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Real Men Don't Get Published
By
John Alejandro King
The following manuscript was reportedly written by a CIA officer named
John Alejandro King. Little is known about King, though reliable sources
confirm that he is a male intelligence official who may recently have
been the subject of disciplinary action by the CIA as a result of
incidents surrounding efforts by one or more publishing companies to
disseminate writing from King’s personal website, allegedly without his
permission.
The manuscript consists of entries in diary form containing King's
accounts of the events in question, along with musings on topics ranging
from CIA covert operations to the meaning of life and the universe to
the real nature of the book publishing industry. As for how this
document was obtained, that information must for the moment remain
confidential.
Literary agents wishing to inquire about publishing this manuscript are
advised not to bother contacting the author via his website
(www.covertcomic.com), or through any other channels.
*
Monday
It's not the illusion of reality that need persist, only the illusion of
persistence.
A major literary press offered to publish my writing today. As happens
frequently, I was in my cubicle attending to a national security matter
when I got a call from an agent in New York (I can't divulge the agent's
name – if I told you, you'd have to try to publish me).
They made the usual promises: advances, royalties, a long-term
commitment.
… And as I always do, I politely deflected the discussion. You know, so
as to decline without making them feel rejected.
See, here's the thing: I'm a CIA officer. More to the point, I'm a
vital, life-affirming, heterosexual male CIA officer. I'm in good
physical shape, I'm considered acceptable in appearance, I'm friendly
and a fun conversationalist, I'm an honorable person … and I also happen
to write. And for whatever reason, when publishing companies see my
writing on the Internet and learn about me, they get interested. Really interested. In
fact, it's frankly amazing how forward these companies can be when
conveying their interest in publishing your humble writer and spook.
But I turn them all down. It isn't that I'm not flattered, and even to a
certain extent tempted. It's just that I can't in good faith and
conscience agree to their proposals – because the fact is that I
consider myself a true, authentic man and … real men don't get
published.
Tuesday
The question isn't whether you're cleared for top secret, it's whether
you're cleared for unclassified.
An unauthorized person attempted to enter CIA Headquarters this
morning. Security immediately determined that he was an impostor because
he resembled the picture on his badge.
Wednesday
It's OK to frequently quote the saying 'Insanity is doing the same thing
over and over again and expecting a different result,' as long as you
don't expect anything to change as a result of doing this.
Thursday
Always keep drugs out of the reach of children. And for maximum
entertainment, keep them just out of reach.
SpookSpeak. For
Your Eyes Only phr. (Intelligence Community) For Your Ass Mostly.
Friday
I got your manuscript right here ...
*
Monday
It's easier to fake an orgasm than fake not having one.
This morning my boss called me into her office. As happens fairly
frequently, she was dissatisfied with one of the characteristic modes in
which my DNA expresses itself.
"What’s wrong, boss?" I asked. "Is it the particular manner in which my
cytoplasm surrounds the vacuoles of my cell walls?"
"No," she said, "I think you've fixed that problem.
… For now, anyway."
"Actually," she continued, "I wanted to raise to your attention that
you're indenting the columns in your status reporting too far to the
right."
… Oh sure. Like I have a choice in the way my genetic base pairs are
ordered.
Tuesday
Typical themes in CIA operations include money, sex, personal betrayal,
and struggles for power. And
that's just to requisition a new laptop.
SpookSpeak. Conscience n. (From con + science).
The set of principles and practices used to create and perpetuate scams.
Wednesday
Metal filing cabinets are coming back. And this time they're angry.
Can a dog still have its day after it's been spayed or neutered? Or does
being spayed or neutered count as its day?
Thursday
So many have paved the way before me, there's now nothing before me but
pavement.
Got an e-mail from another publishing firm today. The company is called
Varon Publishers Inc., and they're located here in the DC
area. Apparently they specialize in works on intelligence and
paramilitary-related subject matter. They think my writing is "highly
appealing," and that I’m "just perfect for their needs" (where have I
heard that before …). They also claim to have worked movie deals
with influential production companies – their e-mail said they've turned
several books by current and former CIA officers into
multimillion-dollar action films.
