World's Shittiest Book Deal
The actual restroom in question. Photo credit: Google Maps.
Location: Chicago, IL
I wrote my first book in 2008. It was non-fiction, half memoir/half inspirational: Five years earlier, I’d single-handedly transformed myself from a 350-pound tub of goo to a lean, mean aerobic machine that competed in triathlons at the national championship level. Even with this relatively unique story, it took several rejections before I convinced an agent my story was worth taking on. Within several months, my agent had attracted the interest of several publishers and the eventual publication of my work seemed like a foregone conclusion. Suffice to say, with all this quick success I didn't realize just how lucky I'd been so far as a first-time author.
Unfortunately for me, karma tends to balance that sort of thing out.
Although the publisher and I had an agreement in principle, one final aspect of the deal remained up in the air: we couldn’t agree on what to call the book. Titles are very important, especially for nonfiction books. Fictionistas like Stephen King and Vince Flynn can slap any ominous catch phrase on their latest and still sell 500,000 copies, but there are rules for the non-fiction crowd; In fact, there’s actually a formula: “[informative title with catchy twist or play on words]: [Explanation of what you vaguely suspected the title was talking about].” In my case, the book's original title was Eating the Elephant: Navigating from Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit. My agent and I liked it, but our prospective publisher thought otherwise. For the past few weeks, we’d been playing phone tag, bouncing possible titles off each other’s answering machines. Finally, a phone conference was scheduled for a weekday morning, during which the book’s title would be set.
On D(ecision)-Day, I awoke to an email from the publisher: There was a problem with their printing presses; the phone call would have to be pushed back until later in the day. I impatiently sat at my desk and waited, each passing minute resigning me to another day of uncertainty. Five o’clock came and went, and I headed home. When 6 PM rolled around without a phone call, I was off for my daily run.
As a Chicago resident, my runs usually take me along the lakefront path that stretches the length of the twenty or so miles of the city that fronts Lake Michigan. It was a cold November day, barely above freezing. I bundled up and - as a precaution - jammed my cell phone into a pocket before heading out the door.
It was the kind of dreary day that makes you wonder why anyone lives in the Midwest. I trudged along, heading north, away from the smokestacks of Gary and towards the marginally more attractive downtown skyline. The wind whipped in fierce gusts, and the path was largely deserted as the first hint of twilight permeated the leaden sky. Three miles from home, I became aware of a certain pressure in my lower intestines, the non-negotiable sensation of urgency that comes from the collision of a lunchtime double bean burrito and an eight-minute-per-mile pace. In other words, it was pit-stop time.
As fortune had it, I’d stopped next to one of the restroom oases that dot the lakefront. But the doors were locked, ostensibly in an attempt to keep Chi-town’s generous hobo population from moving in during the winter months.
Despite being reduced to a cheek-clenching waddle, it wasn’t time to hit the panic button just yet. I was a seasoned runner, part of a group that has mastered the art of discreet crapping in all manner of inhospitable environments. I scanned the area, my practiced eye identifying which structures would provide the necessary defilade for me to go about my business in relative privacy. From a short list of options, a group of tall, whispy weeds about twenty feet away seemed the best bet. While lacking the reassuring opacity of, say, a tree, the wiry grasses reached a height of perhaps three feet, just high enough to cover a crouching six-foot-five man.
I wrote my first book in 2008. It was non-fiction, half memoir/half inspirational: Five years earlier, I’d single-handedly transformed myself from a 350-pound tub of goo to a lean, mean aerobic machine that competed in triathlons at the national championship level. Even with this relatively unique story, it took several rejections before I convinced an agent my story was worth taking on. Within several months, my agent had attracted the interest of several publishers and the eventual publication of my work seemed like a foregone conclusion. Suffice to say, with all this quick success I didn't realize just how lucky I'd been so far as a first-time author.
Unfortunately for me, karma tends to balance that sort of thing out.
