Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 56

Oh, so it's going to be like that, is it?

So my friend 'Nathan is having a contest over on his Facebook page where people can win a copy of one of the anthologies where his work appears. (He's got quite a few, you know.) As it happens, we are in an inordinately high number of these together. You might think it's a conspiracy, even.

But any rate, to explain the picture above: the first entry received for this contest was of someone's cat, and 'Nathan, an avowed ailurophile (though I suspect his stance is simply to throw us off his dog-loving ways), claimed that cats must be more literate than dogs.

Dakota would beg to differ. As you can see, he likes to curl up with a good book as much as anyone.

(Show Dakota some love here or over on redroom.com….)

So maybe I need a new author photo

So, true confession: that picture of me with the short hair that's on my website and most online bios (including my Red Room page)? It's just a little… well, outdated.

Oh, fine. It was taken in 2005, when I had fewer crow's feet and fewer pounds and fewer gray hairs.  Six years on, I'm over the hill of 40, climbing my way toward 50, and realizing that maybe it's time for a new picture.

Here's another way it doesn't reflect reality: For some reason known only to my subconscious mind, I've been letting my hair grow. Maybe it's just because I still have all my hair that I'm doing it. However, the state of it on any given morning can be… interesting:

Needless to say, I'll give it a brush before I smile for the camera.

Did this 'do make you laugh? Tell me about it here or over on redroom.com….

I'd rather read, but what choice do I have

At the moment I'm sitting at the dining room table—I've forsaken my desk in the living room for a change of venue the past few weeks because, sometimes, it gets to be too predictable staring at the same wall and, well, it's in the living room, which no longer seems like the best place for getting work done. But the dining room, that's the sort of room that rarely gets used in a house (almost as rarely as our guest bedrooms, one of which gets used for ironing and the other as a staging area for all the crap I'm trying to get rid of on eBay). Either it becomes this quiet, dusty shrine to dinners never held in lieu of the kitchen (or, more likely, the living room) or the table becomes that one clear, flat surface where you don't have to move anything to spread your work out. I think I could lay thirty manuscript pages edge to edge without running out of room, maybe more.

Almost, anyway. At the moment, in addition to my laptop, there are two back issues of Poets & Writers, a copy of Jameson Currier's The Third Buddha, the novel I've just started reading again after finishing The Great Night. (I may have to go back and reread the last half of that book, because its chaotic, dreamlike structure was hard for me to follow.) The novel is sitting on top of my Kobo, where I've also gone back to reading The Sea Wolf. (I'm trying to be less afraid of the classics.) I've also got two back issues of One Story (if you're not reading this, it's the one magazine I would urge you to pick up) and an old journal where I'm sure I wrote something I need to find for the novel I'm working on.

There's also an invoice for the cruise we're taking over Halloween (very excited) and warranty information on the washing machine, which sounds louder than a jet engine when it goes into the spin cycle (less excited about dealing with that, but not really wanting to lose my hearing either).

I'd much rather read at the moment than write. I need to squelch that urge though, because, as I've mentioned, I have a deadline. In one article in the latest PW, an interview with debut novelist William Giraldi, he says writing "is still an excruciating endeavor for me. Honestly, I don't like it all that much. I'd much rather read than write."

So true. When I say I love writing, I'm basically lying, or at least being almost deliberately inaccurate. I love having written would be a better way to put it.  When the writing is really flowing, when the story comes together—that part's great. Sometimes I think digging ditches might be easier. Well, perhaps not with my back.

There comes a point when I have to put reading by the wayside while I'm working on something. Poor Jack London is probably going to get left mid-stream again, my stack of unread New Yorkers is going to get even higher than it is now.

(You can comment here, or nip over to redroom.com and say something there.)

Home/work

It's a miserably hot day today, just the latest in a string of them with, apparently, more of the same to come. I tend to wither in the summer, and prefer nothing better than to stay in the air conditioning from May through September until the leaves start turning.

What can I say? I loathe the summer. It's my least favorite season.

Today I'm taking my laptop, my manuscript, and my reading material and retreating to my super-secret clandestine dessert-centered hideout for a Day of Writing® with my friend Pamela. We both seem to need neutral ground when we work-for me, at least, the distractions of the house are often too overwhelming. Some of them aren't exclusive to home (one of them is the machine I'm using right now to type this), but when I'm in a public place, it seems like I have the mental separation from home and hearth (I really wish we had a heart, though in this weather a nice fire is obviously redundant) necessary to get into working mode.

Where do you do your best work? Where do you find it impossible to get anything done?