I wrote back and told the people at Varon Publishers that I was honored
by their kind words, but couldn't meet with them any time soon owing to
my work schedule. I resisted the urge to respond to their rather
machista overture by letting them in on the secret, the secret that … real
men don't get published.
Friday
If I don't love something, is it still OK to set it free?
*
Monday
If all the world's a stage, America is the shiny vertical pole in the
middle.
Best-selling authors don't care if you read their book, as long as you
buy it.
Worst-selling authors don't care if you buy their book, as long as you
read it.
Real male authors are pretty sure they know what a book is, and they're
pretty sure their book is in their pants.
Tuesday
In 'The Elements of Style,' William Strunk wrote 'A sentence should
contain no unnecessary words.' There are 23 additional words in that
sentence, but this is Strunk's essential idea.
Yet another offer of publication today. This one, however, was a little
different: an LGBTQ publishing company.
Actually, you might be surprised how often this kind of thing happens to
us guys who are committed to keeping it real. I mean, on one hand you'd
think a Gay or Lesbian publisher would be the last one to take an
interest in my writing – you know, given that I'm most decidedly
heterosexual, work for 'the man,' etc. Yet take an interest they do. I
suspect it's the identity-fluid character of my writing (an inherent
part of my profession, of course) that attracts publishing agents of
multiple persuasions. Not saying my writing is great or even special –
but there are publishers out there who do like it.
As for the company in question, I saw no need to respond rudely to their
proposal. I simply told them I wasn't seeking publication at this time,
but that I appreciated being considered.
See, it isn't a matter of not wanting to be published by one or
another kind of company. It's about not wanting to be published at
all. Because being real isn't about being published. And a lot of the
time at least, being published isn't about being real.
Wednesday
If a problem well stated is a problem half-solved, state it well again!
The opposite of information warfare is not information peace.
Thursday
The thought of machines becoming self-aware is frightening, because it
implies that at some point I might have to become self-aware too.
Is it really fair to classify sloth as one of the seven deadly sins,
when being slothful can actually help prevent the other six?
Friday
God does not play dice with the universe. He plays Russian roulette.
*
Monday
Irony has been replaced by titaniumy.
I knew a guy who got published.
…
Let's just say he won't have to worry about his condom breaking any time
soon.
Hey, I'm as willing to have my manuscript scrutinized as the next
fellow. It's just that, by the time a writer's work has been edited for
proper style, voice, pacing, and 'internal conflicts,' he can hardly be
surprised if there's no manuscript left at all.
Tuesday
Memory isn't a painter - memory is a minimum wage department store
employee with a price tag gun.
They say a woman must do a thing twice as well as a man to be considered
half as good. And I bet I know what that thing is.
Wednesday
The high road has too many potholes.
Never fish for compliments. Lob dynamite in the water.
Thursday
If knowledge is but sorrow's spy, it proves a double agent by and by.
Not only were romantic love and gunpowder both invented in the Middle
Ages, they were created in the same act.
Friday
None of us is as smart as all of us? Isn't that the whole problem???
*
Monday
The Spook's Toast: May your intelligence estimates always surpass the
estimates of your intelligence.
SpookSpeak. Data n. Acronym
for digital asymmetric threat agent.
Tuesday
There are currently at least five different versions of the
international rainbow flag.
I only hope the matter can be resolved peacefully.
For a while I thought I was bisexual, but only because I tend to get
'bi-' and 'semi-' mixed up.
Wednesday
Kurt Vonnegut was a great writer. He greated on everyone’s nerves.
Challenge: If we had to pay for our stupidity, many would go
bankrupt.
Password: If we had to pay for our stupidity, declaring bankruptcy
wouldn't be stupid.
Thursday
There's no substitute for hard work, but there's plenty of work for a
hard substitute.
According to government studies, alcohol is more socially damaging than
heroin or crack, though not as socially damaging as government studies.
Friday
Did someone say "film rights?"
*
Monday I think that abyss likes me.
Around a month after I first launched my web site and started getting
several million hits per hour on it, a publishing agent contacted me to
introduce herself and invite me to 'query about being represented.' She
claimed to be head over heels in love with my literary concept, my
writing style, my entire body of work. No doubt about it, she said, my
writing was a keeper, a once in a lifetime thing.
