Valerie Harper at Tallulah Bankhead was simply amazing and mesmerizing.
Essentially a two-character play between Bankhead and an editor for whom she's come into the sound studio to loop some dialogue for her second to last movie, the play, a comedy, explores Bankhead's notorious reputation as a foul-mouthed, pill-popping, drunk who tells it like it is (at least the way she sees it, which is surprisingly clear given her constant cloud of drugs and drink).
The play itself is extremely well written. The jokes, pithy and bawdy one-liners are tossed out liberally and with perfect aim by Harper. But there's also drama that brings the characters together, keeping them interested in each other and interesting to the audience. Matthew Lombardo has constructed a very fascinating piece of work who's drama sneaks up on the audience, but isn't out of place even in the rapid-fire of one-liners. The drama is organic born out of the comedy.
As for Harper, her performance, or more aptly, her inhabitation of Tallulah Bankhead is absolutely mesmerizing. Most often you even forget there is anyone else on stage with her. That's not a slight toward her co-star, Brian Hutchinson, but a testament to how completely she shines as Bankhead. She is the driving force of the play and never lets the audience forget it. Given the larger-than-life presentation that was Bankhead, this performance could have been straight parody or characiture but Harper keeps her Bankhead grounded in nuance and self-awareness of Bankhead playing Bankhead. It's a fascinating performance and one that I am thrilled to have seen live.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
WIP: Chapter One
Thought I'd post Chapter One of my work in progress. Every once in a while I like to see my work outside of its normal habitat of MS word, see it in a different setting, a different light. One of the things I love about the Amazon Kindle is the ability to send documents to it to read. I've sent my first book there before and was amazed at how different the book looked and felt as I read it. While the Kindle isn't a "book," per se, there is a concreteness about it that merely reading the work on my laptop doesn't have. This is the first step outside of the comfort zone: letting others read the work.
The Reclamation of Karel Benakov: Chapter One
“This is who you are now,” he hands me the papers. We stand outside the car, his family, inside, not watching us. The wife stares out the passenger-side window in the opposite direction. I can’t see but can picture her face: tight and pinking with anger. The son, head bowed, reads a book as if it were any other outing to the country that they used to take before, long before. The daughter feigns sleep. He has stopped at a large stone building outside the town we had just passed through. I do not know the name of the town. He faces the building. I face him.
I stare at the papers. At the name scribbled in his impatient handwriting.
“That is who you are.”
Before I can speak he is returning to the car, its engine rumbling, rattling, anxious to continue, to get back on the road. I take a step forward but he drives away. I watch, waiting for him to stop, to change his mind, take me with him but he doesn’t. In the side mirror I see his face, eyes wide and set on the narrow dirt road as if it were extremely treacherous and he were in danger of plunging off the side of a cliff instead of driving on an unpaved country road. He doesn’t look back. Only the son does, one quick glance up from his book followed by his tongue sticking out at me. Victorious at last.
I wait until the car has finished its path down the dirt driveway, onto the road and out of sight. I look at the papers again, crunch them in my fist and stuff them in my coat pocket. With a deep breath, I kneel, scoop up a handful of dirt and dust and smear it on my face, then dust my coat and muddy my pant legs. With my satchel in hand, I turn to the building.
As I enter, not bothering to knock because it doesn’t strike me as a place, a door on which one knocks, the smell strikes me first and foremost, moldy, moist air, stale, as if the outside has not been allowed to enter the premises for months or maybe even years. After the crispness of the country air, my lungs seize and choke from this thickness. I stand breathing in the entryway, small and sparse, with only a wooden chair pushed against the right wall. The door closes behind me with an understanding thud and a click, leaving the light outside. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. In the absence of clear sight, I hear noises, far off, muffled by distance and walls, laughter and childish squeals, people at play, sounds that belied the ominous dark in which I stand, the silent foyer closing in on me. But still I don’t move, don’t seek the voices. I stay in that darkness. Setting my satchel down, I sit in the lone chair, its wooden parts creak, even under my slim weight, and echo in the hollowed-out room. The white walls ghost in the paltry light sneaking in around the cracks of the door frame and from the other rooms to which the entryway leads. The walls are dingy, ugly, and bare, not a picture or mirror interrupting their whiteness, save for one wooden crucifix stationed above the doorway. The other rooms, which I can not see except for their entrances, wait for me on either side of the end of the entryway. Further beyond them, a staircase climbs upward to more unknown areas.
I grip the handle of my satchel and bring it up to my lap. I look at the door from which I had entered, at the light glowing at its edges. My stomach tight to the point of pained. My jaw the same. Leave and go where? I didn’t know where I was, where he had brought me. Germany, but other than that, not a clue.
I stand, the chair scraping at the wood floor as if it too wanted to get away. I walk toward the other rooms.
The first, on the left, is as empty of people as the foyer, which I had suspected, the noises, the laughter and occasional squeals that still came were too far off, but there is light and furniture, old and beaten but comfortable looking. Couches, three of them, positioned in a U-shape in the center of the room, and numerous chairs of all kinds: wooden ones like the one in the entryway, upholstered ones with a mix-match of fabrics, stools and ottomans, scattered, somewhat haphazardly, but all facing the large fireplace on the wall to my right as I stand in the doorway. There is burnt wood in the gaping mouth of the fireplace and, walking over, I place my hand inside, letting it hover, feeling the slight heat still emanating from within.
