On Meeting the One and Only

I have ephiphanal moments in convenience stores. Don’t know why, really, but that’s where it happens for me. Possibly because interacting with people at the counters at convenience stores may be the sum total of the people interactions I have on any given day, which is not a good thing, but whatever.

Anyway, I’m getting a beverage the other morning, and the gentleman behind the counter has a nametag that reads “The Ransom.” My first thought is: “Okay, I’ve wandered into a heist film.” But I keep my cool and don’t immediately look around for goons crouched behind the counter. “That’s an interesting nametag,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s my name,” the guy—Ransom—says. “And since I’m the only one, my boss put a ‘the’ on it. I get to keep it until I meet another one.” And he’s delighted to be Someone, you know?

Publishing is a weird business. On the one hand, you hear that there are only seven plots, and Shakespeare did all of them better than any of us could ever hope to, so there’s no point in trying to be clever and come up with something new. Or, rather, you aren’t clever, but what you are is you, and that’s special enough to warrant this version of that plot.

On the other hand, the broader your writing—so they say—the more likely you’ll find a broad audience, which is to say: write for a lot of people, because that way you might actually find an audience. Or, if you insist on writing for one person, make damn sure that person is going to read your shit.

There are more books coming out every week than ever, and no one can really hope to cover them all. Part of my bookstore job is to look at the week’s releases and find interesting things. Quite often, my eyes glaze over because, yes, I’ve seen that plot before, that cover before, that marketing copy before. And why is this one different? Oh, but this person wrote it, and so . . . ?

Put anotther way: Write something new because people like new things; but also, write something comfortably familiar because people like comfortable things. If you think this is contradictory, well, you haven’t spent much time in publishing.

Once upon a time, Clive Cussler’s publisher reissued Cyclops in a new mass market edition. They updated the cover and design, so that it looked like the new and shiny on the shelves. An older gentleman brought it up to the counter, whereupon I pointed out that it wasn’t a “new” Cussler book. He shrugged. “That’s fine. I probably won’t remember the plot from the first time I read it.”

Something new. Something familiar. You can’t win, really.

And yet, there’s The Ransom, getting up every day and heading to work. Pleased that he’s the only one like himself.

What happens when someone comes into the shop who is also named “Ransom.” Is The Ransom’s world going to fall apart? Is the other guy going to be pissed that he’s not “The” Ransom? Is he going to go home and make himself a nametag that says, “No, I’m THE Ransom.” He could, but that’s kind of a jerkish thing to do, and all it does is make folks have to choose between Ransoms.

No, he’s better off making a nametag that reads “The OTHER Ransom” because that is more true. He’s something new, but still something familiar.

You’ve got to figure out how to silence the critical voice that keeps shouting while you are making something. “Is it new enough?” it’ll scream. “Is it familiar enough?” it’ll whine.

And this, by the way, is why writers have a perpetually haunted look to them. Why, when you ask them a simple question like “Would you like to supersize this meal?”, they stare like you’ve asked them a trick question. Why, when they sit down in the morning and open the current work in progress, they let out a wheezing groan like all the air is being let out of them.

“Is it new?” “Is it familiar?” “Is it . . . ?”

I don’t know that The Ransom worries about being “new” or “familiar.” I suspect he’s happy being the only one like him in the whole world. Like the Gollux’s hat, in fact. And that’s probably enough.

Or, as they say in publishing: “Eh, that’s a problem for marketing.”