Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 51

Last Dance

This song has been running through my head all afternoon. I think my first introduction to Donna Summer might have been the movie Thank God It’s Friday, which when you get right down to it was really not good. But—but!—it had that wonderful song.

I think my musical tastes have probably been more informed by dance music than rock, especially disco. I was born at the tail end of the last year of the 1960s, too late for that decade to have much influence. The first 45 I bought may have been “My Sharona” by the Knack, but my listening habits quickly drifted to disco (blame the Bee Gees and Xanadu). I do listen to rock, but I still lean more toward the dancier side of things. (I’m looking at you, Kylie.) I don’t know, dance and disco always seemed happier than rock, and there’s often little to be happy about in this world. You might as well be happy between your ears and on the dance floor.

So while we’re driving down to New Orleans tomorrow—well, Michael will be driving; I’ll be sitting in the passenger seat with my laptop open while I work on the novel—we’ll have Donna playing on Pandora and I’ll think about the old days of disco. Which means also at some point I’ll probably think of Liza Minnelli knocking on Halston’s door and saying, “Give me every drug you’ve got,” because that was 1978 and although it doesn’t really have anything to do with disco it’s the same year that Thank God It’s Friday came out. There are worse things to be remembered as than a disco queen.

Working soundtrack for a novel in progress

Here’s a true fact: I can’t listen to anything while I’m working. I’ve certainly never understood (though sometimes I’ve envied) people who can work and, say, watch TV at the same time or carry on a conversation. If I tried to do that, both the conversation and whatever I was writing would come out as incoherent drivel.

Which is not to say that my writing doesn’t sometimes come out like that regardless. Anyway….

I can’t even listen to music and work at the same time, which is often a disappointment to me. I mean, who doesn’t love to listen to music? (Do not raise your hand; I will think differently of you after that.) If I’m writing and you see me with headphones on, most likely it’s to block out background noise.

A word about background noise: in paradox to all this, I can write without difficulty in public spaces. All the voices and noises blend together into a continuous fuzz, which is actually kind of lulling. There are exceptions, like when you sit in a cafe next to someone who has that voice. You know the one; it hits just the right volume and tone that it’s impossible to ignore. And why aren’t they ever talking about anything interesting? I mean, if I have to hear your conversation, please talk about some fantastic book you read or some fantastic lay you took home, not about your car or your honors student child.

Where was I? Oh yeah, music.

Even if I can’t listen to it while I’m working, I still associate music with what I’m writing. For the last book (you’ve got a copy, right?) I put together a playlist that I listened to constantly. In a few cases, I kept adding songs to it even after the book was done. These were the things I listened to when I wasn’t working on the book, and they kept my mind always working on it in some little way.

Now that I’m working on book #2, Amazons (first draft is almost done—can I get an amen? Anyone?), naturally I’ve got a playlist of things that I listen to when I’m running, at the gym, paying bills, cooking dinner. So it may not look like I’m writing when I’m not writing, but I’m kind of writing. (That makes sense, right? Well, as much as anything else I ever say.)

So, thanks to the miracle of Spotify, I now have an easy way to share the playlist (because let’s face it, I’m lazy). I don’t think all the songs are available in their public library, but if you want to give it a look or a listen, click here. And of course, I’d love to hear what you think the book might be about or its overall tone based on these songs.

“Hi, my name’s Jeff and I’m a coffee junkie.” “Hi, Jeff.”

So yesterday, for reasons known only to the gods, I decided to try and go without caffeine.

I’ll wait while you pick your jaw up off the floor.

Back with me? Great. So, I can hear you asking, why on earth would I do something like that. (More likely you’re thinking, “Good God, man. Are you out of your mind?” Best not to answer that.) It’s a well-known fact that the coffee-to-blood ratio in my body is probably around 2:1. This, I realize, may not be the healthiest thing in the world. I know, all things in moderation, but I’ve never been a big fan of moderation.

OK, that’s a lie, but I’ve often thought nothing succeeds like excess. Or someone else thought that, and I just stole their line.

Where was I? Coffee. Right. So, I’m writing this while I drink a cup of Caribou blend from my writing mug (the one that says “What Deadline?” on the side), so you know I didn’t quite succeed in going cold turkey. Well, I succeeded. For a day.