In the second room, much larger and longer than the first, I find rows of tables and chairs, a dining area. Also empty. I wander in. The light here is brighter, shining through the curtain-less windows. I look outside from where I had come. The road beyond the grounds of the house are empty too. I knew they would be but, of course, I hoped they wouldn’t. Hoped he had come back and was waiting for me, despite the wife.
Turning, I walk to a door at the back corner of the room. Even before I encase the knob with my thin hand, I realize the voices are closer, though still just incoherent bursts. Opening the door, I step into a kitchen, also empty save for the lingering odor of prepared foods: breads, gruel, maybe eggs. I take a deep breath, yes, eggs, and sausages. My stomach aches for sausages. How many mornings had I stood outside his house, chopping their wood or washing their clothes, while the wife prepared breakfast for her family. How many times did the aroma of sausages breathe out of the cracked window in heated clouds that hovered over my work. She opened the windows on purpose, knowing. How many mornings did I sit outside in the freezing cold gnashing on molded bread and equally molded cheese while they sat at the table feasting on sausages. He had tried to sneak some out to me in the beginning but the wife found out and beat me. I told him it was worth it but he couldn’t see me like that, he said, so he wouldn’t try again because she would know. She took meticulous inventory of their food.
I stand, weary and wavering within the aromas that inhabit the kitchen. I am alone. I could easily find some food and take it away with me. They would never know I had even been there. They wouldn’t look for me or report me. I didn’t exist to them. Fill my satchel with breads and eggs and meats to last for days. A peal of laughter reminds me I am not entirely alone. Outside the windows of the kitchen, I can finally see the children, the ones who’d been laughing and squealing. They are running around the yard, playing, oblivious to me in their kitchen. A woman stands watch, on the perimeter of their play. A tall woman, large but not fat. Very German, I think to myself, in her stance, her strength and poise, the set of her jaw and the fold of her arms. She looks stern but the children don’t seem to be afraid of her, running about her in circles, flouncing the hem of her gray dress as they whirl past in their games.
In an instant, she pivots her head toward the windows, toward the kitchen, to me standing there. I think I should run but don’t. I am not scared. I don’t care that she’s caught me.
She says something to the children, who barely acknowledge her words, and then she walks across the yard to the door leading to the kitchen. Once she inside, she stops in the entryway. The voices from where she had come were louder, clearer, more excited. We looked at each other for a moment before she spoke, “Was ist das?” Her voice wasn’t angry or as stern as she looked. It was merely a question.
I pulled the papers out of my pocket, holding them out to her.
Moving to me, she received the papers, eyes slightly narrowed as she regarded me. She read the papers quickly then looked at me again. “You are Charles Werden?”
It took me a moment to decipher the name. I blinked once, twice, then spoke, “Yes, I am Charles Werden.”
The Reclamation of Karel Benakov: Chapter One
“This is who you are now,” he hands me the papers. We stand outside the car, his family, inside, not watching us. The wife stares out the passenger-side window in the opposite direction. I can’t see but can picture her face: tight and pinking with anger. The son, head bowed, reads a book as if it were any other outing to the country that they used to take before, long before. The daughter feigns sleep. He has stopped at a large stone building outside the town we had just passed through. I do not know the name of the town. He faces the building. I face him.
I stare at the papers. At the name scribbled in his impatient handwriting.
“That is who you are.”
Before I can speak he is returning to the car, its engine rumbling, rattling, anxious to continue, to get back on the road. I take a step forward but he drives away. I watch, waiting for him to stop, to change his mind, take me with him but he doesn’t. In the side mirror I see his face, eyes wide and set on the narrow dirt road as if it were extremely treacherous and he were in danger of plunging off the side of a cliff instead of driving on an unpaved country road. He doesn’t look back. Only the son does, one quick glance up from his book followed by his tongue sticking out at me. Victorious at last.
I wait until the car has finished its path down the dirt driveway, onto the road and out of sight. I look at the papers again, crunch them in my fist and stuff them in my coat pocket. With a deep breath, I kneel, scoop up a handful of dirt and dust and smear it on my face, then dust my coat and muddy my pant legs. With my satchel in hand, I turn to the building.
As I enter, not bothering to knock because it doesn’t strike me as a place, a door on which one knocks, the smell strikes me first and foremost, moldy, moist air, stale, as if the outside has not been allowed to enter the premises for months or maybe even years. After the crispness of the country air, my lungs seize and choke from this thickness. I stand breathing in the entryway, small and sparse, with only a wooden chair pushed against the right wall. The door closes behind me with an understanding thud and a click, leaving the light outside. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. In the absence of clear sight, I hear noises, far off, muffled by distance and walls, laughter and childish squeals, people at play, sounds that belied the ominous dark in which I stand, the silent foyer closing in on me. But still I don’t move, don’t seek the voices. I stay in that darkness. Setting my satchel down, I sit in the lone chair, its wooden parts creak, even under my slim weight, and echo in the hollowed-out room. The white walls ghost in the paltry light sneaking in around the cracks of the door frame and from the other rooms to which the entryway leads. The walls are dingy, ugly, and bare, not a picture or mirror interrupting their whiteness, save for one wooden crucifix stationed above the doorway. The other rooms, which I can not see except for their entrances, wait for me on either side of the end of the entryway. Further beyond them, a staircase climbs upward to more unknown areas.
