Octopi-Ampersand by Alex Eben Meyer

I’ve started up a tumblr account and have started collecting images there. I’m probably doing it wrong. But there are so many wonderful artists or fans of art on that system and I just keep grabbing up images that work for me; that feel like where my brain is at or remind me about what I’m writing (why I’m writing).

Here’s the link if you’re interested.

After browsing around there for a bit — I’ve come to the conclusion that I am an illustration junkie. AN ILLUSTRATION JUNKIE.

This story I’m writing is a perfect comic book. I wish I could draw.

1965 442 Cutlass

A rough something-something I was working on once upon a time. There’s about 100 pages or so of this particular something waiting for my attention. Still thinking it through. It’s in the queue.

Neil has a beer with a dead man he found in a trunk of a car.

They sat across from each other at a round table crowded in the small bay window of Irene’s Pub. Neil sipped his pint, while the Man in the Trunk squeezed a lime into his and dropped the rind into the ashtray in the middle of the table. He smiled at Neil through broken teeth, but he had cleaned up most of the blood and put extra pomade into his thick black hair so that it stayed in place. All in all, he wasn’t that hard to look at and Neil appreciated that he had taken the time to wash and change most of his clothes. He still wore his brown loafers though and even though he was sitting down, the shoes still slipped off his heels and dangled under his chair. There was only so much he could do to erase the memory that Neil had of the day before.

“I’m glad you could meet me here.” The man looked around. “I’ve always liked it here.”

“Irene’s a good gal.” Neil nodded. “She knows how to take care of folks.” He glanced around the bar. The tables were filled with men, two to a table. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the odor of salted peanuts and beer.

“That’s the truth!” The man laughed as if he had made a joke.

Neil took another drink of his beer. It was one of those English ales that were best served warm, but the glass was chilled and bits of ice floated on top. It wasn’t like Irene to serve it this way, but Neil enjoyed the way the drink made his teeth ache with every sip. He waited for the man to continue talking, averting his eyes because no matter how he had tried to improve his appearance the sight of that mouth turned Neil’s stomach.

“So, I wanted to thank you for stopping yesterday.” The man grinned, then remembered himself and closed his lips.

“There’s no need to thank me,” Neil said. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“I suppose so, Neil.” The man looked out the window, rapped his knuckles against it lightly like a child playing chopsticks on the piano. “But it was you that did. I was hoping it would be someone like you, that’s why I chose that place.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yes.”

The room around them started to sound restless, voices were raised, chair legs pushed back noisily against the hardwood. Neil looked around uneasily, expecting at any moment for some of the younger men to start fighting. He worried that someone he knew might soon arrive and he wasn’t sure how he would explain what he was doing. But, still he couldn’t pull himself away. He had questions for this man, and no manner of awkwardness was going to keep him from finishing the conversation.

“You’ve got questions,” the man said as if reading Neil’s mind. He kept his eyes out the window as if he too was expecting someone.

“A few.”

“More like one, I think. A big one.” The man took a drink of his beer. “I don’t know if I can answer that one for you Neil. At least not yet.”

“What’s your name?”

The man turned away from the window and faced Neil. He pushed both hands back through his greasy hair. Gently though, being careful not to touch the back of his head.  “I’m not from here. My name won’t mean anything to you Neil. That’s not a question worth asking, really.”

“But I should know your name,” Neil said stubbornly.

“Maybe you should, but you don’t. What difference does it make?”

Neil thought for a moment. “I can’t just keep calling you the man in the trunk, can I?”

The man laughed softly. “No, probably not.”

Life. Such a distraction.

I have a deadline now: June 2011.

Let’s see how that works.

I went to a great book launch for Timothy Taylor’s latest novel “The Blue Light Project” last night.

First let me clarify – the launch was far from boring. Taylor went to great lengths to make the evening interesting and fun. And as an audience member, I appreciated his efforts.

His book has a graffiti artist character and as part of his research, Taylor befriended a group of graffiti artists. So, last night there were chapbooks by these artists for sale and most of them were there in the crowd (which definitely made for a much more interesting crowd dynamic — we literary types are a grey-haired, glasses-wearing stodgy-looking bunch mostly.)

The location had east-side cred (The Waldorf’s Tiki-inspired cabaret- in the basement). There was a dj, great lighting and a slideshow of  cool local graffiti work that was projected on three huge pieces of white muslin-type cloth. Taylor did a cursory reading – and he did it well — and then more music and art.

I’ve always thought that there is so much potential at a launch that goes untapped. The incorporation of music that connects in some way to the story – sharing the space with artists who do the same — actors, flashmobs, something. Why not? A little thought goes a long way and doesn’t have to cost a lot either.

Nowadays the writer reads (hopefully well) the audience claps politely, drink free wine (if we’re lucky) and eat free finger food. Everyone departs in an orderly fashion before 9pm on a Tuesday.

Or am I just going to the wrong book launches?  Do you have stories about launches that have impressed?

