I should be sleeping. But one of the boys was sick, so I was taking care of that. Poor little guy. He's sleeping, now, but I'm awake. Or half-awake, anyway.
Watched "Nip/Tuck" last night. Glad they brought Julia back -- her absence was keenly felt. The show isn't nearly where it was in the first three seasons, in terms of everything. The writing is thinner, and that bugs me. I can always tell when something's been written well, versus somebody just going through the motions -- thinly-plotted contrivances and what-not. I can just see it. But Julia was integral to the dynamic of the show, so hopefully her return will up it a little.
Same thing with "It's Always Sunny..." -- it has not found The Funny so much this season, unfortunately. All too often, when comedy writers come up short, they opt for The Zany when they should be finding The Funny. For a lot of people, Zany IS Funny -- but they're not the same. The Funny doesn't have to be Zany -- it wins you over on its own merits, whereas Zany -- well, it's the comedic equivalent of blood and gore in lieu of terror or horror. It's what a writer of comedy reaches for when they are coming up short, are out of ideas. "Arrested Development" did it by the end of the second season. Lord knows when "The Office" (US) did it. But all comedy shows do it when they lose sight of The Funny, lose that vital edge. Once lost, it's often hard to rediscover -- it's like trying to explain a joke to somebody, the punchline is invariably lost on the listener, or they'll politely say "That's funny."
No, it's not. If you have to say it's funny, it's not funny. The Funny finds you; if you have to find The Funny, you're screwed. It's the Zen of The Funny, The Tao of Laughter. And so far, I've been very disappointed with this season's "It's Always Sunny...." -- I really, really, hope they find The Funny again. Fingers crossed.
Speaking of crossed fingers, I spent much of last night jotting down contact information for publishing my book. I found about a dozen potential homes for it, so now I have to work on those pitches and see if anybody has an iota's interest in it. They should; it's a good book. But it's very hard to pitch a book as a complete outsider -- I needed a pedigree, like coming from an Ivy League school, or having gone to the Writer's Workshop, or be related to a publishing czar -- an in-road like that really helps. All I have on my side is talent and persistence -- I just need that opportunity, need to make that opportunity, and a fistful of luck. So, we'll see how it goes.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bric-a-brackish
I sent "Spare Tire" to WEIRD TALES. We'll see how quickly they reject it. I also sent "Living With Syn" to the NEW YORKER. That's a total longshot, sure to be rejected, but I wanted to at least give it a try. It may be useful for me to note submissions in this blog, so I can keep track of them. I have a database at home, but with the computer migration thing (e.g., moving from a PC to a Mac), I haven't moved things over -- many things, including all of my writing, are on the old PC, including the database, etc. Soooo, we'll see. As long as I have my jump drive, I'm good. Have jump drive, will travel.
Had an idea this morning for a new story:
If WEIRD TALES rejects "Spare Tire," I'm going to send them "The Atomic Baby" and see how they handle that, assuming it falls beneath their word requirements (<10,000 words for unqueried fiction). And if that falls, I'll send them "Living with Syn." And so on. They don't like multiple submissions, so I have to wait for responses before sending another. The usual dance.
I want to wrap up "Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat" this weekend, if at all possible.
Had an idea this morning for a new story:
- Deuce
If WEIRD TALES rejects "Spare Tire," I'm going to send them "The Atomic Baby" and see how they handle that, assuming it falls beneath their word requirements (<10,000 words for unqueried fiction). And if that falls, I'll send them "Living with Syn." And so on. They don't like multiple submissions, so I have to wait for responses before sending another. The usual dance.
I want to wrap up "Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat" this weekend, if at all possible.
Make Your Own Luck, Inc.
I have got my feet under me again, and am going to spring at the publishing industry and sink my teeth into its leg, and hold on until the end of my days. Just been doing some research, and it got me all fired up. It's hard to wrestle with the ardent apathy of the industry and not have it sink into you a bit, but I'm back on my feet, and am swan-diving back into the fray. I always get extra-busy in the Fall and Winter, anyway.
One great thing about Chicago is the long winters -- people complain about them, but to me, long winters = Good Writing Weather. It's why there are far more great Russian writers versus great Hawaiian writers. Bad weather makes for great writing, because: a) you're indoors, and b) you need something to get your mind off the bad weather. Both situations are extraordinarily conducive to writing a lot, and the more you write, the better you become (ideally).
So, the descent into the short Fall and the long Winter that is Chicago ignites my spirit, gets me in full writerly mode -- I write year 'round, of course, but in terms of the business of writing, that kicks up for me during this time, since I need to find homes for things I've written in the Spring and Summer.
