There was a message light flashing from our phone the other day, which I found interesting because we rarely get messages. It turned out to be a representative for a publisher in New York City – OMG, this could be big!
I rushed to the computer and Googled the company for details before I made the long distance call. The publisher turned out to be a “publish on demand” (POD) outfit, which was disappointing. I erased the message as I pondered how they got my name and phone number.
The next day I got another call from the same company. This time (since it was on their dime) I talked to the used call salesman on the other end of the phone line. The person wanted to know if I had ever found a publisher for my book.
Suddenly I remembered the POD publisher and the year I had contacted them. I made an inquiry in 2009 while doing research to publish my first murder mystery, Evil in the Mirror. I received a written proposal a week later (wait for it) for $10,000. After choking and coughing for at least a full minute, I took the proposal outside for a ritualistic burning on the stake.
Of course I had soon found a publisher (Wheatmark, Inc.) which was a POD and traditional in Tucson, Arizona, and they ended up publishing not only Evil in the Mirror, but Day Stalker and The Phoenix Code to boot for a much lower cost. I absolutely reveled in explaining this to the used car salesman as the phone bill kept going, ching…ching….ching.
Could someone please explain to me how any company could be so inept? Five years passed and they decide to follow up on a potential customer thinking I had been treading water out there in idiot land the whole time? I can’t help but think of the famous salsa TV commercial and the words, “Made in New York City?” It’s a great place to visit, but I sure wouldn’t want to live there. I’m thinking any place with this kind of time warp could not be good.
The whole affair is humorous now, but at the time I was mortified. If publishing books cost that kind of money, my dream of being an author was going to be over before it had even started. As it turned out, the cost was equated to having a New York publisher on your book jacket. I know we still live in what seems like a territory in northern Arizona and I was born at night, but it darn sure wasn’t last night.
I bid the used car salesman a good day, but he had already hung up after my tirade. Serves him right, what a bozo!