Cue music, Rebel Fanfare-Episode IV

The Death Star rises above the horizon.

A Rebel Alliance guard stands his post. “Tatooine sucks,” he spits.

He wipes his bloody face with a crusty glove and checks his blaster’s magazine.

Cue Voice-over

He knows his place in life--and in death, a cog in a wheel with
broken teeth.

His maniacal devotion to salvation through death-spree is understood.

“I’ll be lucky to get off a shot before it vaporizes this hell hole,” he grunts.

What’s a dead man to do?

“Eat Vader Crunch.” The soldier holds up a chocolate bar and smiles.

Deb clenched the half-eaten star crunch between her teeth as she locked the magazine into place.

Like hell! Another cog in that effer’s machine…

She bit into the gooey goodness, enjoying the pop of crisped rice--like shattering bone--in her mouth.

No killing spree. Just one shot to his pompous head.Deb swallowed the last bite, and let the target’s face fill her scope.

With caramel sweetness on her tongue, a squeezed trigger released a flash of quick-death. Blindsided by the assassin, Deb’s body slammed to the ground, pinning the discarded cellophane of her final meal.

He slips from his "deathbed," removes the revolver from under the pillow, and slinks to the guard station outside his hospital room.
His shoes crunch on discarded pistachio shells.
"Useless rent-a-cop. Off chatting up the nurses again?"
He spies the Star Intelligencer magazine's headline: "Dying Detective Baffled By Crime Spree."
He frowns.
"Bunkum! Forget my reputation. The murders shall be avenged."
He sneaks out.
Later, the police burst in.
"The killer returned to the crime scene. Someone shot him. Who'd a'thunk it?"
He smiles.
"Haven't you heard of cognitive dissonance? Once the killer believed I was dying, he got sloppy."

As a kid, I wanted to be a superhero. Guess most do. Thwarting crime sprees. Knocking bad guys out as word bubbles burst around me.

Bam!

Wham!

Crunch!

No star status for me, though. Didn’t need the adoring fans. I was content to be a simple cog in the machine of justice.

But I realized something along the way. It might’ve been when I emptied that magazine into her lying face. Or it could have been that even this action couldn’t erase her mocking smile from my mind. Regardless, I held my new fact as truth.

Villains get results.

“What do you mean, it’s under the sealion?”

Kerry dropped her backpack to the ground. “I mean, that sealion just flopped onto the bench. If your wallet isn’t on the ground, it’s under the sealion.”

Marlie scrunched her magazine and stared helplessly at the snoozing beast. “Well, now what?”

The nature reserve guide blasted his whistle. The other tourists, in their too-big hats and too-high shorts, startled and shuffled forward.

High above, the capuchin swiftly liberated Marlie’s credit cards, tossing the wallet with the others from his crime spree. Winking at his accomplice below, he retreated unrecognized through the trees.

I check the magazine in my rifle and peer over the bunker. Neither star in the sky nor Bosche on the field. I hate night patrol. I want to be in my bunk. Captain says we might go over tomorrow. Finally be done with this war. I hear a crunch. Over by the barn—I see him. Whiskey flask in hand, he’s preening himself in the reflection. I raise my rifle. One quick pop, one less cog in the German fighting machine. I pause. No—let him have his drink. He’ll be dead by tomorrow afternoon. We might all be.

The time it takes to smoke a cig, no longer. Crunch time, then, and I book.

I’m a driver. A star at getting bank robbers on a spree the hell outta there. On the seat a MAC-10, a fifty-clip magazine attached. Backup if we slip a cog and all goes to hell.

They come running.

Wheels crunch as I maneuver the pickup.

They pile in.

Sirens wail. Our way blocked.
Shit!

Grab the MAC and cheese it out the door.

Open up, running. Grease the clip.

Shit outta. Cut down.

Fucking, cig. Screwed up and bought extra longs.

Reagan, careful to avoid crunching any debris underfoot, snuck up on Nixon.

“Gimmeallyourmoney!” he yelled.

The effeminate timbre of Nixon’s shriek surprised Reagan.

“You scream like a girl,” Reagan razzed. “Scared the shit out of you, didn’t I?”

“You just startled me.” Nixon resumed counting.

“Think they recognized us?” Reagan asked.

“In these?” Nixon said, pointing at his molded rubber face. He set the last stack of bills on the table. “Not exactly the spree of the century, but it beats mopping floors.”

“So, 50-50, right?”

Nixon double-checked his Glock’s magazine. He chambered a round.

“Actually, I was thinking 100-0.”

- You remember Sprees? I loved Sprees. Kinda like Sweet Tarts, only they weren’t sour.
- No. Hold this.
- Stacey and I used to ride our bikes up to the gas station. It was like two miles away or something. God, a mile felt like forever back then, didn’t it?
- What? Yeah, sure.
- She’d read the magazines, and the cashier would yell at her while I put Sprees and shit in my pockets. Wha’d you like when you were a kid?
- I don’t know . . . Star Crunch?
- Really?
- Yeah. Hand me Sam’s head.
- Shit! I didn’t even recognize him.

Ellie chomped her Cap’n Crunch with confidence, calmly reading the back of the cereal box. She savored the Crunch Berries – those colorful nuggets the real star of the breakfast bowl. There was no rush, no mad dash to sit in traffic this morning.

No longer a cog in the corporate machine. The crooked executives saw to that.

She finished her bowl, rinsed it out. Thumbed a magazine, locked it in place, then slung the rifle over her shoulder. Ready for her spree.

