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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v212) (the September 2010 Issue) |
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The Real Convention
John Duncklee
The panel sessions during the annual convention of the auspicious Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West had been going full blast all morning and half the afternoon. It was the third day of the week-long meeting at the Cowpie Palace Hotel in Denver. Not all the writers, editors and agents attended the panel sessions. There was always at least one table in the lounge occupied by those more interested in networking (a P.C. Word for ass-kissing), than listening to such topics as “Women of the West Smell Like Horseshit Too”, “Horseshit and Gunsmoke Markets in Belize”, or “What Does a Horseshit Editor Look For?”.
The group clustered around the table in the lounge was a mixed bunch of Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers, most grizzled from years of formula, genre writing, but there was one old former cowboy who really knew horses, cows, barbed wire fences, government forms, and above all, how to saddle a horse. He also knew that cattle drive toward water easier than away from it. Zemo Doyle was the envy of ninety-percent of the members of the association because they could not think of a pen name that would sell their books to constipated New York editors as well as Zemo could.
This particular afternoon, Zemo was “holding court” in the lounge of the Cowpie Palace. Some of the participants wondered how Zemo’s place at the table always gave him a dominant position in the conversation, not realizing that it was Zemo who dominated most any conversation he was involved with. Zemo was a true storyteller with the ability to hold just about any audience spellbound.
Through round after round of drinks, Zemo kept his stories going. When it was his logical turn to order a round, Zemo managed to manipulate his story line in such a manner that one of the others at the table would always signal the waiter and put the round on his own tab. Zemo continued without interruption. Zemo enjoyed The Glenlivet.
“What made the bottom fall out of Westerns?” Spade McCutcheon asked.
All eyes were on Zemo, waiting with fervor of anticipation for Zemo’s analysis. “Probably ‘cause the bottom fell out of the West,” Zemo answered. “Actually jet-travel is the culprit. People fly out West and don’t see cowboys driving trail herds to Dodge City, the Marshall drives a souped up Ford, and the only people wearin’ cowboy hats are the truck drivers.”
“Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey are still on the shelves in the Western section,” Fairley Hunkerdown added. “I don’t even see your books there, Zemo.”
“You won’t ever see my books there, you’re lookin’ in the wrong section. Mine are all in the litrichure section.”
Groaner Whistletooth shook his head in dismay. “Ya know, Zemo, I ben writin’ Westerns fer thirty odd years now, and I can’t get an editor ta read my stuff. Should I git a agent?”
“Where are you from, Groaner?” Zemo inquired.
“Providence, Rhode Island.”
“I don’t reckon an agent would help you much, Groaner,” Zemo pronounced. “Did you ever consider writin’ romance novels or self-publishin’?”
“Hell’s fire, Zemo, I ben puttin’ a bunch a sex in the saddle and it still don’t sell,” Groaner lamented.
“Sex in the saddle might be a bit awkward, even for an editor,” Zemo remarked.
The waiter came up to the table. Rafter Oakes ordered another round. “I’ve been reading Cormac McCarthy lately, and I think I’ve got it all figured out.”
“How’s that, Rafter?” Hunkerdown asked.
“Use big words, very little puncuation, and don’t capitalize indian.”
“I don’t use Indian anymore, it’s not politically correct,” Godown Fanning announced.
“Don’t tell me you write about ‘Native Americans?” Rafter Oakes asked.
“I’m not taking any chances. I use the term ‘Aboriginal Occupant of the Western Hemisphere’.”
Zemo laughed. All eyes snapped back toward him. “That oughta be safe enough. Nobody can understand it so nobody’s gonna get pissed off.”
Godown Fanning smiled in his victorious moment, having gleaned a positive response from Zemo Doyle.
“Pretty soon a feller won’t be able to write about cowboys,” Fairley Hunkerdown remarked.
“What are ya goin’ ta call ‘em, ‘bovine persons’?” Zemo added, and laughed again.
Rumen Abomasum pulled up a chair and squeezed in between Rafter and Fairley. Not realizing that the market for their writing had already been discussed earlier, he asked, “What about the dead market for genre Westerns?”
“A dead genre’s like a dead horse,” Zemo answered.
“How’s that?” Rumen asked.
“Don’t walk, trot, or gallop. But, ya don’t have ta feed the son-of-a-bitch after it’s dead.”
“I always research the weaponry my characters use,” Rafter implored the group. “I get the calibers right and when the guns were invented. The editors can’t reject my weaponry, but they ain’t buyin’ my stories.”
“Did ya ever think ya might be concentratin’ too much on yer weaponry, and not enough on yer stories?” Zemo asked. “Mebbe ya outa write a gun catalog.”
Fairley Hunkerdown interrupted. “Seems to me you have to be a woman writing about how women won the West, or write about women who thought they won the West.”
“You fellers have killed the cowboys, uncapitalized indians, pissed off the women,” Zemo remarked. “Why don’t ya write about gay cavalry troops at Little Big Horn?”
It was Rumen’s turn to buy a round of drinks. Godown Fanning scowled as he thought about what to say. “I had a durn good series goin’. Had nine books out and I sent the tenth one in. My editor sent back the manuscript tellin’ me they’d decided to end the series. They said they couldn’t afford an advance ‘cause Newt really got more than a dollar.”
“Ya can always run for Speaker of the House,” Zemo interjected. “Speakin’ of Newt, the HGWW board of directors gave him an honorary membership. And, at the Awards Banquet, Newt’s gonna get The Golden Green Road Apple Trophy, and he’s bein’ inducted into the Smoke Blower’s Hall of Flame.”
“Ya outa be durned happy ya had nine of ‘em in print,” Groaner Whistletooth said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I’d be happy ta git one on the shelf.”
“Maybe you fellers oughta go out and learn how ta ride a horse,” Zemo murmured, The Glenlivet beginning to make him more caustic.
Godown Fanning waved his hands at the group. “How does Gingrich get all these awards when he doesn’t write Westerns?”
“Horseshit fits a broad spectrum, Godown,” Zemo answered. “I’d say a four million advance for his kind a horseshit deserves somethin’.”
Rafter Oakes took a sip of his drink, tipped his new straw Stetson to the back of his head, and began waving his hand at Zemo Doyle. “Dammit, Zemo, I can’t figure you out. You sell your books as fast as you write the damn things. These HGWW conventions are for networking, something you have no need of at this point in your career. How come you’re here?”
“You’re puttin’ me on the spot, Rafter,” Zemo said, as he rose unsteadily from his chair. “What ya say is damn shore true, so I’ll level with all you fellers. It’s my once a year party. I shore enjoyed The Glenlivet, and I’d like ta thank all you fellers fer yer horsepitality.”
