A Writer’s Baptism

The first book you publish is like having your first child. Its publication sparks an air of excitement perhaps unequaled by all the subsequent novels that follow, no matter if they are bigger hits, made into a movie or top the New York Times bestseller list.

The first published novel entitles you, legitimizes you. No longer will you have to go through this conversation:

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“What books have you published?”

“None yet but I’m writing one that is sure to be published.

Just another wannabe.

It was only in later years I realized a writer who works at it every day does not need validation. The simplest, truest definition of a writer is: “Someone who writes.”

My first published book was a paperback original called “Stinger.” It was a hard-boiled mystery, an homage to my beloved Raymond Chandler. The experience of its publication is not something I will ever forget.

One day without fanfare a box was delivered to my house by UPS. Inside were my contractual 50 copies of the book from the publisher. I picked one up, gently, reverently, as if it was a newborn baby. My name was right there in print on the cover. I got chills, my endorphins were running wild.

At the time I was a sportswriter for the Newark Star-Ledger and my beat was the New York Knicks. I traveled with the team all over the country to cover them. On my first road trip after publication I showed up at the airport to fly with the team to Utah. I came armed with copies of my book and handed them out like Christmas gifts to everybody. I felt like a celebrity, a feeling sportswriters rarely experience.

A columnist for the Boston Globe once wrote: “Sports writing is situated between two glamorous professions: sports and writing.” Although there was status in being a beat writer for a major New York team, truth is we always felt somewhat diminished by the fact we were in the presence of men making millions of dollars.

I once interviewed a player who stuttered and had only a rudimentary grasp of English, as if it was his second language. He was plain out dumb. But on the court he was a supreme artist, a genius, and was paid very well. I remember taking a shower in the hotel the team was staying at right after I did that interview. In the shower I had a moment of awareness: what this none-too-bright player was earning in one year would be more than I probably would in my lifetime.

When we checked into the hotel in Salt Lake City, the first thing I did was run out looking for a bookstore. I found one in a mall. Almost holding my breath, finding it hard to breathe, I walked down the aisles to see if they carried my book. I could have asked the clerk, but part of the joy of being a writer is discovery. If it was there on the shelves, I wanted to experience coming upon it.

Not only was my book on the shelves, stacked six deep, but someone had just picked up a copy to glance at it. My heart started racing. Would this person buy my book? He studied it for what felt like an eternity. I debated whether to tell him I was the author and introduce myself. Perhaps that would sway him to buy. Or I could have said, “That’s a great book. I read it the other day.”

But I said nothing. Unlike in writing a book where you are the master of all things, in this situation I surrendered to a process outside of my control. It was he who was going to decide. He wasn’t one of my characters, I couldn’t control him. Then the moment came: instead of putting it back on the shelf, which would have crushed me, he bought the book! He was going to read it. The journey from idea, to writing to publishing had now come to its rightful ending.

That road trip included stops in Seattle and Los Angeles. I went to bookstores there, bought multiple copies at each so the publisher/book store owner would know my novel was selling.

I later wrote a far better book, also a paperback original, called “The Zukovka Experiment,” and it sold 41,000 copies. I love that book, but it will always remain what it was: my second book. The first is always special.