Here previous post regarding this wonderful trade fair where so much success and intellectual buoyancy is made available for all the world to graze – as long as you’re conveniently located in or around Frankfurt/Main.
Unfortunately I won’t be attending the Frankfurt Buchmesse (Book Fair) this year, even though it’s right around the corner. Which fits perfectly to my schedule of trying to become an author because I didn’t attend it last year. Just like the waiting I’m doing to become said author, I’m also waiting for an invitation from that really lucky lit-agent or publisher. You know the kind of invitation I’m talking about. It arrives with snail-mail in a white envelope and the gleaming golden ticket within shines as though it were a piece of Ra, the sun God of Nevermore. It’s sent to me (you?) with a sealed kiss and the welcome-into-my-world-smell of ground sassafras, mintless-julep and a touch of roasted fenugreek seeds. Attached to the VIP ticket, where I get access to all the clandestine personnel within the publishing industry, and, perhaps, to a few real authors, is a small, pink post-it with a note written by my new lit-agent:
“You finally made it.”
But then reality hits me (again). I was watching the German news coverage on opening day of the Buchmesse – it gets a serious amount of TV coverage here in Germany! – and some blow-head politician was giving a numskull speech at the opening ceremony.
“The Frankfurt book fair,” she said, “is Germany’s Hollywood.”
Well, that about covers it for me. There is no hope for a (worst)writer to ever make it in a world where so much of what s/he believes in is compared to a town made of tinsel. Game over man. There is no hope.
Just write.
-tgs-
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