(You can leave a comment here, or if you like, you can nip over to redroom.com and say something there.)

Wilde Stories 2011, story by story

I'm not a fast reader. It takes me a while to get through a book, so even though I received my advance copy of Wilde Stories 2011 ages ago, I've only just now finished it. Since I always enjoy it when my friend 'Nathan goes through an anthology story by story, I figured I'd give that a spin here….

Love Will Tear Us Apart

Unnerving, unsettling, and irresistible, Alaya Dawn Johnson writes a love that dare not speak its name because its mouth is full of human flesh. A novel take on the zombie story is told intermittently, and to good effect, in that most difficult of all perspectives, second person. It's tense and funny and sad and, unexpectedly, sweet. (Bonus points for the reference to a Kate Bush song.)

Map of Seventeen

Christopher Barzak writes a convincing story of a seventeen-year-old Ohio girl with a gift she hasn't told anyone about. Then her gay artist brother comes back to town with his fiancé, who has an even bigger secret than the one Meg has been hiding for years. It leaves you at the end wondering where the characters' lives go after the last word.

How to Make Friends in Seventh Grade

Nick Poniatowski nearly made me cry with his story of two junior high misfits, an enigmatic spaceship in Earth orbit, and one boy's model rocket that takes him further than his frightened classmate ever expected it would. For anyone who has ever felt like an outsider and wanted not just to get out of their house or their hometown, but off this planet, they'll find this story sad and beautiful.

Mysterium Tremendum

Laird Barron dials up the creepy factor to eleven in this compelling story about two couples who go camping after one of them finds a mysterious occult guide in a used bookstore. I had no idea where this story was going, which was part of its appeal. Another part was the strength of his characters, their distinct voices and their personality traits against type. Suffice it to say, these guys are really rough and tumble, especially for a gaggle of gays.

This is the sort of story that makes you want to go and turn on all the lights in the house once you're finished. And stay out of the basement.

Mortis Persona 

What if reuniting with a dead loved one was as simple as putting on a mask? Barbara A. Barnett offers an interesting twist on love from beyond the grave. Her economy of time presents an entire life's span in the space of a short story, and poses the question, does love ever die?

All the Shadows

Another melancholy chiller, this one about a couple holidaying in a seaside town. Of course, when one of them is able to glimpse traces of people who've died, it's going to be anything but a pleasant vacation. Joel Lane's unexpected ending makes for a sad and unsettling tale.

Blazon

I loved Peter Dubé's story when I first read it in Saints + Sinners 2010. It's about a boy whose desire for men is so intense it takes on the character of combustion. There's more to it than that, though, if only he can overcome his fear of what he wants.

Oneirica

I originally read this story in Icarus, and I'll admit, it stumped me. I finally had to look that word up. Oeneiric means of or relating to dreams, and knowing that now helps me understand the strangely flowing quality of Hal Duncan's story. You're never quite sure where you are in time and place, and he describes a city that's as mazelike as the story he tells. And when you reach the very quotidian end, you do find yourself wondering if it was all a dream.

Lifeblood

Yeah, that's mine. So, moving right along.

Waiting for the Phone to Ring

One of the things I particularly liked about Richard Bowes' story was that the narrator and the main characters were all past a certain age. I think that's often an overlooked time of life, especially in queer fiction (with a few obvious exceptions, such as Andrew Holleran and Armistead Maupin), but is a phase that, with all of the accumulated experiences of youth and middle age, is rich with possibility. And there's plenty of that here, with a band whose frontman could see into other people's minds and went to great lengths-even murder-to find another who could do the same. Told from the vantage point of decades later, it still proves chilling.

The Noise

Has there been a zombie apocalypse, are the narrator's neighbors the walking dead, is his old boyfriend really even there? Richard Larson leaves nothing settled for certain and, whatever the answers, the tale is unnerving.

How to Make A Clown

Jeremy Shipp takes us on a journey to the other side of the mirror where clowns are real, humans are giants, and happily ever after might be possible. At the beginning, I wasn't expecting this story to be as touching as it turned out. A very pleasant surprise.

Beach Blanket Starship

Easily my favorite of the entire anthology, this was like Gidget meets a Star Trek holodeck gone awry. The whole, however, is much greater than the sum of these parts. Sandra McDonald crafts a moving tale that, even in sadness, has a happy ending.

Hothouse Flowers: Or the Discreet Boys of Dr. Barnabas

A classic horror tale with a gay twist, Chaz Brenchley tweaks the Dracula story and gives it a creepier, unsettling ending. His prose captures well that voice of Victorian-era literature without sounding stilted or dated.

