Where I’ve Been
July 6, 2009
Well, I’d like to say I was on safari or in some exotic locale like one of Jupiter’s moons, but in truth I’ve been working. Very hard. In a way you can say I’ve been many places in my head, and to be honest it’s not a bad way to travel. For one, you don’t really need any new clothes. There’s no need for innoculations or translating gadgetry of any sort, either. You are allowed only a certain amount of baggage, however, so you need to pack intelligently––or unintelligently, I suppose, as long as its funny.
Which is a perfect segue to talk about my most recently completed screenplay titled Shelf Life. Instead of just explaining what it’s about––and since I’m finding it nary impossible to stop working––let’s make this an exercise with results I can actually use. I’m going to try a few loglines and y’all tell me which one you think sounds the best.
Okay, first one:
When tragedy strikes the young lead singer of fledgling hardcore band Dead Jester, its aging members begin to drop like flies––leaving lead guitarist and perpetual wheel-spinner Scott “The Kid” Gianoffrio to make a huge life decision: patch things up with his fiance and grow up, or hang on to his pipe dream until it takes him under for good. When the bitter girlfriend of the dead singer begins to pester his existence, a new choice emerges: allow her noxious personality to finish him off, or open his mind to what could be his last chance to shine.
Not too bad. But as far as loglines are concerned, they’re the only thing Hollywood doesn’t like to be too long. Another go:
Aging rocker Scott “The Kid” Gianoffrio watches his dream and fiance slip away after the young, lead singer of his band is tragicially killed. Will the dead singer’s blameful and bitter ex drive him over the edge forever, or could she possibly be the key for one last shot at the stage?
Okay, it can’t get much shorter than that, can it?
When an aging rocker loses his lead singer, his life and dreams go into the toilet. Will the singer’s bitter ex flush him away, or could she prove to be his rocking salvation?
That one discards a lot of info that may not sell the heart of the story, which if I’m being honest, is more of a romantic comedy than the hilarious send-up of garage bands that I intended it to be. As you can see, these things can be tweaked to appeal to different market mindsets, and the daunting reality is that, whatever decision you make, that’s the one that sticks forever. You get one shot at an agent per project, so it’s best to choose your pitch––and where you send it––very carefully.
That’s all for now. I’ve got other stuff stored up for other entries, so check back. Lastly, your perspective video of the week. Maybe it’s just me, but every time I watch it I feel calm and strangely innocent. Enjoy.
The Man Cracks Down
May 15, 2009
I’m feeling a little heavy. I’ve had precious little time to write (or blog) and it’s as if all the pressing stuff in my existence––real or imagined––has been piling up on my back. Writing often shucks it away, like a thick molting, and I desperately need to shed some skin. Perhaps the weight of the weather is also a factor. From the sky has dropped all manner of water and seed. Pollen covers every exterior surface like Martian effluvium. The trees, heavy with water from the constant rains, sag in suffering, their branches swollen and cracked in places. I wonder if the trees have been furloughed like the rest of us? The impressive oak out my window most surely has taken a hit on its 401k by the way it frowns at me. Hey, tree, at least you’re still growing.
There was held a serious meeting of the employees of my company to discuss the gravity of the seriousness of the grave situation that we and most of the country is seriously in. It’s forced me to spend every minute in every department trying to get us to the point where we’re at least bailing as much water as we’re taking on. I’m losing. We’re losing. But we’re still bailing. And this situation has robbed me of that extra energy and time that I’ve put to good authorly use in the past. I chip away now with a dog paddle work ethic, never getting too far but keeping my head where the air is. I try not to think about money. I don’t want it to direct my efforts.
But I never quit. I don’t know how. I did, once, when I was young and confused about what it all meant, but not now. I’m not as cool as Cool Hand Luke but I’m always good for a smile and a swing. A part of me likes this, I discover. I like the boot on my back. It’s a test. I may lose, but the fight is good. To fight is good. It cuts the fat, leans the muscle, sharpens the wit, and sometimes, if you’re not careful, hardens the heart. But better to set a lock than be raided by an unfeeling malaise. Just keep the key handy.
So picture me, not on my knees, but with back muscles rippling. Ideas lift me, as well. And where once I carved out time to idle, I will write. And it will be better for it. Because what we cannot have, what we must guard against above all, is a failure to communicate. That would be the end of us all.
Perspective time, kiddies. Let’s never forget the lessons of the late, great #37.
Sole Searching…
April 24, 2009
Before you slap your hand to your forehead in response to what I’m sure you think is a horrible fish pun, allow me to set your mind at ease: okay, it is a horrible pun, but it’s not about fish.
Feel better!
Excellent. Actually, the title of this entry refers to the week I’ve spent alone at my company while the other employees––and the founder and president––enjoy themselves in sunny, Orlando Florida. I’ve been, at varying times, head administrator, web master, IT tech, accountant, client rep, grounds keeper and cat wrangler (of seven cats, all of which live next door and require at least two different feeding regimens). And I’ve done all of this, until today, in the pouring rain. I’ve put out fires (metaphorically) and bowls of water and food (literally) with equal determination, and not once have I had my silence interrupted by anything other than a phone (about ten times per day over the course of a nine-hour period) or the ministrations of one hungry feline or another. I have to say, I got quite a bit accomplished, including a healthy portion of my screenplay and approximately two-thirds of a new short story.
But there have been other developments, as well. For one, I’ve felt…relaxed. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “well, duh”, but there have been anxious moments that never really felt out of my control. I’m not sure if it had to do with the lack of an infiltrating din playing on my nerves, or the non-issue of dealing with the anxieties of others, but ladies and gentleman, I feel more at peace at work than ever.
