Agented Submission

The other night I found a wallet laying on the floor in the men's room at the Lounge. I hesitated to pick it up, for obvious reasons, but I finally submitted and turned it into Angus, our big-ass head bartender. He looked inside for some ID and all he saw in there, besides a lot of folding money, was this wallet-sized picture.

"Oh, yeah," said Angus. "I know this guy." He showed me this picture.

"Wow," I said, "not only does this guy carry around a lot of cash, he's also pretty scary-looking."

"I heard that," Angus replied, turning the picture over to see if there was a phone number or an address on the back.

"What's he do for a living?" I asked.

"Oh, he's a literary agent from Big Apple City," Angus responded.

"I see," I replied. "Better let me have a double think-a-hol." But first I headed back to the men's room to wash my hands again.

Happy Sad

One of the regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge is another side of independent author Michael Casher, one that is rarely seen in public. His appearances here at the Lounge are rare, but always welcomed. We call him Happy Sad because he's either one or the other. Despite the fact that he writes terrific science fiction novels that combine hard sci-fi, action/adventure, mainstream and romance for a new sci-fi experience that almost defies labeling, he's not very widely read. Yeah, go figure.

When Happy Sad finished his first novel four years ago he was elated and bought rounds for everyone that night. After each successive novel we all noticed that he was less happy and more sad. One night last week Angus and I bought him enough rounds until he came clean with the reason for his long face.

"What's to be happy about?", he confided, "I'm a self-published author who sells his books on the Internet.”

Angus asked the poor guy what was wrong with that and Happy Sad replied, "The problem with being a P.O.D. "indie" author selling my books on the Web is that I'm just a needle in the cyberspace haystack, along with every Tom, Dick and Harriet and any eleven-year-old kid with a story to tell and enough keyboard skills to publish it. We're a penny a dozen."

I argued that his books were, by far, better than most traditionally published sci-fi thrillers.

"Yeah," said Happy Sad, "but that don't mean shit in cyberspace."

All Angus and I could do was let him cry in his beer, nurse his think-a-hol and then sleep it off in the back room. What else could we do? The poor sap was right.