Jim Hodgson's Blog, page 13

Book reports: Catch-22, As She Climbed Across the Table, and To Say Nothing of the Dog

I am aware that what I am about to say marks me as a buffoon of the highest ass-showing order, but I’m saying it anyway: I don’t like Catch-22.

I have friends who list it as their most favorite novel. That is fine and good for them. I can’t handle the way it grinds back and forth over its message sentence by sentence.

It’s like being told tales your whole life of the greatest masseur in the world, Sven. At long last, you finally find yourself with time and the means to visit Sven, but when you get there all he’ll do is grind a piece of gravel into your scapula with his thumb.

Here’s an excerpt also used by the book’s Wikipedia entry:

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

The whole book is like that. Come on, Sven. Can’t we take a break from the endless grinding of your obvious, gravelly point? No? Shit.

Worse yet, lately I have been recommended a couple of books that reminded me very much of Catch-22, which meant that I had to abandon them. I hate abandoning the reading of a book. It feels like a failure on my part.

As She Climbed Across the Table

A gentleman from the cigar shop recommended this book to me and I loved the premise immediately.

A guy falls in love with a black hole? Nice! There will be science and humor? Yes! But there is also a pair of characters in the book whose dialog is torn right from the pages of Catch-22.

Oh sweet Lord in Heaven here comes Sven with his gravel pouch. No, Sven! No, I don’t need a massage just now. I’m loose, I tell you. Hands off!

To Say Nothing of the Dog

I was recommended this one by a technology blogger for Yahoo. “To Say Nothing of the Dog” is a humorous scifi Hugo winner. A Hugo winner. That means if I don’t like it I think I know more than people who win awards.

Let’s see. How many awards have I won. Just counting now. Ah yes, here we go: buhhhhhh-zero.

Unfortunately I was again thrown off by what I considered to be needless recursion. I believe the author was trying to underscore the recursive nature of loops generated by time travel, but all I got from it was the feel of a relentless Scandinavian masseur with a peculiar penchant for pebbles.

Sven, I appreciate your efforts, but no thank you. I said no thank you, man! Yes. it’s fine. I know you mean well. I’ll just be going. Thank you.

I’ll be at JordanCon April 17-19!

I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be appearing at Jordancon! As a formerly ardent reader of the Wheel of Time series, I hope there are some cool costumes. I mean, don’t cut your arm off or anything, but, you know.

Here’s some Jordancon info:

JordanCon is a fantasy literature convention founded in honor of the late author, Robert Jordan. Jordan was the author of the best-selling The Wheel of Time series. JordanCon features eight tracks of simultaneous programming, a Dealers’ Hall, gaming, an Art Show featuring original art by a variety of artists, and charity events benefiting the Mayo Clinic and other charities.

I’m slated for a panel called “Turning Feedback into Useful Critique” in which I will detail the many times I have wished I could reach through the internet and cry passive aggressively at someone.

I’ll also sign books in accordance with my usual signing policy: any book, any name, with or without your consent/knowledge.

Come on by and check it out if you’re in town. Here’s registration information: http://www.jordancon.org/content/jordancon-7-three-day-membership

Related show



Artist:
Jim Hodgson


Date:
04/17/15 - 04/19/15



Venue:
Jordancon at Perimeter Hilton



City:
Atlanta , GA


Country:
United States





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Catch me on the Nation of Jake, Friday March 20th @5pm WREC 600AM

I will speak with Jake of the Nation of Jake on the AM airwaves March 20th. I’ll be in town for MidsouthCon 33, and I’ll be talking to Jake about books, writing, and probably life in general.

Jake’s show follows Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity so I have no doubt that we’ll have plenty to discuss.

Fun fact: Jake and I did our best to get hired as a radio morning show crew here in Atlanta some years ago, but the station chose not to hire us. Shame.

Related show



Artist:
Jim Hodgson


Date:
03/20/15



Venue:
Nation of Jake Radio Show



City:
Memphis


Country:
United States






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03/20/15


Memphis

Nation of Jake Radio Show

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03/20/15 - 03/22/15


Memphis, TN

MidsouthCon at the Memphis Hilton

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04/17/15 - 04/19/15


Atlanta, GA

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I Am Learning about Romance Heat Levels

The ink is barely dry on my publishing contract. Editing has yet to begin. There’s still a long track ahead, along which my book project could derail — and then explode — at any moment. And yet, there is work to do … in the form of paperwork to fill out.

Today, one such document asked me to define my book’s “Heat Level.” I did not know there was such a thing.

How I Got Here

I didn’t set out to become a romance novelist. I pitched the most ridiculous idea I could think of to an acquisitions editor: a pro cyclist and a crossfit instructor seek love in a near-future America under the oppressive jackboot of the French. The French are angry, you see, about being teased all this time for their performance in WWII and-

I’ve said too much.

