Andrew Scott's Blog, page 37

Don’t worry. Screenwriters aren’t people. They...

Don’t worry. Screenwriters aren’t people. They don’t have feelings. Or memories. Otherwise, they couldn’t endure Hollywood. 

What’s the Point? Five Writers Offer Lifelines for Post-MFA Despair | Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction

What’s the Point? Five Writers Offer Lifelines for Post-MFA Despair | Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction:

I contributed to this. 

Arthur Miller Walks into a Bar

My short screenplay, “Arthur Miller Walks into a Bar,” was published in The Versus Anthology several years ago.

I’ve posted the script here for student filmmakers who are interested in producing it. The short film cannot be made for profit—no copies can be sold—but I grant student filmmakers the right to produce the script for class projects, demo reels, and film festivals. My only other stipulations: Student filmmakers must inform me of their plans before shooting begins, and I must be sent a final cut of the film.

CHEEMOBILE: Some Signs You Could Be A Fiction Writer

CHEEMOBILE: Some Signs You Could Be A Fiction Writer:

alexanderchee:

You are always thinking of insane jobs for yourself that you never follow through on.
Conversations with other people repeat in your head for days after you have them.
Conversations with other people repeat in your head for days before you have them.
Conversations with other people…

Title TK

I have been thinking a lot about titles lately, more than usual. I’m not sure why. I am now in charge of an imprint of literary fiction for young adults, and one of the first books I signed needed a new title. There was much back-and-forth about titles until we settled on one that works. Now comes the news that forthcoming novels by Jill McCorkle and Kate Atkinson will have the same title: Life After Life. And when you Google that phrase, you’ll first learn about a book Raymond Moody published in the 1970s that sold 20 million copies.

In an undergraduate class I took at Purdue, I remember admonishing a classmate for using the title of a just-released Sarah McLachlan single (a #1 single, I believe) for the title of her workshop story. I felt she wasn’t even trying. Much later, I used the title of a David Bowie song for one of my own stories, since published as a stand-alone chapbook. But that title, I felt, was broad enough to make it OK. Plus, the characters’ lives revolve around music, and the different Bowie eras, including the song from which I stole my title, play a role in the couple’s central conflict. They even drive through (or near) Bowie, Arizona, during a road trip. I was at least trying a little bit, yes?

I wonder what other writers think. Wouldn’t you be pissed if you wrote a book and found out another book with the same title was being released within weeks of yours? But, then, if you took your title from a famous, bestselling book of nonfiction published nearly 40 years ago, wouldn’t you think you had no right to complain? 

The title story of Naked Summer was called, in its first draft, “Gravity”—until I saw another writer had already used that title. And, over the years, another and another and another. It’s like every writer has a story titled “Gravity” because it’s so damn heavy, brother. Heavy deep super-deep important shit happens in this story, man. Deep.

Very glad I changed that title. Another title of mine that I love, which I will use, was also the title of a play about thirty years ago. I’ve known this since first drafting the story in 1999, because Amazon already existed back then and you could search for other books easily. That play has continued to fall out of the public eye, and by the time my novella and the book it will appear in are published, people won’t really know about the play. Or that’s my hope, anyway. 

AWP Recap

Because I don’t have a million other things to do…but whatever. I might want to remember this in a year or two. It was a good week.

