A mostly empty greasy-spoon diner in Maspeth, Queens. WALTER SKAAKE, 60, sits in a booth. Bad suit. Bad hair. Big puffy parka he hasn’t taken off. He’s giving his unseen dining partner the hard sell.

First of all, I want to thank you for taking this meeting with me. I’ll bet you’ve heard horror stories about people flying out to New York to follow their dreams, some slick agent promises them the moon, next thing they know they’re on a steamer ship to God knows where having been promised to the harem of some cruel foreign despot. Their dreams no closer to coming true than they were in Indiana. Unless their dream was to ultimately join the harem of some cruel foreign despot, which—let’s be honest—it probably wasn’t.

Don’t get me wrong: those agents exist. They’re pigs. Puh. I spit on them. They give agents who only represent self-published authors a bad name. Well, I’ll tell you right now: the day I lie to a client is the day I put a bullet in my head. I have the bullet too. It's in a little box in my delicates drawer with a note that says “in case I ever lie to a client.” Now, I don’t have the gun itself, but that should just make you all the more confident that: I’d never lie to you.

If I wanted to scam a fine Midwestern lady like yourself, I would have gone into telemarketing. Or, I would have gone deeper into telemarketing than I did for a bit in ‘86. If I wanted to scam midwestern ladies I would have really committed to telemarketing instead of waffling on it and leaving the industry with a bad taste in my mouth. 

Anyway, the point is: It was a big, bold step flying to a strange city to meet a strange man with the hopes that he might make your self-publishing dreams come true. And honey: the self-publishing industry rewards big and bold. 

Second, and it should go without saying—order anything on the menu you like.

It’s on me. I recommend the Hungry Boy Breakfast Platter. There’s no place on Earth for a breakfast platter like the Denny’s under the BQE in Maspeth, Queens. Go large. It’s on me. 

Third, none of this “Mr. Skaake.” You go ahead and call me Walt. All my clients do. You heard of Gene Keeley? Self-published author of UFOs and Why I Like Them? Maura Sherer? Self-published author of I Was Married to Dennis Eckersley and No One Believes Me? Akiko Koyama? Self-published author of The Akiko Koyama School of Minigolf? They’re with me, and they can call me any time, day or night, and use my first name as much as they want. Even if I’m really, really tired. 

I’ll tell you a long story to illustrate my point. When my phone rang at 6 AM, and it was Gene Keeley, self-published author of UFOs and Why I Like Them, hollering at the top of his lungs: “I’m gonna do it, Walt. I’m really gonna do it. I spent my life savings printing this thing, no one’s buying it, I can’t take the rejection, I’m really gonna do it this time!” Did I say “Gene, please, not again, I’m at my temp job, I’m passing out little cups of smoothie at the gym, I can’t save you right now?” No! Did I keep buying copies of his book until he decided life was worth living again? Indeed I did. And that’s the Skaake difference. The point is: you can go ahead and call me Walt. 

And if you ever get in your head and start to doubt that there’s a point in having a self-publishing book agent—and, I’ll be honest, a lot of people do, since (technically) you’re publishing yourself and you’re not getting paid so there’s no one to negotiate with, which is what an agent (traditionally) does? You go ahead and call any of them, any time day or night, and they’ll set you straight. 

I’ll tell you a long story to illustrate my point. I once had a client who wrote a brilliant bit of speculative fiction traditional publishers unfortunately wouldn’t touch, due to its striking similarity to a blockbuster film that came out right around the same time he wrote it. It was a ripping yarn about an average teenager who is granted strange, spider-like abilities. Parallel thinking, obviously. 

Happens to everyone. Still worth a read. The spider-teen is very funny. 

Anyway, my client decided to self-publish instead. A wise decision, I always say. But the greedy bastards at ‘Publish Yr’Self’ of Skokie, Illinois wouldn’t do the job of printing the thing for less than three grand. I haunted their office park for six months like a ghost, wearing them down until they caved and sliced that three grand down to twenty-nine hundred like it was a succulent cut of boneless rump roast. (Or, I guess the total was $2920, after my commission was taken out of the saved difference and put back on the tab, which is the standard practice amongst self-publishing agents, just so you know). 

