Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 48

Intimidated by a magazine subscription

Since I’ve been home on Christmas break, I’ve worked my way through maybe half a dozen back issues of The New Yorker. I’ve told myself, “Just read the short stories, that’s why you subscribe to it anyway,” though I can usually get sucked into a feature article or a movie review (especially if it’s by David Denby, who is totally a mean girl and I find that entertaining even if I have no intention of watching the movie he’s reviewing). Despite that, the stack has barely shrunk since three more issues have been delivered in the meantime.

Did I say “stack”? I meant stacks. There’s one on the nightstand, one on the floor next to the nightstand, and a pile in a magazine basket that’s actually twice as tall as the basket itself. If it weren’t for the recliner it sits next to, the whole thing would topple over. Granted, not every magazine in the basket is a New Yorker. There are issues of Glimmer Train, The Missouri Review, Canteen, Gertrude. The Paris Review one year. I subscribe to a lot of lit journals that it seems I never get around to reading, but they’re hefty, book-like publications that will be kept and put on the bookshelf once I’ve made my way through them.

The New Yorker, on the other hand, winds up in the recycle bin.

I’ve had a subscription to the magazine for as long as I can remember. I recall times when I’d work my way through a stack of back issues and find some from 2006 and 2007, even 2003 once.

I’m afraid to count up all the New Yorker back issues I have. There’s probably about 30. That’s more than a half-year’s subscription in itself. The subscription’s not up for renewal until October 2013, but already I’m pretty certain I’m going to let it go unrenewed. For one thing, I’m a graduate student on a budget, and they have it at the library. For another, all that paper from which I regularly read about six to twelve pages before it goes in the bin. I may opt for the all-digital subscription later, but really, I wish I could just get the short story.

Merry Christmas, everybody. I have some reading to catch up on….

Satan Takes A Holiday

I’m actually not talking about the Tommy Dorsey swing tune, but in case you haven’t heard it before, take a listen:

“Satan Takes A Holiday” is the title of my story in Raising Hell: Demonic Gay Erotica, which is out this month from Bold Strokes Books. In it, the Prince of Darkness is bored with the 9-to-5 grind of keeping Hell running (though he does have Ava, his executive assistant, to help with that), so he decides to take some time off and heads to the mortal world. Hijinks, as you can imagine, ensue.

This one was a lot of fun to write. In this case, the title arrived first, and the story second. Once I got the title, I wondered, what would the Devil do on vacation? Where would he go? And would he really be able to leave work at the office?

And what about that smell of brimstone?

I like writing funny, and I hope the story makes a few people laugh. Laughter is the least you can do, considering I’m probably going to Hell in a big wool sweater for writing it.

I’ll save you a seat.

Portrait of the Artist as a Slug

The amount of work I got done yesterday was astonishing.

Astonishingly minuscule.

I blame the weather and the chardonnay I had the night before. Normally, when I’m home, I’m out the door to get to the gym by 6 a.m., but on Monday I slept until 7:30 and by the time I got up it was drizzling and cold and since the coffee was hot, why would I want to go out in that mess?

So I didn’t get to the gym until 2:30, but at least I went. In the intervening time between getting up and getting out, I finished reading a book (Leaving Atlanta by Tayari Jones, which was a stunning as I expected it to be, though perhaps not the best choice of reading material given the news events of recent days), worked a little bit on a story I’m writing for next semester and an essay that’s due by the 1st, and—ta da!—got a contract in the mail for a story, which I signed and got ready to return. As Mondays go, it might have been sluggish, but it was a good one.

Today, though, I’m hoping to be somewhat more productive. Hey, at least I can cross “write blog post” off the list, right?

There’s no place like home, or “I’ll be in the kitchen”

I’ve been home from grad school for a week now. The thing that strikes me most is how easily I fall back into my old routines: up at 5, gym by 6, home by 7:30—and then the routine falls apart, because I don’t have to be at work by 8:30 anymore.

You’d think I would be doing a lot of writing instead, and I am doing some, but not nearly as much as I might hope. (This, of course, is always the case. I’m never writing as much as I’d hope.) There’s a story I’m working on for my advanced fiction workshop that’s still giving me trouble. I get bits and pieces of it but I’m still lacking the key piece that will make the first draft complete. I’m also working on an essay for an upcoming anthology, and as always, these things never turn out quite the way I expected. That is not necessarily a bad thing.

I’ve also got a proof to review for another anthology coming out next year, and I just got word that an anthology in which I’ll have an essay just got turned in to the publisher. So, all in all, a good week as far as seeing past productivity pay off. I just need a little more current productivity.

What I have been doing more of since I got home is cook. Back at grad school, I’m staying at a residential college for graduate students and post-docs (think dorm life for [mostly] grown-ups), and there’s a common kitchen available for everyone to use. The ideology of sharing was drilled into my head by my parents and Sesame Street, but when it comes to the kitchen, it’s nice to know where everything is and not have to wonder, can I use this? Do we have a…? Where’s the…?

