West of Mars

All right, all right. Leave me alone already.

Over the past few days and don’t ask my fat ass to count them, people, I’ve gotten more e-mail from you readers than I have in the past six months combined. And you’re all whining about two stupid mistakes.

I’ll own up to one of them. I forgot to add the letter S on the end of the magazine title the other day. But can you blame a girl? I was all caught up in that picture — it is still, at this moment, making me fan myself with a funeral fan I found in the bottom of my desk. Thank God for funerals, boys and girls! And so what if I decided that this issue of guitar gods ought to be about one and only?

As for the capital letters, don’t be blaming me for that. I read guitar gods magazine every quarter. I know darn well they have this thing for lower case letters.

No. If you want to blame that on someone, you go blame it on my copy editor, who now has about three back issues featuring guys I never liked anyway, like that tribute to Jim Shields once he finally gave in to the AIDS, sitting on her desk, teaching her that screwing up like she did just makes old Chelle even nastier than usual.

Speaking of nasty, who’s the smarty-artie who sent me that nasty t-shirt last week?

You heard it first, you heard it here, and this time, you heard it right. guitar god magazine featuring the very godlike Mitchell Voss. On sale in two more days.
Can you stand it?

Just wanted to wish a public get-well to Jason Newsted, who has long been one of my musical heroes and who I will probably always think of as one of the world’s most photogenic men.

You can find the details in the last two paragraphs of the Blabbermouth article I’ve linked to in my headline.

Jason, as you recover, how about firing up the Chophouse again and exposing us to more brilliant stuff?

I know that lots of us are out there, looking for literary agents. I know that a lot of times, it feels like we’re competing against each other for the same person’s time and energy (not to mention attention and hand-holding).

But I firmly believe that we’re all in this together, folks. We all have our own slice of audience that’ll be completely unique to each of us.

And because I believe that, I think we need to stick together when the scammers raise their ugly heads.

This time, it’s in the form of the The International Independent Literary Agents Association (IILAA). I’m not going to post a link directly to them ’cause that’ll just give them one more link at places like Technorati, and who wants to help out a bunch of scammers? (My link goes to Victoria Strauss, who I’ll mention later on, so keep reading)

This is what steams me about them:
1. They claim that charging a reading fee is normal and good business practice. Yes, they sort-of have a point in that you often pay a lawyer a retainer.

BUT… not ALL lawyers ask for retainers. Many work the same way reputable agents do: They take a cut of what you win in court (granted, agents take a cut of what you earn, but you see my point). Many just send you a bill.

2. If this The International Independent Literary Agents Association (IILAA) is to be believed, there are ten agents they recommend. That’s fine. But… who’s number 10? They only list nine on their site.

Yes, counting to ten may be math, but it’s not higher math. My kids could both do it before they were two. Most of us have ten fingers and ten toes for the express purpose of using two of the four (YOU get my higher math, right?) appendages for counting to ten.

3. They make a BIG STINK of denouncing Preditors and Editors, Writer Beware, Miss Snark, and other sites that many of us rely on for information.

4. As they denounce these people, they can’t be bothered to spell some of these places properly. Hello? You’re a LITERARY agency. A little show of your own LITERATE capabilities would be nice. (And let’s not get into how nice it was of them, in their literary worldliness, to point out that a group called The International Independent Literary Agents Association is composed of Independent agents.)

Yeah, yeah. We all make typos. See my own post from yesterday, which invites you to capitalize on one I made. But c’mon, folks. If you’re going to cut someone down, do it the right way. Those last two examples aren’t even as amusing as “be a retainer,” which also appears on their site, in the bit about why fees are acceptable.

If all those sites are so disreputable, why do so many of us hold what they say to be canonical? Because we’re stupid? Or because we’re smart enough to do the research that backs us up. Look at some blogging agents. My favorites are Agent Kristin, Lit Soup, The Rejecter, and Dystel and Goderich Literary Management. Miss Snark goes without saying.

What do these agents have in common?
1. They support the efforts of Ann, Victoria, and all the rest who are out there, keeping us abreast and warned of the scammers.
2. They’re NOT on Writer Beware’s list of 20 Worst Agents.
3. They don’t charge fees.
4. They are careful about their typos and the way they present themselves. That many mistakes… c’mon. Would you want THEM to represent you? What would happen if they offered you a contract for a book you didn’t write? You wrote Under a Blood Red Sky, not Over a Bloody Die. That doesn’t even make sense, unless you play craps!

