Product Placement

Yesterday, it just teed me off when an audience member asked me if it was true that I permitted product placement in my novel.  I was in Portland, Oregon, where it's against the law, apparently, to make a buck and have fun doing it.

Okay, So What If I Did?

My marketing team and I in fact have negotiated the placement of product in my novel.  We believe that pursuing this revenue stream will provide critical financial support for literary novels, and at the same time permit the targeting of consumers, who, until now, were tragiclly insulated from advertisers.

For the record, I take offense when product interferes with entertainment.  I tired, for example, of Bond neurotically checking his Sony Ericsson in Casino Royale - and though we can all agree it is a superior phone* - his fidgeting dependence was not consistent with 007's character.

*Anyone purchasing a Sony Ericsson X-Fighter2000 who says, "I read save a wretch like me (Ion Meyn's upcoming novel)," will receive 200 weekend minutes, absolutely free.

We worked hard to seamlessly embed commercial messages into the story without compromising narrative.  In an effort to be transparent, to quiet skepticism, and to commemorate this momentous occasion, we have selected a few excerpts that highlight select sponsors.

Powerbar and Ford Motor Company.  Less fuel, more horsepower.

It was over in a second.  Harris heard something pop under the hood, the engine seized up, and he wrestled his car to the side of the road.  A moment later, the only sound was the cooling tick of the dead motor.

He scanned the life-hating horizon.  Mars had nothing on East Texas.  Who would help him?  This deathscape was made for a postal worker with dead hookers in the trunk.  He would be the next installment of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  He looked over at his Chevy and dropped his head.

Something was moving on the horizon.  Shielding his eyes, he watched a truck disappear and then emerge again, every time a bit closer.  As the truck closed in on Harris and slowed, he saw the silhouette of a ten-gallon hat.  Shit, thought Harris, I don't speak cowboy.

"Need a lift, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Git on in.  I reckon going any direction is better than settin' here."

"Yes, sir."  Harris shut the door.  The cabin hummed with the reassuring throb of a Ford engine, built tough.  Built to last. 

"Hungry?"

"I won't lie."

"I got a PowerBar in the glove compartment.  Don't worry about the Glock.  Safety's on."

Caramel Cookie never tasted so good.  He felt safe.  For now.

KB Homes.  We put the fab in prefab.

After moving from Los Angeles to Memphis, nothing looked or felt like home.  Nothing.

"You," said their real estate agent, Bram Pupkin, "are suffering from the Goldilocks syndrome."

Pupkin's words laid on her like a lead blanket.  She lost hope.  No we can't, she said.  Not now.  Not this time.  Not anytime.  Hope, she thought, was an empty word.  The arc of human history did not bend at all.  There was no fierce urgency of now.  There was only the way it was always going to be.

They waited for the gate to open.  Bluffside Development.  Pupkin had called the day before.  "A new listing, Goldilocks.  Two words," he said.  "KB Homes."

The cobblestone, aesthetically and physically jarred her out of her slumber.  The bungalow styling transported her back home, to Santa Monica.  She heard the ocean, thousands of miles away, crash against the shore.  Maybe, she thought, maybe this will work out after all.  On that sun-licked day, happy for the first time in a long time, she could not anticipate the tragedy stalking her.  A tragedy, of course, that had nothing to do with KB Home's great tradition of craftsmanship and quality.  They signed papers that evening.

StairMaster.  We bring the stairs to you.

"Can you meet me at the gym tonight?"

"If you wear that little half-shirt of yours."

"My little one-track Jack."

This was one of her tactics.  To infantilize him.  He rose to her expectations and goaded her further.  "So why do you hide that body of yours?"

"Our conceptions of public property differ."

"How about a private showing?"

"See you at 7:30."

He stared at the stacks of paper on his desk.  Life, he thought, is fucking hell.  He imagined the approaching gym session unfold:

Cathy begins her workout with a warm-up on the StairMaster.  Jack secures the neighboring machine.  He exaggerates his strides.  His wife ignores him.  This encourages him.  He races towards the finish line.  His machine starts to whine.  His magazine falls to the floor.  He draws stares.  At full sprint, he narrates the last seconds of their race to a place in Olympic history.  Taking a relaxed victory lap, he acknowledges the valiant effort by his worthy opponent.  Another chapter closed in the epic story of two living legends, trading victories, pushing each other further, leaving the rest of the world to watch in awe.  She tells him that his erratic pace only burns muscle, not fat.  Despite his Olympic win, he feels defeat.

After the worse-than-he-imagined gym session, he sped home.  Still, he was fortified; he knew, deep in his stronger heart, that his use of the StairMaster had given him the victory of health . . . and no one, not even Cathy, could take that away from him.