Industry Professionals

Successful, award-winning writers are never, ever plagiarizers. And, hey, do I have some prime swamp land for you, because plot concepts, zingers, titles, character names, and traits, and anything else that isn’t nailed down, or “protected” by a U.S. Copyright is up for grabs. So, what are the choices?  To be a turnip that fell off the truck, or wear a tinfoil hat? I want a middle path, because believing in conspiracies nowadays, is equated with believing in Santa Claus, Unicorns, and .the Tooth Fairy, and nobody wants to be a turnip. (Especially, a turnip that just fell off the truck.) But conspiracies exist, and there’s a reason why plagiarism is in the dictionary. And I hope you’re sitting down, because, yar, matey, there be wrong-doing in this world. (Where’s the Lone Ranger when you need him—drinking with Superman?, and how does an old fart, like me, remember the Lone Ranger & Tonto—Hi-yo, Silver—-what, Jay Silver Heels is tied up again?. 

Anyway, about a decade ago, I did a thing that’s just not done. Namely, I called up the semi-famous screenplay contest, and I said, yo, I deserve better. (Or at least, my screenplay does. “I worked many hours on it, and it’s damn good.” Or words to that effect, because who remembers exactly what they said many years ago? And only God knows what I thought I’d gain with my unprofessional behavior. Obviously, I believed my contest entry had no’t been treated fairly. I used to believe in fair.) Anyhow, the Contest Guy took the time to explain—incredible—that my screenplay had received two readings by Industry Professionals. One Industry Pro ranked my story highly, but the second thought my screenplay sucked, that it was an outright loser, a total stinker. When I observed aloud that the discrepancy was suspicious, the Contest Guy hung up on me.

So, what’s my point? Just that I think that I was plagiarized. Crime doesn’t get any easier, or more difficult to prove, because whoever gets there first wins. As an example of what could happen: An Industry Professional, who once upon a time had a hit series, might send an Authorized Representative to a semi-famous screenplay contest to read in their stead. Then at said contest, the Authorized Representative lifts a promising idea. It’s as easy as taking homework home. If cornered, “Coincidence” is the blanket term that plagiarizers favor, (There’s more people in the world than there’s stories to write about, they claim—highly debatable—especially when “coincidence” is stretched beyond credibility. Call me paranoid, but plagiarism exists. Manuscripts are “borrowed” (from contests and other sources) to copy and sell. The honor system only works when there’s honor. “Not in this world,” cries the turnip. Because Hollywood is honest and sane, because—splutters—what if it’s not?

What if the mistress loves mink? And who’s going to pay for the pool that the kids splash in, re-up the wife’s credit card, and cover those pesky expenses. Besides, who cares if some obscure, poor writer whines about plagiarism?

BTW, here in the land of free speech, I think it’s ironic that U. S. Courts are allowed to issue a Gag Order, whereby any discussion of verdicts and opinions of U.S. law and its application is made illegal in a country where free speech. supposedly prevails.

Indeed, here in the good ol’ USA,  truth tellers are called Whistle Blowers, and Ancient Forests are called Old Growth. The epithets are no accident. The epithets nave been chosen to eradicate magic and beauty. People scoff. Who cares, they say, but I doubt that those people have ever seen—better hurry—an Ancient, Cathedral Forest. If our Congress votes to clear cut a portion of our National Forest Heritage, that legislation is entitled something similar to: Clean Water, Blue Skies. and Pristine Forests Forever. Because titles matter—-especially, in a world that’s in Hurry-up Mode.

A dictator once said, “The bigger the lie, the more people will believe it.” Well, there’s a lot of big lies making the rounds these days. Best to carry a grain of salt with you at all times. (Salt helps the daily b.s. go down better than SI (Silly Idealism). You may have heard of T & A, but what about T & J? (The concept of Truth & Justice died with the dinosaurs. And speaking of dinosaurs, and other cliches,  I used to believe the Feds would protect my rights. (Just a few years ago, I paid $10 to copyright a novel. Now I pay $40, and the Feds demand a second copyright upon publication. So what’s protected for the mandatory $40 x 2?