So far, I’ve made a batch of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (pictured), a somewhat modified version of Tayari Jones’ Southern mac and cheese, and a big crock pot full of Italian bean and pasta soup, as well as a curried (fake) chicken and couscous. I’ll be doing the mac and cheese again due to popular demand, and I’m also going to make a lasagna. I’m also planning to do some baking for gift-giving, and then for my grand finale, I think I might try to make this.

By the time I leave, the freezer will be full of leftovers. And I’ll need to go (back) on a (much stricter) diet (than the one I’m already on and have completely blown).

(Also, I use parentheses way too much.)

‘The once-impregnable citadel of elitist publishing’

Already the gates are down, and the masses are streaming into the once-impregnable citadel of elitist publishing. Wielding not pitchforks but wads of much-needed cash, they are more than welcome.

It’s interesting how the tone of these articles has changed in such a short time. In stories about self-publishing that I read as recently as this year, a typical highlight was how few copies each individual title sold—about 100 to 150, according to this New York Times article from August. Meanwhile, this article from today’s Globe and Mail highlights the proliferation of self-published titles and how traditional publishers are trying to get in on the action precisely because that’s where the action is. And, apparently, the money.

Certainly, the stigma surrounding “vanity publishing” seems to be fading. (Who even calls it that anymore, anyway?) Because it’s not really about vanity, in many cases. And it’s going to create a lot of business for more than just writers.

Librarians. The thing that occurs to me is that the explosion of titles published every year is going to make it harder for readers to sift through that haystack to find the books they really want to read. I’d imagine librarians’ jobs are going to get a lot harder as a result, but that means they’ll remain as essential as they’ve always been.

Editors, designers, artists, and marketers. It’s also going to be a challenge for each one of those writers to get their book noticed. The things that help their book stand out in the crowd—professional editing, design, cover art, and marketing/promotion—are costs they will have to shoulder. At the same time, that presents opportunities for editors, designers, artists, and marketers to grow their own business.

I’m by no means an expert, and this is all just off the top of my head. Do you think more and more of the publishing business will gravitate toward the pay-as-you-go model? And, since an acquaintance asked me recently whether I had any experience in self-publishing, I’ll pass along the question. What’s been your experience with self-publishing?

The trajectory of chance

So, I’m reading this book by Frank Rose called The Art of Immersion: How the digital generation is remaking Hollywood, Madison Avenue, and the way we tell stories. It was recommended to me by the professor teaching the class for which I’ll be a TA next semester, Writing for New Media. (Am I qualified to TA this? Well, I have a blog, and I tweet—neither terribly well. Maybe I can be an object lesson.)

Anyway. I got to this part where he quotes a panelist at a 2009 MIT conference called “Futures of Entertainment” who said “Social media is powered by empathy.” The comment garnered a certain amount of skepticism. Of course, the way people mouth off and flame (and not in the good way) online may make you question that statement. But, as Rose says later, “to blame rudeness on the Internet is like blaming highways for road rage.”

Case in point. (Yes, I do have a point. Why do you ask?) This past weekend I went out for dinner with a New Yorker visiting Vancouver for work. We went to a place in Gastown called Café Nuba—and if you live in Vancouver or are coming to visit, they have some of the best Lebanese food I’ve ever eaten. Their falafel were fantastic, and the red lentil soup was perfect on a rainy night.

I didn’t know her before this past weekend. A mutual friend put us in touch, and we made plans from there. She was highly amused by one thing, though. Our mutual friend? I’ve never met him in person, either. We became acquainted through blogging and then, of course, eventually connected on Facebook. (Doesn’t everyone? Don’t get me started on that.) As I went home, I thought what a funny world it is, that two complete strangers from opposite ends of the continent can somehow manage to sit down in the same room and share some dinner and become a little less strange.

I’m still a little wowed by the connections we’re able to make online. I know it’s made a difference in my career and in my friendships, and I’ve met people I never would have had the opportunity to know before. If that isn’t empathy at work, I don’t know what is.

How has it affected your connections?

Somewhere over the Rainbow (Awards)

Elisa Rolle is a book lover who reads a ton and writes reviews at her blog. Every year she organizes the Rainbow Awards, which looks like a fairly herculean effort involving hundreds of books (over 480 this year) in tons of categories and scads of judges. Scads, I tell you. It all culminates in December when she announces who won what on her blog.

No, Detours didn’t win anything. But! It got an honorable mention in Best Gay Contemporary General Fiction and Best Gay Debut Novel/Book. (To quote Susan Lucci, it’s a privilege just to be nominated.) And! Several of my friends and fellow writers got numerous awards, including Rebekah Weatherspoon for best lesbian debut novel/book for Better off Red and Ken O’Neill for best gay debut novel for The Marrying Kind.

