Outside the Cure Insurance arena in Trenton NJ.
Trapped under an awning as the rain falls in great sheets, painting this cold December day in shades of dusk.
I’ve been posted up here for ten solid minutes, waiting for a break in the rain.
Across the parking lot a clutch of food trucks idle, their grills steaming up into the skies, smoke signals telegraphing the grilled onions and processed meats within.
I involuntarily drool a bit, thinking of the sandwich I had the day before, a regional specialty that instantly starts a bewildering debate: Taylor Ham? Pork Roll?
Fuck if I care, I just want another.
But the rain only pounds harder, so I retreat back inside the arena and surrender to some dried chicken strips at the snack bar.
We’re at the Punk Flea market in Trenton, a seasonal holiday bazaar with crafts and gifts covering the arena floor.
The items on sale are all punk inflected, of course: Pyramid spiked tree ornaments, artisanal coffee roasted by over-caffeinated crustpunks.
At one booth titled, literally, Fuck the Police, they are selling strap on dildos with the MDC logo.
That sort of thing.
Around the outside perimeter are the signing booths, C level actors and voiceover characters, all desperately shilling autographs and photos ops at 20 bucks per.
The DiWulf Publishing crew is here, posted between the voices of Frylock from Aqua Teen Hunger force and the Sonic the Hedgehog.
A few booths down, the line is twenty deep waiting for Doyle to come out and sign glossies.
Business has been steady but slow, a sale now and then, a few books signed.
People stop and flip through my book, frown when they discover no pictures inside.
When someone actually decides to purchase a book, I sign it gratefully and suppress the urge to kiss them on the lips.
A dying breed, these people who will take a chance and buy a book.
To make the appointment with themselves to soon sit quietly and read some words from the page.
But we are nothing if not hopeful and cheerful, our hardy little crew under the glare of distant lighting, another long day upon the concrete floor.
Steve and Amy from DiWulf, Dave along with Jack from Adrenaline OD.
Offering our wares to the holiday shoppers.
Spreading our words one page at a time, like necktied missionaries passing out pamphlets door to door.
The days of writing words, the daily routine of sitting before screen and tapping at the keyboard, had finally ended by Summer….. 2021!
The “book” finally done.
What I had imagined as a tight 19 chapters (same number of tracks on London Calling, don’t you know) had bloated to a four part, 140,000 word monstrosity by the time I finally shut off the laptop.
You think it would be a problem, just getting enough content for a book, right?
But no.
The problem was when to stop.
When to realize that no amount of words will convey that ineffable angst that lies just beneath the breastbone.
After a few culling edits to bring it down to a more manageable length, I had to admit that the book was done.
Now what?
I talked to a few published writers I know, and they suggested an agent?
But I soon learned to get an agent they want you to have something published, and to be published you need an agent.
After playing out this Abbott and Costello comedy routine for a few weeks (38 cold call queries sent, only two replies via automated out-of-office messages) I gave up the avenue.
Oh, I had assumed the publishers would be lined up outside the door, each bearing fruit baskets and thick envelopes of cash.
The only problem I foresaw, should I accept the offer from your Penguins or maybe Simon and/or Schuster?
Perhaps I would take the noble route and go with Black Sparrow just so I could sit in Vesuvios and see my bold titles displayed in the front window of City Lights Bookstore?
But months went by, as they do, and the world did not come calling.
Stalled, like a ship in a dead zone, I began to panic–what if no one wants this thing?
Does it matter?
The art is in the creation, that’s what we tell ourselves.
Think of grumpy old JD Salinger holed up in New Hampshire, writing his precious words daily, yet unwilling to have it published for the waiting world.
A Buddhist monk journals his meditations for a decade, only to burn the scrolls beside the smoking incense, offering his thoughts only to the gods above.
Fuck that, brother.
I am vain enough to admit that if I write this crap, I surely want someone to read it!
I look a few booths down and now Doyle is sitting alone in this booth, tapping a sharpie idly on a stack of Misfits posters.
I take the chance to drop by and say hello, hoping I won’t be charged twenty bucks for the privilege..
“Hey man, Doyle,” I say, offering a hand to shake, “it’s Mike? ”
I then add, “Channel Three? Been a while.”
He takes my hand and gives it a weary shake, though he does not look up from his phone.
“Hey there Channel Three,” he says.
When he looks up I search for a flicker of recognition in his eyes but there is none.
It’s clear he has no idea who I am, but why should he?
We are decades removed from when we last shared a stage, my head grayer, our paths diverted wildly.
But here, we are all just vendors today.
Selling our shit, punk to punk, human to human.
The last of the holiday shoppers are staggering toward the exits now, as the vendors all start to pack up their wares.
We all hug it up at the DiWulf booth, make plans for our Las Vegas meet up in January, wish each other happy holidays.
We will each retreat to our corners, recharge, and come back again to offer our books to an increasingly non-reading world once more.
Scattering our words out there one at a time, like the hopeful seeds of a near extinct plant.
The CH3 Blog 