Shoddy workmanship left me scratching my head last week...
May 28, 2007The Jacuzzi repair man hobbled up the steps like Quasimodo; his son, a pimply teen, followed, carrying the tools. “I had a car accident, disc problems,” Quasimodo said, grimacing. “I also need a hip replacement operation.”“Jesus,” I said. “Can I get you guys some coffee or juice?”“No thanks.”The son opened up the Jacuzzi door and poked around with a wrench and voltage meter. I said to the Quasimodo, “You fixed a leak two years ago at the end of the season, and it went bad within a month. I kept calling, but your wife said that you’ve been going through a bad patch, that for a year you were out of business.Quasimodo nodded.“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”“We’re fine.”I went back into the kitchen to do some work. About ten minutes later Quasimodo called out, “You need a new pump.” Damn, I thought, thinking it was just a faulty repair that he’d honor and fix at no cost. “How much?”“Three hundred to six hundred depending on the size, plus installation.”“Jezz. That’s why it’s leaking?”“Yup.”I grabbed the receipt from two years ago for five-hundred bucks and reread the work he’d performed. “Look at this,” I said, “pump repair. You fixed it last time; it hasn’t had an hour’s worth of operation since you did that. How could it need a new pump?”“Hmm,” he says and instructs his son to check something with that meter. The Jacuzzi makes a buzzing sound. “We got lucky,” he says, averting my eyes. “We can fix this.”Earlier in the week I refinanced my house to lower my payment and pull a little cash out to cover expenses. I’ve lived here fifteen years and have refinanced three other times. In the process of getting this loan I discovered that all the prior mortgages were still attached to the house title. Although the banks got paid, the title stated that I still had five mortgages. “The lawyer who did those refinances was sloppy,” this new attorney said. “He should have cleared that up. You’re lucky it didn’t wreck your credit. “Folks tend to do what you inspect, not what you expect. If I hadn’t had that receipt, Quasimodo would have stuck me for another pump repair. And a lawyer at two-hundred-and-fifty an hour should do what he’s paid to do.As Quasimodo drove away in his banged-up Ford pickup, I wondered what he was saying to his son. Perhaps: If that guy hadn’t kept the receipt, we’d have made an extra five hundred bucks. But what I hoped he had said was, “Son, I should have fixed that damn pump the first time.”Either way the son was probably figuring out how to tell his dad that he was hanging up the tool belt -- he was heading for law school.

good news in the bad news...

The Weekly Journal
Is there good in bad news?

May 20, 2007

This week I considered throwing in the towel after a promising lead for an agent went south. Rejection is part of the publishing process and I've had lots of it; I often spiral for a few hours after getting zinged -- this time was different.

I'm not a quitter. I'm Mr. Confidence. There is nothing I can't do, and I have a track record to back up the bravado, but to date, I have failed to get an agent to represent my fiction. This week I had enough.

"What you need to do," a good friend suggested, "is get the manuscript printed, then die."

He wasn't kidding. Go to ebay and you'll find lots of deceased authors fetching princely sums for unknown books.

This week's rejection was awful because of how positive it was. Here's what happened:

After sending out tons of queries in January for my novel, I finally connected with someone that got me. The agency was a solid, mid-tiered NY group. In early April they wrote via email:

Dear Mr. Williams,I've spent the last two days completely absorbed in your novel. Chuck's candid, raw narrative left me breathless; I felt as if I were mourning with an old friend in the comfort of my living room. .This is a quick note to spread my encouragement to you and let you know that I'm passing your manuscript on to X. I will be in touch with you soon.

You can imagine my excitement. No one has ever been this enthusiastic. And yet, I've had many encouraging notes over the years; none panned out. X was the decision maker here, not the note writer; I knew better than to get my hopes up.

