Satori Kick

If I was New York City, I'd never sleep, either

2007-09-03T22:41:00.000-06:00

This past July, I loved walking around Manhattan late at night, buying a chili dog from a street vendor, hitting a comedy club, talking to taxi drivers, people-watching on busy corners, browsing the paperbacks at an all-night Duane Reade, and exploring Grand Central Station, watching the trains, talking to some of the cops and national guards on duty. And, every once in a while, I'd look up and be struck by the sheer grandeur of the greatest city in the world.

We are the poor people

2007-09-01T11:45:00.000-06:00

As Labor Day marks the unofficial end to summer in America, I'm going to officially end my summer silence on this blog. Like most working people, I look at the long holiday weekend as an excellent chance to catch up on, uh, labor.

But I can't help but reminisce about all the summer picnics and barbecues of Labor Days Past, with my sisters, my parents, and my grandparents. Whenever there was a family get-together or a holiday or a meal around a picnic table, my Grandma (Jeanette Hanson, pictured left) would impishly grin and ask us all, "I wonder what the poor people are doing today?" As a child, I always laughed at the question and never quite grasped how rich Grandma felt when surrounded by her family. A few years later, we were spread across the country, rarely traveling home for the holidays.

This past July, I was fortunate to spend a few days in New York City with the International Thriller Writers, getting to know the genre and some of its best authors. I also explored the midtown Manhattan setting of the conference, took some photos, went to a comedy club, and wandered through an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art.

Unfortunately, I had to leave NYC three days early because of the passing of Grandma Hanson, who was 91, and who, I realized, had been born before women had the right to vote. While waiting in LaGuardia Airport for my flight to the midwest for her funeral, I thought about how much Grandma loved to travel. She had visited many places in Europe, including Italy, France, and England, and she had been to parts of Canada, Mexico, and Alaska. At age 75, she and a friend drove from Iowa to Arkansas to visit me (where I worked at a small college), then traveled way out west to Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming, a round-trip of thousands of miles.

Growing up in a large, poor family during the Great Depression, Grandma had worked hard to help care for her many brothers, often raising money by cleaning the homes of well-to-do families in Sioux City, Iowa. She expected others to work as hard as she did and was often disappointed by people who were unwilling to improve themselves. "No one is too poor to buy soap," she would say.

At age 45 she earned a nursing degree, which was a natural step for her, in retrospect. Once, late in her career while working in a nursing home, she took a tray of poorly prepared food (intended for the elderly patients) to the manager's office, dropped it on his desk, and asked, "Would YOU eat this shit?"

You gotta love her.

These days, with our iPhones and frequent flyer miles and diasporic families, it's not easy to find a respite or a common table we all can sit around on a rare holiday, breaking bread and sharing stories about faraway places like Rome, Nome, Quebec, or Chichen-Itza.

But when we do gather, we will certainly have the legacy of Grandma's rhetorical question, "I wonder what the poor people are doing today?"