That’s not to say I don’t still have things I’m dealing with in my life like we all do, I just don’t have anything in the way of my absorbing them and working them out. See, this is different than a vacation. I’m at work, but yet, I’m alone (as I’ve said, don’t worry I’m getting to the point). How many of us ever get the chance to do something like this? This is a first for me. I’ve come in alone on the weekends, but never during the week while matters were most definitely at hand. And viewing the company from the varied perspectives I have has really taught me, not just about the jobs others do, but about myself. It’s been fairly enlightening at times, and at others, just kind of cool.
This brings me to my final, abiding thought about the entire business: the danger the current global economic situation has put us in, and what we stand to lose. Thirty years this year this company has been around, helping people realize their dreams and taking employees from dorky college grads to mother and fathers and homeowners and such. My father built this place with his bare hands pretty much, and it grew with the help of folks that started out as faces and skill-sets who soon became members of a family. Many of them I’ve know since I was ten years-old. Now, like everywhere else, we come in every day wondering what more we can do short of growing money on a tree.
We’re still alive in this little woods, and we’re going to fight with everything we’ve got to stay that way. There are a few tricks up our sleeves, yet, even if those sleeves are looking a little linty and threadbare. But what do we stand to lose if it all goes down? More than simply a collection of individuals and the livelihoods on which they’ve grown to depend, we stand to lose a family. Not just close friends who can keep in touch on Facebook, but the kind that make each other miserable five days a week and can look to each other and say “thanks” on an almost daily basis. I’m sure there are lots of others like us, too.
And if I’m being honest, I’d be afraid to unleash a few of these people onto the world. Some of us are a little bit scary. 
Okay, perspective time. This video needs no introduction whatsoever, but when has that stopped me? Rarely, has a piece of art ever revealed its themes in such a bold and enduring way as the video you’re about to behold. So dim the lights, crank up your speakers, and hold on––for I give you a tale of olde so timeless, it continues to speak for all of us in this, our modern age. Such is its depth of understanding of the human spirit, and so forth.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you…Queenie in Trouble.
Other Things I’ve Seen
April 17, 2009
I saw a wild turkey walk across the street on the way in to work today. They’re everywhere. I think they might be the most intelligent species on the planet. Think about it: turkeys are smart to start, so the wild ones must be so finely attuned to the world that they could probably do your taxes if they didn’t decide to instead expose a loophole in the Constitution proving that filing income tax was unlawful. And then they’d eat your tie and take your wallet. I once saw a flock of them surrounded a hunter’s jeep on the side of the road, while said hunter was probably in the woods trying to track them down. Awesome creatures, wild turkeys, and they even like to take the piss.
I saw a huge bill for “fixing” my heater from the people at Conover Swanson and nothing is really fixed. It’s the last time I call on them, actually. Not just because they charge $100 per half-hour. Every time I ask them to do something, they forget half of it. So I have to call them again. Then they say they’ll call me back, and they never do. And when I call them back to tell them about it, they are so dim-witted and soft-spoken it’s like they raise rabbits in the back or something. They’re the Lennies of the world, Conover Swanson and their ilk.
I saw myself file a government complaint against the duplicitous filth at IMAGECAVE.COM. I was more thorough than a colonoscope, more dogged than a burrowing owl, and more laced with malice than a wild turkey coming upon a jeep on the side of the road. I will not stop until I blacklist this couple’s every online venture in the past, present and future. And when the world is entirely digital, they’ll be left out to scavenge for sandwich crusts on the side of the road. They might even devolve, and develop heavy brows and a sloping gait. Yes, I will not stop until they rediscover fire.
I saw my face on Facebook and several blogs that I frequent for the thousandth time and decided to grab my phone and take a new picture. You know that technique, where you stretch your arm out, point the phone at yourself, and try to look natural. For some reason I held the phone high in the air, so I’m looking up. I have no idea why I did this. Luckily, the photo was usable on the first try, as I couldn’t see me trying it more than twice. The best part about it is I look completely ridiculous in a friendly G way. I’ve confused a few people, as well, which has made the effort worth it, and I no longer have to see the same photo of me for at least a little while. I give the lifespan of this new photo about three weeks. It’s far too obnoxious to last much longer than that.
I saw Rufus Wainright on Elvis Costello’s show “Spectacle” (Sundance Channel) and it was a decent follow up to the Police segment from the week before. Rufus could never trump The Police for me, but the guy’s got deceptively powerful pipes and I love his piano playing style. I heard the song “Vibrate” for what felt like the first time and it’s another addition to a long list of his hauntingly camp confections that would make Mike Tyson weep before putting him to sleep, thumb in mouth, clutching a blankie. And Elvis has gotten so grizzled and fat, he made Rufus, resplendently casual in his white pants and blazer, look like Tatum O’Neal circa Little Darlings. Come to think, Elvis could have been a big, wild Tom in a little bowlers hat. Love him no matter how big he gets, though. Go on, E, pack ‘em on.
I saw myself reach page 64 of my new screenplay about a group of friends and the aging garage band that keeps them together, called Shelf Life. To be fair, I should have been further along but life and work and other nuisances got in the way. It’s going well, and I just completed probably one of the most emotionally authentic scenes I’ve ever written. Each word of dialog took an age to get on the page; about the same amount of time it would probably take to bring up the courage to say it. I find it takes about 50-some pages to breathe enough life into a script to where it begins to go ahead of you and pull you along. Novels are similar, but they don’t have the same kind of breathless pace that a screenplay has. You hear about people writing scripts in three days or a week. Rarely do you hear the same about a novel, unless you’re two and the novel is called “Potty Time” and each page consists of exactly one squiggly crayon mark. But who are we to judge?
