Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

There’s a lot to be said for being a bin man. Now I’m not trying to use sexist terminology here, but I’ve yet to see a lady bin man. Anyway, “bin man” has a better ring to it. So, for aesthetic purposes, let’s continue with the masculine title.

I’m often approached by people who tell me that they want to become a writer and ask me for advice on what to do. (I generally tell them to go buy a gun and shoot themselves.) They get this child-like glazed-over look in their eyes, no doubt envisioning all those wining and dining New York City lunches with high profile agents and book editors at Tavern on the Green. Oh yeah, Tavern on the Green went bust, didn’t they? Ah well, considering the fickle and transient nature of the publishing business, you’ll be lucky if your agent or editor springs for a Big Mac and fries!

Which leads me to the point of this blog missive: if you had to choose between a career as a writer and a career as a bin man, which would it be?

I can hear your answer already, you poor deluded naive soul. Though who am I to burst your bubble? But may I, for a moment, plead the case for the humble and unappreciated bin man?

There are many advantages to being a bin man. First of all, there’s the obvious: a steady paycheque. Depending on which country you live in, there are some good benefits too, such as health insurance for you and your family and a nice pension plan. Of course, if you’re living in America, the government will probably take these things away from you in order to bail out fat-cat bankers. But I digress…

Another advantage to being a bin man is that no one’s likely to rip off your ideas because they lack the talent, creativity and ability to come up with their own. (Forget that “intellectual property” bullshit; it won’t hold up in court.) Having said that, if you in your capacity as bin man suddenly develop some innovative new method to carry or empty bins, it could happen – and all the other bin men will be jumping on the bandwagon (or rubbish truck) doing the exact same thing. But let’s leave that for now, since bin men don’t need to live off their royalties!

Oh, yeah. And that’s another good reason to choose the litter-strewn path of a bin man – no royalty payments. Bin men are paid a set amount per week or month, and there’s no fluctuation in that number unless a pay rise (or cut) has been implemented. As for writers, when (or IF) your royalty payments turn up, they might look a tad peculiar, as in never actually accruing any earnings above the advance which was paid out (usually barely enough to pay the gas bill). I’ve had discussions with other writers on this very subject and they all say the same thing: they rarely see a penny in earnings after they’ve deposited their very tiny advance cheque (and some writers don’t even get an advance!). Yet go on Amazon or phone your local Barnes & Noble, and they’re always out of stock and having to reorder your books. It kinda makes you wonder if some of these publishers have Mr Bean doing their accounting.

Obviously, the issue of royalties means that you’ve actually been published – and to be published, your work needs to be seen by the right people (and by right people, I mean a real editor or agent, not some ditsy college intern who thinks she’s Carrie Bradshaw). Bin men don’t need to worry about their work being seen by the right people. They empty the rubbish and that’s it, they’re done. Writers waste time and energy and money submitting their material to agents and publishers, only to have it not even properly considered (let alone read) or completely ignored. (And yes, Dorothy, that includes solicited submissions.) Bin men also don’t have to swallow down that great big gorge of vomit every time they see some hack who can’t write his or her way out of a paper bag being rewarded with book deal after book deal as effortlessly as a rat drops turds.

Am I suggesting that the majority of writers are treated like shit by those who seek to profit from our labours? I’ll let you decide. But let’s face it, there are far too many of us around, and our sheer numbers alone do little to inspire respect from those who have control over our livelihoods. We’re like the cast of a spaghetti western – you can shoot down as many of us as you want, yet still more keep popping up. Come to think of it, maybe we’re like those zombies from Night of the Living Dead.

To aspiring writers, I recommend the Martin Amis novel The Information. Flawed or not, it deals with the grim realities of the publishing business and “life” as an author. More importantly, however, it deals with the celebration of mediocrity which, I’m sorry to say, permeates every aspect of our culture, not just the literary spectrum. Also read my blog posts Aren’t We Just Precious: Writers Who Live in Ivory Towers about author ego and book promotion, and Fairy Tales Can Come True (Well, Maybe if They’re in a Book), which touches on the odds of even getting published at all.

