Post-Manuscript Journal, Part 3

About two weeks ago I learned my book is already available for pre-order on Amazon.  Woo-hoo!

I asked all my friends and relatives to order.  The idea, at this point, is to keep the numbers up.  Don't know how exactly Amazon calculates that stuff, but it's supposed to be important.

I've checked back on Amazon occasionally.  Last week I noticed my bio had been added.  Not the version I wrote exactly, either.  But not bad.

Today I notice the publisher has actually posted a description of the book.  Wasn't there before.  Surprising to me, since Skyhorse has only seen the opening chunk (same as anybody else who's followed this blog).

The book description is a tad cheesy, but I like it.  Hope my book lives up to it!

I haven't yet consulted with Skyhorse's publicist at all.  But it's heartwarming to know that somebody's been secretly working behind the scenes on my behalf!

More news as it develops…

http://amzn.to/th0krx

Post-Manuscript Journal Part 2

Today I got my first unsolicited pitch from a book publicist.

            Didn't know publicists did that sort of thing, but I confess to being flattered and impressed.  The outfit--Newman Communications, in Boston--knew the name of my book, knew the approximate publication schedule, and actually went to the trouble (well, Google) of finding my Web site in order to find me.

            Presumably, this means the publisher has been leaking announcements through the grapevine.

            It so happens I have been interviewing publicists, and while I would never call upon someone who accosted me--say, a telemarketer--this one I am tempted to consider.

*

The occurrence is just the latest surprise I've experienced since completing my manuscript.

            Over Thanksgiving, I saw my family for the first time since it's been done and since they've had a chance to read it.  Everybody likes it, and is supportive, but I find that afterward I'm feeling a bit shaken.  As if I stood in front of the class with my zipper open!

            Is this what's in store for me, as others read my innermost secrets, thoughts, fears and dreams?

            Well, if I didn't want people to know my perspective on life, I shouldn't have written about it for publication.  Right?  What did I expect?

            Yet I think because it was family the reaction was particularly charged.  I myself was nervous in a way I haven't been in decades (am I regressing? I pondered), and their comments-- "curious you left out such-and-such event," "I've been avoiding bringing this up, but since you mention it in your book, well, I've always wanted to say…"--felt unusually bare and frank and bold.  Or maybe I was just reading extra dollops of Significance in them.

            Not to worry.  Soon the thing will be sent off to the publisher, and then I'll begin the publicity push in earnest.  Onward and upward!
            But first, maybe I ought to call back this Newman fella…

Schlubs like me?

Last summer, two days after I announced my humble book deal, someone asked me for the name of my agent.  That's how I knew something bigger had changed, at least temporarily.  I had arrived.

            But arrived where?  It's my first book, and I'm excited--but the publishing contract certainly isn't lucrative (I've been paid more for some of my smallest articles).  And there's no indication this venture will prove successful. 

            So why should anybody think I'm a useful contact?

            I mean, I got the concept.  I'd done it myself, scrounged for referrals to agents.  But when I did that, I'd hit up, you know, big popular best-selling authors.  Not schlubs like me.

            Looking back, though, I remember the desperation and isolation I'd felt when getting an agent was the goal.  It was like screaming and wondering if anybody would ever hear you.  After a few years someone signed on to represent my project.  Hooray!  Yet still there was work to be done.

            Under her tutelage, I had to put together a proper book proposal--including writing a sort of marketing plan and a detailed, chapter-by-chapter outline.  For me, the outline was the hardest part.  I've never used outlines.  My agent called it a Table of Contents, but that didn't help much.

            Once the book proposal was done, of course, the goal became finding a publisher.  No, it's not an automatic next-step when you have an agent.  At least not a hard-working agent like mine; no doubt there are some highfalutin agents who are so well known and well respected they can practically snap their fingers and publishers line up, guaranteed.  Maybe.  If you can get one of those agents, you must be pretty highfalutin yourself—in which case you hardly need an agent except to negotiate terms.

