Quote: George R. R. Martin

“Henry James and Robert Louis Stevenson’s quarrel divided us into realism and romanticism, and, in a way, fantasy writers are all children of Stevenson, and literary fiction writers are all like James. But now you’ve got writers like Michael Chabon and Junot Diaz who are accepted in literary fiction despite their clear groundings in fantasy. There’s no real distinction between fantasy and literary fiction.”

Ouch

I made the mistake of getting too many groceries at the Fullerton El stop last night, after work, ended up doing a kind of Bataan Death March with the groceries, hauling them homeward about 1.3 miles. Now, that isn't a tough distance ordinarily; I'm used to walking through the city and all, but encumbered with many pounds of groceries entrusted to my carpal-tunnel-damaged wrists, it was a bit of a slog. And with the CTA apparently getting a head start on their whole service cutbacks plan for February, not a bus in sight, so I trekked it home, my wrists aching, shoulders sore. Next time I do that, I'm totally bringing a hauler for the groceries, so I won't be lumbering about. In the snow and wind, it was comically horrible. I felt like stopping into a bar on the way for some refreshment, leaving groceries on the curb.

Seems like college students these days are so much bigger than they were in my day. Just taller. I'm 6'3", and routinely college guys and girls are taller than me! Maybe DePaul attracts amazonian people, I'm not sure. But walking through the Dominick's there, I was amazed to see that.

I've got a new story idea I'm toying with, for a book. I'm going to bang it out, see what comes of it.

Artistry Can Redeem...

Hmmm

Here's the judging process of Amazon/Penguin...

First Round: Amazon editors will review a 300 word Pitch of each entry. The top 1000 entries in each category (2000 total entries) will move on to the second round.

Second Round: The field will be narrowed to 250 entries in each category (500 total entries) by Amazon top customer reviewers from ratings of a 5000 word excerpt.

Quarterfinals: Publishers Weekly reviewers will read the full manuscript of each quarterfinalist, and based on their review scores, the top 50 in each category (100 total entries) will move on to the Semifinals.

Semifinals: Penguin USA editors will read the full manuscript and review all accompanying data for each semifinalist and will then select three finalists in each category (six total finalists).

Finals: Amazon customers will vote on the three finalists in each category resulting in two grand prize winners.

I'm perhaps a little worried about that first round, since it's all based on the pitch. I think the pitch is good, but it's so subjective, who knows? The second round could be worrisome, too. Will the 5000-word excerpt be enough? I'm more optimistic after the second round; but getting there is going to be challenging.

Hope? Joke.

I answered the door over the weekend wearing my green "Audacity of Joke" t-shirt, and the delivery guy saw that, liked it, and treated me an impassioned riff about the current administration, the past administration, and the one before that. He was on fire. Populist anger, right at my doorstep! I just listened, gave him a few "Yeah, things are pretty fucked up." I wasn't about to get into a political discussion that morning with the Peapod grocery guy, so I just let him shpiel, nodding politely. People are so pissed off right now, they don't even necessarily know which way to go, only that they're pissed. The fascinating thing for me was after this fiery diatribe, he said "You know, I'm not political or anything; I'm not right- or left-wing." I thought it was interesting, since he was getting a lot of his stuff from various right-wing radio broadcasters. The inchoate fury among Americans is palpable -- a 21st century version of "Network" -- "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it, anymore. Things have got to change!"

The funny thing is that, the night before, I thought "Hmm, I should change my tee shirt, just in case it provokes the delivery guy." I honestly thought that. It didn't provoke him, though; it inspired him. He saw it, said "Joke. Yeah, the joke's on us, right?" And I nodded, agreed that it was (embittered by last week's Supreme Court decision about corporate political speech).

Amazon/Penguin

So, I entered a novel in the Amazon/Penguin Books Breakthrough Novel Competition. We'll see what happens. First round of eliminations is at the end of next month. I think I should make the quarterfinals, but we'll see how it goes. With my luck, I may get axed early, who knows? But fingers crossed. I'll keep you posted.

Sleepless

Damnable cat woke me up around 2:00 a.m. today. He wanted me to pet him, wanted to hang out on my pillow, purring in my face. I couldn't go back to sleep. So, I gave myself a bit of time to go back to sleep, couldn't, so then I got up and did laundry around 3:00. That's my way; if I can't sleep, I don't stew about it. I just get up. The laundry room in my building is in the basement -- Pennywise's Playground, it is. I don't know why I always think that when I'm down there, but there's this long hallway to one side, near the cargo elevator, and the vantage point always makes me think that. Every fucking time. Not the thing one needs to think at 3 in the morning. The funny thing is that the laundry room itself feels fairly like a sanctuary -- it's hard to think of menace tied with laundry (likely because it's all about getting clean), but when I step into the hallway, turn to the elevator, and can peer down the hallway, then it creeps me out a bit. Also, the fitness room is across from the laundry room, and there's this complete psycho who will jog the treadmill in there IN THE DARK. All hours: morning, late evening. Thankfully, he wasn't in there when I was doing the laundry, but every other time I've seen his dour self in there, he's jogging in the dark. Maybe that's his solution to working out alone, but seriously, who does that? A nutcase, that's who.

I don't drink coffee, but I had to snag a caffeinated diet soda to lurch through my day. Need a bit of the caffeine hit to function today, I think. A rarity for me, but I just need to make it through another 4.5 hours without nodding off at my desk.

This weekend is going to be very busy for me. Submitting one (for sure) or two (maybe) books to a competition, hoping something hits. We'll see.