So why do we writers do it? Because we’re sick and twisted, that’s why. And maybe because we don’t want to (or can’t) live like the rest of society. Perhaps it’s our inability to conform that keeps us banging our heads against brick wall after brick wall. Indeed, we’re true renegades.

…Or true masochists.

Mitzi Szereto in Rhode Island

My bear (the famous Teddy Tedaloo) has recently decided that he wants to move to Vermont. Why Vermont? Well, we hear there are plenty of bears there and, being the single mother of a young bear, this sounds like just the place (providing we can afford American health insurance, which looks increasingly doubtful).

Indeed, I can envision us living in a cosy little upmarket log cabin-style house with high-beamed ceilings and wood-burning fireplace, located on a nice parcel of gently rolling land, and not a neighbour within sight or hearing distance. Apparently the price of real estate isn’t too bad there either and as long as I have high-speed broadband, who cares how far away things are? Now if there are any cute quirky little lads who happen to be single and within driving distance (bonus points to those who own a nice motorbike), we might be in business! (Note: I’m willing to put up with an American accent if said lads tick the right boxes. Hey, what can I say? I’ll make sacrifices for love. Besides, Ted needs a positive male role model who’ll take him to ballgames and such. Okay, nix the ballgame shtick, we can’t stand that crap.)

As for why we’d settle on New England, well, why not? It’s somewhere neither I nor Ted have ever lived. In fact, I recently returned from a visit there, though I didn’t make it over to Vermont, but spent my time in Rhode Island and Connecticut. Rhode Island is nice, but it’s in the hurricane zone. Connecticut is nice, but it’s too expensive and too full of New Yawkers. As for Massachusetts, forget it – that caw-caw accent would make me suicidal (please, no hate mail from you Bostonians, okay?). So it looks like Vermont is top of the list for now. I’m sure I can root out enough quirky content and characters to keep Mitzi TV going. And there’s bound to be a novel in it somewhere, too (perhaps even an erotic one, if things go well). If it’s anything like Rhode Island where I walked into a random Barnes & Noble and found a copy of my new book In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales, then it must be a good place.

Mitzi Szereto in Mystic, Connecticut

Would I be willing to leave behind the bright lights of Londontown for the peace and quiet of New England? You betcha! Would I be bored silly? Heck no! I tell you, it’s all happening in New England. Take Providence, for example. Providence has the best falafel I ever ate – and I don’t even like falafel! And there are adventures galore to be had at Providence Airport – or, should I say – Theodore Francis Green International Airport or whatever in heck they’re calling it this week. When it comes to ferreting out potential terrorists, they make the Heathrow security team look like a bunch of squealing girlies.

Last week I was minding my own business waiting to board my flight for Fort Lauderdale when along came this security dude armed with a really butch-looking test tube and some kind of pH stick he was waving about in a threatening manner. Oh, man, he was tuff stuff. All I know is, the bloke sitting next to me in the departure lounge must’ve been on some no-fly list, because that bottle of water he was hanging onto was confiscated and given a right going over by Mr Security Dude. Apparently, this test tube paraphernalia wasn’t intended to get people high (as we’d hoped), but was there to test if any suspicious vapours were emanating from our bottled beverages. It appeared that my fellow passenger Mr Vapour Man had set off some alarm bells, because that pH stick became intimately acquainted with the contents of his plastic water bottle. Talk about rude!

The point is, excitement can be found most anywhere. Or maybe not…

Right, well, I guess I need to start contacting some real estate companies in Vermont (and setting that plan in motion to rob a bank to fund this venture). As for the other part of my master plan, interested parties – that means you cute quirky little single lads in New England (or elsewhere, if you can convince me that you’re what I want/need/desire) – may apply for the position of being Teddy’s positive male role model by sending a CV to me care of my website. Photos and gainful employment required.

Mitzi Szereto on a frozen Watchaug Pond, Rhode Island

Yours truly (that’s me!) recently took some time out to chat with journalist Michael Casey at a local Essex watering hole about my new entrepreneurial Internet television venture Mitzi TV – its origins, its direction, and its future, as well as the business of books, blogging, and social media.