Just because she no longer worked at PaperTech didn’t mean she wouldn’t be going to the office today.

She set out at dawn, truck and trailer tires quietly crunching gravel. She hadn't forgotten anything. Negative coggins, tack, clothes, and most importantly, Spree herself. Everything she needed. She checked the side view, wanting to see the mare's heart-shaped star. Seeing the star meant everything was okay. On the bench seat beside her sat a glossy magazine, advertising the glories of Scottsdale, Arizona. Mecca of the Arabian horse world. She wondered what he'd think, how long would it take him to figure it out. Whether he'd even care. She checked the side view again. Saw the star. Everything was okay.

They're identical — Craig and Greg Schmeg. So, I’m not sure which one is responsible for the killing spree that left my partner dead.

It's crunch-time and they both just mumble, losing their one chance to give me a cogent reason not to pull the trigger. Berserk, I empty the magazine.

A facial scar, a star-shaped birthmark, a mother who didn't give them matchy-matchy names — any one of these things could have saved the innocent twin. Sure, now one has three bullets in his head and the other has two, that's distinguishing, but kinda after the point.

Glossy pages crunched in her fist.
“I am a STAR. They can’t DO THIS!” She screeched in full operatic fury.
“Darling,” he said, “If you don’t want to be recognized…”
She hurled the sweeteners with an inarticulate snarl. Packets of saccharine rained down.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have your little sprees in the West End.” he finished, wearily. A marvelous Isolde. He reminded himself.
She tore into the magazine. Shreds of skin and scandal fluttered.
“I’ll handle it.” He’d already gotten the journalist’s address and a new gun. An agent had to protect his client. At all costs.

His name was Cog, short for “Cog in the Wheel of Destiny” out of “Fancy of Borneo’s Pleasure” and an unnamed sire. The magazine crunched under his piggy feet as he crossed his cage to Noleen.

“I wuuuv you Coggy Woggy!” Noleen kissed his twitchy nose. “You're my 'lil star.”

At the zenith of a winning spree, Cog was almost a shoe in to win the Grand Guinea. Almost.

Reckless Pleasure, a brown and white male, also out of Fancy, was making a comeback. Reckless had the advantage. One generation less inbred and one cage over. Reckless was Cog’s father.

For thirty seven years, Tyler Timmons lived his life as a common man… just an insignificant cog in life’s machine. Then one day he woke up with aspirations of becoming a star. In his dreams he had envisioned his face gracing the cover of People Magazine.
From that day forth he concentrated on acting and singing, hoping to make a name for himself. Unfortunately, he was terrible at both.
Then one day Tyler reached his goal. He finally made the cover of multiple publications. The caption under his picture in People read:
Coming to grips with a lunatic’s killing spree.

Slinking up the slope, I slip another magazine of electric cogs into my ailing blaster. Have to make it the last 300 feet to my starship – without cover.

Five punk crimers on a killing spree and I’m the only one left – a ten year old girl. Suck it up, Dejah.

I zap the two closest crimers and my blaster dies on the third.

As he inspects the fallen, I jump out and charge him. Twice my size, I leap and smash his chest with my blaster. Crunch!

Phasing through the door, I take off, singing the last two.

Now what?

The wooden fence on the side of the canyon road gave way with a satisfying crunch. The cliff turned out to be higher than she thought, and she hoped her body would still be recognizable, so the magazines could include pictures with the story: "Disgraced Starlet Commits Suicide After Shoplifting Spree." She had left a note, so people would know it wasn't an accident.

As her Mini Cooper flew down the hillside, the light pollution from the city below made the sky look pitch black. That was the problem with Hollywood these days, she thought. You never saw any stars anymore.

I tugged my cap lower. Incognito, I crunched my celery stick and stared at the magazine headline screaming, “Star Goes On Carb Spree!” Despite my agent’s prediction, no one paid attention to the magazine, or the newspaper, or the frantic host of the show blaring from the television tucked into the corner of the newsstand.

Maybe no cared what I ate. Oh God, maybe no one cared about me. My last movie only stayed #1 for two weeks, and didn’t win a single award. What could I do?

I grabbed as many candy bars as I could and ran.

Crunch time! A crime spree was in progress. A cog at the vast Magazine Empire where she worked was stealing her cheesecake from the new Energy Star certified refrigerator in the community kitchen. Ellen planted her bait in the fridge then crawled into a cupboard and waited. Just before Ellen gave up the CEO walked in, looked around, went to the fridge and purloined her cheesecake! Ellen fell out of the cupboard at his feet and yelled, “Aha!” Startled, he looked sheepish when he said, ‘I love cheesecake.” Now, Ellen brings two pieces and he brings the coffee.

The air handler had made crunching sounds as his deadly sand blew through the fan blades and into the lungs of his thousands of victims. Grady, the renowned point guard for the Cogan State College basketball team finally got his face on the cover of a magazine. But it wasn’t Sports Illustrated and wasn’t for his on court basketball prowess. Grady Janakovski was now the most wanted man in America, nicknamed “The Death Star”. His was no ordinary crime spree; rather he was wanted for introducing powdered ricin into the ventilation system of Civic Arena during the state basketball championships.

Sally Martin poured Captain Crunch and milk into her paper bowl. Glancing at the magazine on her desk, she longed to read about the newest movie star caught in a shoplifting crime spree. Did they even call actors movie stars anymore? Instead, she plugged in her ear phones, ready to answer the customer service calls from the bank’s customers. They should just call a spade a spade and call it the complaint line again. No one cared enough to listen, especially her supervisor. She was just a cog in the corporate wheel.
She hung up on the first five callers.

