren't in competition with each other. Neither Susan nor I won, but the nominees are forever etched in MWAs Edgar Awards database. And it did always looked good on our resumes. 

 Although, we admitted not winning was a bit of a let-down at the
Edgar Awards Banquet on Thursday  night, Susan and I had a great time in NYC. On Wednesday, we rode the ferry and saw the Statue Of Liberty. We didn't go up because we were meeting Carole Lee Benjamin, a fellow mystery writer who lives in Greenwich Village. The Village had been known as the epicenter of the 1960s counter-culture and Carole Lee graciously showed us around. 

On Friday, our last day before heading home on Saturday and while walking down one of the Avenues, trying to decide our plans for the day, I spotted the famous Waldorf Astoria. That hotel has been mentioned in so many books and movies, so I said, "let's go look it over." When we arrived I said, "Come on, let's go inside." We looked around, the lobby was quite elegant. I managed to coax Susan into the open bar. It was probably around 10:30 in the morning they were only serving cokes. So we sat, snacking on the these fabulous toasted walnuts and trying to figure out what other placed we might like to see. 

Susan said she'd always wanted to have lunch at Tavern On The Green in Central Park. Since I've never known to be shy, I jumped up, walked out of the bar and spotted the Concierge's desk. The gentleman there was quite busy with a couple of people ahead of me and the phone ringing, but when he asked if he could help, I said my friend Susan and I wanted to go to lunch at Tavern On The Green, and did we need reservations?  He said, "One moment."  He spoke quietly into a phone, then turned back to me, "You have a reservation at 11. I'll have one of the doormen get you a taxi."  He didn't ask if we were guests of the hotel. Guess he just assumed we were.

We had a great lunch then walked thru the little tavern shopping mall where I bought a pair of art deco grape earrings. We eventually walked back out the restaurant's front door.  It had a beautiful green awning portico and the young doorman asked if we'd like a ride through the park. We said yes and a white horse-drawn carriage stopped right in front of us. We climbed aboard and before we could even think twice, our tour guide was pointing out the lake and the Bow Bridge and the Dakota Building where many celebrities lived. It was where Yoko Ono still lived, and also was where John Lennon had been gunned down in 1980. Our tour guide then called our attention to the "IMAGINE," black and white tile mosaic circle made in John's honor and the Strawberry Fields garden.  After we got back to our hotel room, we talked way into the night and laughed about our crazy day. 

For years, on many mystery convention trips we would room together, but that NYC one was most memorable. 

Years later, we even took a cruise to Cancun, which included swimming with dolphins and high-lighted by my friends,  musician/singer/songwriters Mike Blakely and John Arthur Martinez both from Marble Falls. John even gave Susan his autographed straw sombrero. We always had a great time together, and we always laughed so much.

 I still can't imagine this world without, Susan,  my Best Friend Forever. But if there is a heaven, I can't help imagining Susan, along with Don Cooper and Elmer Grape lounging on a big cloud somewhere swearing they've been waiting on me. We'll be talking talking and laughing about leaving "Austin City Blue" and "Houston in the Rear View Mirror."

The Female Detective : 1864

The physician, Arthur Conan Doyle, published his first Sherlock Holmes story, “A Study in Scarlet,” in 1887. Recently, I was surprised to find an earlier detective book, The Female Detective, written by James Redding Ware and published under the pseudonym Andrew Forrester. It is a collection of short stories published in 1864, is narrated by Mrs Gladden, the first British woman detective.

Mrs. Gladden’s friends assume she is a dressmaker but she is quite clear that she is a professional detective, and in a charmingly feisty manner defends this by saying “ … if there is a demand for men detectives there must also be one for female detective police spies.”

Her approach to investigating crimes anticipate the methods of Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Gladden physically examines crimes scenes and looks for clues. Sherlock Holmes is famous for using inductive reasoning, born from medicine – moving from observation to hypothesis – and also deductive reasoning, also born from medicine – from theory to conclusions. This dual reasoning has persisted to this day in all detective novels and was, surprisingly, first used by Mrs. Gladden.

