The Plant

January 25, 1981

Dear Ruth,

I feel almost as if I am in the middle of a goddam archetype-segments of the Sunday New York Times on the floor, an old Simon and Garfunkel album on the stereo, a Bloody Mary near at hand. Rain tapping on the glass, making it all the more cozy. Am I trying to make you homesick? Well... maybe a little. After all, the only thing the scene lacks is you, and you're probably paddling out beyond the line of breakers on a surfboard as I write these words (and wearing a bikini more non than existent).

Actually, I know you're working hard (probably not too hard) and I have every confidence that the PhD will be a world-beater. It's just that last week was a real horror show for me and I'm afraid there may be worse to come. Among other things, Roger accused me of prolixity (well, actually that was the week before, but you know what I mean), and I think I feel a real prolixity attack coming on. Try to bear with me, okay?

Basically, the problem is Carlos Detweiller. (with a name like that he couldn't be anything but a problem, right?) He's going to be a short-term problem, is old Carlos, like poison ivy or a mouth sore, but as with those two things, knowing the problem is short-term doesn't ease the pain at all-it only keeps you from going insane.

Roger's right-I do tend towardprolixity. That's not the same as logorrhea, though. I'll try to avoid that.

The facts, then. As you know, every week we get thirty or forty “over the transom” submissions. An “over the transom” is anything addressed to “Gentlemen,” “Dear Sir,” or “To Whom It May Concern”-an unsolicited manuscript, in other words. Well... they're not all manuscripts; at least half of them are what us hip publishing guys call “query letters” (getting tired of all these quotation marks yet? You should read Carlos's last letter-it would put you off them for life).

Anyway, they should all be query letters if this mudball lived up to its advance billing and really was the best of all possible worlds. Like 99% of the other publishers in New York, we no longer read unsolicited manuscripts-at least, that's our official policy. It says so in Writer's Market, Writer's Yearbook, The Freelance, and The Pen Newsletter. But apparently a lot of the aspiring Wolfes and Hemingways out there either don't read those things, don't believe them when they do read them, or simply ignore them-pick what sounds best to you.

In most cases we at least look at the slush, if it's typewritten (please don't breathe a word of this or we'll be inundated with manuscripts and Roger will probably shoot me-he's close now, I think). After all, Ordinary People came in over the transom and was first read by some editorial assistant who just happened to recognize that it was a hell of a story. But that, of course, was a million-to-one shot. I've never seen an unsolicited manuscript that looked like any more than the work of a bright fifth-grader. Of course Zenith House is hardly Alfred A. Knopf (our lead title for February is Scorpions from Hell, by Anthony L. K. LaScorbia, his follow-up to Rats from Hell), but still... you hope...

Detweiller, at least, followed protocol and sent a query letter. Herb Porter, Sandra Jackson, Bill Gelb, and I divvy those that came in the week before each Monday, and I had the misfortune to get this one. After reading it and mulling it over in my mind for all of twenty-five minutes (long enough to write Roger a long-winded memo on the subject that, under the circumstances, I'm probably never going to live down), I wrote Detweiller a letter asking him to submit a few sample chapters and an outline of the rest. And last Friday I got a letter that... well, short of sending it to you, I'm not sure how to describe it. He seems to be a twenty-three-year-old florist's assistant from Central Falls with a mother fixation and the conviction that he's attended witch's sabbats all over America while high on nutmeg, or something. I keep envisioning covens in Motel Six parking lots.

I thought ole Carlos's True Tales of Demon Infestations (I have gotten to the point where the title alone has the power to make me blanch and shudder in my shoes) might be some kid's adolescent research hobby-something that could be cut down and juiced up and sold to the Amityville Horror audience. His original letter was short, you see, and so full of these punchy little sentences-subject-predicate, subject-predicate, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am-that one could believe that. And while I was never under any illusions that the man was a writer, I made an assumption of marginal literacy that turns out to be totally unfounded. In fact, just looking back at the original Detweiller letter makes me wonder how I ever could have scribbled the word This has a certain half-baked charm in the margin... and yet I see I did.