But I did. I mean why would anyone send this if they didn't think X would like it? And each day news did not arrive, I grew less hopeful; then this showed up:

Dear Mr. Williams,Thank you for letting me read MY YEAR AS A CLOWN. I apologize for the length of time it’s taken to respond; this was a difficult decision for me. I’m also sorry to say that I just fell short of falling in love with this. You’re clearly a talented writer with a keen eye for character development, but for some reason I failed to connect with it fully. I know that’s the most frustrating thing a writer can hear, but I trust that you’ll find (or have found!) a representative who’s whole-heartedly passionate about this.

Thanks for thinking of me and best of luck on your path to publication. Please feel free to send me any of your future projects. Sincerely,X (dictated, not signed)

I was talking on the phone when I read that email. The person on the other end thought we'd been disconnected. I had indeed gone mute. My head was spinning. There was bile in the mouth. I ended the call quickly, walked out on to my deck and tossed the cordless phone into the woods.

I didn't sleep for two days. I barely ate. I talked to no one. The end of this month marks nine years of trying to make a living as a writer. My creative progress has been nothing short of miraculous, but I'm no closer to getting a novel published than I was in year two, when an ICM agent requested the manuscript of my first novel after reading fifty pages (ICM is a top-tier agency).

That book didn't sell either.

I've climbed higher mountains. I moved out of the house before I was 18 and haven't taken a dime from anyone since. I was the first in my family to finish college. I published a non-fiction book, selling 15,000 copies before I turned 30. I once saved a baby raccoon from certain death, but I can't get an agent to represent my fucking fiction.

So I was done. Finito. Sayonara. Hasta la vista, baby…

What brought me back was my ability to keep rewriting. Before that first note had arrived, the rest of the leads from my January blitz had dried out. A few agents had made suggestions (a rarity from what I'm told). I was already rewriting when that first note appeared, but I didn't want to send them the new version since they liked what I'd already sent; instead, I kept rewriting. And that's what pulled me out of the muck this week: I had a new and improved Clown ready to go.

On Friday I rebooted the query process with the fresh manuscript.Now that I've started a consulting business, the pressure to squeeze cash out of writing has eased. But I still need to disconnect getting published from success. That's not easy in a world where folks judge the quality of wine by the price, songs by the chart position, books by the number of copies sold. So what was the good in the bad?

Most writers just get a form letter.

X said he'd look at other material.

Someone in the business said she was completely absorbed by my novel.

Blah, blah, blah…

In the end I still got dinged.

This week I was slammed. It was the worst blow ever, almost getting knocked out for good; but I got up before the count of ten. I can't control the reaction to my work; but I can control my response. Next time, and no doubt, there will be many next times, I plan to stay on my feet.

Home is never the same

No wonder Cherry Hill was the base for America's most recent foiled terror attack -- the world's first shopping mall was built there.

May 14, 2007

I think of Cherry Hill, New Jersey as home even though I left in 1976 and rarely returned. My mom moved out in ’81, and I lost contact with friends still in town. But this week I’m thinking about Cherry Hill because several of the men caught in the Fort Dix terror plot lived there.

It’s difficult to imagine seeing your father killed by a dictator, or having your friends blown to bits in a car bombing; not that it excuses terrorist acts, but you can see how a kid sours under such circumstances. And yet these young men grew up in New Jersey. Granted, things have changed in my home town, and these men are of a different generation. Pockets of immigrant conclaves did not exist when I was growing up there, but it’s still difficult to imagine Islamist Extremists blossoming in the same place where I lost my virginity.

One of the families moved to Cherry Hill from Turkey in 1992. Mr. Tartar experienced the American Dream -- he started out as a dishwasher and ended up owning a pizzeria near Fort Dix. Unfortunately, his business is on the brink of bankruptcy because of a boycott, despite being estranged from his 23 year-old son. The kid had left home at 18 and got in with the wrong crowd. What happened in Cherry Hill to make this young man susceptible to such extreme influences?

