R.J. Keller's Blog, page 9
February 10, 2011
Pass the salt
You may (or possibly may not) remember that one of my New Year's Resolutions was to stop coloring my hair. I further resolved to chronicle the going-gray thing here. So, here's me this morning. Going gray. Looks like it's going to be salt-and-pepper. I kind of dig it.
Someone needs to pluck her eyebrows, but that's a subject for another blog entry
February 3, 2011
Line drawn
There has been a lot of talk lately in the blogosphere about writers being careful with their words, mostly in regards to responding to bad reviews and criticism, and about not getting dragged into idiotic flame wars. I myself wrote about the subject nearly two years ago. Getting involved with that stuff makes you look small and petty, and it can alienate readers. You just don't do it.
Similarly, unless you're writing for a very specific demographic, it isn't a good idea to wear your politics on your public sleeve. Although I touch on sticky moral and political issues when I write, that's never the focus of any of my work, nor do I write to give my political views a forum. I like to study and shine a spotlight on the human condition through my characters when I write, and because some of those sticky moral and political issues affect my characters, they sometimes share that spotlight. I don't expound on those issues here on the blog, or on Facebook or Twitter, to any great extent, though, because I want my characters and their stories to be accessible to everybody, regardless of political or religious creed. That's not possible if my political views are so well known that they color my work in Red or Blue.
With me so far, yes? Okay. Because here comes the "however…".
However, when it comes to gay rights (or Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Trangender rights, to be more specific), I'm not gonna keep my mouth shut. Ever. Because it isn't a political issue. It's not Red or Blue, liberal or conservative. It's a matter of human rights, pure and simple. So when I read an article like this, you'd better believe I'm going to speak out. And if that costs me some readers, so be it.
Yesterday, Utah state representative LaVar Christensen introduced HB 270 – Family Policy:
This bill states, as the public policy of Utah, that a family, consisting of a legally and lawfully married man and woman and their children, is the fundamental unit of society; and requires that publicly funded social programs, government services, laws, and regulations designed to support families be carefully scrutinized to ensure that they promote the family.
It further states:
Families anchored by both a father and a mother, fidelity within marriage, and enduring devotion to the covenants and responsibilities of marriage are the desired norm.
(bold face type mine)
I was raised in a family that was outside what Mr. Christensen considers "the desired norm". My parents split up when I was five and a few years later my mother began a relationship with a woman who soon after moved in with us. It was a pretty typical parent and step-parent/child relationship. There were family vacations and holidays, help with homework and teenage rebellion. Rewards and punishments, discipline and encouragement. Although my mother and her partner both worked hard, we frequently struggled financially.
My two younger brothers and I were held to high standards, personally and academically, yet we were ultimately accepted and loved for the individuals we were. We were part of a rather boisterous extended family of cousins and aunts and grandparents that was just as supportive and just as accepting. The three of us now contribute to the well-being of society through our respective careers (writer, teacher, journalist), by demonstrating integrity in our personal lives, and by showing unconditional love to our family and friends.
But I still can't help but think that it would have felt more like a family if my mother and her partner had been able to get married years ago. If I had been able to introduce them as "my mom and step-mom". If my mother hadn't had that constant, nagging fear: who will raise my kids if something happens to me?
To Mr. Christensen, and other legislators who would follow his lead, I have this to say: You have every right to believe homosexuality is a sin. You have every right to believe that marriage between anyone but one man and one woman is wrong. You can preach it to your congregations, you can teach it to your children, you can pray about it to your god. But you don't have the right to legislate that belief. You have had your grubby, inky, bigoted paws in my family's life for far too long. I will not rest until you're made to take them out.
February 1, 2011
CRAIG LANCASTER Q&A WITH JIM THOMSEN
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Their friendship was forged in the world of daily newspapers, where Craig Lancaster works as a chief copy editor at the Billings (Mont.) Gazette and Jim Thomsen, until recently, held a similar job at the Kitsap (Wash.) Sun.