I resolved to go slowly. In a polite but friendly way I let her know
that I was flattered by her positive review and wanted to get to know
more about her, to see what kind of author-agent relationship we might
develop.
Her response was to turn up the heat big time; every day she sent new
e-mails about wanting to 'proof my manuscript, word for word' and 'scan
every inch of my back matter.' I remember her remarking that she could
'write me a blurb I'd never forget.'
Finally, after several weeks of correspondence, I decided to take her up
on her offer. I dutifully wrote her a formal query, referring to her
original e-mail and asking what steps would be needed for her to become
my literary agent.
The same day she wrote back with the following message: "Sorry, but I'm
not accepting clients at this time."
I never heard from her again.
Had she suddenly found another writer she preferred over me? Or did my
submitting a query scare her off?
… Or then again, did she simply exercise every literary agent's
prerogative to change her mind?
Whatever her motivation, that literary agent helped me appreciate, in
about as visceral a way possible, that … real men don't get
published.
Tuesday
wikiHow? How wiki.
If you giggle when you wiggle
And you jiggle when you giggle
And you wiggle when you jiggle
You can giggle all the time!
Wednesday
Better to be asked what drug you're on, than what drug you're off.
SpookSpeak.
Causable denial n. (Intelligence Community) A truthful denial of
a notional event or situation that subsequently causes that event or
situation to occur.
Thursday
If I think for one minute that I’m the kind of person who would have sex
with me on the very first date, then I’m sadly mistaken.
How am I supposed to feel motivated to attend the empowerment seminar
unless I first feel empowered to attend the motivational seminar???
Friday
You made your bed, now hide under it.
*
Monday
If this is the steering committee, how do I get on the emergency brake
committee?
At CIA we've been shaken by reports of alcoholism in the Intelligence
Community.
... Though fortunately we haven't been stirred.
Tuesday
I've never had a problem with rejection. On the contrary, I've always
been able to reject stuff any time I want.
Some change their party for the sake of lofty principles. Last weekend I
changed my principles for the sake of a loft party.
Wednesday
When there's rioting in the streets, use the sidewalk.
Show me a culture with no word for awe, and I'll show you a people
who've never had their tonsils examined.
Thursday
The Occupy Wall Street movement faltered when activists realized that
traders were quite busy already.
Please be careful, I bruise easily. In fact, it's not uncommon for me to
break people's bones.
Friday
Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around
inebriated.
*
Monday
If I trip and fall in a sensitive compartmented information facility
while giving a top secret briefing to an audience under State Department
cover, do I make a sound?
A literary agent contacted me today to ask if I was interested in
working as a ghost writer for a client of hers.
Talk about your unmixed metaphor. I politely declined, pointing out that
as a CIA spook my own writing is itself ghosted by definition.
Tuesday
I'm all for banning the N-word from literature, assuming by 'N-word' you
mean 'novel.'
My life no longer revolves around sex. Sex's immense gravitational field
has finally sucked my life into its event horizon and shredded it into
elementary particles.
Wednesday
Saving Your Soul:
Helpful Tips
1. Assess. Calculate how much of your soul you spend each
week. Your bank and credit card statements can be helpful in this
regard.
2. Make a plan. Create a budget for saving some of your soul each
month – and stick to it!
3. Learn. Find out how many checks you can write against your
soul. Never write more than the limit, since this may result in
significant fees.
4. Invest. Consider investing your soul in a retirement account
or deferred annuity. Make sure the investment offers sufficient return
for growth without exposing your soul to excessive risk.
5. Live a little! Once your plan for saving your soul starts
showing results, reward yourself by splurging now and then!
Thursday
The Internet has made book burning impossible and redundant at the same
time.
When Thoreau wrote "Our lives are frittered away by detail,” I hope he
wasn’t talking about potato fritters, because I love those things.
Friday
If you die while waging jihad, you shall be rewarded with 72 virgins in
the afterlife.
… That's you, plus six dozen adolescent girls, for the rest of
eternity.
Truly, the justice of Allah is great.
*
Monday
I'd rather have less time than I think, than less think than I have
time.