Although the publisher and I had an agreement in principle, one final aspect of the deal remained up in the air: we couldn’t agree on what to call the book. Titles are very important, especially for nonfiction books. Fictionistas like Stephen King and Vince Flynn can slap any ominous catch phrase on their latest and still sell 500,000 copies, but there are rules for the non-fiction crowd; In fact, there’s actually a formula: “[informative title with catchy twist or play on words]: [Explanation of what you vaguely suspected the title was talking about].” In my case, the book's original title was Eating the Elephant: Navigating from Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit. My agent and I liked it, but our prospective publisher thought otherwise. For the past few weeks, we’d been playing phone tag, bouncing possible titles off each other’s answering machines. Finally, a phone conference was scheduled for a weekday morning, during which the book’s title would be set.
On D(ecision)-Day, I awoke to an email from the publisher: There was a problem with their printing presses; the phone call would have to be pushed back until later in the day. I impatiently sat at my desk and waited, each passing minute resigning me to another day of uncertainty. Five o’clock came and went, and I headed home. When 6 PM rolled around without a phone call, I was off for my daily run.
As a Chicago resident, my runs usually take me along the lakefront path that stretches the length of the twenty or so miles of the city that fronts Lake Michigan. It was a cold November day, barely above freezing. I bundled up and - as a precaution - jammed my cell phone into a pocket before heading out the door.
It was the kind of dreary day that makes you wonder why anyone lives in the Midwest. I trudged along, heading north, away from the smokestacks of Gary and towards the marginally more attractive downtown skyline. The wind whipped in fierce gusts, and the path was largely deserted as the first hint of twilight permeated the leaden sky. Three miles from home, I became aware of a certain pressure in my lower intestines, the non-negotiable sensation of urgency that comes from the collision of a lunchtime double bean burrito and an eight-minute-per-mile pace. In other words, it was pit-stop time.
As fortune had it, I’d stopped next to one of the restroom oases that dot the lakefront. But the doors were locked, ostensibly in an attempt to keep Chi-town’s generous hobo population from moving in during the winter months.
Despite being reduced to a cheek-clenching waddle, it wasn’t time to hit the panic button just yet. I was a seasoned runner, part of a group that has mastered the art of discreet crapping in all manner of inhospitable environments. I scanned the area, my practiced eye identifying which structures would provide the necessary defilade for me to go about my business in relative privacy. From a short list of options, a group of tall, whispy weeds about twenty feet away seemed the best bet. While lacking the reassuring opacity of, say, a tree, the wiry grasses reached a height of perhaps three feet, just high enough to cover a crouching six-foot-five man.
The concealment situation, as re-enacted by a cat.
I nestled into the patch and was in the midst of delivering the goods when I realized I was no longer alone. Two bicycle cops cruised down the path and dismounted by the bathroom hut I had attempted to enter only seconds earlier. For one agonizing moment, it seemed certain they'd been tipped off regarding my illicit activities. However, the officers made no search of the area, and instead began checking the plywood boarding over the doors and windows of the restroom. The whole thing appeared to be nothing more than a routine hobo sweep.
While apparently still hidden, my situation was precarious. Casually strolling out now would be risky; cops knew the drill, and I'd just left, ahem, evidence that could incur, at the very least, a citation and an embarrassing court appearance. No, my plan was to stay put and remain undetected until they moved on.
It was at this very moment that my phone began to ring. Cold dread filled my heart as I realized what was happening. As stealthily as possible, I eased the phone from my pocket and confirmed what I already knew: My publisher was calling.
So here I was, en flagrante delicto and at the worst possible moment to be discovered by law enforcement (or anyone else for that matter) while my phone brainlessly announced my presence. I needed to stop the ringing the same way a gunshot victim needs to stop the bleeding. I desperately stabbed at the controls of my antique Razr, but wasn't able to find the button that would silence the ringing and send the call to voicemail. As my ringtone (very appropriately Crazy by Gnarls Barkley) crescendoed, one of the policemen half-turned in my direction. Panicked, I made a split-second decision that haunts me to this day: I took the call.
Two paths diverged in this snowy wood, both less than optimal. Best case scenario, I was going to make the critical decision for my first book while hiding from cops in a patch of icy weeds after answering nature's call to arms. Worst case, the deal would be blown after my publisher heard me mutter, “Oh shit, they saw me,” followed by, “It’s not what it looks like,” followed by sounds of a muffled struggle and a frantic Noah screaming, “Send me the paperwork!” with the last bit being drowned out by approaching sirens. But I digress. Back to the story:
“Hello?” I whispered into the mouthpiece.