I grip the handle of my satchel and bring it up to my lap. I look at the door from which I had entered, at the light glowing at its edges. My stomach tight to the point of pained. My jaw the same. Leave and go where? I didn’t know where I was, where he had brought me. Germany, but other than that, not a clue.
I stand, the chair scraping at the wood floor as if it too wanted to get away. I walk toward the other rooms.
The first, on the left, is as empty of people as the foyer, which I had suspected, the noises, the laughter and occasional squeals that still came were too far off, but there is light and furniture, old and beaten but comfortable looking. Couches, three of them, positioned in a U-shape in the center of the room, and numerous chairs of all kinds: wooden ones like the one in the entryway, upholstered ones with a mix-match of fabrics, stools and ottomans, scattered, somewhat haphazardly, but all facing the large fireplace on the wall to my right as I stand in the doorway. There is burnt wood in the gaping mouth of the fireplace and, walking over, I place my hand inside, letting it hover, feeling the slight heat still emanating from within.
In the second room, much larger and longer than the first, I find rows of tables and chairs, a dining area. Also empty. I wander in. The light here is brighter, shining through the curtain-less windows. I look outside from where I had come. The road beyond the grounds of the house are empty too. I knew they would be but, of course, I hoped they wouldn’t. Hoped he had come back and was waiting for me, despite the wife.
Turning, I walk to a door at the back corner of the room. Even before I encase the knob with my thin hand, I realize the voices are closer, though still just incoherent bursts. Opening the door, I step into a kitchen, also empty save for the lingering odor of prepared foods: breads, gruel, maybe eggs. I take a deep breath, yes, eggs, and sausages. My stomach aches for sausages. How many mornings had I stood outside his house, chopping their wood or washing their clothes, while the wife prepared breakfast for her family. How many times did the aroma of sausages breathe out of the cracked window in heated clouds that hovered over my work. She opened the windows on purpose, knowing. How many mornings did I sit outside in the freezing cold gnashing on molded bread and equally molded cheese while they sat at the table feasting on sausages. He had tried to sneak some out to me in the beginning but the wife found out and beat me. I told him it was worth it but he couldn’t see me like that, he said, so he wouldn’t try again because she would know. She took meticulous inventory of their food.
I stand, weary and wavering within the aromas that inhabit the kitchen. I am alone. I could easily find some food and take it away with me. They would never know I had even been there. They wouldn’t look for me or report me. I didn’t exist to them. Fill my satchel with breads and eggs and meats to last for days. A peal of laughter reminds me I am not entirely alone. Outside the windows of the kitchen, I can finally see the children, the ones who’d been laughing and squealing. They are running around the yard, playing, oblivious to me in their kitchen. A woman stands watch, on the perimeter of their play. A tall woman, large but not fat. Very German, I think to myself, in her stance, her strength and poise, the set of her jaw and the fold of her arms. She looks stern but the children don’t seem to be afraid of her, running about her in circles, flouncing the hem of her gray dress as they whirl past in their games.
In an instant, she pivots her head toward the windows, toward the kitchen, to me standing there. I think I should run but don’t. I am not scared. I don’t care that she’s caught me.
She says something to the children, who barely acknowledge her words, and then she walks across the yard to the door leading to the kitchen. Once she inside, she stops in the entryway. The voices from where she had come were louder, clearer, more excited. We looked at each other for a moment before she spoke, “Was ist das?” Her voice wasn’t angry or as stern as she looked. It was merely a question.
I pulled the papers out of my pocket, holding them out to her.
Moving to me, she received the papers, eyes slightly narrowed as she regarded me. She read the papers quickly then looked at me again. “You are Charles Werden?”
It took me a moment to decipher the name. I blinked once, twice, then spoke, “Yes, I am Charles Werden.”
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Update...
Well there's actually not much to update on but I needed a motive to start blogging again. Blogging is like exercising: once you stop it's hard to get back into the swing of it. Also, it only works if you do it! Speaking of which, I need to get back in the gym too, but I'll save that for another Sunday.
Well, my agent (a phrase I never get tired of typing), Jennifer DeChiara, is shopping the book around to editors/publishers. She began last week, so of course there is no news as of yet. It's all a waiting game and I'm ever splashing about in the waiting pool in this publishing process.
I'm both excited and scared to think about the manuscript in some publisher's inbox (or better yet: printed and in his/hers hands) for obvious reasons. I have faith in the book's merits, as a piece of literature that could be received positively, as well as its quality, if I may be so bold and/or confident. I'm not delusional in believing that when it gets picked up by a publishing house that it won't go through the editing machine a time or seven, but I believe that it is well written and not too far off the print mark. Of course, I'm scared of the inevitable rejections that will come too. I know it's not a book that everyone will want to read or even enjoy when they do. It deals with some hard realities and a lot of readers don't like to deal with reality at all when they read (that's what they're trying to escape), so I know it's got it's uphill battles. I keep telling myself: if The Lovely Bones can be a hit, then so can On the Edge of Some Place Else!
