The phone rings, and...

As a writer for hire and developmental editor (one who shepherds a book through various stages of development and into the hands of an agent) I get calls from a wide variety of people. Some of them pretty out there. People like adult entertainers, ex-biker gang members, and ex-mob guys. The conversation always starts the same way: “I’ve led a really interesting life. It’s going to make a great book. I just need somebody to help me write it.” Sometimes, all three of those statements are true. Sometimes none of them is.

So. The phone rings one morning and it’s a young guy calling from New York. His name’s Damien Decker. He’s on a cell phone. The connection’s not too good. I’m having a hard time hearing him. He says what everybody says when they call. I ask him what the story’s about. He tells me he worked as a male escort in Manhattan. I’m thinking, how many of those are there? This can’t possible be that unusual or interesting. But I ask him to tell me about it.

And the story he tells me is not anything like the story I’m expecting to hear.

He talks for five minutes and I say, “I’m in.”

He’s a Scandinavian black man who ended up flat broke in Manhattan and got into escorting. Completely by accident he stumbled into a specialty niche in the industry. It’s called Mandingo – black on white shows for white male clients. But the thing is, he didn’t understand it. In the beginning, he didn’t get the American cultural and sexual taboo involved. Along the way he had to deal with his own history of being the oldest of three black kids who were the only non-Vikings growing up in a small Scandinavian town. A lot of racism involved there.

And he became one of the highest paid straight male escorts in Manhattan.

I pitched it to an agent at the Florida Writers Association Conference recently. Got a pretty good reception. We have high hopes.

As if I have time to blog!

I hereby swear off the use of the word swamped to describe how much work I have to do. I’m sure my friends have gotten sick of hearing me say it. And it tastes stale in my mouth. Swamped, of course, is an emphatic. It means extremely busy. But I’ve actually begun to add emphasis to it by saying something like, “I’m just so swamped.” The so really sells it. For a time. But recently I’ve sensed that people doubt me. Tom is swamped. I mean, I did have coffee with him the other day. He can’t be so swamped. Hell, now he’s even blogging!

One of my favorite stories about creative work has to do with a cartoonist. I don't remember which one. If this rings a bell, let me know who I'm talking about. (I'll probably get twenty-two different names.) The guy was sitting in an easy chair in a room by himself, staring into space. A friend walked in and asked him what he was doing. “Working,” said the cartoonist.

That’s the great (and terrible) thing about being self-employed in a creative endeavor. Sometimes when you claim to be working, you seem to be doing nothing. And people look at you askance. Truth is, a writer for hire usually has several plates spinning. It’s tough to convince people that when you’re staring into space you might actually be in panic mode, spinning plates wildly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see one start to wobble. You pivot, reach for it, hands trembling, sweat pouring down your face.

Metaphorically.

I mean, I do sit in a comfy desk chair, usually reclined, sometimes rocking.

So this is the beginning of my blog. Now I’m even more swa – extremely busy. See, extremely busy just doesn’t do it. I either have to find a new way to express it or retire.