Think about it. An agent represents you. They are your face to the publishing world, at least initially. They are your advocate, your business partner.

Do your research before you commit to any agent, even the ones I listed here as the blogging agents I particularly like. This is your career, people. I’ve already had one bad agent in my life. I can tell you, firsthand, what a frustrating time-suck it is. And he wasn’t even a fee charger. He didn’t ask me to BE a retainer.

Be smart, folks. Writing is a craft, an art form, yes. But there’s also a business end to it. Please don’t ignore that.

/rant over

(by the way, if I’ve offended you and you want me to take this post down, you’ll have to go through my lawyer to get me to do so. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

Karen! found a typo in my previous post, so now I’m going to show my appreciation to my loyal groupies by letting you raise your voice.

Is the magazine named Guitar God or Guitar Gods, with an s?

One god, or many? (and no, don’t turn this into a religious rant. I’m Jewish. There’s only one God. And if you want to go all Kabbalistic, God is everything and everything is God, and that’s just how it is, so deal)

Any you girls ready for a drool-fest? I’ve got a picture here that’ll be on the cover of the November Guitar Gods magazine featuring the one and only, totally drool-icious Mitchell Voss.

And girls, this ain’t no posed picture. This is the Handsome Man himself, outside, playing in the autumn leaves. I’ve never been sorry I don’t live somewhere where the leaves change colors until I saw this picture, let me tell you. I’m ready to up and move my fat ass to Vermont, or wherever they had to go to get leaves this color so early in the season. I’m not just ready. Oh, no. This puppy’s got me packed and on the road. It’s that hot.

My friend Mitchell is wearing a hoody that’s a pumpkin-orange, and he’s actually — can you believe this? Write this one down for posterity — laughing. That’s right. You read that right. The man can laugh. I know that’s been widely speculated about and even I had doubts about it, but apparently, even if they had to stick an ice cube down the front of those delicously tight jeans, the man can at least act like he’s doing it long enough for the camera to snap.

I hear from a reliable source that there’s plenty more inside, including pictures of Mrs. Mitchell herself, the low-key but very famous Kerri Voss, and — don’t pass out on me now, girls — their boys. I haven’t been priveleged enough to see the rest of the spread yet, but I hear it’s a doozy.

Boys, I don’t know what to tell you ’cause I don’t have an inkling of what’s inside, or why they’re running this now, during a quiet period for the band. It doesn’t matter. It’s ShapeShifter, and we’re all missing that thunder they call music.

Start saving your pennies now. Flood the newstands; I’m told the on-sale date is November 1. Let’s make this be the next in a long series of Guitar God magazines that sell out their print run. Funny, but a little bit of research tells me that of their top-ten best-selling covers, four of them have included ShapeShifter’s god-like frontman. The #2 seller, Terry Fantillo, only has two in that same top ten. Seven wives, but only two covers.

Remember the on-sale date and check out that picture. I told you here, and I told you first.

Trevor’s Song is back on the market again.

Just thought I’d let you all know… cross your fingers, wish me luck, keep on stopping in, and tell your friends to do the same.

Look for some content changes at the website coming soon. Nothing major. Some streamlining, the new query letter, and changes to the Cast of Character pages that I think you’ll like.

I’m always open to suggestions to how to make the website better. And yes, a new picture of me is in the works. But I just had my hair cut and so far, I’m not liking it.

My book club tonight is going to discuss Jacqueline Park’s The Secret Book of Grazia Dei Rossi, a historical fiction (that’s utterly fascinating) based on two letters Ms. Park found about a woman named Pacienza Pontremoli and her love for a Catholic man.

Ms. Park was 72 when she published this book, her debut.

I’m not 72 yet. Many of you aspiring authors, like myself, who read this blog aren’t 72 yet.

There’s still time for us.

(an interesting aside — in reading Naomi Ragen’s The Ghost of Hannah Mendes, we came across a character named Grazia Dei Rossi. I haven’t had time to reasearch this, but was there an actual Grazia? What’s going on, that two fictional women who are very different bear the same name?)

Check out Working Stiffs today for a bit of a personal blog about me…

And while you’re there, bookmark it and come back often. This is quite the interesting collection of people!