When I was young, I wrote a novel called, “IN DUE TIME,” a bad title, I think, as it lacks intrigue and a verb. As titles go, it’s as sexy as a raincoat, “catchy” as a tangled net. As I say—-bad. But the story works, a story about a man, who accidentally time-travels to the Old West. Anyway, if I ever get the chance to re-title my book, I’ll call it, “THE ZEN GUN KID.” (Because who needs a verb?). But, yes, I believe my story was plagiarized..For alll you care.

My novel, I think,, was founded on a novel idea, and I believe a pioneering work. It mixed genres back in 1983 when genres were segregated. Back then, Sci -fi/Westerns didn’t exist. I didn’t decide to be a pioneer, I only wanted to entertain. Just as I didn’t sit myself down and decide to tell the truth. (I had a friend, who claims the truth almost got him divorced. Last I heard, though, he’s still married. So, I assume that he’s back to lying as needed.)

I’ll always remember the older couple, whose devastated faces hushed the quiet hospital elevator that my friend and I were riding. (He had called the automated female voice a “tart.”) Anyhoo, the wife brightened when her man promised that, “Everything’s going to be all right.” (I mean, there’s almost zero chance a terminal diagnosis can stand up to a force like Denial.)

Anyhow, “IN DUE TIME,”  broke new literary ground. A black bounty hunter, and a time traveler in the Old West were its most notable innovations. Again, I did not try to be new. I merely sought to keep the pages turning, and pioneers, who lack credentials, get shafted. Pioneers, by definition, think outside the box. Generally, Industry Professionals allow established authors some leeway, some originality, but established authors prefer to color inside the lines,, because playing it safe is easier, and does not jeopardize status. Genres, therefore, tend to stay put. “A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING AUTHOR’S COURT” was the lone exception, I believe. I’m inclined to applaud exceptions, but “A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING AUTHOR’S COURT,” by the American icon, Mark Twain, fails to entertain. In fact, it bores, sadly bogging down early. One consolation, is that the novel offers an alternate destination for Time Travelers—the medieval in lieu of the future. And nowadays, time travelers may show up anywhere in the pages of fiction. Provided, of course. that Industry Professionals approve.

But unlike Mark Twain, I’m not a best-selling commodity. and I lack the decency to be dead. Also, I don’t have a degree. Plus, I have no publishing history. Such was my naivete that I thought that if I wrote an entertaining novel, the NYLE (New York Literary Establishment) wouldn’t care about anything else. But I had no pedigree, and ravenous literary sharks circled my story and took bites. And the sharks had wives, mistresses, and egos to feed, and my time-traveling Western was bleeding in the water—-and I had no tourniquet.

Industry Professionals pretend that creativity can be taught—speaking of naivete. Because no matter how expensive the class, or how prestigious the teacher, creativity cannot be taught. (Although styles may be studied.) At the end of the day, though, all that counts is what’s on the page and in the fridge. And what’s on TV matters most.. Because money is a mirage. Plenty of money leads to boredom. (Studies, of a substantial sample size, show that, after six months, winning the lottery and becoming a paraplegic tend to return to former happiness levels..) (I almost wrote ample sample, but narrowly avoided that rhyme.) But In other words, after about half a year, extreme highs and lows of fortune, do not move one’s Happiness Needle. That makes money (Oh, the filthy lucre!) the head honcho of false happiness. Money buys time and other useful shit, here in the busy meanwhile, but at the end of the game, money won’t buy a breath.

And, naturally, if you don’t have the dough-re-mi, you have to sell chunks of your life to make the rent and keep breathing, until, one fine day, Death terminates you. Death, by the way, has a scythe, a hoodie, and no interest in money.)

The quality of writing that Industry Professionals most value seems to be writing that produces a money trail. Sure, quality matters, but if the words makes money, well, that’s downright holy. And if the writing’s not junk, that’s okay..

Mostly, I think, Industry Professionals don’t have the talent to recognize talent. And even if they do, the priority of editors, agents, critics, creative directors, and other so-called entertainment gurus is to protect their cushy jobs, by promoting “artists,” of every stripe, As long, as said stripe is in the black. (Why do i go on about the hypocrisy? you aren’t interested, but what should I write about, instead.? Shall I make another sudden and awkward subject change to say that my novel will either take-off, sink like a stone, or perform somewhere in between.