Still, the printers hate me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t work for them, I work for you, day and—

                                                He turns to briefly address an unseen waitress.

Yeah, sweetie, we’re ready. I’ll take the…

                                                He silently struggles with an immense temptation.

…Powerhouse Wrap with egg-whites, and no turkey, and one hot green tea, and whatever the lady would like. Thanks. 

Sorry, I have to wait until the temptation to order a lot of meat passes. I’m having a huge problem with my cholesterol. Or as I prefer to put it: the pulse of the self-publishing industry is not the only one I’ve got my finger on!

Alright: we’re getting off track. You don’t need to hear about me, or my clients, or what I can do for an aspiring self-published author. You know about all that. 

                                                He produces a manuscript from a crumpled manila envelope. 

You’re here to talk about Mary’s Virginity, which, for my money, is the finest erotic religious novella I’ve ever read, and I don’t make that claim lightly. I’ve read hundreds of erotic religious novellas by hundreds of erotic religious novella-ists, and none of their depictions of the immaculate conception turned me on this much—which is what I assumed you were going for. In fact, I never thought any depiction of the immaculate conception could turn me on this much, since the conception was, you know, immaculate. Boy was I wrong. 

Right away, I knew I was dealing with a writer who had the “three S’s” I look for in all my clients. Someone with “style.” Someone with “substance.” Someone who wants to “self-publish.” If I could, I would have dropped everything and flown all the way to Kokomo, Indiana just for the honor of meeting the mind behind Mary’s Virginity. I also hear you guys have a great water park out there. 

Now, obviously, as I think I mentioned, I’m not allowed to fly on planes anymore, which sounds a lot worse than it actually is. It’s actually just that I’m not allowed within one thousand feet of an airport bar anymore, and the flying thing is just an inconvenient casualty of that. I also can’t take out-of-state meetings over the phone right now because this thing…

                                                (holds up his cell)

…charges me fifty cents a second, and my son won’t let me use the landline at his place until I start bringing in some real money. Believe me, I tried to tell him this was a really important call, but: his landline, his rules, and if he wants to keep it in a locked cabinet ‘cause I kept running up the phone bill closing deals, that’s his prerogative. 

You gotta understand—sure, this business has its ups and downs, like anything—my son is just more sensitive to my downs than I am. He can get that look in his eyes, you know that look your kids get, where they’re thinking “how much better would my life be if a different man had been the one responsible for me?” 

So, long story short, you got an email from “librarycomputer2@nypl.org” saying you had to come all the way here instead. But still! I don’t want you to think that means you have to pitch yourself to me. This meeting isn’t about that. This meeting is about me pitching my services to you. And to that end, I’ve got one, single, hyphenated word for you: E-Book. 

Lotta benefits to an e-book. To start, the people who otherwise might get turned off by the length of your manuscript won’t know how incredibly long it is until they’re already been sucked off into the story. The story of how the Virgin Mary became just ‘Mary.’

Something else to think about is your audience. Now, your target audience is other ladies from Kokomo who know you personally and want clues as to how your marriage is going. Those people are going to buy the book no matter what format it’s in. They really want to know how your marriage is going. 

But with an e-book, you unlock access to a new generation of digitally hip readers. These kids, they don’t read books. Oh, sure, they love novels by “people their age,” about “issues they relate to,” with covers that have lots of “colorful blobs” on them. You know, the kind of chicken feed they like to put out at Penguin Random House. But this generation doesn't read book books. Real books. Books with soul. Dispatches from the beating heartland of America. Self-published books. They don’t read those. 

Unless. They think their friends are downloading a self-published erotic religious e-novella too as part of some kind of online trend. You leave that part to me. I know all about turning the internet to my advantage. I once paid twenty robots to sign a petition saying I should be allowed to go into airports again. It hasn’t worked yet, but there are a lot more robots where those came from. 

So what do you say? Are we in business? Has the Walter Skaake family gained a beautiful bouncing new middle-aged baby girl? 

                                                A pause. His smile fades. 

Karl Bodmer? 

What do you mean, you’re signing with Karl Bodmer? 

When did you take a meeting with Karl Bodmer? 