So what? You're saying. Big deal. Give the schmuck's manuscript a token look when it comes in and then send it back with a form letter-“Zenith House regrets,” etc. That's right... but it's wrong, too. It's wrong because guys like Carlos Detweiller turn out all too often to be like a bad case of head-lice-easy to get, the very devil to get rid of. The worst of it is, I mentioned this very fact to Roger in my original overlong memo about the book, recalling General Hecksler and his Twenty Psychic Garden Flowers-you must remember me telling you how the General bombarded us with registered letters and phone calls after we rejected the book (you may not know, however, about the Mailgram Herb Porter got from him-in it Hecksler referred to Herb as “the designated Jew,” a reference none of us has figured out to this day). It got steadily more abusive, and just before his sister had him committed to an asylum up-state, Sandra Jackson confessed to me that she was getting scared to go home alone-said she was afraid the General might jump out of a darkened doorway with a knife in one hand and a bouquet of psychic posies in the other. She said the hell of it was that none of us even knew what he looked like-we'd have needed a writing sample instead of a mug-shot to identify him.

And of course it all sounds funny now, but it wasn't funny when it happened-it was only after his sister wrote to us that we found out we were actually one of his lesser obsessions, and of course he did turn out to be dangerous; just ask the Albany bus driver he stabbed.

I knew all that-even mentioned it to Roger-and still blithely went ahead and invited Detweiller to submit.

Of course, the other thing (and knowing me as you do, you've probably already guessed it) is simpler-it upsets me to have goofed in such grand style. If a gonzo illiterate like Carlos Detweiller could fool me this badly (I did think his book would have to be ghosted, true, but that is still no excuse), how much good stuff am I missing? Please don't laugh; I'm serious. Roger is always ragging me about my “lit'ry aspirations,” and I suppose he has a right to (no progress on the novel this week if you're interested-this Detweiller thing has depressed me too much), considering where the erstwhile head of the Brown University Milton Society ended up (he ended up encouraging Anthony LaScorbia to get right to work on his newest epic, Wasps from Hell, for one thing). But I think I would happily accept six months of hectoring letters from the obviously mad Carlos Detweiller, complete with veiled threats becoming a little less veiled with each missive, if I could only be assured that I hadn't let something good slip by because of a totally deadened critical response.

I don't know if this is more or less gloomy, but Roger mentioned in one of his Famous Memos that the Apex Corporation is going to give Zenith at least one more year to stop impersonating a dead dog and start showing some sales pizazz. He got the news from Harlow Enders, Apex's chief New York comptroller, so presumably it's accurate. I guess it's good news when you consider that not everyone in publishing has got an office to go to these days, not even with a company whose biggest steady seller is the Macho Man series and whose biggest in-house problem isn't spies making copies of manuscripts so that the movie studios can get an early look, but cockroaches in the water-cooler. It's maybe not so good when you think of how little money we have to spend (maybe you deserve to get the Carlos Detweillers of the world when the most you can offer as an advance against royalties is $1800) and how shitty our distribution is. But no one at Apex understands books or book marketing-I doubt if anyone there even knows why they picked up Zenith House last year in the first place, except that it happened to be for sale cheap. The chances that we can improve our position (2% of the paperback market, fifteenth in a field of fifteen) over the next year aren't very high. Maybe we'll end up getting married in California after all, huh, babe?

Well, enough doom and gloom-I'll mail this off and hopefully get back to work on my book tomorrow-and the next letter I write will be of the “chatty, newsy” variety. Shall I ask ole Carlos to send you flowers from Central Falls?

Forget I asked that.

My love,

John

P. S. -And tell your roommate that I don't believe manufacturing “the world's largest edible Frisbee” has any merit whatsoever, Guinness Book of Records or not. Why not ask her if she has any interest in trying for the world's record of sitting in a spaghetti-filled bathtub? First one to shatter it wins an all-expense-paid trip to Central Falls, Rhode Island...

J.