In one story, The Unraveled Mystery, a doctor consults Mrs. Gladden on a gruesome murder case. A carpet bag had been found containing an unidentified body, cut in pieces and missing its head. The doctor goes through evidence, via inductive reasoning, based on skin and hair examination, and concluded the body was that of a foreigner. Mrs Gladden then goes on to conclude that he was also murdered by a foreigner because the murder weapon was a knife, more often used by foreigners, and this interesting piece of deductive reasoning: “We have here in London foreigners who are ready to assassinate.”

The last quote is amusing but shouldn’t take away from this fascinating set of short stories – they are interesting in logic, detective work and for how they set the historic precedent for modern detective novels. These stories and the introduction to them have many elements still present in detectives novels.

Using first person narration, still common in detective novels, Mrs. Gladden argues that detectives are necessary and follows this with evidence when police were rather incompetent and she was not – again, this notion still persists – the detective succeeds where law enforcement fails. Even the somewhat prejudiced view of foreigners ready to assassinate is tempered with her strong sense of that justice to be served for all, including the foreigner who was murdered and she concludes that the police are too prejudiced to care about this murder.

The notion that detectives in novels hold the moral line, right wrongs and do so despite those in power continues to this day. Mrs. Gladden’s many, shall we say, definitive views, are also very much a part of the detective novel history. An interesting example is Mrs. Marple who was both charming but also held many rather definite views and the novels have been edited to cut out language that today is considered racist, although many of us understand that Agatha Christie was a woman of her time, using language of her time and the word 'racist' may be a bit harsh. In the new rendition of Mrs. Marple in Holmes, Marple & Poe by James Patterson and Brian Sitts, Mrs. Marple has lost the inappropriate racial language, upped the empathy but remains very definitive about how repugnant she finds those who break the law and the limits of decency. We now often call this definitive view of the world ‘voicey’ and it is crucial in detective novels where moral lines are often drawn with a voice that refuses to compromise with evil. 

The language of the stories in The Female Detective is old school and I found myself having to reread parts till I understood fully what was meant. It was well worth the effort. It’s a lovely look at life back then when the profession of detective was not a woman’s one. In fact, few professions were open to women at all. Mrs. Gladden makes it quite clear that she is not a dabbler in crime, but rather, a professional who investigates them. Quite remarkable for that time in history. Although I’m still making my way through this book, this article was due and I couldn’t think of a more interesting subject than the first female detective story in British fiction.

By this point you may be wondering why I mentioned Sherlock Holmes but not The Murders in the Rue Morgue, the short story by Edgar Allan Poe, first published in Graham's Magazine in 1841 that precedes this set of short stories and is, in fact, the first detective story. The reason is rather embarrassing: I have not read Edgar Allan Poe. However, I have read all the Sherlock Holmes stories and feel comfortable speaking a bit about them. After this particular dive into detective history with the first female detective, I’m waiting for the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe to arrive in the mail to feed my new curiosity about early detective novels.

It Turns Out I'd Never Read The Mysterious Affair at Styles

A few months ago, I was wandering Barnes & Noble and came on a display table of Agatha Christie novels. As you might imagine, it was a large display. Now, I'm a book cover guy. A good cover is what stops me at random displays, and Christie novels reliably have inventive covers. Working on a solid budget helps. 

The cover that caught my attention that day was The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920). It's a terrific design. The earth tones and Tudor house give an immediate sense of Very English Manor. The woods and tall grass reach for the house, dispelling any sense of peace. This is ominous, somewhere mysterious affairs are likely to occur. To underscore that, a shadowy dude has clear business with the place.

This edition--there have been many--is from Vintage Books (Penguin Random House), published in 2019. "The First Hercule Poirot Mystery" exclaims the header. I knew that, and I even knew it was Christie's first published novel. A well-received first novel. None of that kept me at the display table.