When it comes to books and writing, they are literary wingmen – good friends who push each other to do better work and who share occasional miseries and successes. Below, Jim pitches some questions to Craig, the author of 600 Hours of Edward and the recently released The Summer Son, about writing and publishing. Sit back and take in the conversation.
Jim Thomsen: What in your personal history fed into "The Summer Son"?
CRAIG LANCASTER: A lifetime of struggling to understand and get close to a distant father, certainly. This is where I always have to include a disclaimer: Anyone who thinks that I'm Mitch Quillen, the story's protagonist, or my dad is Jim Quillen, Mitch's father, is heading down the wrong road. Their issues and protracted distances from each other are much more violent and severe than anything I've experienced with my own father, which is what makes their story one worth turning into a novel and ours mostly fodder for quiet reflection.
That said, it's undeniable that I brought things and places I know into the narrative. Jim is an itinerant well digger; so was my dad. Mitch spends the summer of 1979 in Milford, Utah; so did I. But those really are surface details, chosen because I happen to be familiar with them.Where the story goes, the secrets it unravels, the collision of violence and innocence — it's all fiction.
JT: Your stories are about the West, but less the Louis L'Amour, cattle-range, Clint Eastwood West than a West that has room for Target stores AND tumbleweeds. How well do these Wests work together, both in your fiction and in the Billings you observe today?
CL: They have to work together, and for any writer working in the West who chooses to write about a contemporary time, there's no ignoring the fact that Costco, to use just one example, affects those of us in the urban areas and the folks who live in more traditional Western settings. Seriously, if you go to the Billings Costco on a Saturday and look at the license plates in the parking lot, you quickly realize that good chunks of northern Wyoming and eastern Montana have come to the big city to load up on provisions. And what about those odious bull testicles that hang from the trailer hitches of some trucks out here? Those things have to come from somewhere. A city, I'll bet.
Billings has long had a less-than-stellar image in some other parts of the state, a view I don't happen to endorse, being a happy resident of the place. I recall reading Ivan Doig's "The Whistling Season" and one of the characters referring to Billings as the place where the banks and the car lots are. Well, it's hard to argue with that. But there's also much to recommend it. I'm quite at home here.
I think part of the reason I've been able to be fluent in the suburbs and the earthier locales is that my childhood straddled the two. Nine months a year, I lived with my mother and stepfather and siblings in a garden-variety North Texas suburb, complete with themed subdivisions and fast-food restaurant rows. Once summer came around, I'd decamp for Montpelier, Idaho, or Baggs, Wyoming, or Sidney, Montana — wherever my dad happened to be working. I'd contend that beyond the cosmetic details, life in all those places has more in common with the 'burbs than it has differences. People work. They raise their kids. They look for something to do on Friday night. They try to get ahead. They go to church. They live. They die.
JT: Obviously, you can't write worrying about who your audience is or how they'll receive what you write, but do you believe that there is room in Montana for works of fiction that aren't patriarchal ranch sagas set on horseback? That allow for fast food and suburban living?
CL: Certainly. It's been happening for a long time. Kevin Canty's most recent novel, "Everything," is a brilliant portrait of life in Missoula now. Larry Watson has plumbed those themes many times. In the wider West, scores of writers — Annie Proulx, Alyson Hagy, Kent Haruf, Sherman Alexie, Benjamin Percy, Jim Lynch, C.J. Box, Craig Johnson, to name a very few — are putting out fantastic books that reflect a more modern view of the West. That's not to denigrate a good horse opera at all; there's room for the many, many facets of Western life.
In a recent New York Times profile, Thomas McGuane said he used to bemoan the fact that he hadn't read a book set in Montana that included a pizza delivery. This is a bit audacious, but I mailed him a copy of my first novel, "600 Hours of Edward," in which that pedestrian event actually occurs.
