“Well, at least there’s pretty lights…”

Sacré Charlemagne! My Garden State broheim Steven Hart has meme-tagged me. I am rarely a perpetuator of memes—not because I wish to be rude, but because I often have nothing clever to add—but Steven makes it easy for me. He asks me to take my own book and do the following:

• look up page 123
• look for the fifth sentence
• then post the three sentences that follow that fifth sentence on page 123.

Thusly and forthwith:

Did the Holy Father really have, across his eyes, a scar as pure and white as any dove? Perhaps they paused in their work—hard days of August spent harvesting, a September spent sowing rye and winter wheat—to mutter half-hearted nonsense about foreigners. Strange men continually visited the king, but after all this time, few were exotic enough to concern the locals.

I haven’t read my own book since shortly before it was published, so it’s odd, even eerie, to revisit a passage I wrote in 2005 and almost see it anew, while recalling, not necessarily fondly, the crepuscular smudge of sleeplessness, stalling, and ambient cop-show marathons that got the book finished. (On the up side, I finally got to see, after ten years, what the guy who delivers the morning paper actually looks like. Imagine his surprise.) How strange that for an author, a published book is a private time capsule—even if it does emit a little voice that keeps intoning, “get cracking on the next one.” (A voice that sounds suspiciously like my agent.)

“Now mister, the day my number comes in…”

Aspiring writers will often obsess over honing their style and making a true work of art. Some tend to overlook practical matters; they’re the folks who are most likely to need, but are just as likely to ignore, Steven Hart’s round-up of “nitty-gritty stuff” about the writing business. John Scalzi’s post is especially useful: “Unasked-For Advice to New Writers About Money.”

Scalzi’s best advice (after “don’t be a heavy metal bassist”) is this: “Writing is a business. Act like it.” One of his commenters stresses the importance of saving receipts, a small inconvenience I strongly endorse. (Driving to your first author appearance? $3.01. The silent scream of your psyche when the C-SPAN cameras start rolling? Priceless.)

“A villa in France, my own cocktail bar…”

January brings pleasures delayed: you discover a misplaced gift behind a brittle Christmas tree; a long-lost friend sends a welcome New Year’s message; and you wake up to find that your book has been highlighted in The New York Times Sunday Book Review.

I guess it’s no longer a matter of when the Sci-Fi Channel will call, but of which Baldwin brother will play Charlemagne, and which monster, menace, or meteorological phenomenon they’ll expect him to fight. I’ll lobby for the chupacabra, but I won’t balk if they insist on the mansquito. When it comes to CGI abominations, I am eminently flexible.

“And it takes a knight, and a girl, and a book of this kind…”

Gaudeamus igitur! I’m pleased to announce that tomorrow, the paperback edition of Becoming Charlemagne will finally hit the shelves. You can pick up a copy at your local bookstore (including Barnes & Noble, which will be hyping the book on its “new releases” tables), or you can easily order it through Amazon.

This trade paperback is the book as I’ve always envisioned it: compact, affordable, and easy to transport. It’ll make a fine last-minute stocking-stuffer for the history buff in your life—or a great way to spend that precious gift card.

While you’re at it, if you’re in a medieval mood, don’t forget to download my free translation of “The Tale of Charlemagne and Ralph the Collier.” Free medieval literature in translation! Not even Santa can promise that.

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This post has nothing to do with the Middle Ages, but I hope my regular readers will indulge me as I join CNN in celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Commodore 64. So many readers responded to their story that the network published a follow-up article full of fond remembrances from the era of frizzy hair and stonewashed denim jackets.

I’m amused, but hardly surprised, to see that many of those readers cite the C-64 as their initiation into the life of the techie. Most of my computer-owning friends did go on to prosper as engineers and programmers, but let me raise a minority voice: for some of us, that computer was also our gateway to the humanities.

Oh, it would be easy for me to cite the influence of computerized fantasy games, or the ways that programming made me appreciate the versatile applications of symbolic logic, or the software-pirate friend whose excursions into international trade prompted me to find out exactly where Finland was on a map. No, much more important was the fact that with the addition of a simple $60 cartridge, that ugly brown machine whisked us into an entirely new dimension nearly a decade before the rest of the world discovered it: an online cosmos of discussion and debate.

Today, most of my old techie friends are sharper, livelier writers than many of the humanities types I meet. I don’t wonder why. Logged into single-line bulletin boards, reveling in a crudeness I’m glad the world has forgotten, we learned how to craft an argument for a particular audience; we discovered, through trial and error, the tricks of persuasive writing; and we learned, eventually, the art of conveying tone. All of this experimentation occurred in one of the few non-academic environments that encouraged our flailing attempts at coherent, articulate writing, an entirely online milieu that would later take the rest of the world by surprise—and which most of us never imagined would someday go mainstream.

In the past decade, I’ve kept a roof over my head by cranking out a million words of uncredited copy. Freelance gigs have given me an excuse to romp across England and Wales; subsequent paychecks have funded adventures in the Balkans and South Korea. Five feet from where I’m typing this, a carton of trade paperbacks with my name on each cover amuses me to no end, because I know there’d be no little Charlemagne book had I not owned that dumpy computer.

Twenty-five years later, my programming skills, which were never formidable, are finally rusted and gone. Other people troubleshoot my technical problems, and I consider it a triumph when I fiddle with blog templates and manage not to break anything. By contrast, most of my fellow Commodore owners pursued careers that capitalized on those early encounters with personal computers. They stayed current; I spun off in a wildly different direction. Regardless, I’m pleased to claim at least honorary membership in the online generation falsely accused of “changing the positions of satellites up in the blue heavens”—even if all I did on my home computer was simply learn how to write.