Fickle memory held me there. I couldn't remember if I'd read the book.  

I felt like I must've. I haven't read all 65 Christie novels, but I'm a Poirot fan since my mom introduced me to the character. Surely, I'd read how the guy was introduced. And yet, I couldn't remember a single detail or faded personal take. In some ways, Christie is a victim of her own success. The novels became best-selling products, and those consistency demands created a blurring factor. Christie forged many of today's mystery tropes--and then used them throughout her long career. 

Also, I couldn't trust the multimedia angle. I'd almost certainly seen a PBS Masterpiece Mystery version of Styles. David Suchet nailed the role and became my definitive Poirot. No, mes ami, I couldn't be sure I'd read the novel version.

I bought the book. 

Two things struck me when I cracked that intriguing cover. For one, I hadn't read The Mysterious Affair at Styles before. Nothing was familiar about it. Two, I'll repeat that last thing. This book wasn't familiar Christie. Her novels are always engaging, with deceptively simple prose. Often a sly wit sneaks in. This first Poirot has that, but it's wrapped in Hastings' rash and sometimes clueless perspective. He fancies himself up to the sleuthing job. Christie makes it wonderfully clear that's not the case. 

This first Poirot is fussy, but the fussiness is organic, not Christie torturing the character that . She has no running gags to manage. This Poirot is a known ex-detective but a diminished one, a war refugee living in an Essex cottage provided by Style's matron (and soon our murder victim). This Poirot gets antic, running off literally at each critical turn in the case. 

The crime is over-intricate, as Christie plots can be. There are too many clues, and there are too many red herrings. She was still learning here and deserves full credit for inventiveness. A flaw here that would repeat in later novels is a focus on how ugly the bad guys are. And here, as in other of her novels, that ugly person gets described as dark and foreign ("alien," in Styles). Writers are products of their place and time. For our place and time, HarperCollins has been editing her re-releases for sensitivity.

Spoilers: It's the dark-haired alien guy whodunnit at Styles. I was never fooled by that, but I also wasn't sure where she was going with it. Christie always has another trick up her sleeve. She did, and I hadn't guessed it. Should've. Didn't. Hat tip, and that trick I won't spoil.

Like many famous novels, the making-of story is fascinating. Christie wrote Styles in 1916 while she was a Red Cross volunteer, rising from nurse to apothecary assistant. The WWI home front effort, the displaced Belgians, and not least the knowledge of toxicology are all large parts of Styles and give it deeper roots than some of her stories. 

Multiple U.K. publishers declined the manuscript before The Bodley Head eventually bought the rights. Christie's relief at becoming published led her to sign a bad deal. She would get only a ten percent royalty after 2,000 U.K. copies sold, and she was tied down to five more books. 

Christie certainly got the last laugh. Her success after The Mysterious Affair at Styles is almost unfathomable. Estimates of her sales range 2 to 4 billion copies. For perspective, that is 3 to 6 times more than the Harry Potter series. Only Shakespeare and the Bible have outsold her. And she is still selling, to include at bookstore display tables near you.

Writers of the World: Bifurcate Now!

I am not a lawyer, accountant, or literary agent, but I do think that seven years working in the trenches of a children’s math magazine at Scholastic taught me a skill that is apparently lost on the accounts payable clerks who toil for two different literary agents that I will not identify: I know how to multiply a gross figure by a decimal and calculate exactly how much to send me, the freaking author.

Maybe you don’t have such problems. You are blessed with an earnest, hardworking, bookish agent who throws her heart and soul into repping you. Her only fault is that she’s a one-woman agency, somewhat scattered, and your royalty checks and statements routinely reach you about 90 days after the publisher sent them to her. Earning interest in Cat Lady’s account, in other words, and not yours.

Or maybe your agent is a crook or employs a felonious bookkeeper.

The remedy for all this is a beautiful word with Latin roots: bifurcation. That means the publisher pays each of you your share of the royalties directly, without mingling your cashola with the agent’s.