Anyway, my editor called my bluff by challenging me to write three chapters, so I did. He called my bluff again by challenging me to write the whole thing, so I did. He liked it. So, here we are.

After all the fiction manuscripts and short stories I’ve sent and all the rejection letters I’ve gotten back, I’m glad to be writing any fiction for anyone. I’m no Lena Dunham, over here.

Getting warmer

Sources differ on the actual number of levels. Some say it goes sweet, subtle, explicit, then on to the perennial internet fave “hardcore.” Another prefers kisses, subtle, warm, hot, burning (All About Romance).

This site rates romance like you’d rate a pepper sauce (RomCom Romance). I think I’ve actually had “Blood Thirsty.” Really jazzes up a jambalaya.

Some rank the ferocity of the doin’ it by the acts described. Others focus on how many love scenes there are. No exchange rate is offered.

What if there are twenty three sex scenes, but they’re all transacted with bunny rabbit efficiency? Is that a higher or lower “Heat Level” than a single, depraved, ten thousand page bacchanal featuring whips, chains, and whips made of chains?

Or even — gasp! — chains made of whips? Is that done? Wait! Stop. Don’t google it. Let’s not find out.

Let’s all just calm down

My book is more or less like a romantic comedy. There is some romance. Sometimes there’s awkward romance. There are some bits you might not want to read to your grandparents, but they’re there as much for the tension and humor as anything. I believe that puts me no higher than “mild.” Maybe “warm.”

I don’t think I could bring myself to write actual full-on horizontal mambo, though, in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit have done it before. Badly. I wrote some sex in a collection of short stories I put out a while back. It felt pretty goofy. But, you know, I was being an artist, and that means going astray sometimes.

I know for a fact my family members all read it. My sister even brought it up once, wide-eyed. Even though I was writing about a fictitious main character, all she could see was a heaping pile of blegh.

I think I’ll not put either of us through that again. If that makes me no spicier than “warm,” well, so be it. At least I’m not still completely out in the cold.

Facebeefs: A Writer’s Complaints About Facebook

Let me start by saying that I mean no ill toward Facebook employees, particularly none toward those in rank and file. Facebook is like a giant wheel. I don’t blame the spokes for where the wheel goes. People gotta eat.

But I do have some complaints about the greater organism. I believe that Facebook knowingly plays to my vanity with pumped up numbers in some cases, while using fuzzy math to entice me to spend money. I believe that a significant portion of the “likes” I have on my Atlanta Banana page are at best catatonic users from far-flung locales who do not speak my language, and, at worst, fictitious.

Lastly, and most frustrating of all, Facebook obsessively notifies me. It knows that it must compete with television, my work, hobbies, and family for my attention. It knows that attention is a currency far more valuable than gold. As such, it aggressively notifies, often two to three times for one action. It’s a perfect strategy for their goals.

Facebook knows that if you can make a business out of human vanity, there won’t be a check long enough to write your fortune.

How Dare I?

If you read on, understand that I can’t prove my hunches incontrovertibly.

Facebook owns and obsessively tweaks the algorithm that determines who sees what. In their defense, if anyone knew exactly what Facebook’s content display algorithm was they’d instantly start gaming the system. Sneaky people could make a fortune overnight gaming Facebook to sell penis pills or financial scams. A politician could surge ahead in an election merely by having the most recognizable face.

But as a regular guy trying to write and get people to read my work, I can’t help but feel that Facebook is stepping on me.

A Fistful Of Likers

I started a web site called The Atlanta Banana in 2011 because I wanted to collaborate with other humor writers. For every ten stand up comics or improv actors, there’s maybe one serious humor writer. For every one humor writer, there are ten YA/Fantasy writers, and a thousand erotica jockeys. I digress.

In those early days I got a lot of positive response, but I wanted more eyeballs. If you can get an audience, you can get published. One of my favorite bloggers, BikeSnobNYC, built an audience that way. Justin Halpern (Shit My Dad Says) did, and Andy Weir (The Martian) as well. That has been my goal for these many years: to obtain a publishing contract.

Of course, now that I have obtained said contract and it is signed, it seems as if The Atlanta Banana had nothing to do with it. Or maybe it did, since I got so much regular writing practice. Hard to say.

In any case, I paid Facebook to advertise my page, and soon I was sitting on over 1000 likes. The result? That’s it. I had 1000 likes. I had no new interactions. No new shares.

Facebummer

Wow, my writing must really be awful. These people liked my idea, but they don’t like any of my posts. They don’t share anything. They never comment. Yet when I post stuff to my personal page, my friends laugh and share and tell me they enjoy it.

