Publishing books is madness. Launching a new book publishing imprint is undoubtedly certifiable. The dinosaurs, extinct for lo these many years, knew when to get out. Publishers have yet to see the signs. However, that does not seem reason enough to not do it, and despite all evidence to the contrary, I have decided to launch a new publishing imprint.
The madness is generational. My parents; my mother, father, step-father, and sister have all been published. My wife, much to her protestations, has, too. I, as I will tell anyone who asks, have published 27 books, with five more in the wings, and 100s of national articles. When I met the Dean of Libraries at California State University at Northridge a decade or so ago, now recently retired, and I described the writing life I’d led, he said, “You know, you’re making this librarian’s knees week.” Shortly thereafter, 35 boxes of material was picked up and deposited into CSUN’s archives. Not much later, a smaller number of boxes of my mother’s and stepfather’s archives followed. I imagine the Dean had to lie down when all this content arrived.
My original plan was to launch Comingle Press as one of a slew of new Indy presses hitting the marketplace. I, like they, would offer an alternative to traditional publishers, whose elite status has been slowly dwindling. Comingle was conceived as an author collective model where everyone on the list supported all the other authors. By collectivizing social media and email lists, Comingle would reach a much larger audience with its monthly catalogue newsletters selling everyone’s books, together. Trader Joe’s and its monthly advert would have nothing on us. But, as I looked at the seventeen book covers of my parent’s books I had previously published on Kindle Direct, the concept of a Family Literary Legacy publishing imprint started to emerge. It made much more sense.
Almost as quickly as I began implementing the concept, my loving wife told me, “You’re using your own money for this.” I couldn’t blame her for protecting her inheritance. It was a crazy idea at my age to launch a publishing business.
Almost as quickly as I began implementing the concept, my loving wife told me, “You’re using your own money for this.” I couldn’t blame her for protecting her inheritance. It was a crazy idea at my age to launch a publishing business.
I began calling publishing folks I knew. None of them thought I was any crazier than I had always been. And one was even willing to invest $20 after seeing the financial projections in my Business Plan. OK, they were a bit optimistic, but they weren’t my numbers. They were AIs, and everyone knows those numbers are impeccable, right?
What was I thinking? Well, I thought enshrining my family’s books under one colophon was a great idea. If I then wanted to publish a friend’s eccentric novel that others were unwilling to, as publisher, I could decide who was family. In my mind, I knew this was not a money making operation. I was not that deluded. This was a public service. An act of love. Laura whistling “Impossible Dream” behind my back, and to my face for that matter. but I was not deterred.
I began assembling my team. I could do this. I can do his. This was not just a vain project to make me still feel relevant, at 74. It was a vain project to enshrine my family’s books for generations of our related writers to come.
I knew we weren’t the only literary family around. I mean, the Brontes did pretty well in their day. And dammit, legacy is important, and needn’t just show up as piles of cash.
Piles of cash can be good, but literature for the ages is a pretty darn good legacy, too.
Piles of cash can be good, but literature for the ages is a pretty darn good legacy, too.
Then an unexpected event took place. A publisher showed up, willing to publish Sarah Lovett’s and my thriller, Metal Viper. It had been shopped by our agent for over a year with no bites, so we decided we needed to take control and go a different route. It worked. Suddenly, my first work of fiction was going to be published. Yes, I had had a bunch of non-fiction books published, but this was my dream, and my dream had come true. Finally at 74, I could say I’m a novelist. I have joined the pantheon.
Needless to say, this development put Comingle Press into a different light. But this was a published piece of fiction!
OK, it’s a thriller, and invariably dismissed by so-called literary fiction writers. But dammit, it’s still a book of fiction. Without too much over-thought, the words of the Dalai Lama that reside on a page tack to the wall behind my chair came to me. Never Give Up. I have strived and fantasized for years. I completed my first novel 25 years ago and promptly put it away, without shopping it. Now, at 74, the ice has been broken. Never Give Up.
I immediately pulled that first novel out of the byte moth balls, and asked my trusted first reader to take a look. I know Laura has blessed me in many different ways, one of which is she is an amazing first read. And once we established the ground rules, many years ago, when she took a manuscript from me, and knowing me better than anyone, asked: “Do you want criticism or do you just want me to tell you I love you.” I knew she could be trusted to not only tell me she loved me, but to give me an honest read. In the case of that first thirty-something novel, I asked her to read it critically.
She liked it. Yes, she loved me, too, but she was surprised how well the book held-up and how pertinent it still was. Oh, joy of joys. I never gave up. I then remembered the words of an ancient friend of my mother’s who was old even for my mother. Lyle Shry. Lyle was a wonderful woman who actually was my very first art teacher at age 5. She also introduced my mother to Carl Jung in the mid-1950’s. Out of that Jungian understanding, Lyle had shared a waking dream with my mother, who, had in turn, shared it with me. What Lyle heard and wanted my mother to hear, has never left me, as well:
“It will come. It will come. But not too late.”
“It will come. It will come. But not too late.”
It was absolutely true in my mother’s case, publishing six books of poetry and three novels from the time she was in her 70s until she died at 100. I should also mention, she met the love of her life and soulmate in her sixties and remained famously in love for the last 40 years of her life. It will come. It will come.
And so it should be of little surprise that as I am now in my 70s that I am about to publish my first work of fiction. This is not just a dream come true, it’s not giving up. It’s keeping at it for no other reason than it’s what I do. I have been very fortunate throughout my writing career (only a career in hindsight). I have published over two dozen books, written dozens of children’s TV cartoons, had screenplays produced, but never a book of fiction.
It’s as if my reward is now something akin to what Henry Miller said about his painting, “Write as you want, and die happy.”
Never give up. The truth is, there were more than a few times when giving up felt like the only answer. But there’s always that naggy little voice in the back of my head. Tell the story. Finish the book. Do the work. Get published by an elite publisher.
I have often asked a question of folks whenever it arises, “Do you know the difference between an elitest and a snob?” The answer is invariably, “no.” Well, the answer has always been obvious to me. “A snob thinks they know.”
My issue was thinking that description was not only funny, but descriptive of who I am. Elitist through and through. I discovered that degree of ego may have made for a good joke, but it was an ineffective and limiting way of life. There is no compassion in the elite world, only pretense. Once I was willing to put that pretense behind me, I found a publisher willing to publish my fiction. At that moment, my long-held desire to be a real storyteller was realized, and my compassion for other’s stories, became even more important.
In light of that, it makes sense that my first published piece of fiction would be inspired by the work of a social entrepreneurial organization whose mission is to end torture as an investigative tool. And it has done so in countries around the world. It is led by a woman who my wife, Laura, refers to as a warrior goddess. So, when the idea of writing a fictional thriller about this woman and her organization as a means of supporting their efforts came to me, I knew exactly who to call. I knew I needed a woman with whom to write this story. Fortunately, there was no hesitation. Sarah said yes.
It turned out to be a great partnership and what we produced, I believe, is an incredibly important book. Set in Myanmar, it tells a thrilling tale of the travails of a young boy-poet. Along the way, the book describes the horrors taking place in Myanmar at the hands of a brutal, authoritative regime. At the forefront is a woman who has gone up against some of the most nefarious leaders in the world. She has learned the lesson better than anyone, Don’t Give Up.
So, now that my wish has been granted. Do I feel differently? I do. I recognize that the work has always been about more than my longing and desire. It’s about my inseparable relationship to the world. I can no longer run. It’s time to face that world exactly as it shows up, and never give up. Never give up.
It will come. It will come, but not too late.