...if the infinite technological reproduction of the penis in the utilitarian plastic form of straws jeopardizes the aura and authority of the original object? Whether this reproduction does not, in fact, liquidate the value of the cultural heritage of the phallus?
Your hen's night paraphernalia doesn't seem so innocent now, DOES IT? How does it feel, eh, knowing you're contributing, via the endless copying of the original object, to its inevitable devaluation as a unique artifact? Did you notice this ENTIRE post is composed of rhetorical questions? Except that one, which wasn't really rhetorical, because you may or may not have noticed, and I'm genuinely interested?
4.3.10
2.3.10
How To Get Your Novel Scoffed At
Friday was my last day of work at the publishing company where I answered phones for the last two years. I did an extremely good job of pretending I really didn't like it. In reality, I LIVED for the crazy wannabes who ring up and pitch their retarded ideas for books. A large percentage of them were old men from 'God's country' (north Queensland, FYI) or teacher librarians. My dad's a teacher librarian, and he's not an aspiring children's author (THAT I KNOW OF), but he is the exception which proves that the rule is, while not infallible, definitely justified. The catchcry among those in children's publishing is, essentially, 'FUCKING teacher librarian authors! Why don't they just ACCEPT that their book is a FLOP and GET OVER IT AND STOP CALLING ME?' The general consensus is that the whole process of publishing would be much smoother without the hassle of involving authors, who really only make trouble.
There was one author who would ring with great regularity, although I know for a fact her last and only book was published five years ago and there is no likelihood of her ever publishing another, and as soon as I picked up the phone she would just... sigh. It would go thus: me: 'Publisher Australia, this is Jennifer.' Author: 'UUUUUURRRGHHHH.... heh-lloooohhh Je-heh-nifer.' Me: 'Oh hello I'll put you through.' *gets off the phone as quickly as possible* If the person she was looking for wasn't there (like, maybe they were having a wee, or eating a sandwich, or away from their desk for three and a half seconds) she would call back and sigh, 'Uuuuughh, is the-hehh-re EVE-heh-n any POINT?' to which I would WANT to respond, 'No, no there's not, you're a big fat failure and nobody wants to talk to you. You may as well go DIE.' Instead I would say, 'I'll send her an email and make sure she knows you called', because, in spite of all appearances and protestations, I was actually quite good at my job. Then I would send this email: 'That author rang. I told her I 'd tell you she called so you could call her so she could SIGH at you.'
I had one call from a guy who introduced himself, then paused, and when I said, 'Yes?' he cried, 'You mean you HAVEN'T HEARD OF blah blah blah something about the self made millionaires from Queensland who were brought down by the big corporations or some such Aussie battler style nonsense?' I was Googling him AS he spoke, and he wasn't anywhere on the internet, so I could honestly say, 'No.' And thus his book pitch was a failure, on account of him claiming to be famous when he wasn't even on Google.
Many was the time I offered to Google something for a caller, and they totally failed to catch the intense sarcasm in my tone as I sneered, 'Just let me GOOGLE THAT FOR YOU, HMMM?' I think many callers thought I had a special publishers' Google with which I could access sites hidden from their civilian browsers.
I had old men pitching books about their lives which were essentially books about them spending their entire life trying to write the book of their life, on account of they couldn't read or write.
I had a man from a record company call and ask if we would publish a book with a CD attached. No, I said, we only look at submissions which come through literary agents, CDs or lack thereof notwithstanding. 'Oh,' he says, 'I'm calling from a record company.'
'That's nice. You want to publish a novel?'
'Yes, that's right. With a CD.'
'You'll need a literary agent.'
'But we're a record company, so wouldn't we, technically, BE a literary agent?'
'No. Agent. Literary. As in, actually has to do with actual books.'
And then, of course, there were the letters, which were unspeakable. UNSPEAKABLY AWESOME, THAT IS.
I think I'm going to miss my job. Oh, also there were people who were quite nice, and fairly cool, and also extremely daggy, and always very chatty. And when you're used to having three dozen conversations before 11am it's a bit weird to suddenly be talking to no one at all for most of the day.
There was one author who would ring with great regularity, although I know for a fact her last and only book was published five years ago and there is no likelihood of her ever publishing another, and as soon as I picked up the phone she would just... sigh. It would go thus: me: 'Publisher Australia, this is Jennifer.' Author: 'UUUUUURRRGHHHH.... heh-lloooohhh Je-heh-nifer.' Me: 'Oh hello I'll put you through.' *gets off the phone as quickly as possible* If the person she was looking for wasn't there (like, maybe they were having a wee, or eating a sandwich, or away from their desk for three and a half seconds) she would call back and sigh, 'Uuuuughh, is the-hehh-re EVE-heh-n any POINT?' to which I would WANT to respond, 'No, no there's not, you're a big fat failure and nobody wants to talk to you. You may as well go DIE.' Instead I would say, 'I'll send her an email and make sure she knows you called', because, in spite of all appearances and protestations, I was actually quite good at my job. Then I would send this email: 'That author rang. I told her I 'd tell you she called so you could call her so she could SIGH at you.'
I had one call from a guy who introduced himself, then paused, and when I said, 'Yes?' he cried, 'You mean you HAVEN'T HEARD OF blah blah blah something about the self made millionaires from Queensland who were brought down by the big corporations or some such Aussie battler style nonsense?' I was Googling him AS he spoke, and he wasn't anywhere on the internet, so I could honestly say, 'No.' And thus his book pitch was a failure, on account of him claiming to be famous when he wasn't even on Google.
Many was the time I offered to Google something for a caller, and they totally failed to catch the intense sarcasm in my tone as I sneered, 'Just let me GOOGLE THAT FOR YOU, HMMM?' I think many callers thought I had a special publishers' Google with which I could access sites hidden from their civilian browsers.
I had old men pitching books about their lives which were essentially books about them spending their entire life trying to write the book of their life, on account of they couldn't read or write.
I had a man from a record company call and ask if we would publish a book with a CD attached. No, I said, we only look at submissions which come through literary agents, CDs or lack thereof notwithstanding. 'Oh,' he says, 'I'm calling from a record company.'
'That's nice. You want to publish a novel?'
'Yes, that's right. With a CD.'
'You'll need a literary agent.'
'But we're a record company, so wouldn't we, technically, BE a literary agent?'
'No. Agent. Literary. As in, actually has to do with actual books.'
And then, of course, there were the letters, which were unspeakable. UNSPEAKABLY AWESOME, THAT IS.
I think I'm going to miss my job. Oh, also there were people who were quite nice, and fairly cool, and also extremely daggy, and always very chatty. And when you're used to having three dozen conversations before 11am it's a bit weird to suddenly be talking to no one at all for most of the day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
