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THE SUM OF ITS PARTS
Here's a shout-out to Michael Plumides. A
while back I reviewed his self-published book,
Kill the Music, about his life as a college-radio
jock and club owner in the heady late-'80s
days of the Southern Music Boom, using it as
an example of why self-publishing is a bad
idea. The thrust of the review, for those who
don't care to go back and read it, was that it
was a very interesting book worthy of a read
for its glimpse into the life of someone who
did something none (or since this is Athens,
very few) of us can say we did, but that the
book suffered from the lack of an editor's
hand to focus it and rein in the author's
excesses.
Plumides, a mensch if I've ever met one,
promptly contacted me and respectfully called
me out on my criticisms. We gave each other
some good-natured shit for awhile, and now
we're friends on Facebook, and I get regular
updates on the tireless promotion he's done
for his book, the second edition (!) of which
is now in the North Carolina library system
and doing brisk sales online.
Plumides hasn't changed my mind about
an author's need for an editor or about the
thankless endeavor of self-publishing, but '
he did turn me around on the idea that a
self-published book is a lost cause. After all,
•who am I to put down the efforts and aspira
tions of anyone with a story to tell? Sure, it's
risky. Sure, the subsidy press is too often the
refuge of the untalented, the egotistical and
the downright crazy. But for the fiercely inde
pendent writer who finds himself or herself
outside the niches of mainstream publishing,
especially since the industry has stopped buy
ing in these days of a shaky economy and the
rise of e-books, I'll amend my position and say
go for it—just please proofread your work.
The reason I revisit the topic of self-
publishing is because a book recently came
across my desk from Authorhouse, a subsidy
publisher/distributor, that I was prepared
to ignore—not that I'm a book snob, but it
really gives me no pleasure to trash a book or
to read a book I don't enjoy simply to write
about it. But thinking of Plumides' book com
pelled me to give this one a shot Besides, it's
a book about the American space program and
The Beatles, two topics that are deep inside •
my wheelhouse.
Into the Sky with Diamonds: The Beatles
and the Race to the Moon in the Psychedelic
'60s is by Ronald P. Grelsamer, a highly
respected orthopedic surgeon from New York
who ordinarily writes books explaining the
facts about knee and hip surges to laymen.
This book, under the banner of Hey Bulldog
Press, is a book about Grelsamer's passions:
the Fab Four and the wildcat early days of
NASA. It's a timely book, as both institutions
began 50 years ago and burned brightest
between 1960 and 1970, when the Beatles
broke up and landing on the moon (incredibly)
became old news.
Grelsamer alternates chapters following
the effo.ts of the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo
programs to catch up to the humiliating lead
the Soviets had attained in the Space Race
with the exploits of The Beatles from the
early days playing strip clubs in Hamburg to
the days when they couldn't stand to be in
the same studio together. The cohesive
device for these parallel storylines is a
fictional correspondence between Dutch
Ricbtman, a communications engineer
for NASA, and Mai Evans, a real person
who roadie-d for The Beatles. Richtman
tells Evans how things are going at Cape
Canaveral (not well, most of the time),
and Evans tells Richtman about hauling
gear for the biggest clashing egos on
Earth. Between them, Grelsamer provides
a panoramic portrait of the (insert cli
che) turbulent decade through the eyes
of two men living in its flashpoints.
Unfortunately, the cohesive device
fails to cohere, and it is quickly and
uncomfortably obvious as a gimmick.
Grelsamer, like all enthusiasts, wants
to include every single thing he knows
about his subjects in his work, and he
knows a lot, and so Richtman's narrative
becomes narration and Evans' letters
read like foreign correspondence of the
newscast variety. Throughout the course
of the book, Richtman includes details
of his fictional personal life, but they
feel like an afterthought alongside the
extensive history of NASA he's spent
pages throwing out.
It's pretty clear from the get-go that
Grelsamer has written two very good books,
about NASA and about The Beatles, and
attempted to fuse them into one not-so-good
narrative, and this is what an editor might
have done for him. Said editor would have sat
down with Grelsamer and perhaps persuaded
him to write the NASA book as a straight
piece of non-fiction, fleshed out with as much
detail as his prodigious research would afford,
and then done the same with a Beatles book.
Neither book would be as authoritative as
others on the market, but Grelsamer's talent
would have made both better reads than a lot
of the stuff on bookshelves now.
This is what makes reviewing self-published
books hard: the knowledge that had the
author just held on, rethought and revisited,
and put his or her book through a few more
filters, the potentially good book might be
carried to term 3nd the bad book could die
in utero. Grelsamer's book is in fact two good
babies; it's his desire to make them Siamese
twins that disappoints.
John 6. Nettles