--RAC

Simon Scheister and the Wonky Publishing Factory

2007-05-31T00:35:00.000-06:00

Grandpa Joe: Mr. Scheister?
Simon Scheister: I am extraordinarily busy, sir.
Grandpa Joe: I just wanted to ask about reverting the publishing rights - Uh, the lifetime supply of copyrights... for Charlie. When does he get them back?
Simon Scheister: He doesn't.
Grandpa Joe: Why not?
Simon Scheister: Because he broke the rules.
Grandpa Joe: What rules? We didn't see any rules. Did we, Charlie?
Simon Scheister: Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera… "Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera… "Memo bis punitor delicatum!" It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole P.O.D. markets. You bumped into the glass ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get nothing! You lose! Good day sir!
Grandpa Joe: You're a crook. You're a cheat and a swindler! That's what you are! How could you do a thing like this, build up a little writer's hopes and then smash all his dreams to pieces? You're an inhuman monster!
Simon Scheister: You are perpetrating serious misinformation, sir. I said "Good day!"
Charlie: Suddenly I don't feel very motivated to hunt for Golden Tickets, or even write speculative fiction, ever again.
Simon Scheister: What did you say, Charlie?
Charlie: Think metaphor. No Golden Ticket for me, no Golden Goose for you. This entire publishing factory depends upon a transaction that is mutually satisfactory.
Simon Scheister: And your Golden Ticket is…
Charlie: …something from nothing, gold from straw, intellectual property from longish strings of words - a living, and perhaps a legacy.
Simon Scheister: Perhaps we should negotiate like gentlemen.
Uncle Charlie: If he's a gentleman, I'm a Vermicious Knid.
Charlie: Yes, Knid pro quo, eh Grandpa Joe?
Simon Scheister: I've just remembered something magical: invention, my dear friends, is 93% perspiration, 6% electricity, 4% marketing and distribution, and 2% Thunderbird Ripple.
Grandpa Joe: That's 105%. Better check all the math in your contract again, Charlie.
Charlie: Cheer up, Mr. Scheister - I'll bet these Everlasting Republish or Perish Gobstoppers will be bestsellers.
Simon Scheister: I wish someone would write an Oompah-Loompah song to insert here.
Charlie: No problem. We'll just get another writer from the Authors Guild.
Simon Scheister: Do you represent the Authors' little Guild?
Charlie: Don't make me parodize songs from The Wizard of Oz, Scheister.
Grandpa Joe: Is parodize a word?
Simon Scheister: I'll have to ask Legal to check the fine print…
Charlie: Yes. Let's. Let's all do that.

~~~~~

UPDATE: June 1, 2007: There's been an apology and some movement on this issue from ~~Simon & Schuster~~ Simon Scheister regarding the "rights grab" controversy.

--RAC
(With apologies to the genius of Gene Wilder and the creators of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, 1971.)

On the Road is on the road: Jack Kerouac's $2.4M scroll is in Santa Fe until May 28, 2007

2007-04-14T14:55:00.000-06:00

According to the publicity, "Kerouac is back, Jack." But, in fact, ON THE ROAD by Jack Kerouac has never been out-of-print in the last fifty years. Its first month saw three printings, and after about 150 paperback editions in over 30 languages it is now considered one of the hippest and most controversial books of the 20th century.

Back in the day, Truman Capote (who adored being the darling of the New York culture-vulture glitterati crowd) decried the book's instant notoriety with an infamous cocktail party critique: "That's not writing--that's typing." Kerouac was hurt by such attacks and was never comfortable with fame or the high-society shindigs that come with it. Sadly, both men were "drinkers with a writing problem."

Kerouac's scroll is 120 feet long, contains about 120,000 words, and was typed single-spaced without margins or paragraphs during a coffee, benzedrine, and jazz-filled three weeks in April of 1951. (See a high-res image from the University of Iowa.) The fragile scroll has a different first sentence than the published book, and uses real names for the book's main characters: the misfit hero Neal Cassady, the poet Allen Ginsberg, and the novelist William S. Burroughs, all changed in future drafts.

Because Kerouac was raised in a print shop and could type at the speed of light, he preferred to feed 12-foot strips of thin teletype paper through his Underwood in order to not break his train of thought. And despite the seemingly "spontaneous" creation of the scroll, Kerouac had been readying On the Road's events and characters for several years, as evidenced by his various notebooks and drafts.

Just as Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises spoke to a so-called Lost Generation, Kerouac's book spoke to a young Beat Generation which rose up poor and bewildered and "beat" after the Great Depression and World War II--an opinion that first appeared in the New York Times book review by Gilbert Millstein in 1957, which (literally overnight) made Jack Kerouac famous. Before the NY Times review, he was borrowing bus money from his girlfriend, Joyce Johnson. Afterwards, he was embarrassed to be mobbed at parties: "Women wanted him to make love to them, men wanted to fight him. People kept mixing him up with Neal Cassady" although his identity in the book was that of the narrator, Sal Paradise. (For more background, please read and listen to the reports at NPR.)

The engaging exhibition at the Palace of the Governors in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is scheduled through May 28, 2007. About forty feet of the scroll is displayed under glass and a projected video shows Kerouac reading his work in 1959 while Steve Allen plays soft piano jazz. If you haven't seen or listened to Jack Kerouac reading his own work, you're missing an integral, joyful piece of the Beat experience. Additionally, the exhibit features an interactive writing room where visitors may use an antique Underwood typewriter to write spontaneous Kerouac-style "American Haiku" (Kerouac sometimes called them "Pops"; Allen Ginsberg, "American Sentences") or anything else inspired by On the Road.
...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
