Book signing poster. ‘N stuff.

I’m always thrilled by them pretty pictures my publisher gives me. Here’s the poster for my signings:

That photo of me is a profile shot from the POF. Yep. From like 3 years ago now. I don’t know how it keeps popping up in places. Probably because the only time I’ve felt it necessary to have photos of myself is to convince people to be my girlfriend. Otherwise I’ll avoid pictures.

You know how people on your facial book post photos of themselves in bathrooms at the bar every week? I don’t do that, or even find it fun or attractive. Nor do I want to stop a fun moment with friends and break the 4th wall by bringing out the camera. It just seems weird. Adorno and Kundera would definitely label such a thing as kitsch. It’s not enough that we’re having a good time–we need to add that second tear that we shed due to realizing that we’re showing emotion by dropping the first. Wow. Obscure reference. Even with the hint I dropped in that sentence, who the hell is going to get that? If someone writes a detailed essay on what I just wrote and gets it, I’ll send them a free signed copy of my book.

I’m not opposed to appearing in such photos, but it’s just not in my instinct to create them.

It’s like good books or movies. I don’t want to read or see them ever again, because why would I want to add in the complication of future perceptions if it was so great when I experienced it? What if the second time I read my favourite book, I thought it sucked? Old photos seem depressing to me. I realize it’s entirely unrealistic for people who live far less internal lives than me to view their billions of cheap photos like I do. I just feel the need to justify some of my oddness. This especially comes up during summer, because as I’ve mentioned, I’m not captivated by it like everyone else in this area is. I have tons of shit to do and I can’t picture not doing it because society has said that I have to lie on a beach just because the weather is a certain way. I’d do that stuff if I had kids, because that’s different, but meh. It’s just weird being the obsessive stick in the mud busy with things people don’t find fun while the entire town is wearing really dumb clothes and smelling like sunscreen.

Funny thing: I don’t burn. Must be the Ukrainian in me. Never use suncreen, never had a problem, and I do hike and take long runs in the summer. Love nature’s irony. All these people bitching about sunburns because they adore the beach so much, and here I am, not a beach person but with the most godawful tank-top tanlines and feeling fine.

I’m off track. It’s also occurred to me that a lot of dieselpunk right now is focused on cleaner 40s visions. The poster rightly shows my personal take on it, which is gritty and industrial. I’m not sure who is to be believed in this case, or if there’s room in the club for both. I’ll have a long post up soon that delves into the finer philosophical and class issues I see popping up in dieselpunk. If dieselpunk people don’t like that I’m as equally concerned with mechanics and oil rigs as I am bourgeois adventurers in flying jackets, I might just shift over to the petropunk name, which of course I only chose on here because dieselpunk was already taken. But it’s handy to have should I need any distinction from dieselpunk.

Anyway. Book signings. POF profile shots. Yup.

If you’re trying to find me on the POF out of morbid curiosity, I’m not on anymore. Just sayin’.