First Novel Blues

A Hollywood agent called me about ten years ago, after reading the first chapter of MINYAN, which had been in the works for ten years before that. “I loved it!” she shrieked. This could be VERY BIG. You know I’m someone who works on BIG movie projects out here. I’ll call you again when I finish reading it. I’m taking it on my vacation—I’m SO excited!”

She had used the word “big” twice. About a month later I received a small, pathetic white postcard, mailed from Greece but lacking even a photo of Corfu; just my address on one side, and on the other the following missive:

“I’m afraid the rest of the book did not do it for me. I cannot work with this material. Since I am currently on holiday overseas, I will discard your manuscript here.” I had visions of the pages of my book scattered on the Aegean Sea, my characters drowning, flailing their arms helplessly.

A year or two later, in response to a query, I received a letter from a well-respected literary agent—my third, counting the Hollywood Homicide woman--saying he loved my book and “I am certain we will find it a publisher.” I found myself whooping and hollering for joy as if it were as good as published. Four or five rejections later, however, his enthusiasm seemed to wane, as did his health; he died.

I decided to go it alone and approach smaller presses without an agent. One of them--Bill Henderson of Pushcart Press--called to say he wanted to publish MINYAN, but wouldn’t get to it for a year. I was thrilled, and happy to wait. A year later, Pushcart was in desperate financial straits, and Bill advised me to begin sending out the manuscript again. I hooked up with the person who presently represents me, who began to submit the novel to three publishers at a time, and to regularly send me three rejection lettersin one envelope, a new level of efficiency in the realm if spirit-crushing.

On a whim, I entered several competitions described in the back of Poets and Writers Magazine, and received word some months later that my book had made the semi-finals in two of them. Finally, as I was pushing a cart around Whole Foods one day, deciding between a carb-free energy bar made of whey powder and a spelt croissant, my cell phone rang and I was notified that Minyan had been selected from 400 entries as the winner of the 2003 Peter Taylor Prize for the Novel: one thousand dollars, and publication by the University of Tennessee Press in October 2004.

So after four agents, nearly thirty rejections, and twenty years, on and off, of writing and revising, (sometimes very off) one would think I’d be ecstatic to finally get published, but I find that I’m unusually sober, particularly after reading an article directed toward writers that made the following astounding declaration:

“Don’t expect your book to change your life.”

That hit me hard, and I found myself wandering Barnes & Noble in a daze, realizing that my twenty-year effort, this pinnacle life-event of publishing my first novel, could quite possibly be a non-event, an infinitesimal droplet in a vast ocean of books, and that my prize-winning work could easily wind up in that scary $3.98 aisle in no time, right next to “Bathroom Wallpaper Design in the Deep South.”

Then it occurred to me that beyond the world of literature, in the greater scheme of things, the release of my book will be even less significant, possibly one of the least important things that has ever happened in the entire history of the world. The fact that it seems to be one of the most important events in my world, I surmised, must be a testament to the power of self-delusion and human folly.

I also observed a peculiar psychological mechanism kick into gear upon reaching this long-awaited milestone: instead of finally feeling acknowledged as a writer and propelled forward on a literary path, I felt more like George Plimpton playing quarterback in the NFL for a day, as if I had now officially had the experience of “being a novelist” and could move on, thinking, “I did that, so now what?”

I promptly ordered a half-dozen used books online, all with titles like Careers for the Creative & Semifunctional, No Clue What To Do, and so on. I also perused the Outward Bound website, and briefly considered a career leading Alaskan Sea Kayaking adventure tours, although I’m not crazy about physical exertion, being outdoors, or navigating large bodies of cold water. Then, after sitting in University Auto Repair for six hours only to be told that they couldn’t find the keys to my car, and being charged $847 to fix various things I hadn’t come in for, I wondered how much training I would need to open my own auto shop, despite my current understanding of all things mechanical, which basically comes down to something I was taught by my Uncle Louie: “Give it a zetz.” (Yiddish, meaning, in this context, to bang on the thing, whatever it is.)

But it wasn’t until I downloaded the application for a long-distance “Qabbalah and Your Sinuses Home Course” that it slowly began to dawn on me that “being a writer” was actually now a legitimate possibility, a valid life choice that was in fact open to me. I had spent too many years wanting to be a writer while doing other things that it was difficult for me to make that leap. In addition, I had always maintained the vaguely Zen notion that I was only a writer when writing. When asked the dreaded question at social gatherings, “What do you do?” I would always immediately begin dripping with sweat and mask my anxiety by saying whatever the most recent thing I had actually done: “I went shopping today; I’m a shopper, I guess.”