One of the common misconceptions about Kerouac was that he was primarily a counter-culture author, but when you read On the Road it feels more like a love poem to America than a treatise for rebellion (as co-opted during the 1960s). Personally, at the opening night party on Friday, April 13th, I found myself a little annoyed with the wine and cheese crowd: several "fans" had obviously NOT read On the Road, or did so in college before the LSD scrubbed their gray-matter. Ask them them about The Dharma Bums and their eyes reveal their well-coiffed ignorance. Some of these ritzy folks attend every glitzy opening in Santa Fe, preceded by their money, reputations, and colognes. Sure, our museums and the arts need muy rico patrons, but could these angel-headed hipsters at least figure out who actually wrote Howl before they brag about "loving Beat poetry?" And, for the record, Ms. Snottipants-with-the-engraved-whisky-flask, David Cronenberg (who directed an excellent film adaptation) did NOT write Naked Lunch, despite what you think you know about auteur theory.

Using the old Underwood in the anteroom, I pounded out a few words and posted them on the public wall:
Starting to feel better, and before leaving the exhibition, I took the time to lean over the scroll's protective display case to read various portions--and I could see the corrections and pencil marks Kerouac made throughout his work. His authorial spirit was definitely present, and I (unsurprisingly) felt like hitching a ride on a crowded flat-bed truck and sharing a bottle of rotgut with my fellow lonesome travelers in search of satori.

--RAC

Kurt Vonnegut, 1922-2007

2007-04-12T10:01:00.000-06:00

Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
(Billy Pilgrim, Slaughterhouse 5)

Follow-up to Random is as Random does: St. Martin's Press to acquire Jason Pinter as an editor

2007-03-13T17:34:00.000-06:00

The head-spinning world of New York publishing-gossip is reporting that Jason Pinter, recently of Random House, is joining St. Martin's Press as an acquisitions editor on March 26, 2007.

See the announcement at GalleyCat.

It's also been kinda fun watching the hissing spat between GalleyCat and Gawker over this story.

Word to Mr. Jason Pinter: We're gonna expect the inside poop at ThrillerFest in NYC this July, 'kay? Congratulations!

The Good Girls like Finn: Interview with Jon Clinch

2007-03-10T11:58:00.000-07:00

There's a great little virtual cocktail interview (March 9th) by Tasha Alexander with Jon Clinch, author of FINN, over at The Good Girls Kill for Money Club.

Hmmm, is it just me or do all those white gloves and sunglasses remind you of that time in college when you dated the "I'm not bad, I'm just rich" sorority woman with a penchant for stiletto shooters?

Stiletto Shooter
1/3 oz. Kahlua
1/3 oz. Peppermint Schnapps
1/3 oz. Tequila

--RAC

Random is as Random does

2007-03-07T00:25:00.000-07:00

Like most of you, I've often wondered which genus of idiota rises in the middle-management ranks of floundering organizations, especially after reading things like the March 6 post at GalleyCat.

You don't need an MBA to know:

When RANDOM corporate policy is wielded like a sword, the HOUSE is torn asunder.

When curiosity and knowledge of the marketplace are rewarded by RANDOM acts of cowardice, future profits are in the outHOUSE.

And when a promising little guy gets RANDOMly dooced by some middling-corporate-vice-executive, it might be time for an intelligent CEO or Chairman to shine a light on the facts and clean HOUSE.

--RAC (MBA in progress)

P.S. Everyone NOT in middling management should go buy a copy of Jason Pinter's thriller THE MARK (MIRA Books) when it hits bookstores this July 2007.

If you don't mind, I'd like to interrupt the hedonism of Hollywood worship to save some women's lives

2007-02-25T16:45:00.000-07:00

Please take a moment to read Elizabeth Krecker's important post, "The Power of a Cardboard Oven and a Story."

Her blog: plein air sketches - stories, tales and ponderings from the landscape of daily life

My pick for best pic: The Departed

2007-02-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

Fat Tuesday: Mardi Gras

2007-02-20T12:48:00.000-07:00

Moonlight on the bayous
Creole tunes fill the air
I dream about magnolias in June
And I'm wishin I was there...

Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Santa Fe, NM

2007-01-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

One week into 2007 and loving the outlook.
All my resolutions seem doable now.

Notes from the belly of the great snow beast on the eve of New Year's Eve

2006-12-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

So as to not worry our next of kin: This post is a fictionalized account of some actual events. We're perfectly safe, warm, well fed and watered. Oh, and certain events were probably altered to make the author appear to be more wise and witty than he is in actual reality… at least according to "She-of-the-South."

Santa Fe, New Mexico, 7,000 feet altitude:

It is nearly suppertime on the third or fourth day of the freak storm, which has buried us in 27 inches of snow. Interstate 25 is impassable and closed. Food supplies are running low. Cabin fever is running high.

She: Could you stoke the fire?
Me: We're running low on firewood.

Begrudgingly, I throw on a log, and check the refrigerator. It is nearly empty, and I notice the last beer is MIA; I kick myself for being a slow drinker as I realize She-of-the-South has beaten me to it. Same story for the pinot noir, which ran out two days ago, and the crackers and cheese, yesterday. Pretty soon we'll have to break into the champagne we were saving for New Year's Eve, tomorrow.

She: Could you thaw out some salmon for supper?
Me: There's no time for that. How about some mushroom dip and chocolate chip cookies?
She: I ate those while you were napping in front of the fire.
Me: That explains the crumbs in the sink, and the second degree burns on my face.
She: What?
Me: How about some champagne?
She: Um, you'll need to go to the store—here's the list.

Begrudgingly, I throw on my boots and ski jacket, and trudge down the buried stairs to the buried street along the thin path created in waist-deep snow by dog-walking neighbors, and encounter my buried Pontiac Grand Am. I do not own a snow shovel, and it is obvious none of the neighbors do either. I check the other vehicle. She-of-the-South owns a Jeep Cherokee, which is perpetually low on gas and has only two-wheel drive—but it does have a higher wheel base and is slightly less buried.

The evening temperature is 23 degrees Fahrenheit. The streets are icy and vaguely defined. It will be a brutal and dangerous trip, and I'll have to gun a Jeep out of a snowdrift.

Cool.

Thirty minutes later, I've managed to get the Jeep stuck on the ice right outside my house, spinning the wheels. My cell phone rings, Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own by U2. I briefly register the irony.

She: Where are you?
Me: In your Jeep on the way to the store, sweetie.
She: Why didn't you walk? It's only two blocks.
