I am not in a good mood.
What better time to send unsuspecting writers into paroxysms of failure, in the continuing hope that soon I will be the only writer left standing? (Or limping, as it were.) So there you have it! The Clueless One has returned, graciously responding to one of the many, many heartfelt queries stuffing her emailbox.
Dear Clueless One,
I have written the first several pages of a novel of extraordinary depth, universal appeal, and potential for a fifteen-part animated movie series that I’m pretty sure Sir Laurence Olivier will return from the dead to narrate. It is a fun-filled tragedy of life and death, with an insouciant haiku about animal husbandry at the opening of each chapter.
Obviously, I need no advice about my novel. The thing is, just after I whip off the next 497 pages next week, I plan to sell one to two hundred thousand copies myself before one of the Big However-Many-Are-Left publishers offers me bazillion dollars, which I will turn down because, seriously, I’m a lone wolf genius who chuckles in the face of conventionality and the soul-numbing horror of the editorial process.
So here is the question: To sell my one or two hundred thousand copies, I plan to be invited to talk shows on ABC, CBS, NBC, BBC, Al Jazeera, NPR, and a gardening podcast produced by my Aunt Edith and viewed by between 14 and 76 people per week, mostly in Boca Raton.
Also, I will expect everyone I know to send copies to at least 10 friends along with a chain letter filled with terrifying yet not entirely illegal threats to their health and welfare if they don’t do the same.
What do you think, Clueless One? Is this a plan, or is this a plan?
Rare Literary Dynamo, Yet Not Too Hoity Toity To Eschew Unprecedented Commercial Success