I can’t imagine anything happening there that could have turned this kid into a potential terrorist. But I’m not Muslim. I’m not Turkish. My father wasn’t a dishwasher. How could I know of anything that this kid experienced? And yet thinking back to my youth, I realized even in my day, there was an underbelly to what was considered a great place to live, home to America’s first enclosed shopping mall; even Muhammad Ali lived there at the apex of his career.

I graduated high school in 1976 in a haze of pot smoke. In my junior year, the son of a high ranking, law-enforcement officer threatened to kill me because I pressed charges against him for throwing a brick through my folk’s living room window – my step-sister had a party and she knew better than to let him in. We were lucky that's all he threw.

A few years after I graduated, one of my high school teachers hacked his girl friend to bits with a pen knife. In the late 80’s, the rabbi that had led our services, got caught for having his wife murdered.

The Cherry Hill underbelly.

Last year my mom and I returned to see the old neighborhood. The blue spruce we’d planted all those years ago towered over the house; the nearby farm was now a shopping center; but for the most part, things looked the same, much like any other solid, middle-class, suburban American town.Although that kid got away with throwing the brick through my folks window, Rabbi Nuelander is behind bars, Otto Krupp, the teacher, also got caught, and these young men will pay the price too, if found guilty for this terror plot.

You just never figure this to happen so close to home; and yet if you think about it, it has to happen in somebody’s home town; this time it was mine…

There we were in NYC...

May 7, 2007

Thanks to all those that came out to see our first NYC appearance in over five years. Where have we been? Well, my marriage fell apart and I dug a hole and buried myself for a while. When I reemerged I wrote a novel. I did a publishing deal in Nashville. I went to Haiti. I had a few short stories published. I made a CD. But I never got back to doing any gigs.

That needs to change…

We had a great time and it seemed like everyone that attended had a good night too. The Rockwood Music Hall is a wonderful venue – low key, friendly, and intimate. It’s in a great neighborhood. I hadn’t been on the east side, south of Houston, in ages. It used to be dodgy around there, but now Whole Foods occupies an entire block just around the corner. New cafes and clubs have sprouted up like weeds.

We did an hour set playing old and new songs, some of mine, some of Gerry’s. Earlier in the year, Gerry and Paul played with me at the Towne Crier Open Mic finals – but that was only two songs. We hadn’t done a real set in a very long time. When I do an open mic, I'm often by myself, and the time just before I go on stage is when the butterflies flutter. It's a lot easier when I'm with Paul and Gerry, they're a distraction. Gerry just had his hair buzzed, and that was enough to keep my mind off the jitters.

When you're doing several shows a week, you find comfort on the stage and hit the ground running, but when you aren't doing a lot of shows, it takes several songs to find that groove. Because the sound at the Rockwood was great, we felt comfortable right away. We hit our stride early, and by mid-set I felt like we were in my studio performing for friends.

Michael Brunnock helped me get the gig and his band played afterwards. Michael is from Ireland and he’s quite a talent – a little Damien Rice, a bit of Jack Johnson, maybe some Waterboys and Paul Brady. The band is tight and showcases Michael’s songs well. He sings about war, Jesus, and his homeland, love and lost. For all those that missed us, we’re hoping to get back in early June.

Michael Brunnock
Rockwood Music Hall

6 degrees

I never met Imus or Reverend Sharpton, but I came close....

The Imus affair shows how polarized we still are on race. Even watching Meet the Press on Sunday where a panel of white and black journalists discussed the firing -- the view differed by color. Imus was an equal opportunity abuser, but I'm amazed he did this within the context of serious political debate with a litany of politicians and media celebrities.

David Brooks said Imus often went after Jews, but he could differentiate between an Imus slam and the way a Nazi would say the same words. Gwen Ifill from PBS felt differently. She said Imus went after the very best the black community had to offer, young women who excelled in both sport and academics. To her, it didn't matter whether Imus was a racist or not, a racist comment is still racist (Imus called once had called her a cleaning lady).

Earlier in the week, Snoop Dogg clarified the rapper's position by saying that they never go after college educated black women, just the drug addict bitches in the hood…

Tom DeLay called for banning Rosie O'Donnell for her remarks against conservative Christians.

