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Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Friday, March 27, 2015
I Wrote a Novel. It's Published. You Can Buy It.
In late October 2009 I started looking around my house for a book on writing that I knew I had someplace. Sure, there was Bird by Bird, of course, and here was Stephen King's On Writing, and then, yes, here we are, Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write.
Oh, and that Writing Down the Bones one. And that's probably it. I mean, except for Coaching the Artist Within. And How to Write and Sell Your First Novel. Then the supplemental info: John Gardner's The Art of Fiction, Joseph Campbell, Strunk and White, various journalism and marketing writing texts. That ripoff Elmore Leonard book I thought was a book but was really 10 cartoons.
I ended up with a stack of about a dozen. I took that as a sign that I was ready.
There's a website—you know it—that encourages people to write a novel in November, and I planned to succeed this time. Somehow, I guess because I surrendered to what I knew I had to do, I did it. Every (or most) mornings, wrapped in a blanket at 5:30 in a dark living room, the house asleep, the skunks wandering home past my window, I'd type. Pound it out. Don't look back. Jot down the spelling and first name of the antagonist. Write forward. Butt in chair. Those books all said the same thing.
It's likely that the difference this time, compared to the other two times I'd tried to write a novel, was that I had trained for and run three marathons before I sat down to write this one. My body and mind now understand the sustained nature of effort required to whittle an unimaginably large task down, atom by atom, step by step, word by word, bird by— whatever. Something clicked. (Keys, yes. Keys.)
Weekends, I was granted hours to go to the local coffee shop and spend solid afternoons there, headphones in, old timey country music blocking the hiss of espresso, intent expression signaling my unusual-for-me focus to my neighbors and friends. Words words words out. My only writer's block was the block I put against doubt and pause and sloth and backwards-looking and judgment. It was a month-long push.
By the end of November 2009, in keeping with NaNoWriMo, I had reached 50,000 words—and a rough story that stopped abruptly with nothing resolved. So I buckled down and spent the next ten months putting the final 40,000 words together.
Then I edited. And edited. Then I asked people to read it, starting with a literate novel-reading writing librarian who's kind enough to live with me. And then a friendly police officer to advise on technical matters. A former literary agent. A publisher of textbooks. An honors English teacher. Other writers. Wise people. Good people.
I saved their responses. I bundled them up in stacks. I ran another marathon. Wrote some podcast scripts. Worked a day job. Traveled. Journaled. Attempted wit on social media. Opposed bad developments in town. Passed the stack each morning on my way down to get dressed.
And would occasionally lose myself in thinking about my characters, who did things I didn't control. I asked a friend once in the city, while attending a memorial for an artist friend who hadn't finished, why one character did some things that my readers found objectionable, but which I cheered. Not having met her, he suggested something in her past. It clicked. It went in.
Then I got to the part where I kind of looked around and said this is done. And it was done, it tailed off, I knew there'd be more effort but this was good. I did what you do, which is you think and say this is saleable. You really think this is readable, but the books and everything else say you're supposed to jump that little hedge one side of which is art and the other side of which is commerce and it's such a short hedge and it's hardly any jump at all. So, it was readable. By commercial people.
One of my readers, as mentioned, is a publisher of textbooks. When I began pitching the book to agents he casually said "let me know if you want me to publish it." And I said something like "wow, thanks, good to know, Plan B," etc.
This next part is a complex emotion that's its own post, but it's a melange of impatience, ego, sound judgment, experience, self-confidence (not ego—the real stuff, the stuff that comes so hard and takes so long and maybe has something to do with decades of holding down high-functioning jobs and running marathons and raising kids and proving oneself to oneself until one's forced to think maaaayyyybe one is competent) and excitement, and it told me to stop pitching the book after about six weeks of the agent search and just surrender to what had been placed before me, which was a friend offering to help.
More to come. In the meantime, the book's called Bone Hollow and you can buy it here.
•
Oh, and that Writing Down the Bones one. And that's probably it. I mean, except for Coaching the Artist Within. And How to Write and Sell Your First Novel. Then the supplemental info: John Gardner's The Art of Fiction, Joseph Campbell, Strunk and White, various journalism and marketing writing texts. That ripoff Elmore Leonard book I thought was a book but was really 10 cartoons.
I ended up with a stack of about a dozen. I took that as a sign that I was ready.
