Mallory's Camera

So Michael Gruber upon whom I have this huge literary crush somehow found this journal and read it and emailed me, and we talked on the phone.

TROPIC OF NIGHT, his quasi-debut novel, was published last month to rave reviews and assorted hype. Selling briskly too, I note. His agent, it turns out, is Simon Lipskar, and of course I've gotten nice rejection letters from Simon Lipskar.

Mr. Gruber favors the take-no-prisoners school of telephonic discourse. "So," he says. "You're a very good writer, terrific sense of metaphor, funny, good with dialogue. Now let's talk about why you can't get published. What do you think?"

"Uh – I guess it's because I'm a really shitty plotter," I say. "I'm a good writer but a really sucky story-teller."

"Exactly!" he says and then proceeds to outline a five-point plan for success beyond my wildest dreams of avarice. Plucky nurse, single mother – first person. Disapproving boyfriend with some vague affiliation to law enforcement, updated Lucy and Ricky dynamic. Strangeness unfolds in a quiet coastal town in Central California which our perky heroine becomes enmired in and ultimately resolves.

"Series like that are a gold mine," says Mr. Gruber. "And you won't have to plot because most of it has already happened – to you! Listen, you've got what it takes to be a successful commercial fiction writer. Only you've got to pick the right song to sing."

Pep talk or tickets to Satan's carnival cruise?

Because I have to say I hate the thought of publishing anything that's even faintly autobiographical and first person narratives make phantom cockroaches crawl up my spine. Always excepting HUCKLEBERRY FINN, all real literature is written in the third person. And yet it would be so goddamn easy. I wouldn't have to wrestle with voice – I could just use my own. But oh! the resistance is strong. I'm gonna have to think that one through, figure out where the resistance points lie.

In other news, met with Frank Gibson for four hours today. There is a formal Japanese rhythm to these kinds of meetings. First we had to talk about our children for an hour (they go to the same school) and through subtle subvocalizations -- raised eyebrows, dismissive smiles -- make sure their respective grade point averages and popularity indices warrant further discussion. Real silverback behavior. Then we started the negotiation process. He wants 200 K for the bookstore.

I batted my eyelashes. "But I'm not interested in your inventory, Frank. It doesn't fit with my business model. Besides, you know, the net profits from the store – or should I say the lack of net profits from the store these past three years are such that I'd never be able to get an acquisition loan from any reputable financial institution. And I've investigated selling the children but in today's economy it's really hard to find a white slave trafficker with that kind of liquidity."

He laughed. No, he would carry the loan – but it turns out what that would mean is that I would end up paying off his debts to various publishers over a thirty-six month term. And that, I suspect, would seriously impact my ability to get the type of inventory on the terms I want from these same publishers.

But he's already come down 100 K from his original asking price and I suspect as the days grind on and he sinks deeper in debt, the price will come down more without my even pushing. And at the end, I will push. Hard.

Problem is that anyone who wants to own an independent bookstore is certifiably insane because there's absolutely no guarantee that the business will do any better under my ownership than it did under his.

We left it with a handshake, a promise to reconvene in the near future for round 2 when I will supply him with an exact figure: here's what I'm willing to give you.

I expect this process lasts for a few weeks. I've crunched all the numbers, done a 70 page business plan with break-even points and a cash flow analysis: any way I dice the figures, the business runs in the red for six months of the first year. On the other hand, it feels so right to envision myself as a bookstore owner. I dunno. I wish George W. Bush would stop monopolizing all of God's time so He could have a short conversation with me.