And finally, I saw the lights come on in the condo across the way. It’s the first time I’ve seen that warm glow since Dorothy passed. She was my neighbor for about ten years, and she and her husband Jack had become sort of surrogate grandparents to me. Jack was a hard-ass, ex-Navy man who loved to bust my balls, and Dorothy had a laugh like a murder of crows. He used to like his Johnny walker until the diabetes set in, and she used to love her walk until she went blind in one eye. Everyone kind of expected Jack to go first, since his memory had begun to fail with certain speed in the last couple of years, but as it turns out, he was just outrunning his past. Dorothy was left in his wake when she suddenly fell ill one night and never woke up. It was her heart, they said. Now, I wonder if old Jack knows me well enough to break ‘em. They say he still asks for her, so I guess not. Anyway, I like to think it was her in there last night, as I didn’t see any cars in the parking lot. Maybe she had unfinished business. Makes me wonder if there really is any other kind.
I realize this was something of a make-weight entry, so in keeping with the outre tone, I figure I’d let Rufus take us into the weekend. Here he is singing “Vibrate” on Elvis’ show. Elvis, unfortunately, isn’t with him. He had to leave the building in order for the cameras to get a clear shot of the performance. Nah, just kidding. Enjoy the weekend, folks.
WARNING: DO NOT USE IMAGECAVE.COM
April 10, 2009
I really can’t put it any plainer than that. If I had the resources, I would paint the moon to say the same. Let me make this long story as short as I can, so y’all can see where I’m coming from.
I have been using IMAGECAVE.COM for my photo hosting for a few years now. On July 31st of 2008, I subscribed via Paypal to their $5 a month plan in order to increase the size of my server space. Since then, I’ve been receiving monthly emails alerting me to the fact that I’ve just paid another five bucks. This made sense, and all was well. In the meantime, I adorned my blog with photos, updated my sister’s art blog with hundreds of photos, and sent out e-newsletters to clients that now number 412 souls.
On April 1st (oh, how that day of jest will toy with my memory forever) I received an email alerting me to the authorization of a $25 payment to a company called RIPSIDE.COM. Having never heard of this company, I did a little research and it turns out that they’re another image hosting site. Something smelled like ass of salmon, so I entered a dispute with Paypal. That was a critical error.
You see, I had also scheduled an e-newsletter to go out at 10 am of that day––it was my own little April Fool’s edition––and shortly after that hour I began receiving reports that there was something wrong with my email. Lo-and-behold, all the pictures looked like the vomitorious filth you now see fouling the whole of this blog. Confused, I attempted to log into my Imagecave account only to be refused access with no reason given.
I immediately saw a connection and emailed the Imagecave site using the only contact method they allow: email. And then I did some google-digging. Come to find, IMAGECAVE.COM is owned by the same people who own RIPSIDE.COM. Go ahead, give that email address a try. Or this one. Or even this one, which is from another image hosting site connected to them called VILLAGEPHOTOS.COM, which I would also avoid like the proverbial plague. Go ahead and ask them something, like, why Ripside Interactive has had one of its service sites deactivated by Network Solutions. Don’t believe me? Have a look. But before you send that email away, why not also ask why they’ve let their BBB online participation lapse. The possible reasons listed by the BBB online site include non-payment, and the flattering “failure to abide by program standards”. Want proof? You can find it easily by clicking on the BBB online logo on the RIPSIDE.COM homepage.
All this is odd for an organization that claims to be a “family-owned, honest and stable company”, isn’t it? It is to me, anyway. As is not replying to at least ten different emails I’ve sent asking for help and any kind of information whatsoever through several different accounts including a Myspace page (where he has the balls to say he makes $250k a year), and a Portrait Studio where their tag is “Capturing Life’s Moments”. Unfortunately, they forgot to add “and never giving them back”.
I’d like to add that, in all of my correspondences––even the ones where I felt the need to tell them I may have to pursue legal action––I’ve been polite, civil, non-threatening and fair. And yet, even after waiting almost two weeks, still nothing.
So it looks like I’m out $55 (turns out they also billed me three months after I joined, making April 1st their 6 month re-up, and then proceeded to bill me for my monthly Imagecave subscription that very same day, a.k.a the day they suspended my account) and four pages of precious photos, some of which I’ll never get back. And before you think it, please understand that I’m not at all looking for sympathy. Perhaps they got a cease and desist due to some copyrighted photos being used on their site. It’s damn near impossible to police that, and even yours truly has used photos that he’s found already in existence on the Internet unless they were on a Photo site, but I’ve always either contacted the person first or linked the photo to their site and mentioned them. And all this time, I’ve never heard a single, discouraging word. Even so, shit happens, but it would still be nice to know a) why I’ve been getting billed for a service I didn’t subscribe to, and b) why I wasn’t given the courtesy of a reason as to why I’ve been suspended. Obviously, I don’t matter, and I’m sure I’m not the first or only.
And that’s why this entry today. I hate when I don’t matter to people who have had the pleasure of taking my money and my property. In fact, it makes me…well there’s mad, there’s frustrated, there’s very angry, there’s livid, and there’s what I am today: all of the above, mixed with a lot of disappointment and more than a bit of hurt. Even though it’s hard to hide on the Internet, it’s apparently easy to dodge your fuck-ups. Just don’t acknowledge them. It’s the way anymore, isn’t it? Shirk your responsibilities and let someone else foot the bill? All I can do is look into my legal options––which you can be damn sure I’m doing––and hope that others learn from my mistakes.
