"Mary Harris - The Choclate Undepants Caper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Mary)

= The Chocolate Underpants Caper
by Mary Harris


I'm an officer. A grievance officer. Dana Gore, Local 221, American Authors Union. All the doo-doo that agents, editors and publishers dish out to writers ends up on my shoes. Frankly, a lot of doo-doo happens because writers can be idiots. They don't ask for contracts. If they do get contracts, they don't bother to read them; they sign them without any forethought or advice. Then the doo-doo hits the fan, and they run screaming to me.

It was a dark and stormy Monday. I knew it was a deep doo-doo case when he burst through the door and thrust a handful of papers onto my beat-up metal desk, shoving the keyboard askew.

"You know what they did to me?" he yelled.

I saved the book I was trying to write, made sure my blouse wasn't gaping, and pointed to the rickety guest chair.

"Sit."

He sat. I studied the contract. It made for sad reading. Mr. Walter Dunphy had signed away his latest children's book to Edacity Publications. For years he had existed meagerly on cutesy plots featuring baby animals and itsy-bitsy toddlers, using carefully researched language structures appropriate for his target market; then he gave up and dashed off a stupid little book about an eight-year-old boy who wouldn't wear underwear but always saved the day.

It hit the New York Times best-seller list. TV-Land was working on a cartoon spinoff. A multi-national toy company contracted to produce the doll, clothing (except, of course, underpants) and coloring books. There were rumors of Hollywood interest. All these goodies normally bang more bucks into the writer's pocket. However, the contract was a standard boiler-plate confection from the early '60s. Poor old Wally was fifth in line at a cash cow with four teats.

I waved the papers at him. "Did your agent approve this?"

"Don't have one. Why should somebody get fifteen percent of my blood, sweat and tears?"

"Because now you're getting one hundred percent of bupkus. Did you get legal advice before signing?"

Dunphy hung his head in his hands. "No," he mumbled through thin fingers.

"Did you talk to an Authors Union contract advisor?"

He shook his head, thin grey hair creating a sad halo.

"Right. So what do you want me to do?" I asked.

He bolted from the chair. It teetered, then settled back into its usual slump. "I want my rights! I want what's mine! They're making a fortune off me!"

I pointed to paragraph 15, subclause H. "You get 10% of the publisher's 50% for sub rights, triple net."

"I don't even know what that means!" he screamed.

I opened a battered drawer and took out a pamphlet, ignoring the metallic screech as I shoved the drawer closed.

"Here. This explains everything."

He glanced at the pamphlet, his sweaty fist creating inky smudges. "But what are you going to do? I'm a Union member! You have to help me." He ended on a whimper and collapsed onto the chair. I hoped the slightly bent legs would hold.

"Help you do what? You signed away your rights for a mess of pottage. A really small mess."

"Can't you threaten them? Don't you have a gun? Can't you break into their office and steal the contract?"

I looked at him. "Are you crazy? I wouldn't do that for one of my own books."