There's a website—you know it—that encourages people to write a novel in November, and I planned to succeed this time. Somehow, I guess because I surrendered to what I knew I had to do, I did it. Every (or most) mornings, wrapped in a blanket at 5:30 in a dark living room, the house asleep, the skunks wandering home past my window, I'd type. Pound it out. Don't look back. Jot down the spelling and first name of the antagonist. Write forward. Butt in chair. Those books all said the same thing.
It's likely that the difference this time, compared to the other two times I'd tried to write a novel, was that I had trained for and run three marathons before I sat down to write this one. My body and mind now understand the sustained nature of effort required to whittle an unimaginably large task down, atom by atom, step by step, word by word, bird by— whatever. Something clicked. (Keys, yes. Keys.)
Weekends, I was granted hours to go to the local coffee shop and spend solid afternoons there, headphones in, old timey country music blocking the hiss of espresso, intent expression signaling my unusual-for-me focus to my neighbors and friends. Words words words out. My only writer's block was the block I put against doubt and pause and sloth and backwards-looking and judgment. It was a month-long push.
By the end of November 2009, in keeping with NaNoWriMo, I had reached 50,000 words—and a rough story that stopped abruptly with nothing resolved. So I buckled down and spent the next ten months putting the final 40,000 words together.
Then I edited. And edited. Then I asked people to read it, starting with a literate novel-reading writing librarian who's kind enough to live with me. And then a friendly police officer to advise on technical matters. A former literary agent. A publisher of textbooks. An honors English teacher. Other writers. Wise people. Good people.
I saved their responses. I bundled them up in stacks. I ran another marathon. Wrote some podcast scripts. Worked a day job. Traveled. Journaled. Attempted wit on social media. Opposed bad developments in town. Passed the stack each morning on my way down to get dressed.
Then I got to the part where I kind of looked around and said this is done. And it was done, it tailed off, I knew there'd be more effort but this was good. I did what you do, which is you think and say this is saleable. You really think this is readable, but the books and everything else say you're supposed to jump that little hedge one side of which is art and the other side of which is commerce and it's such a short hedge and it's hardly any jump at all. So, it was readable. By commercial people.
One of my readers, as mentioned, is a publisher of textbooks. When I began pitching the book to agents he casually said "let me know if you want me to publish it." And I said something like "wow, thanks, good to know, Plan B," etc.
This next part is a complex emotion that's its own post, but it's a melange of impatience, ego, sound judgment, experience, self-confidence (not ego—the real stuff, the stuff that comes so hard and takes so long and maybe has something to do with decades of holding down high-functioning jobs and running marathons and raising kids and proving oneself to oneself until one's forced to think maaaayyyybe one is competent) and excitement, and it told me to stop pitching the book after about six weeks of the agent search and just surrender to what had been placed before me, which was a friend offering to help.
More to come. In the meantime, the book's called Bone Hollow and you can buy it here.
•
Friday, January 2, 2015
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Whew, but
Oh, boy, I am about to bring it down.
I’m conflicted about Thanksgiving. Grateful, of course, for many of the people and things in my life—and trying to be cognizant of the luck that brought them to me.
That'd be the hardest thing for me to understand if I were religious, I think: why me? Religion is most damaging, I suspect, when it provides its adherents with unassailable confidence that their advantages, when they have them, are intentional, and that others’ misfortune is part of a plan that’s out of their control. Similarly, the religious downtrodden are also to believe that their misfortune is visited upon them by design, but that they just need to get through this trial and glory will be theirs. (Those are poles, of course, and I know that religious experience is a spectrum.)
So the religious powerful believe they are meant to be powerful, and they see any sharing of that power as a change to the natural order of things. The loss of that power—or of any part of it—is grounds for war and oppression.
I’m an atheist, and I like to think that the closest I get to a religious belief is “shit happens.” But seriously, who am I kidding? I believe I’m chosen, too. Mentally, I remind myself that it’s luck; that I was born white and male to literate parents with good jobs in a stable society etc etc etc. But you live a life like mine for 45 years—and yes, I’ve done some reasonably hard work in that time to maintain my advantages, but it’s work that was available to me because of my advantages—the mantra of “hey, it’s just luck and a little bit of work” starts to sound like reality.
