“I’m on fire/ On the playground, love”

Last Tuesday, I attended the first of this year’s Distinguished Visiting Writers Series at one of the local colleges, featuring author Jeffrey Eugenides.  He read an excerpt from his as-yet-untitled latest novel, which appeared in the June 7th New Yorker under the title “Extreme Solitude.” If you’ve had a college love affair of any kind, there’s a lot that’s familiar about the story.

After the reading, he took questions.  I was so glad I didn’t hear the types of questions I heard when his fellow Princeton colleague Joyce Carol Oates came to town.  Of course, this was an audience filled with writing students and teachers, so we were able to get past “Where do you get your ideas from?”  I was sure someone was going to ask him, in a slobbery voice, “How much input did you have when Sofia Coppola made The Virgin Suicides into a film?” or somesuch nonsense.  I’m so glad no one did.

On the upside, I managed to once again fight my fear of speaking to famous writers.  Of course, I was fighting it the entire time I was standing in line.  But in the end, it paid off.

“All the little kids growing up in the skids are goin’ ‘Cleveland rocks! Cleveland Rocks!'”

Over the holiday weekend, I made a long overdue trip to see my family who live a mere 20 minutes down I-90 from the front door to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Of course I’ve always been fond of my hometown.  Make all the jokes you want about it, but at least we’re not Detroit.

Aside from ten years of stuff my folks have accumulated since I left, not a lot is different.  For instance, my old bedroom.  Some of the things tacked to the walls have been there for… Christ… 15 to 20 years.

Item One:
Poster of the best Batmobile. Why the best?  Chain guns.

Item Two:
A poster of the 1991 debut of the first Robin costume that didn’t include legless briefs (half-hidden behind a wardrobe).

Items Three, Four, and Five
More artifacts obtained during my high school years.

Items Six and Seven
An oversized button I bought from a booth somewhere in NYC when it was still considered the pit of the world, and another poster from the movie theater I worked as a teen.

Items Eight and Nine
Artifacts from a tad before junior high: a cross that, I think, my sister made for a project in our Catholic grade school and the appropriate Garbage Pail Kid.

“…going back to my old school.”

I never did buy into the whole “shit happens when Mercury is in retrograde” thing, but today I came close. 

Lots of stuff actually did go wrong today, but it started off badly from the jump.  I get up, get out of the house, and make it to my morning writing spot with a good hour and fifteen minutes before work.  And my beloved netbook, which worked fine before I left my place, refused to turn on.  I heard the hard drive doing… something… whenever I hit the power button.  But it just refused to boot up.

This is the point where, in the past, I would’ve gone off in a rage.  Actually, I’m not sure why I didn’t.  Still, I had a few options.  I had a similar problem sometime last year, which I fixed by flashing the BIOS.  I had a “rescue USB” drive with me, but I’d forgotten how to use it.  I could’ve gone back home, gotten online, and looked up how to fix what I thought was the problem–which would’ve eaten up my writing time–or, I could just take it back old school with an ancient method known as “longhand.”  And, that’s what I did.

Because, that’s how writers do it.  With a red-eye and no fucking excuses.

They’re Coming to Get You, Barbara

Check out Robert “Nix” Nixon‘s cover art for the upcoming anthology Rigor Amortis.  I’m not ashamed to say that I did stare at it for several minutes before typing up this entry.

What’s in store for you, the reader?

Maybe a tender love story is your thing, a husband doting on his wife’s rotting corpse. Or perhaps a forbidden encounter in a secret café, serving up the latest in delectable zombie cuisine, or some dirty, dirty dancing in the old-time honky-tonk. Voodoo sex-slaves and vending machine body-parts? You’ll find those here, too.

Whatever your flavor, these short tales of undead Romance, Revenge, Risk, and Raunch will leave you shambling, moaning, and clawing for more.

Rigor Amortis, with my story “Sublimation,” drops on October 1st.  Order yourself a copy.  You know you want to.

“14 karat love, you are my jewel of the Nile”

If I didn’t feel guilty enough for not taking the time to spotlight more of my favorite writer-friends, like Regan Leigh, I do now.  Especially since she threw the spotlight on me in her eighth installment of Writer Love!

Her kind words seriously made me blush…

Don is a great friend and very talented, but his dedication is just as impressive. I can’t tell you how many times I see him (via Twitter) writing in his spare minutes, no matter where he might be.

The best part is, she dedicated a song to me.  The other night, for some god unknown reason, I had Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam with Full Force on the brain.  And Regan made sure they stayed there, with this dope, funky fresh tune from back in the day.

You have my eternal gratitude, Regan. But, it begs the question–were you even alive when this song came out? 😀

“For the love of a(n Elder) God, you say, Not a letter from an occupant”

It’s one thing to take my roller derby nom-de-guerre from H.P. Lovecraft without having read any Lovecraft.  But trying to write a story based on the mythos without doing so could end up making me look like an asshat. 