What is it about being published that renders an author, otherwise
possessing the usual compliment of male physiology and outlook,
something other than a real man?
Is it the inevitable chopping up of his manuscript, nay, even the
complete emasculation of his central concept by an editor?
Or is it the way the writer is forced to have his body of work
scrutinized and commented on by fickle critics … not unlike a fashion
model sashaying down a catwalk?
On a somewhat related topic, like most guys I prefer not to admit that I
self-post my writings on my web site. But truth be told, I like to
fantasize that I'm being featured in New Yorker when I'm 'doing
it.'
Tuesday
I want to take a course to learn how to stop juggling.
A motivational speaker was stabbed by one of his students. This either
officially qualifies him as the worst motivational speaker ever, or the
best.
Wednesday
'Contradiction in terms' is a redundancy.
Joel Siegel said "William Shakespeare wrote 39 plays and did not use the
word 'suck' in any of them."
Sorry Joel: Titus Andronicus Act 4. Scene 2. Line 179.
Thursday
An ISBN?
Does it contain multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles?
Tormented authors who don't want their picture taken need extra time to
get their hair wrong for the publicity photo.
Friday
The real F-word is 'future.'
*
Monday
What goes TDY comes TDY.
There's a time and a place for everything – and I say we send everything
there as soon as possible.
Tuesday
Let's be honest: only God can create jobs.
I never met a man who never met a man he didn't like I liked.
Wednesday
If it ain't broke, can we please stop talking about it?
The objectification of women is unfair to women, and even more unfair to
objects.
Thursday
If you're a zombie, it's not an apocalypse, it's a renaissance.
They say the reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the
conduct of a single hour.
I say: who the hell can do something for a whole hour???
Friday
Not only can you fall off the floor, you can land face-first on the
ceiling.
*
Monday
Never judge a cover by its sleeve.
Oh what the hell, why not admit it: sometimes I wish to God I was
published.
Not only that, but I can both confirm and not not not deny that every
now and then I feel a deep yearning to see my writing made into
commercially successful feature length films.
... And honestly, when you think about it, why wouldn't a real
man want these things? I mean, to be loved by like-minded readers, to
leave an enduring legacy to literature: no doubt writers who are vain
and unmanly harbor such desires – but is harboring such desires
necessarily vain and unmanly?
In my opinion, for an authentic, upright man to frankly acknowledge
these sorts of inner wants, far from being unmasculine, is actually a
big part of true manhood, and as such constitutes an important factor in
assuring that guy has no chance of getting published ever.
Tuesday
A thesaurus is a dictionary on drugs.
If you're lucky, you may capture the spirit of creative genius for a
brief moment, maybe two. If not, you'll have to be content with
possessing it twenty-four hours a day.
Wednesday
In order to make zoos more like jungles, it's necessary to make jungles
even more like zoos.
I assume the phrase 'If you can't say something nice, don't say
anything' is a nice thing to say.
Thursday
If A loves B, and B loves C, how can it be a love triangle unless
C also loves A?
You can't make this stuff up. Making this stuff up is a violation of
Title 18, Section 1001 of US federal law.
Friday
Failure to understand reality is not reality's fault? How do you
figure???
Author! Author!
*
Monday
'Safeword' is a contradiction in terms.
A woman from Varon Publishers – that company near DC – contacted me
today. Her name is Eva. I read her bio on Varon's web site; talk about
some impressive references. Let's just say I wouldn't mind writing her back
story, if you get the undercurrent to my narrative here.
Eva invited me to dinner next week. She said she has a unique proposal
that she's sure will meet with my approval, but she wants to present it
personally. I'm not sure why, but I decided to accept her invitation.
Got an e-mail this evening from another agent – some guy who says he
thinks my work might be suitable for 'short run' publishing.
Hey, speak for yourself, pal.
Tuesday
Failure is not an option – it's an employee stock purchase plan.
I wrote myself a motivational e-mail challenging myself to be more
authentic. It got sent to my spam folder.
Wednesday
Plain text is in the eye of the beholder.
There's nothing more odious to God than excessive piety. Just be
satisfied with one piece like everybody else.
Thursday
When breathing in life and breathing out poetry, remember that 80% of
halitosis comes from the tongue.
