Devon Pendleton

While riding in the back of a bus this weekend, I came across an interesting/depressing article in the Wall Street Journal that I thought said a lot about the current state of journalism. The message, essentially, was that no one has a shot in hell anymore of getting anything published. Ever.

Getting plucked from the slush pile was always a long shot—in large part, editors and Hollywood development executives say, because most unsolicited material has gone unsolicited for good reason. But it did happen for some: Philip Roth, Anne Frank, Judith Guest. And so to legions of would-be novelists, journalists and screenwriters—not to mention “D-girls” and “manuscripts girls” from Hollywood to New York who held the hope that finding a gem might catapult them from entry level to expense account—the slush pile represented The Dream.

via From Anne Frank to Stephenie Meyer: The Slush Pile – WSJ.com.

The Dream was slush? I guess making it as a writer  has always been hard. “The slush pile” is that heap of paper that collects dust in the mailroom or atop a spare office desk that’s comprised of legions of hopeful would-be authors’ manuscripts. Underpaid interns or literary agent assistants would then pick through the wreckage- I did it as an intern at Outside Magazine, my fiancee did it as a literary serf at William Morris, and we are both more cynical people for it.

I have two beefs with this story: 1) the death of the slush pile isn’t a new phenomenon, optimism died a while ago and 2) the only alternative route to publication they suggested was “find another way.” Ok, a touch vague. I can do better, I have a formula. I hope you like stunts.

Stunt journalism, also known by the daintier term immersion journalism, basically means playing tourist in your own- or someone else’s- life. When done honestly and done well, it’s riveting and revelatory. Barbara Erenreich’s book on the plight of America’s poor, Nickel and Dimed, is one example. Bill Buford’s Heat, about his tenure in Mario Batali’s kitchen, is another. Done poorly, it can be condescending, pretentious, pointless and (my favorite writerly sin) navel-gazing.

But my aim here isn’t to savage dozens of books I haven’t read (for that you should go here) but rather give hope, that with some creativity, dedication and  a lot of time on your hands, you too can pitch a book. All you need is a gimmick. A stupid pet trick of sorts, that can be performed consecutively for one year- one day, month or week is acceptable too if you’re pitching an essay. Examples abound:

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, on her year eating only food grown from her Virginia garden. OK, nice conceit and a very good writer. Problem is it is so played out. Michael Pollan kickstarted a revolution within journalism (not sure about the rest of the country): eat turnips in winter! Blog about it! As a year-round berry-eater I applaud their dedication but unless you live in the Yukon, you’re unoriginal.

The Year of Living Biblically by AJ Jacobs, about one man’s quest to follow every tenet in the Bible, literally. Scary, no? The idea of reconciling loving thy neighbor with stoning homosexuals (in Manhattan, no less) could make for compelling reading but Jacobs’ take is Theology Lite. More emphasis on tossing pebbles (tee hee), wearing sandals and beard-growing than wrestling with weighty religious concepts.

The Year of Yes by Maria Davhana Headley, who for one year, bravely said yes to every single man who asked her out. One critic called it “gonzo desperation.” Did I mention  this project might require you to abandon your dignity?

Living Oprah: My One-Year Experiment to Walk the Walk of the Queen of  Talk by Robyn Okrant, who chronicled her year-long experiment following the Big O’s advice on everything in order to Live Her Best Life. Conclusion? “It was incredibly draining and it made me really sad,” she tells Forbes Woman. Wait, is she talking about obeying Oprah or writing a book?

These are just a sampling- I’m afraid I could keep going- but I need to jump on my own gimmick before someone else beats me to it. I have two ideas (either of which can be yours for $10,000 in singles). One was inspired by a recent New York Times Styles story about how emulating cavemen is all the rage among health-conscious hipsters.

The caveman lifestyle, in Mr. Durant’s interpretation, involves eating large quantities of meat and then fasting between meals to approximate the lean times that his distant ancestors faced between hunts. Vegetables and fruit are fine, but he avoids foods like bread that were unavailable before the invention of agriculture.

Via The New Cavemen Lifestyle Has Found a Home in the City – NYTimes.com.

Exercise consists of sprinting and jumping aka mastodon-fleeing. So there’s your book- eat like Barney Rubble for a year and maybe take it a step further- don’t use wheels of any kind, quit shaving, wear pelts- or nothing at all.

My other idea- become a licensed plumber. Me, yes. The idea originated with my condo building’s defunct boiler and the hands-on role I’ve assumed trying to diagnose the problem. The whole ordeal merits its own post but suffice it to say, I’ve grown to admire- nay envy- the plumbing professionals with their unions, comfy workplace attire and formidable power over chilled, clueless New York residents. If “A Single Gal’s Adventures in Plumbing School,” doesn’t pique a publisher’s interest, maybe I can sell it as a television pilot. Sitcom? Reality show? Hey, with no more slush pile there’s no such thing as a bar set too low.