As for moving forward, that's also quite the battle. I'm working on a couple of scenarios for a second book. The one I want to write is being a bit obstinate and not revealing itself as easily as I thought it would. Oh, I know the story I want to tell. I know the characters for the most part. I know the scope and arc and themes but just can't seem to find the proper way to tell it (gee, this doesn't sound familiar at all, does it? well, actually it does. it took me at least 3 years to find the proper voice for On the Edge of Some Place Else). It will come, I know, but I would like it to arrive sooner than 3 years, thank you very much. So, I've started investigating another story idea, something I've toyed with previously but didn't get too deep into. It's a 180 from the other story, maybe a bit more of a natural progression from the first novel, as well. I might be that my brain just needs a break from the other story, let it germinate without actually dwelling on it.
Who knows. Writing for me is something I can't force, it's organic, especially in the developmental stage. Time will tell, I suppose. Just have to wait, as usual.
Well, my agent (a phrase I never get tired of typing), Jennifer DeChiara, is shopping the book around to editors/publishers. She began last week, so of course there is no news as of yet. It's all a waiting game and I'm ever splashing about in the waiting pool in this publishing process.
I'm both excited and scared to think about the manuscript in some publisher's inbox (or better yet: printed and in his/hers hands) for obvious reasons. I have faith in the book's merits, as a piece of literature that could be received positively, as well as its quality, if I may be so bold and/or confident. I'm not delusional in believing that when it gets picked up by a publishing house that it won't go through the editing machine a time or seven, but I believe that it is well written and not too far off the print mark. Of course, I'm scared of the inevitable rejections that will come too. I know it's not a book that everyone will want to read or even enjoy when they do. It deals with some hard realities and a lot of readers don't like to deal with reality at all when they read (that's what they're trying to escape), so I know it's got it's uphill battles. I keep telling myself: if The Lovely Bones can be a hit, then so can On the Edge of Some Place Else!
As for moving forward, that's also quite the battle. I'm working on a couple of scenarios for a second book. The one I want to write is being a bit obstinate and not revealing itself as easily as I thought it would. Oh, I know the story I want to tell. I know the characters for the most part. I know the scope and arc and themes but just can't seem to find the proper way to tell it (gee, this doesn't sound familiar at all, does it? well, actually it does. it took me at least 3 years to find the proper voice for On the Edge of Some Place Else). It will come, I know, but I would like it to arrive sooner than 3 years, thank you very much. So, I've started investigating another story idea, something I've toyed with previously but didn't get too deep into. It's a 180 from the other story, maybe a bit more of a natural progression from the first novel, as well. I might be that my brain just needs a break from the other story, let it germinate without actually dwelling on it.
Who knows. Writing for me is something I can't force, it's organic, especially in the developmental stage. Time will tell, I suppose. Just have to wait, as usual.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Grief
I'm not usually a re-reader of books. Oh, if I truly love a book, I'll keep it, place it on the shelf and say: one day I'll re-read this one. But rarely do I ever get around to it. There have been a few exceptions: Of Human Bondage, Emma Who Saved My Life, and As Meat Loves Salt. All books that I love and could read many times without hesitation, but for some reason have only giving one more read over the years.
And then there is Grief by Andrew Holleran, a book I have read once every year for the past three years. It's a slim book at 150 pages but packed with so much emotion that it haunts me for weeks and months afterward.
A gay man in his mid-fifties moves to Washington DC to take a teaching position in order to assuage the grief that has descended upon him after the passing of his mother, whom he has cared for after an accident has left her unable to care for herself. While renting a room in the house of another gay man in his mid-fifties, he begins reading the letters of Mary Todd Lincoln written after the assassination of her husband and her aimless drifting within her own grief for the loss of him and her life.
What Holleran does is intertwined these two lives, the narrator and Mrs. Lincoln, and bounds them by their grief of the loss of their mother and husband, respectively, but he also bounds them by their eras: post-Civil War and post-AIDS. Landscapes have been changed for these characters and neither one is sure how to navigate the new terrain.
Indeed, all the characters in the book are trying to navigate unknown terrain, together and separately. Frank, the narrators friend who also teaches at the university and had secured him the position which has brought him to DC, is navigating a relationship with the Lug, a handsome and thoughtful partner who Frank believes is too good for him. The narrator's landlord, a man trapped by his own ageism: he's too old for the young men he desires and too young to be as housebound and resigned to a state of loneliness as he is. They are all grieving for youth, security, loss, and love. Universal themes that resound in the quiet of this novella (Holleran sets his narrator adrift on numerous night-time walks through the most-times deserted historic streets and buildings of DC lending such a sense of silence that you can almost hear his footsteps on the cobbled stones outside the Ford Theatre or the Capitol or the National Gallery).
I am drawn to this book time and again because it teaches me how to deal with grief, an ever present ennui for my life, the choices I have made, the repercussions of all those choices. I grieve my childhood. I grieve my descent into a world of sex and drugs. I grieve the HIV that was the result of that descent. I grieve that it's taken me so long to pursue my true desire of being a writer.