The difference between concrete and abstract: if you slip and fall on
abstract, it hurts a lot more.
Friday
Not only does history repeat itself, it increasingly forgets where it
put its keys.
*
Monday
You don't pass your prime, you dig out from under it.
For every innuendo, there's an innubeginningo.
Tuesday
I know why the caged monkey throws feces.
If the ointment's any good, what does it matter if there's a fly in it?
Wednesday
Gods of thunder make me wet.
My conscience is not for sale. I'm waiting for the market to pick up.
Thursday
If I knew then what I know now, by now I probably wouldn't know it.
Had dinner with Eva, the literary agent from Varon Publishers. Talk
about attractive – and she was definitely letting her 'front matter'
show, if you get my publishing industry reference here.
I don't mind telling you, the above factors (plus more than a little red
wine) had your humble intelligence officer seriously questioning my
policy of not seeking to disseminate my writing.
It happens to the best of us ... * Friday To burn one's manuscript is to return the favor. Woke up
this morning with my head pounding and my eyes swiveling around like a
pair of rusty turrets. Swung myself out of bed, stumbled into the
bathroom, looked down and … Oh my God. Instantly I knew what had happened. After enduring the humiliation of having to urinate
sitting down, I carefully and thoroughly wiped, then in a single,
enraged motion leapt from the toilet and grabbed my cell phone from the
headstand of my bed. I quickly looked up the street address of Varon
Publishers, then heaved the handset against the wall, scarcely noticing
as it exploded into a dozen pieces. Storming over to my closet, I proceeded to outfit
myself in camo and sunglasses. Then I stomped down to my basement to get
guns. Lots of guns. Scooping up handfuls of nine-millimeter rounds and
stuffing shotgun shells into various pockets, I strode silently out of
my townhouse, bounded into my jeep, and burst out of my driveway in a
grey-white cloud of vaporized rubber. In twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds I was in
the parking lot of Varon Publishers, Inc. As my jeep neared the front of
the building I jumped the small speed bump and floored the gas pedal,
plowing straight across the manicured lawn. A couple of stunned
onlookers scattered as I slammed my vehicle headlong into the main
lobby, broken glass cascading down around me like a Niagara Falls
honeymoon. A pudgy little security guard stared at me for a
split second, then dove for cover underneath the reception desk. I had
no quarrel with security. The sound of muffled shouts and gasps wafted
from unseen rooms as I climbed out of my jeep, sauntered over to the
elevator, pointed my silver riot gun at the elevator door, and blew it
open. Then I stepped in and pressed the double star signifying the
executive floor. Emerging from the elevator and pausing outside the
large glass doors of the CEO's office, I grabbed the stock of a second
riot gun from its holster behind my back, and in the same motion swung
it over and cocked it. The pretty admin took one look at me and
immediately bolted for destinations unseen. I obliterated the two glass
doors with a shell from each semi-legal sawed-off, walked into the CEO's
lobby, made a deliberate right turn toward his office, and started
taking large wood chips from of his $90,000 oak doors with alternating
blasts from each hand. I have to give that CEO credit – he heard me coming
and went straight for his canister of pepper spray. I casually pointed
one shotgun and blew it out of his hands, a couple of his fingertips
going with it. The CEO sat upright in his chair, holding his
bleeding hand and panting softly; maybe he was in shock, or maybe he had
known this moment was coming. Maybe both. "You published me." "We had every right under the Freedom of
Information Act, Mr. King," he said, obviously recognizing me from my
web site portrait. "Your writing is the property of the US Government,
and it’s not classified." "My writing is my own. You didn't read the
disclaimer on the site." "Our legal counsel believes they can make a judge
think differently; if nothing else, we can keep this matter tied up in
litigation for years. Meanwhile, your books will all be bestsellers." I stepped forward a couple of paces, re-cocked and
pointed a riot gun six inches from the CEO's face. "Look, Mr. King," he said, "Let's be realistic
about this. Varon Publishers will pay you top dollar for your work. This
stuff is brilliant. Maybe we pushed the envelope a little by taking the
steps we did, but we had to publish your writing before someone else got
to it." Inwardly I had to admire the guy's guts. Even if it
did ultimately prove necessary for me to splatter them all over that