Me: Couldn't. The snowdrifts are six feet deep in the arroyo.
She: Buy some chocolate stuff.
Me: Is it on the list?
She: No. You can add to the list, you know.
Me: Okay, chocolate.
She: And get more food.
Me: Okay, more food. And chocolate.

A burly dog-walking neighbor helps me push the Jeep onto some semblance of traction and I slide away to Albertson's. There are about twenty SUVs in the parking lot, all of them four-wheel drive. Wimps.

Inside the store, I take a look at the grocery list: White wine; champagne; Newcastle Brown Ale; Gouda cheese; crackers. That's it? Too funny. I'll have to add to the list. I load up my cart with spaghetti and sauces, frozen shrimp skillet meals, cheese, crackers, and booze. Lots of booze. Booze, in fact, seems to be everybody's most popular item in the check-out lane this evening.

You can't make it on your own.

She: Don't forget the chocolate.
Me: Of course not, sweetie.

Begrudgingly, I throw some luscious-looking brownie mix into my bag, and head for home. The only vehicles I see on the shiny ice are Hummers, police cruisers, and fire trucks. The two block drive takes thirty minutes, and as I approach my parking space I misjudge the angle and plow into a snowdrift, partially blocking the road again. I spin my wheels and the not-snow-tires sink deeper into the ice and snow.

Not-quite-home again, jiggety jig! I use the speed dial on my cell:

She: What is taking so long? The fire went out. Are you okay?
Me: Hi Sweetie. I think I can get the Jeep off the street if you'll toss down the claw hammer so I can break up the ice behind the wheels.

She throws the hammer over the balcony into four feet of snow in the shadows. I swim into the drift, desperately searching for it. No such luck. The beastly snowbank swallows me whole, and I begin a curse-laden rant having something to do with how She-from-the-South throws like a girl!

It's very cold now, and my feet and hands are beginning to tingle. The Jeep, which I left running, coughs and dies.

Miraculously, another kindly neighbor pulls up in his burly SUV and offers to help me move the Jeep. He says he has some spare gas in a can. His vehicle is properly equipped for the weather, and he is as happy as a white fox in winter as he shows me how to attach his brand new tow-rope to the frame. After the job is done, I shake his hand, and She-from-the-South says thank you from the balcony.

I realize I forgot to buy a shovel while at the store, and by the time the snow melts next Spring, my claw hammer will be a rusted artifact of these events.

Begrudgingly, I throw the grocery bags over my shoulder and head up the snow-covered stairs. My foot slips, and the bag with the wine begins to get away from me. Somehow, I fabulously fling the wine to the top step, with no breakage, just at the feet of She-from-the-South.

She: Don't worry, I saved the wine.
Me: Nice catch. Your pitching needs work, though.
She: You were gone so long, I thawed the salmon and made you dinner.
Me: I'll make brownies for dessert.
She: Chocolate! A nice surprise.
Me: Thought you'd like that.
She: You know, the weatherman says we should stay home for a couple more days.

Begrudgingly, I kiss her, for auld lang syne.

--RAC

Happy Boxing Day, whatever

2006-12-26T23:39:00.000-07:00

Boxing Day is seen as a mysteriously quaint Canadian or British tradition upon which redcoats, horses and hounds hunt a fox, if Boxing Day is given any thought at all by Americans. Some may recall an old M*A*S*H television episode in which military officers traded places with enlisted men on the day after Christmas, and others might mistakenly believe it's the day when all those gift boxes are cleared out after the eggnog has gone sour.

But originally it probably had a lot to do with the haves giving the have-nots a generous box of food or coins or tools or leather or something to help them survive the cold winter and get their serfly duties accomplished on time and under budget.

Thankfully, our Forefathers here in America eliminated most ancient Boxing Day traditions, which clearly were meant to preserve the patronizing class lines between kings and shepherds, lords and serfs, masters and servants. (Too bad they didn't also extinguish another socio-economic tradition, slavery, which lasted a further 100 years.)

Many deliberate alterations of British manners were purposely instituted to tweak silly old King George--such as changing the spelling of words like patronise to patronize, and using a fork with the right hand (zig-zag style) instead of in the more efficient (yet sinister) European or Continental left hand. (There are reports indicating it was the Europeans who changed, later in the 1840's, but you may ignore them as aristocratic propaganda.)

Not everyone was ready for the egalitarian New World. General George Washington had to isolate his own mother in a cabin for the duration of the Revolutionary War because of her annoying habit of shouting "God save the King" in mixed company, and, presumably, for using her knife to herd peas onto her left-handed fork.

During the late nineteenth century, the Victorians made Boxing Day an official banking holiday when it became apparent the rising (and scary) middle class was gaining power and accumulating new-found wealth. Certainly, every good Englishman deserved to be reminded of his superiors.

Hmmm… maybe the rarely seen "holiday bonus" is the last vestige of Boxing Day in America, as obscenely wealthy CEOs lord it over their serfs. Sure, we can all pretend to be equal in America, but we know who butters our porterhouse steak (don't we?) as we lift fork to mouth in anti-Continental fashion.

So bless us all, every one, and Tally Ho!

Season's Greetings

2006-12-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

I can't kill my television on Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T09:05:00.000-07:00

Some Favorite Turkey Day Episodes:

1) Cheers "Birdzilla."
2) WKRP in Cincinnati "Oh, the humanity." Watch it on YouTube!
3) Friends "It tastes like feet."
4) The Bob Newhart Show "Moo goo goo goo."
5) Northern Exposure "I'm definitely not white."
6) King of Queens "Eyepatch."
7) South Park "Starvin' Marvin."
8) Friends "Chandler in a box."
9) 3rd Rock "Gobble gobble dick dick."
10) Ugly Betty "I'm the phantom of the opera."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Reckless in Richardsville: Michael Richards caps comedy career with unhilarious hate speech for hecklers

2006-11-20T18:38:00.000-07:00

Well, that's a shame.

If you haven't heard about the racial "n-word" tirade by Michael Richards, captured on videotape by someone at the Laugh Factory last weekend, go read the story by Lynn Elber, AP Television Writer.