But this book, as filled with grief as it is, pulls me out of my own grieving by telling me that grief is natural but it can't be all their is: one can't survive on grief alone. Mary Todd Lincoln learns that the hard way. She couldn't release her grief and eventually it killed her, brought her back to her husband and her children who passed before her. She ate her grief until it filled her, until it was all she was. And we learn this from the narrator who ultimately returns to his grief after the brief reprieve of DC. He needs the grief awhile longer: "...grief is what you have after someone you love dies. It's the only thing left of that person. Your love for, your missing, them. And as long as you have that, you're not alone--you have them."
It's a beautifully wrought book of emotion and understanding and searching and survival. And even though I'm in the middle of my third reading, I can't wait to read it again next year.
And then there is Grief by Andrew Holleran, a book I have read once every year for the past three years. It's a slim book at 150 pages but packed with so much emotion that it haunts me for weeks and months afterward.
A gay man in his mid-fifties moves to Washington DC to take a teaching position in order to assuage the grief that has descended upon him after the passing of his mother, whom he has cared for after an accident has left her unable to care for herself. While renting a room in the house of another gay man in his mid-fifties, he begins reading the letters of Mary Todd Lincoln written after the assassination of her husband and her aimless drifting within her own grief for the loss of him and her life.
What Holleran does is intertwined these two lives, the narrator and Mrs. Lincoln, and bounds them by their grief of the loss of their mother and husband, respectively, but he also bounds them by their eras: post-Civil War and post-AIDS. Landscapes have been changed for these characters and neither one is sure how to navigate the new terrain.
Indeed, all the characters in the book are trying to navigate unknown terrain, together and separately. Frank, the narrators friend who also teaches at the university and had secured him the position which has brought him to DC, is navigating a relationship with the Lug, a handsome and thoughtful partner who Frank believes is too good for him. The narrator's landlord, a man trapped by his own ageism: he's too old for the young men he desires and too young to be as housebound and resigned to a state of loneliness as he is. They are all grieving for youth, security, loss, and love. Universal themes that resound in the quiet of this novella (Holleran sets his narrator adrift on numerous night-time walks through the most-times deserted historic streets and buildings of DC lending such a sense of silence that you can almost hear his footsteps on the cobbled stones outside the Ford Theatre or the Capitol or the National Gallery).
I am drawn to this book time and again because it teaches me how to deal with grief, an ever present ennui for my life, the choices I have made, the repercussions of all those choices. I grieve my childhood. I grieve my descent into a world of sex and drugs. I grieve the HIV that was the result of that descent. I grieve that it's taken me so long to pursue my true desire of being a writer.
But this book, as filled with grief as it is, pulls me out of my own grieving by telling me that grief is natural but it can't be all their is: one can't survive on grief alone. Mary Todd Lincoln learns that the hard way. She couldn't release her grief and eventually it killed her, brought her back to her husband and her children who passed before her. She ate her grief until it filled her, until it was all she was. And we learn this from the narrator who ultimately returns to his grief after the brief reprieve of DC. He needs the grief awhile longer: "...grief is what you have after someone you love dies. It's the only thing left of that person. Your love for, your missing, them. And as long as you have that, you're not alone--you have them."
It's a beautifully wrought book of emotion and understanding and searching and survival. And even though I'm in the middle of my third reading, I can't wait to read it again next year.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
A Lament from the Cubicle
Of course I don't want to whine about my life. I try desperately not to be that guy anymore. So this is not a posting in which I whine, it is a posting in which I lament the fact that I don't have the time to write as often as I used to.
I am a lucky man. This I know. I have a great life, one I never thought I could deserve or acquire: great partner, wonderful dogs, a condo that we are buying (not renting), many little red boxes (from Cartier if you're unaware of what a little red box is), and many other wonderful possessions, I was laid-off but found another job within 7 months (only truly looked for a job for the last 3), good health (for the most part), a completed novel and an agent who believes in it and my talent. All the things one could hope for. But, of course, we always want more. And the "more" that I want is time. Time to write.
My new job is a good one. Great boss who I get along with and like a lot. Fun and helpful co-workers. Decent money. All good, except the fact that it is one freaking busy office. So busy that for the first month I would, more often than not, forget to eat lunch (and breakfast sometimes). Non-stop from the moment I walk in the door. It's a bit crazed, I must say. Granted I started right as they entered into their busiest time of the year. Holiday Image is the name of the company. We create, design and install holiday decorations for many high-end businesses (www.holidayimageinc.com). It's amazing what goes into the final products of these decorations. It's fun and interesting, but a heck of a lot of work.
Consequently, I have no time to write. By the end of the day, I am exhausted, mentally. Seriously brain-dead. I get home, cook for Carlos and I, watch some mindless television or play mindless games on the computer, then fall into bed less that 2 hours after I've gotten home. It's not a pretty sight. I try to write on the bus on the way into the city and that's worked a bit, but it's a pale comparison to the writing I was producing when I was laid-off. Remember when it was good to be the king? Yeah, well, it sucks to be a peon back in the cubicle.
