getting representation?”
“No, not yet.” I had suggested more than once, since Scanlon had turned in the first draft of his book, that he ought to have
an agent. I know—even Shakespeare had something to say about them: “Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.”
However, when it comes to the publishing business, I cannot help but think of Joe Scanlon as a naïf among rogues, a true babe
in the woods. I am not implying that
I
would cheat him, heaven forfend—but I want him to make as much money from his book as possible, and that means a whopping
paperback reprint deal, movie and television sales—all beyond my power to generate, but always possible with an accomplished
agent.
“Have you got anyone in mind?” Scanlon said.
“Yes. Kay McIntire.” Actually I didn’t have anyone in mind, but hers was the first name that popped into mymind, I suppose because I had a lunch date with her in two hours. “I’ll speak to Kay about representing you.”
“I’d appreciate it, Nick.”
God, how wonderful! Scanlon was still appreciative. That is because publication—and possibly fame—still awaited him. In this
virginal state, authors are almost always grateful for whatever favors are done them, and so they should be. After all, no
one
asked
them or any other author to write their first novel. As Thomas Wolfe put it: “Nobody discovered me. I discovered myself.”
Scanlon and I parted with his promise to report to me as soon as he had information from Falco—though not before I reminded
him that his revised manuscript was due on the first of August.
“I’m on schedule, Nick,” he said.
I took his elbow and steered him toward the door. “Good man,” I said.
Some observers of the publishing scene have argued that lunch is the most important part of anyone’s day, and that nothing
either preceding or following the midday meal is of any consequence. I have myself divided publishing folk into two types:
those who must be pressed for decisions before they have gone to lunch, and those who are best approached
after
lunch. Which type am I? Definitely the former. After the wine has been poured, I do not trust myself to be a hardheaded businessman.
Lunch that Friday, however, was an exception. After it was over, I could hardly wait to get Herbert Poole to ink a contract.
The three of us—Poole, Kay Mclntire, and I—met in the waiting room off the front door of the Century—more exactly,the Century Association. The club was given its name because its progenitors, in the year 1847, invited an even hundred gentlemen
engaged in or interested in letters and the fine arts to join; forty-two accepted and became Founders; another forty-six joined
during the first year. Nowadays there are many times one hundred—up to twelve hundred, to be exact—on the membership roster.
If The Players is my second home, my pit stop, so to speak, then the Century is where I hold court. I am a member as my father
was a member, and probably for that reason; it was his favorite haunt. It is everything, I suppose, that people who don’t
care for private clubs, the populists, would despise. An imposing Stanford White building hardly two blocks from Grand Central
Station. A great many overstuffed leather chairs, in which occasionally a member may be found sleeping. A security system
at the door as good as any, probably, in the halls of government. Uniformed servitors, most of them African-American, who
seem to have been there since the Crash of 1929. It does not have bedrooms, like the Yale and Harvard clubs, though there
is a basement with a few billiard and pool tables—hardly any of them ever used these days—and a splendid library. The service
is prompt, efficient, and unobtrusive. I am not aware of any scandal connected with the club, and publicity is shunned like
a carrier of the HIV, although one brouhaha over the club’s sale of a $2-million painting in order to pay for
“No, not yet.” I had suggested more than once, since Scanlon had turned in the first draft of his book, that he ought to have
an agent. I know—even Shakespeare had something to say about them: “Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.”
However, when it comes to the publishing business, I cannot help but think of Joe Scanlon as a naïf among rogues, a true babe
in the woods. I am not implying that
I
would cheat him, heaven forfend—but I want him to make as much money from his book as possible, and that means a whopping
paperback reprint deal, movie and television sales—all beyond my power to generate, but always possible with an accomplished
agent.
“Have you got anyone in mind?” Scanlon said.
“Yes. Kay McIntire.” Actually I didn’t have anyone in mind, but hers was the first name that popped into mymind, I suppose because I had a lunch date with her in two hours. “I’ll speak to Kay about representing you.”
“I’d appreciate it, Nick.”
God, how wonderful! Scanlon was still appreciative. That is because publication—and possibly fame—still awaited him. In this
virginal state, authors are almost always grateful for whatever favors are done them, and so they should be. After all, no
one
asked
them or any other author to write their first novel. As Thomas Wolfe put it: “Nobody discovered me. I discovered myself.”
Scanlon and I parted with his promise to report to me as soon as he had information from Falco—though not before I reminded
him that his revised manuscript was due on the first of August.
“I’m on schedule, Nick,” he said.
I took his elbow and steered him toward the door. “Good man,” I said.
Some observers of the publishing scene have argued that lunch is the most important part of anyone’s day, and that nothing
either preceding or following the midday meal is of any consequence. I have myself divided publishing folk into two types:
those who must be pressed for decisions before they have gone to lunch, and those who are best approached
after
lunch. Which type am I? Definitely the former. After the wine has been poured, I do not trust myself to be a hardheaded businessman.
Lunch that Friday, however, was an exception. After it was over, I could hardly wait to get Herbert Poole to ink a contract.
The three of us—Poole, Kay Mclntire, and I—met in the waiting room off the front door of the Century—more exactly,the Century Association. The club was given its name because its progenitors, in the year 1847, invited an even hundred gentlemen
engaged in or interested in letters and the fine arts to join; forty-two accepted and became Founders; another forty-six joined
during the first year. Nowadays there are many times one hundred—up to twelve hundred, to be exact—on the membership roster.
If The Players is my second home, my pit stop, so to speak, then the Century is where I hold court. I am a member as my father
was a member, and probably for that reason; it was his favorite haunt. It is everything, I suppose, that people who don’t
care for private clubs, the populists, would despise. An imposing Stanford White building hardly two blocks from Grand Central
Station. A great many overstuffed leather chairs, in which occasionally a member may be found sleeping. A security system
at the door as good as any, probably, in the halls of government. Uniformed servitors, most of them African-American, who
seem to have been there since the Crash of 1929. It does not have bedrooms, like the Yale and Harvard clubs, though there
is a basement with a few billiard and pool tables—hardly any of them ever used these days—and a splendid library. The service
is prompt, efficient, and unobtrusive. I am not aware of any scandal connected with the club, and publicity is shunned like
a carrier of the HIV, although one brouhaha over the club’s sale of a $2-million painting in order to pay for
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