He simply lost it. He failed to master the art of handling hecklers, allowing his anger to take center stage. And a bit of his old Kramer dialogue has new meaning: "Up here, I'm already gone."

There was a time when Seinfeld's Kramer, as played by actor Michael Richards, was the most popular character on television. The Kramer wall poster outsold all other Seinfeld characters fourteen to one. There was even once an episode in which Kramer had an African-American girlfriend, which seems sadly ironic in light of this reality episode.

Tonight, we are compelled by this train wreck to watch The Late Show starring David Letterman to see Michael Richards' satellite-fed apology, reportedly arranged by Jerry Seinfeld in an effort to help his long-time friend and co-star regain some shred of humanity. To put some stand-up in stand-up.

In an age of ubiquitous videography and You Tube, damage control takes an instant urgency. Seinfeld and Letterman have both the power and gravitas to get an apology on-the-air with lightning-like swiftness–probably before most people have even heard about the original incident.

If you'd like to subject yourself to the video evidence, make sure sensitive ears are not in the room. It's brutal and disturbing on more than one level.

Michael Richards was once great at making an entrance, but his exit begs a rewrite.

--RAC

concert notes: blue belew

2006-11-04T23:05:00.000-07:00

hi, this is dawn, guest-blogging on satori kick:

we just arrived home after a transcendental experience - an adrian belew concert at the santa fe brewing company. all i knew of belew beforehand was of his varied work w/frank zappa, king crimson, david bowie, etc., so i had no expectations. what i found was wonderful…

as the night progressed i realized i did not need lyrics, for the true communication was through adrian's 3rd arm or extra appendage - the guitar. though strings were broken at least twice during the concert there was no disruption in the flow of the experience.

i entered the concert with certain mundane life things weighing on my mind, and what i found, by sitting with the music and "being in the moment," was the chance to go within for "answers." this was quite profound and something i've never experienced before at a concert, and i'm grateful for this on several levels.

the sense of wondrous joy did not leave adrian's face even during more "depressing" songs, and the brother/sister duo of his trio were fabulous. eric slick (drummer) channeled the beat, force, and framework of the songs. his sister julie - the bassist - appeared to be completely at home, occasionally catching the eye of her brother or adrian, facilitating the flow of a seamless expression.

throughout the concert i found myself closing my eyes - the sounds begged for me to go within - and i saw colors. the purest color i perceived for this performance was a wonderful, deep, violet-blue - blue belew!

thanks adrian, for sharing your gifts and introducing us to eric and julie. i'm sure we'll be seeing much more of them.

--Review by Dawn, an art therapist and brand-spanking-new Adrian Belew convert.

To read more about the Adrian Belew Power Trio tour, see the detailed blog of the author Robin Slick (the rockin' mom of Eric and Julie) at In Her Own Write.

Haywire in Harlanland: Harlan Ellison upstages himself in front of gazillions of his peers

2006-09-02T01:29:00.000-06:00

As reported with outrage in popular lit blogs everywhere, including Galleycat (Ron Hogan) and at A Writer's Life (Lee Goldberg), legendary author Harlan Ellison allegedly made a grab for the breast of a female colleague while accepting an award at science fiction's WorldCon last week. (See the video evidence here, if you care to judge for yourself.)

Harlan Ellison is definitely from the "old school" (albeit, a freaky old burlesque school where he likely hogged the limelight whilst learning the danse macabre) and has always been his own worst enemy. But it seems to me that an awful lot of people in the blogosphere are overly eager to grab their torches and pitchforks, believing they've finally treed Frankenstein's monster.

Just in the last year or two, Harlan Ellison was on the cover of Written By: The Magazine of the Writers Guild of America, West and was hailed for his contributions and eccentricities. Next thing you know, he's allegedly grabbing boobs in public--and a gazillion bloggers are posting second and third-hand "reports" in their rush to burn down the mill with the monster in it.

I wasn't there, I didn't see anything--but plenty of his peers apparently did. If it happened, it is a sad and pathetic thing, born of limelighted hubris and sexist humor.

When the mighty grandmasters become grandmonsters, I wonder if (instead of lighting torches) it might be better to just extinguish the spotlight, exit the theatre, and leave them alone in the dark…

I met Mr. Ellison once, and he was (mostly) a riot. He signed books and read a story or two. After his talk (in which he ranted about Star Trek and Hollywood producers--but also spoke poignantly about his inability to write for a long time after a dear friend's death), he actually stepped out of the limelight and became a down to earth regular guy. He even mentioned his famous-writer-in-the-window stunt, in which he was trying to prove he could write a publishable story under the critical stare of anyone.

He's human, he makes mistakes, and if he's gone too far, he should be left alone in the dark… with giant speculative robotic rats nipping at his sagging man boobs.

Meltdown in Mellywood: Mel Gibson repents anti-Semitic 'tude while sporting his first prison tat

2006-08-04T17:47:00.000-06:00

Being drunk is no excuse for Mel Gibson's spouting of hatred and lies--right? Would those alleged words have come out of his mouth if he didn't hold them at some level, deep down? The reaction in the media and from Gibson's fans seems mixed, with many people offering some form of forgiveness--if he acts upon his own words:

"Gibson announced Monday that he is participating in an 'ongoing recovery program' to battle alcoholism. On Tuesday he said he wants to meet with Jewish leaders to help him 'discern the appropriate path for healing... I am in the process of understanding where those vicious words came from during that drunken display, and I am asking the Jewish community, whom I have personally offended, to help me on my journey through recovery... Again, I am reaching out to the Jewish community for its help. I know there will be many in that community who will want nothing to do with me, and that would be understandable. But I pray that that door is not forever closed.'" (From CNN, August 3, 2006)