The story I’m writing concerns a tidbit I happened to read about The Deep Ones.  No, I’m not gonna tell you which tidbit–that’d spoil the story.

Anyway, I didn’t want Wikipedia to be my only source, so I did some digging into my own library and found the first story with the Deep Ones, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” in my copy of The Tales of H.P. Lovecraft edited by Joyce Carol Oates that I bought awhile back but never opened.  Last night, I picked up The Thing on the Doorstep and Other Weird Stories for the title piece, another (as it’s commonly agreed) Deep One tale.

And, as I looked these books up on goodreads, I’m reminded that I have a copy of HPL’s Supernatural Horror in Literature.  Cool!

Anywho, I haven’t finished “Shadows” yet, but I have to say this research is fascinating.   Lovecraft has spent too long on my “bookshelf of shame” (i.e. writers whose work I have but haven’t read), and while his style doesn’t appeal to me, the mythos does.   And the more I learn about his work and that of his publisher August Derleth (good, bad, or indifferent), the more fascinated I become.

What’s even better is that this material has actually caused me to think about my seekrit nonfiction project that I’ve been working on in a new light.  It’s could take me in a direction which sends me back to the drawing board.  And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“Their features are changing. Their bodies dissolve, and I am alone”

My current short story in progress is headed (Elder Gods willing) to Cthulhurotica – An Anthology of Lovecraftian Lust, which will be published by Dagan Books.  I worked out its soundtrack, just like I do for most of my stories, to help me figure out which emotional pulses I want to hit in different scenes.

Take a listen:

  • The New Pornographers, “Failsafe”
  • Eleni Mandell, “Bigger Burn”
  • Manic Street Preachers, “Your Love Alone Is Not Enough”
  • Arcade Fire, “Ocean of Noise”
  • Air, “The Word ‘Hurricane'”
  • Cassandra Wilson, “A Little Warm Death”
  • The Blue Nile, “Body and Soul”
  • Genesis, “Domino, Pt. 1 – In the Glow of the Night/Pt. 2 – The Last Domino”

The lyrics to “Domino” are about as Lovecraftian as I’ve ever heard Phil Collins sing, which should be proof that anyone who thought Genesis just plain sucked post-Peter Gabriel wasn’t paying enough attention.

Blood on the windows
Millions of ordinary people are there
They gaze at the scenery
They act as if it is perfectly clear
Take a look at the mountains
Take a look at that beautiful river of blood

The liquid surrounds me
I fight to rise from this river of hell
I stare ’round about me
Children are screaming and playing with bombs
Their features are changing
Their bodies dissolve
And I am alone

-Genesis, “Domino, Part 2”

I suppose the lyrics to “Invisible Touch” could work, too. But then I’m sure I’d lose what little respect you might have for me. 🙂

“…an emperor without a stitch of clothes on”

He thinks that he’s bad, when his shit is so sad
But he’s taking the bows for what he’s never had
(And he never will)
-Bill Champlin, “Stone Cold Hollywood”

That song lyric kept running through my head as I simultaneously looked forward to and dreaded Readercon.

Cross-reference my list of literary idols with Readercon 21’s guest list, and you’ll see a great many names in common.  The thought of sharing oxygen with those writers just blew my mind.  I did my best to prepare for a war against my shy, introverted nature.

For awhile, it was a war of attrition.

I tried explaining to a friend, who isn’t a writer, that this was more than fanboy nerves.  Because I wasn’t going as just a fan.  I was going as a writer.  Not that I had a clear idea of what “going as a writer” meant.   Just that my worst fear was striking up a conversation with one of my idols (say, Howard Waldrop), mention I’m a writer, and get told, “Go ‘way kid, you bother me.”

I told my friend, “It’s almost like I don’t have the right to be there.”  To which she responded, “What–you paid, right?”

Yes, I’d paid the con registration, entitling me to a name badge.  And yes, according to Hoyle, I am a writer, insofar as I do write and have gotten published once in a blue moon.  I’ve even been paid for some of those acceptances.  But, none of that helped me feel like a writer going in to Readercon.  The idea of walking in, declaring myself “a Writer,” and even tacitly imply that I’m remotely in the same ballpark as some the con’s guests–well, that just seemed delusional at best, and pretentious at worst.

Howard Waldrop is a writer.  Mary Robinette Kowal is a writer.  Junot Diaz, who came as Samuel “Chip” Delaney’s guest–they’re both writers.  What was I, compared to them?

It was a conversation with Jaym Gates during a late-night caffeine-run that finally put a name to it.  She said what I’d been feeling:

“I feel like a fraud.”

Yup, that was it.  That was what I felt like.  Suuuure, I was a writer… the way someone who got a standing ovation one night singing “Sweet Transvestite” at a karaoke bar can call himself a singer.  And, I’m damn sure not a singer.

