PHILADELPHIA, PA-

I have been waiting nearly two years to see what was a new story of mine finally published. 

A few years ago, I got busy sending out this story to literary journals, and after flurries of rejections (all standard—I didn’t let it get to me), I finally had an acceptance at a prestigious literary review. I was very pleased.

I became less pleased when I learned that it might be nine months or so from the time of acceptance until the eventual publication.

Sigh. Just standard publishing world time lag, I thought. Typical that it takes months to hear back from these journals, and then many months more before the story comes out.

As I filled out the writer’s contract, I read that I would be paid $50 upon publication.  I have to say that even though that is a pittance for the solid month or two of working time that this particular story cost me, I was kind of looking forward to fifty extra bucks. That’s a tank of gas, or two pizza deliveries. That’s a mani-pedi-wax. (It is not a new pair of shoes, a week of groceries, a massage, or even a tube of eye cream.)

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LAS VEGAS, NV-

Most people have wonderful, magical stories about how they started to write. These often involve inspirational moments that urged them to spill their passions into the pages of diaries, and later, books.

Some people are just naturals. They probably woke up one day from their cute baby naps, needing a diaper change and some ink to write the next bestseller.

My beginnings do not fit neatly into any category. I don’t write out of blind infatuation with my first boyfriend, or as a consequence of a grade school language assignment.

I picked up a pen because of Freddy Krueger.

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LONDON, ENGLAND-

I have far too many ideas in my head.

All fighting to get out, competing for my attention.

This is not a good thing. What I want is clarity, focus; mental definition and stability in a time of personal and global chaos.

You can have too many thoughts. It’s a distraction. I want to write.

I want to write short novels.

Novellas.

I want to be churning out one, two a month.

I want to be finishing a story every fortnight.

I think I need to, to purge the cranial overload.

Trepanning is what the ancient Greeks used, to purge the brain.

It was a physical thing, not a metaphorical mental thing.

Brain damage isn’t caused by the blow; it’s caused by the build up of fluid; the blood, the bile, the miscellaneous brain juice.

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LOS ANGELES-

The other day a friend and I decided that in order to be a writer in the modern age—or maybe any age—you essentially have to adopt the attitude of a merciless cyborg assassin. You have to approach the work and the ancillary business aspects of the work with the cold, emotionless, and utterly relentless persistence of a Skynet T-800, created by Cyberdine Systems.

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NEWPORT COAST, CA-

Publisher’s Weekly called last week one of “the grimmest weeks in publishing in recent years.” Headlines on Wednesday morning announced a shake up at Random House—actually a reorganization involving the consolidation of several publishing groups. Later that day, Simon & Schuster announced the elimination of 2% of its workforce, with cuts occurring in all areas of the company. That evening found the president of Penguin discussing publicly the grim situation facing his competitors—layoffs, freezes on hiring and pensions, as well as freezes on new book acquisitions—which could only mean that his announcement was coming next. Sure enough, Thursday morning, Penguin announced employees would not receive their annual pay raises in the new year. Sadly, we’re used to news and rumors of small presses on the verge of crumbling, but with Barnes & Noble and Borders standing by their predictions of sales dropping as much as nine percent creating the worst holiday season ever, we’re watching the big boys stumble too. Should any small publisher attempt growth in this business climate? Should an author even bother to send out her work right now? YES. Absolutely.

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LAFAYETTE, LA -

Neurosyphilis. Recently, in an attempt to keep my brain occupied (read: prevent utter mental paralysis) while my agent shops my novel, I decided to begin researching my next project. So now, instead of lying awake in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, pondering the terrible economy and my dumb luck to finish writing my book this of all Novembers, I am lying awake in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, pondering my awesome luck at being born in twenty-first-century America where no one ever gets neurosyphilis. [1] (more…)

SALEM, MA-

Dear Santa,

I’ll start by admitting that I haven’t been very good this year.

I drank too much and did many things that I regret. I wished terrible things on people that I hate. I hated people. I haven’t gone to church. I haven’t given to charity. I haven’t finished my book…four years later. I have cursed and said horrible things to my wife that have made her cry. I’ve lied—many times. I have pissed away way too much money on alcohol and office supplies at Staples. I have considered sending someone a dead cat in the mail (though she did deserve it).

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TOMS RIVER, NJ-

I guess it’s a good thing that Nick Belardes and his post got me thinking about the generation I’m part of. I went to art school and for the longest time, ( I was living in New York City) I thought everyone in my class was the last generation to really make a difference, or a statement, guys like Eric White, Chuck Stone, Jill Greenberg (all graduated in front of me), just to name a few, who were all making their mark.  I started going to parties on rooftops, went to Anthony Avildsen’s place and hung out with other movers and shakers, (his father directed Rocky) and ran into Oliver Berkman from time to time, he wrote Kicking and Screaming with Noah Baumbach, and most of the characters in that movie were based on people from our graduating year at college (I went to school with Oliver, not Noah Baumbach, but the guy named Skippy in that movie is directly based on someone in our class, along with everyone else in that movie, Oliver might argue that, but that’s what I heard, and the real Skippy wanted to play the role).  So I thought for some reason that this would all bleed over to me.  Why not? I was there, part of it all, in the City with all this talent. Then I got the call to go to France and teach photography to American students. A year later I came back and realized no one waited for me.  Everyone was off getting their illustrations published in the New York Times Book review; having one man shows, publishing novels, writing more novels, and then Quentin Tarantino hit and I thought I could be a screenwriter.  God, what a disaster, I wrote like a teenager with Tourettes and dyslexia, a funny combination if your walking down the street randomly talking about the world, not so much if you’re trying to write a screenplay.

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