Over time, “I’m lucky” can be just as insidious as “I’m chosen.”
You start to believe that because you’re lucky, things are supposed to be a certain way for you. You are unsurprised by others’ misfortune, even when you feel terrible about it. “Not lucky,” you sort-of think, and you feel sympathy. You donate to charities that purport to help certain categories of unlucky people. You do things to maintain your luck, like lose weight and get checkups and check out crime stats for potential homes, so it feels a little more earned. Even though, yeah, you have a measure of control over those things because of privilege. Privilege tends to be invisible when you have it. (As the young fish said, “what the fuck is water?”)
Like “I’m chosen,” “I’m lucky” can also provide great cover for those moments of entitlement used to justify rule-breaking, selfishness, unkindness.
People call this conflict I’m feeling “Privilege Guilt,” and seek to explain it away with that, kind of dismissively, like its cousin Liberal White Guilt. I suppose I feel sort of guilty—more for the bad things I’ve done (mostly when much younger) under cover of the unassailable confidence bestowed by “I’m lucky” than just for being lucky and privileged—but it’s more like awareness. I know I’m privileged by my gender, orientation, skin color and economic starting point, and I know it’s unfair, and it’s increasingly hard to swim ignorantly in that stream. But to acknowledge it reads like guilt to those who just don’t see it. Because it challenges them to acknowledge something they don’t want to, and what wells up in them is that same defensive anger that anyone feels at a challenge to their deep-seated worldview. I, a non-religious, privileged person that has done okay thinking “I’m lucky” (and therefore unconsciously feeling unaccountable for others’ misfortune), feel that defensive anger when I feel challenged about my privilege—“you can’t mean ME, of course; I’m well aware of how lucky I am, I’m regretful over past unkindnesses that I got away with because of privilege, and I donate and march over injustice and post correctly on social media. So take your criticism someplace else.”
It’s almost the opposite of guilt, really. It’s justification. It’s like, I have already done my sacrifices to awareness of my privilege, so look elsewhere for sinners. I am not guilty. But I don’t know, maybe it’s just awareness.
Anyway, that brings me to Thanksgiving, and finally to Ferguson and Newburgh and White Plains and New York City, and to Cleveland and video games and to Occupy—all places that matter to me peripherally or centrally—and all places where my kind have been sticking it to others, from casual disrespect through threats and intimidation to theft, systemic armed oppression and murder, for a long time.
As an atheist, Thanksgiving has always felt like “Whew!” as opposed to “thank you.” And for a time it’s felt like a somewhat tempered “whew,” like “whew, but…” And now, this morning, it feels more like anger. Anger that’s equally split between me and The System.
For instance, in addition to my unpopular atheism, I’m also not much of a tv guy. But I’m at my family’s place and there are lots of kids around and we had the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on this morning. My friend tweeted “Looks like the theme of this parade is ‘EVERYTHING IN THIS COUNTRY IS FINE.’” He’s right, and watching the parade pisses me off. The willful forced grin of complicity. Looking at Facebook and seeing people sharing racist diatribes on stars-and-stripes backgrounds pisses me off. (Nothing you’ve posted, if you’re reading this on FB.) Reading the resentment of others’ suffering and desperation. Reading others' fear of non-whites or non-males encroaching on spaces that people took to be their own, unchallengeable, realms.
So I’m angry, and yeah, maybe a little guilty. Because I’m still lucky! Because I’m home amid a large, loving family, on my way to my aunt and uncle’s house where there are even more of this far-flung tribe, and if someone came over and said “you know this is all stolen” I’d be like “you can’t mean THIS turkey, of course; I’m well aware of how lucky I am, I’m regretful over past unkindnesses that I got away with because of privilege, and I donate and march over injustice and post correctly on social media. So take your criticism someplace else. I have already done my sacrifices to awareness of my privilege, so look elsewhere for sinners. We are not guilty.”
But still: a lot of it IS stolen. Not BY ME, mostly. But I’m in possession of stolen property. I’m angry at myself because I don’t want to give it back. I’m angry at the System because it’s shouting “EVERYTHING IS FINE, YOUR PRIVILEGE IS OKAY. Keep that stuff, don’t you like nice stuff?” I’m angry at people who don’t agree with me that we haven’t earned everything we’ve got.