Two minutes of research reveals that in the Devonian epoch, publishers directly paid writers, who were then responsible for paying their agents. That arrangement was altered in the Pleistocene, when it was decreed that writers could not be trusted with Other People’s Money and that agents were infinitely more trustworthy.

Moreover, when checks, royalty statements, annual tax statements, and currency itself had to be hand-chiseled on stone tablets, it was so much easier for the publisher to send a giant wad of money to, say, sixteen agents, and let them dole out minuscule amounts to the respective writers. Relieved that of that onerous paperwork (and the associated labor costs), publishers could get on with the rarefied work of curation.

But OMG, guys! Have you heard? Funds can now be electronically electroned to the money store of your choice, so why not bifurcate? It’s the smart thing to do.

I have ghostwritten a number of books for business people, many of whom instructed their literary agent to enact bifurcation on Day 1. It’s what you do in the “real” world of business. To people who think seriously about money, publishing’s financial traditions appear quite dumb.

In one email that I probably should not have received, the literary agent chided her client—the fellow whose book I was writing—saying bifurcation was fine to do with domestic (ie, US) contracts, but would be somewhat more complicated with foreign rights. She was only half right. It can be tricky. If I were doing a foreign deal today, I’d try to bifurcate, but for the purposes of this article, I’m going to focus on bifurcating payments on domestic royalties.

I took the fork most traveled by...

Why would you want to bifurcate? First, because the money owed to writers goes missing all the time. The most egregious case is the one involving the literary agency that represented Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk, not to mention the estates of Edward Gorey, Mario Puzo, Peter Matthiessen, Joseph Heller, Studs Terkel, and many more. The firm’s bookkeeper embezzled $3.4 million over seven years. Apologizing profusely to their clients, the principals of the firm watched as their weeping former employee was sentenced to two years in prison, then filed for bankruptcy. By all accounts, a respectable firm ground into the dust by greed.

Second, I’d bifurcate because one writer’s personal stash of dead-wood agents can quickly pile up like cordwood. I’m a mid-lister at best, yet in my career, my money has flowed to the offices of a total of six literary agents. Back in the day, I befriended a scrappy young agent who landed me a few book deals. He departed for a new firm, still agreeing to rep me but leaving his former employer responsible for paying me royalties on my “old” projects. When another agent of mine left her longtime agency, she and her longtime employer decided to split my rights between them. (No one bothered to ask what I wanted to do.) The dead-wood agency would send me royalties on my US rights, and “my” agent would rep my foreign and all other subsidiary rights.

It was nuts. At one point, I was getting checks from four different agencies, but only firm one repped me for reals. The others were, as I say, dead wood.

Talk about scary: At one firm, the longtime principals had retired, entrusting the distribution of royalty checks to—who else?—their progeny and grandchildren. At another firm, when the two principals began suing each other, they at least had the decency to teach their clients the B-word.

It was a tedious process, bifurcating payments with every print and audiobook publisher with whom my wife and I had ever signed a deal with. We set up bifurcations with Macmillan, Simon & Schuster, Penguin Random House, Audible, and Brilliance Audio. We got good at it, and once we were done bifurcating with our LIVE agents, I moved on to prune the dead wood.

Here’s what you do:

Get out copies of all the contracts you have with a single publisher. To make this easy on yourself, just deal with the publishers in your nation of residence to start. In other words, money that is coming from a US publisher to you, a US writer. If you’re a Canadian writer, you have my permission to bifurcate from your US agent and your US publisher. That transaction should go smoothly. But I’m neither a lawyer or accountant (as noted above).

At the top of your most recent royalty statement you will find the contact info of your publisher’s royalties department. On your royalty statements, you will see that your publisher has reduced you to a number. Write down your official author number, and fire off an email to this effect:

I’d like to bifurcate the following contracts—noted here by date, name of book, etc. My agent of record, noted in Paragraph Whatever, is Eustace Simoleons, of the Rackhamup Simoleons Literary Agency. The split-share on each of the birfucations should be 85 percent to me, the author, and 15 percent to the aged yet highly esteemed Mr. Simoleons. Mr. S and his numbskull assistant are cc’d on this email.