JT: "The Summer Son," at heart, is about a father and sin separated for decades by secrets and stubborn pride and hair-trigger sensitivities. Play armchair shrink for a moment. Why can't people just talk their shit out? Why do people tell themselves, and each other, that it is actually better not to? 
CL: I'll give you an answer from my experience as a guy who didn't have a substantive conversation with my father about his life until I was in my thirties: When one party has gone deep into adulthood without a decent model of love and kindness, who grew up having the shit beat out of him by those who were supposed to nurture him, those scars radiate to everyone who tries to get close. I lived in fear of what my father's reaction to those conversations might be — not so much that he would become violent with me, because he never did, but that asking him to relive those memories might wound him somehow. The problem was, by stifling my natural curiosity, I didn't deal very well with his inadequate parenting when I was too young to understand what contributed to it. Fortunately, I have a wonderful mother and a stepfather who showered me with love and encouragement, and I can thank them for raising me to be a reasonably decent man. But I still wanted that validation from my dad, and it was only after I stopped holding him to a standard he couldn't meet that we began to make some inroads to each other.
One of our big breakthroughs came about a decade ago, when I unraveled the mystery of what happened to his father, who dropped out of his life for good when Dad was about seventeen. Thanks to some Internet sleuthing, I tracked Fred Lancaster to his resting place on a hill in Madras, Oregon, and even came into some contact with people who knew him in his later years. I was able to bring Dad some answers, some pictures of his own father, and perhaps some closure. Dad's not effusive enough to show it, but I think that moved him, that I would go to those lengths to understand him. Since then, he's begun to open up about things.
JT: You were fully prepared to self-publish "The Summer Son," as you originally did your debut novel, "600 Hours Of Edward," when AmazonEncore came calling. Knowing you well enough to know that you wouldn't just grab on to any traditional-publishing deal — that you don't see such deals as validating you as a writer — I know you wouldn't have signed on with the world's biggest mover of books if you didn't feel it was the right fit. In a time of shrinking advances, shrinking royalties, shrinking print runs and shrinking faith in traditional publishing, why was this the right move for you?
CL: The things I look hardest at, in terms of book commerce,are marketing and distribution, because even with social networking and the democracy of e-books, these are the hardest things for a lone author to mount.I can find good editing, good design, good book-building, but my get-out-the-word skills are passable, at best. With AmazonEncore, ciphering out marketing and distribution was a pretty simple equation. It's part of an organization that has more data on consumer behavior than perhaps anyone else in the world. Add to that the fact that Encore is publishing some tremendously interesting titles and making a name as an author-friendly place, and I didn't have to spend much time deciding whether to cast my lot there. And now that I've experienced the care that went into this book and held it in my hands, I think Encore has trumped me even on the elements that I thought I had under control.
I made a similar decision, on a different scale, with my first book. I'd found some minor success lugging it around in the back of my car, but turning it over to the folks at Riverbend Publishing gave it a reach here in my home region that I simply could not have replicated. Would it have been a Montana Honor Book and a High Plains Book Award winner when I was its sole champion? Perhaps. But I kind of doubt it. In both cases, I'm confident I made the right decision for me and for my book.
JT: You've been an unusual success story so far because you've had two publishing contracts without the services of a literary agent. I gather that this wasn't by design, so talk about how this came to be — and how you'd like ideally to proceed in the future.
CL: Well, it's damned hard to get a literary agent, even for established authors. And I didn't spring into this thing as a guy with a lot of patience, although I'm slowly learning that life will be easier for me if I develop a bit of it. I had a few nibbles and kind encouragement with "Edward," but I didn't find an agent. With "The Summer Son," I didn't even look for one. While I'm not an adherent to Ayn Rand, I will admit to a bit of a Roarkian streak that mostly serves me well. I simply decided, well, the hell with it, I'm going to do what I do, and if I do it well enough, representation will work itself out. Eventually. Maybe.
