Annoying Tales of Freelance Writing, Part I

Aside from reading books and watching movies, sometimes our intrepid blogsmith moves away from his comfort zone and attempts to drum up work as a freelance writer. The following is the first in a series of posts detailing the perils of this job.

Earlier this week, a big thing happened. I got my second essay published, this time in Gelf Magazine. I'm very proud of the essay, "Browsing for Godot," which features interviews with Susan Orlean, David Sedaris, and Chuck Klosterman.

Seriously, I'm just relieved this thing ran somewhere. I would have been happy if it was in the circular for FoodTown. I began writing this essay in Fall 2007 for Publishers Weekly, which published my first essay earlier that year. Initially, the editor was very psyched about it, so I started making phone calls, wrote a draft, and sent it off.

Then I wrote another draft, and another. PW eventually said no thanks--the essay wasn't concrete enough. So, I worked on it some more--trimming the fat, reworking points, contacting more sources (namely Sedaris), and consulting friends. I passed it back to PW.

Again, no taker.

Then, after an encouraging word from a few friends, I began shipping it around. Salon politely said no thanks. Slate never got back to me. The New York Times Book Review passed, as did The Chicago Tribune. The Philadelphia Inquirer ignored me like I was a $15.00 screening of Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. My editor at The Star-Ledger said there was no room for essays.

At this point, I was determined to get this essay published somewhere, so I turned to Gelf, a great Web magazine that covers the overlooked. (They're also one of the few places that does fantastic interviews with sports writers.) The editor there, David Goldenberg, loved it, but wanted some additions and revisions: cue more phone calls, more red pen wizardry, more starts and stalls.

Then another editor joined in, Adam Rosen (an ever-patient gentlman), who had more suggestions, which led to more revisions and tinkering. So, after all was said and done, the essay you now see went through two years, at least a dozen revisions, and at least that many query letters.

So, what did I learn?

Nothing is ever given to you as a freelance writer. I really wish they would teach this in journalism classes. If you're a freelancer, you better be prepared to scrape and bellow and pound the pavement. Sometimes you get lucky, but more times than not you better be prepared to hear the word "no" more often than "yes." (NOTE: Oddly enough, days after this piece ran, I got two freelancing jobs with suprising ease.)

Still, the satisfaction of hearing 'yes," and then seeing the final product is pretty bloody fantastic. It's an awesome feeling.

Morgan Freeman Sings "One Week"

The title says it all. I found this on YouTube, and I have to say, I was impressed. Hope you are, too.

UPDATE: I know that it's not Morgan Freeman. He's too dignified to something like this.

Yes, We Take Requests

Running a blog is like running a business, and the readers are customers. They must be kept happy, so when requests are made, I listen. And since the person making this request is my girlfriend's brother, I pretty much have no choice.

Please allow me to digress while I turn my attention to a subject outside of the movies: live music and the art of conversation.

Last weekend, the girlfriend and I made the latest in a long line of summer social obligations. The party was an outdoor affair complete with food, sunshine, and live music. I had a very nice time, except for a small wrinkle.

As the band tore through "Feel Like Making Love" and "Sweet Home Alabama," the girlfriend introduced me to a series of people. Needless to say, because the band was loud, I couldn't hear a single word that was said. My means of communication were reduced to smiling and nodding. It was either that or start screaming like I was giving a traffic report from the News 6 chopper.

Conclusion: There's a very good chance everyone I met at said party thinks a lovely, intelligent woman is dating a bearded simpleton.

This got me thinking. Why do people think bars are such great places to meet people, when communication is severely blocked by crowd noise or live/recorded music? Single folks are always talking about how they're tired of the bar scene. I think maybe it's because they've finally realized effective communication is impossible, save for pick-up lines and drink requests. Why do you think the peacock effect works so well at bars? How many times did the guys from The Pick-Up Artist make the rounds at a book club or a housewarming party? With talking severely limited, physical appearance takes the cake.

Then again, maybe I would have made a more memorable impression at this high school graduation party, if I had spiked my hair, popped my collar, and sported a carrot-orange tan. Now, that would certainly get me noticed.

Parties and Movies and Peapods

One of the biggest, unsaid things about couplehood is that your social life doubles. With a person now a fixutre in your life, you find yourself going to additional weddings, Xmas parties, and family visits.

Oddly enough, you'd think that with all this exposure to banquet halls and backyard barbecues, that I'd be some great raconteur. Oh God, that's not even remotely the case. I went to a friend's 30th birthday party the other day, and I was reminded of how I haven't socially progressed beyond the seventh grade.

Witness:

--While introducing my girlfriend to a person I've known for years, I completely blanked on this person's name. There's a photo of me holding this person in my arms, yet I couldn't friggin' remember her name. Ugh. (Sorry, Brooke.)