—

If I had any complaint—and really, who am I to complain? My story's in there!—I'd have liked to see more science fiction like Sandra and Nick's stories. While I enjoy a satisfying horror tale, science fiction remains my first love as far as genre goes. I realize that this sounds a bit hypocritical since, hey, my story's about a vampire (I don't think I'm giving anything away by stating that here). What this means is, I think I am going to turn some of my attention toward science fiction in my own writing—right after I finish this novel about Amazons, a ghost story, and a story about a long-distance runner….

Continue the discussion on redroom.com

Stories, Amazons, and keeping track of your characters

I swear, it seems like Friday takes longer to get here every week. This weekend is PrideFest here in St. Louis, and Saturday is St. Louis Frontrunners' Pride 5K in Lafayette Park. Mike is running in the race (I'm hoping to bike down and cheer him on), and I'm planning to go to Tower Grove Park on Sunday at some point to say hello to some friends I haven't seen in a while.

I was emailing my friend 'Nathan and found myself going through the list of writing assignments on my plate at the moment: two short stories for anthologies my editor has requested (due November 1); two other stories I've been revisit intermittently for some time now (they have no predestined homes, but one I'm hoping to send to gay spec-fix magazine Icarus, and the other I'm going to send to Glimmer Train, because it never hurts to dream; besides, like Debbie Harry sang, dreaming is free).

And then there's book number two. I've been working on writing (and then rewriting) a short story for the past month or so (yes, it takes me that long, but only because I'm easily distracted), and now that I'm finally done with that, I am picking up the threads of the Amazon book. I know how it ends and I know how it starts, but it also has a bigger supporting cast than my last book so I've been working on character profiles; I feel like I need a suspects board like Kate Beckett and Rick Castle use to keep track of everyone.

(How do you keep track of your characters when you've got lots of them running around?)

Whatever you're up to, have a wonderful weekend!

Flowers

I feel like this should be such an easy choice—what's your favorite gay book?—but on the contrary, it is so difficult.

Part of the reason is that I feel like I've read so many of them, from A Boy's Own Story (the first one I read, I think) to Who Dat Whodunnit? (the latest and a thoroughly enjoyable ride with characters I've come to love). At the same time there are so many that I should have read that have been glaring omissions.

Another part is simply my failing memory: I've read so many, what if I have forgotten something that should rightfully be my favorite?

Of course, if I've forgotten one, maybe it wasn't my favorite. In the same way The Great Gatsby is my favorite novel and I read that (for the first time) almost thirty years ago, if I read something ten or twenty years before, I would still know if it were my favorite, right?

There are so many, but there's only one that made me pick up the phone when I got to the end and scream incoherently at my friend. That honor goes to Michael Cunningham's The Hours.

"When you get to the end, you have to call me because you will not see it coming," my friend Todd said, and he was right. When I first started reading, I had no idea how Cunningham would mesh three (at best) tangentially related storylines about Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Brown, and Clarissa Vaughn-all women of either questionable or undeniably lesbian sexuality. But it didn't take long before I was engrossed in each woman's story (I'd never even read Virginia Woolf at the time, apart from A Room of One's Own in college). When the link between them was knotted together at the end, somehow it was like lightning.

I loved this book. I made my friend Tamara read it, and then when the movie came out, I drove to Indianapolis just so I could see it with my friend Scott (his partner Jay was less than enthusiastic about seeing it).

It occurs to me now that it's been many years since I first read this. (Was it 1999? Have I read it again since then?) I have a habit of re-reading Gatsby more or less annually. I think The Hours merits similar attention.

Continue the discussion on redroom.com

A conversation with Greg Herren

It is safe to say that without the support and encouragement of a whole lot of people, my book would not be getting published this year. Close to the top (if not at the very top) of that list is Greg Herren. He was the second person to accept one of my short stories for publication (that it wasn't until five years later that he was able to include a story of mine—and a completely different one, at that—in an anthology is a sad tale of a publisher's demise that I'll save for another time). Then, in 2009, he asked to hear more about the book I had been working on since 2003.

Greg is so prolific and dedicated to his craft, he always makes me feel like a slacker. I had the good fortune to interview him for Lambda Literary's website recently. Go here and read it, and tell me afterwards if you don't feel like a slacker too.

(Thanks, Greg!)