I think now is definitely time for another “perspective video”. This one’s quite special, actually, because it’s the first record I ever owned. I was about 4 or 5, and I can still remember how my dad set up a little turntable next to my bed and woke me up by putting it on. Until next time, folks. Be careful, out there.
And send a few emails, why don’t you?
The Reverse Query Theory
March 27, 2009
After I tell you all about how I went to Paris and saw the Mona Lisa, I’ve got an idea I want to run by some of you agents, writers and those interested in the “writer–publishing industry relationship”. Oh, hell, let’s just open it up to “everyone” and let y’all sort it out. Anyway, I think I have an idea that could facilitate the agency submission process, and at the same time keep the doors open for new voices to find an agent.
Right, so…I went to Paris and saw the Mona Lisa.
Okay, now my idea. First, for the uninitiated, lets go over some terms:
Agent – those publishing professionals that represent writers and use their relationships with publishers to sell their clients’ book, and if they’re lucky, negotiate big, fat advance checks, as well. If you’re a writer who is serious about a writing career, you need one of these. I need one of these.
Writer – someone like me who is arrogant enough to think that the stories he makes up are good enough for someone to pay to read them (I am, do).
Query – a letter that a new writer drafts that introduces him or her to an agent, summarizes a recently completed work they think the agent might be interested in reading/selling, and gives a brief amount of biographical information that hopefully qualifies them as a worthy, potential client.
Rejection – the customary response to a query, especially during difficult economic times. Some provide a bit of helpful feedback that the writer might be able to use later, but most are standard form letters that effectively nullify that particular work’s possibilities as a viable property of that agency for the foreseeable future (read: forever).
In the best of times for the best of writers, landing an agent is a difficult prospect. There are many tales of famous authors who have been rejected hundreds of times before catching their big break. In a deep recession, the odds of securing representation are even more stacked against you. Agents are narrowing their interests to only those books they’ll kill themselves to sell. Other agents are gunning for “sure things” like celebrity bios and proven authors such as Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. Stephanie Meyer and her Twilight series also comes to mind, and the list goes on…but not “on and on”.
Now, some agents will include in their rejection letters the following phrase or something close to it:
“I’m sorry, but your idea just doesn’t seem right for us at this time.”
That can either mean that you’ve missed the window of opportunity where something like your idea might have interested them, or that they already have something in mind, and your idea’s not it. It can also just be a nice way of saying, “Are you joking?”, but it’s best not to think of it like that because writing a book and drafting a good query are hard enough as it is. Synopsizing your work with just the right three sentences that will both sell and tell what you’re book is about is a harrowing experience to say the least. It requires practice, and hardly ever have I sent a letter out and not thought, “Damn, I should have said this instead.” You’re told to be brief, but show your voice and your writing ability. You’re told to sell the work, but sometimes, selling yourself is a good move, too. It’s a resume sent to be judged by moving criteria, and even if you’ve done it right, you just might catch the agent on a bad day. They may have just had a dog eat their wallet, and your tale of a trapped puppy eating its way to freedom will only bring them pleasure by feeding your letter into the shredder. 
In other words, it ain’t easy. That’s why only those who don’t give up have a shot. And for those of us who don’t give up, we have to get it perfectly right, every time. All we have to keep us going sometimes is our love of writing, and shrinking evidence of the fact that people are still buying books cause people are still writing them. We want to be in the “people writing them” category, so we put our heads down and do what we do.
Which brings me to my idea: what if an agent already had in mind the type of book they wanted to see cross their desk, and let that idea be known either through their website or via Twitter or Facebook or wherever? Maybe they have a few ideas that they’d love to see; that they’d kill for and would be willing to die for as they clawed their way into a stingy, publisher’s heart. What if, instead, they wrote the query they wanted to receive, and writers were to provide the story for it? Sure, they’d get all interpretations, and more than a few clunkers, but at least each submission to wit would be one worth spending the X number of minutes it took perusing it.
I realize some (most?) agents don’t know what they want until they see it, but I’ve only seen one agent’s website where they laid out some general criteria for the versatile scribe to follow outside of “a strong, original voice and a story I can’t put down”. The information could still be somewhat broad (murder, set in the desert, a love story gone wrong), or very specific (the first daughter joins a biker gang of former first daughters and invents time travel to save JFK) but at least it would give some narrative clues. There could be a list of novels that the work should fit comfortably against on the shelf, or perhaps the mention of a few authors that might enjoy reading it, as well. The thing is, I know agents and publishers are talking––some of them, at least, the passionate ones––and at some point one or more of them has to have divulged the kind of story they’ve been pining to read. It’s not much different than the old Hollywood studio system, where screenwriters went into a room and didn’t come out until they had the next depression era road trip saga or whatever.
So I put it to the WordPress agenting community and any others I’m able to drive here: tell me what you want. I’m good like that, see? I like parameters and limitations and the challenge of finding that button you so desperately need pushed. I could spend the rest of my life writing things I think are interesting and never get a nibble, or having a blast applying my voice and style to an idea that somebody already wants to read. Hell, I could do both, and probably would. But if more books reached agents who could sell them and quickly, that might open up desk space and gradually shutting windows for new voices to be heard.
So, tell me what you want. Go ahead. Try me.
And now, the youtube “perspective” video of the week.
Both Sides Now
March 12, 2009
The day is here. The hour is upon us. The moment has arrived. It is time.
I’m leaving for England! And next week, I’ll be in Paris. Bye!
Okay, I’m not going right now, but I will be in a few hours. And it comes at a good time, but then again, any time is a good time for such an adventure. Not only will I be seeing my girlfriend, but I’ll be writing quite a bit over there as I’m bringing my screenplay with me. And thanks to some free, downloadable software, it won’t be a problem picking up where I left off. Writing in Cambridge––I find there are rarely more wonderful things. That is to say, once all the other wonderful things to be done have been done and for a time won’t be done until something else is done first. You follow?