Oddly enough, that feeling became easier to deal with once it had a name.  I could unpack it a bit: I realized that I wasn’t defrauding anybody.  I certainly wasn’t going around telling people that I was in the same league as Waldrop or Kowal or Diaz or Delany or Hopkinson or Rosenbaum or Hand or Valente–obviously, I never even thought that of myself.  And, just what the hell is being a “Writer” supposed to feel like, anyway?

Those realizations allowed me to be at Readercon as what I was, and to do what I went there to do.  Remember that John Waters quote I fixated on awhile back?  Well, I’ll be damned if focusing on my Readercon goals, rather than my personal insecurities, didn’t help me to “ignore how maladjusted [I] would be if [I] had the time to notice it in the first place.”

By the end of the con, I met almost all of my Twitter peeps I’d intended to meet.  I got the one autograph I coveted.  I met 98% of the idols I planned to meet and even one I didn’t.  Yes, I let a few slip away (namely, ‘zine editors who’ve rejected me).  And my insecurities didn’t just vanish.  But the important thing was that, on at least two occassions, I was able to tell people who asked me what I did:

“I write stories.”

—
So, that’s how I processed my feelings of being an emperor with no clothes.  Now, go see Jaym do the same thing.

Readercon, Day the Fourth

Here it is, the last entry in our time travel adventure back to my fourth and final day at Readercon. So hard to believe it was a mere two weeks ago. To say it was an inspiration is a massive understatement. I’m glad I already know next year’s dates–as soon as I rebuild the cash reserves, I’ll be booking my registration as soon as it opens.

So, let’s open the TARDIS doors and walk out onto Day the Fourth…

1
I got up late and didn’t know anyone’s coffee/WiFi plans. And I had my own plans before the noon checkout. I needed to check on stuff, so I let myself get buggered for another $12.95 for some quick intarweb access. Ah, well. Once I solidified my departure plans, I headed directly to my first mission objective for the day, which was…

2
…the Interstitial Arts Foundation Town Meeting. Because of my exhaustion at this point, I couldn’t fight the fanboy in me that was in awe of sitting in the same tiny room as Theodora Goss, K. Tempest Bradford, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Shira Lipkin, and others. Kathryn Cramer even stopped in.  I did manage to introduce myself when they went around the room, and I managed to drop Daniel Rabuzzi’s name, as the person who suggested I go to Readercon in the first place! So besides getting to sit in the midst of their brainstorming session, I got to walk away with the submission guidelines to Interfictions 0 as well as the Interfictions 2 Study Guide.

3
With that mission complete, I moved to my main objective, the one thing I wanted to accomplish at Readercon if I accomplished nothing else: To shake Howard Waldrop’s hand, tell him how much I love his collection Howard, Who? and to have him sign my copy.

He was far from the person who used Marty Halpern to give me his line from The Moone Room and who told the crowd, “Y’all can go now.” at the end of his reading.  His smile at my appreciation of his book really, really made my con.

4
Afterward, I took one step over to Cathrynne M. Valente, who was also doing autographs.  I fanboyed out again and didn’t tell her how much I enjoyed The Orphan’s Tales, but I ask to play her d20 game! I’m anxiously awaiting my prize!

5
After that, it was checkout, and then waiting around to begin my indentured servitude (see #6).  While I waited, I said my goodbyes to Nancy and her boyfriend, and MCM, as well as Marlin (who I hoped to see later in the day, but alas, didn’t).

The best part was finally getting to sit down with songwriter John Anealio and talk with him for a bit about our relative newness to cons (my second, his third) and how sometimes, like I did on Saturday and most of Sunday, it’s better to blow off a panel or two to just connect with people.  (And in John’s case, score a free copy of his CD Sci-Fi Songs.)

I have to say, connecting with people was really the best part of Readercon–after getting Waldrop’s autograph, of course. 😉

6
I mentioned indentured servitude.  It was the least I could do for Jaym for the many caffeine runs and ride to South Station, sparing me the two hour-long MBTA ride to Logan from the hotel.  And so I followed Jaym and Bart Leib through the local Trader Joe’s with a shopping cart, chopped some vegetables for the dinner she prepared for Bart, Marlin, Conni, and everyone else at the Leib home (minus Kay Holt who had a death in the family)…

…oh, and I got to taste-test bits of just about everything Jaym was preparing, complete with random cooking tips that I couldn’t write down ‘cos I was too busy chopping.  I got to sample large amounts of salsa.  And sip some really good hot cocoa.  Yes, I can hear you saying, “You poor bastard.”

7
And then it was time to leave.  Jaym drove, with me in tow, back to Burlington to pick up Eric and then take us both to South Station.  We said our goodbyes.  And then I began the whirlwind trip back to New York and reality.

###

I can’t wait to go back next year.  If I work things out right, I’ll still shell out for my own hotel room but I think I’m going to drive there.  If nothing else, I need to pay folks back for some rides, and/or pay them forward.