Trevor cradled his head in his arms and stared at the clouds. It was one of those days that was warm and the sun felt so good that he swore he could feel it reaching inside him and working on all those old broken bones, the ones the doctors said had healed but that hurt every now and then, anyway.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his body trying to repair itself. Eighteen was way too fucking young to be stuck with the scars from broken ribs, arms, and legs. Not to mention his nose; good thing Mitchell’s dad knew someone who’d been able to save it from looking and acting like a mashed potato. So fucking what if it had a hook and looked like a bird’s beak? It worked, it didn’t hurt, and hopefully no one would break it again.

The only thing he needed to make this scene down by the river even better was a girl, soothing other parts of him. Maybe even more than one. Maybe one part per girl. Trevor had a lot of parts.

When the shadow fell over him, he knew better than to hope some higher being had agreed with his plan. It had to be Mitchell, and not just because the big idiot was probably the only other person who knew about this spot. Trevor had been waiting for Mitchell to get the news and show up. Mitchell was dependable like that.

“Why’d you do it?” Mitchell asked with a sigh before Trevor even opened his eyes.

For a second, Trevor thought about pretending to be asleep, letting Mitchell rant until he got so frustrated with Trevor’s lack of response that he left. But it wouldn’t be out of the blue if Mitchell tried to kick him awake, either, and wasn’t he feeling some healing going on?

“I had a point to make,” he finally said.

“Which was?” Mitchell sat down beside him. Trevor could picture him stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, leaning back on his elbows and turning his face to the sun.

“That if people don’t wake up and fucking think for themselves, they’ll never get anywhere in life.”

“Maybe they’re right. That you can’t get anywhere without a high school diploma.”

“Dude,” Trevor said, opening his eyes and turning his head so he could look at Mitchell — who was, predictably, stretched out just like Trevor had imagined. “We’re in a band. We’ve got tour dates booked. We’re going places. What do we need the lies they feed us in that joint for?”

“Just in case.”

Trevor snorted, making Mitchell open his left eye, the one that was now looking right at Trev. “If things are broke, you ought to fix them,” he insisted.

“So fix it,” Mitchell said. “Don’t go running off in a huff and expect everyone to fucking get it just ’cause you tell them to.”

“If you don’t shake things up, no one fixes shit. You know that as well as I do.”

“Maybe they don’t see a problem.”

Trevor shook his head. Of course he didn’t expect Mitchell to get it. People liked Mitchell. And he was a Voss. If he came to school with a fresh black eye every week, no one would sit his ass down and tell him that he should take lots of shop classes because that was going to be the best he would do for himself in life.

“I don’t need a fucking piece of paper to prove I’m worth something,” Trevor insisted.

“So shut up and just go and be something already.”

Trevor jumped to his feet. “I’m fucking trying!” he screamed. “I’m the one getting out there and lining up gigs for us! I’m the one kissing ass and trying to figure out the fucking contracts and all that other happy shit that goes along with this! The way you three pussies act, I’m the only one who cares about this band!”

“That’s because you’re the only one of us without a fall-back plan,” Mitchell said mildly.

“That’s because I’m the only smart one around here,” Trevor shot back. “I’m the one with all the faith Eric’s always preaching about. Where’s his? Where’s yours? If I weren’t up all your asses, you’d all be perfectly happy to sit around in your mom’s basement and make music all day.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“There will be,” Trevor said, jumping up and searching his pockets for a cigarette. “When she shakes things up and throws you out of her house and on your ass. Admit it. You won’t do shit until she does.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe.”

Trevor stomped a foot and dropped his lighter. “And that’s my point!” He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “People don’t do shit unless they’re forced to. I’m not sitting around, waiting for you three to stop being scared of leaving town. I’m not wasting any more time in that fucking school. And I’m not putting up with any more shit! I want to fucking live already! Do shit I can tell my kids about one day! Live, motherfucker. I know I’m not the only one here who wants to.”

Mitchell handed his lighter back. “Making another scene, or is this the one you didn’t get to make in the office at school?”

“Fuck you, M,” Trevor snarled and turned his back on his best friend. He’d known Mitchell wouldn’t get it. Coddled little brothers like him didn’t know how to scrap for shit. Well, he’d show him, Trevor would. He’d make their stupid little band into the biggest thing to come out of Riverview, or he’d die trying.

Check out this book! It was just published on the first of October; how’s this for timely?

The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGBs: A Secret History of Jewish Punk, by Steven Lee Beeber.

I’ve got to get my hands on this puppy!

(added note: apologies to Steven, whose name was apparently misspelled in the source I’d found it in.)