Then I saw this video by Veritasium:

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVfHeWTKjag

 

Oh, so it’s not just me who feels run roughshod over.

I’m not an economist, but I do believe that people do what they are incentivized to do. Facebook is incentivized to get money out of my wallet. They are in no way incentivized to share my small-time links to my small-time site. Again, I don’t blame Facebook for running a business. I want every one of its employees to buy my books. But my books contain exactly what they claim to contain: words.

Implicit in the buying of likes is that each of those people represent a chance for my work to reach someone. That’s what I’m after: a chance. I don’t think Facebook is fair about how it represents the real mathematics of that chance.

The Answer? Boost your post!

If operating a FB page with a lot of likes is the cocaine of the internet, boosting your post must surely be the crack. Each time I post to my page, Facebook helpfully highlights a call to action that says “Boost.” If I pay a little money each time, they’ll let more people see my content.

Wait, didn’t I just pay to promote my work to a bunch of folks? Now I have to pay to get them to see it? What?

Facebook encouraged us all to register an account and begin posting away. The only problem is that users did just that. Now, people generate more content than can possibly be consumed. Baby photos, check ins, status updates, and shares out the wazoo.

Towards thee I roll

But Facebook needs advertising dollars, which means they need content that people can enjoy on Facebook. I don’t do my writing on Facebook. I do it here, on other sites, and in books.

What does that mean for me? It means that if I want people to read my work, I have to phrase my post headline in such a way that it grabs people’s attention, but denies them any information unless they click.

Or, in other words, I would have to write clickbait. Well, I refuse. I may be unknown. I may not be the half the writer my heroes were. But I will not attempt to trick people into reading me.

I lay clickbait, this mockery of journalism, this mockery of writing, directly at Facebook’s feet, and I glare awkwardly.

You’ll Never Believe What Happens Next

There are a lot of good things about Facebook. I get to easily share family stuff with friends and family. I get to know when everyone’s birthday is, and I get to surmise which of my acquaintances are nut-jobs. As a user, it’s fun, with the exception of how much it needlessly notifies me.

It’s not FB’s fault that I hate being notified, though. I also keep my phone totally silent with the vibration turned off. Send an email. Or better yet, a check.

But in a larger sense, I’m a guy who writes words. I want people to read what I’m writing. Facebook is so big now it’s basically a public utility. And I don’t pay for it. Or at least, I don’t any more.

Is it really their fault that they were able to trick me into paying to see an imaginary number go up? Is it Facebook’s fault that I’m vain, or that I selfishly want people to see my work? Probably not.

But it is Facebook’s fault for deceiving me. It is their fault for allowing clickbait to happen, and it is their fault for being so self-important that they need two applications, both bleeping and blorping and notifying at full chat.

Couldn’t you share a few of your eyeballs with me, Facebook? Couldn’t you let my actual organic “likes” see my posts? Currently only around 25% of them ever do. What the hell did I get them for if most are fake and the rest are catatonic?

I can’t imagine.

The Werewolf

11Alive Commuter Dude Audition

I didn’t get it. :(

Travis the Millenial Literary Agent

Dangerous Dan

This is my first full-length novel and I’d love for you to check it out. Click here to be taken to the Amazon page for Kindle or Paperback versions.

I got some excellent editing help from Reid Davis of Tastemaker Communications, and a kickass cover designed by a favorite artist of mine, Rich Stevens.

Feast your peepers on this blurb:

“Dangerous” Dan McNamara doesn’t want to chase you. He definitely doesn’t want to take you to jail. He’s got his own problems. Since his wife’s disappearance, his grief and constant self medication have made him a disgrace to himself and the force, not to mention a danger to any zipper that attempts to tame his waistline. He finds himself dragged into a fight to save Earth, but it’s not all bad news. He might have a chance to find out who took his wife, if he can keep his alcoholism and self pity in check.

Pretty sweet blurb, huh? I’ve been meaning to stick the word “rollicking” in there somewhere but I just haven’t found the right spot. Here’s a sample of the kind of thing you’re in for:

Just after Santos and Estrella left Dan, the nurse came back with a syringe nearly the size of his forearm. “The hell is that? Are you about to re-grout the

bathroom?”

“This is a combination of vitamins and a strong

sedative, Mr. McNamara. You need a lot of work before you can be full tested.”

“Hey, don’t worry about me, honey. I’m ready to go as-is. Ship shape and two grapes, know what I mean?” He grinned at her. The old grin.

The nurse arched an eyebrow at his belly, which rose like a bald mountain underneath his bed sheet. He scowled.

This book was years in the making, and I hope you like it. Pick it up here on Amazon.