If you can get a book cheaper elsewhere, fine. Don’t verbalize your thoughts. It’s rude and inconsiderate. That’s like me walking into your business, taking up your time for an hour, and then saying that I’ll spend my money at your competitor. (Come to think of it, I’ll try that sometime. Just see the looks on these people’s face.)

But most importantly, don’t declare (in a fucking sing-songy voice, no less) that you can get the paperback version of a hardcover book from Amazon when the booksellers have told you that it does not exist yet.

We’re the booksellers. We have access to publishers and distributors. You don’t. If we can get the paperback version in the store, we will do so. It’s cheaper for us, and we can sell it faster than the hardcover.

Don’t you dare challenge us or question our intelligence. If our information–which has come directly from the publishers and distributors themselves–states that the paperback isn’t out yet, IT ISN’T FUCKING OUT YET. Saying that you can get it on Amazon WILL NOT MAKE IT EXIST.

Here. I’ll illustrate.

Fuckhead.

But I seem to be a magnet for people who tell me–no, demand that I read a book, and then give their reasons why:

“It’s changed my life. I’ll never look at crawfish mucus the same way again.”

“You have to read this, you just have to! Their love is so true and complete, even if they’ve only known each other for a split second!”

“Omigod, this book is so worth your time! I, like, skipped school and work just so I could finish it. Likeomigod! I totally flunked Psych 101, butIduncare!” *giggle-smack-gum-twirl-hair*

Aside from the fervent raving, these people’s demands irk me in ways you can’t even imagine. First of all, if you tell me that a book is worth my time, you’re making some pretty big assumptions about me. Aggravatingly enough, it’s always a stranger who pulls this crap.

No one in my family or circle of friends has ever told me that a book is “worth [my] time.” Not because they’re afraid of me or because I’ve blown up at them. They know me too well to try to force a title in my already swollen to-read list. But they understand my humor and tastes; they’ll tell me about the books they’ve read. They might even suggest that I pick up one of these titles.

Suggesting and telling are two totally different things, after all.

“I really enjoyed this guy’s writing. He’s hilarious! You might enjoy this one, El…” is infinitely better than “Oh, you’ve gotta read this one! Your life will never be the same again!”

Why are you telling me to spend my precious time reading a book that I might not even enjoy? You don’t even know what I enjoy doing in my spare time. I don’t follow mainstream pop culture all that much. I’ve never watched American Idol and I make no plans to do so in the future. I’m a gal who enjoys going on TV Tropes to learn obscure trivia about Disney characters. I like to watch Super Mario Bros. cartoons. I grew up on MST3K and have done my own riffing on godawful novels. I go through phases where I read mysteries, then go on to romance, and then on to historical biographies. What the hell do you know about me?

If you must rave about how Wally Lamb wrote from the point of view of an overweight teenage girl with a peculiar obsession over a whale and ends up identifying with it (this is an actual book), and how you cried like a bitch afterwards, then do so. But don’t tell me that I HAVE to read it.

Besides, Dave Barry’s spoiled me for other male writers.

If there’s a hell and I’m bound for it, surely I’ll find copies of you there… glaring around the brimstone caverns, arms crossed over your barrel chest, just seething for reasons unknown.

Well, there’s one reason why you’re so angry all the time. We learned that at the little get-together we held for all of our local authors. In fact, I learned many things about you that I’d have rather not learned.

Like the fact that you’ve had problems with the local newspaper. Most people do, whether it’s with the content in the feature stories or the fact that they never get their subscriptions. But when one of the writers announced that he has a weekly column, you just had to jump in about how you rarely get your paper delivered. What the hell did that have to do with a political column?

How about when another writer talked about his wife? Why did you have to jump in with, “Well, I’m about to become a single parent”? Just put a damper on an otherwise fun time, why don’t you?

And again with the stories about going with a “good publisher” (printer) who gives you an advance (doubtful) and is the best one you’ve been with (you laughing stock).

You were supposed to be there promoting yourself and your books. Why don’t you steer away from your bull sob stories and try making your “pitch” a little flawless? Every time you describe the premise of your first novel, you sound bored and restless. I doubt you even like your stories. You just want to publish something and make money. And you’re not even good at that.

The other authors were having a good time, promoting their books and making new friends. But you? Guh. Craving attention, that’s what you were doing.

It’s sad when a guy nearing his 50s still hasn’t figured out that people generally don’t like to hear about super depressing things when they’re at a pleasant get-together. It’s even sadder when he’s more interested in talking about himself than his own books.

It’s not supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about your books. Yes, you did write them, but unless you’re an engaging personality, people aren’t coming for you. They’re coming for stories. Damn good stories. Which you can’t provide.

What can I say? Miserable people usually write miserable stories.

No love,
Me

Seeing your smug face is never the highlight of my day. But you know, if just seeing your face was the only interaction we ever engaged in, then I’d be happy with your coming around.

Instead, I have to hear, “Sold any books?” “How many books have you sold?” “What did you think of the book?” I hate how everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a demand.

Then I have to deal with your self-indulgent attitude and silent, angry stares. Yes, I’ve seen you give me that look. I know you hate me for not promoting the hell out of your book. If you’re that damn desperate to sell books, promote them yourself. You chose to self-publish. Now self-market.

If your books were anything I’d want to read, then I’d promote them. But I’m not a fan of retro-Stephen King-esque writing. And I’m especially not a fan of writers who make their stories too similar to other, more successful authors’ works.