And then there's school. One of the reasons I took last spring off from classes at NYU, where I've been pursuing my BA in Liberal Arts with a concentration in Creative Writing, was the fact that writing for classes was getting in the way of finishing my novel. While I have been wanting this BA for years (and have worked hard to get it since 2004), I have to admit that it's become more of a burden now than an achievement sought. Because of the new job, I'm only taking 1 class this semester. 1 class! And I am so far behind in it that its not even remotely funny. The thought of having to read these assigned works, rather than the books I have on my shelf that I need and want to read as research for my new novel, really sets my anger on edge. And then spending what little extra time I do have to write assignments rather than work on my personal writing makes me wonder why I'm still in school. I only have 24 more credits (6 classes) to go to graduate, to get that piece of paper, but I truly wonder if it's worth it if it keeps me from my true goal of writing.
But enough of the whining I wasn't supposed to be doing and back to the lamenting. I lament the loss of time, personal time. It will come again, I know. I have faith in myself, in my talent, in my work, so I know I will succeed and with that success with come the time I walk out of that cubicle (not just the one I currently sit in but the "cubicle" as metaphor for a day job rather than a true career as a writer) and not look back. I will not die in a cubicle, this I avowed myself years ago. Everything I do, all the writing, is in pursuit of that goal. I am not in search of fame and fortune (sorry Carlos), I am in search of freedom and time. And I've always known that it was my writing that would lead me to that goal.
So, enough lamenting as well. Time to continue the pursuit. Research when I can. Write when I can. And it will come. The King will return to his kingdom. It's just gonna take time.
I am a lucky man. This I know. I have a great life, one I never thought I could deserve or acquire: great partner, wonderful dogs, a condo that we are buying (not renting), many little red boxes (from Cartier if you're unaware of what a little red box is), and many other wonderful possessions, I was laid-off but found another job within 7 months (only truly looked for a job for the last 3), good health (for the most part), a completed novel and an agent who believes in it and my talent. All the things one could hope for. But, of course, we always want more. And the "more" that I want is time. Time to write.
My new job is a good one. Great boss who I get along with and like a lot. Fun and helpful co-workers. Decent money. All good, except the fact that it is one freaking busy office. So busy that for the first month I would, more often than not, forget to eat lunch (and breakfast sometimes). Non-stop from the moment I walk in the door. It's a bit crazed, I must say. Granted I started right as they entered into their busiest time of the year. Holiday Image is the name of the company. We create, design and install holiday decorations for many high-end businesses (www.holidayimageinc.com). It's amazing what goes into the final products of these decorations. It's fun and interesting, but a heck of a lot of work.
Consequently, I have no time to write. By the end of the day, I am exhausted, mentally. Seriously brain-dead. I get home, cook for Carlos and I, watch some mindless television or play mindless games on the computer, then fall into bed less that 2 hours after I've gotten home. It's not a pretty sight. I try to write on the bus on the way into the city and that's worked a bit, but it's a pale comparison to the writing I was producing when I was laid-off. Remember when it was good to be the king? Yeah, well, it sucks to be a peon back in the cubicle.
And then there's school. One of the reasons I took last spring off from classes at NYU, where I've been pursuing my BA in Liberal Arts with a concentration in Creative Writing, was the fact that writing for classes was getting in the way of finishing my novel. While I have been wanting this BA for years (and have worked hard to get it since 2004), I have to admit that it's become more of a burden now than an achievement sought. Because of the new job, I'm only taking 1 class this semester. 1 class! And I am so far behind in it that its not even remotely funny. The thought of having to read these assigned works, rather than the books I have on my shelf that I need and want to read as research for my new novel, really sets my anger on edge. And then spending what little extra time I do have to write assignments rather than work on my personal writing makes me wonder why I'm still in school. I only have 24 more credits (6 classes) to go to graduate, to get that piece of paper, but I truly wonder if it's worth it if it keeps me from my true goal of writing.
But enough of the whining I wasn't supposed to be doing and back to the lamenting. I lament the loss of time, personal time. It will come again, I know. I have faith in myself, in my talent, in my work, so I know I will succeed and with that success with come the time I walk out of that cubicle (not just the one I currently sit in but the "cubicle" as metaphor for a day job rather than a true career as a writer) and not look back. I will not die in a cubicle, this I avowed myself years ago. Everything I do, all the writing, is in pursuit of that goal. I am not in search of fame and fortune (sorry Carlos), I am in search of freedom and time. And I've always known that it was my writing that would lead me to that goal.
So, enough lamenting as well. Time to continue the pursuit. Research when I can. Write when I can. And it will come. The King will return to his kingdom. It's just gonna take time.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I Have an Agent!
Well, the headline says it all. It's been a long road, though not nearly as long as it's been for others, but it's all been worth it.
As previously posted, in May I attended the wonderful Backspace Writer's Conference (they are having another one this November, which I highly recommend attending). While there I had the opportunity to have my query and 1st two pages read by attending agents in a workshop-style seminar called the Agent/Author day. Of the 18 agents that heard my work, 6 requested more materials, a high percentage if you ask me. Of course, the moment I got home I jetted the requested materials out to them.
Within a couple of weeks, the wonderful April Eberhardt of the Reece Halsey Literary Agency got back to me with feedback. While she loved the story, she felt the 'writing wasn't quite there yet.' She felt the book moved too slowly, which I had to agree. Hard to hear but completely accepted. I went back to the drawing board and decided to take some chances with the book. I decided to approach with a new boldness, stop being coy and "subtle" and just tell the story. The rewrite turned out to the be strongest version I had ever written and finally felt the book was finished.