Now, this is important: I am not one of those strident I-don't-need-an-agent types. I've met a few of those, and often they're similar in stripe to the I-don't-need-an-editor types who proliferate in the publishing dystopia we seem to be entering. Those people, in my opinion, are delusional. I have a pretty clear-eyed view of the considerable benefits that a good agent delivers, and nothing would please me more than finding a partner as I continue on what I expect to be a long career. But there was no way I was going to put two good novels in the trunk simply because I couldn't find an agent.
JT: We've talked a lot privately about promotional strategies for authors on shoestring budgets. Can you share some of your observations and experiences about what's worked best — and what hasn't been so effective?
CL: It's a wired world, but one of the beautiful things about the book business is that it's still built on relationships. It's wonderfully, charmingly low-tech in that way. I've certainly cultivated some readers through being available online, but I don't think my shilling had much to do with it. I'm a human first, whether it's on someone's Facebook page or at the library in front of a group of engaged readers. You connect with them, learn a little something about them, share a little something about yourself, and you see the extrapolatory effect as they become advocates for you and your work.
Almost everything I've done of a promotional nature has included something in the way of a personal touch. The earliest pre-orders of "The Summer Son" came with a little bonus book called "I Gotta Tell Facebook About This" that was basically a distillation of the wackiest stuff I've posted online. I once received an order for "600 Hours of Edward" through my website, and less than 20 minutes later, I was on the guy's doorstep, handing him his book. He'll remember that, and I'll remember him. This stuff is important.
As my first book gained some traction here in my hometown, book clubs started inviting me to come and break bread with them and talk about the book. I absolutely love those invitations. It increases the value of the experience for the people who were kind enough to read my book, and it certainly gives me a terrific sense of validation and some cool new friends.
As far as what hasn't been effective, I hate to say this because I absolutely love getting editorial reviews, but I haven't received a published review yet that created a noticeable spike in sales. Word of mouth is the coin of the realm.
JT: Talk about the community of writers, readers and book-industry people that an author must gather to be as successful as possible. What do you ask of them, and what do you volunteer in return? How does one go about building this village?
CL: You are much more qualified to answer this than I am, as you're the king of gathering in friends from across the industry. I think it goes back to what I said about relationships:
Readers are the lifeline; without them, there is no reason to do the work. And the energy generated by really connecting with folks who are passionate about your work specifically and books in general is drug-like in its potency.
Other writers can commiserate with you, give you advice, create huge breaks for you (I am a Jonathan Evison fan for life for the unbidden kindnesses he's shown me), show you how to conduct yourself. I've been awed by the generosity of some of the people I've met, and it has solidified my resolve to be as helpful as I can to anyone who approaches me. On the flip side, I've been crushed by the cruelty of a couple of people I've met — an extreme minority, thank goodness — but, then, there are lessons in that, too.
Finally, a word of advice to anyone who expects to sell books in bookstores: Know your booksellers. Become their friends. You should do this first because they are, across the board, fabulously interesting people with a boundless love of books. You should do this second because a bookseller who puts your book in his/her customers' hands is a godsend. So write a kick-ass book and make some kick-ass connections.
JT: Given the unorthodox way you broke into this racket, what advice would you have for writers hoping to fast-track their way to publication? What would you urge them NOT to do?
CL: The term "fast-track" kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies. I know that's odd to say, given the speed with which I wrote, sold and published my first two novels, but bear with me. This is a fascinating time in publishing, in that the ability to quickly get an e-book on the market has created something of a gold rush among prospective authors. Certainly, if you read the blog of someone like J.A. Konrath, the attraction of rushing a book into the marketplace is powerful. That guy is making money hand over fist, and so are a lot of other people.