It was scary.

But getting back to the question of why, I read this article on the subject this weekend and realized that if you asked me how many cups of coffee I drink in an average day, I couldn’t tell you because I fill up the cup so often, I lose count.

Also, math is hard.

Anyway, the symptoms in the article ring true, especially the things about fatigue, exhaustion and most of all, irritability. (Is it the caffeine that makes me a stone cold bitch? All this time I thought it was keeping me from being an even bigger one.) So, I decided to forgo the bean yesterday (or at least drink decaf).

Oh, the pain.

I had to pop Advil at least three times during the workday, and by the time I got home, I was feeling partly to mostly foggy. I couldn’t even read before I went to bed, because it was too hard to concentrate.

So, yeah—addict=me.

I’m having a cup this morning before I switch over to decaf—and I’m also trying to drink more of this clear, flavorless liquid. What’s it called? Oh yeah, water.

I know Captain Janeway beat the Borg with coffee, but at what price?

Are you a saint or are you a sinner?

I’m really, really (no really) looking forward to going to New Orleans again next month for the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival. I’ve gone every year since 2009 (my first time was in 2004), and in addition to the pure unadulterated joy that comes from seeing my friends Greg and ‘Nathan there, a lot of my success as a writer is tied to that conference and the people I’ve met at it. Over at my Red Room page, I talk a lot more about why I love it, and why New Orleans is one of the least likely places in the country that I would love. (And yet I do.) Check it out.

Proofs, contracts, and chapter 11 (no, not THAT kind of Chapter 11)

It's a well-known fact that getting the mail is the highlight of my day. I love going out to the mailbox and finding things in it addressed to someone other than "current resident." It's even better when it's not a bill! Like today, when I opened a big manila envelope and found a signed contract for a short story. It'll be coming out this November from Untreed Reads, just in time for the holidays.

And for this we are thankful.

But wait, there's more! That's the nice thing about e-mail, after all; it doesn't just come once a day! And sometimes it's not even spam! Like today, when I opened an email from my editor and found a proof to review. And—and!—cover art. It's all too much excitement, I'm telling you.

Equally exciting was finishing chapter 11 this past weekend. (No, not Chapter 11 as in bankruptcy Chapter 11—though there have been times in the dim and distant past when I wondered if it would come to that. But enough of February. [Kidding!]) Now I'm about a third of the way through chapter 12, and I find that I'm slowing down as I write these later chapters, with good reason. I'm threading together a bunch of different things that have been going on or hinted at in earlier chapters, and I'm trying not to drop any threads or leave any loose ends.

On the other hand, that's what scissors are for, right?

There are four more chapters after this one, so here's the thing: Ask me in mid-May, say around the 14th, where I am. If I'm not on chapter 16, get in your car or hop on a plane, come down here, and kick my ass.

Of course, I know you can't do that, faceless anonymous reader on the Internet. This is more to remind myself that I may need to kick my own ass if I'm not nearing the home stretch in May.

And then there are a couple of short stories that I want to see if I can't finish before the end of the year. Not to mention book #3. At least I already have a first draft of that book in the can.

Did I mention that I came up with an idea for book #4 last week?

All I ever wanted was just to come in from the cold

So, I've been on a Joni Mitchell kick today.

I am probably an odd Joni Mitchell fan; the first album of hers that I bought was Dog Eat Dog, which got a rather tepid reception from critics and didn't sell well. I think I liked the theme of anti-consumerism that ran through so many of the songs. Later, I bought Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm and then, when I got an iPod and iTunes became my crack, Hits. I discovered my favorite song of hers from that compilation, "Come in from the Cold," which was originally on the 1991 album Night Ride Home, and today I've been listening to it constantly. It's perhaps a bad habit of mine: I latch onto a song I particularly  like, and I will listen to it into the ground. Seriously, if you looked at my play log in iTunes, you would see that I've listen to "Fever" by Kylie—well, perhaps you don't need to know how many times (oh, fine, 181 times) I've listened to it. And those don't take into account the listens on the CD.

Where was I? Oh yes, Joni.

Anyone who knows me realizes that home is a concept I return to often, both in my writing and my life. We moved around a lot. Home was wherever my family was. When I was in college and my parents were in London, well, even though I hadn't ever lived there before, that was home. They're in Washington state now, and in a way I can't explain, that's home. (When they're gone, where will home be? I don't know. Believe me, I've wondered.)

