frying spam earth day update..

Having nothing at all to do with Earth Day, I heard from another high rolling book agent.. I guess he googled me.. and.. It turns out that I'm not famous! Really? Really. He means I don't have a built-in audience that a big publisher can just plug into.. It seems publishing is moving in the same direction as music did a few years back. No money to develop new acts, instead, they wait until a developed act comes along and reap the benefits. I thought it was the other way around. You get published then you get famous. And by famous I mean, sold out Barnes and Noble coffee shops coast to coast. Lines of fans winding all the way from the self-help shelf to the stack of Rachel Rays over by the bathrooms.

But to be serious, if I want to interest top level publishing people, or any publishing people for that matter, I'd better get busy on building a better network of "frying spam heads".. meaning, i'll be begging all you guys for a hand up.. that is as soon as I finish the revision that I've been working on over the winter.. and yes.. the revision is coming along.. I should be another month or so.. then I'll be in touch..

In the meantime.. here's a new unedited excerpt:
Just what was I to be grateful about? Grateful for? He never said. I could only guess I was to be grateful I had both feat. That I didn’t have to push myself to school in a wagon, in three feet of snow, uphill, both ways. It would be many years before I’d have an understanding of my ungratefulness. But I knew about the piano in the basement. I knew it was the one Dad didn’t touch. I’d never seen him play it. The piano he played when he was a sinner. Said it was out of tune now and needed hammers.
But I begged for the story. I liked it when he scratched his head, stuck his belly out and laughed and told all about the devils music and how he’d played swing and bop with his big dance band, the Kings of Rhythm.

“Never drank a drop of that swill. Not one drop,” he said. “The girls? Yeah, sure. They’d come around at all the dances and sit up there on my piano wearin’ –well— not much I’ll tell ya that. And if it wasn’t for that chicken wire up there, I’d have gotten more than one concussion. And boy-ol-boy, getting to dance halls in that big Packard. Around corners on two wheels. That was some whoopee. Some girl put her foot right through the guy’s bass drum. It’s wonder I’m alive.”