But here's the danger: If you're in love with the idea of being published but not so much with doing the hard work of publishing a good book, you're doing yourself and your prospective readers a real disservice. Konrath, for one, talks about publishing almost exclusively in numbers: how much he's making, how quickly he can write a book, how many books he can write in a year. There's a seduction in those words, and they perhaps unintentionally reduce book writing to something no more magical than the mass production of widgets. I've never found it to be that pedestrian, and if it ever felt that way to me, I'd probably quit. So while coveting publication and all the trappings that come with it, prospective authors should never lose sight of this: It's all pretty pointless if you're not writing a good book.
JT: One of the hard realities of being a published author today is that one can't expect to be successful just writing books — one must also write short stories, novellas, essays, reviews and journalistic articles, among other forms of writerly achievement, to keep the checks coming and their name constantly out in front. Talk about what you've seen others do that you've admired, and what you're doing.
CL: I'm not sure it's just today. Most of the writers I know, even the ones who are unqualified successes, do other things to move the financial chains, whether it's teaching in an MFA program, setting up writers' workshops, manning the night shift at a convenience store or, like me, toiling on the copy desk of a newspaper. I admire and envy the writers who have steady gigs teaching in writing programs; I think that would be a marvelous way to keep one's head in the game, help shape up-and-coming voices and maintain a creative edge on one's own projects.
What I'm doing these days is writing a lot of short stories and really being attuned to ideas that lend themselves to the shorter form. The way things are looking now, I'll probably have a collection of stories to pitch before I'll have Novel No. 3 ready to go. And the nice thing about short stories is that they can be sold to literary journals first, generating a little coin before being gathered up into a bundle. Despite my art-for-art's-sake answer to the previous question, I like coin as much as the next guy. Maybe even a little more.
JT: Ready for a drink yet? What'll you have?
CL: Yes, please. The polite drinker in me would like a Jack and Coke. The rest of me, the one trying to cut some pounds, would prefer some Crystal Light. Raspberry, if you don't mind.
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You can enter to win a signed copy of Craig Lancaster's new novel, The Summer Son, simply by leaving a comment below. The winner will be chosen randomly tomorrow, Wednesday February 2, by noon EST. – RJK
January 31, 2011
Everything I need to know I learned from The Princess Bride
Love requires absolute devotion.
"As you wish."
But sometimes a little bit of healthy cynicism is a good thing.
"Hold it, hold it. What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Is this a kissing book?"
Patience is a virtue.
"You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles."
Be sure to get a detailed job description.
"You never said anything about killing anyone."
Always keep a holocaust cloak handy.
"Oh, what I wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak."
Scientists must be watched closely. Very closely.
"As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Really that's all this is except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life."
Keep vaccinations up to date.
"I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder."
Learn to delegate.
"You know how much I love watching you work, but I've got my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it. I'm swamped!"
Sometimes you find a richer reward when unexpected events change your plans.
"When I hired Vizzini to have her murdered on our engagement day, I thought that was clever. But it's going to be so much more moving when I strangle her on our wedding night.
If a psychotic, six-fingered man slaughters your father, commit a very clever, very cool line to memory that you can whip out at a moment's notice in the event you run into him along your travels. Practice it on every new acquaintance.
"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
But the most important lesson I learned, even though I knew it before I saw The Princess Bride, was the joy a good book can bring:
"When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to your father. And today I'm gonna read it to you.
Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles…"
January 30, 2011
#SampleSunday January 30, 2011
It was Ashley. Green eyed and blonde and young. And for a moment I wondered how many extra toilets I'd need to scrub before I could afford one or two of those botox treatments.
"Hi Tess."
"Hey."
She had a drink already in hand, some sort of sweet smelling shit in a tall glass. "Are you waiting for Brian?"
"Yep."
"That's what I thought."
We each guzzled our drinks. She finished before me, but Zeke refilled mine first. Then it was her turn, but with a that's your last one warning. I looked at her more closely. Her eyes were fuzzy and she was swaying slightly on her stool. And it was only six-fifteen. She tapped my arm and gazed at me a bit unsteadily.
"Are you really in love with him?"
"Yep."
"Me too."