We are talking about the same Karl Bodmer, right? Karl Bodmer, the most arrogant self-publishing agent in the city? My chief rival and nemesis? Thinks he’s so great because he has a desk with drawers? Thinks he’s all that because his son lets him use the landline? Thinks he’s hot shit because he represents Andy Onderdonk, the guy who self-published that best-selling manual for building homemade explosives, The Bomb Kitchen? 

Okay, just to cover my bases here, is there any chance you took a meeting with Karl Bodmer, and he dazzled you with his collection of newspaper clippings about all the bombs his client’s readers made, and you told him that you also had a meeting with me and as a big dick status thing he said you should still meet with me as a joke because it would humiliate me? I only ask because, if that’s the case, it would not be the first time that’s happened. 

Wow, you avoided eye contact so distinctly just now. 

Fucking Karl Bodmer. That guy makes me ashamed to call myself a self-publishing book agent. He isn’t one of the ones shipping clients off to the harems of cruel foreign despots. But still. That’s not a reason to sign with him. 

I’ll bet Bodmer told you a twenty-five percent commission is standard. Since when? That’s highway robbery. I’d sooner open up the bullet box in my delicates drawer than take twenty-five percent of what I saved a client self-publishing their book. Twenty-five percent just makes the whole system look completely absurd.

Which it’s not. 

Not to mention: some schools of thought say it’s not ethical to encourage people to build bombs! Kind of bullshit that I can’t have a goddamn airport beer anymore because I got too loaded to respect the borders of the Delta Sky Club, when Karl Bodmer is out there hocking bomb books to any creepy teenager with $26.95 plus shipping! 

You know what? Go to Bodmer. Have a great career. I hope your book is a huge success and when you return to Kokomo everyone slowly distances themselves from you because your personality’s changed. I hope there is something to learn about your marriage in Mary’s Virginity and everyone learns it. I hope your beloved Catholic Church reads the book and excommunicates you and— oh FUCK.

                                                His cell phone is ringing. He snaps it open.

Gene, please choose life, this call has already cost me twelve dollars!

People do like you, Gene, and they like UFOs, and they like what you like about UFOs! That’s why everyone at the gym keeps asking me to pick up a copy! I had another forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty people ask me to buy them one and they’ll pay me back later! 

They’re not asking you directly because I think they’re intimidated, Gene. You’re a big deal!

Please, we all love you, Gene. Me, Maura, Akiko. All of us. Just step away from the teetering stack of unsold books, if you bury yourself underneath them it’ll be too ironic. Okay? 

Yes, thank you for doing this during business hours this time, you were listening, I appreciate it. 

                                                He hangs up. Breathes. 

                                                He turns to the waitress again.

Yeah, sweetie, we’re good for the check. And I’ll take a box for my Powerhouse Wrap. I talked the whole meal. I’ll scarf it down on the Q58 back to Elmhurst. I can’t trust myself to go home hungry, I have too much of a weakness for meat.

                                                 Back to his dining partner.

I’m sorry. No, I am. I’m better than this. This isn’t what the name Walter Skaake is all about. I don’t want people to call it “pulling a Skaake” when someone ruins a harmless Hoosier’s hungry boy breakfast. 

You know, my judgmental son is right: it’s a tough business. It can swallow you whole, and its powerful digestive juices won’t leave many bones to pick through when you come out on the other side. There are gonna be days when you think to yourself, “wow, I understand why people generally prefer to have their books published by not-themselves.” And in those moments of doubt, you’ll need a friend. I hope Karl Bodmer is that friend to you. Tell him I say “hi.” Tell him I say “nice desk.”

If he ever gives you any shit, allude to the “incident at the Las Cruces conference” and he’ll get right back in line. And if you’re ever in a bind and need the Skaake perspective on things, call my son and see if he’ll let me use the landline. 

By the way, Bodmer’s going to tell you to change the book. He’s at least gonna tell you to change the title. Make it How the Virgin Mary Lost Her Virginity to God, Sexually, or something even more lurid and salacious. He’ll tell you it’ll sell more books. And it will. 

But at the end of the day, you didn’t write Mary’s Virginity to make the immaculate conception sexy to the masses. You wrote Mary’s Virginity to show the masses why the immaculate conception is sexy to you. Don’t let anyone change that. Besides, it’s your money. 

No, no, I’ll get the check. I gave you my word. 

Lights fade.