Editorial
Dan Kempner, Editor
“He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun.
In case of accidents, he always took him mom.“1
So sang John Lennon, whose mom died when he was a teenager. He had to go about becoming a man, and playing a Big Game, all by himself. Well… with a little help from his friends.
But playing a Big Game need not be about world-changing music or global fame. It is simply about being up to something that is big for you. It might be starting a company and building it into a powerhouse. It could be having kids against the odds and raising them powerfully.
For some it’s about facing a lifelong demon and, if not slaying it, at least taming it a bit. And it’s about doing it as grown ups, as mature men, not as dependent children.
Now, my own current Big Game is about something that, for me, has been a gnawing, reptile-brain house of horrors: getting my book finished. And – especially – getting it published.
The book, which chronicles the first five years of my life in Asia, took years to complete. But writing it was the easy part: I’m good at that. No, several of those years were spent fucking around looking for any way at all to avoid dealing with the last and most intimidating step: publishing. It’s a mysterious process reeking of sinkholes, maniacal laughter, and spectral creatures who chew up authors and spit out their manuscripts.
But now, the book is complete. It is unmistakably, irrefutably, indubitably done. Cooked. Finis! There’s nothing left to do but sell it, and I’m scared silly.
I don’t know how. Do I need an agent? And what if said agent laughs at me? If twenty four publishers reject it, will I have the guts to send it to the twenty fifth? What if I have to negotiate, or market it or, God forbid, what if they want me to rewrite it?! What if, what if, what if???
I could take the easy way out and publish it on Amazon. Or borrow some money to self-publish. But I don’t want that: I want a real, live publisher to say, “Yes, this is a worthy manuscript and we’d like to run it,” on whatever terms, and with whatever comes after.
That’s my Big Game. No tiger, no mom, no net below. Just me and my book and a lot of hard, scary work to do. It’s testing my determination. It’s testing my resolve, my guts, my fortitude or what you will. It feels hard.
But I also have friends and I’m getting a little help from them and, by God, I’m going to get it done. I don’t give a damn about global fame or the best-seller lists or any of that. That’s for Lennon and the boys. I just want my book, that I believe in, between covers on some bookstore shelf.
When that is done, I’ll don my safari hat, khaki shorts, and ammunition boots, put a foot atop a stack of my very own books, and pose like a Big Game hunter after the kill.
Until then, though it’s more white knuckles than White Album, at least I’m in the game. The Big Game.
- The Beatles. (1968). The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill. On The Beatles (The White Album). Apple Records. ↩︎