I sighed. I'd known this day was coming. But of all the places in the world, this bar–filled to capacity with sweaty men and their dates–was the last place I would have chosen for the encounter. And this was not the day I would have chosen, either. At the same time I had to feel bad for the girl. I'd been her. Spread 'em for a guy, thinking it was The Real Thing. Turns out you're nothing more than A Sure Thing. It sucks. Big time. It's the lesson all women have to learn. But what could I do?
Nothing. Except try to be nice.
"Ashley, I–"
"You sorta have a fat ass, don't you?"
"Uh…excuse me?"
"But some guys like that. And you've got big tits, too, so that evens it all out."
I looked around the room. Sure enough, her voice had carried above the din of sweaty guys and their dates; even above the ex-ballplayers and pompous sportswriters who were yapping away on the pre-game show, giving their opinions about a game that hadn't even been played yet.
I turned away from the chuckles and snickers, leaned in closer to her and whispered, "Ashley, why don't you let me give you a ride home and we can talk about this later. Or maybe Zeke can call someone for you and–"
She shook her head and shoved me. Hard. I hadn't been expecting it, naturally, and fell right off the stool. I barely managed to keep myself from landing flat on my big, fat ass. Even worse, I'd been holding onto my beer and it spilled all down the front of me.
I set the mug down on the bar and hopped back onto my stool. Because there was more, lots more, to come. I knew that much. And since we'd already caused a scene I figured I might as well get it out of the way. It would be better than having to endure another one later on. I took a deep breath, turned to face her and waited for the rest.
And she brought it. She rambled on and on about her magical night with Brian. Zeke tried to shush her, as though I didn't already know, as though everyone in the bar didn't already know, but she wouldn't stop. Told us all about it, painted it in beautiful, rosy colors. And when she was done I felt more sorry for her than ever. Because even though she hadn't said it, I knew. Just by the way she talked about It. About Him.
Brian had been her first. Because she'd had a crush on him–and in her mind it was love–since she was just a girl. She had loved him forever. She was thin and blonde and pretty, and she could have had any number of guys if she'd wanted them. But she'd waited, saved herself. For Brian. And to him it had been nothing special. Neither was she. Just another girl. A Sure Thing. It was close to being the saddest thing I'd ever heard and, for a fleeting moment, I wanted to track the bastard down and smack the shit out of him. But then she said:
"You know, one of these days he's gonna wake up and realize that he needs something more than just big tits, you fat old bitch!"
I swallowed. Took a very deep breath. "Okay, Ashley. I think–"
"He's gonna get tired of you and when he does he'll know where to go. I know what he really wants. And–"
"Oh, please, little girl. You don't know shit. I was playing with dicks when you were still playing with dolls."
She muttered something in response, but I wasn't listening. I leaned over the bar, grabbed a handful of napkins and tried to wipe the beer bubbles off my big, fat tits. It didn't help. My lucky shirt was was still soaked. And I knew what it meant, even though I'd never admit it to another living soul. The Red Sox were jinxed for the rest of the season.
January 23, 2011
#SampleSunday January 23, 2011
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"Tess didn't go to college," my mother started.
"Neither did I," Brian returned.
"She wanted to go to school for her painting, but I told her that I wasn't about to pay for her to play with her paints. Not when she could fool around with them at home for free." She narrowed her gaze at me. "If you were really serious about it I'm sure you could have found…some way to pay for it on your own."
I finished my beer. Two thirds of a bottle in one long, noisy gulp. I plunked it down on the table and looked towards the big, beautiful beer bucket, sitting prettily on the floor next to the kitchen counter. And I wondered if a fourth would do me more harm than good.
"She's much better off cleaning, anyway," my mother added. "She's good at that."
She'd finally managed to shock Brian. He sat silently for longer than I thought possible. Just staring at her. She held his gaze. Just waiting. And he said:
"Tess sold a painting last month. Obviously someone thinks she's good at that, too."
She only shrugged.