--At the restaurant, I accidentally ate the discarded pea pods, instead of the fresh ones. This may have happened once or for a period of minutes. Either way, I'm doomed to be like Patrick Dempsey in Outbreak.

--I was reminded of just how awkward it is to enter a party. I wish I were some big, brassy type like Mae West or Rosalind Russell, who could just enter a room and bellow, "HEY EVERYBODY! THE PARTY HAS STARTED!" As a straight man, I legally can't do that, so I just shuffle in.

Self-mockery aside, I had a very nice time with some very friendly people. And I was reminded of something else--the bonding power of movies.

When one of the dinner guests mentioned where I was writing reviews, that got the table started. People wanted to know what I had seen, and were more than happy to chime in with their opinions. The conversation got animated very quickly.

And that reminded me of something: Everyone has a favorite movie, one that defines their life in unseen ways. Everyone's usually loves talking about it because it's simultaneously profound and meaningless. Talk about religion or politics or sports, and the passion becomes volatile.

When you talk about movies, the passion is 100% benign and 100% spirited. Everyone can be an expert. That's why I love 'em so much.

Me, "Up," and Max Von Sydow

As I've mentioned before, the reviews I write for ICON range from one to five stars. In the year or so that the rating system began, I haven't given out five stars once. For me, five stars signifies something almost life-changing, like the times I saw Pulp Fiction and Boogie Nights. Watching those movies, they almost felt like living, breathing creatures.

That brings us to Up, which finally landed the coveted five stars. (I'm sure the guys at Pixar are doing their happy dance.) Why? I can't remember being so moved by a movie. For some people, crying at the movies is as normal a reaction as laughing or gasping. Not so for me. I remained dry-eyed at Benjamin Button, Terms of Endearment, and even Field of Dreams--one of five movies deemed acceptable for guys to shed a tear.

In fact, I'm usually as jaded as this guy.

But with Up, I cried twice. And not just a sniffle, but full-fledged crying jags so severe that it frightened me. I cried like a soap opera actress, a five-year-old with a skinned knee. It was as if I was malfunctioning. The "something's in my eye" excuse couldn't be used. It was worse than George Costanza crying during Home Alone.

So, that's a big reason for the rating, and why it's the best movie I've seen this year. I do think I Love You, Beth Cooper could pose a threat.

July's Book of the Month

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they keep libraries in business. Am I the only one who thinks libraries are the best? At mine, the DVD collection is absolutely first-rate and I can get pretty much any book I want, all for minimal cost.

Still don't think libraries are cool. Well, you know who thinks they are? The Fonz! Zac Efron has nothing on Henry Winkler! Whose jacket is in The Smithsonian?

You may find it egregious that I'm only now providing dap for William Goldman's Adventures in the Screen Trade, but I just got around to reading it. I'm glad I did. What a phenomenal read--funny, smart, and brutally honest.

Goldman, in case you forgot, is one of the most acclaimed screenwriters in history, the brains behind All the President's Men, Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, Misery, and The Princess Bride. He's also a novelist--please, please read The Princess Bride if you get a chance--and co-wrote one of the best sports books ever, Wait Till Next Year.

To me, Adventures is as essential as the yellow pages. Screenwriters will learn how to write from a master. Critics will gain a fresh perspective of how to watch a movie. Everyone else will get stories and anecdotes from a Hollywood veteran who's not only a great storyteller, but who doesn't have an ounce of pretension.

Really, I can't tell you how much I loved this book. Get it immediately from your library. Be sure to say hi to the Fonz while you're there.

We Get Letters...

Since my epic interview with her last year for ICON, Jancee Dunn and I have become friendly. My dream is to form my own version of The Algonquin Roundtable, so it's nice to know that the Dorothy Parker role may be filled. I'm still looking for a Harpo and a Benchley, so if you know anyone...

Anyway, my girlfriend loved Jancee's debut novel, Don't You Forget About Me, and expressed an interest in reading more. Being the big so-and-so I am, I asked Jancee if she wouldn't mind autographing a copy of But Enough About Me (a former book of the month) for the girlfriend's birthday. She enthusiastically agreed, and I mailed the book.

With the book, I sent a letter telling a little bit about my girlfriend and a check. Jancee refused money for mailing, so in the letter I wrote that she should use the check to buy her new daughter, Sylvie (who's adorable), something nice. I have no idea what Brooklyn-based parents buy their kids, and I wasn't about to guess.

True to her word, Jancee wrote a loving inscription to the girlfriend. But she returned my check, which included this note:

Pete! Keep the stinkin' check--seriously! Thanks for getting the book!

With that in mind, Jancee has a new collection of essays, Why is My Mother Getting a Tattoo? available now. Visit http://www.janceedunn.com/ for more info.

I'm guessing it's OK to pay for those, but you should probably check with her.