And the critics may be harsh. The critics may club me with the D-word—-call me derivative. A cold-fish slap, for what is derivative, but lesser plagiarism? But whatever happens to the book, I’ll still be older than I want to be. I just hope to get it out there. I guess I want applause. I can take a bow. But who to? Maybe I’ll do the Elvis—-”Thank you, thank you very much.” ( I hope I get to say, “Thank you.” God knows, I seem to want to, though I don’t expect anything from it—-a fleeting happiness, at best, before I disappear..

Recently, I saw a movie that I thought was derivative of my novel. It turns out, though, that the movie was made before I ever wrote a word of this book. So, suspicion is cast my way now. If it wasn’t—-big yawn—-before. (It may look bad, your Honor, but I swear (on my novel) that I took nothing from that movie. Besides, only one third of my plot, could be viewed as derivative.)

But Hollywood still gets the finger, as does the NYLE, and any applicable literary critics, because, in my novel, the wife and the husband don’t stay together. (In Hollywood and New York, the husband and wife usually stay together, however wayward their wanderings. Besides, all my characters are old, and four of them are poor. Therefore, they don’t qualify as derivative.

The few friends that I had no longer like me, Therefore, I may have written a good book. Not staying sorted is a major offense, evidently, and results in unpopularity. (There’s more ways than one to end up unpopular, and It seem that on my merry way to nowhere, I have given offense, and lost my love-able status several times over.. If I ever had said status.) Love-able losers do few things well, but writing can be one of them. (Here’s hoping I’ve written well. I know I tried.) And if the adjective tolerated is substituted for love-able, things get real in a hurry.

Maybe I’m simply an asshole, but as a former President once said, “If you need a friend, get a dog.” And a best-selling author once claimed that he came from a sprawling city where nobody wished anybody well, at least, not sincerely. Then there was the actor, who starred in a blockbuster movie. The plum part made the actor famous, but it cost him all his friends. So, is it me, or is it other people? Who knows? Dr, Sigmund Freud believed that people need to feel superior to each other. And if I’ve raised this borrowed point before, and do so again, it’s partly because even though, we’re all better at some things than others, it certainly seems that Dr. Freud was onto something. Anyway, I may not be an asshole, and I would hate to identify as such. In my defense, I don’t think that I try to take advantage of people. Mostly, it seems that I need to be a squeakier wheel. I lambast some anonymous people in my writing, but soon we’’ll all disappear.So, it matters not

But I don’t bring much to the table, because loyalty, domestic work, and a good laugh don’t pay the bills. Time was, I pulled my weight, almost, but that time is gone. And if you hurt my feelings, chances are, I’ll want a heartfelt apology. Too bad so few can do that kind of heavy lifting.

But off topic now—whatever the topic is/was—-, I recall a mystical moment from when I was young, sitting in a corporate restaurant, holding court, making people laugh. We gazed out of the plate glass at the sad expressway, and I didn’t realize what a rare feeling it was—-to be happy.  

But getting back to recent times, I’ve been working without a net, trying to write the best I can. No one cares, but writing is all I have., and writing sometimes doesn’t do it. Everybody suffers.. And nobody cares—-why I’m not a squeaky wheel. But one improvement has led to another, and now my novel is finished. Great, but what do I write now? I could use an encouraging word and an ear, I whine, but the book gave me something to do. I like to believe, though, that if I knew someone, who designed ( and built) hamster mazes, or was in training to climb mountains—with or without a rope—-write a book, or was otherwise committed to a life that didn’t pay a dime, 40-50  hours a week, that I’d be curious. that I’d ask questions. I might even (gasp) offer encouragement. I bet I would—-freak that I am. (I guess we all need to bitch, is what I’m saying.)

Sounds like I need a pat on the back. How greedy/needy is that? Thankfully, there’s blogs. If I don’t kill myself first. That’s so melodramatic, to put it like that, but I’m out here with you guys on the metaphorical decks of the Titanic. I said that, already, but it’s a lovely evening, a bit eerie, perhaps. Because by all accounts, we’re going down, and the water’s cold. Supposedly, we won’t feel it for long. Supposedly, we can drop or complaints to the black hole. (I much preferred Jesus. And I’m jealous of other cultures/tribes that believe in Jesus and family. (My mother ( now dead) once told me that she’d read my book. (I knew not to ask her if she liked it.) (She once called me a son of a bitch).

