Steve Berman's Blog, page 10

An award nomination!

Okay, I'm not nominated for the Shirley Jackson Awards, but I'm the fairy godmother to Peter Dube's Subtle Bodies, which is in the Best Novella catgeory (and up against soem tough competition!).

I'm thrilled by this on so many levels -

a) Peter is a dear friend
2) I think the book is wonderful and the germ behind it started with a chat about gay surrealists at Saints & Sinners
%) Having a Lethe Press title nominated for a well-respected award in a field that is near and dear to me says that I'm publishing good books

Congratulations to Peter and all the other nominations. I'll be doubly excited to attend Readercon this year.

I miss the Ambien

Alas, Xanax and Benadryl don't ease me off to sleep like Ambien. Or let me hallucinate and write garble if I try and stay awake.

Instead. I yawn. Then Daulton yawns. Then he glares at me to put the book or notepad down and go to bed. Or else he'll start trimming his toenails in bed and I risk losing an eye from the shrapnel.

I counted. Once I polish up the gay YA musical story, I'll only need 6 more stories to finish me usual 13 for the next collection, which will be all YA and release at the end of January. Last night I imagined a story that began with dialog between Boy and an explorer, Axel, suggesting that Boy has been kidnapped and Axel is fleeing from Tarzan. Only, when Tarzan arrives on the scene to rescue his adopted son, he discovers that both youths are in love (Axel is the nephew of Otto Lidenbrock).

But how many of today's teens would even know who Boy was? Or Axel.

Ahh. I probably should look through the many fragments and unfinished YA stories and find 6 to work on.

And hope for Ambien.

1988

David, an old fraternity brother of mine, uploaded this image of me from 1988.

Draft one done

So, the first draft of "Gomorrahs of the Deep, a Musical Coming One Day to Off-Broadway" is done. It made one reader giggle a lot. It made another reader shake his head in doubt. This may be more my lack of writing tendons and musculatrue on the story's skeletal frame. I know there's plenty to do... transitions, showing more feelings, and so forth.

Then... well, I cannot imagine any spec fic site or magazine would publish a gay YA musical short story. So I think I'll post it to my website when it gets relaunched in April. And, if the YA short story collection ever happens, I'll include it there.

Ironically, I had been telling myself, Self, it's okay not write much anymore. You're a publisher these days. Lethe Press is you. You are Lethe Press. Then the Bookwenches site posted a really great review of Vintage and now I'm back to being... torn/anxious/upset that I am not writing like I should.

First sale... of sorts... okay, more like acquisition

So, yesterday I received an announcement that I made my first successful acquisition for Bold Strokes Books as their YA Editorial Consultant: Tama Wise's Street Dreams for a March 2012 release.

Street Dreams was very different from most gay YA I've ever read. It's set in New Zealand, has urban and Maori characters, and is raw at times in its sense of young men trapped by their class. I think a great many youths in America who do not enjoy a middle class lifestyle will be able to empathize with these characters--I am hoping that YA librarians embrace this book and the niche it serves.

We both owe a debt to James Buchanan (not the president but the contemporary writer) for bringing Tama to my attention ages ago.

A musical?

So, I have been working on an inane idea. For ages I have had the desire to somehow incorporate a musical into YA fiction. For me, the musical is one of the more fantastical of film genres -- people just don't break into fabulous songs and dance numbers in real life (oh, though I wish they did!).

Maybe the future of e-books will permit embedded mp3 files or whatever when you come upon a scene. Or moving text to signify song lyrics. But the old fashioned static page? How could it be done.

So I abandoned any thought on this for the longest time until the idea for doing a story about the gay elements in Herman Melville's work stuck in my head. And so, I have been doing
---

My boyfriend called me over to study, but I hoped we would be making out rather than struggling through Moby Dick, a book which squashed my brain like a lead weight whenever I tried to read more than a few pages. Then I saw what Hugh had done to his bedroom. Gone were the posters of Bob Dylan, Morissey, and the Red Caps. Instead, old black and white drawings of whaling had been haphazardly taped on the walls surround like petals of a flower two photographs of thick bearded old men.

"Herman Melville and Walt Whitman," he told me with obvious fondness most gay boys reserved for pop stars thick with eye-shadow or actors famous for getting shirtless in their films.

"Like the bridge?" My experience with Whitman involved crossing from South Jersey into Philly so we could hit the Trocadero Theater to watch indie bands.

"Like the gay poet."

"Oh," I said as I collapsed on to his messy bed. I lay on my stomach and rested my chin on my hands. "So can we work out an incentive program? I'm thinking it's about time someone invented Strip Book Report."

