1979. Montgomery St. in San Francisco: I left over 100 pages of manuscript and $200.00 with Sol Rubinowicz, a "literary agent". He never phoned. He never moved one page of my shit. I visited him several times each week. He always said the same shit, "Yer pretty good, kid. Some of it's just too weird to move, just yet." I once asked for a refund. He was laughing his ass off as he threw me out and told me not to come back unless I could do a "weekly retainer." Sol. A prick. I never got my ms back.
Last Edit: Jan 7, 2010 11:54:01 GMT -5 by poejsich