said.
“Okay, what is it?”
“I mean, you’re going to think I’ve lost my mind.”
“What is it, Luke?”
“I sent the manuscript to Knopf.”
“So?”
I had no idea of Alfred A. Knopf’s lofty status in the book business. It was the home of John Updike, V. S. Naipaul, and a lot of other writers whose work I’d never read. I went into my office, which houses a pretty impressive library. Hundreds of volumes, and not a single Knopf among them. Wow, they must be prestigious if I don’t read them.
By the time I spoke to the Knopf editor, Victoria Wilson, I was fully aware of what Alfred A. Knopf represented, and how prestigious writing for them would be. I was also fully aware of Ms. Wilson’s reputation. “She’s not a back-slapper,” Luke told me. “She’s not going to feed your ego and tell you how great you are. But she will challenge you and make you a better writer.”
I dreaded that call. I was terrified of her. Until meeting Melina, it was the most frightened I’d ever been to talk to a woman. I was like Ebenezer Scrooge meeting the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. And not the Reginald Owen Scrooge either. Not the George C. Scott, not the Bill Murray in Scrooged , not Michael Caine in A Muppet’s Christmas Carol, not Scrooge McDuck in Mickey Mouse’s Christmas Carol, and certainly not Henry Winkler in An American Christmas Carol. I’m talking about the Alastair Sim, down on his knees, shaking in fear, saying, “Spirit, I fear you most of all” Christmas Carol , which is sometimes called Scrooge. That’s how scared I was.
“I like it,” Ms. Wilson said. “You’re a natural storyteller. But it’s got problems, major problems. I’m not talking about a few edits, either. I’m talking about major structural problems requiring considerable rewriting.”
Although Victoria Wilson neither looks nor sounds anything like her, I was actually picturing Margaret Hamilton as Ms. Gulch in The Wizard of Oz as I was writing that. Probably not much of a compliment until my admission that I always found the Wicked Witch to be quite sexy. Hamilton, as you know, also played the Wicked Witch in Oz. Because as you remember, the whole trip to Oz was a dream, and therefore all the characters played dual roles. Ray Bolger, for example, played both the Scarecrow and Huck. Bert Lahr was both the Cowardly Lion and Zeke. Jack Haley was both the Tin Man and Hickory. And though it took me a while to figure it out, Frank Morgan, an old vaudeville performer, was both the Wizard and Professor Marvel (and the Emerald City doorman, the carriage driver, and the Wizard’s guard), which I guess I should have guessed, because of the mystical nature of both characters. Wait, what the hell was I talking about anyway? Oh yeah, Knopf.
With pen in hand, I headed for the spare room above my detached garage about thirty yards away from my house, where I had done the bulk of the Tietam writing while sitting in an orange padded chair that super fan Andy Wong of Kowloon’s Chinese Restaurant in Saugus, Massachusetts, procured for me from the Worcester Centrum. Why the Centrum? Because that’s the building I won my first WWE title in, from The Rock on December 28, 1998. Did the seat hold any emotional value for me? None whatsoever. But it was still a nice gesture, and it sure beat paying a small fortune for one of those ergonomically designed chairs.
Before heading to the spare room, I had given my wife explicit instructions not to bother me under any circumstances. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in there, “I said. “It might be ten hours, it might be eighteen. But I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
No more than two hours later, I heard my daughter Noelle’s voice outside. “Dad, Dad.” I feared it was an emergency, the only explanation for an interruption at such a critical time in my writing career.
With my staunchest literary supporter, my wife, Colette.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
So away to the window, I
“Okay, what is it?”
“I mean, you’re going to think I’ve lost my mind.”
“What is it, Luke?”
“I sent the manuscript to Knopf.”
“So?”
I had no idea of Alfred A. Knopf’s lofty status in the book business. It was the home of John Updike, V. S. Naipaul, and a lot of other writers whose work I’d never read. I went into my office, which houses a pretty impressive library. Hundreds of volumes, and not a single Knopf among them. Wow, they must be prestigious if I don’t read them.
By the time I spoke to the Knopf editor, Victoria Wilson, I was fully aware of what Alfred A. Knopf represented, and how prestigious writing for them would be. I was also fully aware of Ms. Wilson’s reputation. “She’s not a back-slapper,” Luke told me. “She’s not going to feed your ego and tell you how great you are. But she will challenge you and make you a better writer.”
I dreaded that call. I was terrified of her. Until meeting Melina, it was the most frightened I’d ever been to talk to a woman. I was like Ebenezer Scrooge meeting the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. And not the Reginald Owen Scrooge either. Not the George C. Scott, not the Bill Murray in Scrooged , not Michael Caine in A Muppet’s Christmas Carol, not Scrooge McDuck in Mickey Mouse’s Christmas Carol, and certainly not Henry Winkler in An American Christmas Carol. I’m talking about the Alastair Sim, down on his knees, shaking in fear, saying, “Spirit, I fear you most of all” Christmas Carol , which is sometimes called Scrooge. That’s how scared I was.
“I like it,” Ms. Wilson said. “You’re a natural storyteller. But it’s got problems, major problems. I’m not talking about a few edits, either. I’m talking about major structural problems requiring considerable rewriting.”
Although Victoria Wilson neither looks nor sounds anything like her, I was actually picturing Margaret Hamilton as Ms. Gulch in The Wizard of Oz as I was writing that. Probably not much of a compliment until my admission that I always found the Wicked Witch to be quite sexy. Hamilton, as you know, also played the Wicked Witch in Oz. Because as you remember, the whole trip to Oz was a dream, and therefore all the characters played dual roles. Ray Bolger, for example, played both the Scarecrow and Huck. Bert Lahr was both the Cowardly Lion and Zeke. Jack Haley was both the Tin Man and Hickory. And though it took me a while to figure it out, Frank Morgan, an old vaudeville performer, was both the Wizard and Professor Marvel (and the Emerald City doorman, the carriage driver, and the Wizard’s guard), which I guess I should have guessed, because of the mystical nature of both characters. Wait, what the hell was I talking about anyway? Oh yeah, Knopf.
With pen in hand, I headed for the spare room above my detached garage about thirty yards away from my house, where I had done the bulk of the Tietam writing while sitting in an orange padded chair that super fan Andy Wong of Kowloon’s Chinese Restaurant in Saugus, Massachusetts, procured for me from the Worcester Centrum. Why the Centrum? Because that’s the building I won my first WWE title in, from The Rock on December 28, 1998. Did the seat hold any emotional value for me? None whatsoever. But it was still a nice gesture, and it sure beat paying a small fortune for one of those ergonomically designed chairs.
Before heading to the spare room, I had given my wife explicit instructions not to bother me under any circumstances. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in there, “I said. “It might be ten hours, it might be eighteen. But I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
No more than two hours later, I heard my daughter Noelle’s voice outside. “Dad, Dad.” I feared it was an emergency, the only explanation for an interruption at such a critical time in my writing career.
With my staunchest literary supporter, my wife, Colette.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
So away to the window, I
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