Not Going After Oprah

You know the yellow brick road. It is lined with the followers of the largest book club on the planet that belongs to one Oprah Winfrey. And publishing was never the same. We all knew then that with the nod ones life was changed forever. Take James Frey. Take Jonathan Franzen. Take Toni Morrison. Different authors but all have become millionaires overnight after the nod. And so every author and every publisher threw books toward Harpo Studios on the near north side of Chicago and hoped the mighty mama would notice.

And I was no different. My second third and fourth novel ended up on the doorstep of Harpo and even on the doorstep of Oprah's condo in the Hancock. Nothing. Nothing. And not a few. Many went her way. Then a bunch went to her best friend. Some went to a friend who knew a friend who knew a friend who worked there. Some just went in the old fashioned way with her address and a big PERSONAL. Nothing.

And now I see how nuts it was to send them to her. Yes I think they would have been great novels for her book club but my books were never really hers and the odds against her actually picking mine over the thousands that came with a much cleaner runway were really in the lightning strikes category. So  on this book I didn't bother. Yes it is a great feel good story about what a mother will do for her son. But is baseball. And it lacks ...I don't know that Oprah thing.

Don't ask me what that Oprah thing is. If I knew I would be a millionaire.

www.williamhazelgrove.com

The Pitcher

Jame's Freys Final Interview with Oprah

Flipping through the channels and there is James Frey with Oprah. Isn't he, yup, that's him. So I watch. Not an Oprah watcher except for salivating over Oprah authors who made the home run slam and hit it out of the park with the big mommas endorsement. Oprah called it scaling up a book. Authors call it hitting the mother lode and no more crappy jobs you don't care about and hello bestsellerdom. For a writer of fiction there can be nothing more precious when going against every celeb wantabe out there.

But here is Oprah looking very Grand Dame and James Frey looking much the same when A Million Little Pieces hit the streets. Oprah has her "you can make up to me anytime you want" eyes and the pained expression of experience. How did you feel when you came on the show? Ambushed. Yeah. And do you regret what you did? I take responsibility for it. Didn't you shop the book around as fiction first? Yes, but the publishers wanted a memoir. This all seems very quaint in the Fox News/Donald Blather era. She took him down because he said his book was a memoir when it was fiction? Really?

I did not see the famed take down. At the time I didn't really care. I have read A Million Little Pieces and it is a good book. Period. If a person is reading a book be it memoir or fiction for self help then they are barking up the wrong tree. That the book was not true mattered not at all to me. Suspension of disbelief. Maybe you have heard of it. When we are reading we do not say this really happened because it is happening. It is intellectual dishonesty to give more import to a story simply because an author says it is true. We do not read that way. We read in a dream. That is all good writing. The current fascination with did it really happen books or memoirs is ridiculous. People want to read a good story. If you think only good stories really happen then you should read Huckleberry Finn or The Great Gatsby.


In the end Oprah is making nice and it seems all is forgiven. Maybe time heals. Maybe good television requires she play the benefactor and forgive. Who knows? But if a good story is what she was after when she took Frey's book to her book club then she was on the right track. As Hemingway said many many times, "the only good stories are the made up ones."  

http://www.billhazelgrove.com/
Rocket Man will blast off July 26th

The Corrections-- a novel of a world gone by

I reread Franzen's The Corrections as a warm up to Freedom. I have to confess I couldn't stay with The Corrections years ago when I took a shot at it. I just wasn't ready for all that back story. But this time I was. Maybe I was more determined, maybe I just a better reader. I don't know. But I finished the book and of course I had a very strong reaction to the ending chapter which to me was the book.

To me it is a Midwestern novel. No surprise here since the Lamberts are from the Midwest and the  novel pivots around getting together for a last Christmas before Albert the father goes permanently insane and general implosion occurs among the Lambert siblings.  The majority of the novel takes place in the East where the Lambert children struggle through their lives. Like The Great Gatsby we are watching that essentially Midwestern morality bang up against the early twenty first century decadence of America before 9/11. In this way we have an unfair advantage, we know about the planes to come.

But the novel circles back to St Jude and here is where the novel shines. The last days of Albert Lambert and truly the last days of twentieth century America play out in the Lambert household as a movie that has become old, sentimental, and horribly dysfunctional. Nothing fits anymore and the ragged warmth of the Midwest is much like the warm ragged center of the world  for Nick Caraway when he returned from the war in Gastby. The house and the rituals are all in place but they are vestiges of a world that no longer exists. Truly, the horror of the last pages is no one has any place anymore in the world. The stage is set for that fateful day in September

The Corrections is a perfect snapshot of our pre 9/11 World . More than that it pegs that WW II generations fierce devotion to ritual at all costs and shows the futility of those rituals in a world that no longer is anchored in the American century. Lets see where Freedom picks up.