Yes, there are plenty of stories similar to King’s earlier works, but these other writers haven’t made it so obvious.

As if being a sucky writer wasn’t enough, you’re also a miserable human being. Has this endless cycle of failure turned you into someone incapable of showing gratitude and love? Is finding fame and fortune the only key to your happiness? It must be, because with all the other authors I’ve seen and met, they’re just happy to be out there promoting their books–and they have the love and support of their families.

Moreover, they don’t leave their child unattended in the children’s play area for hours. They don’t fling open their phone and spit, “What do you want?” to their spouses. And they don’t growl at their little girl when she wants her daddy to play with her at the train set you godawful shitbag of a human being. If having your daughter around is such an inconvenience, then leave her with someone who actually appreciates her existence.

You want to know the real reason why people buy your books? It’s not because they think you’re the greatest writer to ever live. It’s not because they think you’re a visionary who’s unlocked the secrets to the human psyche. It’s because they feel sorry for you. They see you sitting at that table, messing around on your Blackberry, with all your unsold books beside you. I can see the glazed looks in their eyes when you tell them about your Gary Stu and his otherworldly powers. They’re not interested. They just want to make you feel better. I would, too, if I didn’t know what kind of person you really are.

Stephen King would vomit if he ever read your books. Just looking at the shitty Photoshopped covers make me cringe.

You’ve been at this for maybe 30 years. And you still haven’t actually published a piece with a reputable publisher? You’re either deathly afraid of rejection or you just want instant gratification with a printer.

Yes, that’s right. That so-called publisher you signed up with? They’re a printer. If you paid to have your shit printed, bound, and delivered to your doorstep, you’re dealing with a fucking printer. And one of the most deceitful printers ever.

Real publishers never ask you to fork over money to publish your book. I’ve never had a book in print and I know this. Because I’ve been researching the industry for years, dumbass.

Of course, you claimed that you did extensive research, but you sifted through all the negative reviews about that printer just to get to the meager positive information. Information most likely written by the printer’s employees.

You’re so desperate to become successful that you’ll allow yourself to be taken for a ride. And when you fall flat on your face, you’ll become angry at a world who refuses to see your “genius.” You’ll take it out on your family who, for all I know, love you unconditionally and will support you until you’re too weak and addled with dementia to write another misspelled word in your paranormal Gary Stu chronicles.

But you want to know something? You’ll never find success. You don’t know the basic rules of writing, formatting, or grammar. You can’t even tell a decent story with interesting characters. You’re not going anywhere, buddy. And in a literary world already constipated from shit-awful books and self-entitled authors, that fills my little heart with absolute joy.

No love,

Me

Sales were actually not as fantastic as my boss thought they would be, and while I didn’t have to tear screaming customers away from each other, I was pretty beat and didn’t feel like writing. I didn’t feel like writing after I got off work on Saturday, either.

As for today, I had two teeth filled, and I feel more like grinding my teeth and taking naps than writing, too.

I know, it seems like I do nothing but make excuses for not posting regularly, but one of these days, I will get into a routine.

Tomorrow: writing lower grade fiction.

The other day, I called up two customers who had ordered a book. They were pretty snippy and, if you’ll forgive the term, a bit ghetto-fabulous, so I kind of pegged them for the “leave a message quick, bitch” types.

First impressions are tricky, though.

I didn’t want to call them, but, again, part of the job description. Just one second to dial the number, and another to get the phone ringing. One ring, two rings, three… Five seconds passed.

A woman came onto the line and began singing. I was about to break in–I’ve got little patience when it comes to telling people to pick their shit up–when I realized that I was hearing the first two seconds of a thirty-second R&B music clip.

While I listened to the woman talk about lovin’ her man ’til the break of dawn, I wondered if I could persuade my boss to give me a commission for having to endure stupidity.

Then the music faded.

I waited for the beep. One second.

Then another song began throbbing into my aural canal. Baby, baby, I neeeEEEEeeEEEEeed yooouuu…

Three seconds in, I was debating whether to just hang up and let the people call or come in for their damn order when a feminine speaking voice came on. Thinking this was one of the customers, I readied my cheery patter. But then I realized that it was part of the recording.

The two melded to create a cacophany I hadn’t heard since my second grade Christmas pageant. And that was some major ear rape.

I was able to understand this much from the slow, honey-thick voice: “Hi, you’ve reached the [baby, baby, oooh] of Dumbass and Mouthbreather. [My note: Obviously not their real names] We [uh-WOOOAAAHHH] to the phone right now, so [eeeEEEEeeEEEEEeeooohhh] message and have a bless-ed [uuunnhhh] day.” Fifteen seconds.

Back to the failed siren singing about roses, or champagne, or some other romantic crap. Another fucking thirty seconds.

“All this time, I could have been reading one-star reviews for Jane Austen on Good Reads,” I said to myself.

Then the music finally, finally faded, leaving my ears in peace.

A second of bless-ed silence.

BEEP.

It took half a second to register the sound, but after that, I knew just what to say.

“Record a normal message like the rest of the fucking world,” I said in an alternate universe where I wouldn’t be fired for saying something so nasty to a customer.

I just told them their crap had come in and they could pick it up at their earliest convenience, ending with my sweetest “thank you and have a great day.” Twelve seconds.

After hanging up, I turned the numbers over in my head until I came up with an approximate figure: 1 minute and 39.5 seconds. Just to leave a damn message.

Five more people to call. Thankfully, I had no more bit parts in Phone Call: The Musical.