Tired of all the damn paparazzi, especially the douches from STAR magazine, I decided to go on a murder spree down Sunset Boulevard by plowing my BMW into the bastards. I held my iPhone out the window and recorded the satisfying crunch of their bones under my wheels. No more being a cog in the fame machine for me.

Shaken from sleep, Lucy raced to the ringing phone. The apartment was dark, except for the full moon and a pure star – perhaps Venus -- illuminating spare walls.

She slipped on a home-organization magazine, catching herself in time to avoid a fall.

“Hello?” she asked, scared and irritated. Lucy lowered herself to the sofa and felt a crunch – remnants of the solo popcorn-and-movie night that had ended just two hours earlier.

It was Harold.

“I need you Lucinda. Big crime spree.”

“Harold!”

“Don’t refuse me. You’re the vital cog in this operation.”

At ten to eleven, Joe leaned over the monitors and rapped the glass.

“What’s your problem?” Steve said, flicking a crumb off his shirt.

Joe smacked the screen. “The damn precogs are behind. We’ll never make press.”

“Who cares? It’s not our magazine.”

“Don’t make me kick your ass.”

Steve opened his mouth. Joe’s expression shut it. Steve couldn’t help fucking the intern, and now they were crunched.

“Let’s run a cover on what’s-his-face, in that new movie. Say he was on a dick-sucking spree.”

“Shit. You think people will buy it?”

“Yeah, of course they will. He’s a star.”

The warm sunshine on the plaza made Sarah feel like more than a cog in a corporate machine, but a rising star, as she engaged in her daily mid-afternoon ritual: reading Vogue magazine while noshing on a Nestle Crunch and Sprees.
She had the full arc of her life planned: senior administrative assistant, paralegal, lawyer, perhaps pause to get married, junior partner, and finally senior partner. Yes, some day, her name would adorn the letterhead. Life would be perfect.

Her pager buzzed.

Back to the grind, she thought, unaware that she was five minutes from dropping into a diabetic coma.

I looked up from my magazine to see Carl staring at me from the break room doorway, crunching on a cereal bar.

"We're just two cogs in the clock they call Star Enterprises," he said. "I'm goin' on a spree. Wanna come?"

I considered his words. The CEO had mown through most of the staff since the 10am coffee break, and it wouldn't be long before he reached us.

I looked under the table at Barb, the receptionist. I plucked the bloodied knife from her slack hand and wiped the handle with my paper napkin.

"Sure. I'm in."

Staring at mug shots reminded Jane of looking through fashion magazines. Neither was fun and both had unfortunate people that looked constipated.

“Do you recognize anyone?”

“No.”

The officer gave her a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

Annoyed by his patronizing stare Jane snapped at him. “Yes, I’m sure.” How could she forget? The sound of her right arm crunching under his heel still lingered in her dreams.

“Okay, don’t worry. We’ll stop his spree of attacks.” She doubted that. They hadn’t been able to stop them yet. “Here’s another book you can look through.”

“Sure.”

The magazine was always trying to capture her. But some dumbshit out on a grocery spree would catch a glimpse and have just enough sense to lift a smartphone, snap a pic and post it. The mag didn’t.

Then some cogs—maybe photographers with tumblrs and twiddle-finger-time, maybe people in HR with fangirl acquaintances—would find it. Wince. When the crunch came, lumbering behind everyone’s desks, perching atop everyone’s rejected headlines and copies and smoking fat rolls of shredded stories, they’d curse. She wasn’t too bright a star, really, but money was money and it allowed the machine to work.

From his porch, Curtis saw nothing special about Jennafay—pageboy haircut and stocky. She sang in a whisper, but Starseeker’s judges worshipped her. She’d soon leave for the finals. He’d be crunching pretzels before the TV, razoring her magazine pictures.

She’d win. They’d sculpt her face and body. Fake beauty. She’d return, not recognizing him. It would eat at him.

Fireworks burst behind his eyelids. His fingers remembered squishing ma’s cat’s throat Tuesday after Jennafay advanced.

Curt chose a hammer from his tools and crossed the street. They’d all know him. The cat was just the start of the spree.

The bubble gum wad fell from her mouth as she stared at her mother, who stood there pointing to the magazine page.
"This man," her mother said, tapping the picture, "is your real father. You might not know who he is, but believe me, back then, he was a real star."
All thought came to a crunching halt as she took in what this meant. Then the cogs and wheels began to turn in her insidious little head.
"Does this mean I get to go on a shopping spree?"

An errant star illuminated Tiff’s calf where fresh ink and bits of blood coiled around her ankle. “You will not tell Mom.”
“Aren’t you tired of pants and long sleeves when we’re home? In July?”
A green squadron whizzed around her legs and I saw order in the bloody chaos. His name, like a cuff.
“He’s not worth it.”
“I love him.”
She rolled up her teen idol magazine and smacked a firefly into a cog-shaped splat on her shin. Her giggles and the crunch of dry grass escaped into the night.
“Where are you going?”
“On a killing spree.”

She fired her words like a murderer on a killing spree.
"Jesus, Meg," Zach said. "Calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down! I saw you."
"It was just lunch."
"Sure. Lunch."
They stared across the table, an antique French oak as heavy and oppressive as their marriage. Why was he denying it?
"I'm sorry," he said.
Meg struck out; magazines flew and tumblers shattered, spraying cognac. He wondered: would a child have changed things? But the thought was as elusive as starlight; an image of something that died long ago.
Zach left, shards of glass crunching beneath his boots.