He set his fork down and rested his arms on the table. Leaned forward. "Don't you think she's a good painter, Mrs. Bellows?"
He thought he had her cornered. That he knew what she'd say, what she'd have to say. But he was wrong. He'd done it. And he didn't even know it.
He didn't know her.
She looked at me. At me, with those hard eyes. And I wanted to look away from them but I couldn't. So I sat there, staring back at her. Just waiting.
"No, I don't. And I think she's wasting her time and her energy and her money when she should be using them for–"
But she didn't get any farther. At the words, No, I don't, Brian grabbed my hand. I looked away from my mother and over at him. His eyes were filled with remorse. Because now he knew.
"Don't listen to her, Tess. You're a great artist."
I couldn't think of anything to say. Part of it was because I was a little foggy from having downed three beers in less than fifteen minutes. But most of it was because his words were still bouncing around in my brain. They echoed. Everywhere. Especially:
Artist.
It sounded good. Better than good. I especially loved the way it sounded in his voice. And I loved him for saying it, because it was the first time anyone had. Not just, you do good work or that's a nice painting.
Artist.
But even better than that was: Don't listen to her. Because what he'd really meant was: She's hurting you. And I'm gonna make her stop. Even though it wasn't true. Nothing, ever, would really make her stop. But at least it was true for a little while. And at least he was willing to try.
January 22, 2011
Heath Ledger – One fan's perspective
Heath Ledger – One fan's perspective
Today is the one-year anniversary of Heath Ledgers death. I suppose it's not really necessary for me to add my small voice to the chorus of solemn tributes and fangirly hysterics that will no doubt be whispered and shouted all over the net today. I'm going to anyway. Don't worry; it's going to be brief.
To say that he was a talented actor with extraordinary good looks is to state the obvious, but his looks weren't what initially drew me to him. Hollywood stood up and took notice of him after his roles in the popular teen flick "10 Things I Hate About You" and the box office smash "A Knight's Tale." They offered him a career on a silver platter, a career filled with popular teen flicks and hot leading man roles, a career of certain fortune and big, big fame. It wasn't the career he wanted. He wanted to act, to learn, to prove himself. To take the kind of roles he wanted to take, to have fun with it, not to be the next It Boy. So he told Hollywood to fuck off (I don't know that he literally said, "Fuck off", although it's what I like to imagine he said) and set out on his own path. If he was going to succeed, he was going to do it on his terms, and if he was going to fail, it was going to be because he didn't compromise.
I really admire that kind of thing. It's extremely rare in any business, but especially so in the movie business. By now we know that he succeeded. The fact that he did so on his own terms was – and still is - a great source of joy and inspiration for me, in my personal as well as my professional life, even as his loss is still a source of great sadness. Chris Nolan put it better than I ever could: "After Heath passed on, you saw a hole ripped in the future of cinema." He is, and will continue to be, greatly missed.
January 19, 2011
Press release day
Today AmazonEncore released their late spring/early summer 2011 list and Waiting For Spring was on it. The official press release is here, but I'm also posting this link because I like seeing my name underneath the NBC peacock. My sort-of name, that is. My pen name. Until recently it's the name I thought of as Online Me. Now I'm beginning to realize that Online Me and Real Life Me are going to have to figure out how to merge into just plain Me, and right quick.
But enough with the existential bullshit.
A lot of people have asked me how long the current edition of Waiting For Spring will be available before the Encore edition is released (TUESDAY MAY 10, 2011). The truth is I don't know yet. I keep going back and forth about it. I'll give plenty of notice before I do take it down, though.
In the meantime, here's the trailer for the Encore release:
January 18, 2011
We need to be better than this
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Reflection
(appears in Flash Fiction 40 Anthology 2009)
An eight-year-old boy saunters down the street, smiling proudly, armed with a powerful new weapon, a gift from his father the evening before.