William Hazegrove's novel Rocket Man is due on in the fall.
A Catcher in the Rye for the forty something generation
http://www.billhazelgrove.com/

The Oprah Conundrum--I doubt Franzen will insult her this time

Let me  start out by saying I didn't read Freedom yet. I am working my way through The Corrections and hope to take on Freedom next week. But of course Oprah has picked Jonathan Franzen's new book and the publishing world rejoices. Feels like old times again. A major work of fiction comes out and the big kahuna picks it for her club and the book is number one on the NY Times bestseller list and people are reading again again and nobody is talking Ebooks or a Napster like catastrophe. With everything going so well, I really don't see Franzen calling Oprah's picks cheesy this time around.

That is the Oprah conundrum for the writer of serious fiction. You sure want that blessing at the same time you secretly think your book is better than a lot of those Oprah I was saved in the nick of time bestsellers. There is something in fiction writers that makes them want to be taken seriously and read by nicotine stained scholars in musty libraries and at the same time they want their books to fly off racks in airports. Don't we all? It is this conundrum that being an Oprah pick brings to the front--the literary writer singled out for saleability if not readability.

Franzen zapped the Queen on his first book and was shown the door. I remember my agent shaking his head saying Franzen had really shot himself in the book. Elitist. Snob. The other names were much worse. Worst thing was Oprah was pissed. A decided No No in the publishing world. She is the locomotive of sales in the publishing world and this snot nosed author had insulted her and now his book would suffer. It didn't really. The Corrections kept chugging along and so did Franzen and now he is back in the saddle again with the big ladies nod.

But I don't see Franzen doing it again. First his point was made and everyone knew his point.  Oprah is a talk show host who likes books and it has been a great thing. But she is not a literary critic and has picked books without great merit. So what? It happens. But again we go back to that strange bird which is the writer of literary fiction. The whole reason to write serious fiction has nothing to do with sales. It is only after the fact you are thrown out there to push your wares like a shoe salesman. Writers don't like to see themselves that way and having the biggest shoe saleswoman of them all like your book makes one fact inescapable...your book is a piece of commerce and you better keep your mouth shut.

William Hazelgrove's novel Rocket Man is due out in the fall.
www.billhazelgrove.com

Getting on Oprah 101

There should be a starting line with a guy waving a checkered flag. A man with a starting gun who looks at his watch and then fires his starting pistol. All authors then heave their books toward Harpo Studios and whoever hits Oprahs feet gets their book picked for her Book Club. The streets and the Chicago river would be littered with thousands and thousands of books not thrown with enough might, enough sweat, enough desire to break the magic boundaries of the Oprahs inner sanctum.

Franzen walks in after dissing her with his last book. Some guys have all the luck. Most authors cant' beg borrow or steal their way into her book club. It is a curious mix of what? A good story, a dog story, a story of Midwestern families? Maybe it isn't story at all. Maybe it is a curious mix of who you know and how much moxie your publisher has. Or maybe you just haven't had a hard enough life to lift yourself into the I saw the light crowd and overcame drugs, alcohol sex. Maybe you just don't have a story to tell.

Of course one doesn't really know what gets Oprah to pick a book. Some say you have to get her best friend Gail read the book. Some say  you have to hope that someone in her audience recommends a book to her. Some say there is simply no sure way to get into her book club and you might as well buy a lottery ticket. There used to charges of favoring minorities but that went away. Maybe, maybe you just have to write a really good book and let the chips fall. Nah.

William Hazelgrove's novel Rocket Man is out in the fall
http://www.billhazelgrove.com/

Preflight

My father is a traveling salesman, that peculiar brand of Willy Loman that actually loves the natural flight of American selling. When I was
a boy, I thought of him as a man who appeared on Fridays when we had a steak and ice cream for dessert. After dinner, my father would
watch whatever football game was on television and fall asleep with his mouth open, tie loosened, hand over his brow as if he had just finished
one hell of a race.

I usually waited until he woke to tell him of my latest
achievement and show him my banana bike and collection of baseball
cards. But I had a brother who demanded his small time with him also,
so when my time came, it was usually just before he ran for his car,
briefcase in hand, and waved away another week.
But there was one time I remember where I had him all to myself.
For Christmas, my parents had given me an Estes Rocket Set. It was an
amazing toy with a launcher, rocket engines and the giant Saturn Five
Rocket that had conquered the moon a decade before. I stayed up late
gluing the white fuselage together, packing the parachute and inserting
the four D engines. The day after Christmas, my father and I walked to
a field to launch my rocket. We walked through the tall weeds painted
orange by the sun low on the horizon. He kept his hands in his pockets
while I carried the rocket and the launcher packed with batteries to fire
the rocket. We crunched through the frozen mud until we reached the
middle of the field.

