The Journal of The Mermaid Translation
I have a box of the new novel, The Mermaid Translation.
I wasn’t going to write about this, but now it seems I am.
I’m not sure if it’s a diary, in order to keep my own
astounded observations, or simply a look at what happens
when you write. Anyway, let’s just call it a journal. And
it’s a good place to start, with this cardboard box full of
books.
**
On Saturday, I put it off as long as possible, until finally,
after 3 o’clock I pushed myself into action, grabbed a book
from the box, the car keys and family and out the door
we went. It was raining, dark—dreary is the word—but I
had to hope the weather was not a reflection of deeper
meaning. First stop was the public library. I parked and
left with Rustle in the back dancing to Elvis Presley.
These things take enormous nerve. I’m not fond of
doing this at all, but onward I charged.
The librarian had just finished talking up the books
on the new-release shelf and she turned to me with
a smile. I asked her about using one of the rooms
for a reading. She showed me the rental fee. I guess
that was enough for me. Part of the fantasy I have is
that people (I mean libraries and bookstores) would be
excited about having a local author read in their place.
It just isn’t like that. Unless I was J.K Rowling Jr.
They want the money. I went in the rain back to the car.
And on to the next stop.
My favorite bookstore in town sits on a slope with old
trolley tracks and the rain running down. Years ago, they
used to be on the corner of Harris Avenue, we used to go
there all the time when our daughter was a baby. Their
new store is beautiful orange wood, looking out over the
bay. Just before I went inside though, I swore and slammed
the car door. I had a premonition. My wife didn’t believe
they wouldn’t accept copies of my book to sell. After the
library and in fact years of doing this sort of thing, I know
better. Still, I held to a golden thread of hope that this
wonderful dreamy bookstore would be different. But I
told her I knew what they were going to say. And she scolded,
“See, you’re just going to make that happen.” My rude reply
was, “XXXX!” and “Just watch what happens...” So I fumed
out of the car with the new book tucked beneath my
sweater. Through the rain and yellow light, I got to the
counter and explained that I was a writer living in this
town and this is my new book. I’m trying to get it
reviewed in the local papers, I was hoping I could
mention that copies were for sale here. (There would
be hordes of people arriving after the glowing reviews.)
She soured immediately, “I’m afraid we have too much
overstock, our inventory couldn’t handle another book.”
Okay, okay, I said. I honestly didn’t expect it and I’m sure
it sounded bad when I softly told her it was my favorite
bookstore. But it isn’t anymore.
Outside, the family was moving on, ahead of me,
following the sidewalk to where it fell apart and turned
into gravel and weeds. I caught up at a puddle and we
went to the big bookstore rising over the street.
Voltage Books is the place everyone goes, the place
everyone thinks of first. Unfortunately they’ve become
notoriously heavy-handed when dealing with
small press books. To sell books here, the author
needs to provide the copies, any sold are subject
to a 60/40 split. So actually I’m losing money trying
to sell my books. On top of that, they charge the
author a ten dollar fee to give a reading. So, with
the library letting me down, and my ex-favorite
bookstore failing me, my confidence was at lowtide
as we went in. Right away I noticed Robert at the
cash register. I let the string of customers wind past,
then I said hello. He’s always been a good egg. I handed
him the new book and muttered I’d like to do a reading.
Robert flipped through it, “Oh, you should…” he said,
“You have to do a reading.” He called someone on the
intercom but she wasn’t around, so he wrote down
a couple of contact names. One of them I already wrote
to last week. I thanked him, I had become so flustered
I told him the book was for him. I even signed it.
At this point I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.
He seemed pleased with it though. As I left, he told
the woman next to him, “This is the third book of
poetry someone’s given me this week.” Yeah, I believe it.
We’re just throwing it to the wind.
**
Yesterday I mailed a copy of the book to another Robert.
My friend Rob is a musician who lives in Seattle.
He wants to record people reading it then drone the
results at an art gallery. It sounds fun. This weekend
we might try to meet at a studio. In the meantime,
a good review of sorts—my 5 year old niece in Ohio
got a hold of a copy of the book. Maya refuses to part
with it. When she isn’t carrying it with her, she keeps it
in a wooden box like a holy relic. Her mother had to
wait until Maya was asleep to slip it from her hands so
she could read it.
**
Naturally I wish this book could be such a sensation to
more people. I still wish I could make a living from writing.
Does it just take time? Think of those wandering poets of
China and Japan who wrote on cliffs and leaves and bark
hundreds of years ago. Now they’re translated, carried in
pockets, on subways and satellites. Today I’m going to
mail a book to my friend Michael. He would understand
what I’m talking about too. For years he’s run his own
small press. Many moons ago we worked together in a
warehouse, that’s where I got to know him. That’s when
he showed me a book that changed my life, a small novel
that was designed like a Big Little Book, with text on
one side and a drawing on the other. I carried that book
and read it everywhere until it was done and I returned it
to Michael. It immediately affected the magazine I
self-published (Pie in the Sky) and I kept it in the back of
my mind until I wrote The Heaven Antenna in Ohio
in 1998. In fact, the original book (which was later
published as The Ohio Trio) was handwritten with text
and drawings in honor of that book Michael showed me.
However, in the years that poured past, I had forgotten
the title of that magical book. I guess I figured it was a
one-of-a-kind underground flower. But I recently
contacted Michael again—he’s living on an island near
Oregon now. He reminded me: The Great Canadian
Sonnet, by David McFadden. So I gladly sent Michael
my new book—if it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know
how my writing would look.
**
Note from publisher:
“I think we agreed at $100 for all the set up and 20 copies.
Okay, could use it in the account right now, riding low.”