Offering Gibson an opportunity to speak at the Temple of the Arts in Beverly Hills, Rabbi David Baron said, "Yom Kippur, the most sacred day of the Jewish year, is a time of reflection, fasting, forgiveness and healing." Members of Temple of the Arts include "leading members of the film, television, music and media sectors."

Although Mel Gibson might be too currently occupied with rehab to speak to religious and civic groups, that's exactly what he'll need to do to actively rebuild his reputation with many, many people. And, he should greenlight his own recent proposal to create a mini-series based at the time of the Holocaust, despite the pre-emptive cancellation by a major network. He clearly has enough money in the bank from his twenty-plus years of mega-success to educate the next generation about the pitfalls of dangerous and ridiculous racist beliefs. Respectful penance and reparations might slowly begin to help him atone for and nullify the poison spewed into him by his own father, a holocaust denier.

For the record, I'm not Jewish, but I did study the history of the Holocaust (while a student at the University of Iowa) and have read dozens of first-hand accounts by survivors. One thing I've learned is that it takes great individual acts of courage to put an end to ignorance, hatred, and violence--especially when powerful forces in society are in opposition. Especially then.

Mad Max would do the right thing.

So should Mel.

The very cool t-shirt used in the above parady-photo can be purchased at Jewcy.com.

All business, no sushi: Barry Eisler and an indie bookseller (lawyers both) attempt to eat each other's lunch

2006-06-22T00:00:00.000-06:00

Is it kosher for an author to mention concurrent stock-signings (at nearby unholy giant chains) while signing books at an independent bookstore event? Do indie bookstore owners talk to each other in smoke filled rooms? Can Barry Eisler, author of The Last Assassin: A John Rain Novel, defend his business?

If you're intrigued by "laydown dates" and other sexy lingo, go read Independents, Chains, and Drive-By Signings, the June 21, 2006 blog entry by Barry Eisler at The Heart of the Matter.

And don't forget to see the Comments section after Barry's post for further insights, you book business junkies!

Barry Eisler:
Last week, I did a formal signing at a midwestern independent with two other authors. Afterward, I received a thought-provoking email from the son of the store’s owner, who is also a lawyer and the stores’s corporate counsel. The email raises two questions: first, is it okay for an author who does a formal signing at an independent to also do stock signings at chain stores in the same town? Second, even if it is okay to do stock signings, is it rude for an author to acknowledge these signings to the independent?

I asked the sender twice if he would object to my publishing our exchange on my blog, and twice he didn’t respond. Although his omission probably means he doesn’t object, I thought it would be polite to refer to him only as “G” in the following exchange. I’ve similarly changed other names, but otherwise publish our exchange verbatim.

What do you think? Are extracurricular stock signings okay? And even if they are, should we conceal them from independents? G, if you're out there, I continue to welcome your thoughts. Read on…

…at Barry's blog.

Not your regular cup of Joe: JA Konrath's "A Newbie's Guide to Publishing"

2006-06-15T08:30:00.000-06:00

If you haven't discovered JA Konrath or his blog yet, I suggest you go visit A Newbie's Guide to Publishing.

Today, Mr. Konrath discusses remaindering, and why writers should be savvy about the pros and cons of this tricky business. From his blog:

This morning, I finally got the letter.

Dear Mr. Konrath,

We are about to offer the hardcover edition of Whiskey Sour for remainder. We will be sending you twenty-five copies gratis. You may purchase up to one hundred additional copies at the courtesy price of $2.00 per copy, plus freight. Should you wish to purchase a larger quantity, we would be happy to discuss pricing and terms. Payment must be rendered by credit card at the time of purchase.

It's been two years since Whiskey Sour came out, and since just about everything is eventually remaindered, I can't feel too badly about the situation. In fact, there are several good things about it....

Read the rest of Joe's Remainders post here.

JA Konrath is the author of the Lt. Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels thriller novels Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, and Rusty Nail.

Hunting and Gathering at Borders with The Professor of Thrillers: David Morrell

2006-06-03T18:40:00.000-06:00

On Saturday (June 3, 2006) at Borders Books in Santa Fe, David Morrell spent the afternoon discussing his books (and the craft of writing) with a few avid fans, and then signed copies of Thriller: Stories to keep you up all night (Mira Books), the first-ever anthology produced by the International Thriller Writers, Inc.

James Patterson, the editor, in his introduction to the anthology: "At their best, thrillers use scrupulous research and accurate details to create environments in which meaningful characters teach us about our world. When readers finish a thriller, they should feel not only emotionally satisfied but better informed--and hungry for the next riveting tale."

Simultaneously this week, other contributors are signing copies of Thriller in their own local bookstores--all as prelude to the upcoming ThrillerFest to be held in Phoenix, Arizona (June 29-July 2, 2006) at the Arizona Biltmore Resort and Spa. Some of the breakout sessions will be very well-attended, as you can imagine from this schedule of events designed specifically for thriller writers and fans.

Here in Santa Fe, Dr. Morrell generously spoke with fans about whatever piqued their interest, from how he deals with the peaks and valleys of fame (he created the now-legendary icon Rambo in his first novel First Blood) to how unpublished writers MUST commit to succeed (he writes about five publishable pages per day, which is "truly hard work; ditch-digging is easier.")

M.J. Rose (The Delilah Complex), and Barry Eisler (The Last Assassin) were both mentioned as thriller writers who also write about the craft, and this was noted by the potential thriller authors in attendance.

Following-up on his recent novel, Creepers (mentioned here last year), fans are also looking forward to a sequel:

