“When you publish it, yes—but not when you’re just writing it for yourself or your friends,” I said.
“I’d like to see my cookbook published,” he replied.
“We’ll put it in our book.”
“No, I’d like to see it published separately—I don’t want it in our book. I’ll get it published later.”
This created an early dilemma for me. The answer was to submit the cookbook to my agent, Barry Krane, for review. However, when I suggested that to Barry, he wasn’t amused: “I am not going to solicit the publication of a cookbook written by a serial killer— are you crazy? I won’t even read it. Don’t even talk to me about this. Just get your book done so we can move on to projects that don’t make me sick.”
But I pushed:
“Barry, just give Bill a read, a review—tell him the truth. What’s happening is all this is going to his head because I complimented his writing. He needs an objective opinion—an objective kick in the teeth. Then he’ll let us publish the cookbook in the real book.”
“You want me to have one of my editors tell him his cookbook sucks? No way! I’m not having this guy mad at me.”
“Barry, he’s in jail, he’s on his way to Death Row. Even if we get rid of the death sentence, he’s never getting out.”
“No. N-O. I don’t even want this guy to know I’m alive. I don’t even want him to think about me. I have little children. I have a wife that I love.”
“You’re being irrational.”
Barry’s response was silence.
“All right,” I said, “what if I write the review of the cookbook, and I pretend one of your people did it?”
“No names—I don’t want my address or phone number on there—you hear me?”
“Fine. I’ll FAX you a copy of the review as soon as it’s done.”
“Don’t. I don’t even want it in my files.”
Here’s the memo I wrote:
TO: BK EDITORIAL STAFF FROM: J.G.
RE: “VITTLES ‘N’ FIXIN’S” by “Bill S” COVERAGE: RUSH!
This is a cookbook “peppered” with the author’s short personal anecdotes. The recipes can best be described as “personalized home cooking”.
First, let me say that the recipes look okay, although they are not obviously special in a “signature” sort of way.
Second, let me say that the anecdotes and the structure were interesting, a good read overall, and it is the “folksy reality” of the author’s voice and style that makes the book most endearing—this is a “guy next door’’ writing about his good cookin’.
By the same token, any promise in the writing is mitigated by grammatical errors and unintentionally unsophisticated syntax which clearly brands the author as an amateur (talented, but not yet professionally polished).
A lot of editing and rewriting would be needed to raise this ms. to a level where we could even consider pitching it.
And this brings me to my third point: as we know, mixed genres are always tough sells (no matter how well-written). The publishers and the audience both want to know whether a given book is animal, mineral, or vegetable, and everyone gets lost when an author tries different tacks in the same piece.
More particularly (and I write this after having contacted several publishers this morning to confirm it), cookbooks are only sold when the author’s voice and identity are already known and valuable commodities. In other words, other than fad diet books, true cookbooks are only sold on commission, by a publisher asking an already successful and renowned chef, restaurateur, or food columnist to go ahead and write a book.
Even then, neither publisher nor author makes much money off the book—it’s more of a “prestige” accomplishment that leads to other, hopefully lucrative opportunities.
Accordingly, none of the publishers I contacted would agree to read such a submission. Were “Bill S” actually Wolfgang Puck, of course, there might have been some interest.
My suggestion is to encourage “Bill S” to think about using the kitchen setting and the notion of cooking as the jumping-off points for a sort of fictional memoir, a la Like Water for Chocolate, or in the manner of The Bridges of Madison County, (or, for that matter, Fried Green Toma-toes!), particularly since you told me that he also writes short stories and novels.
In conclusion: we cannot sell this (or even submit it), but the author should be encouraged to put it aside and keep up his other writing. I sense he’s got good writer’s instincts, and, once he pays his dues, someday he’ll put out a solid piece of work. I’m happy to review his future material.
ADDENDUM—MONDAY AFTERNOON:
I am absolutely floored by what Jeff just told me. “Bill S” is that creep in California! Amazing. Too bad his talent is going to such waste in prison. Anyway, obviously my coverage of the cookbook is secondary to the fact that never, under any circumstances, could we sell or be associated with selling the writings of a convicted serial murderer and baby killer.
Even if we used a pseudonym or a straw man, we would run too much risk of having our credibility destroyed should the publisher or public ever learn the truth. (And it would be illegal for “Bill S” to make any money, right? Doesn’t California have a “Son of Sam” law?)
I’m afraid I have to take back what I said about encouraging “Bill S” to write—there is no point in giving him false hopes of publication or income. The only context in which his work could legitimately appear would be in a story about him, or some day posthumously (it’s kind of macabre, but I suppose if he’s executed, there might be some lurid interest in the writings he left behind—not that we’d want anything to do with it).
Sorry to be so blunt, but why was I given this ms. to read?
I immediately sent this bogus memo to Don Suff, knowing that he would get it over to Bill in the Riverside jail
Predictably, Don did what I expected.
And Bill’s response was equally expected—suddenly he was becoming predictable to me, suddenly I had the illusion of control over him, suddenly I realized I myself was thinking like a serial killer,
“I can’t believe what they said about my cookbook!” Bill yelled over the phone at me—it was the first time I’d heard him actively angry. Maybe Barry was right to worry,
“Actually, Bill, they liked the cookbook, it was you they had a problem with,” I replied,
“I cannot believe it!” he shouted, “What does one thing have to do with the other?! This is a good cookbook!” Suddenly I was Alice and this was Wonderland and Bill Suff was trying to make nonsense sensible.
Now, I have to confess that I’ve never “done” drugs, fearing the feeling of being out of control, so I have no firsthand experience with controlled delusions, but I have grilled friends about their drug experiences. One friend told me how LSD had turned a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese into a nest of wriggling vipers. After that, he always insisted on al dente.
At the same time, I once knew a girl—an actress—who didn’t use drugs at all, but nonetheless saw a blue-winged demon trailing her whenever she was stressed, which was pretty much all the time. The only good news was that she didn’t always talk about it. Not coinci-dentally, she was my first sexual partner, a onetime thing during which I was afraid to remove my black socks for fear everything else would slip out of place. I simply realized too late that the socks were still on. Logistics can be daunting, and mechanics are nothing short of a curse, but somehow it all comes out in the wash, as they say. Luckily for me, the actress didn’t seem to notice the socks, her eyes staring up intently over my shoulder toward the scalloped, shadow-box ceiling, where the demon no doubt hovered. I didn’t happen to notice the demon myself, but I was grateful for his distracting her.