They were holding a picture in front of her. There was so much blood. The hand under her chin was gentle. A bright light flashed in her eyes. They were talking about her.
“There’s no cognitive response, the pupils aren’t dilating, it’s like she’s estranged from her body.”
“Do you think she was responsible for the killing spree?”
He turned away.
An insidious smile etched across her detached face, exposing dried blood on her teeth. She pulled a broken glass Christmas star from under the scrunched magazine on her lap and lunged for the nearest throat.

‘It’s from a recipe in Star.’
‘What? No National Enquirer? No People magazine?’ Too much sarcasm? my inner asshole snarked. I watched her rip the tops off a couple Spree wrappers and empty them into a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. It would’ve disgusted me if I hadn’t been so amped from snorting an anthill of crushed Adderalls earlier. The garish cartoon figure saluted me like we shared a secret. Fuck you. I don’t share anything.
‘It helps my cognitive abilities,’ she continued, pouring in a half can of Red Bull.
Ok, that did it. Now I’m going to puke.

I looked up from my magazine to see Carl staring at me from the break room doorway, crunching on a cereal bar.

"We're just two cogs in the clock they call Star Enterprises," he said. "I'm goin' on a spree. Wanna come?"

I considered his words. The CEO had mown through most of the staff since the 10am coffee break, and it wouldn't be long before he reached us.

I looked under the table at Barb, the receptionist. I plucked the bloodied knife from her slack hand and wiped it with my paper napkin.

"Sure. I'm in."

Sick of reading my magazine full of half naked women and men on steroids, I decided to go on a shopping spree. Key in the ignition, the cogs of the engine ground and moaned as I drove down to the Town Hall and forced them to allow me to purchase a star. That bright one, over there on the left. Walking out, I balled the certificate until it crunched in my hands. Throwing it in the back seat, I smiled. It’s the first step in taking over the universe.

I had to push the door open. Things crunched under my feet, despite my best efforts to avoid the mess.

Crap was everywhere. Chips, empty cans of soda, boxes of nerds, lipsticks without tops and magazines like ‘Star’ and ‘People’ were spread around the room. The cog of this wheel-of-destruction was still sleeping.

I nudged my sister with my foot, trying to wake her without waking her friends.

She blinked and looked up at me, blue eye shadow streaking her face.

“What the hell kind of spree did you girls go on last night?”

A power outage brought all us neighbors together at the curb. Crunching Cheetos by moonlight, we talked Mad Men and Kim K's magazine article. Looking at the sky I asked, ”Anyone know the stars?'

Pointing to the Big Dipper, someone said, “Follow the arc to Arcturus, then speed straight to Spica--the blue one--a solitary virgin who brings wheat.”

“Smart girl to avoid men.”
“That's why she's blue.”

Someone added, “She's really two stars, side by side.”

“Bisexual.”
”Or bipolar.”
“A shadow twin?”

Soon we forgot Kim's shopping sprees and all those cogs in Draper's machine.

He needed to be a star. Without any discernible talent, it had to be something simple. A robbery spree wouldn't make the front pages. Even rampaging like Godzilla wouldn't keep him there, since he wasn't a ten-story-tall lizard.

No, Alvie was sixty-five inches of nothing. His mother raved over Beautiful People in her magazines. He'd never be more than a rusty cog in the machine of life. Even she thought he was a loser.

One fine morning, he parked the old bat in front of a picture window at the television station, and threw her La-Z-Boy off the roof. Crunch.

Our Once Wayward Chick - a true happening of today.

Crafty-pants Raccoon does cogitate
As stars wink out from darkling sky
To shift aside ripped magazines
And nom on chicks too small to die.

But as the beast picks crunchy bones
Beneath the berry bramble plot,
An easter-egger flees the crime
And flies a fence now weak with rot.

Across another fence and more
To follow siren calls of hens,
She seeks her safety from the coon
With strangers found and now called friends.

Two little boys do end her spree
And take chick home abounce with glee.

The Architect

Ruth crunched the final Lego cog into place and rubbed arthritic fingers. She was known for her brains and her elaborate constructions.
Jon wandered by. “First National?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Amazing detail. You're a star.”
“Thanks.”
“Girls on their way?”
She nodded. “Janet's driving.”
“Thought she'd retired south to fish.”
“Only 'til things cooled after her last freelance spree.”
“I worry, she drives too fast.”
Ruth patted his knobbly hand. “Kinda the point.” Double-checked her gun's magazine.
“Home for dinner?” he asked.
“That's the plan.”

Cashiering at Walmart sucks. However, being a pre-cog cashier at Walmart is the parking garage two levels below sucks. People put their shit on my conveyor and I absorb the residual energy from their sweaty fingerprints as I ring it up.

Healthstar Vitamins. Beep. Congrats lady, it's twins.

Colonel Crunchballs. Beep. Skateboard Dude, traffic never loses.

Hand sanitizer. Beep. The magazine headline screams "Ten Cashiers Killed in Walmart Shooting Spree."

Looking up, I saw the big 11 over my register. Covering my ears to block out the screams, I ducked under the counter. Then I remembered Dustin was on break.

