Finally... That Cigar!  Now, Where'd I Put My Lighter?

By Paul Clayton:

After having Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam named a finalist at the 2001
Frankfurt eBook Awards, I assumed that placing the book with a traditional
publishing house would be easy.  I began sending the manuscript out to
agencies and publishing houses.  Over a year, I must have spent four or five
hundred dollars on postage and stationary, without result.  The rejections
were much better, however, scrawled notes of congratulations on photocopied
forms.  But eventually I found a house, a POD (print-on-demand) publisher
called Booklocker.com.  They've done a fine job with cover design and making
the book available everywhere.  At that point I thought my long, publishing
walkabout was over.  But a couple months ago, I was surfing the web and I
came across Colonel David Hackworth's web site. 

Colonel Hackworth, author of Steel My Soldiers' Hearts, is the most highly decorated living,
American serviceman.  I sent him an email, telling him all about Carl
Melcher Goes to Vietnam, and asking if he'd be willing to read my book and
give me a blurb to put on the back.  I received a three word response,
"don't have time."  Well, I thought, he probably gets requests like that all
the time.  At least I'd tried. 

The next day I received an email from a Jay
Acton, Colonel Hackworth's agent.  Mr. Acton said that the Colonel had
passed along my email, and that he'd be willing to read Carl Melcher.  I
sent him the book and a week later he called me at work to tell me that he
had read it in one sitting and that he would try and help me place it.
Within two weeks he had sold the book to Thomas Dunne, St. Martin's. 

I'm thrilled, of course, and very grateful to Colonel Hackworth.  Not only is
the colonel a great soldier, but he's also a fine writer, in the tradition
of James Jones and Willie Morris, i.e., willing to extend a helping hand to
another, lesser-known writer.  My editor at St. Martin's tells me that the
book will be published in the spring of 04, in hardback.

Finally... that cigar!  Now, where'd I put my lighter?

(Clayton's previous article of his publishing experiences follows):

Close, but no cigar...  Carl Melcher Goes to Frankfurt
by Paul Clayton



They say, write about what you know. I did that, rendering my experience in Vietnam into fiction, only to be told my story wasn’t gritty enough, my characters not tough enough. Perhaps. My characters were like me and most of the people I knew in Vietnam. We were all in the foothills of the learning curve, clue-less, scared sometimes, young and dumb and full of hope. We didn’t triumph; we just went on, just put one foot in front of the other. That’s what I did after the first wave of rejections. I refused to cheapen the experience of myself and my friends and turn it into mere entertainment, page-turning thrills. But I was determined to publish. So I wrote a historical series, deciding that I would come back later and send the Vietnam novel to the next crop of editors.

I had more luck writing about Spanish Conquistadors and the Muskogee Indians of the Southeast than I did American GIs in Vietnam, and the historical series sold. A couple years later I again tried to generate some interest in my Vietnam novel. I managed to get the late Willie Morris to read it. He liked it enough to send out under his own letterhead. The first house he sent it to declined. Then he died of a heart attack. Willie’s efforts on behalf of Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam were a vindication for me, and for that I’ll never forget him. I really could write, and Carl Melcher… was worthy of publication.

I continued writing and trying to find a publisher for Carl Melcher... No dice. Out of frustration, I sold the electronic rights to a little ‘mom and pop’ Internet start up eBook outfit, hoping that perhaps the book would get a little attention, and maybe an offer from a small house. Four months later it was named a finalist at the 2001 Frankfurt eBook Awards in Germany along with the work of David McCullough (John Adams), Joyce Carol Oates (Faithless), and nine other fine books. Note that in the first quarter that my ebook was for sale, it had sold only eight (8) copies; now Frankfurt was buying me a round-trip ticket and providing me with a suite at the Continental hotel: further vindication for Carl Melcher.

Surely now I’d find a publisher, I thought. Strangely though, the Frankfurt judges put my novel in the non-fiction category. I decided not to tell them that they had made a mistake. If anyone asked, I would tell them that my book was a “fictionalized memoir.” For a couple days, I was a celebrity at work. Smiling people came by my cube to wish me luck. They all assumed that my working days were numbered. I would be big, their faces and handshakes said. I confess to getting caught up in a little of that, even though I knew better. I’d already published and I knew how the publishing business worked - everybody made money except the writer. But this should be different, I thought. International recognition, hobnobbing with publishing megastars whose books sold in the millionsI dreamed of beautifully-bound hardback books, small publishing houses that lavished attention and encouragement on their writers.

Before I left, I purchased a copy of Mr. McCullough’s and Ms. Oates’ books for them to sign. They would not be able to sign mine since it was the only finalist that was not available in paper, only in electronic format. A few days later, nineteen religious fanatics smashed fuel-filled planes into the World Trade Towers, the Pentagon, and the fields of Pennsylvania, slaughtering more than 3,000 American innocents.