Note: If you have contracts at the same publisher that involve another agent, you’ll have to go down that route too.

Since they are no longer having to chisel money out of stone, I have found that royalty department drones have free time on their hands, and will most likely respond quickly: “Wow, a human wants to talk to us! Thank you for writing, Scribulous J. Scrivener! We’d love to help you set up that bifurcation, but Mr. Simoleons must assent before we proceed.”

Numbskull assistant will prod Mr. Simoleons to respond. If he’s still quite sagacious, Mr. S. will instantly comprehend that you have handed him a reason to reduce the annual hours paid to said nitwit. (“Sh*t—if I can get all my authors to do this, I might be able to fire my idiot assistants and drop payroll,” he will think, albeit privately to himself.)

If, on the other hand, Mr. Simoleons is shady or neurotic, he will phone to convince you that it’s in your favor to let him (man)handle your money. Hold firm. Say it’s a business thing, and you’re happy to get your attorney involved if it would make him feel more comfortable. (Only say this if you are not bluffing.) When you surmount that hurdle, the royalty department will send you a contract addendum like this:

We refer to the agreement (the “Contract”) dated TK, between Scribulous J. Scrivener (the “Author”), and Edified Press, at 123 Highly Overpriced Office Towers, NYC, (“the Publisher”), concerning BOOK TITLE (the “Work”).

It is hereby agreed as follows:

1. Paragraph TK of the Agreement—(ie, the so-called Literary Agency clause) is hereby deleted in its entirety and replaced with the following:
2. “Fifteen percent (15%) sums due Author under this Agreement shall be paid to the Author’s agent: Eustace Simoleons, Agency name and address (the “Agent”), whose receipt of funds shall be a full and valid discharge of Publisher’s obligations.
3. “Eighty-five percent (85%) of all sums due the Author under this Agreement will be paid directly to the Author at: Scrivener’s address. Receipt of those funds shall be a full and valid discharge of Publisher’s obligations.”

Nothing in these two paragraphs will be deemed to have changed the amounts otherwise payable by the Publisher under this Agreement. In all other respects the Agreement remains in full force and effect in accordance with its terms.

ACCEPTED AND AGREED:

Signed by Publisher

Signed by Author

Yes, you can get a lawyer to look at this, but I would recommend having the publisher draw up the doc first, so you don't incur excessive legal expenses on consultations with your attorney and their subsequent drafting of the doc. The agent is not required to sign, because the original contract was always between you, the author, and the publisher, with only one graf inserted to redirect your money to the agent.

You will need to execute this document for every book you have at this publisher, and at every other publisher that brings your work to market. You’ll do it for all the the other businesses that have signed subsidiary deals with you.

Not gonna lie to you. It will take time. While you’re at it, instruct the publisher to set up direct deposit as well, and agree to receive your royalty statements via email or their online royalty portal. The documents you sign today probably will not impact your royalty statements or payments for a year. Because publishing.

Once the new agreements start kicking in, however, you’ll forever get your 85 percent and the agent will get their 15 percent. At the end of the year, the publisher (not the agent) will send you your tax docs. Yay you!

From this moment forward, I predict that you will never hear from your dead-wood agents again, just the ones continuing to rep you. Although, because these idiots really cannot do math with decimals, you may occasionally get a check in the mail remitting you 85 percent of an agent’s 15 percent payment. (Yes, this has happened to me with two agents’ offices, several freaking times in a row.)

Once, I got an anxious call from the scion of a once-great literary agency who said, “Um, we just got a call from someone in Bulgaria who wants to do a deal with your book? Can you handle it?” (Translation: “Please don’t make us have to work after all these years of cashing grandpa’s checks.”)

JFC, publishing is stupid, but you don’t have to be. Bifurcate.

---

See you in three weeks.

— Joe

josephdagnese.com