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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My publishing roots go back over a half a century. Things weren't fair for women back then. It was a privileged gentleman's industry, nearly a hobby for wealthy Princeton men. (And yes, even though I was an un-wealthy hick from Western Pennsylvania, I benefitted from my gender. I participated in the wrongness, innocently or naively or however so. It haunts me.)
Tim Cory was a charming Princeton graduate. Just like his father and grandfather. He showed up to book publishing and quickly turned out to be a bad guy, although it took way too long for that to be known.
On his first job, he made life miserable for several young women, including the receptionist and two editorial assistants. “Miserable?” Nah, not the right word. ‘He sexually assaulted them.” Yep, that’s the right wording.
The publishing house was run by a Princeton graduate. Tim’s criminal behavior was not reported. He ended up at another house where its Editorial Director was a Princeton graduate. Although only an editorial assistant, Tim pretended to be an acquiring editor. He convinced pretty and aspiring writers to visit New York and rent a hotel room in expectation of meeting him for a manuscript discussion and a potential acquisition. But all that happened in those hotel rooms was sexual assault. Tim ended up at a third house and kept up the same shit. But this time, when he raped a colleague, his victim told her parents, her father a graduate of Harvard law school and her mother a graduate of Yale law school, both prosecutors. Tim’s Princeton network meant nothing this time.
I Googled Tim Cory. He’s at Attica Correctional Facility. If you’re somehow reading this blog, Tim, GO TO HELL! I’m posting your name. Period.
I continue to look at my search results for Tim. And holy smokes, he was in the same year of the Columbia University Publishing Course as was Gen.
I click to the New York Post article regarding his arrest. Good god, he lived across the street from her. What the hell? Is this what Randy had also bumped into?
I didn’t waste time. I called Patrick Picciarelli. When it comes to memoirs written by the toughest of New York City cops, Pat was the king of ghostwriters. I had worked with him on two of his books.
Tomorrow: Pat Picciarelli