I find when confronted with Halloween-hued Peanut M&Ms (said hues being: black, orange, purple, and chartreuse), I selectively eat the purples and the oranges, getting them out of the way, saving the black and chartreuse ones for last. There are only two left, now, in my little dish: one black, one chartreuse. Those colors, together, look lovely to me. Wicked, like a witch's kiss.
Their time at last has come....
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Idea Man
I was surging last night, just had a ton of ideas. I kept jotting them down on a slip of paper, which I kept on me all night, just in case more came (they did). Love when I'm on the creative upswing, surfing the waves of my subconscious. Stories I have to finish...
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
- Smartbomb
- Vista
- Old Hickory
- Deadline
- Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat
- Statuesque
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Scene: Poke-Poke-POKE!
I didn't recognize Muttonchops McGee when he first got on the bus. Actually, I think I almost recognized him, but couldn't quite place him -- red-haired guy with an Edwardian kind of visage to him -- somehow, familiar. I realized once he sat down that it was Muttonchops McGee, but he'd shaved off his signature 'chops. It was his thing. He was a regular feature on the Hyde Park bus. He'd habitually grow his hipster hair out very big, would have these massive muttonchops going, and then at some arbitrary point in the year, he'd get shorn like a sheep and would repeat the process all over again.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Scene It
Alright, here's how it goes: a title with "FICTION:" on it is exactly what it says it is. Whereas, a title with "SCENE:" on it is something I've seen that I'm recounting. Get it?
Counting
1092 words. Not bad for the underside of an hour, although just a sliver compared with what I used to be able to turn out, with time and space (e.g., a 1.5-hour commute each way -- that was the time of 5 to 6000 word a day. God, I loved that).
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
Working
I'm working on the short story this morning. I have to use the old computer; well, I suppose I could use the iMac, but all of my writing is on the old Dell, so I use that, just to keep all of my work in one place. Having that old, slow computer after being used to the speedy Apple is sort of like having a bag of unpeeled carrots in the fridge -- you want to eat'em, but somehow peeling them seems like sooooo much work. So, I make a big deal about turning the thing on and hearing the old processor grrrrrrrind to life, wait forever for MS Word to open.
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
Sunday, November 8, 2009
House of Leaves
I HATE "House of Leaves." I've read that book off and on for the better part of a year, and I hate it. Just to be extra-wanky, I'm doing what they did throughout that book, which is color the word "house" blue every fucking time it would show up in the text. Ooooh, are you scared, yet?!
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Weather or not
Pretty autumn day, great weather, although very windy, as it usually is in Chicago this time of year. But all of the sun made it nice.
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
Guilt by Association
I swear, The Association might be the most evil band in pop music history. It's bad enough that they did "Cherish" (among other smash hits of mawkish sunshine pop) but they also did this one...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXN7wkSRVZg
I am so going to write a scene in a story where something absolutely horrifying and/or terrible happens to a character while that song is playing. It simply must be done.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXN7wkSRVZg
I am so going to write a scene in a story where something absolutely horrifying and/or terrible happens to a character while that song is playing. It simply must be done.
Friday, November 6, 2009
See?
Toldja I'd be back.
I'm working on several stories right now, long and short. Short story of the moment is either horror or perhaps black comedy. I'm hoping to get that done in a week or so. Long fiction is alternately real-world ('adult contemporary' -- is that the bogus term for it?) or perhaps horror. Maybe a bit of both.
Also, I'm going to throw a few stories the New Yorker's way. Why not? I haven't done that in awhile. Keep'em entertained.
It's a challenge being noticed when you're in Flyover Country (e.g., that vast expanse of land between New York and LA). Sue me, I live in the Midwest, in Chicago.
I'm not doing National Novel-Writing Month this year, after having played a few times at that in previous years, completing books in a month's time. It's doable, and I've done it, and while it's fun having a kind of deadline gnawing at your leg a bit, I have nothing to prove where that is concerned, so I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and never will again.
I'll move at my usual choo-choo train locomotive pace, racing along, banging out words, and hopefully folks will read them.
If you're really nice, I'll even put some of those stories here, although I haven't decided what, yet, will go here. You'll know. I'll preface the subject line with "Fiction:" so there's no uncertainty.
And if you try to steal my story, I'll take your thumbs, simple as that.
I'm working on several stories right now, long and short. Short story of the moment is either horror or perhaps black comedy. I'm hoping to get that done in a week or so. Long fiction is alternately real-world ('adult contemporary' -- is that the bogus term for it?) or perhaps horror. Maybe a bit of both.
Also, I'm going to throw a few stories the New Yorker's way. Why not? I haven't done that in awhile. Keep'em entertained.
It's a challenge being noticed when you're in Flyover Country (e.g., that vast expanse of land between New York and LA). Sue me, I live in the Midwest, in Chicago.
I'm not doing National Novel-Writing Month this year, after having played a few times at that in previous years, completing books in a month's time. It's doable, and I've done it, and while it's fun having a kind of deadline gnawing at your leg a bit, I have nothing to prove where that is concerned, so I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and never will again.
I'll move at my usual choo-choo train locomotive pace, racing along, banging out words, and hopefully folks will read them.
If you're really nice, I'll even put some of those stories here, although I haven't decided what, yet, will go here. You'll know. I'll preface the subject line with "Fiction:" so there's no uncertainty.
And if you try to steal my story, I'll take your thumbs, simple as that.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Using "wicked" in the old-school way, like "Damn, that was totally wicked, Dude!" Like "gnarly" only more so. More to come....
"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."
--Japanese Proverb
"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."
--Japanese Proverb
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