Confessions of a writer
A sure way to getting published
Persian text
here
January 11, 2002
The Iranian
"... Swear to God if you come one step closer, I will tear your
heart out with these scissors and then I kill myself to end this torturous
life once and forever."
"Taimor stopped and starred in her eyes. The destiny of both lovers
was in hands of fate. Mahnaz was clutching the scissors so tightly that
a drop of sweat was running through her fingers like melted steel. The
sound of her heartbeats that were about to stop at any moment echoed in
her ears. Life and death were blended in split seconds.
"Taimor felt indecisiveness in her eyes and suddenly jumped to
grab her wrist and remove the scissors, but Mahnaz who was serious about
her threat, moved very quickly, turned her hand a half a circle and stabbed
him in the chest with no hesitation.
"In a matter of seconds everything was over. Everything turned
red. Blood began to spew out of her lover. Mahnaz was mesmerized by the
cold and dreadful look on her lover's face. The sharp edge of the scissors
cut the life line of the two lovers. Taimor collapsed on his blood and
Mahnaz cried tears of blood for her lost love. This was the shocking ending
of a very tender love that turned to ashes by the flame of jealousy."
What you just read was the final paragraph of my romance novel. The novel
I had so much hope for and proud of. A novel full of love, betrayal and
crime. I had created a modern era masterpiece, a tragedy like Romeo and
Juliet that was going to place my name among literary legends. I felt
like I gave birth to a literary phenomenon which would live forever.
First I gave my story with a great deal of pride to my wife and asked
her to read my story and tell me her opinion. She put down the TV Guide.
While polishing her nails, she grabbed the manuscript as if she was holding
a dirty rat by the tail, and started reading. I needed unconditional support
from my life partner in my endeavor. She was glancing through pages as indifferent
and cheerless as a lazy elementary school student who was forced to do her
homework by her parents.
After finishing the novel, she looked at me, took a deep breath, moved
her lips in a funny way and said "Honey you wrote a cheap melodrama.
Do you have to become a writer? Can't you make money like everyone else?"
I was shocked and speechless and didn't know how to escape the room. Fortunately
as she got back to polishing her nails, she forgot my presence and I grabbed
the manuscript and left the room without saying a word. Then I thought,
"What the hell does she know about literature?"
Later on I gave my novel to some of our intellectual friends to read.
One of my good friends said,"The artistic value of your novel is below
zero." The other one said: "Did you type all these by yourself?
You must have a lot of free time." He walked away before I could get
a chance to ask his opinion. Another friend read the book and said with
a very meaningful smile, "Don't worry if you don't get noticed because
most writers became famous after their death."
Not even one positive comment.
I turned a deaf ear to all unkind reviews of people around me because
I was determined to become a writer no matter what. I kept in mind what
one of my colleagues Ernie (I mean Earnest Hemingway) once said "50%
of all writers quit writing when they hear first criticisms." The math
was simple, if I had thick skin and didn't give up; I would be ahead of
half of the writers. And that was a great accomplishment for me.
More determined than before, I started thinking of new ways to present
my work to the public. I made several copies of the manuscript and sent
them to publishers with hope of getting it published. Several months passed
without hearing back from anyone. At first I got a little worried about
the literary value of my novel but after reading it again I felt even more
in love with it. I could not let my novel be forgotten that easily. One
day I picked up the phone and called one of the publishers.
He asked my name. I replied. Asked about my previous works and published
books which I skillfully avoided answering. When he found out that I was
not a published writer he spoke to me like a teacher talking to a very slow
student.
"You know," he said, "I am a published writer myself and
I have several writer friends. As a matter fact every Wednesday night we
get together and discuss our works. I am telling you this because I am an
expert in this field. Frankly speaking, I have received your story but we
can not jeopardize our reputation by publishing your it. Capitalizing on
something like that is definitely out of the question. Let's put it this
way: We have too many writers and no readers. We can't publish everything
we get, can we?"
He was going on and on. I could not tolerate it anymore. I slammed the
phone down without saying a word.
The only publisher who showed interest in the story was the one who asked
me for a $25,000 non-refundable security deposit before he could publish
it. When I asked him why such an unheard-of amount was required, he kindly
explained: "You see, your story is so powerful. If we publish it and
a reader under the influence of your novel commits a crime of passion we
may get sued and this $25,000 is insurance for possible litigation costs.
We only require such deposits from powerful writers."
Wow. At that moment I was filled with joy and pride. A publisher had
told me himself that my story could really change people's lives dramatically.
I never thought of this aspect of my work before. The bottom line was I
could not get published. But the more rejection I was subjected to, the
more determined I became to pursue my dreams.
A few days later I sent several copies of my novel to literary magazines.
A few months passed and I did not hear from any of them. It was absolutely
inconceivable to me that not even one publisher showed interest in my story.
Again, I picked up the phone and called them. One publisher totally denied
receiving anything from me. Another said his journal was on the brink of
bankruptcy and was going to open a strip bar instead.
In a couple of instances, right after I introduced myself, the telephone
got disconnected. The most interesting conversation I had was with a publisher
who after I introduced myself said " Sir, your story stinks!"