He slips open the schoolyard gate and surveys the crowd with his sharp, green eyes, so like his daddy's: Girls skipping rope; boys shooting hoops; teachers chatting amongst themselves, tired and bored. And, sitting by himself, leaning against a solitary tree, reading a book, is his target.
He makes his way over, fists stuffed tightly into his pockets, twitching to keep the grin off his face until just the right moment. He comes to a stop directly in front a pair of white, spotless shoes, rolling the weapon around his tongue, savoring the jagged consonants and tangy vowels. His father's voice echoes in his ears as he lets loose his grin, pulls the trigger, and fires the word directly into his target's fragile, tender heart:
"Faggot!"
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The Trevor Project
It Gets Better
January 16, 2011
#SampleSunday January 16, 2011
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When we got home it was already dark. There was no moon; only a skyful of stars. Brian met me on the lawn. I didn't bother to go inside for a blanket, even though it really was chilly. We unpacked our little picnic right on the grass, which made both of us laugh, even before we'd begun. And he had a warning for me.
"This shit makes me…well, I'm gonna talk your frigging ear off."
"And that's different…how?"
It didn't take me long to find out. He became the Philosopher of Everything. Great and small. It seemed unreal to him that love, a thing that was so chaotic and irrational, could even exist in a universe that was, at its very core, so orderly and precise, let alone keep that universe in motion. He heard music in the gently swishing pines and it was the same music he remembered hearing once in the ocean's white, frothy waves as they crashed on glittery, stony shores during a childhood trip to the coast. I could actually hear the musical waves as he spoke, just as if I'd been there with him, and it washed away the lonely, empty ache inside me, better than the trippy haze alone ever could have done. Because his voice was deep and sweet and rich and slow and the words that poured out of him sounded just like poetry and honey.
I begged him to keep talking, to just talk and talk and never, never stop, so he told me all about the stars. He loved them, had always loved them. They were winking at us, he said, because they knew something that we didn't. It was a secret they were forced to hide, a secret so great and wondrous that they wanted to shout it out so the whole world would know, but they had to keep it buried deep inside. Even so he knew what it was, because someone had told him a long time ago. The stars, he said, were actually souls; all the souls that were too restless to be locked up in heaven. They were so restless that God let them stay outside at night to play.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard him say, that I'd ever heard anyone say, and I forgot for a moment that he didn't even believe in God. And when I did remember I still believed his words and I was thankful that He had chosen tonight to let so many restless souls out to play. I smiled up at them and they smiled right back. Giant prism smiles that shattered the white light into a thousand colors I'd never even seen before. They dripped everywhere, spilled all over the sky, slowly, just like hot candle wax; and then they froze. Stood still for a beautiful brief eternity and I tried to whisper to them. Wanted to tell them that I knew their secret, but no words would form. I could tell that they heard me though, or that they'd at least heard my thoughts, because they came in a little closer. They were so close that I knew I could touch them. I reached up, way up, stretched as far as I could stretch while still lying on my back…and I swept my fingers across the cold, wet, colorful sky.
Brian reached up, too, but not for the stars. He grabbed my hand, brought it back down to Earth and I think he knew, even though I didn't tell him. I think he felt it, felt it all, in my fingertips. Because he kissed them, each one, so gently, with precious, tender lips. And when he kissed my mouth I could taste the night on his lips and his tongue. Sweet honey words and neon stardust, and we made love, in slow motion, naked underneath the mischievous stars.
The night was chilly and the ground was cold, like I was lying on January's carpet. But it soon melted away; the cold, the grass, the ground itself. It all evaporated and we were enveloped in its steam. Because Brian was burning with a heat more intense and pure than the sun. He was heat, the source of everything warm and in that night of mist and haze and waxy skies his body was the only thing that was real. Our love the only thing that was solid, the only solid thing in the world, in vast expanse of the universe. For a brief moment lucidity flickered, and I begged the starry, restless souls that it was true. That it would still be true even after the mists were gone and the haze wore off and the ground returned.
That it would always be true.
