In the hot seat

Before I signed with my über-agent, Kristin Nelson, I admired how much of the seemingly mysterious and arcane publishing world she clarified through her blog. Some of my favorite reads were her post-analysis of the query letters of her clients.

Well, whodathunkit? Now it’s my turn beneath the query nanoscope.

So if you’re bored, pop over to Kristin’s PubRants blog to see just how irresistible my query letter was, except for a certain unnamed agent who thought I was about as exciting as a root canal. (I’m kidding. And if you’re wondering, I do indeed know who she is referring to, and he’s a wonderful agent who sent me a polite and prompt rejection. And for that, I won’t mention how he likes to kick puppies).

I'd rather be Stan Lee than Hugh Hefner any day

I grew up poor. Not living in the desert, Sally Struthers pleading for donations kind of poor—just lower-income poor. My parents both had jobs. My dad ran a tiny restaurant and my mom did clerical work for a doctor. She’d bring home the billing each month to earn a few extra bucks and my brothers and sisters and I would stuff, seal and stamp hundreds of envelopes on our living-room floor. (This is waaaay before HIPAA).

We did it while watching our one channel on TV. Yes, I said that correctly—we had one, lowly channel. It was NBC. And I never understood NBC’s whole, “Brought to you in living color” peacock motto, because we only had a black & white set. (The first show I ever saw in color was Star Trek at Troy James’ house, and yes, it was a thing of beauty).

In the Ford household, we just learned to do without. We lived on the outskirts of cable, in a valley that defied the best intentions of our rooftop antenna to bring us Fantasy Island, Love Boat, Charlie's Angels and The Waltons. I know, by today’s standards it’s considered child abuse.

So how did I fill my brain with the daily-recommended allowance of pop culture? Simple. I binged on comic books. My garage-sailing grandma sent me armloads via the UPS man. (Even now I get all Pavlovian whenever that big brown truck pulls up to my house). I spent my paltry allowance buying old comics at Edna’s Used Books. I’d even pluck soda cans from the side of the road for the 5¢ deposit—saving up enough to buy the latest issues of Spider-Man, X-men, Fantastic Four and the Hulk.

Comics were easily the largest single influence on my early childhood. I drew constantly—eventually graduating from art school in Seattle. Deep down, I’ve always wanted to do something comics related. In fact, when I was choosing an agent, one prominent NYC rep found out I loved comics and suggested publishing HOTEL as a graphic novel. (Still an intriguing thought).

So when I popped over to AngryAsianMan.com and read that Secret Identities, the first Asian-American Superhero Anthology, was looking for contributors––bat-signals went off in my brain. Because it just so happens that I’ve been working on a story that fits nicely into their submission criteria. And I’ll be sending it off this week. If they like it, I’ll post the synopsis. Heck, even if they don’t like it, I’ll still post it.

Because as Marvel Comics mogul Stan Lee used to say––Excelsior!

Open Pants Night, part deux

Before I sold HOTEL, before I even had an agent, I took a few chapters and read them aloud in front of a roomful of over-caffeinated strangers. There is just something about reading chapters aloud. I didn’t buy the concept at first—but now I’m a zealous convert to the gospel of spoken prose. (Can I get an Amen?)

My early bias was based in my advertising career. I loathed focus groups—basically putting 8-10 strangers in a room, showing them a campaign and asking them “whatdoyathink?” The inherent problem is—people hate advertising. So you’re basically putting your ideas against a wall, with a blindfold and a cigarette, and hoping something useful comes of it. If your ideas are not killed or injured, it’s not because anyone liked them—it’s because they had really bad aim.

Poetry slams or chapter readings are different. Not only do you get to hear the music of the language, as Orson Scott Card calls it, but everyone is basically sitting there with an open mind—daring you to entertain them.

So if I can read five pages through a crappy microphone and get an emotional reaction—laughter, tears, or start a riot in someone’s heart, I know it’s working. If they look bored or confused, I’m not doing my job.

Last night I went to Open Mic Night and read the first chapter of a new book, tentatively titled: Short Bus. Nobody looked bored; quite the contrary. Then again, maybe it was the caffeine.

What really goes on between clients and agents

A little British humor, courtesy of my über-agent, Kristin Nelson. She's got a great sense of humor, or maybe it's more quirky...or what if...