How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely Read Free Book Online Page B

13: Target key demographics.
    Ideally my protagonist would be somehow “multicultural.” Unusual racial backgrounds garner at least pretend interest from all readers. But as a standard-issue white male, I didn’t have much to offer. There was one black guy I knew well—my collegeroommate, Derek. But no one wants to read about a black guy who went to Exeter and wore a bathing suit and a Star Wars T-shirt and spent all his time playing World of Warcraft. There’s only one interesting story about Derek.
    The One Interesting Story About Derek
    In junior year, he resolved to lose his virginity. He took a bus to Mount Holyoke, vowing not to return until he had achieved his goal. After a week spent sleeping in trees and dodging the campus police, he acquired a kind of folk-legend status, and a “not unpretty” woman in his words took pity on him to the approval and acclaim of all.
    The point being, my protagonist would have to be a white guy.
    I named him Silas Quilter. Silas had literary connotations that made readers feel smart. Quilter was the author’s last name on a book about rare coins I’d seen on the bargain shelf. Vague—lots of ethnic groups could get behind it.
    By the time I got my sandwich, I’d earned it—earned the savory flatbread, seasoned beef, Muenster cheese, tomatoes, roasted red peppers, and green beans, all awash in spicy sauce and guacamole. I gave thanks to the Chilean people with each flavorful bite as I walked into the nearby Barnes & Noble.
    Rule 14: Involve music.
    Playing over the speakers was gentle adult rock with a folksy twang, a banjo in the background. This is what the NPR-listening, book-reading crowd likes best, tunes given a veneerof hipness with some “authentic” element, but without the embarrassing emotions of country or the irritating cacophony of world music. So that’s what I’d include. It would sound good on the soundtrack when they turned my novel into a movie.
    In the travel guides section, I picked up four Pathfinders books: Corsica, Sardinia & the Balearic Islands, Northern Peru, Hilltowns of Tunisia, and Coastal Slovenia.
    Rule 15: Must have obscure exotic locations.
    Americans trust knowledge acquired abroad. The Mediterranean, in particular, has a potent sun-dried magic for them, as evidenced by their love of Andrea Bocelli and the Olive Garden. Even kids like Chef Boyardee. But as with any pornography, readers need increasingly weird and kinky thrills. Tuscany and the French Riviera don’t arouse anymore. I’d never been anywhere more exotic than Epcot Center, but how many readers would know I was fudging about the teeming markets of Sartène or the smell of carapulca in Trujillo?
    Rule 16: Include plant names.
    I also bought Field Guide to American Trees, Plants, and Shrubs. Sometime around 1970, writers decided it was crucial to include specific plant names. Take this example, from Cready’s Manassas: “Bivouacked amongst the mockernut hickory and the sourwood as the sun melted over the Rappahannock, Ezekiel still smelled the distant hints of trampled chickweed, torn up by the cavalry when old Jeb Stuart rode by last April.”
    It was three-fifteen. I’d broken the craft of the novel down into sixteen easy-to-follow rules. I decided to go home and watch TV.
    But on the subway a fear gripped me: the fear of falling short. Arriving at the Pawson wedding as a renowned author would be glorious. But the specter of ending up a failed novelist, that most pathetic of creatures, made me tremble. I imagined telling wedding guests the title of my novel, and receiving a dim look and “I’ll have to look for it” as they jumped away into a conversation about the shrimp Gruyère puffs. I imagined Polly and Lucy and Derek sending cheery e-mails (“loved it, duder” . . . “so vivid! now you’re in publishing after all!” . . . “can’t believe you’re a PUBLISHED AUTHOR !”) while texting each other to commiserate and worry about my sanity. I imagined the