            That's a very different job from hustling your baby--er, your book proposal or manuscript--around to publishers, trying to generate interest much less a contract.

            Anyway, there I was with an agent  …  and eventually a proper book proposal.  It took another few years to find a publisher.  And in all humble honesty, I can't say my agent exactly found me a publisher.  She tried, to be sure.  But I had to work a few connections myself to make the thing a reality.

            Funny, but the publishing deal I'd mentioned--which brought someone to ask for a referral to my agent--fell through.  Fortunately, I hustled a bit, called in some favors I didn't know I had coming to me, and quickly lined up an alternative deal.  (It came so quickly, in fact, that I never bothered to announce the change.)

            Fast forward three or four months to today: the manuscript is finished.  It went faster even than my most optimistic projections.  That's either because it's a story I was burning to tell or because I did a slapdash job.  The verdict is still out.

            It's not due in to the publisher for another month, so I still have time to revise.

            Writing it was, at times, more painful than I'd supposed.  Conjuring up past pain, stupidity and peril makes your heart quicken and sour.  I hope that means I got in touch with some true feelings.  (Otherwise, it was a helluva sucky ride for nothing!)

            I decided that because the book is not meant to be an exposé, and I'm not trying to settle old scores or have the last word about anything, I'd show the manuscript to my family--or at least those members who have large supporting roles in my story.  This was partly an exercise in fact checking.  Also, I wanted to protect them from any nasty surprises.

            Overall, the family reviews are good.  Not exactly unbiased, but mine tends to be a judgment clan.  Predictably there are a few nits to pick.  There are things that seem important to one person and are all but forgotten by another.  I find myself arguing--at least in my head--that this is MY story.  If you want it different, write your own!  Nasty stuff like that.  I get defensive.  I know I shouldn't.  If someone were writing about me, I don't think I'd exactly love the attention either … unless it was all praise, which it wouldn't be.

            So here I am, book complete, a month before deadline.  Will I truly read it over again and consider revisions?  In all honesty, I don't want to.  I'm still digging myself out of the dingy well of memory and in no hurry to return.

            If I left out something important, I'll just use it in my next book!

JERRY LEWIS' LEGACY

For the first time in nearly half a century, the Labor Day telethon for the Muscular Dystrophy Association won't feature Jerry Lewis this year. 

Since his abrupt resignation/dismissal in early August, speculation has abounded.  What happened?  Who's to blame?  What's next for him and for the charity? 

As an ex-MDA poster child and one time anti-telethon demonstrator, I have my own perspective on all this--and a few suggestions.

The following--or a version of it--was going to be aired on NPR on Labor Day. But at the last minute it got cut ... too late to resubmit to newspapers. So here it is…

JERRY LEWIS' LEGACY

By Ben Mattlin

I remember my mother telling me back in the 60s that Jerry Lewis would stay on the air for 24 hours straight just to help people like me. I was born with spinal muscular atrophy, one of the many diseases that his charity, the Muscular Dystrophy Association, aims to cure.

As a kid, I was an MDA poster child, though I never met Jerry. I quit after a magazine ad had me stand in leg braces under the caption, "If I grow up I want to be a fireman." It was a lie. My life expectancy was normal, even by the medical knowledge of the time, 1969-70. I hated standing in leg braces, much preferred the comfort of my wheelchair. I didn't even want to be a fireman. I tried to cross my fingers in the picture where you can't see. Afterward, I told my parents I wanted out. I really didn't like people feeling sorry for me.

Decades later, I discovered many other people with disabilities felt the same way about the organization's fund-raising tactics. I joined with them in protest.

The primary reason so many of us demonstrated against the telethon in years past was the way it exploited pity to raise money. The ends didn't justify the means, we argued. We were fighting for respect, for equality, for jobs, and access to all society affords. Getting people to cry and hand over their spare change just wasn't in our program.