“Hi Noah,” my publisher said enthusiastically. She launched into an apology for returning my call late. I "mmm'ed" and "sure'd" at all the right places, never taking my eyes off the cops. As she spoke, the other policeman glanced curiously in my general direction. I crouched down further, now so low that the prickly grasses tickled the back of my pasty legs. I grimaced, remembering what was down there.
“Did you lose your voice?” my publisher interjected between talking points. “You sound a little throaty.”
“Yeah, a little bit,” I ad-libbed as I scanned the ground for a dry leaf to use as toilet paper. The police had moved to the far side of the hut. As they circled around I lost sight of them. I weighed the risk of rising from my hiding place against my desperate urge to pull my pants up. I recalled a story about a guy in South Carolina who was caught taking a leak; after being convicted of indecent exposure he was forced to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. As a man whose pants were around his ankles, this sounded both terrifying and very possible. However, I was unsure whether my body would obey my commands: At this point I had been crouched motionless somewhere between ten minutes and eternity. My ass was so frozen it no longer register the assaults of cold air coming off the lake and my knees felt as though they were stuffed with burning coals.
Just as I decided to risk it. Before I'd risen a centimeter, the policemen rounded the far corner and headed in the direction of their bikes, directly towards me. I hurriedly sank back down into my uneasy crouch.
"So what do you think of that?" my publisher asked. With dismay I realized that I had zoned out on what she'd been saying.
"Pardon?" I mumbled. The police were mounting up, barely ten feet away.
"For the title," my publisher clarified. "Does that work for you?"
"Sure," I whispered, dumbfounded. What the hell had she just said? Was it one of mine or something she'd just cooked up? With the police literally paces away, I saw no way to question her on the point.
'Well, I'm glad we agree," the publisher said cheerfully. "I'll be in touch." She hung up before I could figure out a way to ask her to repeat herself.
The cops were pedaling away now, fifty yards distant and increasing. I eased to my feet, feeling the snap-crackle-pop of my knees and spine as I uncompressed myself. I barely registered the pain. Through my own stupidity and bad luck, I'd just given a stranger a blank check to name my baby, the work I'd poured my blood, sweat and tears into. For all I knew, I could have just agreed to call it Fatty Goes to the Moon.
"Oh fuck me," I murmurred to no one in particular. In the distance, a child's singsong voice cut through the wind, as if mocking me. Glancing north, I realized that the voice belonged to a very real child who was out for dusk bike ride with her parents. Having not yet secured my pants situation, I hastily returned to a crouch until they passed. There, in the shameful, semi-nude shadow of my own excrement, I realized that I had no idea what the fuck I was doing with my life.
While apparently still hidden, my situation was precarious. Casually strolling out now would be risky; cops knew the drill, and I'd just left, ahem, evidence that could incur, at the very least, a citation and an embarrassing court appearance. No, my plan was to stay put and remain undetected until they moved on.
It was at this very moment that my phone began to ring. Cold dread filled my heart as I realized what was happening. As stealthily as possible, I eased the phone from my pocket and confirmed what I already knew: My publisher was calling.
So here I was, en flagrante delicto and at the worst possible moment to be discovered by law enforcement (or anyone else for that matter) while my phone brainlessly announced my presence. I needed to stop the ringing the same way a gunshot victim needs to stop the bleeding. I desperately stabbed at the controls of my antique Razr, but wasn't able to find the button that would silence the ringing and send the call to voicemail. As my ringtone (very appropriately Crazy by Gnarls Barkley) crescendoed, one of the policemen half-turned in my direction. Panicked, I made a split-second decision that haunts me to this day: I took the call.
Two paths diverged in this snowy wood, both less than optimal. Best case scenario, I was going to make the critical decision for my first book while hiding from cops in a patch of icy weeds after answering nature's call to arms. Worst case, the deal would be blown after my publisher heard me mutter, “Oh shit, they saw me,” followed by, “It’s not what it looks like,” followed by sounds of a muffled struggle and a frantic Noah screaming, “Send me the paperwork!” with the last bit being drowned out by approaching sirens. But I digress. Back to the story:
“Hello?” I whispered into the mouthpiece.
