Writing Dynasty

In the never-ending quest to be published, I’ve turned to nonfiction.  In nonfiction, you see, all you have to do is convince someone you’ve got an idea nobody else has had.  It took me a few years to figure that out, but then I’ve always been a slow study.  Even doctorates don’t help.

I keep working at my fiction.  It’s where my heart is.  I just finished reading a book, World War Z, by Max Brooks.  Now, I know it’s a matter of taste—this was on the New York Times Bestseller list—but I didn’t care for it.  It wasn’t that well written.  Yes, it was a new idea but so is the one I’ve been trying to get published for a decade now.

What happened here, I wondered.  Then I looked closer.  Max Brooks is Mel Brooks’ son.  Yes, History of the World Part I Mel Brooks’ son.  Blazing Saddles Mel Brooks’ son.  I was reminded of a bit of advice from Writers’ Marketplace back when print books still existed: “Are you famous?  Come on in!” (That’s a paraphrase.)

No doubt, having a famous parent also counts.  Joe Hill has gained a reputation on his own right, but everyone knows he’s Stephen King’s son.  These are the writing dynasties the publishing world adores.  As if ability passes down with the genes.  Privilege certainly does.

I’m trying to keep a more positive attitude these days.  After all, I am the son of a high school dropout who married a career alcoholic.  I’m not dead yet, so that counts for something.  I’ve also been writing fiction since I was a tween.  Some of it my teachers (who knew nothing about publishing) urged me to send it out to magazines.  Somehow fame in a town of 900 counts for little.  Can’t even guarantee sales of a grand.

Brilliance comes in earnings potential.  My Medusa novel’s been with a publisher for over a year now.  Last August they expressed interest and then came the radio silence.  So it goes.  My child writes too.  Her greatest chance is if I start a dynasty.  It’ll probably be a nonfiction one, if any at all.