Teddy Tedaloo reads "In Sleeping Beauty's Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales"

No, I’m not talking about what you think (or hope) I’m talking about. Nor am I talking about Depeche Mode‘s Dave Gahan. As you may already know, I’ve blogged about Dave before – he was one of my very first Facebook friends! (Alas, our relationship has since gone pear-shaped, and we’re no longer speaking.)

No, I’m talking about Teddy Tedaloo, who’s one of my most devoted fans. Well, he’d better be, since I pay the rent. Though I really wish he’d stop singing that damned Pet Shop Boys song all the time; it’s beginning to get up my nose. I love you, you pay my rent, indeed! Mind you, when it comes to fans, he has plenty himself, if his Facebook group is anything to go by… and my long-distance phone bill. When my shipment of author copies for In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales arrived the other morning courtesy of my publisher Cleis Press in San Francisco, who do you think couldn’t wait to tear open the box?

You guessed it.

I didn’t even get a chance to make a cup of tea before Ted was already in the kitchen rustling about in the knife drawer to find something to slice open the box with. The next thing I know he’s happily ensconced on the fluffy white coverlet on our sofa with his little black nose buried in the book. How he managed to fetch his reading glasses from the upstairs bedroom without my seeing him is anyone’s guess. I suppose that’s one of the advantages of being diminutive in stature.

“Now Mitzi, are you using your blog to plug your new book release?” I hear you asking. Why, of course I am! After all, it’s my blog and I can do what I want with it. Having said that, don’t I provide you with hours and  hours of free entertainment? After all I’ve done for you – sacrificed for you, is it so much to expect a little consideration and support? (Insert Jewish mother guilt-inspiring voice here.) Haven’t I given you the best years of my life? (Insert nagging-wife voice here.) If my book is good enough for my bear, then it’s good enough for you! And take my word for it when I say that Ted’s not easily impressed. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more difficult critic to get past.

So if you want to make me happy (and you do want to make me happy, don’t you?), then click on one of the very handy Amazon carousels located right here on my website (you can select from three different countries – oy, how easy can it be?) and pre-order your copy of In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed now!

Do it because you love me.

And if you don’t, so lie.

(BTW, if you happen to be a book reviewer, drop me a note and I’ll put in a review copy request for you. But you gotta promise to be nice!)

Mitzi Szereto on a Mitzi TV shoot in London

A chat about my grand passion the internet, along with email etiquette, social networking, geekdom, and all things Mitzi TV; (broadcast on 4 August 2009, the Dave Monk programme, BBC Radio Essex).

Click here to listen now: BBC Radio Interview

Mitzi Szereto in a rainy Vienna

Welcome to part 2 of Mitzi and Teddy’s excellent holiday adventures in Vienna (we’re not worthy, we’re not worthy!).

After my near-death experience with the heat (described in my previous post), the gods took pity on me and decided to change the weather. It wasn’t nearly as hot. In fact, it was pissing down with rain, and a chill wind was kicking up to near hurricane proportions. So what better activity to partake of than to go sightseeing!

We’d hardly been out and about before some old fellow on the tram started to make a big fuss about my friend Sylvia‘s foot being in the aisle. I thought, oh great, here we go again – another local nutter. I seem to attract them whenever I travel. I mean, there was plenty of room for him to pass, so what was the problem? As I readied myself for a fight (perhaps I’ve lived in Blighty too long – “oi! you talking about me?”), I found out that the man had merely been scolding Sylvia for not wearing proper shoes for the inclement weather. She had on sandals. And, indeed, he would not be the only the colourful local we encountered that day.

Mitzi Szereto with Ted's Austrian relative Arnold Schwartzenbearer

From the sublime of my romantic encounter outside Shakespeare & Company Booksellers (where I’d given a reading the evening before) to the completely ridiculous… I got to meet the nastiest man in all of Vienna – and he’s got the perfect job for his sparkling personality and charm: he runs a souvenir shop for tourists. It’s under the Opera passage, just so you know. (He’s obviously not read the self-help career book What Color is Your Parachute.) Inspired by my Australian Austrian visit, I just had to score one of those t-shirts that say “No Kangaroos in Austria”. Also considering the fact that I was literally freezing to death in the wind and rain, I needed to add another layer of clothing – and I needed to do it quick before I ended up being a guest of the Austrian healthcare system.