This trip in particular, coming on the heels of some emotionally challenging times in a long, cold winter, has shaken out some unique inspiration like a hidden fruit at the top of an old tree. Instead of digging into another scary book, the story I am writing, called Shelf Life, concerns a group of thirty-something rock musicians living and playing in a small seashore town. Local legends unable to break out, they find themselves facing the ends of their careers before they’ve even begun. As life’s persistent tendrils work their way into their delusions like roots of that old tree into a porous and weathered cellar, they’re forced to confront the future with a naked eye. Naturally, sacrifices loom, ones they’re not yet ready to make, and when tragedy strikes, each is forced to take stock in what they’ve accomplished and either move on, or risk losing it all. The questions I ask are universal ones: “When do dreams die?”, “Do they die or do they just change?”, and possibly, “Is there one last chance to make them happen, even in the smallest of ways?”. It’s a dark little dramedy that I think is funny in a real way. It’s pretty much one of the stories I’m meant to write given my own life experiences, and so far, the going’s been good.
I suppose I like the idea that the very pursuit of a dream is in itself the reward, because what you might find along the way may not have been what you were seeking but also may be more than you expected. If you honestly strive, you’ll honestly receive––something like that. In SL, there’s projection, reflection, rejection, introspection and at least one car ejection. It’s the kind of stuff I’ve seen in my little Jersey bubble, and it’s been tons of fun playing with characters that are basically amalgams of all those good people I’ve both shared the stage with and known off of it. Even some of the names are the same, albeit in most cases switched around. In fact, I may have to ask for forgiveness from some of them, but as they say, it’s better than asking permission, right? Mostly, I think they’ll dig it. If it ever gets made, art might just imitate life and wouldn’t that be a hoot?
There’s something else Shelf Life is about, too, and it’s a little further under the surface where it belongs. Tied to the concept of every moment being precious and how difficult it can be to focus one’s eyes away from an unrealistic future to truly notice the now, is the idea that things––people, most poignantly––are often more than what they appear. It can be harder than school to separate one’s initial impressions from reality, but it’s helpful, and scary, to work through your prejudices and look at something in a totally different way. It’s a bit like cutting a tether, and letting the currents take you to new and uncharted waters. But sometimes, being able to do that is essential to your happiness, or at the very least, your understanding of what this nutty journey is all about.
Take for example the creature at the head of this entry. It looks like a jellyfish but it’s called a turritopsis, and as far as scientists are concerned, it’s the only living thing in the known universe that is “immortal”. That is to say, once it propagates, it returns to its polyp state (above) for another turn. So, in theory, if nothing eats it or it doesn’t wind up in an engine turbine, it could live forever––or at least in a constant state of replay. How does that make you feel? For me, it sounds pretty cool…at first. But you do wonder if there’s even less of a point to turritopsis’ existence than in the existence of its more mortal gelatinous cousins.
Now, take the mayfly. This one is in its nymph stage, and for my money, looks an awful lot like turritopsis. But there’s one major difference you may or may not be aware of (besides not living in the ocean). Instead of me explaining it, why don’t you just have a look at this excellent commercial produced across the pond–– or on the “other side”, as it were––and ask yourself the same question.
Until next time, cheers, au revoir, and enjoy…well, everything.
Big thanks to Gunnsie. YAG.
Unholy Moses and The Lost Commandments
March 6, 2009
No, the title doesn’t refer to a forgotten garage band from the 60’s (although it would be a very good name) but rather to another on of his those entries that covers a couple of things of dubious relevance to one another that I will try and combine into one, universal point by the end. It’s a good exercise for a writer, cause in many ways that’s what we do. Let me break it down real quick: we get an idea for a story, we start writing it, we follow our hero until he or she gets what they want/don’t want/didn’t know they wanted, and then we try to tie it all up in one cohesive bow. You see, we don’t always know what we’re trying to say as writers––at least I’m not 100% sure all the time––but if we trust ourselves and our characters, we often come up with a name for the soup that’s been simmering in our heads by the last word. So let’s give it a try.
First of all, I’ve been fighting a cold. Or it could be a sinus infection. I seem to have it almost ready to tap out, but my right nostril refuses to give up the fight. So I medicate, try and eat the right things, and do my best to get lots of sleep; all to varying degrees of success. February into March in New Jersey has to be the most inhumane time of the year. Cabin fever has completely set in, temperatures fluctuate in the middle of the night leaving you to battle with your blankets in a barely conscious state, and in the off-chance you are feeling ready to go, you realize you’ve already broken everything you got for Christmas. Each day is like another daily slog in the gulag. At times, I can hardly motivate to eat. And when a little cold threatens to disrupt a pending trip overseas, I curse the very eyes of Baby New Year. If that brat was within reach I would boot the fucker into the ocean. If he’s reading this, keep your poopie diaper off my lawn or I’ll do it, I swear.
But enough of my moaning. A very generous and tireless literary agent by the name of Nathan Bransford (He sounds a bit privileged doesn’t he? Like he might have been naughty at some point in his teens and pushed his daddy’s catamaran into the pool causing him to miss that weekends polo match.) has a blog where he encourages discussion among writers and lends us a peek inside the highly secretive and dangerous world of publishing and government assassins. Okay, maybe the government assassins part is mostly my own fabrication, but anyone who has spent a few months there and doesn’t admit they’ve become a better writer as a result is either lying, not trying, or Baby New Year (cause he’s a little fucker, as previously established). Anyway, yesterday Nathan posted a Ten Commandments for the Happy Writer that I found to be very helpful–if for no other reason than printing it out affords one a paper-thin, desktop target for aiming one’s head. Below, the list, in brief, and my personal translations:
1. Enjoy the present
Basically, he’s saying to not live in the future all the time. Writers tend to be dreamers, and I agree. Even worse, Sagittarian writers like myself tend to be in a permanent waking coma. We walk into stuff a lot, which explains the steel-tip boots and evolution of bat-like radar.
