435. My Crazy Wednesday

Browderbooks

Out of nowhere, I got a phone call.  A woman's high-pitched voice asked if I was the author of No Place for Normal: New York.  I confessed that I was.  She then launched into a rapid-fire spiel about something, I wasn't sure what.  She mentioned Something Press.  I couldn't catch the name, asked her to spell it, still didn't fully understand.  Finally I asked her to send me an e-mail, which she did.  It soon arrived.  It was from the head acquisition specialist at Stratton Press  Publishing, informing me that (for a price, of course) they could vastly improve my book's success by publishing a new edition.  The problems with the present edition:

1. It was priced too high ($14.95, per the back cover).
2. The cover could be enhanced to make it look more appealing.
3. The book obviously needs editorial assessment and developmental editing.

They were confident they could position my book better and give it the maximum exposure it deserved.

My poor book !  It obviously needed professional help -- theirs, to be exact.  After a little online research, I answered them point by point.

         

1.  My book's marked price, $14.95, is not too expensive.  I sell it at book fairs for $20.

2.  Its cover is fine.  The bright colors, and NEW YORK in bold letters against a bright background, draw readers to my stand at book fairs.

3.  My book does not need editorial assessment or developmental editing.  It was edited professionally.

I added that it upstages and outsells all my other books at book fairs.  Conclusion: I don't need the help of Stratton Press, whose troubled history would put me off anyway.  (It decamped from Wyoming because of tax delinquency.)  So please don't approach me again.

         Stratton is one of numerous outfits eager to get hold of newbie authors whose self-published books they claim they can improve by republishing, bringing the authors greater sales.  They usually begin with a phone call out of the blue, as in my case, which could well flatter and impress a first-time author.  But I was on to their game and didn't take the bait.  Stratton may well serve some beleaguered authors and publish or republish legitimately, but in my case their appeal was suspect.  I doubt if I will ever hear from them again.

          For this and my other books, click here.

                         My  Crazy  Wednesday 

Recently I had a crazy Wednesday, crazy in part because it involved too much in one day, and in part because of what happened.  Having a midday commitment in midtown, I went very early to the Union Square Greenmarket.  

Jazz Guys

There, in the course of buying organic salad greens and kale at Keith’s stand, one of my longtime favorites, I saw a buyer take a huge basket of turnips over to the vendor’s counter, where it was weighed, following which he dumped the entire load into a big bag of his own.  Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, he paid with a hundred-dollar bill and departed, lugging his load.  This amazed me for two reasons:

• I had never seen anyone buy a whole huge basket of turnips, every last turnip of that variety on hand.
• I had never seen a hundred-dollar bill in the Greenmarket.

         Boy, that must be some family, I thought.  But the vendor smiled and said, “He’s a chef.”  Suddenly, all was clear.  The buyer was following the age-old tradition of the best restaurants, big or small, in France.  Early in the morning the owner or head chef goes to the local market, sees what is fresh, and makes purchases that determine the whole day’s menu for his restaurant.  So diners in this buyer's restaurant that day must have tasted cooked turnips in whatever dish he chose to prepare.

         (A side note: Turnips are a good nutritional food, but by themselves a bit boring.  My only recipe for them: roast root vegetables.  Mixed in with carrots and potatoes, dripping with olive oil, and sprinkled with that legendary triad of herbs, thyme, rosemary, and sage, they are a great winter food.  I would gladly do it as the cold weather comes on, but the gas is still out in my building, meaning no oven, and you can’t do a roast on the stovetop.  Yes, I know, get a microwave, but my kitchen has only so much space.)

         After that I hurried home, changed, and prepared for the annual Lambda Legal luncheon at Etcetera Etcetera, a restaurant on West 44^th Street.  Two outings in one day, and close together, were a bit of a challenge, but I went.  “We are your lawyers!” Lambda announces in its e-mails soliciting donations, and it’s true, for every day they are involved in some legal action somewhere in the country, advancing the rights of the LGBTQ community.  It would be a Golden Oldies affair, mostly male, thanking moneyed gays (I just can’t say “queers”) for their past generosity, though hosted by a younger set.  (I sneak in by virtue of a modest gift of stock.)  Getting there a bit out of breath (I hate to be late), I entered and told the first person I saw, an older man with drink in hand, “I’m here for the Lambda luncheon.”  “No,” he said with a mischievous smile, “this is a Trump rally.”  “Well,” I said, “I’m flexible.  I can do both.”

         A veteran of these affairs, I knew to go right to the bar and get a drink – free, of course, for Lambda, replete with gratitude, was paying.  That done, I eased my way into a host of mostly unfamiliar, though not unfriendly, faces, while sipping pinot noir.