Anyway, there I was perusing some t-shirts, which generally necessitates picking them up and seeing how they look and trying to figure out if they might be a good fit, when along came Mr. Personality, who appeared to be most unhappy that I’d disturbed his neatly folded treasures. I shudder to think what he’d have done had I requested to try something on. He began gesticulating with his index finger (I didn’t like the look of that finger one bit either) at some other t-shirts I had no interest in, grumbling something about their being the only ones that would fit me – when the one I held in my hands seemed promising.

The nasty souvenir shop man

To say the fellow was rude would be understating an understatement. I know customer service in Britain isn’t always top notch, but this character really took the biscuit! He won’t be inspiring me to write any erotic tales, that’s for damned sure. When my friend Sylvia pointed out to him that he was not a good salesman, he began to rant and rave that he didn’t need customers and would just close his shop (it had only gone lunchtime!). I bet retailers around the world would love to find out that they’ve been doing it wrong all these years. Don’t sell to customers, and close your shop six hours early – now that’s the key to wealth and success!

The tale of the t-shirt has a happy ending, however. As we re-emerged above ground, we came face to face with a little kiosk-type souvenir shop that sold t-shirts. Not only did they have the one I wanted – and in a perfect size and colour – but it was different from all the others I’d seen. We ducked into the tiny interior to get out of the storm, whereupon I sussed that the proprietor was someone I could actually do business with – it turned out he was Egyptian. I felt right at home and began haggling, knocking a euro off the price!

We’d made plans that evening to go to a chamber music concert at Mozart’s former digs and were supposed to nip back to the house to change and pick up Teddy. I’d promised him that he would go to the concert, and he was really looking forward to it too. But there was no time. Somewhere in between pigging out at Demel on cake (or rather I’d been pigging out) and enjoying a fancy coffee laced with Baileys and topped with whipped cream (Ted doesn’t even know about the Baileys – that’s his favourite drink!), and laughing hysterically at a table of American tourists, one of whom had a voice like a foghorn and another a posterior so wide her chair couldn’t contain it (no doubt from all that cake – when we’d left she was already well into her second piece!), the afternoon had vanished. We had little over an hour remaining before the concert. Even if we’d recruited Formula 1 race car driver Tiff Needell (whom I interviewed for Mitzi TV), it would’ve been impossible to make it home and back in time for the concert.

Mitzi Szereto playing air violin at Mozarthaus

Having spent the day being rained on, blown away, and chewed out by psychotic souvenir sellers, we finally relaxed in our chairs at Mozarthaus Sala Terrena (the oldest concert hall in Vienna where Wolfie lived and loved and worked in 1781). We were treated to an hour of Mozart, Bach, and Mendelssohn performed courtesy of The Mozart Ensemble. I should add that this traditional Viennese quartet had not one Austrian in sight. Okay, so at least the performers weren’t Australian, but come on – three Russians and a Japanese! But they were brilliant, and the love and enthusiasm they had for the music they were playing lit up their faces. Thank god something of culture remains in this world.

Maybe I should go back to Vienna and find my nice Jewish lad and live happily ever after and eat lots of cakes. Besides, Ted never did get a chance to see the pandas at Tiergarten Schönbrunn!

Oh well, if nothing else, at least I came home with Mozart’s balls…

Mitzi Szereto with Teddy Tedaloo at her author appearance in Vienna

For those of you who were unable to be there in person, you can hear me read an excerpt from my short story “Odalisque” (from my anthology Foreign Affairs: Erotic Travel Tales), which took place at Shakespeare & Company Booksellers in Vienna, Austria on 17 July 2009. This had to be the hottest night of the year, but thanks to Teddy, copious glasses of mineral water, and a bit of unexpected inspiration from the synagogue next door (now that’s MY secret!), I managed to survive without melting away completely!

