It’s been a year since beginning this column, “In Pursuit of a Publisher.” I succeeded in getting my book, “East Garrison” published on my own terms, without the help of an agent or traditional publisher, and, although anyone can do it, everyone shouldn’t do it.
The story started from my imaginings, staring out my foggy office window on the former Army base, Fort Ord. I drove and hiked around the eerily-empty decrepitude and wondered what it would be like for a woman to be stranded on part of the deserted base (where even the police don't patrol) under the most physically difficult circumstance I’d been through (having a baby), and then I added a mountain lion protecting her cubs. A screenwriting teacher summed up the formula well, "I got my protagonist up a tree and then began chucking rocks at her."
However, what began as crazy musings quickly became a personal study into my deeply disturbing relationship with my father, who inadvertently materialized into my main character. Yes, I’m sure it sounds cliché, but it’s not. I grew up with a would-be Nazi who had me removing “Made in Japan” stickers off Gestapo badges and antiquing German battle flags in the washing machine with Rit #1 yellow dye, then stamping the edges with bizarre numbers and letters. I knew the words to the Nazi Party anthem, Die Fahne hoch (the flag on high) before I ever heard The Star Spangled Banner. I recognized Adolf Hitler from his picture and bible Mein Kampf (My Struggle), but had no idea who was the president of the United States of America. I had no clue what my father was doing, although I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the strange looks. My feelings of not “fitting in” quickly turned me into a candidate for the suicide hotline.
Only now do I understand why I grew up with a keen sense of “outsiderdom.” East Garrison’s plot is fictional; many of its characters are not. And I’m fairly certain that my childhood was unusual. Hopefully people will want to read it and will, in fact, enjoy it.
In my next column I’ll tell you about my media training in Texas with my PR team—Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists. In the meantime, visit my website, www.gmweger.com for upcoming events near YOU.
To be continued…
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
MARY & SEBASTIAN
Some years ago I discovered a tombstone out at the Whitcher cemetery in East Garrison on the former Fort Ord Army base. This grave marker didn’t have the name “Whitcher” like the four other tombstones did, and the year of death wasn’t even in the same century. The simple marble marker reads: Mary H. Pearson 1899-1935. I began investigating the Whitchers and Mary. It didn’t take very long to learn that Mary had a second grave marker in another, much larger cemetery in Monterey. After much digging (pardon the pun), I acquired Mary’s death certificate with yet a third place of burial: Mission Memorial. Mary’s story might be the makings of a novella or even a book one day, because there’s much more to her story than what I’ve written here, but she comes to mind because of her cause of death: a chronically drunk driver crashed into her automobile. This happened 74 years ago. Her murderer received three months probation.
On Sunday evening (9th August, 2009), another drunk driver caused the death of a much younger person, a four year old boy named Sebastian. He was strapped into his car seat, probably sleeping (I pray) as his mother and younger sister waited on River Road, less than a mile from my home, maybe for the traffic light to turn green.
Late Monday afternoon I realized that Sebastian was my son’s playmate. They’ve spent the summer together in the same wonderful daycare. I last saw Sebastian on Friday when I picked up my kids.
All day Monday, the 10th, my son knew something was wrong because his caregiver cried and seemed sad. At the end of the day, he asked his father what was wrong. When I came home my son’s eyes, swollen and red, gushed tears as he ran to me and wrapped his skinny little boy arms around me. His wiry body trembled as he sobbed over the friend he would never play with again, and Sebastian’s two-year old sister, Ava. He worried about Ava, who was also in the car. “Will she be okay?” he asked. “Is she hurting?” he wanted to know. Then, “Is Sebastian really gone forever?”
I comforted him as best I could, yet, as the evening progressed, my son didn’t feel better. In fact he awakened four times during the night afraid. He cried and cried, unable to understand why this had happened. He said, “That bad man.” I said, “Yes, it’s a terrible thing to take someone’s life. That’s why you should never get into a car with anyone who has been drinking or doing drugs. This man will go to prison for the rest of his life.”
But then I thought about Mary and how the man who killed her got off with just a few months. Today, three-quarters of a century after Mary’s premature death, how much worse will the punishment be? Still, what ever it is, four-year old Sebastian will NEVER play with anyone again. Can there be ANY suitable retribution for that and the grief that will forever haunt the family?
On Sunday evening (9th August, 2009), another drunk driver caused the death of a much younger person, a four year old boy named Sebastian. He was strapped into his car seat, probably sleeping (I pray) as his mother and younger sister waited on River Road, less than a mile from my home, maybe for the traffic light to turn green.
Late Monday afternoon I realized that Sebastian was my son’s playmate. They’ve spent the summer together in the same wonderful daycare. I last saw Sebastian on Friday when I picked up my kids.