2. Maintain your integrity
Don’t let desperation be your guide, forcing you to do whatever it takes––lie, cheat, steal, parade around a boudoir dressed as a sheep––to get to the top. In other words, don’t be another James Frey. A Million Little Pieces, huh? Yeah, like if the pieces were dollars or, better yet, my heart, you duplicitous scamp!
3. Recognize the forces that are outside of your control.
This one really hits home, because he’s saying that writing is basically a huge gamble. You can be great, work hard, do everything right, and still never catch the breaks. When you think of it in terms of being one sperm on its way to the egg, you get a better picture about how sticky the situation can be.
I’m sorry.
4. Don’t neglect your friends and family.
Pretty self-explanatory, here. As single-minded as you might be about your project, you do still need them. I mean, you can sit your manuscript in the kitchen for as long as you want but is it going to bring you a beer? Not very likely. I may or may not have translated this properly.
5. Don’t Quit Your Day Job.
This one’s pretty obvious, too. I think it was the great Native American artist Little Sand Painter who said, “No paint sand if no food eat and wigwam mortgage no pay”. Yes, I’m quite sure that’s how it went.
6. Keep up with publishing industry news.
You do have to know the lay of the land if you’re going to explore its hills and valleys. If you don’t, you’ll end up clinging helplessly to the flotation device of blind folly. Once you start mixing bad metaphors, you’ll really know you’ve lost it.
7. Reach out to fellow writers.
I found this one to be very important. Feedback of any kind brings you closer to your goals. It helps direct your decisions, and at the very least, keeps you from feeling alone. I would stay away from those who are too bitter, though. I think it was the not so great Native American soothsayer Little Black Cloud who said, “Sun go down…that’s it, tribe screwed, night forever”. I’ll have to check that one, but I think I’m close.
8. Park your jealousy at the door.
I hate jealousy. So what if you’re writing the next great American novel but everyone else is too busy reading some fancy, teen reader baloney about a boy wizard and the school where he learns his life lessons? I mean, what are the odds that thin premise will last past a single book? Your turn will come if you stick to it. In other words, don’t give up on that story about the talking eraser that’s fed up with being clapped every day and goes on a cross country journey to find its long lost sibling who’s being enslaved in a chalk testing factory. It won’t be long before your genius, too, is recognized for what it is: lunacy and blind luck.
9. Be thankful for what you have.
I have a little cold, and frankly, it can go to hell. But I think what Nathan is saying here is “be thankful that you’re somewhere between a starving child in a third-world country and a loveless, incontinent spinster being propped up for another spoonful of Ensure. And you know what? I’m right in the middle, and dammit, I’m grateful.
10. Keep writing.
For those of us who have no choice, this one is really superfluous. I mean, if you’re a real writer, you don’t even need all ten commandments. Nine is plenty. It’s also an odd number, and if nothing else, writers are an odd number.
That said, I’d like to add to the above, if I may. Consider these, if you will, the “lost” commandments:
11. Keep a steady supply of sweet alcohol at the ready. Thanks to Steve Fuller for that one. I fully concur. Should be number one, really.
12. Have some inspirational photos on your desktop to keep you going. Running horses, breathtaking waterfalls, goatse––whatever it takes to keep your eye on the prize. Have it at the ready and lose yourself in its magical charm when you’re feeling a little…stale.
13. Trust in yourself. I’m not even going to make a joke about this one. The very second doubt forces you to step outside the process and go about it objectively, you’re applying too much of your conscious mind. It’s behind that irritating lobe where you’ll find the answers. They won’t give you unfettered passage, but they will always require you to cut through the brush to find them. That’s because our minds really are a jungle; a teeming ecosystem of experience, emotion and faith. If we believe that somewhere within lies a precious gem waiting to illuminate our souls, then we’ll keep chopping. But if you try and hire a helicopter to find it while sipping a brandy and singing jazz standards, all you’ll get is a headache trying to peer through the thick, protective foliage of imagination’s canopy. Nearly lost it at the end there, but the point is this: do the work, and do it the hard way. There’s treasure in them thar hills.
So, as we arrive at that unholy, odd-shaped number of 13, I return to write through my cold and my fatigue. Why? Because I must, and in my effort I forget about both for a bit. And I forget about February into March, in as much as I don’t focus on what it’s done to me–rather, like many who have found the way before me, to use it.
And there’s your bow, my friends. Below, some Chet Baker to see you out. I wanted to post a video of him singing “Do it the Hard Way”, but alas, couldn’t find one. Instead, I’ve decided on his duet with Elvis Costello on “I’m a Fool to Want You”. As you watch Chet puff the opening melodic salvo, you can almost feel the miles in his face. When he finds his embrochure, one gets the sense that he’s put everything he has into those first, few, sad notes––notes that may or, once again, may not deliver him. I find that reading of this entry to be just as fitting. Sure, we’re fools, but do we have a choice?
I’ll leave you to answer that one on your own. See you.
Whatcha Watchin’?
February 27, 2009
Welcome to another “episode entry” that seeks to disturb (and distract) you with various thoughts and images all related to that wonderful box of brain-eating radiation we commonly refer to as the TV. So get up real close, because it’s so funny when mom orders us to sit back or we’ll go blind. That’s not why I’m going blind, mom!