I sent the reworked version out again. In addition, I requested of a couple of choice agents that already had the older version, to substitute the new version, and thankfully each agreed. That was back in July.
More waiting. A couple of nudging emails and then I started following each of the agents on Twitter. I began interacting with one of them, sending subtle and not so subtle reminders that she had the manuscript, which she assured me she was getting to, but was swamped (all agents are swamped right now). Weeks and months passed and slowing my manuscript rose to the top of her stack.
The week of September 20th, she read the manuscript. We set up a time to talk Wednesday, September 23rd to discuss and, while I figured she'd say the usuals (love the story, love the characters, but...the writing's not quite there yet), she surprised me. "Love the story, love the characters, but above all I love the writing." I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. She offered representation then and there.
So, the contracts have been reviewed and signed. And now I have an agent! Jennifer DeChiara has her own agency http://www.jdlit.com/ and has been in the biz for quite awhile amassing a well-respected reputation for being very nice but very tenacious when it comes to her clients (ME). I am beyond excited to have her in my corner fighting for my book. She is passionate about books and publishing and about my work. While I know selling any fiction is tough these days, let alone Literary Fiction, I have complete faith in her and my book.
Between the two of us, On the Edge of Someplace Else will find its proper place on the bookshelves.
As previously posted, in May I attended the wonderful Backspace Writer's Conference (they are having another one this November, which I highly recommend attending). While there I had the opportunity to have my query and 1st two pages read by attending agents in a workshop-style seminar called the Agent/Author day. Of the 18 agents that heard my work, 6 requested more materials, a high percentage if you ask me. Of course, the moment I got home I jetted the requested materials out to them.
Within a couple of weeks, the wonderful April Eberhardt of the Reece Halsey Literary Agency got back to me with feedback. While she loved the story, she felt the 'writing wasn't quite there yet.' She felt the book moved too slowly, which I had to agree. Hard to hear but completely accepted. I went back to the drawing board and decided to take some chances with the book. I decided to approach with a new boldness, stop being coy and "subtle" and just tell the story. The rewrite turned out to the be strongest version I had ever written and finally felt the book was finished.
I sent the reworked version out again. In addition, I requested of a couple of choice agents that already had the older version, to substitute the new version, and thankfully each agreed. That was back in July.
More waiting. A couple of nudging emails and then I started following each of the agents on Twitter. I began interacting with one of them, sending subtle and not so subtle reminders that she had the manuscript, which she assured me she was getting to, but was swamped (all agents are swamped right now). Weeks and months passed and slowing my manuscript rose to the top of her stack.
The week of September 20th, she read the manuscript. We set up a time to talk Wednesday, September 23rd to discuss and, while I figured she'd say the usuals (love the story, love the characters, but...the writing's not quite there yet), she surprised me. "Love the story, love the characters, but above all I love the writing." I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. She offered representation then and there.
So, the contracts have been reviewed and signed. And now I have an agent! Jennifer DeChiara has her own agency http://www.jdlit.com/ and has been in the biz for quite awhile amassing a well-respected reputation for being very nice but very tenacious when it comes to her clients (ME). I am beyond excited to have her in my corner fighting for my book. She is passionate about books and publishing and about my work. While I know selling any fiction is tough these days, let alone Literary Fiction, I have complete faith in her and my book.
Between the two of us, On the Edge of Someplace Else will find its proper place on the bookshelves.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Who's Running the Publishing Industry?
As children in our Social Sciences class, we learned about Supply and Demand. It's the cornerstone of all of industry: people want (demand) and businesses create for consumption (supply). Which comes first, though, isn't one for ages, unlike the chicken/egg conundrum. Sometimes a product will be created that fills an heretofore unknown void in the consumer landscape (supply preceding demand), whereas sometimes the consumer landscape demands a certain product and an industry will comply (demand preceding supply).
But what of supply and demand in regards to the publishing industry? As a writer of literary fiction trying to secure an agent to represent my first novel, I have been told frequently in rejection after rejection: "Your story is very interesting. The writing is very good. I love your narrative voice...BUT...I don't think I can sell literary fiction in this market right now." Now, I understand that this could just be a gentle way of saying: "Your writing really isn't that good." And, as a first time novelist diving into the deep end of the pool, I assumed that was the case with the first few rejections that stated the above, but after about the fourth or fifth, I started thinking: "hey, maybe they do like my writing but actually can't sell literary fiction in today's market!" And that got me to wondering: who exactly is running this business?
The usual trail to publication and literary success:
1. Aspiring author writes novel.
2. Writer queries novel to agents
3. At least one agent recognizes the excellence of said novel and offers representation (it only takes one they tell me)
4. Agent and Author work together to create best manuscript possible
5. Agent queries her contacts at the publishing houses
6. At least one editor at a publishing house recognizes the excellence of the novel and offers to publish (again, it only takes one).