Hugh raised an eyebrow. The left, which went a little wild near the center of his forehead. I wanted to pluck the few errant hairs while he slept. But it matches his mop of unruly curls.

"Imagine. We take of our sneaks after writing the introductory sentence." I roll over and dramatically kick off one Converse All-Star. "State our thesis, off comes the shirts. By the time we're at the conclusion, the floor is covered with our clothes." I stretch my head back, off the side of the bed, and offer my best leer, seventeen years in the making.

He leans over and kisses me. A bit sloppy but that's fine because we both laugh a little. But then he shakes his head. "No. I need to work on this."

"So I'm morale support then. I can help you navigate Wikipedia for answers."

He clamps a hand over my mouth at that. Heresy! I stick my tongue out and lick his palm, which doesn't tast that great but one has to know no boyfriend is ever perfect.

"I have this tremendous idea."

When he takes his hand away, I feel the beginning of a frown. Hugh's ideas, especially when he considers them tremendous or monumental usually end up being problematic. Like last summer when he went decided to rewrite Shakespeares Taming of the Shrew as a webcomic featuring actual critters. I cured him by downloading the The Killer Shrews on my netbook and loudly playing clips of that awful film whenever he mentioned the otter Petruchio falling for a furry Kate.

"Do tell."

"I'm going to do a whole presentation--not some 6th grade book report--on the homoeroticism in Moby Dick."

I laughed. Awful move. His expression became pensive, then hurt. Like last summer when he went through a phase he called Inner Fat and wore nothing but baggy clothes. At one point, I pulled up his boxers over his navel without giving him a wedgie and told him he was ridiculous. He sulked for nearly two weeks before I dragged him free of a bad mood.

"It's not a dumb idea."

I sit up in his bed. "I never said that. But, even if there's some gay in the book--"

"There is. Lots. Whole scenes. Didn't you read it?"

"--I'm more a Spark Notes kinda guy. But, why would you want to rub their noses in it?"

"There not puppies," he said.

I suddenly envisioned Mr. Shim's class as dogs. Tracy Borland's thing for scrunchies earned her labradoodle status. Brian Coleman's jaw belonged to an English bulldog. When Derek Fiesler wore his basketball jersey--a glimpse of muscled arm and hairy pits!--that would be one hot great dane.

"Besides. I'm out. You're out."

"But neither of us wear pink shirts. We're like...assimilated. Why call so much attention to being different? Different is death in high school."

"I'm tired of acting like everyone else," he said. "We're not--"

"Maybe I am."

"You're not. You're a theater geek."

"I prefer thespian."

"You work stage crew."

"Ersatz thespian."

"You just used the word 'ersatz.' That's a SAT expression."

"Now a good vocab is lavender, too?"

"Help me," he said.

I shook my head. "And feel all those fears from when I first came out rush back into my chest? No thanks." Even as I said that, I could feel my heartbeat race a little faster, my stomach parkour around my middle. I didn't even want to be in class if he was going to be writing G-A-Y on the whiteboard in front of everyone. I heard phantom laughter.

So I grabbed my backpack, zipped up my hoodie and left his room, rushed down the stairs, didn't even bother to call out a "Goodbye" to his folks.

* * *

The suburban streets are quiet, making my anger feel all the more necessary to keep me warm. It's early November, but few houses on the block are lit; this is a neighborhood of menorahs not tinsel. I keep to the middle of the street. My hands are tucked away in the pocket of my white hoodie.

Soon my boyfriend's car whines behind me. When he rolls down the window, the radio's song fills the air.

And he sings.

--Get in the car. It's cold. Don't be so angry all the time.

I keep walking.

He tells me again --Get in the car. Don't make me beg. Don't make me rhyme.

I stop and turn. --Don't call me Ishmael.

"I won't. Your name is Greg."

I take a step forward, resting my hands on the open car window. --Tell me you won't go through with this. Tell me that tomorrow will be sane.

He shakes his head. --I can't. I won't Don't you see? That would go against my grain.

--They'll laugh at you and, if I stand by you, me as well.

--What else does English class do than make our lives a hell?

--It's only Melville.

--Only Melville? he croons back.

I kick the door of his car and shout. --Don't call me Ishmael!

He drives after me. --You're afraid of what? That I'll make of fool of us? But I can't stay quiet any more.

--It's just a book about a whale. Nothing else. You're finding fags where there aren't, all to start some stupid war.

--You saw the line. 'Bosom friends.' If that's not the gayest thing you ever heard a sailor say--

--I'm drawing a line. Right here and now on the street. Abandon please this Moby Dick essay. I stand in his headlights. --It's only Melville.