In the years since our demonstrations, the MDA has made many of the changes we advocated. It's put more people with actual disabilities in positions of authority, albeit mostly as volunteers. It's changed its language somewhat, and become more involved in political advocacy.

But mostly the MDA provides neurologists for the uninsured. It's a kind of secondary insurer. It also subsidizes physical therapy and some necessary equipment. It has run accessible summer camps and, of course, funds medical research.

Yet one of the key problems was never resolved: Jerry Lewis himself. I think the kindest way to explain what was so bothersome is that he was an anachronism, in the way that certain terms we now think of as offensive slurs used to be acceptable. Sure, a man his age can be forgiven for being  hopelessly behind the times. But Lewis steadfastly refused to  recognize the disability-rights movement,  even maligned those of us who demanded respect, calling us "leeches" who were simply "bitter at the bad hand they've been dealt."  He once threatened, "I'll have you killed. You understand? I'll have you killed."  (If you don't believe this, see Vanity Fair magazine from September 1993, Leslie Bennetts' "Jerry v. the Kids.")

It may seem unkind now to point out his faults. He undeniably brought people with disabilities into America's living rooms at a time when many of us were shut away in institutions. Unfortunately, the image of disability he portrayed was relentlessly sad, demeaning, powerless.

Lewis' departure gives the MDA an unprecedented chance to embrace modern disability culture. Though the organization said no one will replace Lewis as its chairman, someone has to be the new spokeserson. Perhaps it can be someone who is more in sync with disability pride.

Maybe even someone who uses a wheelchair.

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Check out this YouTube clip : Jerry sings "You'll never walk alone" to poster that says "Help Me … Please!"

THE KING'S SPEECH DISABILITY

A quick note, then it's back to work:

Just saw THE KING'S SPEECH--finally. A fine, fine film … dramatically, cinematically, tonally, textually, texturely, musically, lightingly, mood-wise, etc., etc. The best picture Oscar was well deserved.

But…

From a disability-consciousness perspective, sorry to say it bothered me.

Now, this is a SPOILER ALERT, but by the end, King George VI is not so much cured of his speech disability as empowered to cope with it better. That's the good news.

Throughout much of the film, however, his stammering seems a sort of stand in for or emblem of the abuse he's endured from his stern father, teasing schoolmates, and others.

Does being forced to use your right hand when you're naturally left-handed, for instance, and other indignities, cause speech impediments? Really?

Of course, the movie doesn't say as much outright. And it is based on a true story. But I presume we don't actually know what exactly went on in the Prince of York's speech therapy sessions. Did all these personal matters truly get discussed? Much of the time, his treatments look more like psychotherapy than vocal rehab.

I guess that's the point. Throat exercises weren't enough. It took a combination of silly things like rolling around on the floor AND confidence-building psychoanalysis to make poor Bertie ready physically and emotionally to wear the crown.

Am I off-base here?

(In some sense it reminded me of GOOD WILL HUNTING. Which was a different kind of coming-of-age movie about a magical therapist, minus the physical impairment.)

THE KING'S SPEECH is ultimately about overcoming an affliction, is it not? No one else is made to change their ways, to meet him halfway, to accept or to accommodate. Perhaps that's a just sign of those times, the 1930s. You had to adapt to society's expectations or get out of the way.

But think of the dramatic effect if at least one person had said "let's change what WE do to be fair to you and your speech disability." Instead, he himself has to change--to work at making others more comfortable with him.

Now, I DID like the bit about Hitler being a good public speaker. Fluent, strong speech doesn't make you a good person.

Nevertheless, it further struck me that it's Bertie's wife Elizabeth who first gets him the help he needs. Either no one else felt he needed help before, or cared enough to try, or everyone else dismissed him as hopeless. We're made to see her actions--the inciting incident of the storyline--as an expression of love. She, in effect, saves him.

I wonder if that part is true-to-life. It's a nice, romantic notion. But how many of us with disabilities have learned it is, in fact, entirely up to us to resolve our problems--to fight for what we need and deserve, whether that's a specific technological aid or plain old justice!