In a state of shock I politely asked, "Excuse me? What do you mean
by that?" He continued," Your story stinks like a rat. It is politically
slanted and since we are an independent publisher and are not associated
with any political organization we can not publish it."
What was he talking about? What I had just heard was making me go nuts.
How could my romance novel that was filled with love, get such a poor review?
How in heaven's name was my story politically slanted? I was pounding my
head to find a reason. Then suddenly I remembered that in one paragraph
I mentioned that the scissors Mahnaz used to stab her lover was made in
China. That must have been the reason why the publisher thought the novel
was politically biased. Finally I had heard the first logical criticism.
Fortunately it was easy to fix. I could simply change the scissors and
use one made in the U.S.. I had no problem with that. It would cost Mahnaz
a little more but poor Taimor for sure wouldn't mind what kind of scissors
was ripping his heart out. I could not see any reason why this simple change
would affect my story. But before I could get a chance to make this compromise,
the publisher called me a "Communist bastard" and slammed the
phone down. Again I lost a chance of being published.
The disappointing truth was that for very odd reasons I was not getting
any favorable reviews and my novel was yet to be published. The only consolation
was the fact that I was not alone; that there were many other unpublished
writers out there desperately looking for readers. For months I was thinking
about a way out of this misery until one day a very ingenious idea came
to my mind.
I thought of establishing an underground organization for unpublished
writers, one that could organize thousands of unknown writers and make their
dreams come true. Why not? Such a secret society could use the collective
efforts of these writers and distribute their work to among the people.
They could use any means to get noticed.
The most logical name that came to my mind was the "Mediocre Writers
Society". Such a group could be the perfect answer to the pressing
needs of writers like me. The only requirement for joining was proof of
complete failure due to mediocre talent. They must prove that they have
fewer readers than fingers on both hands.
The sole purpose of the society would be to utilize all means to get
noticed. I knew that the mental state of fellow members -- after repeated
failure -- would make them do anything to achieve their goals. It was stipulated
that if the writings of any member became popular, he/she would be expelled
due to questionable talent.
One of the main activities of the group was to raise money from members
(since they could not count on readers' support) and offer their novels
for free. If that didn't work, members would force them on the people.
After a great deal of thought, I came up with these tactics:
A. Peaceful means: Members of the Mediocre Writers Society would stand
on street corners, even in freezing weather, and beg people to read their
novels. They could also get a job at their local supermarket and inconspicuously
paste single-page stories onto grocery bags. The society was even willing
to give cash and prizes to readers who did not toss the stories in the trash
before finishing them.
B. Violent means were to be adopted only if peaceful tactics did not
work. One ingenious idea was for totally obscure writers to occupy radio
and television stations during prime time and read romantic novels on the
air before the police showed up.
After thinking about every detail, I began promoting my ideas and asking
fellow obscure writers to join. Unfortunately, the process was very slow
and painful. For reasons unknown to me, everyone rejected the invitation
with a very negative attitude. No one joined. I lost all of my friends and
created new enemies.
The failures adversely affected my marriage. My wife, who could not face
our friends anymore, did not leave the house for months. Finally, one day
she left the house to go to the cleaners and never returned.
I felt I had explored every possible avenue to get my romance novel published
and the fact that no one showed interest in it made me very depressed. The
emptiness of my life was indescribable. I lost my part time job in the supermarket.
I could not sleep at night and I was emotionally wreck.
Why? This was the question I kept asking myself. I was on the brink of
an emotional breakdown when I remembered what my friend had told me once.
After reading my novel he had said to me: "Don't worry if you don't
get noticed. Most of writers become famous after their death."
All of a sudden everything became so clear to me. Finally I realized
why I was going through what I was going through. Yes! That was the only
reason no one was reading my novel. What else could it be? Wasn't it true
that many famous writers, musicians and painters lived in misery and died
in poverty but became famous after they died?
So, obviously people were anxiously waiting for me to die and then read
my novel. The critics were just waiting for me to drop dead before praising
my work. Literary magazines were planning to publish my work over and over
again -- posthumously. That was the only logical explanation. Why should
I be an exception to the rule? History was repeating itself and who was
I to stand in its way? Who was I to hold people back from reading a masterpiece
by prolonging my miserable life?
My exhilaration was indescribable. What was I waiting for? I had no other
reason to live anyway. All my friends had turned into enemies, I had lost
my job and spent all of my money on promoting my novel. My life was a complete
mess. Lately I had received a couple of death threats in the mail from writer
friends and I was too scared to get out of the house. I didn't have anything
to lose and every good thing to gain, including happiness, joy and fame.
My mind was racing. I thought I could not leave this world just like
that. I had to write my life story for future generations of writers. I
had to tell the world how a talented writer died in despair. So I wrote
"CONFESSIONS OF A WRITER" and departed this world...
Ashes to ashes dust to dust...
I was standing in a long line to enter Hell when I saw one of my writer
friends who had recently died in a car accident. He seemed anxious to see
me. He opened The Inferno Times and showed me something unbelievable.
In the Mortal World News section, there was a large picture of my wife along
with her profile. In an elaborate review, she was praised as a brilliant
writer. According to my friend, my wife had published "Confessions
of a Writer" after my death and received very good reviews. The first
page reads, "To the sweet memories of my late husband."
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