The Market of Magical Thinking

While it’s James Frey who’s the man of the hour for fooling Oprah and her book club with his fabricated autobiography A Million Little Pieces, the unmasked man of my New York minute is the woman behind JT Leroy.  Up until now, this reclusive transgendered ex-runaway-cum-homeless druggie has received an outpouring of support – and brand equity – from celebrities and common folk alike after coming out as an HIV patient.  And his/hers were supposed to be works of fiction.  How much do we really need to know about an author?  At what point does the public persona color our impression of the quality of the text?

Authors compete for the attention of agents and publishers.  Everything from our backgrounds to our publication history is part of the package.  And now we know that the glutted fish pond of aspiring authors were competing against more than just celebrity, better ideas, better writing.  They were competing against better USPs.  They were competing against an enigma in a wig and sunglasses, a courageous AIDS survivor who was really a healthy straight Victor/Victoria in disguise.

Like Broadway’s Jerry Herman, I submit that the work is the celebrity.  But realistically, an author’s identity is her unique selling proposition.  Having worked for years in marketing communications, I know how to promote myself.  I know how it’s done and what I have to spin.  I just don’t want to do it.

I know my life is interesting; I’m not ashamed or haunted by it.  It’s not the stuff that my dreams are made of.  It’s not what I want to figure into the grand scheme of my marketing plan.  Can’t I just settle for being a voice? 

Yes, I want to create an aura of mystery.  I want to be so mysterious that you never know what events I’m at, what’s in my grocery cart, what my “extracareer-cular” activities are.  If my significant other is a writer or other celebrity, it will be a significant other fact you’ll never know.  Nor do I want to know anything about authors until I’ve finished a few of their books.  I cover the back page with my hand when I read. 

The Internet age affords writers greater anonymity than any other period in history.  Yes, we’ve spawned a cyberspace where everyone is beautiful and no one’s identity is ever certain.  Ten and a half years ago, I sat down to Netscape Navigator for the first time.  I knew I could tell my faraway chat room buddies that I was a renowned choreographer, a Harvard classicist, a New York socialite.  But what came out of my keyboard was, “Where are you from?  What’s St. Albans like?” 

Online is the place to be a disembodied soul.  I have the opportunity I never had growing up to transcend my physical shell – and others’ perception of me. In culinary terms, I don’t have to let someone else’s ketchup disguise the flavors of my tenderloin.  Online, an author can communicate readers and the world, but she needn’t open the door into her life or create a public construct.

The sad truth is that in the current publishing market, fiction doesn’t sell like it used to.  Nonfiction has the attention of publishers and book buyers alike.  Commercially viable fiction must be relevant, time-sensitive.  And oxymoronic: it must be convince us that we’re reading at least a grain of truth.  JT Leroy sold his/her fans more than just books.  They bought a grittily “real” text and a mysterious character behind the name.    Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.  You’re getting what you want. 

What you would benefit from knowing are my ideas, my attitudes, the inspiration of my plots and characters.  Nor do you need to know what I look like.  I need to neither personalize nor formalize the relationship with my readers.  If you’re reading this blog because you know me, you know what you need to know.  And all you need to know is that I’m not on the lam and I really do write the stuff I slap my name on.