It makes you sociable and witty.
Missvain

Soon enough I was seated at a round table with a bunch of strangers, a place setting before me with real red cloth napkins.  (No pinching pennies here!)  Surprisingly, it turned out that most of my table mates were, or had been, residents of the West Village. Inevitably, the talk went to the weightiest of issues: recommendations of good local restaurants; the legendary chocolate store Li-lac moving to a new location to obtain more space; and the success or failure of the new plan to ease the traffic on 14^th Street by banning most private vehicles.  As for the food, you started with a salad with thin slices of cheese, then went to a choice of (1) salmon, (2) beef, or (3) risotto.  True to my (at times shaky) vegan principles, I went with #3 and did not regret it.  

Risotto

Dessert was an apple tart, delicious.  And a second glass of pinot noir didn’t hurt.  Nor did the presence of Barbara, a gracious woman, whose presence was significant, the “second sex” being rare in these quarters, though not intentionally so.  She announced herself as Philadelphia-born, a lawyer, and a Lambda volunteer. 

         Being guests of Lambda, we could hardly complain when our fine dining and sophisticated chitchat was interrupted by a series of Lambda biggies at a microphone planted right smack next to our table.  Barbara spoke first, then the temporary recent CEO, and finally the new CEO himself, who updated us on Lambda doings.  I learned that 

•   Half of U.S. high schools now have centers for gay students.
•   Lambda has 75 lawsuits under way throughout the nation.
•   Halloween is the gay Christmas.
•   A teacher, in 1988 he came out to the student body, a rather gutsy thing to do.
•  Lambda feels under siege by you-know-who and his cronies.
•  There is no final victory or defeat; always, the struggle goes on.

Rounds of applause followed each of his comments, and more praise and gratitude were heaped upon us, plus a discreet request for donations. 

         The talks over, gobbling and blabbing resumed.  (Genteel gobbling and sophisticated blabbing, it goes without saying.)  At our table Barbara received a series of greetings, hugs, and kisses from older males who came to our table.  This inspired me to observe that people who think gay guys hate women know nothing about gay guys, who, with sex and romance excluded, often have lifelong friendships with women.  She endorsed this heartily, stressing that she, a straight woman, was blessed with the friendship of many gay men.  This said, an oozy warmth permeated us all.  Then Jonathan, a young Lambda staff member and a friend of mine, came to our table, crouched down so as to be on a level with us, and chatted knowingly and amiably.  When he left to visit the other tables, one of my neighbors said, “He’s cute!”  He is.

         So what’s so crazy about all this? you may wonder.  Hang on, craziness is coming.  Finally it came time to part.  Going down West 44^th Street to the Times Square subway station, I noticed an elevator at the 44^th Street entrance and took it down.  Alas, it took me only half way down, but there I spied another elevator, so I got in.  I pushed one button, nothing happened.  I pushed a second button, and the door closed.  I pushed the first button, the door opened.  I pushed the second button again, the door closed.  But what else was there to push?  A red button, so I pushed it.  Immediately the button lighted up, and an alarm began ringing.  I pushed every button in turn, but nothing happened.  I was trapped.  Ridiculous, I thought.  A woman with an infant in a stroller appeared, wanted to enter the elevator.  Through the big elevator window I shrugged in despair, unable to help.  Trapped.  I pushed a HELP lever, waited.  Ridiculous.  Utterly ridiculous.  Fantasies of permanent entrapment kindled in my brain.  Was claustrophobia next?  

          Finally two men appeared.  “The red button!” they said.  I pushed it, nothing happened.  Ridiculous.  “Pull it out!” they said.  I pulled it out, the light went off, and the alarm stopped.  Now, when I pushed the right button, the door opened.  Free at last!  I got out, waved the woman with the stroller in.  “There’s room for you, too,” said one of the men.  Though wary, with them on hand, I got in, and the elevator took us down.  She got out, I got out.  “It’s been an adventure,” I said.  She smiled, nodded, and we went our separate ways. 

Not the one that trapped me, but its cousin.
MTA

         I got home without difficulty; my crazy day -- at least the craziness – was over.  That night I collapsed in bed, didn’t sleep well, and the next day felt all played out.  Only by Friday was I rested, able to cope.  Crazy days like this I don’t need; give me sane.  Dull, boring, monotonous, but sane.

         (I was going to ask readers to forgive the uninspired content of this post, but now I've decided that the BROWDERBOOKS account of my experience with Stratton Press redeems it.)

Coming soon:  Horrors of Voting.

©   2019   Clifford  Browder