During all those years of rejections and near-misses, I eventually went on writing strike: I already had about four unpublished manuscripts sitting in a box, and I didn’t want to add to the pile until and unless I got some confirmation from the publishing world to keep at it. Twenty years is a long time to wait for external permission to consider oneself a writer. And now it’s too late. I had no alternative but to cultivate another identity in the meantime, one that was independent of my success or failure as a writer. The best I came up with, though, was “person.” A person who does lots of things. And sometimes writes.

Regardless, to actually live the life of the writer requires writing—the actual thing itself, the literal activity of putting words together on a page. I always wanted to skip the middleman. So I find it extremely intimidating that the publication of my first novel, like a first wife, implies a second. Particularly since all the writing books advise one to “write about what you know,” and I already did that. I don’t know anything else. My next book, by default, will be about all the things I don’t know. Here is an excerpt:

Norbert Wilner started making a list in his early twenties called “The Things I Don’t Know” and over the years it filled fourteen leather-bound notebooks, and half of a fifteenth. Occasionally he would try to find out the answers to some of the questions on his list, but nobody ever gave him satisfying responses:

“Seriously, what’s a transistor?”

“It’s one of those little electronic gizmos they put in radios.”

“Yes, but what actually is it? How do you make one from scratch?”

He would avoid asking his friend Mickey Gottlieb about it, because Mickey actually knew the answer to stuff like that, and would explain it to Wilner in much greater detail than he wanted, and he wouldn’t really listen. He preferred life to remain infinitely mysterious; but not in the usual ways that mystify, not because of vast star-beglittered night skies, the fathomless depths. No, it was the stuff on earth that filled him with religious wonder:

“Those big cement dividers on the highway? Where do they get those? Are there men somewhere who devote their working lives to pouring concrete into some giant highway-divider mold? Can a civilian buy one of those if he wanted one? Who would I even call to inquire about it? Can someone help me out here? Anyone? How would I make a paper clip if I wanted to? Who figured that out? Are there paper clip factories? What are they made of? Is that aluminum? Metal? What is metal? Where does it come from? The earth? Where? Someone show me metal in the earth.”

* * *

My friend Jerry Greenblatt read the above excerpt and recognized Norbert Wilner as the name of Minyan’s protagonist as well. By way of explanation, here is another excerpt from the newer work-in-progress:

Jerry Greenblatt appeared in Norbert Wilner’s first novel in a thinly disguised character he called Jerry Greenblatt. Norbert had him keel over from a heart attack in Chapter twenty-something, which pissed him off:

“Why did I have to die? Couldn’t you have killed Moscowitz.”

“Jerry, those were fictitious characters, in a novel. Just because I borrowed a few of your traits doesn’t mean it’s really you.”

“Is it a pure coincidence that your Greenblatt character has a big nose, an anxiety disorder and a nutjob for a sister? I should hire a lawyer and sue your ass. You ripped off my life.”

“The Greenblatt character had a heart attack. Keeled over and died in Chapter 21. Are you dead?”

“Not really.”

“I rest my case.” Then I informed him that I plan to include a character based on him in every one of my books, that they will always be named Jerry Greenblatt, and that I intend to kill him off each time.

“Works for me,” he said. “And you know I was just kidding around, about suing you, right? You know I would probably never sue you.”

“Probably? Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Well why the hell should you make the big bucks telling my life story? I want it to bankroll me. I don’t know how the fuck you can call yourself a novelist anyway. You’re just a journalist, and you’ve been reporting on my life. Shouldn’t I get something out of it?

“It’s a tribute, it’s an expression of my love, I’m making you into an immortal character—it just so happens I have to kill you in order to do it. But you keep reappearing in every book. I keep you alive. Without me, you really are dead.’”

“Maybe I should pay you.”

“You actually should pay me. But I don’t want your money. Listen, think Hardy Boys, think Harry Potter for middle-aged Jewish guys. Gidget Goes To Rome; Norbert Goes To Newark. Then Wilner in Wonderland. And you’re in every one of them.”

“Well do me a favor, kill me near the beginning next time, I can’t stand the suspense.”

“Done.”

(The very next day, following this it-turned-out-to-be prophetic conversation, my beloved, lunatic friend, Jerry Greenblatt, was struck by a cross-town bus on 72nd Street. They rushed him away in an ambulance, but he never made it to the hospital. Now he can’t sue me!)

* * *

Watch for the release of my second novel, which should be out in early October, 2024.