The gag order has been lifted! As of my reading at HFW last friday (thank you to everyone that came to the reading. Again, sorry to those with testicles!), we are free to speak about the novel…
Pre-Order 10.1.10
Click image for larger view… you’ll want to read the text at the bottom!!
…The Pre-Pimp.
Because, yes, there will be full disclosure coming as soon as I get it. But for now, I can tell you that I’ll be there. The Hippie will be there. And no, that cover is soooo not real. BUT I will be reading from the novel. First real reading, first tidbits from the novel. That’s right. You know that’s enough to get you there…
But if you need more. I’ll be reading, signing and doing an interview… and I’ll have Dark Faith & Last Rites, Fresh Blood, Poe Little Thing, and a couple Shroud #6s with me. Come play!
York Emporium
343 W Market St.
York, PA 17401
Saturday, August 14th • 10am-6pm
We leave tomorrow morning for what has become one of my favorite weeks of the year. If you’re going, I’ll see you in the quad. If you’re not, you should really unfuck that next year. This year, they’ve decided to put me on the following panel… come, play, heckle, bring water balloons!
2:00 pm The Great Small Press Debate —The benefits, drawbacks, and etiquette of the small press. Two teams will decide: Is the small press beneficial to the horror community, or is it more trouble than it is worth?
1.) Linda Addison, Elizabeth Blue, Kelli Dunlap, Gary Frank, Amy Grech, Nanci Kalanta.
2.) Dan Keohane, Lisa Manetti, Monica O’Rourke, Morven Westfield
I’m not sure how the teams were designed, and whether or not I’m on the for or against team, but hey, surprise last minute panel info makes for an interesting discussion!
Remember when Happy Meal’s® came in a box? Yeah, this blog has nothing to do with that, or Happy Meals, or even McDonald’s. Just the Big Mac.
Or rather, what the Big Mac signifies.
The Big Mac is the best (while your mileage may vary™ just play along) of the junk food available. I think we can agree that it’s basically the polar opposite of a Filet Mignon. And thus we enter metaphorland!
You see, a certain Hippie I know what going off on a rant when I got home yesterday, regarding the industry and it’s love of everything written horribly. A friend of ours was told to “dummy down” a manuscript because, while it was great, it wouldn’t sell like this. Between that and an article he read, he went on and on about bad paranormal romance doing better than well written fiction, fifth grade reading level writing, talentless schmucks getting book deals, etc. He spoke of selling out to the buyers and tossing art to the side.
I was crushed.
I asked, “Do you write for the story or the money, and don’t lie because I know the answer.” He didn’t lie. He said story, “But what good is the story if it’s never sold to be read?”
Oh yes, this spun us off into a whole rant/debate thing. A part of me giggled. Ahhh the good old days—when we were just friends arguing over industry and other nonsense at cons and such. It was playful banter. It was venting frustrations. It was… it was anything but a serious argument.
Then it turned serious.
Not in that we were actually arguing. Oddly, we don’t do that, or at least haven’t yet. This turned serious in that it wasn’t playful. The glint in his eye became an angry monkey that threatened to throttle the muse and force it to kick out crap just to get published.
Yeah, you read that right. “Just to get published.” Which of course, turned into me having a fit about not giving your stuff away, not self-publishing, and asking how purposely writing crap wasn’t just as bad as those two evils.
If you follow my twitter, you may have seen me post what he said next,. “It’s the difference between Big Macs and Filet Mignon… but the ones writing Big Macs can afford the filet, on an island somewhere.” I tried to come back with something snappy—how you want to be remembered for art and craft and all that silliness. (See, now you know I was hot, because I actually used the word “craft”). His response, also on twitter, was low… because it was true, “We’ve been to Poe’s house… have you seen Dan Brown’s?”