Susanna Coggs crunched on her Spree candies as she perused the latest issue of Star magazine. As news of the paparazzi's invasion of Miss Brittany's privacy seaped into Susanna's mind, she was thankful.
"Wow, that poor girl never gets a moments peace!" She thought to herself.
Her cell phone rang.
"Hello?" It was her editor.
"Well, what do you think of the front page? you sure got some great shots this time, eh?"
"I'm glad nobody chases me like that."
Snap. Susanna noticed the black dressed man as he took her picture and slunked behind the bushes.

“—spree,” the talking head said.

I thought about the big crunch: crime gripped the city. People worried for things.

Sunsets bathed the bay, the orange glow reflected like so many stars in those honeymooners’ eyes.

But nobody had ever seen anything like this.

I picked up Time Magazine, our city on the cover. No “best fishing in the nation” this year.

“A single cog just spins, worthless,” I told them. “But cogs together form a machine.”

I finished packing the duffel with thermite, two 9mms, a box of ammo.

I opened the pay-as-you-go cell and texted one word.

“Crimespree.”

Ella shifted the magazine to her left hand, and reached to pick up the star-shaped Christmas pastry (“joulutorttu”, she reminded herself) her Finnish grandmother had placed before her. As she crunched through the crispy top layer of the pastry, she gasped.

She recognized the man on the second page, the one wanted for a four-state crime spree. She’d just went out on a date with him last night, where she’d pretended he was an incognito rock star as they’d sipped martinis.

Oh crap. “Guess I won’t take him to my office holiday party,” she muttered to herself.

Star-bursts above and about, as the destroyer’s array of chain guns emptied their magazines at the approaching pirate cog. The cog continued to close with the much larger ship. “Half-inchers,” shouted the captain. “Fire at will.”

Now the crunch of true artillery joined the chain gun star-bursts. The fire from the ship escalated into a spree of destructive energy, enveloped the cog and the pirates within.

So ended the pirate cog spree. Now the magazines could return to covering movie stars, shopping sprees, and why crunches are best to tighten up your abs.

"My shopping spree was a success!"

Carl continued to steer star-shaped pasta into chicken soup. Maybe, by not turning around, this would end up much cheaper than he knew from experience. He'd crunched the numbers this morning and, without excessive spending, they should be okay.

"Smells good."

He hummed and turned to face her – and not a single shopping bag. No need for sneaking cognac into his coffee, then. She laughed, giggled, really, and winked knowingly at him. "Window shopping." She waved a pregnancy magazine in front of him. "Mostly."

Carl grinned.

'Okay' was overrated anyway.

I do love Olivia...and her little bother (brother).ha

I am SO jealous. I <3 Olivia.

From his Facebook update, it appeared Mr. Tim Gunn was stationed next to Olivia. Did you see him there? :)

What I am interested in is knowing what they are NOT interested in.

If you have time, please enlighten us why they would be buying American properties with so many fine writers overseas. That in itself would be an important market insight.

Thank you! I really needed to be reminded of this today. I'm starting to get depressed about ever selling the first book in a series while I'm working on the third! It's been a forehead-meets-wall kind of day.

But even if it's completed, revised, etc., should it be queried? Or just set aside in the hopes that one day the series will get picked up by way of another, unrelated book?

This is so very true. For me it's impossible to write something my heart doesn't desire. If only there wasn't the little matter of having enough money for shoes and handbags…

Helena

Thanks for the reminder. Sometimes the swirling thoughts of business crowd out the creative voice in my brain.

Yes, yes, this is how we all got started, by loving to WRITE. In my writing classes I say over and over again, "don't write to make money (most likely you won't) write because you HAVE to and you LOVE TO."

This happens with phone calls to me all the time. For some reason, every once in a while I get a call for someone I've never heard of before. It's often the same older woman trying to get in touch with her granddaughter, or so I've gathered from the odd voice mail messages I get once in a while. About once every three to four months, I call her and let her know the correct person didn't get the message. It only takes a few seconds for me to let her know, but she always seems so grateful.

Sometimes a misdirected email (or phone call) means so much more to the person waiting to hear back, it's worth those few seconds to me.

Wait...

You've turned down books that still got PUBLISHED?

*Gapes*

My image of you is totally blown.

We had people leaving cakes and cookies at the apartment across from us for a lady who had moved out. Such a pickle: do we just eat the goodies or do we call the number they left?

Ahaha oh how interesting! Definitely a good idea to reply an incorrectly addressed message. I've done it with text message before and accidentally sent it to someone because I have friends with the same first names. A bit awkward!

I also discovered it is a good idea to double and triple check email lists, like say, class rolls, for not-uncommon names, like say, Janet. Because you just *could* (if you were really clueless) accidentally send out a cautionary note like, say "you're failing; here are some ways to get your scores up" to a person, say, your agent, who is NOT in your class (let alone failing it) instead of some other Janet, say, a freshman lit student, who actually *is* failing, and wouldn't THAT be HI-larious?! (Answer: No it was not hilarious. For me. It gave me a heart attack and much chagrin and paranoia. Hypothetically.) (Janet laughed her sharky heart out about it....)

I was working for a multi-national corp a few years ago and got an email from the New York office inviting me along for drinks on
Friday night. I replied saying I couldn't make it, but if he'd like to book a flight to New Zealand, he could help me move house on the Saturday and I'd buy him a drink afterwards. I got a reply that just said, "Wrong email address." Pfft! No sense of humor.

That's an interesting lesson to learn, and in future, I'm not only going to be more careful when sending emails, but I'll reply to messages sent in error.

