By TIMOTHY EGAN
Published: December 6, 2008

The unlicensed pipe fitter known as Joe the Plumber is out with a book this month, just as the last seconds on his 15 minutes are slipping away. I have a question for Joe: Do you want me to fix your leaky toilet?
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I didn’t think so. And I don’t want you writing books. Not when too many good novelists remain unpublished. Not when too many extraordinary histories remain unread. Not when too many riveting memoirs are kicked back at authors after 10 years of toil. Not when voices in Iran, North Korea or China struggle to get past a censor’s gate.

Joe, a k a Samuel J. Wurzelbacher, was no good as a citizen, having failed to pay his full share of taxes, no good as a plumber, not being fully credentialed, and not even any good as a faux American icon. Who could forget poor John McCain at his most befuddled, calling out for his working-class surrogate on a day when Joe stiffed him.

With a résumé full of failure, he now thinks he can join the profession of Mark Twain, George Orwell and Joan Didion.

Next up may be Sarah Palin, who is said to be worth nearly $7 million if she can place her thoughts between covers. Publishers: with all the grim news of layoffs and staff cuts at the venerable houses of American letters, can we set some ground rules for these hard times? Anyone who abuses the English language on such a regular basis should not be paid to put words in print.

Here’s Palin’s response, after Matt Lauer asked her when she knew the election was lost:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

I have no idea what she said in that thicket of words.

Most of the writers I know work every day, in obscurity and close to poverty, trying to say one thing well and true. Day in, day out, they labor to find their voice, to learn their trade, to understand nuance and pace. And then, facing a sea of rejections, they hear about something like Barbara Bush’s dog getting a book deal.

Writing is hard, even for the best wordsmiths. Ernest Hemingway said the most frightening thing he ever encountered was “a blank sheet of paper.” And Winston Churchill called the act of writing a book “a horrible, exhaustive struggle, like a long bout of painful illness.”

When I heard J.T.P. had a book, I thought of that Chris Farley skit from “Saturday Night Live.” He’s a motivational counselor, trying to keep some slacker youths from living in a van down by the river, just like him. One kid tells him he wants to write.

“La-di-frickin’-da!” Farley says. “We got ourselves a writer here!”

If Joe really wants to write, he should keep his day job and spend his evenings reading Rick Reilly’s sports columns, Peggy Noonan’s speeches, or Jess Walter’s fiction. He should open Dostoevsky or Norman Maclean — for osmosis, if nothing else. He should study Frank McCourt on teaching or Annie Dillard on writing.

The idea that someone who stumbled into a sound bite can be published, and charge $24.95 for said words, makes so many real writers think the world is unfair.

Our next president is a writer, which may do something to elevate standards in the book industry. The last time a true writer occupied the White House was a hundred years ago, with Teddy Roosevelt, who wrote 13 books before his 40th birthday.

Barack Obama’s first book, the memoir of a mixed-race man, is terrific. Outside of a few speeches, he will probably not write anything memorable until he’s out of office, but I look forward to that presidential memoir.

For the others — you friends of celebrities penning cookbooks, you train wrecks just out of rehab, you politicians with an agent but no talent — stop soaking up precious advance money.

I know: publishers say they print garbage so that real literature, which seldom makes any money, can find its way into print. True, to a point. But some of them print garbage so they can buy more garbage.

There was a time when I wanted to be like Sting, the singer, belting out, “Roxanne ...” I guess that’s why we have karaoke, for fantasy night. If only there was such a thing for failed plumbers, politicians or celebrities who think they can write.

This just sounds like one big crybaby rant and a chance to take shots at the already defeated repubs. If people really wanted to read these "riveting" memories or untold histories, there would be a demand for it and they would get published. Unfortunately, people don't want these things and publishing these stories over something that will sell a lot of copies is an injustice to the business of being a publisher.
If their work was good enough, they would get noticed and get published. There is a reason that there is the stereotype of a writer that is finding it hard to make a living from prose.

The problem is the way in which American society has been "dumbed down." The mere fact that publishing companies believe there is a viable audience for such literary feats as "The Memoirs of Joe the Plumber" is convincing evidence.

Elitist prick.

actually, i think there is a fine point in there. too many good writers, or decent writers with great ideas or great research, never get published because companies are so caught up in a bottom line and fame. a book about the chinese economy in relation to green energy? or a book by joe the plumber? gee, i wonder which would sell better.

that's not to say that america is that dumb, because a good number of quality books are being sold. but americans aren't the brightest -- all six of ann coulter's books have appeared on New York Times Best Seller list -- and we don't read as much as we probably should.

A survey on green energy in China is probably a scholarly book requiring a great deal of primary research, probably gleaned from the author's own peer-reviewed articles. And if it is good, a reputable University press will publish it. A Joe-The-Plumber book would be published by one of those mass production houses like Regnery Press that only publishes polemics.

Anyway, when people tell me how terrible it is that their daughters are reading "those awful Twilight books" or their sons are reading "those ridiculous Halo novels," I tell them that I think that reading anything is good, and making reading an entertaining hobby can lead you to all sorts of other books.

people shouldn't thrown stones.

fixed

There was a time when I wanted to be like Sting, the singer

btw, I'm glad he specified the particular Sting to which he was referring. I thought he might have been talking about Sting the retired accountant who lives two doors down from my mom.