Disbelief, horror and anger gripped the world. Days passed. The nation grieved. Would I still go, people asked? I wondered, what did my little book matter in comparison to all that had happened? A week passed. Americans were urged to “go back to their lives.” I thought about it. The Book Fair was still on, but there were security concerns. I had to RSVP. I told them I would attend. These fundamentalists could not be allowed to put civilization on hold. And, yes, some of my reasons for going were selfish; publishing people would be there, reviewers, newspaper writers. But I was worried. Would terrorists attempt to commandeer my plane? No, I told myself. They couldn’t do it again. Could they?

Not many people were flying when the time came to go. I did what I did in 1968, what Carl Melcher did when told he was going to Vietnam, I put one foot in front of the other and got myself onto the plane. ‘Going on’ is what most people do, the masses, simply putting yourself in harms way and blindly trusting in God, the fates, something, to see you through. My dad had that quality. When we were kids and a bully’s dad was chasing my brother and I (I’ve long forgotten what for) and the boy next-door, we ran into our respective houses. The enraged dad pounded on both doors screaming abuse. My neighbor’s dad pulled their curtains down. My dad stepped outside. Together with my mom, us kids watched through the screen door as dad got the stuff knocked out of him. The guy was big and heavy, but dad only got a few punches in before he was on the ground and being pummeled, and us kids crying bloody murder. Fortunately the cops showed up quickly and dad didn’t need hospitalization, just a little beefsteak for his eye. Despite his bruises, though, I’m sure dad felt good about himself; I certainly was proud of him. Going to Vietnam was a little like that. You just ‘stepped outside’. Yeah, I got roughed up a little, but I was nineteen and lucky, and I mended, just like my protagonist, Carl Melcher.

Being short listed at Frankfurt was intoxicating, and as I sat in the plane, I worked on my acceptance speech (not because I was sure my book would win, but because they told us in the information packet to start drafting one, and, of course, I could dream, couldn’t I?). I wrote about how the Frankfurt Book Fair was a high water mark of civilization, an international bazaar of ideas, information, argument, criticism, stories and myths, the epitome of what fundamentalist ideologues hated (remember Salman Rushdie?). In my speech, I incorporated a Darwinian explanation of what I thought was swimming in the soup of the 21st centurya homicidal strain of Islamic fundamentalism, infiltrating a complacent, Christian West, with an over-emphasized “turn-the-other-cheek” mentality, a genetic defect which could doom it to extinction, while other cultures (Russia, China, India, Africa) watched from the sidelines, waiting to see how things would turn out.
In between my writing and my beers, I turned around to look down the aisle at the other passengers. Anxious, mostly-Anglo eyes (yes, I found that comforting), blinked back at me. We would get there safely.

The Frankfurt Book Fair was wonderful, but my fantasies were better. I’d imagined heightened securityMr. McCullough, Joyce Carol Oates, Bill Cosby, myself, and the other writers, sipping sherry and smoking fine cigars as we discussed the day’s issues in a cherry wood-paneled meeting room in the deepest part of the hotel. Suddenly we’d be spirited away by Uzi-armed soldiers after the hotel received an anonymous tip. This would happen several times, but we would always manage to stay one step ahead of the bearded bomb-throwers. And having read some of Ms. Oates stories, and seen her picture, I fantasized further. After all, I was divorced for two years now, and lonely.

So much for fantasy. In reality, the American counter-attack on the terrorists in Afghanistan was launched the day I flew out, and neither Ms. Oates, Mr. McCullough nor Mr. Cosby made it to Frankfurt; nor did most of the other writers. Out of the twelve finalists, only three or four of us flew in for the event. The Awards Ceremony was impressive, held in the old Frankfurt Opera House. We arrived in limos, exiting onto a red carpet as cameras flashed. I didn’t win any prizes and neither did Mr. McCullough. Mr. Steven Levy (who could not be there) won first place (non-fiction) for Crypto: How the Code Rebels Beat the Government. Eric Nisenson, a fine writer who did make it, and told us wonderful stories about time spent with jazz legend, Miles Davis, won second place for The Making of Kind of Blue. Ms. Oates won second prize (fiction) for Faithless, and Amitav Ghosh (who also could not be there) received first place for The Glass Palace.
Afterwards there were cocktails and hors d’ouvres, chit-chat, then back to the hotel and bed. The next day I went to the book fair. There was a moving, minute of silence for the victims of 911. Afterward, I went to the pavilion where the Literary Agencies were located, hoping to find someone to represent Carl Melcher… An attractive young woman told me that only those who had invitations were allowed in. I showed her my finalist announcement. She smiled apologetically. “Sorry.”
The flight back was uneventful, thank goodness. I went back to work, returning the understanding smiles of my co-workers. In the evenings I watched a lot of TV and it seemed to have a healing effect on me. Things slowly returned to normal. Three or four weeks later I started writing again.

Note:  Since Frankfurt, Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam has sold an addition four (4) copies in electronic format. The Frankfurt eBook Awards have been discontinued. And Mr. Clayton has finally found a print publisher for Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam.

Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam is available at Booklocker.com .