David Morrell's Creepers was a publishing event in 2005, a powerful, edgy, dark thriller by a master of the genre. SCAVENGER, Morrell's new novel, takes us in a surprising, exhilarating direction - a desperate high-tech scavenger hunt for a 100-year-old time capsule. Frank Balenger, the resolute but damaged hero of Creepers, now finds himself trapped in a nightmarish maze of fear and death. In order to save himself and the woman he loves, he must play by the rules of a god-like Game Master with an obsession for unearthing the past. But, sometimes, the past is buried for a reason.
--from Dystel and Goderich Literary Management's (DGLM) May 2006 Newsletter

After the signing, I wanted to catch up on other recent events with Dr. Morrell (I had been a student of his at Iowa.) He said "walk with me" and I happily complied, eager to see how the professor shops for books. (For the record, it's a lot like Big Game Hunting.) Stalking up and down tortuous and sundry book aisles, he would calmly set his sights on thrillers written by other ITW author members--which is an amazingly-small universe, despite accounting for over 1,600,000,000 books sold!

Occasionally, the professor would pause and comment on the appeal (or unappeal) of cover designs, the various displays, and Border's member discounts, which puts pricing on par with Amazon.

Some of the books and/or authors hunted-down and praised by David Morrell this weekend (in no particular order except by my memory) include:
Gayle Lynds, The Last Spymaster;
Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Book of the Dead;
James Siegel, Derailed;
Lee Child, The Hard Way;
J.A. Konrath, Rusty Nail (scheduled for July 5, 2006);
John Lescroart, The Hunt Club;
Joseph Kanon, Alibi.

Tooth and Claw: The ever-facund T.C. Boyle visits Santa Fe for the Lannan Foundation's "Readings and Conversations"

2006-05-10T00:01:00.000-06:00

T.Coraghessan Boyle is appearing tonight (May 10 at 7:00 p.m.) with Michael Silverblatt at the Lensic Theater in Santa Fe, New Mexico as part of the continuing literary series "Readings and Conversations" sponsored by the Lannan Foundation.

Lannan is now podcasting the current Readings & Conversation events, and will also be podcasting past events, adding new shows each week. See the special podcast site at podcast.lannan.org to learn more, listen, and subscribe to have the events automatically downloaded to your computer.

Tom Boyle (it's okay, he told me to call him Tom, once upon a time, at the University of Iowa) is author of seventeen books of fiction, his themes range dramatically from Alfred Kinsey’s influence on sexual and societal mores in The Inner Circle, to a down and out California commune devoted to peace, free love, and the simple life that decides to relocate to the last frontier—the unforgiving interior of Alaska in Drop City.

His latest book, Tooth and Claw, is a collection of fourteen stories which have appeared in The New Yorker, GQ, Harper’s, McSweeney’s, and Playboy, and includes such whimsical tales as The Kind Assassin, about a radio shock jock who sets the world record for most continuous hours without sleep and Dogology, about a woman who becomes so obsessed with man’s best friend that she begins to lose her own identity to a pack of strays.

Boyle has said of his work, “I write these novels in order to try to understand the world a little better for my own self. And if I help my fans and readers to go along on the journey, that’s great.” Boyle, who holds a Ph.D. in Nineteenth Century British Literature, has been a member of the English Department at the University of Southern California since 1978.

Michael Silverblatt, dubbed "the best reader in America" by Norman Mailer and "a national treasure" by Susan Sontag, is host and producer of public radio's premier literary talk-show Bookworm. Silverblatt, a Lannan audience favorite, has participated in more than 30 Readings & Conversations programs.

Roy Kesey: an author interview wherein "Nothing in the World" is explained

2006-05-04T23:12:00.000-06:00

Roy Kesey was born in California, and currently lives in Beijing with his wife and children. His fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in more than forty magazines, including The Georgia Review, Other Voices, Quarterly West and Maisonneuve. His short story "Scroll," first published in Prism International, will be appearing in the upcoming New Sudden Fiction anthology. His novella "Nothing in the World" won the 2005 Bullfight Press Little Book Prize, and will be published this month, May 2006. His dispatches from China appear regularly on the McSweeney's website, and his "Little-known Corners" meta-column appears monthly in That's Beijing.

Satori Kick: So, Mr. Kesey, we've heard "Nothing in the World" has been happening to you lately--would you care to explain?

Roy Kesey: Oh yeah, it’s happening everywhere these days. Just this morning I tripped over a small stack of it on the way to the coffee-maker. Broken ankle, forehead lesion, the works. Dangerous stuff, this Nothing.

Satori Kick: Is the switch from writing short stories to writing novellas a difficult transition?

Roy Kesey: Not in this case, because it was completely accidental. “Nothing in the World” started as a short story, or rather, as four story fragments jammed together for no apparent reason. But all four fragments shared a common character (albeit observed from different points of view) who eventually morphed into the character of Joško Banović, the main character in the book. Then the not-quite-story became a novel, alternating chapters between Joško’s story and that of an American photographer who was trying to track him down. This took several years. Unfortunately, the photographer story-line wasn’t very good. So I let the novel sit for a while, and finally went back to it, stripped out the photographer altogether, and the thing gradually took on the shape it should have had all along.

In general, though, for me writing novellas now is mostly an exercise in anxiousness. I mean, I’m working on this thing, and it’s already too long to be a short story, and I have no idea if it’s going to be worth running to three or four hundred pages, no clear sense of any light at the end of this particular tunnel. But once I come to terms with what it is--the arc’s complete and the characters are full and the whole thing just happens to happen in a hundred pages or whatever--it’s a form I really enjoy.

There’s also the question of trying to sell them, of course. Not an easy thing. Which could lead one to wonder why I’ve spent the past several months writing another one. But hey, maybe I could become Novella Guy. Is that position still open?

Satori Kick: Regarding your work habits, when do you find time to write between raising two children and attending diplomatic diversions in Beijing?