It's all very cyclical. ; )
One great thing about Chicago is the long winters -- people complain about them, but to me, long winters = Good Writing Weather. It's why there are far more great Russian writers versus great Hawaiian writers. Bad weather makes for great writing, because: a) you're indoors, and b) you need something to get your mind off the bad weather. Both situations are extraordinarily conducive to writing a lot, and the more you write, the better you become (ideally).
So, the descent into the short Fall and the long Winter that is Chicago ignites my spirit, gets me in full writerly mode -- I write year 'round, of course, but in terms of the business of writing, that kicks up for me during this time, since I need to find homes for things I've written in the Spring and Summer.
It's all very cyclical. ; )
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Street Music
One thing I like in Chicago, during the blustery, wintery-windy times, particularly in Fall and Winter proper, is how the wind can make street signs sing. Basically, any of those hollow-bore metal poles that support things like "No Parking" signs and what-not -- when the winds are strong enough, they become like giant flutes, and will carry the sound, resonating up and down them, like how you can make a beer bottle sing, only this is galvanized metal being played, not glass.
Now, it requires a pretty strong wind to do it, but when you pass several of them, all sounding at once, it's neat -- this ghostly city song played, a duet between Man's works and Nature's whims. A chorus of banshees. Usually the poles dance a little, too, buffeted by the winds. It would be fun to find one of the reliably windy areas and put a tape recorder there to capture the sound, although without the poles for context, it's probably not quite the same.
Now, it requires a pretty strong wind to do it, but when you pass several of them, all sounding at once, it's neat -- this ghostly city song played, a duet between Man's works and Nature's whims. A chorus of banshees. Usually the poles dance a little, too, buffeted by the winds. It would be fun to find one of the reliably windy areas and put a tape recorder there to capture the sound, although without the poles for context, it's probably not quite the same.
Leaden Skies
Music: "A Passing Feeling," Elliott Smith
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Movie: ALIEN
I watched "Alien" on DVD the other night. I haven't watched that movie in a very long time. Of course, the scares associated with it are long faded, so I just watch it out of appreciation of Ridley Scott's former cinematic skill as a director (I say "former" because I think he's sold out a bit over the last decade or so). The movie holds up well, still looks futuristic, it's nice seeing those various actors younger, and the alien's monstrous as ever.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Scene: Shoplifters of the World
I was waiting in line at CVS, a long line, since they only had two registers going, behind this cute young thing buying herself a knee brace, and I heard a commotion behind us in the store. Apparently some guy had been caught stealing eyeliner, and was being confronted by someone -- this sharp-voiced Latina. I wasn't sure if she was an in-store Loss Prevention type or what, but she confronted the guy about the eyeliners, told him to empty his pockets. We're all turned in line to watch this fracas, and the guy, who looks to be perhaps Latin, himself, or Italian, or some other olive-complected soul, with a heavy black coat, a ball cap, and a black goatee-type beard, walks slowly out of the store, with the woman on his heels, telling him the cops were coming, and that she got a good look at him. She was on a cell phone at the time.
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
Scene: Furry
The other day, on the bus ride home, I saw a gay guy clearly out cruising. It amused me, because he was pretty old, but was ogling everybody who boarded, looking for play. That, and his outfit. Oh, my. First, he was balding at the top of his head -- so, he had that bit of a tonsure going, but that didn't stop him from zazzing up his gunmetal gray-silver hair with some product, so he had it spiked up ahead of the tonsure, which was an odd image if you saw him from anything but head-on.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Scene: Grrl Freitag
I was writing on the bus, on the way to the HP, and a hipster chick sat next to me, dug out her copy of the New Yorker and briefly read it, before popping on some headphones and chilling out. She was average height, black hair, slightly sallow complexion, assiduously plucked eyebrows, black knitted beret, black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, melon-colored socks and black Keds-style canvas sneakers. She had a big turquoise ring on her left middle finger that was two triangular pieces of turquoise pointing toward each other, off-center, like two ships passing by. The overall ring was fairly big. She had a worn, dusky silver-toned messenger bag with "FREITAG" as the label, which amused me, made me want to snap a picture of her -- especially with the whole black ensemble going, except for the nerdy socks. I would have liked if her name was "Tuesday" -- that would've been perfect, seeing Tuesday with her Freitag bag on a Thursday morning.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
Yessssss
I worked on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." all morning. It's hot. It's humming along very nicely. It is very much in the spirit of Richard Matheson, one of my influences -- it's my own thing, in my own style, but somebody who likes Matheson would find a lot to like in this story.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
Writerly
I started working on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." yesterday, on the bus ride home. Writing longhand, as is my lot for the moment, until I can afford another laptop. It's going to be an interesting story, I think. The voice of the character flew out of me, male protagonist, snarky, sarcastic, cynical -- sound like anybody you know?
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Not On My Hands
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....
Their time at last has come....
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.
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