All day Monday, the 10th, my son knew something was wrong because his caregiver cried and seemed sad. At the end of the day, he asked his father what was wrong. When I came home my son’s eyes, swollen and red, gushed tears as he ran to me and wrapped his skinny little boy arms around me. His wiry body trembled as he sobbed over the friend he would never play with again, and Sebastian’s two-year old sister, Ava. He worried about Ava, who was also in the car. “Will she be okay?” he asked. “Is she hurting?” he wanted to know. Then, “Is Sebastian really gone forever?”
I comforted him as best I could, yet, as the evening progressed, my son didn’t feel better. In fact he awakened four times during the night afraid. He cried and cried, unable to understand why this had happened. He said, “That bad man.” I said, “Yes, it’s a terrible thing to take someone’s life. That’s why you should never get into a car with anyone who has been drinking or doing drugs. This man will go to prison for the rest of his life.”
But then I thought about Mary and how the man who killed her got off with just a few months. Today, three-quarters of a century after Mary’s premature death, how much worse will the punishment be? Still, what ever it is, four-year old Sebastian will NEVER play with anyone again. Can there be ANY suitable retribution for that and the grief that will forever haunt the family?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER #13
In late February 2009, I went to Texas for media training with my publicist, Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists (P&P). I flew into Austin where my campaign manager Shelby Sledge waited holding a sign with my name on it. She dropped me at a nice hotel.
The following morning Shelby picked me up and brought me to P&P's offices where another author already sat schmoozing with one of the trainers. P&P first took us on a tour of their facility, which consists of a number of offices and spacious rooms filled with books and posters of their more successful projects proudly displayed on the walls, and introduced us to many of the people I‘d dealt with over the past year by telephone and e-mail. There are seven publicists on the team.
The area where we spent the day was set up with two long tables, one for each author, a Media Training Guide binder, a copy of our book, and a list of sample questions. Before beginning class, we both sat in front of a camera and spontaneously answered a few questions. It was meant to show us how much we DIDN'T know prior to training. When asked the million-dollar question, “Tell us about your book,” I did, in a rambling sort of way.
Then we started with Workshop 1: Developing Your Message. Each of the five workshops had different teachers, and in every session I learned A LOT. Advice ranged from how to sit during an interview, thanking the interviewer, branding yourself as the “expert,” gaining third party credibility through endorsements, speaking in 10-second catch phrases or sound bytes, and being sure to answer four questions: what is my bottom-line message, why is my book unique, who makes me the expert on the topic, and where can the audience go for further information. We did mock interviews on the radio and television, which were critiqued.
As the day progressed, I didn’t get any better at answering questions. I actually got worse. There was simply too much instruction for me to take in and work with in one day. So, by the end of the grueling training sessions, when the camera was once again stuck in my face, and Shelby asked me to tell her about my book, I actually couldn’t.
The following morning Shelby picked me up and brought me to P&P's offices where another author already sat schmoozing with one of the trainers. P&P first took us on a tour of their facility, which consists of a number of offices and spacious rooms filled with books and posters of their more successful projects proudly displayed on the walls, and introduced us to many of the people I‘d dealt with over the past year by telephone and e-mail. There are seven publicists on the team.
The area where we spent the day was set up with two long tables, one for each author, a Media Training Guide binder, a copy of our book, and a list of sample questions. Before beginning class, we both sat in front of a camera and spontaneously answered a few questions. It was meant to show us how much we DIDN'T know prior to training. When asked the million-dollar question, “Tell us about your book,” I did, in a rambling sort of way.
Then we started with Workshop 1: Developing Your Message. Each of the five workshops had different teachers, and in every session I learned A LOT. Advice ranged from how to sit during an interview, thanking the interviewer, branding yourself as the “expert,” gaining third party credibility through endorsements, speaking in 10-second catch phrases or sound bytes, and being sure to answer four questions: what is my bottom-line message, why is my book unique, who makes me the expert on the topic, and where can the audience go for further information. We did mock interviews on the radio and television, which were critiqued.
As the day progressed, I didn’t get any better at answering questions. I actually got worse. There was simply too much instruction for me to take in and work with in one day. So, by the end of the grueling training sessions, when the camera was once again stuck in my face, and Shelby asked me to tell her about my book, I actually couldn’t.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER
For a few years I’ve been writing a column for the Central Coast Writers Branch of the California Writers Club. It chronicles my efforts over the years to publish my first book, “East Garrison.”
A colleague in my writers’ group (who I highly respect and admire), suggested that I re-publish this series on my blog. After some consideration, I decided to do this, but instead of starting at the beginning, I’m going to start at the end of “Pursuit of a Publisher.” I’ll post a column twice a week. Hopefully it will both entertain and educate. Coming soon as I can find my files! Why can't I be more organized with my writing?#@!
A colleague in my writers’ group (who I highly respect and admire), suggested that I re-publish this series on my blog. After some consideration, I decided to do this, but instead of starting at the beginning, I’m going to start at the end of “Pursuit of a Publisher.” I’ll post a column twice a week. Hopefully it will both entertain and educate. Coming soon as I can find my files! Why can't I be more organized with my writing?#@!
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