“Hi Noah,” my publisher said enthusiastically. She launched into an apology for returning my call late. I "mmm'ed" and "sure'd" at all the right places, never taking my eyes off the cops. As she spoke, the other policeman glanced curiously in my general direction. I crouched down further, now so low that the prickly grasses tickled the back of my pasty legs. I grimaced, remembering what was down there.
“Did you lose your voice?” my publisher interjected between talking points. “You sound a little throaty.”
“Yeah, a little bit,” I ad-libbed as I scanned the ground for a dry leaf to use as toilet paper. The police had moved to the far side of the hut. As they circled around I lost sight of them. I weighed the risk of rising from my hiding place against my desperate urge to pull my pants up. I recalled a story about a guy in South Carolina who was caught taking a leak; after being convicted of indecent exposure he was forced to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. As a man whose pants were around his ankles, this sounded both terrifying and very possible. However, I was unsure whether my body would obey my commands: At this point I had been crouched motionless somewhere between ten minutes and eternity. My ass was so frozen it no longer register the assaults of cold air coming off the lake and my knees felt as though they were stuffed with burning coals.
Just as I decided to risk it. Before I'd risen a centimeter, the policemen rounded the far corner and headed in the direction of their bikes, directly towards me. I hurriedly sank back down into my uneasy crouch.
"So what do you think of that?" my publisher asked. With dismay I realized that I had zoned out on what she'd been saying.
"Pardon?" I mumbled. The police were mounting up, barely ten feet away.
"For the title," my publisher clarified. "Does that work for you?"
"Sure," I whispered, dumbfounded. What the hell had she just said? Was it one of mine or something she'd just cooked up? With the police literally paces away, I saw no way to question her on the point.
'Well, I'm glad we agree," the publisher said cheerfully. "I'll be in touch." She hung up before I could figure out a way to ask her to repeat herself.
The cops were pedaling away now, fifty yards distant and increasing. I eased to my feet, feeling the snap-crackle-pop of my knees and spine as I uncompressed myself. I barely registered the pain. Through my own stupidity and bad luck, I'd just given a stranger a blank check to name my baby, the work I'd poured my blood, sweat and tears into. For all I knew, I could have just agreed to call it Fatty Goes to the Moon.
"Oh fuck me," I murmurred to no one in particular. In the distance, a child's singsong voice cut through the wind, as if mocking me. Glancing north, I realized that the voice belonged to a very real child who was out for dusk bike ride with her parents. Having not yet secured my pants situation, I hastily returned to a crouch until they passed. There, in the shameful, semi-nude shadow of my own excrement, I realized that I had no idea what the fuck I was doing with my life.
This is what I discovered my book had become.
A Few Months Later:
Some may wonder how it's possible to publish a book without knowing the title. I admit it's difficult. Hell, this might be the first instance of it occurring. It's also awkward as fuck, ten times worse than waking up next to a girl whose name you've forgotten. Without a purse to go through, all I could do was send the publishing house a barrage of emails aimed at tricking them into dropping the name. All failed.
Several months passed as the book wound its way through the editing and formatting process. I spent the time dancing around well-meaning questions from friends and family like, 'what's your book's title?' and 'so what did you decide to call your book?'
Finally, notice came that I would be receiving a proof with the final layout. When it arrived, I tore into the package with nervous anticipation and saw the cover for the first time.
Ultra Fat to Ultra Fit. Holy shit. It sounded like the title of an snake oil weight loss book peddled on late-night TV by a disgraced MD that promised to slim you with the extract of a rare Asian plant.
Desperately, I wracked my brain as to how I could salvage this poorly-executed abomination of a title. I came up with nothing. At this point, I would have happily considered returning their money and walking away, but I'd already spent the advance.
In a word, I was stuck with the book as it was.