That is a good lesson. Thank you for sharing this.

I still win in the arena of misplaced phone messages. Back in Chicago, I get home, light is blinking:

"Steve! The plans have changed! Instead of picking you up, meet us at the stadium. We will be at the south gate with your ticket. Hey, gotta go! See you there."

No phone number and nothing on Caller ID. The Chicago Bulls were playing that night.

Always leave your number. Even for your best friend!

Terri

For a long time, there was a guy in another city who had my same phone number minus the area code. I kept getting random text messages for him, to which I usually replied "sorry wrong person," but occasionally I couldn't resist a slightly more interesting comeback:

"Hey going dwntwn to get smashed. want 2 come?"

"Thnx for the invite, but I'm busy preparing for the zombie apocalypse. You'll find me at the local Lowes. Care to join?"

To which the person proved him/herself to be absolutely awesome, because we then proceeded to have a nice long conversation on how to survive the ZA from a home improvement store, including our decision to fill carts with potting soil and parking them on the roof for rollable vegetable gardens (to be rolled inside during bad weather and winter). Also, carts can be used as zombie-fencing, should regular fencing run out.

I received a message on our answering machine a while back from a doctor's office. Not only did they leave the details of someone's test results, there was also an urgent request for the patient to call the office asap. Of course, there was no number. I worked my way through the phone book, calling every doctor's office that sounded like the mumbled name in the message until I found the right one and told them their patient had NOT recieved that message. And, yes, our outgoing message begins with our family name.

Assume good intentions until proven otherwise.

It's hard to implement that one consistently, I admit.

I agree that it's a good lesson to learn, and I'm glad it all worked out in this instance!

I feel so bad in these situations when you can't reach the proper party. There have been multiple instances where important-looking mail will come for someone who lived in my apartment several years ago, too long for the post office to be auto-forwarding it anymore. There's nothing I can do other than write that the person doesn't live here anymore and hope it won't be too big a deal if the intended recipient never gets it.

My husband is constantly getting emails that are supposed to be reaching a practicing physician. Most of these emails are by her patients, requesting refills and asking diagnostic questions. My husband's email address is one letter off from this doctor's.

Until now, my husband has been forwarding all these emails to her. But now he says he's tired of it, and resentful of her attitude (she's done nothing to solve the issue).

It just serves as a reminder that sometimes, people really are telling the truth when they say "I never got your email."

I've generally have kind responses in replying to misdirected email messages, but have not fared so well returning errant messages left on my answering machine.

Funny, I just had something similar happen when I attempted to email the mother of one of the scouts in my daughter's troop. I received a terse "Take me off your mailing list" response, so I replied explaining myself further. We went back and forth a few times, and the woman seemed very annoyed, but then she finally said, "I'm a television agent based in London and I don't know what you're talking about." Oops!

I double-checked the address I was trying to send to, and discovered that the mother and the agent had the same name, but the mother cut off the last few letters in the address.

So I wrote back to explain what I'd done and apologize, even though I had already bugged this person so many times. And suddenly she was very nice and friendly, and told me to send her best to her US namesake.

I assume this is from a stranger and not your father? Yikes!

Wow; bossy, isn't he?

Wow. I assume you blew it this time, too. I certainly would have blown it if I were you. If by "blowing it" you mean hitting delete and trying to forget it ever happened.

Better not miss your chance with this one!
Get 'er done.

Emily, even my dad, a former Marine Corps officer did not talk to me like that!

Oh my GOD. Seriously? What is WITH people?

*shakes head*

How is one supposed to publish "it" when the document title clearly states that there is more than one story?

Let me send you an attached document which lists my home address. Then, Janet, get my lawn cut.

Back to your, um, misguided "friend," do you suppose he realizes that you don't exactly get things published?

Oh wow ... I have no words for that ...

My bad angel rejoiced because when writers do dumb things like that it makes those of us who follow protocol look pretty damn good. Then my good angel slapped the bad one upside her head and made me feel sorry for Mr. Clueless.

But if he's not clueless and just thinks he's special, I'm siding with the bad angel.

Aw, man, now I need to rewrite my query letter again. :-(

Except that Mason now thinks he's famous and is watching his mailbox for a big advance check.

Terri

So I think this guy's making the rounds. Slush Pile Hell quoted pretty much the same thing.

Sheesh.

Saw something similar on Slushpile Hell myself. Of course, most authors doing their research probably did. Something tells me our intrepid Mason has seen neither. Just a hunch.

And even if it's the "next Harry Potter", it probably wouldn't be worth working with a Dalek to get it out there.

* swallows lung laughing* Haha no, indeedy, not the work of a ex-marine, but of someone just too lazy to think of something to write! Although I will admit, this would entice me to read on...how does such a lazy person of so few words write a single STORY (or several???!!). And Slush Pile Hell's response is what I'm sincerely hoping every agent sends this person (alien lifeform?) in reply! haha Thanks for the laugh! Can't believe this is real life!

Oh bahaha PS I love your new header! Another would-be connection bites the dust! Pity.

Your fingertips must be scorched from hitting the delete button so fast!

Mason: Get a life.

Yes, I can see why this wouldn't go over well. LOL. However, when you boil down all the pleases and thank yous and the other polite phrases we use in query letters, doesn't it all boil down to this?

Jan, it really doesn't since even the most basic query letter tells you what the book is about.

Hm. Yes, good point.

*CRASH* Goodreads TBR shelf suffers overload demise.