Continue the discussion on redroom.com

You tell me: "Spamazon" and ebook pricing

From Livia Blackburne's Twitter feed I came across this post about self-published spam ebooks that are clogging Amazon's Kindle marketplace. (The original Reuters article can be found here at Yahoo.) It caught my eye because of several things I've read lately, one being former agent and current YA author Nathan Bransford's recent poll on what readers think is a fair price for ebooks. Then, of course, there was the New York Times piece on Amanda Hocking who got her start self-publishing (the quote that stands out for me there, and not in a good way, is, "For me to be a billion-dollar author," she would tell me later, "I need to have people buying my books at Wal-Mart.")

This gets back to quantity-versus-quality  and how the flood of ebooks can make it nearly impossible for a good, legitimate work to make its voice heard in the marketplace. It's always been a challenge for small, independent, and midlist writers. For me, it also highlights the continued importance of the role that gatekeepers play in the traditional publishing process.

What do you think: Is price a reliable way to determine the relative merits of an ebook? Or are you more or less likely to take a chance on an ebook priced at 99 cents because, even if it's crap, it was only a buck?

Continue the discussion on redroom.com

My desk, my mind, both cluttered

My desk is a mess. I think it reflects my state of mind, or perhaps it's the other way around. I find that when I sit here lately, I don't focus on my writing. I check my email, I post something to Twitter, I think about the next thing I want to blog about. I check Facebook and see which friends are amusing me and which ones are pissing me off. I check to see which ones have been amused by something I've posted. I look at the mess that is my desk and think, "I should tidy this up."

I never seem to get things cleaned up, but neither do I manage to steer my attention back to writing.

I have this wonderful program called "Freedom" that shuts out the rest of the world when I'm sitting at my computer, but only if I take the first step and turn it on. I need to turn it on more often. I read an article at n+1 by a writer named Dani Shapiro and how much trouble she has keeping the world away from her desk when she writes. It used to be just the telephone and the answering machine that would distract, people calling in the middle of the day and not fathoming how she needed focus and time to herself in order to write, her mother's voice coming from the answering machine saying, "I know you're there, pick up." Voicemail was a wonderful thing in that case, because you could turn off your ringer and not know someone had called until you picked up the phone and got that choppy beep before the dial tone.

We had voicemail at home, but since Mike and I both have cell phones, we have an answering machine in an upstairs bedroom that we usually forget to check. I want to get rid of the home phone if we can, but that's a story for another day. Actually, it's not even a story, so I probably won't mention it again because-well, boring.

Now, the little app to shut out the internet asks, "How many minutes of Freedom do you want?"

All of them?

Of course, since I have a smart phone, I can conveniently carry a whole world of distractions in my pocket. It is often useful, but more often than not, it takes my attention away from wherever I am and whatever I'm doing. I find myself turning it on airplane mode to try and escape from it.

My contract is up in September, and I'm seriously thinking about going back to a plain Jane phone. (At this point, I might have been tempted to Google the origin of "plain Jane," but I turned on Freedom last night and asked for eight hours. I still probably have about seven and a half to go.)

Now I'm also thinking, since I mentioned how much Freedom I have left, about the blog entry I meant to post today, the Q&A from another indie LGBTQ publisher. One thing Dani Shapiro didn't point out in her article is that, yes, Freedom does shut out the internet, but if you can get around its wall if you restart your computer. Not that I've ever done that.

Actually, I've done that a lot.

She also mentioned the Jonathan Franzen article (the one that pissed off some of my friends) where he talks about writing at a computer that he's modified so that he can't get online. He's plugged the Ethernet port by gluing in a hacked off Ethernet cable. (I'm assuming it doesn't have wifi built in.) The thing is, I don't think the lengths he's gone to are all that unreasonable.

I still have my old laptop downstairs in the basement. I wonder if I should think about doing the same thing to it.

But now, here I am, sitting at my desk, it's six in the morning, the dogs are fed, there's a load of laundry going, and I'm thinking I need to go back upstairs to put on my running shoes and go for a walk before I head to work this morning. I'm also thinking about the story I'm revising, which I need to work on because the clock is ticking on that. (Make a note to check the email from the editor again to confirm that I'm covering all the bases he suggested-except that I use Gmail and so I can't access it offline. Oh, wait, I think I can still pull it up in MacMail. Yep, there it is. Yep, I seem to be on track.) My copy of Wilde Stories 2011 is still sitting here, still waiting to be read. There are the two stories due in November that I have sort of started on. (Well, I've thought about them.) Have I mentioned the first draft of the second book is due December 1?

And then of course I have to take a shower and go to work.

Maybe shutting off the internet for eight hours was too ambitious after having been hip-deep in it for a while.

How many minutes of Freedom do I have left? If you're reading this and it's Friday morning, the answer is none.

Continue the discussion on redroom.com