Well, the joke’s on me again. Because whom do I write for, if I have no friends? The ghost of Old Lady Crabtree made me write “whom” just now. (I never utter that word aloud. Nor do I hang with anyone who does. I don’t even think whom. Yet I just used the word. Oh, whom was I trying to impress? I wonder. Intellectually, I don’t feel superior or inferior to anybody, Dr. Freud. But emotionally is a different story. And Fate, God, or Karma willing, I hope to finish three more books before I check out, go blind, or become incapacitated (being dead counts, as well.(I was going to write “get laid up,” but that option would end my sentence with a preposition. And I wouldn’’t want to upset Ms. Crabtree, or her ghost.

But speaking of Industry Professionals, we’re about out of time, folks. First, though, I have yet another unproven theory. Specifically, that the vast majority of Industry Professionals, originate amongst the wealthy, because the middle and lower classes struggle to raise the money to send a kid to college. Most parents with modest incomes, I believe, seek a “practical” education for their offspring. A degree in law, business, or medicine is seen as a passport to a better life, and a “practical degree” gives economically-challenged parents more bang for their buck. Whereas art, or some other esoteric discipline, is seen as an indulgence.

Only the wealthy, therefore, willingly pay for an art degree. I think the very rich reason that if an art degree, or some other effete factor doesn’t create direction for their plain-Jane daughter, or misfit son, they’ll marry them off and stash them in the Hamptons. Let some other wealthy family aid their homely daughter with a trust fund, provide rascally Tobias, or plain Jane with a desk at the Muck Factory .

Usurpation is not the worst consequence of an Industry Professional’s incompetence. Consider “A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES,” by John Kennedy O’Toole, The book was “unsuccessfully” offered to a major New York publishing house. The editor at said house, an Industry Professional by default, rejected “A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES,” as “unfit for publication.” But through the subsequent struggles of O’Toole’s mother, the book won the author a posthumous Pulitzer Prize and became a worldwide bestseller.

The hero of “A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES,” is an obese non-conformist, who finds modern life hellish and just plain wrong. The high-placed Industry Professional deemed Ignatius J. Reilly’s story non commercial. I believe “A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES,” despite its charms, may have been a bit too original for a major house on the banks of the NYLE. Although no publisher would ever admit as much.

Another casualty of Industry Professionals was, “LORD OF THE BARNYARD,” by Tristan Egolf. “LORD OF THE BARNYARD” received 79 rejections from American editors. Most of the critics in this country backed up those 79 U.S. editors, giving “LORD OF THE BARNYARD reviews that were either indifferent or scathing. The book, however, earned enthusiastic acclaim throughout Europe. Occasionally, a U.S. critic praised it wildly, as well. For example, a review in a San Francisco newspaper deemed “LORD OF THE BARNYARD “a breath of fresh air”—-stale, but sincere praise.

“LORD OF THE BARNYARD,” like “A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES” :is an unconventional book that often made me laugh out loud. But the novel, and its criticisms of the American Way of Life was not appreciated by the powers-that-be, and both Mr. Egolf’ s and Mr. O’Toole’s literary careers were abbreviated by suicide. Mr. Egolf, from what I’ve read, was a selfish individual. He wrote a boring. unfinished novel about a werewolf. But his two-page description of the Werewolf, itself, was electric and worthy of attention, or, at the very least, a mention.

A further example of the errors of Industry Professionals is provided by no less a masterpiece than “THE CATCHER IN THE RYE.” A pair of editors at a famous New York Magazine advised J. D. Salinger to not publish the book. Both editors concluded that the main character, Holden Caulfield, was too negative and an alcoholic. The editors advised Mr. Salinger to file “THE CATCHER IN THE RYE.” in a drawer. Mr. Salinger rejected the advice of these two well-credentialed Industry Professionals, and despite their educated misgivings, “THE CATCHER IN THE RYE” has sold over 65 million copies to date. (I know, I know, I mention this fact elsewhere. Apparently, it made an impression.)