Roy Kesey: I’m very fortunate in that my two toddlers are actually spirit-beings who never spill their juice, never hit each other with tennis rackets, never put toast in the DVD player, and never, ever make noise while Daddy is trying to work… The diplomatic stuff, sure, there’s a time investment there, but it’s what pays most of the bills, so I can’t really complain.

Satori Kick: How do you feel about the effectiveness of online writers' workshops (such as Zoetrope.com) during your process? Is it difficult to find readers for your drafts? When is a piece actually ready for submission? Do editors really "edit" these days?

Roy Kesey: In order, then:

a. Zoetrope was a godsend for me. I was living in Peru when I first heard about it, and at the time I had no opportunities for feedback of any kind--I had a couple of local poet- and writer-friends, but none of them read much in English. It was also an important time for me, learning-wise, because I’d figured out a little about voice and character on my own, but still didn’t have a good feel for arc, among other things--I was always taking the first available exit, and my stories were just kind of stopping instead of coming to an end. So then I found Zoetrope, and like any other on-line (or off-line, for that matter) community, there are a fair amount of loonies, but I’ve been fortunate to find a group of very dedicated, very talented writers, and they’ve been of great help. All of which is to say, I owe Francis Ford Coppola a huge debt for setting up Zoetrope and running it on his own dime, and here’s hoping that he just happens to be Googling himself when this interview goes up, and sees this, and knows that I am grateful, and decides to email me to ask if I have any stories he can turn into a movie.

b. A story’s ready for submission when it’s at once full and agile. For me, this often takes five or six months, and eight or ten drafts. But then, I’m kind of slow.

c. Sure, I think most magazine editors really do edit these days--and most of them do so very, very well, and for little or no money. I’ve had editing sessions on some stories that have lasted weeks, back and forth over phrasing and tone, and for me that’s one of the richest, most interesting parts of the process. I’m always grateful to see that they care so much about a story that they’re willing to put that kind of time into it. Other stories have gotten less work, or even none at all, but I think that’s usually because the story in question simply needed less work--some come out cleaner than others, after all. I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories about editors mucking stories up to the point that they were unrecognizable, but that’s never been my experience.

Satori Kick: I was pleased to see your marvelous story, "Instituto," in the Iowa Review (Winter 2004/05). The editor, David Hamilton (my former undergraduate professor at Iowa) once let me re-take a final exam essay question when a jack-hammer outside the EPB classroom pulverized my Wordsworth concentration. I don't suppose David Hamilton cut you any slack?

Roy Kesey: Thanks. David was great, as was Lynne Nugent, the managing editor there. They even let me make one relatively major last-minute change, clearing up a harmful ambiguity that I noticed very late in the game. I was really pleased with how that story ended up looking.

Satori Kick: In "Probably Somewhere" (Zoetrope All-Story Extra, Issue 28), you created lonely and suffering characters in dire need of human contact. Then, in "How It Happens That Our Senses Do Not Perceive Certain Bodies" (Night Train, Issue IV) there's a line about giving "color and form to all the lives we could have lived ourselves." And in "The Holidays Here" (The Mississippi Review, April 2005), the story is set in the midst of Halloween, All Saints' Day, and the Day of the Dead, which seems to imply the inexorable intertwining of suffering and celebration. Is your work particularly informed by a consciousness of the human condition?

Roy Kesey: Well, maybe, but only to the extent that everyone’s work and lives are informed by it, I think. I am interested in how people deal with the consequences of bad decisions or bad luck, and I do think that suffering and celebration tend to go together more often than we think--the universe’s idea of a practical joke, I guess.

Satori Kick: I've been reading your dispatches on McSweeney's Internet Tendency, and in Dispatch 24 you wrote about finding yourself dangling fifty feet in the air on a broken ladder--which is how how I imagine some people feel when encountering experimental or somewhat difficult literary fiction. How should a reader (or a writer, for that matter) get safely to the ground?

Roy Kesey: Good question. For me as a writer, it’s usually a matter of reminding myself again and again that the gimmick can’t be the only thing. I mean, I like gimmicks, I like tricks, I like word-games and lateral leaps and circles within circles within Matryoshka dolls within Himitsu-Bako boxes--that’s just my idea of fun. But I try to keep in mind that there has to be something fundamentally human threaded through all that--fear and pain and love and worry and jealousy and generosity and spilled juice, say--for it to be worth writing or reading.

For me as a reader, well, same deal: if the gimmick is the only thing, I feel titillated but empty when I'm done reading. And if the work is truly inaccessible to me for whatever reason, well, no harm done--I'll go read something else. But I think that if you truly give yourself to a piece, and bring all your attention to bear, that just doesn't happen too often--which is what I keep telling my students. Most days they believe me. Those days are the best of days, when you see the light go on, when they finally suss the relationship between (to take one example from the Wallace Stevens poem we worked on last week) empire and ice-cream. Just magnificent.

In terms of the bigger issues--the questions, say, that were at the heart of the tremendously entertaining Jonathan Franzen v. Ben Marcus spat--I tend to trust that things will sort themselves out in the long run, though I do get frustrated with people on either side demeaning the work of the other for no reason other than form. Sure, there's plenty of experimental work that fails on its own terms, but there's just as much realist work that does so, and it seems churlish to me to spend much time pointing out either of those facts. Fiction is a huge house, with room for all of us, both as readers and as writers.

--For a list of Roy Kesey's upcoming tour events while he's stateside, see http://nothingintheworld.com