He stops the car, leans his head out the window. --Only Melville?

--Please. Don't call me Ishmael.

He opens the driver's side door. --He had a voice. Like any of us, he wanted to be heard!

--He's long since dead. Are you some literary nerd?

--I won't put the man in the closet, like all the teachers do.

--He's better off in the dark. Find another book to review.

--Why won't you be my Ishmael, why won't you be my first mate. I need your strength for this effort, I need you to relate.

I start stepping back. He drives after me. --You're afraid of what? That I'll make of fool of us? But I can't stay quiet any more.

--It's just a book about a whale. Nothing else. You're finding fags where there aren't, all to start some stupid war.

--You saw the line. 'Bosom friends.' If that's not the gayest thing you ever heard a sailor say--

--I'm drawing a line. Right here and now on the street. Abandon please this Moby Dick essay. I stand in his headlights. --It's only Melville.

He stops the car, leans his head out the window. --Only Melville?

--Please. Don't call me Ishmael.

He opens the driver's side door. --He had a voice. Like any of us, he wanted to be heard!

--He's long since dead. Are you some literary nerd?

--I won't put the man in the closet, like all the teachers do.

--He's better off in the dark. Find another book to review.

--Why won't you be my Ishmael, why won't you be my first mate. I need your strength for this effort, I need you to relate.

I start stepping back. --I'm not some Ishmael, I am only a Gregory. You'll do this alone. I won't be part of some classroom... infamy.

And I ran all the way home.

Should I post the third scene?
Yeah, I know I switch tenses... for me present tense = musical.

　

Oh well...

Since me last short story collection, Second Thoughts was a huge flop, I decided to drop the price down to 99 cents on Smashwords and Kindle. If you find a grimy dollar on the street and there's no bums lurking around, please consider buying a pdf/epub/whatever...


On Smashwords

On Kindle (still showing the old price, but it should drop by tomorrow)

Gomorrahs of the Deep, a Musical Coming One Day to Off-Broadway

The First Acting Out

I storm out of my boyfriend's home. The suburban streets are quiet, making my anger feel all the more necessary to keep me warm. It's early November, but few houses on the block are lit; this is a neighborhood of menorahs not tinsel.

I keep to the middle of the street. My hands are tucked away in the pocket of my white hoodie.

Soon my boyfriend's car whines behind me. When he rolls down the window, the radio's song fills the air.

"Get in the car. It's cold. Don't be so angry all the time."

I keep walking.

My boyfriend—Hugh—has lots of unruly hair and wire-rimmed glasses that fog easily. He tells me again: "Get in the car. Don't make me beg. Don't make me rhyme."

I stop and turn. "Don't call me Ishmael."

"I won't. Your name is Greg."

I take a step forward, resting my hands on the open car window. "Tell me you won't go through with this. Tell me that tomorrow will be sane."

He shakes his head. "I can't. I won't Don't you see? That would go against my grain."

"They'll laugh at you, and if I stand by you me as well."

"What else does English class do than make our lives a hell?"

"It's only Melville."

"Only Melville?" He croons back.

I kick the door of his car and shout. "Don't call me Ishmael."

He drives after me. "You're afraid of what? That I'll make of fool of us? But I can't stay quiet any more."

"It's just a book about a whale. Nothing else. You're finding fags where there aren't, all to start some stupid war."

"You saw the line. 'Bosom friends.' If that's not the gayest thing you ever heard a sailor say--"

"I'm drawing a line. Right here and now on the street. Abandon please this Mody Dick essay."

I stand in his headlights. "It's only Melville."

He stops the car. "Only Melville?"

"Please. Don't call me Ishmael."

He opens the driver's side door. "He had a voice. Like any of us, he wanted to be heard."

"He's long since dead. Are you some literary nerd?"

"I won't put the man in the closet, like all the teachers do."

"He's better off in the dark, find another book to review."

"Why won't you be my Ishmael, why won't you be my first mate. I need your strength for this effort, I need you to relate."

I start stepping back. "I'm not some Ishmael, I'm only a Gregory. If you're going through with this, I won't be part of some classroom... infamy."

-- end of Acting Out 1--

Yesterday

My reasoning behind not posting yesterday's excitement was I didn't want to dilute the Laird roast. Now, though, I can mention that Lethe Press earned six finalist nods at the annual Lambda Literary Awards.

This means a lot to me. That my little press has grown over the last ten years to tie with the more established Bold Strokes Books for most finalists this year is amazing. Having three out of the five finalists in the category of LGBT Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror is an honor that I have strived to achieve... with the help of many talented folk: authors, designers, editors.

