BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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Well, this is weird. Today I was going to write about death and book publishing. And then this morning I was threatened with death.
In my mail was a small box. And in that box, an Albert Einstein doll. A little toy knife stuck through Albert’s heart pinned a Post-It note to him. The note said, “You’re next.”
I once wrote a biography of Albert Einstein for kids—Who Was Albert Einstein? It’s by far my bestselling book. Over 400,000 copies sold, and it’s been translated into fourteen languages.
At some point, a guy showed up on social media saying I stole the idea for an Einstein biography from him. (Even though there must be at least 40 in print. And even though the publisher reached out to me to ask if I might write it. It wasn’t even my idea!)
The pissed-off-Einstein guy wants any money I’ve made off the book.
He claims to have told the police all about me. And that I’ll soon be arrested.
Clearly this is not a stable person. It happens. Every publisher has had its bomb threat moment (or many moments) just because the publisher did not publish somebody’s manuscript, or they did but failed to market it to the author’s expectations.
Not long into my marketing job at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich (HBJ) an author got REALLY pissed and this happened:
Robert Boudin, pissed-off author of Confessions of a Promiscuous Pornographer, not only threatened us, his publisher, but all of Manhattan.
Under the headline, “Disgruntled Pilot-Author Buzzes Midtown 3 Hours,” the New York Times reported, “A disgruntled 61-year-old author buzzed midtown Manhattan in a small rented plane for more than three hours, prompting the evacuation of the United Nations complex and the offices of the publishing company that had incurred his wrath.”
My boss and I skipped the evacuation and joined HBJ’s CEO, William Jovanovich, in his office. We learned that Baudin had delivered a tape-recorded message to the New York Post warning that if his demands were not met, “I just might fly straight into the top man’s office window and attempt a short landing on his desk.”
I took a seat next to that desk and kept an eye on the window.
A New York City police officer was on speaker phone. The cop had a second phone connected to an air traffic controller. And the air traffic controller was talking with Baudin.
Our job was to come up with a marketing plan that Boudin approved of. Then, in theory, he’d land his plane and the threat to Manhattan would be over.
We started brainstorming a marketing plan. (Every two minutes or so, the plane—low over the city—passed Jovanovich’s window, as Boudin circled our building. Oh boy!)
Me: Instead of a full page NYTBR, we could do two one-column ads in the Atlantic, the New Yorker, and the Washington Post. They’re offering some good rates right now—
Jovanovich: Jeff! We’re not actually doing this, we’re just making up something so he’ll land!
Me: Oh, right.
I was strangely enjoying the exercise. There was no limit to my budget. A marketing guy’s dream.
I proposed running ads in newspapers and magazines, on radio and TV, local and national, day after day, week after week. The cop shared those plans with the controller who shared them with Baudin.
But Baudin didn’t go for it. I looked out the window. He kept circling.
I added $100,000 of subway and bus advertising. The cop told the controller who told Bouldin. That didn’t help. Baudin kept circling.
Come on, Jess. Think. What is it about this guy? Think!
Me: I got it!
I told the cop my idea and he told the controller who told Boudin.
Cop: That did it! He’s coming down.
We all smiled. Jovanovich shook my hand, “Nicely done, Jeff.”
What had I added? A plane pulling a sign with an image of Baudin’s book on it. Three hours on Saturday and Sunday, next two weeks. Over New Jersey and Long Island beaches.
Baudin was arrested upon landing.
And I threw my greatest marketing plan ever into the trash. Heartbreaking.
A month later, Baudin was charged with a three-count indictment of extortion against his publisher and released on $25,000 cash bail. He died in 1983.
Anyway, back to today and my pissed-off-Einstein guy. He constantly slams me on social media. It’s annoying, it’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to stop. You ever try to talk to Twitter or Facebook about being harassed? Ha!
At some point my pissed-off-Einstein guy got hold of my email address. That seemed closer to home. Then my mobile phone number—crazed texts started showing up. Holy shit. I swung by a police station. And was quickly laughed out of the place.
The cop said, “Let me get this straight, you wrote a kiddie’s book and—"
“Tween,” I corrected him, “a tween book, not a kiddies book. You see there are board books and picture books and chapter books and early reader books and tween books and--”
“Shut up!” he yelled.
I did.
He continued, “and somebody is being mean to you. Right?”
I nodded “yes.”
“Maybe it’s something to be taken up with the principal’s office,” he laughed and walked away. My pissed-off-Einstein guy problem clearly doesn’t rank in a city with a skyrocketing murder rate.
Then today that doll shows up in my mailbox in the lobby of our apartment building. My pissed-off-Einstein guy now knows where I live. Damn it.
I’ll start looking out for strange guys outside my apartment building, lurking around, maybe wearing an Albert Einstein sweatshirt. Yet I live in Manhattan where most everybody looks dangerously strange. Caution isn’t going to help.
I’m not going to sleep so deeply tonight.
Tomorrow: A Writer Writing a Joke about Writers (I need a laugh)