Kinda tough to formulate a sentimental but self-deprecatingly humorous Thanksgiving post when reflection on the things for which I’m grateful automatically reminds me of the 1:1 opposite-day loss experienced by those from whom those same things have been stolen and are still being stolen. I’m grateful/lucky to be with my family on Thanksgiving: protestors in LA are jailed for Thanksgiving if they can’t come up with $500 bail. I’m grateful/lucky to be with my kids: how many black families have an empty seat at their table? Etc, etc, etc.
So here are some drafts: “If you recently compared mourners, protestors, or rioters to animals, I hope you die under a pile of toaster ovens this Friday.” “I’m considering shopping today as much as possible, out of spite.” “Let’s all enjoy our turkey but” —and can’t think of a closer. Those are NOT Thanksgiving winners.
That’s why, if you’re still reading, you’re reading this. This is my attempt. The fact that I am struggling to express gratitude amidst the bounty and relative security in which I dwell is ludicrous. Yet, there it is. Maybe it’s this: I'm incredibly thankful and cognizant of my luck. But gratitude and cognizance of luck don’t necessarily make me happy.
Here are some people doing good work (among many others, no doubt, including lots of you):
https://www.stlouis-mo.gov/government/departments/aldermen/profiles/antonio-french.cfm
http://www.theatlantic.com/ta-nehisi-coates/
https://twitter.com/spacekatgal
https://twitter.com/adrianchen
https://www.facebook.com/AnneLamott
http://rollingjubilee.org
http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org
Despite the foregoing, I am having, and truly wish you all, a very happy Thanksgiving.
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Thursday, November 6, 2014
The Walking Fool
My pal Mark E. Phillips walked across the USA 1.5 times. He brought a camera and a mic, and now he's making a documentary. (This is an appeal to fund it.)
Why will Mark's cross-country walk be any more interesting than anyone else's? Well, he created and starred in a hilarious NYC public access show in the 90s/00s (Playpants 4eva!), and he contributes to film projects and acts in TV and movies now. He's got a comic's pacing, a journalist's eye and a guru's knowledge about walking. Beyond his own footage and interviews with people who helped him along the way, he's featuring other cross-country walkers (a diverse and slightly weird set)—so it's not just about him, or about the cross-country walk phenomenon, but about bigger issues of meaning, motion, time, and progress. Plus: 'Murica.
There's a strong team dedicated to making The Walking Fool - Documentary happen, which means your backing will actually result in a finished product you can enjoy and in which you'll be able to take pride.
Join me in helping this pic get made, wouldya? You won't regret it.•
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Sharing Casino Wealth in Upstate New York
I'm generally opposed to casinos in New York State. Gambling concerns, in general, are inherently predatory and designed to consolidate wealth from many into few hands, which they do very efficiently. They come with associated social ills that tax the communities in regions where they reside. Their benefits to municipalities, existing business, taxpayers, job-seekers and workers are frequently overstated.
However, in New York, they seem to be a reality. There's a land-grab-money-rush-gold-snarfing thing going on in Orange and Sullivan counties that's not going to stop until something is built. And some of the proposals look like they might have fun elements. Who am I to say no? (I mean, I said no, when I voted against the proposal, but it still passed.)
So how do you mitigate the harm that may arise from one of these massive projects being built near economically sensitive cities or in a depressed region? How do you work to ensure that some benefits do accrue?
Some suggestions come to mind, like: Diversify the project so it's not totally gambling-centric. Make use of existing or traditional recreational areas that have some infrastructure to support the new facility. Site it reasonably close to New York City so that it is more likely to draw tourists from out of state instead of preying on locals. Require a high minimum wage for all jobs, good benefits, and similar requirements from subcontractors.
And, close to my heart, insist on New York State procurement. Not just for the construction and materials, and later for the employees, but also for the ongoing provisioning of the bars, hotels, restaurants, spas, recreational facilities, kitchens, gaming centers, cleaning supply closets, and everything else.
I used a popular search engine and my own experience to find some likely suppliers of value-added goods that are either manufactured in or largely sourced from within New York State. (Note that this list doesn't include farm vegetable produce, which is a whole other category that should be locally sourced.) While some of these concerns are boutique or small-scale producers, their products are thus all the more "New York," and a guaranteed volume of business from a casino customer could enable them to diversify their customer base and grow further. There are doubtless hundreds or thousands more.