I love queer spec fic and part of Lethe's mission is to bring more of it to readers. In 2011, I am hoping that books like The Touch of the Sea and Lee Thomas's The German are as well-received and make the cut next year.

The Wilde Stories series earned another finalist nod, my third as editor. I wish I could release its lesbian counterpart--some years it seems Lethe is too weighted towards gay male releases.

Running Lethe has taken away most of my writing time and energy. Some days that troubles me, but not yesterday and not today.

An entry from The Secret Life of Laird Barron

Lesley Stahl: So, what you're telling me is that Barron's claim about how he lost his eye is--

Steve Berman: A lie. A deception. Call it what you will. After he started attending conferences with this menacing eyepatch, his reputation skyrocketed. He didn't dare tell the truth, but he had to be cautious with just any lie. He deals with hundreds of authors, most of whom can sniff out a bad storyline in a matter of moments. The editors--they're worse. They would correct his lie. To his face! So cancer seemed like a safe bet. Everyone has heard of the big "C"--cancer hushes folk, even horror writers.

LS: Then what is the truth behind his missing eye?

SB: I only learned because we share some vices. In 2009, I developed an addiction to what they call on the street "mush"--it's a blend of methamphetamine and benzimidazole used as an ersatz steroid by professional dogsledders. I would empty my bank account trying to "whip the K-9" on the weekend. I knew that Laird had been part of that scene and, while at Readercon, I was aching for another finnmarksløpet-face. I stumbled into that Irish pub and found Laird half-drunk at the bar.

I ordered him whiskey after whiskey until his words slurred down. Like the phonograph in his jaw was out of whack. I handed over a hundred dollar bill and asked him if he could get his hands on some mush real fast.

LS: Was he a mush addict?

SB: [shrugs] Don't know. Laird dabbled in lots of pseudelics. Mush. Nevermore. Red mercury. Nepenthe. Leng dust.

So he takes the benjamin from my hand and leans in close. He said, "This will buy only the truth." His mouth smelled like the oldest oak barrel they ever used at a distillery. Not a bad smell, but you know that one of his teeth would be considered a relic by an AA fresh off the wagon.

LS: Did you ever get the mush? I mean... [pauses to wipe the beads of sweat forming on her brow] I was just curious. I've heard it's potent stuff.

SB: I'm getting to that. [leans back]

So he said, "Ever hear the myth about Wotun?"

"Wu-Tang Clan?" I asked. You have to remember I was strung out."

LS: I-I can imagine. Go on.

SB: Laird laughed in my face. "No. Wotun. He's the founder of Wednesday. Did so during the era of Ancient Vikings. Was their god or pilot or motivational speaker. Anyway, he only had one eye. He claimed to have traded it to a yeti that guarded one of the Poland Springs."

I thought he was pulling my leg. Vikings in Poland? But I kept quiet. Had to because lack of mush had locked my teeth shut at this point.

He went on: "That spring was the font of wisdom and poetry. That's where they get the term fontain pen." He nodded like a sage. "I tried to write years ago and could only sell a couple flash pieces to Vampire Dan's Story Emporium and only after I changed my name to Elizabeth Valente. Shit. So I signed up to race the Pierdzieć, which is in the northern tundra of Poland. Took a lot of mush, let me tell you. At one point, I didn't know who was whipping whom. I learned to bark that winter. Bark like no man has ever barked before. Not even Frank Welker.

"I didn't find any yeti despite listening to some Polish sherpas gossip on and on about the local creature they referred to as the "Cold Miser." No, I found some footprints in the snow, some blood and spent cartridges and a Guicci purse with the initials SLP near where a helicopter set down. I used one of the cartridges to gouge out my eye and dropped it into the icy-blue water."

LS: What happened?

SB: That's what I asked. Laird chuckled. My remaining eye began to throb. Suddenly the world crystalized, as if the very air froze around me. And on the facets were writing. So much writing. Words, terrible words. I'd never lack for them. Oh, the horror, the horror," he said with a grin.

LS: So... you don't have any mush on you? Er, I mean, he never dealt you any sweet, sweet mush?

SB: Nope. He slipped the hundred dollar bill underneath his eye-patch--I had the sudden vision of a stripper from the 9th layer of the Abyss tucking an electrum piece into her THAC0 and shuddered.

Fortunately, Nick Mamatas had some really good lotus on him--he's Greek and grows the best. That helped me come down.

LS: Fascinating. Do you have This Mamatas fellow's number?