The complete list is here. Go take a look; hopefully you’ll find something intriguing to add to your reading list (because you’ve already read Detours, right? Right?)

Writing the Future, or Why the Zombie Apocalypse is Never in the Past

I think it’s a fantastic thing when thousands of people fill an auditorium to listen to a writer talk. Which is what happened this past Thursday when Margaret Atwood came to speak at the University. The topic of her talk, “Writing the Future,” was “whether or not one can write about ‘the future,’ and why prophecy is dodgy. This will include an in-depth dive into the meaning of the Zombie Apocalypse, which always takes place in ‘the future.’ Unlike vampires.”

I’ve only read two books by Ms. Atwood: The Edible Woman and The Handmaid’s Tale, and the latter only just recently. (Yes, the gaps in my reading are more like yawning chasms, and you’d be appalled by all the other classics I haven’t read.) Oryx and Crake is sitting on my shelf and waiting to be read. What you wouldn’t guess from her novels is that she has a wicked sense of humour, delivered in such a dry, deadpan manner that you’d be forgiven for missing it, but then she dips her head and smiles to herself and lets you in on the joke.

Before her talk, I had pretty much soured on the subject of zombies. (This will no doubt sound like sacrilege to my friends Christine and Alzana, but I’d tell them to fret not, I still want to go see World War Z with them.) Much like bacon, it seems that zombies are everywhere, including the aforementioned upcoming movie release. As a vegetarian, I have no use for bacon, and frankly, zombies are the new bacon in my book.

But, as Ms. Atwood pointed out, they don’t sparkle.

It hadn’t occurred to me before listening to her that zombie apocalypses, quite rightly, always take place in the future. And it’s a fairly grim future, usually. Zombies, she says, are a lot like us, only without hope. Which is why these stories tend to crop up in unsettled times, and if these aren’t unsettled times, I don’t know what are.

I think I’m still missing the appeal of zombies: intrinsically, I don’t find them very interesting. How people cope with them and react to the new reality of a world with them in it? Well, that’s another story. Because a zombie story is never about the zombies, is it? Maybe that’s appeal enough.

As if that weren’t enough literary awesomeness for one weekend, Saturday was also a book launch for Leah Horlick‘s first poetry collection, Riot Lung, including readings from Adrienne Gruber and Megan Backer. There was a capacity crowd for this one too, and it was quite spirited. Unlike the zombie apocalypse.

“I’d like to have kids, but only if they’re old enough to dust”

It probably comes as no surprise to much of anyone that I’m not a kid person. I don’t think I was even when I was a kid myself. The often-heard phrase “he’s 4 going on 40″ was used in reference to me. It not only referred to my serious nature, but also the fact that I didn’t really like hanging out with other kids.

That line at the top is one that’s often repeated in our house now. In a lot of ways, Mike and I consider our dogs to be our children (you may be tempted to take issue with this; please do not—you will lose), and I’ve been content with that. No, more than content—relieved. I don’t want kids.

Every once in a while, though, I have my doubts.

So, when I got this call for submissions from Bruce Gillespie, I thought, “What do I have to say on the subject of LGBT families?” The more I thought about it, the more I realized, actually, I have a lot to say. I’m betting someone else out there might have a lot to say as well, so get crackin’. The deadline’s January 1, 2013.

New Story at Untreed Reads, and the Joy of the Holidays

Ah, the holidays. They’re all about family and togetherness and the spirit of friendship and generosity and—

Oh, who are we kidding? The holidays are about buying too much and eating too much and spending too much time with the people you love who drive you ever so crazy. Families at holiday time put the fun in dysfunction.

And yet, it’s my favorite time of the year. Thanksgiving moreso than Christmas or Hanukah or even Halloween (which I suppose is blasphemy for a gay man—it’s meant to be our national holiday, isn’t it?). I remember many years ago, maybe fifteen or so, when I was standing at the kitchen sink in my apartment looking at the Christmas lights blinking in someone’s window and wondering a) how much fun they were having with their family and b) how much their electric bill was.

I also got an idea for a story. Specifically, one called “Straightening Up,” which is out this week from Untreed Reads. Early this year before I left for grad school, I re-workshopped and revised this story with my writing group. The premise behind the story—a couple having to de-gay the house because one of their mothers is coming to visit and she doesn’t know her darling boy is a big ol’ ‘mo—is not one that’s happened to me, but I haven’t let that stop me from blatantly stealing scenarios from other people’s lives.

Er, I mean borrowing.

Anyway, without further ado, go check out the story! (I’ve also got two other stories available from Untreed Reads; if you buy either or both of them along with “Straightening Up,” you’ll get a 30% discount on the earlier stories.)