$50,000 hardwood desk of his. "Where are the books?" "Film rights, Mr. King – the film rights alone are
worth millions. As CEO of Varon Publishers, I'm in a position to
personally guarantee you at least 20%." I stuck the barrel of my riot gun against his
mouth. "Where are the books?" "Mmff frml grp lubbub." I pulled my gun back without firing, turned around
and walked out. He called behind me, "I advise you to put down your
guns and go home, Mr. King. There's still time to resolve this situation
without involving the authorities." "You can't stop us from publishing your work and
making you a universally famous author!" … "You can't hold back your literary destiny!" By the time I reached the downstairs lobby, I could
hear sirens – I knew special weapons and tactics units would be taking
up positions outside the building at any moment, if they hadn't already. I ignored the sirens and took the stairs down to
the basement warehouse. Reaching the thick metal doors, I slung my riot
guns back in their holsters and took out my 9-millimeter. A single round
to the lock and I was in. A man stood 10 feet inside the entrance with
spilled coffee all over his shirt, holding a section of wood pallet like
he was batting cleanup for the Washington Nationals. For a second the
thought entered my mind: was he really willing to die to protect a bunch
of cat books and memoirs by adult survivors of adult survivors? Another
second and I had my answer. As he turned and scurried toward the rear exit I
called after him in a relaxed voice: "Where are the Covert Comic books?" "… Comic books?" he called back, still running, "We
don't make comic books at this facility." "The new spy book," I called out louder as he
continued running. Then I played a hunch as to what the cover might look
like and yelled toward his rapidly receding form: "The one with a
picture of a guy wearing sunglasses who has no face." He reached a door at the far end of the warehouse
and flung it open. But for a moment, instead of running outside, he
paused and gazed back at me – a look of recognition on his face. "Back
corner to the right," he said; then he stepped through the doorway and
disappeared. "Thanks," I whispered. "… Sorry about the hassle,
fellow non-publishee." I could hear the pounding of many boots on a floor
somewhere above me; then I heard muffled shouts. I casually walked over
to the corner and saw several huge pallets reaching all the way up to
the ceiling like a veritable Tower of Babel. The pallets had white
labels on them. The labels said "Varon Publishers / King: Real Men." I replaced my 9mm in its holster and stepped back
several meters. From a vest pocket I carefully removed a WP (White
Phosphorous) incendiary grenade. I had acquired it during a covert op
overseas many years previously; I kept it at home in case America ever
found herself under attack by a hostile foreign government or a
terrorist organization (or possibly a book publisher). I looked behind me to ascertain that the interior
warehouse door was still accessible. Then I pulled the pin on the
grenade, tossed it into the pallets, and as they say, 'started booking.' Before I had even made the stairs, the building shook violently. By the time I hit the lobby on a dead sprint, the SWAT boys were dealing with fire exploding from windows all around the basement of Varon Publishers. They didn't even notice me at first. I leapt into my jeep, slammed on the gas and hurdled the three guys who had been left behind to secure the front entrance. Coming down in several rows of tulips, I bounced hard, hit the accelerator one more time, and shot out of the parking lot.
* Monday The oldest trick in the book is the book. Boy, am I ever officially not in trouble at work. Here's the situation as of this morning: the
Agency's Office of General Counsel, on learning that Varon Publishers
Inc. was planning to send out advance copies of my writing without CIA
review, has obtained a court order to prevent unauthorized publication
of 'potentially classified US Government information.' Meanwhile, it has become necessary to make Eva, the
breathtakingly, life-changingly beautiful publishing agent from Varon,
stop levitating in public (having read my works deeply and at length
over the past several weeks, Eva has undergone a dramatic transformation
and will now, along with Varon Publishers, have to be covertly
'rewritten'). Note that this in no way implies Eva and your humble
author can't compose wonderful new chapters together in the future ...
if you get my completely non-literary reference here. It feels good to be a man, a real man, again. Sorry, can't write any more at the moment. Gotta
get up and go take a leak. ... Standing up, of course.
The Covert Comic.
Avoid publishing him ... if you can.
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