Read Online Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) by Thomas K. Matthews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas K. Matthews
Ads: Link
ALEXANDER AND the village idiots carpooled in Pooter’s mini van to Greenwich for the fall book festival and publishing fair. This event was not as revered as the gatherings in Manhattan, but it was still a popular destination for authors hoping to find local representation or connect with smaller presses.
“And we have arrived,” Pooter said with flair.
They all scrambled out of the crowded vehicle, produced tickets, and made their way together into the packed hall. Once inside, they first came upon the bigger publishers and university presses. Here there were large booths and enclosed alcoves displaying a wide variety of optimistically stacked books and promotional materials. Through a bank of doors they could see smaller book printers and specialty presses in curtained ten-by-ten cubicles. The tiny presses and self published authors presented their wares at skirted tables in the rear.
Sandy waved his hand. “Destiny awaits. Good luck and may we all come out with great things. How about we meet back here at noon and compare notes.”
Franny looked at Nordstrom. “I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay,” she said.
“Sounds good,” Nordstrom said, and the two walked off together.
Pooter elbowed Sandy and pointed into the crowd.
“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”
Nesbit barked a short laugh. “Very funny.”
Sandy looked where Pooter was pointing and smiled.
“Hey, you’re right.”
Sandy waved his hand, trying to catch the guy’s attention.
“What,” Nesbit said, “there really is a guy here named Shakespeare?”
“Yup,” Pooter said with a nod. “His name is Brian.”
Brian Shakespeare saw Sandy’s wave and headed their way. He stood just over five feet tall and was built like a fireplug, which meant they lost sight of him several times as he traveled toward them through the crowd.
“Sandy Alexander,” Brian said when he reached the group. “It’s been a while.
Sandy shook his hand. “Hello Brian. It’s great to see you.”
“You shopping a new book?”
“No. I’m chaperone today for the village idiots.”
“Oh yeah, your writer’s group,” Brian said. “I should get down and see you guys sometime.”
“What about you? Are you shopping something?”
“Got the new bestseller right here,” Brian said, and patted his satchel. “Nearly finished.”
“Good for you,” Sandy said.
“I’m here to find the one lucky enough to get to publish this.”
Sandy laughed. “Good luck with that.”
Shakespeare winked. “Gotta get moving,” he said. “See you later.”
With that he was off into the crowd.
“Seems kind of stuck up,” Nesbit observed.
“He’s rich,” Sandy said. “A trust fund brat and drives a Porsche. Always carries his current manuscript in that weathered leather satchel. He stole that idea from Stephen King. Brian writes over-developed adventure stories that lose themselves in tedious detail. An agent signed him once, only to drop him when he refused to rewrite his manuscript.”
“It must be tough to get anyone in publishing to take him seriously with a name like Shakespeare,” Nesbit mused.
The group members spent the next couple of hours working the booths. They made small talk with publishers, leafed through some of the books on display, and picked up literature on writing contests and online support groups. At noon the group gathered at a round table in the eating area. They each bought a sandwich and a drink from a small counter that offered simple but expensive food.
Sandy looked around and took a head count. “Where’s Pooter?”
“He’s always dragging his ass,” Franny said.
“So how’d we all do?”
“A few agents gave me their business cards,” Franny said, “and I pitched my new freelance agenda to a women’s magazine. They seemed interested,”
Nordstrom scowled. “I got nothing.”
“Well, it’s tough,” Sandy said. “Look at all this competition.”
Franny pointed to the food line. “Isn’t that the big
“And we have arrived,” Pooter said with flair.
They all scrambled out of the crowded vehicle, produced tickets, and made their way together into the packed hall. Once inside, they first came upon the bigger publishers and university presses. Here there were large booths and enclosed alcoves displaying a wide variety of optimistically stacked books and promotional materials. Through a bank of doors they could see smaller book printers and specialty presses in curtained ten-by-ten cubicles. The tiny presses and self published authors presented their wares at skirted tables in the rear.
Sandy waved his hand. “Destiny awaits. Good luck and may we all come out with great things. How about we meet back here at noon and compare notes.”
Franny looked at Nordstrom. “I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay,” she said.
“Sounds good,” Nordstrom said, and the two walked off together.
Pooter elbowed Sandy and pointed into the crowd.
“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”
Nesbit barked a short laugh. “Very funny.”
Sandy looked where Pooter was pointing and smiled.
“Hey, you’re right.”
Sandy waved his hand, trying to catch the guy’s attention.
“What,” Nesbit said, “there really is a guy here named Shakespeare?”
“Yup,” Pooter said with a nod. “His name is Brian.”
Brian Shakespeare saw Sandy’s wave and headed their way. He stood just over five feet tall and was built like a fireplug, which meant they lost sight of him several times as he traveled toward them through the crowd.
“Sandy Alexander,” Brian said when he reached the group. “It’s been a while.
Sandy shook his hand. “Hello Brian. It’s great to see you.”
“You shopping a new book?”
“No. I’m chaperone today for the village idiots.”
“Oh yeah, your writer’s group,” Brian said. “I should get down and see you guys sometime.”
“What about you? Are you shopping something?”
“Got the new bestseller right here,” Brian said, and patted his satchel. “Nearly finished.”
“Good for you,” Sandy said.
“I’m here to find the one lucky enough to get to publish this.”
Sandy laughed. “Good luck with that.”
Shakespeare winked. “Gotta get moving,” he said. “See you later.”
With that he was off into the crowd.
“Seems kind of stuck up,” Nesbit observed.
“He’s rich,” Sandy said. “A trust fund brat and drives a Porsche. Always carries his current manuscript in that weathered leather satchel. He stole that idea from Stephen King. Brian writes over-developed adventure stories that lose themselves in tedious detail. An agent signed him once, only to drop him when he refused to rewrite his manuscript.”
“It must be tough to get anyone in publishing to take him seriously with a name like Shakespeare,” Nesbit mused.
The group members spent the next couple of hours working the booths. They made small talk with publishers, leafed through some of the books on display, and picked up literature on writing contests and online support groups. At noon the group gathered at a round table in the eating area. They each bought a sandwich and a drink from a small counter that offered simple but expensive food.
Sandy looked around and took a head count. “Where’s Pooter?”
“He’s always dragging his ass,” Franny said.
“So how’d we all do?”
“A few agents gave me their business cards,” Franny said, “and I pitched my new freelance agenda to a women’s magazine. They seemed interested,”
Nordstrom scowled. “I got nothing.”
“Well, it’s tough,” Sandy said. “Look at all this competition.”
Franny pointed to the food line. “Isn’t that the big
Similar Books