Twilight simmered beyond the big pines and thin blue
snow dusted the ground. I put the launcher down and stretched the wires
to the control pad. My Saturn Five rocket was a beast. It took four D engines with two parachutes and four wadded sheets to keep the ejection charge from burning the chute up.
“Looks like we are launching Apollo 11,” my father murmured while
I threaded the Saturn Five onto the launch wire and connected the igniter wires to the four D engines. All four engines had to ignite or my Saturn Five would go off at a crazy angle and heave
into the ground. I checked the igniters and made sure they were shoved
far up into the engines. My father stamped his feet and kept his hands
in his pockets.
“You think this thing will go, boy?”
I looked at the man smoking a Pall Mall, his long Brooks Brothers
coat waving.
“Think so.”
“So this is what you do all week while I’m gone, boy?”
“Yup.”
My father smoked without his hands.
“Well, hurry up, boy. It’s going to be dark soon.”
I turned and walked back to the launch control and inserted the key.
The light glowed ready.
“You might move back, Dad.”
He looked over and snuffed the cigarette out, crunching through the
frozen mud. He was already looking at the distant cars on the highway,
thinking about his next appointment, gassing up, pointing that company
car back to the highway. He turned back and nodded to me.
“Well, blast it off, boy.”
I stared at my Saturn Five, a colossus of white and black with USA
going up the side in red letters. I began to count down.
“Five, four, three, two, one …”
I pressed the button on my launcher as the ready light flickered out.
There was the slight hiss of the sulfur igniters and for a moment the
rocket didn’t move. Then the four D engines caught fire, and whoosh!
The fire bent out and burned the weeds below the launcher, and suddenly
the Saturn Five was gone. A fiery tail burned high up in the cold sky as

the rocket leaned over slightly and left a white vapor trail across the early
stars.
“Jesus Christ!”
My father continued staring up while I stamped out the weed fire.
The ejection charge fired and the chutes blossomed, but I could see the
Saturn Five had gone too high for the wind and the time of day. It was
getting dark, and that rocket was sailing fast into the west, a white
satellite against a darkening blue palate.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Boy, that
sonofabitch really flew.”
I put my hand up, and I saw the Saturn Five drifting away; a gold
colossus hanging by four parachutes.
“Aren’t you going after it, boy?”
I shook my head solemnly.
“No, it’s gone,” I murmured, watching the rocket drift past the field.
“There’s too much wind.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
My father kept his neck craned to the sky and put his hands on my
shoulders. That’s what I remember. I think it was the only time we
were really together, watching that rocket disappear into the coal sky.

Rocket Man--
http://www.billhazelgrove.com/

The Faulty Memory of Fame

Publishing is a rough game and has a long memory. The gentleman who forgot that he didn't receive food at the wire of a concentration camp not only forgot it once on Oprah, but twice. Twice he went onto the biggest media platform in the world and repeated his story. Then he forgot when he signed the movie deal, the book deal and the host of other goodies that go along with the slam dunk of the literary world. Then he remembered when he got busted. He is older. There is a picture of him and his wife. Nice couple. He is now spinning the canard that he just wanted to make the world a better place. PLEASE. Ok. We understand he saw a moment of glory when he entered the same story in a literary contest and won ten years ago. Then he really blew his socks off when Oprah called. He went from king of Bridge to insta-celeb. Everyone was calling. Agents, publishers, producers, go man go! His life up to this point had been a sleepy walk of normalcy. Then WHAM! Just a small lie and he is in the stratosphere of fame and fortune. Then...busted. Now he whined that "He just wanted to bring a little happiness to the world."BULL#%&*. What he wanted was a little fame and a little fortune. Not to be blamed for avarice or the white hot light of the spotlight--but to think he can turn back into the lovable codger...I don't think so. Like James Frey and every one else, there was another woman from Yale who plagiarized a novel--he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Alright. He tried and blew it. Take thy medicine, but don't whine about being Gandhi and things just got out of hand. This gentleman has already signed with another house that will turn his tale into fiction. Fiction would ascribe a higher purpose. I think the only higher purpose here would be for the gain of the man who lied.

Mount Oprah

You should be on Oprah. Oprah would love your book. Maybe she would and maybe she wouldn't. But as a man with a book out I hear this about every other day. Strange dynamic. Publishing a book so the end result will be an endorsement by a single person. In the age of everyman fame, Oprah is certainly the lottery ticket to the sure milk of immortality if not wealth. But of course one has to get there. I received a call yesterday. Mr. Hazelgrove, we would like to publish your next book. Oh really. I can hear other voices in the background. Yes, this is blankety blank and we want to publish your book. I recognized the vanity press. Well my book has just come out I say and of course the call is terminated. No prospects here. Even self publishing is in a downturn. There is no shame in self publishing. Great writers have done it through time, but the wholesale Juggernaut of instafame is something new. All eyes on the prize we do whatever flips trained seals must to get to the top of the pyramid. I get it. I really do. The man who told Oprah he received food from a long lost lover in a concentration camp got it too. He just made it up. So did James Frey. Can you blame them? Morality says yes, but reality says they are just doing whatever they can to get to the final stop on Mount Rich and Famous. A lot of people talk about the American Dream, but of course the dirty little secret is that we are covetous old sinners who want that final branch, the one that says we are not just a blip on the radar screen of mortality but someone special, someone different, the star that flashes out of the night and we all sit in wonder. But there are only so many seats on that Oprah set, a couch that Tom Cruise destroyed his career on and another seat for Oprah. After that, it is every man and woman for themself.