Added all to my Goodreads TBR shelf. Other books groan as they make room.

Go Ulfelder! He won another reader's choice type award for best opening line:

http://popculturenerd.com/2012/06/10/and-the-2012-stalker-award-winners-are

#teamshark

I can't read any of that. The font size is too small. The cover photos are too tiny. I put my face as close to the screen as possible, but that didn't help.

It appears to me as though you can not see the covers of the top four books.

Yes, the font is small. I can read them, but I have to concentrate and let my brain figure it out. Is each book individually clickable?

The top of the image is also cut off.

As a book designer, this is a strong reminder to me that covers have to readable at a thumbnail size. Between emails such as this and Amazon, small is overlooked.

You can't see the covers or titles of the top four books. You can just barely make out the authors...

This is just a single image, right? You couldn't click and go directly to the given book to "add" it, I wouldn't think.

Top row is cut off completely (poor Nicola Kraus and Ca-somebody and Morris-somebody and J-somebody). Too many books in one image (send more than one email with fewer books, perhaps themed), too cramped. Meh . . . gallery design.

Making it too hard for me to be distracted from the rest of my email and go look at books.

Overall graphics design #FAIL

The wrongest mistake a marketing department can possibly make is to tease you to buy something and then not make it possible for you to buy it.

The top row is not just cut off - it is cut off below the buttons that would make it possible to select the book.

Ugh, terrible. Small pictures, indiscernible type, no links to the individual books...what more could be wrong?

Also, I just noticed the new quote in your header. Hilarious!

First thing I noticed was the top four books are cut off. Other than that, this is a pretty lame design. Too hard to see any of it.

Oh man, that comment in the header is priceless! I bet you even had the nerve to send a form rejection!

The only way to read those titles is to look at the screen through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.(They work like a microscope that way).

I need a microscope to read it. AWFUL...and the company paid for that? Really?

All of the above. Plus, I can see I'm going to have to get a shorter name.

Two great books. They both deserve to do very well. And I've read them both!! :D

I just noticed the quote at the top of your blog. LOL. There are thousands of us who can say that!

Apologies, not sure how to contact you and thought you might like Little Zen Masters(Poems & Rhymes)my first free Ebook

http://allinrhyme.blogspot.com/2012/06/little-zen-masters-poems-rhymes-ebook.html

Love this post. I'm going to check out these books. Plus, yay for photos of the event!

I wish I could make the one on the 18th. *pouts*

Thanks for sharing!

As is frequent, this post makes me homesick for the tri-state area.

But I'm coming home this summer!! So going to have to keep an eye on literary events in the city for the time when I'm there!!

Thanks for the notes and tip and pics - looks like a great time!

Can the US center of publishing please move to NC so I can go to events like this? :)

Are you on Goodreads, Janet? I'm trying to keep up with your book recommendations and I'm losing track of them all! :)

Colin, my LibraryThing account lists only books I've read BUT I will try to tag each post about books with "Books" and you can find them by clicking "books" in blog posts sorted by category found on the left side of the blog.

I had the great pleasure of meeting Emily St John Mandel in Paris, where we were hosted by our French publisher Rivages. I'm looking forward to reading Last Night in Montreal.

Yes Stuart, she mentioned that and the odd sound you hear when you tilt your head to the left is me keening with envy at these author trips to Paris. Clearly I need to chaperone one (or more!) of the The Fabulosity to Paris VERY soon.

And don't get me started on RATLINES.

Yeah, the Paris situation is crazy. I sort of feel like I won the foreign rights lottery.

Stuart, it was a pleasure to meet you too, and Janet, thank you again for coming to the Greenlight event! I feel that I need to figure out how to draw a shark for the next time I inscribe a book to you.