Victoria and I went a day early to visit Myfanwy Collins and her family. And we got to meet Snap, their new dog! She’s a very good dog. We had dinner at a Portugese place. I ate a nearly-one-pound steak. It was delicious, not sweet and not cold.
We had no trouble getting the Engine Books table set up in the bookfair on Wednesday. Victoria’s plans worked. We shipped some books to Myf’s house (thanks again!) and packed a hardshell suitcase with table stuff (book stands, banners, etc.). Except for the mile-plus walk inside the parking garage, attached mall, and convention center, which gave us the worst Popeye arms ever after dragging the suitcases and carrying the boxes, it actually went rather smoothly.
Our hotel experience this time was enlivened by a randy couple next door. You’re back in the room temporarily between the end of the conference and the start of the night. You just want a moment or two to catch your breath, maybe hear yourself think. But all you hear is their fucking noises.
So many writers stopped by the EB table to introduce themselves. I missed several of them when I was off getting us lunch—or, on Friday, when my 30-minute lunch somehow became a two-plus hour ordeal that made Victoria nearly fire me—but many of them made a second effort to say hello, including Steven Schwartz and Scott Nadelson. I really appreciated seeing other editors who were mostly confined to their own bookfair tables, such as Michael Nye and Matt Bell. 
Our friends at Booth were just one row away, so I got to see my friends Bryan Furuness and Rob Stapleton. The first thing Rob said: “You look like a frat boy.” Thanks, Rob. It’s called J. Crew, motherfucker. Look into it.
For the first time ever, I participated in a panel I did not coordinate or propose. My friend Jared Yates Sexton (friends call him “Jared Sexton”) wanted to do something, but I was tired of herding cats. He asked if I had ideas. I said he should put together a group of writers with debut story collections and have them read and talk about the process of getting their books published. We talked about a few people we could invite. I had just visited Eugene Cross in Chicago, and I loved his book, Fires of Our Choosing. Jared suggested Jensen Beach, who also had a book forthcoming. All guys, so I jokingly said, “Call it ‘All the Young Dudes: Something Something,’” and AWP apparently didn’t think it was a problem.
Later, a friend told me about some kind of online flareup/Facebook bitch session regarding our panel—the title, its inherent dude-ness, how we insulted the memory of Mott the Hoople or something. Those people can eat a big bowl of dicks.
I was sick as hell and my throat tightened up during my reading. I had to ask for water in what Jared took to calling my “Marco Rubio moment.”
Then I became THAT GUY during the Q&A session: Doctor Doom (and Gloom). I felt bad about that, but several people from the audience found me in the bookfair later and thanked me for being honest. And funny, they said. Funny how? Am I a clown? Do I amuse you?
On Thursday night, we had drinks with Robin Black and Jane Neathery Cutler, plus two of their friends. Robin’s great to talk to about this writing life stuff. We also ate at the bar, so lunch came at 6:30. Then we all went our separate ways, which meant Victoria and I had dinner at 7:30. Yes, AWP will fuck up your clock.
On Friday, I wanted a normal-time lunch, but my 30 minutes away turned into nearly two and a half hours because (1) I ran into Bryan Furuness, and (2) we bumped into Robin and Jane. We talked for 45 minutes in the bookfair. Then Bryan and I went to lunch, but the food court lines in the mall were too long, so we left the convention center for a real restaurant. Victoria nearly fired me even though I brought her a BLT with avocado.
We went to a fancy literary party that night. I’m too cool to blab about it, but not too cool to say it was the coolest thing we did all week. Cool? At night’s end, I ordered Mexican food online and had it delivered to the hotel. Do we not live in an amazing time?
On Saturday night, we had crêpes. And salad! Like, with actual vegetables. And wine. And then Andrew Roe said he wanted to buy us a drink, so we braved the conference hotel bar. When Andy didn’t show, we got some more wine and sat our asses down. Lo and behold, Andy arrived. Somehow we talked for almost three hours. We stayed up too late. Far too late. Andrew’s novel comes out next year from Algonquin. 
I didn’t buy lots of books, but Meakin Armstrong was selling books by authors he’s published in Guernica. Pretty cool. So I bought Jamie Quatro’s collection and a book of stories by Peter Stamm. Later I bought the new one from Matthew Salesses, who probably made lots of sales-ses by carrying around a Square for credit cards. Scott Nadelson gave me his book because I reviewed his last one for The Collagist (it’s one of the blurbs inside this book, which is a first for me).
Writers I was glad to meet: Everyone who came to find me at the Engine Books table, Alix Ohlin, Lauren Groff, Eleanor Henderson (who was just waiting to say hello to Alix and Lauren, like me), and freakin’ Walter Mosley, who I bumped into (okay, briefly stalked, once I saw him) at the bookfair.
Writers I was sad to miss: Holly Goddard Jones and Laura van den Berg, who were on the same panel—but at the same time as mine. And Debra Monroe, who stopped by the EB table twice and I still didn’t get to meet her in person.
Writers I saw at the airport, however far away they may have been: Michael Martone, Lee Martin, Connie Voisine (!), Matt Batt (who also came to say hi at the EB table), Jane Neathery Cutler, and probably a few more. By then, I was getting spacey like Kevin.
On the flight home to Indianapolis, I saw one writer (I happen to know) carrying a manuscript. The dude across the aisle was annotating a copy of Drown. A woman two rows ahead carried an issue of Mid-American Review I recognized because it has a review of Naked Summer inside. And another woman was reading the NYTRB. God, how I wish this were an accurate representation of the Indianapolis citizenry. (I’m not slagging on Indiana; unlike some writers in the state, I don’t think we need to be “saved” from ourselves. But it would be cool if half of the people in Indy read Junot Diaz and Mid-American Review.)
Then we came home to our dog and cats! And to a bunch of buzzkill grading. 

A shelf in the Ball State office I share with my wife, Victoria...

A shelf in the Ball State office I share with my wife, Victoria Barrett, houses various literary journals I’ve subscribed to in recent years (Tin House, American Short Fiction, One Story, Ninth Letter, The Normal School, The Missouri Review, Hobart, et al.), as well as journals I’ve worked for (Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review) or have published something I’ve written (Mid-American Review, Glimmer Train), as well as an odd issue that I’ve picked up here and there.

Upper right: You should have a picture of your spouse/significant other on or near your desk, if you work out of the home, even if you share that space with said spouse/significant other.

Lower right: Voldemort says, “Class dismissed.” Also: Purell. Because after you show them how to write a thesis statement, control the distanced remembering narrator, or create a vertical reading experience in a screenplay, students inevitably want to shake your hand. You can say no, sorry, you’re a touring germ farm and be a jerk, or you can man up, shake hands, and then quickly reach for the hand sanitizer as soon as they’ve left.

Upper middle: A flyer for a reading given several years ago by one of Victoria’s classes. Chuck Norris. Wow. There’s no way Victoria would put Chuck Norris on a flyer now. This one was hidden by stacks of books until recently. 

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2013 Books of Interest

If I’ve done my math right, I’ve nearly met my books budget for 2013—something I’m trying after (gulp) seeing how much I spent on books the last few years. I have mostly preordered my 2013 books through Amazon. 

In March, I’ll get new books by Evan James Roskos, Emily Rapp, and John McNally. In April, it’s James Salter. May brings Ben Percy’s new novel and Elliott Holt’s debut. June will be about the new books by Colum McCann, Allison Lynn, and Matt Bell. July will allow me to catch up, so I might be ready for August, with new titles from Robert Boswell, Matthew Quick, Kelly Braffet, and Paul Yoon. 

Also, the book budget idea? I know I’m going to blow it. Probably at AWP in three weeks.

An Idea to Honor Raymond Carver

May 25, 2013 marks what would have been Raymond Carver’s 75th birthday. He died when he was only 50. Can you imagine another quarter-century of Carver stories and poems?

My idea is simple. On that day, you should host CarverFest, a marathon reading/celebration of Carver’s work. Partner with a bookstore. Ask if you can have the VFW’s space for the day. Have a cookout and invite 200 of your friends. Really, whatever works for you and the place you’re from.

Get people together. Have some of them read Carver’s work aloud. This is a small, good thing you can do to honor a writer whose work has mattered to so many readers.