**
Just emailed two local newspapers, The Bellingham Herald
(which of course features in the book) and Cascadia Weekly,
asking if I could send them copies of the book to review.
**
The Herald responds:
“We don’t do book reviews, but we do publish
author events and occasionally interview an author
in conjunction with an event (usually at Voltage Books).
When you have a reading, let me know, and maybe
bring by a copy of your book for consideration.
Thanks.”
No response from Cascadia Weekly.
**
This morning Paul Piper leaned out his window into
the rain to yell at me, “Hey Allen Frost, you’re famous!
I just ordered your book from Amazon!”
**
Every day do something to keep it in motion. Today
I printed out a 6 page list of all the libraries that own
copies of the other 4 books I have published. Next will
need to find the time to go over them, get addresses
and send them flyers for the new book.
**
Sent two emails. One to Rebecca, telling her I have a
book for her. One day she came up out of the blue and
told me she had my first book. She had been to my
reading at Voltage Books so many years ago when it
came out. A few weeks ago, she traded me a bag full of
homemade cookies for Bowl of Water, my second
book. Also, sent an email to Vowels bookstore in
Portland, Oregon, hoping to set up a reading there.
That would be wonderful—a chance to go back to
the city where I landed in 1995, barely on my feet,
worked as a dishwasher, met wife, a city of
memories and poems.
**
Trip to Seattle didn’t quite work out the way I hoped.
No recording done, but did get to hear Rob’s ideas for
his show—the Mermaid book would be heard as a
murmuring, coming from filing cabinets in a dark
room lit only by little bedside lamps. I like it.
Rob's ideas
**
Sunday, went to see the exhibition at the Seattle Center.
The lamposts wearing colorful banners leading to the
doors, a big line of people buying tickets, some fans
lucky enough to rent hand-held recorders narrated by
the author. Waiting to go in, waiting to see the original
props, accessories and wardrobes from the book.
“Marvel at all the handcrafted detail you will see
surrounding you,” promised the barker. Buzzing
in the line with adults, teens and children, finally
going in through the doors, shutting us inside a
black room with blue rippling wave lights projected
on the ceiling. A mermaid in a tank of water
announces, “Welcome everyone toThe Mermaid
Translation Exhibition!” After a burbling fanfare,
the curtains on the right of us parted to reveal a
green and blue light shining through a round
portholed door. All on its own, the door opened
wide into a gasping sight of a beautiful summer
meadow. “It’s Sanford’s yard!” someone yelped
and we all stepped in. Yes, behind the ropes
of our path was Sanford’s bathysphere.
Wildflowers cushioned it, you could almost
reach out and touch it. A huge model of an
elephant looms out, a red balloon sits in the
air and you can faintly hear the piano playing.
There’s the periwinkle shell of the mermaid’s
café, follow the crowd inside. All the cups hooked,
a stove with pots of tea and coffee in a copper urn,
the rippling moat the mermaid pushes through,
the wooden tables and chairs, the lighthouse pearl
turning, the jukebox with the record ‘How To Speak
Dolphin’ nested on it. Look over there! It’s the actual
tiger suit worn by Jenny! And standing next to it,
the elegant tuxedo and top hat ensemble of the
magician. Suddenly, on guide wires overhead, a
flock of yellow canaries flickers by. In a glass case
are Mr. Merrimac’s prop books, along with worn
telephone books and the torn-out page listing
Penny Certain Recordings. “Emily Dickinson’s
bread!” A phone booth, a dunking booth, the
Saturn Circus sign, with two skeletons guarding
the gate. The mood is calmer in the set of the
poet’s shack. The floorboards creak. Look out
the window, across the cattails and birdsongs,
see the sun reddening, going down.
The autoharp, candles and soup cooking in
a pot. On the wall of the hall leading to the next
exhibit are movie posters faded and colorful.
‘Octopus Attack’ and publicity stills and tattered
circus handbills. Walk through a shining gondola
car, in one door, out the other, into Mr. Dash’s
observatory. Standing amid tropical plants are
the clothes worn by the book’s characters.
People laugh and point at Denton Pine’s worn
tweed suit, posed as if on the run from the librarian.
Sanford’s little clothes hold a lantern in each hand.
Out from there, we follow a rocky mining tunnel
that drops us right into the gift shop.
**
Email from Vowels bookstore:
They forwarded my request for a reading on to
“our marketing team.”
**
2 emails from the publisher:
“I’m nominating The Mermaid Translation for a
Pushcart Prize. I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone
win, but it’s great to be nominated.”
&
“I opened my email to find each of the Amazon.com
warehouses ordering The Mermaid Translation.
This is good. Some are ordering 6, some 2. About
20 in all. Whoopee! They had asked me for a ‘forecast’
list of publicity for the book, and I told them of ads to
come out and readings planned or in the works.
It works.”
**
Response from Voltage Books:
They have a new consignment agreement since the
last time I read there. It now costs $25 (up from $10)
because “consignment is very time-consuming to
manage.” Also, they want me to provide 5 copies of
the book. The only bright note: they referred to the
book as ‘Mermaid in Translation’ which is kind of
interesting.
Response from Vowels bookstore:
“Thank you for your email. I appreciate your
willingness to present your new novel at one of
our stores, but I unfortunately don’t think we
would see the size audience or sales to support
an event and must decline.”
**
I realized something about The Mermaid
Translation. Not only is it a sort of cartoon,
like a Saturday morning one with an undersea
hero, it’s also like a dream the way it seems
so serious when you’re in it. Then, when you
awaken, even as it’s fading, you wonder what
was all the running and worry and story for?
November 15—November 24, 2010
part 1
drawings: allen frost
Well, this is a real 'tell all' about the writing business...You have to persist in this, Allen. You need it and all do. There has to be this alternative way.
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