It’s been awhile.
Yes, I’ve been away from the keyboard for a bit since my last post. No excuses, no explanations other than the unavoidable fact that life often intervenes when least expected.
What matters is, I’m back. With a vengeance.
I’m kick off my return to the word by joining up with the National Novel Writing Month challenge, during which I will be converting my short story A Little Hike into a full-length novel. Continue reading “Stop. Novel Time.”
Speaking of saying stupid things in public, it seems that Jonathan Franzen recently jumped on the anti-eBook bandwagon during a recent speaking engagement:
“The technology I like is the American paperback edition of Freedom. I can spill water on it and it would still work! So it’s pretty good technology. And what’s more, it will work great 10 years from now… I think, for serious readers, a sense of permanence has always been part of the experience. Everything else in your life is fluid, but here is this text that doesn’t change…” Continue reading “Franzen Hates E-books and Oprah, Yet Still Uses Both to Sell Books”
While browsing through the news this morning (a daily ritual that is quickly becoming a strain on my sanity and peace of mind), I came across an article about Judy Buranich, an English teacher in Middleburg, Pennsylvania that is also a published romance novelist.
On the surface, this shouldn’t seem like such an odd concept. It is only natural that someone who loves the English language enough to dedicate themselves to teaching it to others should use it in their non-educational life as well. In fact, you could almost consider it a plus to have your child being taught how to read and write by a successful author.
Unfortunately, it turns out that not everyone is of the same mind (a predicament I have become accustomed to over the years). Continue reading “Hot for Teacher(‘s Romance Novels)”
I received a rejection notice this morning for a short story I’ve been shopping around. It’s the sixth rejection for this piece, and I have been fortunate to receive personal feedback with all of them. Unfortunately, the feedback has not been unanimous.
Why do I say unfortunately? It all comes down to the problem of deciding which feedback to consider, and which feedback to ignore. This topic came up a couple of time in the creative nonfiction workshop I was involved with last fall, as many of the younger students were facing this dilemma for the first time. Primarily used to receiving critical analysis from one or two authority figures (teachers, professors) and general encouragement from less critical audiences (friends, family members), they now found themselves on the receiving end of often contradictory opinions and advice from a room full of people not only intimately familiar with the written word, but the creative process as well. It’s one thing to have your friends read your work and either “like” it or “not get” it, but something completely different to be receiving in-depth critiques from a dozen or so fellow writers. Continue reading “Rejection Junction”
I won’t bother paraphrasing the entire Guardian article linked below, as I urge you to read the full piece. James Frey has come under fire for starting up his own author-mill publishing company featuring young adult novel series collaborated on by young adult writers. The main argument against Frey’s new company, Full Fathom Five, is that he is basically exploiting young writers, desperate to break into the field and quite possibly too inexperienced to realize how much they are being used by him. Other authors and publishers have pointed to his contracts with the young writers, calling them draconian and (I love this, considering Frey is an author himself) Dickensian, with Frey retaining creative control and full copyright over all work produced by his young, eager staff of writers. Continue reading “James Frey Cashes In Again”
It is very fitting that my new book, Performed by Lugosi, should be released in October. Not only is October the center of the halloween celebration, a period during which a majority of Lugosi’s films gain a resurgence of attention, but it also happens to be the month of Lugosi’s birth. Bela Lugosi was born on October 20th in Lugos, Hungary as Bela Blasko, roughly fifty miles from the original Dracula‘s Castle. Considering the vast amount of hours I spent watching and researching some of Lugosi’s best and worst performances, I think it only fair that I take a moment to extend my most grateful and appreciative birthday wishes to the late, great actor.
Happy Birthday, Bela.
I’ve been talking about James Cameron’s Avatar quite a bit recently.
Not completely by choice, mind you. MovieSucktastic co-host Joey and I did indeed see Avatar opening weekend, 3D and all, mainly so we could review it and get it out of the way. Our Podcast and Blog reviews were rather tepid and dispassionate: the story was bland and uninspiring, and while the effects were great, they didn’t push the envelope of 3D or CGI as far as the hype implied. Not completely bad, but nothing mind blowing, with a few good moments and enough eye-candy to make it worth watching. I personally filed my unimpressed opinion and moved on.
The all sorts of Hell broke loose. Continue reading “Avatar Revisited: Opening Pandora’s Box”
One of my fondest Christmas memories is from the winter of ’85.
It was my twelfth celebration of the holidays, and they still held that excitement that is multiplied by childhood; that almost narcotic eagerness that gradually diminishes with the coming of adulthood. I had barely managed to sleep at all that night. I was awake and ready for the festivities to begin by five in the morning. Even pretending to sleep another hour or two was no an option.
The rules for Christmas morning (I believe some people like to refer to them as ‘traditions’) had been firmly established years ago. My younger brother and I knew them well. Mom and Dad were allowed to awaken on heir own, and the unwrapping of presents would only commence when they had bathrobes on and coffee in hand. However, stockings were open game, and could be taken down as soon as we were up. They were huge four foot macramé stockings, and were always stuffed with enough toys and candy to distract us long enough for the coffee to brew.
Hell bent on Xmas booty, I snuck through the dark house and retrieved my stocking, making it to the living room and back without turning on any lights. Unfortunately, the lamp in my bedroom chose that moment to die out, and I found myself stuck in total darkness with a gigantic sock full of goodies. Determined to dig in, I stayed in the pitch black room and dug each item out of the stocking, silently identifying them by size, weight and shape.
The last item, buried at the bottom of the stocking, was also the largest. It was a hardcover book. I could feel slick dust cover and ruffle the pages, but no matter how hard I tried, my eyes would not adjust enough for me to make out the title of the book. I could venture into another room and turn on a light, but I was afraid I might accidentally wake Mom and Dad up, and it was way to early for that to be risked.
Unwilling to give up and set the book aside until later, I sat there in the darkness and waited for dawn. The minutes went by slowly. The first light of Christmas morning eventually filled my bedroom, I was finally able to make out he cover of Douglas Adams’ newest novel, So Long, And Thanks for All the Fish.
I have received countless treasured gifts throughout the years, before and since. But for some reason, my mind will always go back to the frustration, anticipation, and eventual elation of that particular morning. I don’t know why books have always held such a fascination for me. There is something about the bound page and printed word that promises experiences and emotions, thoughts and ideas, that you never suspected were in you.
That fond Christmas memory is now twenty three years old. Age and wisdom may have slightly dimmed the sparkling spectacle of wrapped gifts and bulging stockings. But books still manage to raise a simple and childish joy deep within me. Somehow, they still manage to make me believe. I hesitate to call it magic. Passion might be a better word for it.
No matter where you are, or how you choose to celebrate it, may the Holidays fill you with the same magic, or passion, that it did for me that dimly lit December day.
Merry Christmas to all.
Living Severed Head 