The Call of Fame

The phone rings. I glance at the clock. Six A.M.
"Hello," I mumbled groggily."Mr. Hazelgrove, sir! I know it's early, but have you seen the paper?"
I stare at the ceiling with sleep circling somewhere above."No," I mumble."Sir," this very agitated voice continues. "You are PAGE ONE in the Chicago Tribune!""Page One," I repeat, sitting up. "YES SIR! This is John Tabot from Fox 32 television and we were wondering, sir, if you would consider being on the morning show?"
I hold my head, fog clearing by the second. "When?"
"This morning, sir! We have a crew standing by that can meet you at the attic, and we'll broadcast live! Can you meet us at 7?""I'll be there."I hang up the phone and run to the bathroom. My wife has just emerged from the shadow."That was Fox 32...They saw the Tribune article and want me live TV from Hemingway's attic," I say breathlessly."I'll watch the baby, "she says before I can ask.
Now I'm excited. It has all the earmarks. Awaked by a producer who wants me on television. I was being, dare I say, discovered! That was the way it always was, wasn't it? The writer from nowhere submits the dogeared manuscript to the sleepy editor and genius is discoveredon a nondescript morning. Wasn't that the way it happened to Fitzgerald and Hemingway? Waking one morning to find that and fortune hadknocked on their doors. I had opened that door many times to find no one there.



In the early part of the century, Fitzgerald was pulled from anuncertain career in advertising and Hemingway rescued from obscurity on Paris's Left Bank y the legendary editor Max Perkins. Their books published , the writers were left to explore the world. Fitzgerald went on a 10 year party from New York to Paris to Switzerland and back to New York. Hemingway drained absinthefrom cafes in Paris, then on Africa, the Germans, loyalist Spain, and basically had a hell of a time while his books propelled him on. That was the fare modern writers grew up hearing. That was the way it was then. Now lets take a modern writer such as myself. After more than 100 rejection letters, I found a printer in Chicago who would bring out my first novel. A printer. Max Perkins had changed vocations. My book, RIPPLES, recieved critical praise. I kept my job on the night shift in a bakery. My second book, armed with the good review of first, was roundly rejected again. I went back to the printer. My second go round started with a starred review from Publishers Weekly for Tobacco Sticks. After 10 years publishers came knocking, I sold the paperback rights, the foreign rights, Book of the Month Club rights, even the movie rights. I recieved money. it was time to explore the world as my predecessors had and reap forturnes bounty. But it is the late 20th century. Things change. Oh, it was time to hit the road alright. Muncie Indianna was where I started with a book signing. Then I was off to the South , pushing my novel in the area where it would be read, talking to newspapers, TV stations and radio along the way. This was gritty hard work. Not even remotely glamourous. Where the hell were the book parties? The tete-a-tetes on the Left Bank? The drunken brawls of the success in the Plaza Hotel?
The literary author of today must write what he or she believes in or perish. It is the only way one can stay with it. The money is scant for so long, the work outrageous, the future uncertain. But the work drives one. The novel becomes a grail that, like your children, you will do anything for. In todays mass culture the task is titanic. To quote a rejection letter from an agent, "You write well, but unfortunately, seriel sex muders are what is selling. Keep at it. Quietly good books get published."
Still, one cannot help but feel a little like the huckster. Wasn'ttalent supposed to be discovered? Wasn't a book supposed to catch fire like a lightning storm in a dry forest? It seems unnatural to fight for something that should be natural. Surely the days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald can't be completely gone. But now I'm writing in Hemingway's attic and the paperback of TOBACCO STICKS is just out. I dress quickly because fame has finally knocked on my door. I am about to leave when the phone rings.
"Mr. Hazelgrove, sir, this is John Tabot the producer at Fox 32.
"Yes, I'm on my way.""Yes sir, well...there is a fire on the west side and our crew has been called away...so we're going to have to wait on this.""I see," I say slowly.
"But listen, we can do this sometime in the future...Let me know if you get in PEOPLE magazine and we'll do it for sure."
I hang up the phone. Fame, that willowing ghost had slipped away again. I look at the front door then open it. There is the dewy morning and the sun on the porch. I close the door slowly and stand there. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear I heard someone knocking.