“Nun danket alle Gott…”

One year ago this week, my little Charlemagne book hit the shelves. To my amazement, the book-buying public actually cared. From Massachusetts to Louisiana, on TV and on the radio, I’ve spoken to countless people about Karl, King of the Franks—but before I gear up to promote the (very affordable) paperback, please indulge me as I pause for a moment of requisite but sincere sappiness, in the spirit of the holiday.

I’m thankful for…

…the editors, agents, and publicists who have worked hard to discover opportunities that otherwise would have passed me by.

…friends, family, and colleagues, who have indulged my endless Charlemania with remarkable good cheer.

…book-buyers, all of whom took a chance on a new author. Their e-mail, their questions, their overall enthusiasm—heck, even their occasional criticism—have made those interminable evenings of research and editing entirely worthwhile.

…the many teachers, bloggers, bookstore managers, librarians, adult-education directors, festival organizers, and radio-show hosts who let potential readers know that a book about the coronation of Charlemagne doesn’t have to be boring.

…and you, my “Quid Plura?” guests, whether your visits are frequent or occasional. Please keep reading, linking, and commenting!

Creating a book truly is a team effort; selling it is, too. After spending the last year meeting the people who keep culture alive by organizing book salons, developing continuing education programs, and rounding up audiences for lectures and library talks, I’m even more humbled by their commitment to their work—despite the chorus of naysayers who argue, wrongly, that no one cares about history and literature.

Aspiring writers, take note: This isn’t something you can do alone. The lesson of the past year, for me, is that it wouldn’t be worth it if you could.

“Floating in this cosmic jacuzzi…”

This weekend, at a truly enjoyable fundraiser, I met several newcomers to Becoming Charlemagne, as well as a few people who had already read the book. As we got to chatting, I was reminded of the neatest thing about writing a book in the first place: the author’s obsession, developed over years and often nurtured in solitude, finally becomes a shared point of reference through which readers can look anew at some aspect of the world.

Those readers aren’t always strangers, either. I came home from the luncheon to find that a friend had emailed me the following news item:

Schwarzenegger Learned Dealmaking in Tub

San Jose, Calif. (AP) – Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger learned the art of political negotiation in a setting that’s oh so California – soaking in his backyard hot tub. Keynoting a gathering of Silicon Valley business leaders Friday, the Republican governor explained how his wife – former television news anchor Maria Shriver – came to support his 2003 gubernatorial bid.

“We were sitting in the Jacuzzi. I said, ‘Maria, here’s an idea. What do you think about this, me running for governor?'” Schwarzenegger said to peals of laughter. “I said, ‘There’s a recall, there’s only a 2-month campaign. I think we can work our way through this two months and then I’m governor – isn’t that great?'”

After the laughter died down, Schwarzenegger turned solemn.

“In all seriousness, she had tears in her eyes. I had to work on her for 14 days,” Schwarzenegger said. “That’s where I learned to negotiate – bringing Democrats and Republicans together right there in the Jacuzzi.”

“Californian, eh?” my friend writes. “Seems to me Ahnold’s not the first leader of Germanic extraction to practice politics from the tub.”

He’s right. Here’s Einhard on—who else?—Charlemagne:

He took delight in steam-baths at the thermal springs, and loved to exercise himself in the water whenever he could. He was an extremely strong swimmer and in this sport no one could surpass him. It was for this reason that he built his palace at Aachen and remained continuously in residence there during the last years of his life and indeed until the moment of his death. He would invite not only his sons to bathe with him, but his nobles and friends as well, and occasionally even a crowd of his attendants and bodyguards, so that sometimes a hundred men or more would be in the water together.

Last year, during Thanksgiving and Christmas, my family and friends surprised me with their eagerness to talk about the conflicts of Charlemagne’s era, the culture of medieval Baghdad, and the cruelty of the Byzantine empress Irene. Maybe this year, inspired by historical parallels, we can debate a more urgent proposition: whether Karolus Magnus, for all his scholarly advisers, would have been able to pronounce the word “gubernatorial” without sounding just a little bit silly.

“With a snow-white pillow for my big, fat head…”

In the murky world of trade publishing, accomplishments are relative. How does one judge the success of a little mass-market book about Charlemagne: Amazon rankings? Attendance at library talks? Emails from history and genealogy buffs?

I don’t know—but I must be doing something right, because some cheeseball paper mill is hawking a five-page paper about my book. For $49.75—a mere $9.95 per page—you even get a bibliography with two—two!—sources.

Of course, the intelligent plagiarist would economize. Behold: the same service also offers the enthralling “Justinian vs. Charlemagne.” With its three pages and three sources, he would save 60 percent and enjoy a 50 percent increase in the size of his bibliography. Apparently, the paper weighs the relative awesomeness of the two emperors “and argues that the Mandate of Heaven (the right to continue ruling) should go to Justinian.”

And really, what history prof wouldn’t want to receive a paper about that?

“And when you declare the point of grave creation…”

The wisest of aspiring authors visit the Writer Beware Blog, where A.C. Crispin and Victoria Strauss respond to readers’ questions, discuss their professional experiences, and—best of all—expose scammers who prey on the uninformed. (Their parent site, the “Writer Beware” page of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, is a useful resource even if you don’t write in either of those genres.)

In her most recent post, Strauss, the author of seven fantasy novels, sheds light on writers’ finances by pointing out the small advances typically earned by first-timers; she also provides links to some pretty dreary median-income figures. But her real focus is an e-mail from a reader who asked for advice and then insulted her when she didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. His attitude is a fine example of how not to behave in the writing business—or, for that matter, in any sphere where courtesy is more productive than bluster.

For what it’s worth, I’ve discovered the secret to being satisfied with your own writing income: Take a job as an adjunct. Compared to those paychecks, your earnings from writing will glitter like the golden treasure of the Nibelung.