Emily, here's how I draw a shark:

~~~~^~~~~

Follow the links to You Tube.

These guys have a short called "Which is Tyler Durden?"

It is the funniest damn thing in under two minutes.

Aside from the annoyance factor, I've known enough people to have their email accounts hacked to EVER open a blind link in a non-personal email, even if it looks legit. It's not even close to being worth the risk.

I'd say, in response to the title, NO, I told you, I want you to PUBLISH my book! But at risk of be decried "Too Soon!", I simply nod and keep a wary eye on that tiny url. I didn't even feel safe clicking it from the blog!

Seconding Daisy. It's becoming more common on Twitter, too; getting direct messages from friends' hacked accounts that say "Did you see this blog post that mentions you?" with a shortened URL. Creepy.

Great post, Janet. I totally agree and look forward to following all your advice as soon as I'm ready to sell my book.

By the way, we have met, at the LIRW luncheon years ago. I'm the one from Texas who was with Jen McAndrews and Julie O'Connell. Thought I'd say, Hi! :)

About Satan buying one's book: I got an email once from a woman who claimed that she was a Satanist and while she was communing with Satan, she read my book to him. She told me he hated it. :-) So I guess i"m one of the few people who can say Satan has read her book?

Dear Janet, sorry but spam wouldn't exist if it didn't work. Back in the early days of spam, ~ 2002 I had lunch with 3 F500 CEOs and told them spam gave them a bad reputation. They responded, "Millions of dollars to our shareholders. Spam will continue." It's more refined & targeted today, but it exists because it works. It works for viagra, books, toasters, and literary agents.

Best, Andrew

Excellent advice. I can't tell you how often I get boring, cookie cutter messages from people I kind of know as king me to buy their book based solely on the merit of them asking nicely. How about telling me why I'd want to? It's more excusable on the Twitter machine, where there's a character limit, but if you're on Facebook or Google+ and hawking your wares, let me know whys I needs 'em.

Oh, and I agree . . . it's never a good idea to click strange links.

J.W. Alden

Andrew, you raise an interesting point. Have you yourself ever bought a book that was introduced to you via ineffective means like spam?

Spam works because it only requires a tiny percentage of yes compared to the vast number of offers. 500 million spam messages for 500 sales.

Unless a writer has 500 million contacts, they're not likely to have an effective rate of return.

Most writers have fewer than 500 contacts. The difference between .000001 return and .03 return (mail order) and .1 return (targeted mailing) is the difference between
(per 100) 0 sales, 3 sales and 10 sales.

If you have different stats, I'd be glad to see them.

As a consumer, I agree. The people who put the time and effort into personalizing are the ones who get my attention.

I would, possibly on principal, never buy a book that was introduced through spam. A blog post, with a tweet, is far more effective than a random email. Actually, someone did that to me, recently. He stopped by my blog, found my email, and then sent me a message. The beginning was clever flattery. The rest was, "Btw, buy my book!" It was the quickest way to ensure I would never, ever read his work.

Wonderful post. Very enlightening and witty. :-)

This is excellent advice, Janet. It seems simple the way you explain it, but obviously at least one person didn't think of it.

1. The day you tweeted about my book was the equivalent of receiving a pony for my birthday.

2. Even if an author's spam email includes everything requested, I won't click the link if their book title includes the word "copulating". Learned this one the hard way.

While I don't have a book to promote, you can bet when I do I will be giving all the info necessary for people to purchase it!

Thanks for the tips!

Yeah, I have a question. Can we be friends? Then I can send you a tiny url that links to my Amazon page. (I won't bother to mention that last part, though, cuz I know extraneous info really gets your goat.) (And finally, while I'm at it, what the heck does "get your goat" mean, anyway?) Happy Friday!

Thanks for this post, Janet. My head explodes regularly on Twitter from all the "buy my books" comments that stream 24/7, and simply cannot imagine what it must be like for you to be inundated with requests.

We have never met, but I we share two things in common: a love of Lunenburg, NS and its fine fruit wines, and an obsession with pens. If nostalgic 70s fiction with a rock and roll twist is your thing, I've published the first 2 of 4 books in my series Behind Blue Eyes in the major online book stores under my name.

Cheers,
Anne-Marie Klein

I'd appreciate it if you could check out some of the post I wrote myself. I plan on writing until my hearts content, but it's always good to get constructive criticism.

gimbleexpress.blogspot.com

Happy travels, Janet!

Did you notice how many of the names on that t-shirt belong to men?

Have a great time! You and Mer behave yourselves. Or not.

That's a store I would love to visit! I hope you all have a great time. :D

Wow! I want to visit this store.

And you like practically flew right over me (hmmm . . . maybe that's what that shadow across the sun was . . . I thought it looked finny . . .)

Have fun!

Terri

Welcome to Houston! Enjoy our weird weather.

I need to visit that store..I also need to see my name on a t-shirt like that. Adding it to my list of goals.

Impressive!

I love these! I really wish I had something to add, but after "insert under short leg of table" I can't really do any better.

I don't have anything to add to the symbols; however, I first saw this list a few days ago on a tumblr account I find amazing, and thought I'd share that. http://tkmbnd.tumblr.com/

Absolutely wonderful. Printing and posting where I write. Or don't write. While putting away my Pringles.

I wanna play! I wanna play! I just sent in my contribution.

I love these! (Good one, Catherine.) We use AYKB around here all the time for fun and frolic.

HA! Loving these!

Ummm...you're welcome? ;-)

I saw these a few days ago. I love the addition of 'as you know Bob!" Awesome.

I'm going to start drawing the mixed metaphor on papers even if there is no mixed metaphor. I just really like that drawing. What's better than a snake with a cat head?

I think AYKB needs to become part of the official list. :)

I wish I could come up with a clever scribble for "use SAID instead of exclaied, shouted, hissed, screamed, snarled, etc....) because that one needs a symbol too.

Great post, Janet!

Ha! I felt smart for knowing all the symbols in the first image, and then quite silly for laughing at everything else as much as I did. So clever!

OMG I WANT YOUR 'ALOT' MONSTER!!!

Thanks for the book tip, Janet. And I too would love an Alot, if the creator of yours is reading and trying to think of ways to make some extra cash. :)

I love Sophie Littlefield!

Another title for my TBR list!

I've heard of other authors who journal while writing a novel. This is something I'm considering experimenting with for myself.

These write-ups you do are helpful. I like the details on process.

It sounds like an interesting program! And as much as the publishing world seems to be urging authors to write faster, faster, faster, I'm impressed by authors who can spend so long working on one story, too, if it's wonderful. (Of course, if he bounces between projects, I can't really say he worked on "one" story--but still, it takes dedication not to abandon something after that long.)

Yes, I think things are written too fast nowadays. Thinking is good. So is editing.

I started writing the YA novel I'm pitching now, "Nightmares," over 20 years ago. I would write, then step away, write, get married, write, have kids. Then I decided to get it done. At the time I started, it wasn't YA. More interesting (when you think about it) 20+ years ago there were no cell phone or the Internet. So it was neat to weave those into the latest iteration.

I just had to say that the recent conference attendee quote made me laugh out loud. Thanks for making my Sunday morning, Janet!