Of Wrongdoings and Writing

I have decided to become a criminal. Not a violent one, not one who truly ruins other people's lives, but an entertaining criminal, like Frank Abagnale, the charming con artist/forger from Catch Me if You Can. Granted, I lack the artistic skills and overweening charm Mr. Abagnale clearly possesses, so this may be a bit unrealistic on my part. But I simply have to find some kind of criminality in which to become involved because, at my age, I think this might be the best way to get a literary agent.

As so many writers know, the key to getting that novel or memoir published is to find an agent. Not just any agent, but one who can secure that seven-figure deal. Were I young and uncomplicated, I could simply become a drug addict and a prostitute while attending an Ivy League university, and boom, I would be smothered by outpourings of affection from greedy manuscript sellers. But I did not come up with a book idea until I was middle aged, and a middle-aged, drug-addict prostitute is, well, redundant in so many circles.

For those of us in midlife who want that book deal, our crimes have to be more spectacular to secure that agent. Nicky Cruz, a New York street gang leader in his youth, found religion in middle age and has now published a dozen books that include lurid descriptions of street shootings and tortures along with his revelations. Of course, I already have religion, so this route may not be open to me.

Willie Sutton, a world-famous bank robber who heisted more than $2 million and spent years in federal prison, made a tidy sum off of his memoir, Where the Money Was and even made a credit-card commercial. But his plunders are nothing compared with those of Bill Mason, who claims to have stolen more then $35 million in his illustrious jewel-thieving career. In 2005 he published Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief.

Naturally, some of the most intriguing wrongdoing memoirs have been penned by politicians -- Bill Clinton and Richard Nixon come to mind -- but they likely would have gotten book deals anyway. Although I am certain the lurid details of their lives raised the price of their advances. Still, one has to wonder how much Rod Blagojevich will eventually receive for penning the unsavory tale of his slimy existence.

So, while I am an intermittently violent person (when the pop-top comes off the can without actually opening it, for example) I don't really have the gumption for a bloody sort of career. I need something clean, organized and not too unpleasant that can use my skills -- baking, talking, watching movies -- to a not-too-unpleasant illegal end. And then I can get that agent.