After that, I'm thinking I'll do a fantasy novel. I've got a ton of material (~130,000 words) from a stillborn fantasy epic I wrote in 2002, material that I thought could be mined for a series of one-book fantasy novels, and I'm going to develop some of that. I would like to avoid trilogies. Tolkienitis and all of that.

Conchords

Music: Suicide Commandos, "Match/Mismatch"

I've been watching "Flight of the Conchords" -- the first two seasons. I liked the first season well enough, but found it was flagging a bit by the end of it. The second season hasn't been as funny/satisfying as the first, and I'm trying to put my finger on it.

I haven't whipped out notes to analyze it or anything, but there is a certain comedic reserve applied to it that makes me feel like they're pulling their punches -- like lobbing a cream pie but saying "Not in the face!" Why this is, I'm not sure.

And the comedic setup has gotten a little rote -- the characters and their situations remain pretty static (Mel remains the obsessed, sexually-frustrated stalker-fan; Murray remains the clueless wannabe band manager; Bret remains a clueless mimbo; Jemaine is whatever-he-is). What works admirably well in the short-term becomes shopworn as the same tricks are played, the same jokes are made, over and over again. This is one of their better musical interludes...

Reading

Having a bit of lunch at the moment -- well, lunch-dessert, anyway: some mini semi-sweet morsels in one hand, and some pretzel sticks in the other. Sort of like the Rum and Coke one might have with one bottle in each hand, taking alternate pulls of the beverages.

Chocolate chips.
Pretzel sticks.
Chocolate chips.
Pretzel sticks.

I'm currently reading American Fantastic Tales: 1940 to Now, edited by Peter Straub. So far, so good. Starting from the beginning (what a great place to start!) I read John Collier's "Evening Primrose," which was an interesting enough story, good concept, compellingly written, if not exceptional. While the actual writing of Fritz Leiber's "Smoke Ghost" was a bit lacking for me, I found it a singularly creepy story, ripe with menace and possibilities and images that will stay with me forever (I'll certainly never take the El again without thinking of that story). I tried to work my way through Tenneessee Williams's "The Mysteries of the Joy Rio" but punted that -- something about the writing of Tennessee Williams makes him a hard read for me. I liked Jane Rice's, "The Refugee," which spun itself out nicely enough, with a juicy little twist to it.

This batch of stories all fell in the wartime period (so far, around 1940-43), and the hulking shadow of World War II hangs over them all. I'll keep posting as I go through it.

Overcast

I was very productive over the weekend, although not productive at all yesterday. Blah. My day off. Why not? It's not like I wasn't doing anything; I was busy taking care of my kids.

Today I'm at work, and somebody brought in some Dunkin Donut holes. I loathe Dunkin Donuts. I want to take one of the powdered ones and launch it at one of walls. But with people walking about, that might kill them -- those Dunkin greaseballs are likely deadly projectiles.

I have six days to get the second chunk of revision done. It should take me two days, if I do it right.

Trimming

I was doing some editing/revising of a book of mine, intending to shave about 416 words from the total. Instead, I culled 4,617 words from it. Lifted a whole chapter out of it. It's okay. It was a bit of fat that could be trimmed. So, now said book is around 145,000 words, down from a little over 150,000. It works! Leaner, meaner. That's the goal of a horror novel, anyway, yes?

With books I write, I tend to keep "Cuttings" files, where edited materials end up. I was amused to see that the Cuttings file for this book runs 60 pages -- over 30,000 words. Don't ever let it be said that I'm shy about revision!

Okay, you can say it, but I'll just look at you like you're crazy.

In other news, I found a dollar on the sidewalk, right in front of the Twin Anchors Tavern, the bar where Two-Face shoots the corrupt cop in "The Dark Knight." Alas, it was not a silver dollar.

Thirsty

Well, I submitted "Thirst" to the "Distant Worlds" anthology. We'll see what comes of it. Probably nothing, but I was pleased to expand the short story into a novella, and for the story to arc the way it did. It topped out at 21,064 words, so I nearly doubled it from its original size. It was a bit of a rush, working on that one. A fun little exercise, and that short story always craved a larger canvas upon which to stretch out, so I was happy to oblige it, and the protagonist in the story.

Fingers crossed, I hope it is one of the winners!

Scene: Sinistra

Saw a young (20-something) gal board the bus this morning. She caught my eye because she had this very retro hair -- honey-blonde, long (a bit over shoulder-length) that felt very 70s to me. Somewhere between classic Farrah hair and Cheryl Tiegs, maybe, although maybe some curling iron action on it. Her face was oval, and had a sinister beauty to it that reminded me of a former coworker, although she had full lips and arched brows and dark, squinty eyes. Couldn't be sure if they were hazel or brown. Just dark. She wore stovepipe jeans of very dark hue, and black booties, and a nondescript winter jacket. No jewelry on her hands, although her nails, while unpainted, were well-tended by the look of them.

Two other things jumped out at me with Sinistra -- one was her tendency to sit with her mouth open, very mouthbreathery, just kind of sitting there, squinting off into the distance, gapemouthed. The other thing was her gigantic backpack. The thing was huge. Sitting next to her on the seat, it came up to her shoulders, and was easily 16 inches thick. It was an olive drab canvas abomination, just massive. She was of middling height, perhaps 5'5" -- so the backpack easily dominated her frame. A bottle of pale orange-colored vitamin water was stuffed in the side of it, in a beverage caddy. I wondered what she'd be doing with that massive bag. She also had a purse, a black leather thing, ruffled.

The combination made me wonder what her story was. Runaway? A European of some sort, here on holiday? I don't know. She just squinted her way through her commute. Likely bound for Union Station, judging from the bus we were on. The train station? The colossal backpack looked large enough to hold her whole life.