Make no mistake, this was my fault*; my colon got us into this and a verbal agreement is just as valid in a conference room as it is in a snowy patch of weeds by a neglected midwestern toilet. But also remember that I was the one who had to deal with the fallout. And there was plenty of it: When the book was released, I did a good bit of press, a mixture of book signings, articles and live interviews. The live interviews were the worst. Here's what happened 80% of the time:
Interviewer: I'm here with Dr. Noah Walton, author and subject of the book Ultra Fit to Ultra Fat.
Noah: Actually, the book's called Ultra Fat to Ultra Fit.
Interviewer: (nervous giggle) So it is. I am so sorry.
Noah: That's OK - Ultra Fit to Ultra Fat is the title of the sequel.
That's right. It happened so often I developed a lame joke to segue the conversation away from the shitty title.
The other cost - one that really mattered to me - were the lost sales lost as a result of the unfortunate cover.
Let's be clear: this isn't the greatest book on planet earth. It was a first effort and it's just OK. Commercially, it wasn't exactly a flop but the response was a little disappointing. I think we sold about 10,000 copies. With a better title, I think we could have done at least twice that much, meaning that one ill-timed bowel movement cost me between ten- and fifty thousand dollars.
Money notwithstanding, the main reward was the experience of publishing a book and a valuable lesson: Conduct your business in a business setting, not in the bushes down by the lake.
*Obviously, I'm grateful to the publisher for the opportunity. Even now, I hesitate to tell the story because it gives the impression that I'm anything other than thrilled to have work with them. But let's be straight here - this Greek tragedy is simply too good to not put out there.
Some may wonder how it's possible to publish a book without knowing the title. I admit it's difficult. Hell, this might be the first instance of it occurring. It's also awkward as fuck, ten times worse than waking up next to a girl whose name you've forgotten. Without a purse to go through, all I could do was send the publishing house a barrage of emails aimed at tricking them into dropping the name. All failed.
Several months passed as the book wound its way through the editing and formatting process. I spent the time dancing around well-meaning questions from friends and family like, 'what's your book's title?' and 'so what did you decide to call your book?'
Finally, notice came that I would be receiving a proof with the final layout. When it arrived, I tore into the package with nervous anticipation and saw the cover for the first time.
Ultra Fat to Ultra Fit. Holy shit. It sounded like the title of an snake oil weight loss book peddled on late-night TV by a disgraced MD that promised to slim you with the extract of a rare Asian plant.
Desperately, I wracked my brain as to how I could salvage this poorly-executed abomination of a title. I came up with nothing. At this point, I would have happily considered returning their money and walking away, but I'd already spent the advance.
In a word, I was stuck with the book as it was.
Make no mistake, this was my fault*; my colon got us into this and a verbal agreement is just as valid in a conference room as it is in a snowy patch of weeds by a neglected midwestern toilet. But also remember that I was the one who had to deal with the fallout. And there was plenty of it: When the book was released, I did a good bit of press, a mixture of book signings, articles and live interviews. The live interviews were the worst. Here's what happened 80% of the time:
Interviewer: I'm here with Dr. Noah Walton, author and subject of the book Ultra Fit to Ultra Fat.
Noah: Actually, the book's called Ultra Fat to Ultra Fit.
Interviewer: (nervous giggle) So it is. I am so sorry.
Noah: That's OK - Ultra Fit to Ultra Fat is the title of the sequel.
That's right. It happened so often I developed a lame joke to segue the conversation away from the shitty title.
The other cost - one that really mattered to me - were the lost sales lost as a result of the unfortunate cover.
Let's be clear: this isn't the greatest book on planet earth. It was a first effort and it's just OK. Commercially, it wasn't exactly a flop but the response was a little disappointing. I think we sold about 10,000 copies. With a better title, I think we could have done at least twice that much, meaning that one ill-timed bowel movement cost me between ten- and fifty thousand dollars.
Money notwithstanding, the main reward was the experience of publishing a book and a valuable lesson: Conduct your business in a business setting, not in the bushes down by the lake.
*Obviously, I'm grateful to the publisher for the opportunity. Even now, I hesitate to tell the story because it gives the impression that I'm anything other than thrilled to have work with them. But let's be straight here - this Greek tragedy is simply too good to not put out there.