7. Editor and Author work together to create the best manuscript possible
8. Novel gets published, sells millions, author never has to work a day job again
But what of supply and demand in regards to the publishing industry? As a writer of literary fiction trying to secure an agent to represent my first novel, I have been told frequently in rejection after rejection: "Your story is very interesting. The writing is very good. I love your narrative voice...BUT...I don't think I can sell literary fiction in this market right now." Now, I understand that this could just be a gentle way of saying: "Your writing really isn't that good." And, as a first time novelist diving into the deep end of the pool, I assumed that was the case with the first few rejections that stated the above, but after about the fourth or fifth, I started thinking: "hey, maybe they do like my writing but actually can't sell literary fiction in today's market!" And that got me to wondering: who exactly is running this business?
The usual trail to publication and literary success:
1. Aspiring author writes novel.
2. Writer queries novel to agents
3. At least one agent recognizes the excellence of said novel and offers representation (it only takes one they tell me)
4. Agent and Author work together to create best manuscript possible
5. Agent queries her contacts at the publishing houses
6. At least one editor at a publishing house recognizes the excellence of the novel and offers to publish (again, it only takes one).
7. Editor and Author work together to create the best manuscript possible
8. Novel gets published, sells millions, author never has to work a day job again
Even despite the abysmal state of the publishing industry in this day and age, this happens frequently. According to a publishingcentral.com's article from this past May, Bowker reports that there were 275,323 new titles published in 2008. That's a goodly amount of new books to be sure, though apparently down 3% from 2007. So, while the odds are stacked against us first-time novelists, they aren't completely insurmountable. That is unless you write literary fiction.
Supposedly the demands these days are coming from the consumers standing in the Young Adult Paranormal section of the bookstore (think Twilight, and Harry Potter, of course). Every agent, every publisher, every bookstore is apparently looking for the next big YA hit. It makes sense in an if-the-iron-is-hot-beat-the-shit-out-of-hit kind of a way. But is searching for the next formerly big thing selling the consumer short? I mean, we've already got Twilight, so why do we need another?
Reading, for many, is an escapism, especially these days. I get that. My mother was a Harlequin Romance kind of woman. She would, literally, get a box of them sent to her and would devour them in a day while lying on the couch, most likely, pretending she wasn't 50 years old, living in Oklahoma, the mother of eight children and working at the local Army hospital in the janitorial department. Books are great for that. I see people reading all the time on the bus into New York and on the subways. They're trying to step out of our lives for a bit, be somewhere else besides the Lincoln Tunnel. And YA Paranormal is about as far from the Lincoln Tunnel as one can get, I would suspect. But, besides the escapism, books can also teach us about others as well as teach us about ourselves. Books can, and should, provoke us to think beyond, not just step out of, ourselves. They should encourage us to turn and look at back at ourselves once we've taken that step beyond. Great books can do that. but not so great books can do that, too.
The thing is: I don't think the publishers these days think about any of that. I think they are merely looking at sales reports and demographics and the bottom line. Granted, the book industry is a business: that's the bottom line in regards to keeping the industry afloat. But surely, they can step outside themselves as well, right?
So, the question is: who's running the publishing industry? Does the consumer want the next Twilight or is it the publisher, merely because Twilight has become such a phenomenon? If the publisher gave the consumer something other than the next Twilight, would the consumer revolt or would they take what's given them? Does the consumer even know what they want before they enter the local bookstore or stop in at Amazon.com to browse the offerings? I doubt they do. Most times, in regards to books, you don't know what you want until you see it. And if they don't know what they want then what makes the publishing industry think they know what the consumer wants? In truth, no one knows what will be the next Twilight or the next Da Vinci Code or the next Freakinomics. It's all a crap shoot, though I would suspect the publishers are trying to make it less of a crap shoot by forcing particular books onto the unsuspecting public. The supplier has to anticipate the consumer's need/demand, but in the realm of books I don't see how that is possible. And the supplier can't either, so they choose which books to push. They create the demand by creating buzz via marketing. But they don't do that for every book they publish. In a way, they don't give the consumer the option as to what they demand.
I guess all this means that the publishers are running the publishing industry but they're doing a shitty job of it (and not just because they don't push literary fiction). They push books that will sell, which aren't always the best written books or even the most interesting books (The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova from a few years back is a prime example: huge success from a debut novelist, but the book itself was boring beyond belief. But the marketing campaign was so thorough an assault the book sold millions, undeservedly, in my opinion. Same with The Lovely Bones. While the story was interesting due to its perspective, the writing was atrociously heavy-handed and in the end the story was banal and uninspiring).
All this makes me wonder what amazing books are we missing out on because they don't fall into the biggest section on the publisher's pie chart. You think about the great works of literature and wonder: would they have a fighting chance in today's bottom-line oriented publishing industry? The Catcher in the Rye? To Kill a Mockingbird? The Grapes of Wrath? Moby Dick? I fear not. I fear they wouldn't make it past the query letter phase from all these agents trying to predict what the publisher is wanting who are trying to predict what the consumer is wanting. "Interesting story. I connected with the character of Holden Caulfield. The writings good. But I don't think I can sell this in today's literary climate. But remember, it's all subjective..."
Not that I'm saying I've written the next Catcher in the Rye but if the agents and publishers don't start taking more chances and don't start having more faith in the consumer to know what they want rather than being told what they want, we may never know.
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