THE NEWARK MORNING GLORY: JULY

2009-07-16T15:37:58Z

It's hot this morning. I'm at the Bay Street station and on my way to my sacred job. I'm changing the title of these entries because "DAILY" is, at best, a misnomer. The last thing I need to do is pressure myself back into any sense of obligation to the ether. I already tried the virtual rock star thing, and I paid the price. Being jackhammered off the Internet was a good thing. It forced me out of the game I was playing with myself -- the game based on the idea that others were as invested in my craft as I was.

Not only was that not true, but it was an absolute delusion I created because there seemed to be so many positive reactions to what I was trying to do -- you people throw around compliments too easily, which is lovely, bit certainly does nothing to broaden my will when facing each new submission rejection.

But there I was, hob-knobbing with the greats, meeting legends and successful, prolific writers. I set myself up, I had an idea, and the timing was to be essential. I laid the groundwork, I had someone tell me he were going to invest in my work. He was going to put up $1500 of his own money so we could produce a chap book of three of my stories. I designed it, I made it print ready, I came up with a sensuous, evocative cover. This was in January of '06. I was asked if I wanted to fill a reader's slot at the Horrorfind conference. I said yes. I was a nobody. What the he'll was going on? Was this the cresting wave that was going to propel me into the public awareness? Were people finally going to know my fiction over my message board personality? I was so fuckin' excited, I was so fuckin' ready.

The time was ticking away. I'd started seeing someone new, a genre pal, this was all good. I was asked if I wanted to pitch my novel to a Real House. It was all but finished. If I'd had a deal, I would have had that thing ready to show in a month. I had other things I was lining up, though and knew I wouldn't be delivering any manuscript that day.

I'm the kind of guy that needs a hard deadline. It's how I thrive. If it's just "on me" for "whenever," it doesn't get done. I do set artificial deadlines when I must, but there's a key phrase there. See it? Exactly. Unreal. I like real. I like being able to put my hands on a thing.

So when it came to be pushing this thing into June -- i wanted it available some time before the con for two reasons. 1) So there would be some public awareness before the reading, and 2) so that I would have something to sell at the conference. I wanted it to be a success. I wanted my benefactor to make all his money back and have to force a second run due to overwhelming demand. And I was knee-deep in it, doing all that shit I hate to do -- socializing -- because I know the network is a part of it. The support was there. The awareness was there. The anticipation was there.

The chap book was not.

How I would have loved to have been able to present the chap when I did the pitch. I was led to believe that would happen. By the time the pitch was up, my girl's buddy -- a fellow of some reknown in the genre who did not confess to some financial difficulties which ultimately prevented him from producing this product and forcing him to close his personal business venture because he could not handle his overhead -- had said he was going to publish it. He said it might be ready for the pitch, but definitely would be ready for the reading.

He was wrong both times.

I guess it was July of that year I did the pitch. He seemed genuinely intrigued, and I was talking about ideas I'd had in my head for the better part of a quarter century. I wasn't even concerned about the chap because I knew it would get handled. When he had questions, I had answers. He sent me a proof. It was all fucked up.

Now I was thinking about the chap as well as grinding through changes and fixes in the book to send it off ASAP. I didn't understand why the file was such a mess, suggested changes and redid the em-dashes. Next news was it wouldn't be ready for the reading.

Shit.

Did the reading. Opened for Michael Laimo. The room was dead silent when I finished. Good. Polite applause, Laimo said I was one sick fuck. He has no idea. Another couple I'd never me told me I sounded like a noir radio play. Good. I practiced a lot. I wanted an effect. I got it. I got it because I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing because I'm a creature of vision. I learned my craft through unconventional means, but I learned and learned well. Stuff like that is incontestable. I may not have the same diarrhea of the brain as my peers, but I would challenge more than a few against technique. There is a lot of sloppy shit out there, and language -- story telling in particular -- should be precise. We do that for the sake of thevreader because the lazier the writer, the lazier the reader becomes.

Not to say there is no room for fluff, just make it precise fluff.

-- Well, my station yet again approaches. Until tomorrow. What I'm getting to here is the Master Plan. You see, print is dying. Especially with the economy in the toilet. Add in the illiteracy rates along with the profound evolution in handheld tech, and you can wave bye-bye to your leather-bound friends. And, my friends, I'm not going to waste the rest of my years trying to get in with the in-crowd or do it their way. I'm a populist. I want to shred your sense of decency, I want to challenge your sense of reality, but I want you to have fun even if you're kind of banged-up along the way. That, after all, is life, isn't it?

Ramblings of a Desiccated Mind

THE NEWARK MORNING GLORY: JULY