Karl Wagner - Why Not You and I?

“That’s not the problem,” his agent wearily told him. He had told him before. “No one’s saying that you haven’t written well — it’s just… Who’s going to print them?”

“There are still one or two publishers left, I believe.”

“Well, yes. But they don’t publish books like this anymore.”

“What do they publish then?” The writer’s voice was bitter. “Magazines, mostly — like these.” The agent hurriedly drew a pair of flimsy periodicals from his case.

The writer accepted them with a wry smile and thumbed through the pages of bright photographs. He snorted. “Pretty pictures, advertisements mostly, and a few paragraphs of captions. Like the newspapers. Not even real paper anymore.”

He gestured toward the shelves of age-yellowed spines. “Those are magazines. Saturday Review. Saturday Evening Post. Playboy. Kenyon Review. Weird Tales. Argosy. And the others that have passed. Do you remember them? They contained stories, essays, articles, criticism. A lot of garbage, and a lot of things worthwhile. They contained thoughts.”

“Still, there’s some writing in the few periodicals that we have left,” the agent pointed out. “You could do that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing? That’s not writing! Since the learned journals all went to computerized tapes, the only excuse for a periodical that’s left are these mindless picture brochures the ad companies publish. Damned if I’ll write copy for Madison Avenue! “But what are you trying to get to?” he scowled.

The plastic pages of smiling young consumers fluttered back into the attache case. ‘Tm trying to say it’s impossible to sell your books. Any books. No one publishes them. No one reads this sort of thing anymore.”

“What do they read instead?”

The agent waved his hands in a vague gesture. Well, there’s these magazines. One or two newspapers are still around.”

“They’re just transcripts of the television news,” the writer scoffed. “Pieced together by faceless technicians, slanted and censored to make it acceptable, and then gravely presented by some television father image. What about books?”

“Well, there are a few houses that still print the old classics — for school kids and people who still go to libraries. But all that’s been made into movies, put on television — available on cassettes to view whenever you like. Not much reason to read those — not when everybody’s already seen it on TV.”

The writer made a disgusted noise.

“Well, damn it, man!” the agent blurted in exasperation. “Marshall McLuhan spoke for your generation. You must have understood what was coming.”

“He didn’t speak for my generation,” the writer growled. “What about those last three novels that you did sell? Somebody must have read those.”

“Well, maybe not,” explained the other delicately “It was pure luck I found a publisher for them anyway. Two of them the publisher used just as a vehicle for Berryhill to illustrate — he has quite a following, you know. Collectors bought them for his artwork — but maybe some read the books. And the last one I sold… Well, that was to a publisher who wanted it for the nostalgia market. Maybe somebody read it while that fad lasted.”

Beneath his white mustache, the writer’s lips clamped tightly over words that would be ill-bred to use to a guest.

“Anyway, both publishers are defunct now,” his agent went on.

“Printing costs are just too high. For the price of half a dozen books, you can buy a TV Books just cost too much, take too much time, for what you can get out of them.”

“So where does that leave me?”

There was genuine sympathy, if not understanding, in the agent’s voice. He had known his client for a long while. “There just doesn’t seem to be any way I can sell your manuscripts. I’m sorry — truly sorry. Feel free to try another agent, if you want. I honestly don’t know one to recommend, and I honestly doubt that he’ll have any better success.

“There just isn’t any market for books in today’s world. You’re like a minstrel when all the castles have fallen, or a silent film star after the talkies took over. You’ve got to change, that’s all.”

More than ever the writer seemed a wolf at bay. The last wolf. They were all gone too. Just the broken-spirited creatures born in cages to amuse the gawking, mindless world on the other side of the bars.

“But I do have some other prospects for you,” the agent announced, trying to muster a bright smile.

“Prospects?” The writer’s shaggy brows rose dubiously.

“Sure. Books may have outlived their day, but today’s writers still have plenty to keep them busy. I think a few of your old crowd may even still be around, writing for television and the movies.”

The writer’s face was dangerous.

“I’ve talked with the producers of two new shows — one of them even remembered that best-seller you had years back. They both said they’d take a close look at anything you have to show. Quite a break, considering you’ve never written a script before. Ought to be right in your line though — both shows are set back in your salad days.

“One’s a sitcom about a screwball gang of American soldiers in a POW camp back in the Indo-China wars. Dorina Vallecia plays the commandant’s daughter, and she’s a hot property right now. The other’s a sitcom about two hapless beatnik drug pushers back in the Love Generation days. This one looks like a sure hit for next season. It’s got Garry Simson as the blundering redneck chief of police. He’s a good audience draw, and they’ve got a new black girl, Livia Stone, to play the bomb-throwing activist girl friend.”

“No,” said the writer in a tight voice.

“Now wait a minute,” protested the agent. “There’s good money in this — especially if the show hits it off. And it wasn’t easy talking to these guys, let me tell you!”

“No. It isn’t the money.”

“Then what is it, for Christ’s sake! I’m telling you, there’s a bunch of old-time writers who’ve made it big in television.”

“No.”

“Well, there’s an outside chance I can get you on the script team for a new daytime Gothic soaper. You’ve always had a fondness for that creepy stuff.”

“Yes. I always have had. No.”

The agent grimaced unhappily. “I don’t know what I can do for you. I really don’t. I tell you there’s no market for your stuff, and you tell me you won’t write for the markets that are there.”

“Maybe something will come up.”

“I tell you, it’s hopeless.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.”

The agent fidgeted with the fastenings of his attache case. “We’ve been friends a long time, you know. Damn it, why won’t you at least try a few scripts? I’m not wanting to pry, but the money must look good to you. I mean, its been a long dry spell since your last sale.”

“I won’t say I can’t use the money. But I’m a writer, not a hired flunky who hacks out formula scripts according to the latest idiot fads of tasteless media.”

“Well, at least the new social security guarantees an income for everyone these days.”

The writer’s lined face drew cold and white. “I’ve never bothered to apply for the government’s dole. Turning my personal life over to the computers for a share of another man’s wages seems to me a rather dismal bargain.”

“Oh.” The agent felt embarrassed. “Well, I suppose you could always sell some of these books — if things got tight, I mean. Some of these editions ought to be worth plenty to a rare book collector, wouldn’t they?”

“Good night,” said the writer.

Like a friend who has just discharged his deathbed obligations, the agent rose to his feet and shook hands with the writer. “You really ought to keep up with today’s trends, you know. Like television — watch some of the new shows, why don’t you? It’s not so bad. Maybe you’ll change your mind, and give me a call?”