Clearly, we've got a ways to go before this dust settles.

I don't know Don Imus or Al Sharpton, but I almost met both.

Here's how:

My Imus Story:

It wasn't until Don Imus started pushing the Flatlanders that I tuned in his show. I knew Jimmie from taking his songwriting workshop in '98. The Flatlanders got screwed by their record company back in the 70's and had been ignored by radio ever since. Jimmie built a cult following through the decades, and the unsolicited exposure by the I-man was unexpected, but welcomed.

I didn't like the show or its humor, but at about the same time as the I-man was playing the Flatlanders, I wrote a spoof song about Martha Stewart, called the Martha Stewart Prison Rag. I figured it was worth a shot to try and get it on his show.

Imus has a weekend mansion not too far from me, and a friend had heard that someone had once dropped a tape off at his house -- Imus liked it and played it. So I drove by his beach front, gated home, to drop off the Rag. This was after 9/11 and the Imus mail box was long gone for security reasons. I slipped my CD package underneath the wrought iron gate and hoped for the best.

About a week later a man in a beige trench coat knocked on my door, flashing a silver State Police badge. "Are you Robert Steven Williams?"

"Yes."

"Did you drop this package off at the Imus residence in Southport?" He was holding my brown bag with the CD and promo materials.

"Umm, yeah."

"Their housekeeper called us, thought it was a bomb. Any explosive material?"

"Well, it is a satire." The cop wrinkled his brow. I quickly added, "It's just a CD about Martha Stewart. I was trying to get him to play it.

"The cop shook his head and handed me back the bag. "Next time, do us all a favor, drop it off at his office.

"The Martha Stewart Prison Rag was never aired.


My Sharpton story:

I moved from England to the New York area in 1991. I was head of marketing for a new chain of record stores in the US. My first day on the job, I faced a potential Sharpton led protest against our 72nd & Broadway store.

In those days, music was vibrant, immediate; it still mattered. HMV had made a huge splash in the market.

The week prior to my arrival, HMV had fired an African American store clerk. We were part of the international conglomerate EMI Music. Sharpton planned to protest this dismissal based on racism by leveraging our corporate parent's high visibility.

The kid in question was a bad employee and had been fired properly. But when I showed up for work that first day, I had no idea if this was the case. It was my job to defend the company and mitigate the damage regardless of the facts.

I hired a crisis management PR firm to get up to speed on Al Sharpton. I couldn't believe what I was up against. I marketed records. I loved music. This was the last thing on earth I wanted to deal with. I also knew that HMV wasn't a racist company; but an employee still might have done something stupid.

During the week the rhetoric grew. We were told through the grapevine that if we didn't reinstate this kid, thousands would be outside our store on Saturday protesting. Every major network would be there to cover it.

We conducted another internal investigation and determined that the employee had been treated fairly and warranted the firing. I also discovered that HMV was one of the largest African-American retail employers in Manhattan. We did not rehire that kid.

On the Saturday, I was at the store ready to handle whatever might happen. Fortunately, the protest never materialized, and I went back to marketing music…

Six years later, I convinced EMI and HMV to put the first international record store in Harlem. I left the company shortly thereafter. HMV opened up on 125th Street, across from the Apollo Theater in 1999. Although the store was a success, EMI sold HMV. The chain pulled out of the US market in 2003.

Here's the Secret...

Last week's reference to the movie -- The Secret -- caused several folks to reach out. A few successful business people urged me to continue on the artistic front with a renewed attitude. Paraphrasing -- they said -- One has to smell it, touch it, breath it, and live it completely at all times to realize it -- that's how we made it in business and how you can make it in writing.

In almost all endeavors I would agree, but when it comes to visualizing making art and substantial amounts of cash, the idea is flawed. Some will say that's exactly the reason why I'm not successful in money terms.

Maybe they're right.