No matter how supportive those around us may be, they can't fix us or solve our issues. They can't lead us in pursuing rehab, finding appropriate assistive devices, or seeking equality. In fact, those around us who do care often become understandably exhausted, lose patience. Why not? They have that choice. They can even walk away from the frustrations.

Whereas we can't. When your life or quality of life is on the line, you don't give up.

***

On a happier note, I was delighted to receive a pleasant e-mail about an NPR piece I recorded several years ago. I'm glad people are still finding it useful. He asked me to share a link:
http://network.crcna.org/content/disability-concerns/will-people-have-disabilities-new-heaven-and-earth#

Guilty pleasures

1. Amazon.com. While I was shopping online for some stuff for my daughter, I came across a DVD of old black-and-white mystery movies. Four movies on one disc. It was about the price of a rental. I added it to my cart.

2. Old black-and-white movies. So last weekend my wife and I popped the DVD of old mysteries into the machine. We had seen (and liked) "The Kennel Murder Case," with William Powell as private-eye Philo Vance, before, so we skipped right to something called "Eyes in the Night." It starred Edward Arnold as wealthy private investigator Duncan "Mac" Maclain, whom I'd never heard of. Well, not only was it a pretty good little flick, but Mac happens to be blind. Now, before the PC police get on me, the disc did not have Closed Captioning or Descriptive Video. Nevertheless, I thought the depiction of disability was pretty cool. He doesn't have superhuman hearing or smell, but he is constantly under-rated, especially by the bad guys. He does things like turn off the lights to disorient the bad guys. Naturally, the darkness has no effect on him, so he can knock them all out. Which is improbable, to be sure, particularly because Edward Arnold was pretty pudgy. But as I say, he's not superhuman. At one point he's rescued by his well-trained guide dog. (I wonder if all the movies on this disc involve dogs. I'll lecha know. )

3. Old TV shows. The blind detective led me to think about "Ironside," the old wheelchair-using detective series I loved as a child. And not just because Raymond Burr was even pudgier than Edward Arnold! I discovered the first three seasons are on hulu.com … and I've been addicted to them. I realize it's totally unrealistic--the dude ends up in all kinds of places, including, say, the second floor of a two-story house, with no explanation as to how he got there. In fact, he never calls ahead to check on access, which was even more of a necessity in those days than now. And the things he's able to do with his upper body and arms make me wonder why he's not using crutches instead. But there is a ramp in his apartment/office. And he does have a lift-equipped van (a lift-equipped truck, actually, in the first two seasons). By the end of the series, a decade or more later, I think he was driving the van himself, though I don't recall any hand controls shown… Again, not the best depiction of disabilities, but I can't help loving it. Something about seeing this guy in a wheelchair living a more-or-less normal life--bossing everyone around, no less!--feels good. Or maybe it's just nostalgia.

If you have favorite disability portrayals, or other guilty pleasures you care to share, please send them to me at bmattlin@post.harvard.edu

And the verdict is in…

To follow up on my previous post, Amanda Hocking, the self-published novelist who was seeking a traditional publisher, just signed with St. Martin's Press for--$2 million.

For her, it's not just about the money. (Yeah, sure.) She was tired of the demands placed upon those who self-published and self-promote.

"I do not want to spend 40 hours a week handling e-mails, formatting covers, finding editors, etc.," she's quoted as saying, in the New York Times. "Right now, being me is a full-time corporation."

Which has always been my complaint about blogging. To do it right, it's a full-time job.

Curiously, public radio's Marketplace program just did a piece about another successful self-publishing venture. This time the author seems to have launched his own publishing company to get his book out there!

His point, to summarize: self-publishing is no longer a last resort for writers. It is increasingly the first resort.

By the way, keep your fingers crossed. I'm juggling (well, agitating for) two new NPR commentaries. And my book proposal is in submission at two new houses!

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