Of course, as our house is not just a family but a tribe, and several of the natives were watching the festivities, I turned to them with hope. One is in 8th grade, the other in 11th. “What was the last book you read?” First they answered with books they had to read for school. “No, no… the last book you read for fun.” I was met with blank stares. Then they finally piped up with titles and the following clarifiers which broke my soul. “In 5th grade.” “In 8th grade.”
Does anyone read anymore?!! My mother does. I’m betting most people reading this blog do. But what happened to the reading public? Not only have they been drastically reduced to the minority over the years, but they’re accepting crappy Big Macs instead of requesting, nay demanding, Filet mignon.
I will not sell out. I will not sell out. I will not sell out. I will not give my stuff away, because my mentors told me not to. I will not self-publish, because my mentors told me not to. And I will not write Big Macs.
I like my Filet mignon. Medium rare please.
So tell me, oh loyal audience of mine. What were the last 3 books you read? Genre only? Nonfiction? Do you read the paper? What do you read and how do you like it served—with a side of fries, or garlic mashed potatoes?
Sure, a beach book has it’s place and time, but all the time? Replacing the fireplace cuddle books? No, I just can’t accept that! And this debate is far from over… throughout the rest of the night it came up, at random, with venom, and is sure to be fueled by a dueling blog and more banter today. So help me, kind audience. Help me help the Hippie remember. Listen to the mentors. Do as they say, not as they do. Don’t give your stuff away. Don’t self-publish. And for the love of all things holy, don’t write garbage on purpose! Write good fiction… and if the editor is willing to pay you money to “dummy it down,” deal with it then.
Down with Big Mac writing! Long live beautiful meat™!
As I write this (Sunday afternoon), the Hippie is still pounding away at the keyboards and Chuck is being distracted by every little thing that floats through the garage. Me? I just wrote “the end” and considering I didn’t even have an idea when I crawled out of bed, I’m all proud of myself.
But it’s not really “the end.”
I know that.
It’s only the beginning.
Because while we locked Chuck in the garage with us, everyone with their own headphones to tune the others out, and forced him to write something to submit to one of the two anthos Bob & I are working on, I know so very well that when I told him to stop editing and rearranging and farting around and just write it so he could “unfuck it later,” I meant it. For both of us.
I may have won the race to “the end” for the day, but I also know that I’ll have more editing to do than the Hippie. I’m ok with that. That rat-bastard writes some pretty pretty words. They’re graceful and crisp and usually not bad out the gate, because he edits as he goes to some extent. Or at least slows down and chooses his words more carefully. I don’t. I can’t.
It’s a learned behavior.
I’m used to writing in chaos, so I just have to get it down as fast as possible—before I’m interrupted—and plan to fix it later. When I write, it’s a free-for-all blur of apocalyptic proportions in an attempt to beat the muse to the finish line. And I’m good with that. Whoever told me, once upon a time, to “unfuck it later” was dead on. Just get it down.
Well, it’s down. Now what?
Ohhh now I walk away for a day or two and then go read the atrocity. Because that’s what it will be. It will be horrible, with kernels of brilliance, which I will spin and twist, edit, delete, rewrite and rearrange until it’s a nice mellow mix of good and great and something I’m happy submitting. Of course, this will be a touch more painful than normal because it occurred to me, after “the end”, that it needs to be first person not third, so that will be the first round of edits, long before the rest begin.
Welcome to my reality check blog. While it’s a form of commiseration with other writers, new & old, that will nod and agree in silent suffering while their own muses beat them, the blog is a reminder to myself. It’s meant to yank my sorry ass off the “woohoo, the end” high horse and remind myself I am not done. Yes, I wrote “the end” but it’s never the end. After I “unfuck it,” I’ll send it to pre-readers, who will whine and complain and make me fix it again. Then, after submission and acceptance, there’s edits from the publisher. And unfortunately, sometimes, after publication, when we revisit, we wish we could edit it one last time.
I know all this.
But I also know it feels damn good to write “the end” on any story, of any length. It’s the screaming cry of the newborn after hours of labor. I just have to wipe the blood off before I can hug it…