But I've been in the trenches for nine years. I've seem immensely talented people struggle to put food on the table. I've seen hacks driving Ferraris. The top thirty or so Nashville songwriters walk the line between artistic integrity and crass commercialism; many songs that rise to number one look simplistic -- that's deceptive. Most successful Nashville writers are extremely talented, highly motivated, and very ambitious.
Those songs are not easy to write.

I spent a year considering Nashville, but I realized that I couldn't taste it, breathe it, or live something that I didn't like. If I wanted money, it made more sense to take a music executive job paying 200 grand, rather than a staff publishing position that paid 20. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have gotten the staff job -- thousands beg for those jobs daily (seriously).

American Idol is paying 100 grand for a single song. Why not take a shot, some friends have asked. I won't be submitting anything because I'd be wasting my time. I don't love that type of music; it's not what I do, or what motivated me to return to playing music and writing fiction. I couldn't win that competition, because I don't breathe it.

There are lots of lazy artists out there that don't take on quality feedback, they refuse to rewrite or learn craft. They won't assume responsibility for the business side either. You often hear them diss the industry and make bold declarations about not selling out. They believe there's a conspiracy to keep their art from reaching the world.

That's not me.

I'm not averse to making lots of money from my art, but it's not part of my vision because to factor that into the equation, would force me to alter what I create, and that compromise will cause me to fail.

Fame and glory might not be in my future, but with my business background, I still have a shot at making a decent living at this. Granted, it hasn't been the case so far, but it's still early days. I've been at this less than ten years. I'm just a late bloomer; well, okay, very late…and you know what they say...better very late than never...

carpet anyone?

The Weekly Journal

Foot in mouth this week McCain...

John McCain was on CNN last week declaring the surge a success. "Areas of Baghdad are safe, even General Petreaus can walk without guard or armor."

CNN cut to Michael Ware, in Baghdad, immediately after the McCain interview to verify the situation on the ground. "Senator McCain is off is rocker," Ware said. "McCain's comments were met with laughter down the line from US military sources."

Within a day, McCain's people backtracked. McCain himself, denied saying it, but I saw the actual interview, live. He said that and more. How could a smart guy be so dumb? He's backed into a conservative corner and can't get out. Unless the surge works, he's done.

McCain is in Baghdad now buying carpets.

---------------------

It's been an odd couple of months for me. I rewrote my novel, recorded some new songs, and I did some freelance consulting. I also waited for the result of my MFA applications.

The novel was ready, but that feeling wasn't shared by the publishing community. Several agents showed interest, but I got no takers. I pulled it off the market, and rewrote it, yet again. It's in great shape now. I totally believe in it, and I’m thinking positive in the way that movie, The Secret, says you must; but it's not easy to keep doubt from undermining my vibe.Last night

I saw Ricky Gervais interview Garry Shandling on a new program airing in England -- Gervais, is the genius behind The Office. In this new series, he visits his comedic heroes. It's an awkward and amusing hour at Garry's house. At one point, Garry says in regards to success -- you can't get caught up in the results of your work -- it's meaningless. He's right. The value of my work is not linked to the amount of money it generates. It's so obvious, and yet, it's so easy to forget.

I received an offer for a teaching assistant at Ole Miss. I wanted to accept their gracious offer of free tuition and stipend, but I couldn't make the numbers work. I've deferred the opportunity for a year.

I could have sold my Westport house, but it's not a good time to sell, and I didn't want to give up the last remaining jewel from my life as a music biz executive. I had intended to rent this house out. The numbers were close, but I have outstanding obligations that made this move impossible.

Some say situations are tied to fate, that if it was meant for me to go to Ole Miss this year, it would have happened. I'm not convinced that's true. I think that destiny is forged in real time, that a result is not in stone until it happens. But I do believe it's the culmination of all your effort -- things that occurred years ago still contribute to the future. And so everything I do and think, does affect what happens…

Let's hope I can keep writing, but more important, let's hope someone finds a solution that gets us out of Iraq without starting WWIII…