NY Is Book Country
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Between my ears in this little Netherworld realm of scripture, I am visited by many creatures, some friendly, some insistent. When I was young, Jim Murray was my friend. We were spending the day at the LA Open. Jim was actually covering it and I was there for the endless free press buffet. The LA Times Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist was arguably the greatest sportswriter in history. Golfers played golf. We discussed the life of a writer and Murray confessed his great sin.
Daily, Jim Murray made people laugh or cry from the parapets of ridicule on the sports page. As we toured the lavish Republican wetlands of the Riviera Country Club, Jim shared his one big regret in life. His lifelong dream, his passion, was to be a detective novelist.
“Journalism was like a post office job to me,” Murray said, pushing back his thick cartoon Coke bottle glasses as we trudged across the golf course. “Journalism was just a way to pay the bills until that first book deal was done.”
Life often comes with big buts.
A wonderful wife and family came. At Time Magazine, Jim was told to step out of the genre and cover a sporting event. This first column skyrocketed Murray to become America’s top syndicated sportswriter.
Corn?
Jim Murray never got to write his gumshoe thrillers.
Hard to believe, but I was in therapy a long time ago. Why do you ask?
I’m crazy. This is one of my best features.
After three sessions, my therapist greets me with a stern, sensitive but hostile face. Gluttonous for punishment, she had asked for writing samples to see what to scribble on my board after “Whackazoid.” Before I could sit down, she hit me. Hard. In the breastbone. She scolded, “It’s a SIN you don’t write. I’m not talking about newspaper columns. I want to say – your novels…” Bless her kindness. She wouldn’t let go. It was a sin not to share my art with the world.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Over the decades, The Fortress Literary has repelled my assaults, pouring cauldrons of boiling oil over any request or manuscript bold enough to storm the gates of bookdom. I’ll never forget that horrible clutch when Doubleday bought my first novel, “Naked Came the Sasquatch.” All the DD costumes loved it, calling every day, lined with laughter. I was in the penthouse elevator booking deals, backslaps and big advances. Drat my damn sixth sense. The president of Monday Doubleday was supposed to sign my big deal, I got the call. Not reading the book, Prez simply decided that there would be no first books by first authors. Period. Farewell. Broke my heart. Cut.
I sent it to other publishers. They loved it. A major costume called. Me. At home. “Sasquatch” was the best book she “…had read in the last two years and probably the best book (she had) read in the next two years…” But, she couldn’t publish it.
Why?
“You don’t write like the others…”
I replied. Isn’t that – the point? (Unless you’re pumping 142-page factory manuals on waterbeds. The water…goes…inside…)
I met another publisher at a convention. She ran TSR, the SciFi house that produced “Dungeons and Dragons.” She was about to launch a big new mainstream wing. “Naked” was to be the vanguard of TSR’s new editorial empire. I was to be the emperor. Signed with her. She rushed to have a baby. I never came back. A new editor is coming. He hates me. I don’t like him too much either, the scary little booger-eating moron. Four months later, he was fired. I’m now a published author with TSR and those three initials might as well have been KKK because TSR is some kind of fantasy sword, pointy ears, and pixie dust where all the characters are called Zoothar the Zootharian.
Ask Sylvester the cat to say this fast 10 times…
My own sarcasm comes back as instant karma? May be. I spent not years, but decades, trying to shake off the TSR scar, get published, and reacquire an agent. (Mine is dead, I have an alibi.) All those writing awards? The best-selling romantic/comedy/horror adventure “Sasquatch”? It didn’t matter.
A year ago, I started my own publishing house, John Boston Books. I had accumulated so many manuscripts that I would simply publish them myself. Last Friday at JBB’s Fillmore offices, we pressed The Button and the first of many novels and books was launched: “Ghosts, Ghouls, Myths & Monsters – The Most Haunted Town in America”. This is the first of three volumes. “Volume II: Vampires, Bigfoot, Gum Punks & Monsters” – launching in early February. I will publish a book every four to six weeks in 2022 and beyond – including the sequel to “Sasquatch” – “Naked Came the Clownpire”. Or maybe it’s “Naked Came the Novelist” or maybe “Naked Came the Clownsquatch” because I haven’t decided on the final title yet.
Visit the site below. Sign up for the newsletter at [email protected] As our motto happily suggests: “It’s a perfect day to read a John Boston book…” Like “Melancholy Samurai”. Or that of the “SCV Monsters”. Go. To buy. Write great reviews. Shower shameless five-star reviews like kisses on a baby.
OKAY. So. It’s here that YOU guys come in.
Revenge.
That Doubleday a few years ago wasn’t just about me. It was all over the Santa Clarita Valley. For that, I intend to execute every ungodly East Coast publishing house screaming into the Hudson River. As Conan the Barbarian correctly noted when asked The Meaning of Life:
“To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their wives!
Make known. Forge weapons. Saddle horses. Boil water and tear leaves for dressings. BUY MORE BOOKS. Galloping through the SCV countryside along our way to Fifth Avenue, we’ll pluck a few sheep, set fire to villages, crush enemies, and hear cool ambient wailing. It’ll be fun.
We are coming to New York.
And we take no prisoners…
SCV’s John Boston is the most prolific comedian/satirist in the history of the world. Visit johnbostonbooks.com — OR —
amzn.to/3rgijUr.