Bostree Porcelain, Sugarloaf NY
Malfatti Glass, Beacon NY
Newburgh Brewery, Newburgh NY
Black Dirt Distillery, Warwick NY
Ulster Linen, Islip NY
Tuthilltown Spirits, Gardiner NY
Edgwick Farm, Cornwall NY
Stickley Furniture, Manlius NY
Crowley Foods, Lafargeville NY
Chobani Yogurt, New Berlin NY
Liberty Tabletop, Sherrill NY
You know they're going to have bottled water available. New York has decent water.
But take it further. What about tech assets? Server space? What about business services? Website development, marketing, design, legal services, even custom typography? How about energy? How much can be drawn from renewables generated in New York State? (And, off-topic, require some electric car charging stations—maybe a Tesla supercharger.)
All of these could be sourced from within the Empire State north of the Bronx, to circulate some of the revenue back into economies that need it, even those far from the specific casino sites. That's how casinos can truly create jobs, allowing businesses to get established and scale to serve other in- and out-of-state markets, creating a positive cash flow into upstate New York's manufacturing, service, renewable energy, tech, and distribution sectors.
Any evaluation of proposals should give preference to—or require—New York State procurement commitments from these large proposed projects.
•
However, in New York, they seem to be a reality. There's a land-grab-money-rush-gold-snarfing thing going on in Orange and Sullivan counties that's not going to stop until something is built. And some of the proposals look like they might have fun elements. Who am I to say no? (I mean, I said no, when I voted against the proposal, but it still passed.)
So how do you mitigate the harm that may arise from one of these massive projects being built near economically sensitive cities or in a depressed region? How do you work to ensure that some benefits do accrue?
Some suggestions come to mind, like: Diversify the project so it's not totally gambling-centric. Make use of existing or traditional recreational areas that have some infrastructure to support the new facility. Site it reasonably close to New York City so that it is more likely to draw tourists from out of state instead of preying on locals. Require a high minimum wage for all jobs, good benefits, and similar requirements from subcontractors.
And, close to my heart, insist on New York State procurement. Not just for the construction and materials, and later for the employees, but also for the ongoing provisioning of the bars, hotels, restaurants, spas, recreational facilities, kitchens, gaming centers, cleaning supply closets, and everything else.
I used a popular search engine and my own experience to find some likely suppliers of value-added goods that are either manufactured in or largely sourced from within New York State. (Note that this list doesn't include farm vegetable produce, which is a whole other category that should be locally sourced.) While some of these concerns are boutique or small-scale producers, their products are thus all the more "New York," and a guaranteed volume of business from a casino customer could enable them to diversify their customer base and grow further. There are doubtless hundreds or thousands more.
Bostree Porcelain, Sugarloaf NY
Malfatti Glass, Beacon NY
Newburgh Brewery, Newburgh NY
Black Dirt Distillery, Warwick NY
Ulster Linen, Islip NY
Tuthilltown Spirits, Gardiner NY
Edgwick Farm, Cornwall NY
Stickley Furniture, Manlius NY
Crowley Foods, Lafargeville NY
Chobani Yogurt, New Berlin NY
Liberty Tabletop, Sherrill NY
You know they're going to have bottled water available. New York has decent water.
But take it further. What about tech assets? Server space? What about business services? Website development, marketing, design, legal services, even custom typography? How about energy? How much can be drawn from renewables generated in New York State? (And, off-topic, require some electric car charging stations—maybe a Tesla supercharger.)
All of these could be sourced from within the Empire State north of the Bronx, to circulate some of the revenue back into economies that need it, even those far from the specific casino sites. That's how casinos can truly create jobs, allowing businesses to get established and scale to serve other in- and out-of-state markets, creating a positive cash flow into upstate New York's manufacturing, service, renewable energy, tech, and distribution sectors.
Any evaluation of proposals should give preference to—or require—New York State procurement commitments from these large proposed projects.
•
Getting On with James Urbaniak, Episode 19: "New Day, New You"
I've written a third episode of the actor James Urbaniak's podcast, named one of the 20 best comedy podcasts "right now" by Rolling Stone. In this one, which rewards the long-time listener, James announces the final episode of his call-in advice program. Guest starring John DiMaggio, Phil LaMarr and Judith Shelton.
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