No wonder either, then, that Detours, my first novel, was all about where you find and call home. For me, home is also here, in St. Louis, where I live with Michael and our two dogs. I guess I'm a bit fragmented when it comes to the GPS coordinates for home, but I know where it is when I think about it. It's wherever the people I love are.

So when my friend 'Nathan was visited at his home by some religious zealots who didn't cotton onto the idea that he was gay and married, well, my inner Dark Willow felt like getting her flay on. Home is the place where you feel safe. It's where you don't have to explain yourself, justify yourself, or place conditions on who you are. And these people brought the conditional tense right to his doorstep.

I probably would not have reacted quite as diplomatically as he did in that situation. (In my badass state of mind, I would likely be facing assault charges. In reality, I probaby would just have pointed out that I don't believe in their god and shut the door in their faces.)

The more I think about it, though, I feel sorry for the people who knocked on his door, because they will never be open to the kindness and generosity of spirit engendered in people like 'Nathan. What a poverty for them.

"Is this just vulgar electricity? Is this the edifying fire?" If I've learned anything, it's that home is not a particular place or building or even a person. It's not wherever someone else is; it's whereverI am. And wherever that is, those I consider my friends and family will always have a place where they can come in from the cold.

Did anyone get the plate of that truck?

The one that ran me over, that is.

We went out to dinner last night and I started feeling oogie before we'd even finished up and had our leftovers boxed up. We got home early and I headed more or less straight to bed, which is not something I typically do. I knew something wasn't quite right when I woke up at 12:30.

And 1:45.

And 3:00.

Can I just say I really hate getting sick to my stomach? On the bright side, I'm just one more stomach virus away from my goal weight!

I kid, really. There's nothing funny about praying to the porcelain god. (Mike doesn't seem to have been spared from this unfortunate situation either. I wonder what it was that we ate.) I have a feeling I'm not going to be getting out of my pajamas at all today. Or eating much. Sadder still, I'm a bit leery of making any coffee this morning lest I upset the apple cart that is my stomach once more.

A morning without coffee just doesn't bear thinking about. Not to mention the headache I'll get from the resulting caffeine withdrawal.

There is probably a nap in my future, but for the moment I'm going to turn my attention to chapter nine of Book No. 2, at least until I take a header into the typewriter and start snoring.

I feel like reading tonight

So. Tonight's the reading at the St. Louis Artists' Guild, and I've chosen the bits from the novel I'm going to read, practiced, made edits so it sounds coherent when read out loud, and practiced some more. Worried that it was too short, picked an additional passage to read, edited, practiced.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Snacks have been procured (because an audience that's not hungry seems likely to be more forgiving), and I've got a small box of books in case anyone wants to buy one. (Thanks, Left Bank!) All that's left is to get through the day and hope that this ends up being a good hair day.

Well, that and hope that people show up. (You're coming, right?)

In other news, here's a fantabulous review of Detours at examiner.com.

I finished the (very) rough draft of a story about a demon this weekend, so now I have to transcribe it and find some willing victims to read it and tell me what's wrong with it before I send it to the editor. Then it's back to book #2, where chapter nine waits to be unscrambled.

Where I do that thing I do

If you haven't heard of the website Write Place, Write Time, it's a gallery of photos of different writers' workplaces—the desks, tables, and sometimes beds where they do their writing, revising, creating, and dreaming. Among others, I am seriously in love with Christian Dumais' office, due in no small part to the presence of the adorable Dudikoff.

Today, they're featuring my own workplace, dba the dining room table. Take a look. Here's where the magic happens, kids.

(You can also follow them on Twitter at @Write_Place.)

The Game Night Guys Have a Plan

A few years ago, my friend Mikey gave me a board game for—well, it could have been the holidays or it could have been my birthday. Maybe just because. Anyway, it was Battlestar Galactica, the board game. (Yes, really.) He was coming for a visit and he said we'd play it when he got here.

Except we didn't. Because the rulebook was 32 pages long. And incomprehensible.

So what did I do? Sent it to Brian and Curtis, hosts of the podcast Game Night Guys. Did they make sense of it? Click here and find out.