Watch the Video on YouTube:

Mitzi Szereto with Teddy Tedaloo in the FM4 ORF Radio Vienna studios

An interview about erotic literature, “The Bad Sex in Fiction Award”, and my erotic writing workshops (broadcast on 17 July 2009, the Reality Check programme with Kerry Skyring, FM4 ORF, Vienna, Austria).

Listen Now: Radio FM4 ORF Interview

It’s another Fourth of July – Independence Day for us Yanks – and it’s got me thinking about what I miss most about America. Okay, if I’m honest, I’d have to say not a whole heck of a lot. However, if I’m also honest, well… there are some things. So to be fair to the old homeland and the Stars and Stripes (cue “Star Spangled Banner”), I thought I’d come up with a list – or rather a short list, since I really must put the kettle on!

Top of the pops would have to be clothes dryers. I mean, exactly what is this invention here in the UK they call a “clothes dryer”? It sure doesn’t dry clothes, I’ll tell you that much. It does, however, do a slap-up job of wrinkling the hell out of them (as does the great British washing machine and its mentally challenged sister, the “washer-dryer”). It’s no wonder my pile of ironing never diminishes. Whoever designed these things was surely taking the mickey out of people who like to wear clean fresh-smelling clothes. American washing machines and clothes dryers do a wonderful job, even the cheaper models. Frankly, I don’t understand why they’ve fobbed these ridiculous appliances off on us. Perhaps some primitive tribe on a forgotten South Pacific island didn’t want them, so the manufacturers said, “oi, let’s dump these piles of shite onto the Brits. They won’t make a fuss. Still upper lip and all that!” (Whoever said the war was over?)

Another thing I miss are doctors’ offices that don’t look like a waiting room at a rundown city centre bus station. Just try to find a magazine more recent than 2005, especially one that isn’t about fly fishing! There’s also usually some reasonably pleasant music playing in American doctors’ offices, as opposed to the dulcet tones of phlegmy coughing and wheezing that we listen to here from people who should probably be quarantined or shot, not sitting with a roomful of sorry bastards who might value another few years of life on this doomed planet.

Having said that, I don’t miss the exorbitant medical costs that go into having nicer patient waiting areas or paying the salaries of the ten dozen or so people per doctor’s office who just handle patient and insurance billing, but do nothing that contributes to a patient’s actual health care. Nor do I miss the terror of either having no health insurance or wondering if I’ll either be cancelled, refused insurance, have a claim rejected, or be able to pay for the portion of a claim the insurance doesn’t cover or, or that matter, be able to afford the next premium (which generally increases exponentially with each breath you take and far exceeds the rate of debt of all the Third World countries combined).

Something else I really pine for is the TV commercial for “The Clapper“. (And no, this isn’t some new STD.) It always comes on around Christmastime and features a slew of lazy buggers who can’t be bothered to switch off the lights or telly. My favourite out of this cast of loonies is the mad-looking old bat who’s lying all tucked up in bed, then suddenly from beneath the bedclothes these big gorilla hands appear, clapping the telly off. I tell you, American television just doesn’t get any better! (I wonder if I can land an interview with her for Mitzi TV?)

I also miss the fact that in America the majority of people can actually go for a night out and drink in reasonable moderation (well, except for students in frat houses or on spring break in Daytona Beach), rather than here where they fall into the gutter and pass out – and that’s only after they’ve left behind a pool of vomit for some unsuspecting pedestrian to step in – or slip and fall into. The real tragedy is, these people are going to bankrupt the British National Health Service with the vast menu of ailments and diseases which will develop from their excessive drinking. Perhaps some of the costs can be offset if the UK begins to export a new delicacy: pickled liver.

And lastly, most of all I miss the teeth.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could take the best of both America and Britain and create one great big wonderful country? Or perhaps we already have.

It’s called Canada.

Please Click Me!

Interview and discussion of erotic writing and male versus females writers; (broadcast on 24 June 2009, the Dave Monk programme, BBC Radio Essex)

Listen Now: BBC Radio Interview