What’s On:
Click to get your own. Only $19.99!!1!
As most of you in the know already…um…know, Battlestar Galactica has once again docked its gritty form of spacey paranoid theater inside our airlocks. My thing is to let a few episodes pass me by so that I can load up for an evening of one, long uninterrupted chunk of geeky goodness. And people, pay attention: it’s still awesome…mostly. I won’t spoil here, although I’m sure I’m well within my rights to do so, but to summarize quickly: they found earth, it sucked, they had a rebellion, it failed, the Cylons are learning some mind-blowing shit, and I’m like “whuh?”.
Let’s put it this way, the first episode that dealt with the aftermath of the coup was a ten-thousand word sack of expository revelation delivered at 100 miles-per-hour. And even after I went to the official site to catch up, I realized why the show is so good and why it’s also losing me a bit; it’s so fucking deeeeep. There are family trees here that are so thick and complicatedly branched that halfway through climbing around in it you realize you never put this much work into your own freakin’ tree. Not that it’s all that interesting to learn that your great Aunt Edna from Bulgaria lived until she was 98 because she never left the house. Compared to a race of humanoids constructing a race of robots to enslave only to have them construct robots to eventually free them (or something, I’m close), it’s just not all that worth the eye strain.
Anyway, it’s still good, unrelenting and merciless drama in a very cool setting. Yes, it’s a little confusing at times, but so is arithmetic and you still have to balance your checkbook, right? And if anyone out there is watching it, let me know how you’re finding the final season of this groundbreaking show.
American Idol. Oh, shut up. I have something of a vested interest, okay? I was once given the opportunity to try out for Star Search when I was in high school and turned it down to smoke weed and listen to Led Zeppelin (sorry, mom). I actually think the new season is very weak so far, but there’s still an air of authenticity to the proceedings that is rarely matched by other reality shows. “Project Runway” and “America’s Next Top Model” being the other two. I know, I know…I’m a little girl eating frosted flakes with her teddy bear. Whatever.
My horse so far is the 16 year-old chick with the Raggedy Anne hair. The girl can wail. Don’t go getting sloppy, now, Annie!
Survivor: Tocantin. Okay, I’m not the biggest fan of this show and haven’t watched it since the first one. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m watching it now. It was on when nothing else was, I guess, and it’s kind of fun to watch everyone get skinny and look better half-naked than they ever will again. Oh, and this is official: implants will outlive you. That’s all I’m saying.
Dr. Drew Pinsky: Rich, tired of the lies.
The other distractions that I like––Rock of Love Whore Bus, Celebrity Rehab: Sober, My Ass, and the American incarnation of one I used to love from the U.K. called “Ladette to Lady” which is now known as The Cum Dumpsters of Hedsor Hall or something, are in alternating degrees of hiatus and hilarious. Seriously, what is the logic behind a sober house? You get a bunch of ex-junkies together, put another ex-junkie in charge of them, allow them to come and go as they please, and watch one by one as each completely fucks up whatever ground they gained in rehab. It makes for great TV, but how far are we from “Celebrity Suicide House” or “Baby Daddy Stud Farm School for Wayward Video Ho’s”? The last time they scraped anything off the bottom of barrel and made it into something truly worthwhile it was called Grappa. And to be honest, it sucks, too.
Of course, I also consume it. Pay lots of money for the honor, to boot. But hey, I work hard and do lots of thinking at the same time. Why not come at the world in a completely stupid way every once and awhile to recharge. It’s MSNBC, Sports, and trash TV until my eyes bleed, so suck ‘em. At least I’m being honest.
That said, I’d like to leave you with a little video that is both cool, and something of a confession. Even though I liked it overall, I was a little hard on “True Blood” back when it was on, and now I have to admit I’ve started to miss it. Ain’t that always the way? You narrow-ass Gothic cowboys is always so stooopid!
Anyway, attached, please find the very cool opening title sequence accompanied by the even cooler theme song called “Bad Things” sung by up-and-coming patty flipper, Jace Everett. And until sometime next week, probably Friday, have a great weekend. Oh, and if anyone’s watching “Doll House”, let me know how it is, would you? I’m a fan of both Whedon and Dushku, but I’ve not been impressed enough by the commercials to sacrifice my Friday night. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, see the entry below this one. Heh.
Congrats, Mickey — R.I.P Loki
Master Distractor
February 20, 2009
So…I’m gently easing myself back into the blog thing. I think taking it slowly has been to everyone’s benefit, as I would have likely been a terrific bore these last couple of weeks and my focus here has always been to lift and stimulate others with similar interests. As it was, I was making people cry, and shoot, who needs that in the dead of winter, eh?
But for all of you who have shared your comforting thoughts here and elsewhere, I really can’t thank you enough. I saw my last entry as an explanation of sorts, and it turned out to be more of a eulogy. I probably had it in mind all along, and I’m glad it turned out like it did. If it did happen accidentally, at least in part, it turned out to be well worth it. There was an outpouring of support that propped me up long enough to take nourishment and an expression of deep appreciation is definitely in order.
In the downtime, I worked very hard on two things: one, querying sWitch, from which I received a request for a full manuscript (hurrah!), and two, mastering the art of distraction. Now, before you shrug that off as the collective habits of unproductive losers, hear me out. This won’t take long for reasons that will soon become very apparent.
What You’ll Need:
A television – any will do unless it has rabbit ears. Access to hundreds of cable channels is preferred, but if you’re on a basic tier, no worries. This part will only be cut shorter, with time lost to be made up later during other activities.
A computer – any variety, as long as you have Internet access. I suppose serious gamers need not worry about that, but you’re the exception here and I don’t play games anymore. Bonus points if you have a) a wireless router, b) a laptop, c) a 17 inch screen or bigger.
Speakers – these can be hooked up to your computer or to a nearby stereo, but having access to music through your desktop is preferable because it decreases the need for you to break stride. More on that in a moment.
Alcohol – teetotalers, skip this section and move on. The rest of you, listen up. Sure, you could substitute booze for another vice, but there’s nothing like a steady introduction of your favorite spirit(s) to move the night along. Those who have told their spouses or significant others that they’ll be home in an hour and end up being dumped out of a car the next morning know what the fuck I’m talking about.
Fancy lights – these are not essential, but if you have lots of cool glowing things around you, or at least a glut of gorgeously ridiculous artwork, they can come in handy not only to set the mood, but when you need something to ogle for a few.
Comfy clothes – again, another element that I wouldn’t qualify as critical, but if you don’t want to stand out as a rookie, a pair of broken-in sweats and a snug skully keeps you from needing to–ahem–adjust or be mindful of your appearance or posture. The point is to resemble a happy human slug by the night’s end, so we don’t need to be fretting over wrinkling anything but our lazy derrieres.
Okay, once all these elements are in place, lock the door, put the ringer on vibrate or turn it off entirely, and do as follows:
1) Turn on the TV. Pick something that you kind of want to watch, but preferably something that updates frequently like sports, an old movie that you’ve seen a bunch of times that you can sample from, or even a cable news network that will keep you informed through a bottom line. The point is to check on it when you need a stretch, not let it play you. You’re in control here, and for fuck’s sake nothing with subtitles.
2) Start the tunes. Assuming most of us listen through our computers, pick shuffle or a playlist that will keep the vibe alive for at least 45 minutes. Lately, because I’ve needed an extra lift, I’ve been going to the well for my favorite songs from English Beat and General Public. Which is all of them. That’s good, because the playlist will take a while and I don’t have to think about it again for a good long stretch of unadulterated, magnificent distracting.
3) Get your drink on. I like to crack open a beer (Guinness or Miller Lite–the libation equivalent of Rich Man, Poor Man) and prepare a shot. I’ve been on a tequila kick lately for it’s smooth, grinny buzz, but I’ll do a nice whiskey or vodka if changing it up sounds like fun. See, that’s the key: changing it up. It’s all about constant variety in stimulation, and just like our favorite physical act–that’s right, dancing–doing the same thing ad nauseam will put your ass back into your head and we do NOT want that. Remember: reality is the enemy.
4) Once you’ve got your shot ready, grab it and your drink and decide what it is you think could use a toast. I have several options: Arsenal Football Club (since this is mostly a Friday routine, they usually play the following day), my girlfriend (we’ve been known to do this via phone, which is an excellent way to keep in touch), my dearly departed Lucy which necessitates a visit to her mini-shrine in the back room, and any combination of friends, family, ideology, or, obviously, your own fine self.
5) Do the shot. Chase it. Good pupil.
6) Return to “home base”, which is at the computer but near enough to a TV where you can either look up and see it or a minimum of movement can put it’s wisdom at your disposal. That’s why you get bonus points for being wireless and portable, cause it’s easier to move around to make this so. Once you’re settled, again, it’s all about mixing it up.
Lately, I’ve been hitting writers forums and sharing pointers and opinions. Sometimes I go to my football blog and say obnoxious things that are hilarious to me at the time, and embarrassingly excellent to read back later. And like most people, I am frequently called to Ye Olde Book of Fayce for an update or to make fun of something someone just said. To make this easier, my 17 inch screen lets me have several windows/applications open at once, facilitating distracting maneuvers. Whatever you do, and I can’t stress this enough, keep the act moving and do not force yourself to be “responsible”. Serious is for another time, so wrap serious in a serious blanket and deposit it into the serious drawer. This is about following your muse/buzz/whims, not solving any of life’s great mysteries. That’s what college was for. We know better, now.
But that’s not to say it must be all play. Many times I’ll get some great ideas for my stories and jot them down. But notice I said “jot”. Do not confuse this with “draft”, or “compose”. You cannot take a long time to “jot”. By definition, to jot means to get the fuck out with it and then get the fuck on with it. And by “it” I mean mastering hardcore distraction. So put the pen down, Skankespeare, and get another shot. And make it quick before you miss that part in Sixteen Candles where Anthony Michael Hall is found trapped under the coffee table after everyone has left the party.
At any time in the above steps, please feel free to improvise. That’s an important part of escaping: escaping the escaping. Let your soul dictate where you go next. And don’t apply too many restrictions. Okay, streaking around the block may sound like a great idea but would your 90 year-old neighbor really appreciate it? To be safe, keep it inside. That’s why I had you lock the door. It wasn’t just so no one would come in unannounced to catch you bare-ass naked in the downward facing dog position.
At some point, you’ll forget everything. In fact, “you” will disappear entirely if you do it right. You’ll transform into a conduit of positivity and groovy sensation. Just be careful not to overdo it. You don’t want to end up a conduit of anything else. Will you fuck it up? Probably. But don’t give up. The mastering of hardcore distraction takes practice, but with a few tweaks here and there depending on your personal constitution, you’ll get it. And you won’t miss a thing but a chicken wing and an onion ring (this will make sense when you’re doing it right, so jot it down).
Oh, one last point: be sure to go to bed with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. You may not need either, but why take the chance? Okay, that’s all for now. I need to do something else.
And hey…you’re all stars, those of you who came when I called. Bright, beautiful stars.