This bunny looks ready for business. Illustration by TS Rogers

I’m deep in writing mode these days and when I’m like that there’s not a lot of room for anything else. The novel (there must be a better code word for that. Oh to be clever enough to think of it now that I need it and not later when I am asleep) is taking its time. I may be cooked before it is but I’ve settled in for the long haul anyway.

Writing mode. Eat, drink, sleep it. Dream it. Take a long hot bath with it. Take it to get groceries and to walk the dog. Staying positive is easy when I’m in writing mode. Just typity-type-type-type. Repeat. it is the best place to be. Full of potential and entirely within my control.

But then someone always wants to talk about  agents and publishers and queries and rejections and the business. Air quotes around business.

What is there to say about the business side of writing? The process isn’t that complicated. Write, edit, submit, enquire, repeat. Success depends on many things — timing and luck and talent to name a few. These things will either be there or they won’t when this manuscript is finished — talking in hypotheticals won’t change that.

I like to think I’m supportive of my fellow writers — I’ll commiserate with a rejection and I’ll celebrate an acceptance, but I’m not interested in a play-by-play of rejection notices and near misses. I don’t want to participate in the over analysis of this agent or that editor’s (handwritten) response — unless it’s a funny, self-deprecating story. I’m always up for self-deprecating humour.

But usually (no offence)I’d rather focus on the writing.

A nighttime bus ride home after an evening writing class. My classmate tells me a story about her brother, another writer.

He says (she says) that choosing to be a writer is an excuse to keep yourself locked away from the world.

He says that after many years of writing and getting published and locking himself away from the world, he’s not sure its worth it.

I say no a lot. No thanks to invitations from friends to go out. Not this week to an event that will take me away from my desk and my typewriter and my writing.

I have created a life with only the bare minimum of human interaction. I say it is for now, just for a little while longer, until I can get this book finished. When I get this book finished I will say “yes” so much more. I will, I promise myself.

But what will life look like then? How many friends will I be able to count? And what of the life missed in between?

And more importantly — what of the next novel waiting to be written? What then?

I’m still slogging away at the “big project”. The one I’m supposed to be keeping my mouth shut about — so I will. Besides, I’m trying to figure out a primo elevator pitch that will succinctly sum up the book in 100 words or less. I think that will make it easier not to talk about it — creating a blurb or short-short overview that says everything and nothing. It can’t be worse than what I do now, which is mumble and use a lot of “ums” and “uhs”.

Anyway, where was I? Music. I write to music. I like to put certain songs on repeat and write to them for hours at a time. Arcade Fire’s “Rococo” (above) is a new fave. It’s important that the music I write to be very familiar. I’m not interested in divining the lyrics, in fact I tune them out for the most part, except for snippets I find evocative of a certain mood. And it is important that the music I write to doesn’t play a part in my day-to-day life. I feel like it will lose it’s inspirational mojo if I listen to it on a run or in the car or where ever.  I even get a little tense if I see someone quoting the lyrics (the stuff I recognize) on their Facebook page or blog — it feels wrong and out of context.

It takes a while to burn out — the latest soundtrack has been good (with a few tweaks) for the last year — but when it goes, it’s gone, period. No going back. Accidentally tuning in to used up music is like listening to white noise — and my brain stops working.

I read somewhere (NYT, I think) that Jonathan Franzen, when writing The Corrections (not his latest) both blindfolded himself and used earplugs on occasion because he was so easily distracted. I think the repetitive music does the same thing (though not as extreme) for me — keeps me on track and working. As soon as I put my headphones on, I feel like it’s time to work. When the music starts, I’m no longer sitting at my desk, I’m in that other place, the world I’m creating in my head, at my desk, one sentence at a time.

So, how about you? Blindfold? Music? Silence? What gets you through and keeps you writing?

PS. You should know that I’m a bit tense now, just because of the teeny bit of non-writing listening involved as I searched out that Youtube video

Good girls keep their writing to themselves.

I know now why experts say you should never tell anyone you are writing a novel. It’s because the act of writing a novel never-ever ends. Or at least this is what it feels like. Last week I wrote every day. I wrote hard every day and came out with a lower word count than I started with. How is that even possible?

It is hard to keep your mouth shut about such an all-encompassing writing project though. I mean, it is pretty much all I am doing these days besides working and walking the dog. That’s no exaggeration. And everything that I do outside of the typing somehow gets mushed up in my brain as something to do with the writing. Radiolab podcasts (check out “Who Am I” from 2007 for some great stuff on self-hood and story, on narrative and existence), Mad Men episodes, Patricia Highsmith novels (“The American Friend”, which has quietly inspired a lot of my writing, is based on one of her Ripley novels. How did I not know that?) — everything contains snippets that relate, or can be made to relate, to the story I’m putting together.

All the well-meaning “how’s it going now?” questions from family and friends have been increasingly harder to answer. There is no new answer and the old one doesn’t cut it anymore.

And then there’s the expectations… I spoke with my parents this weekend, they had just read some Oprah-recommended book, a first novel that took the guy 10 years to write. My father whistled. He was a bit disappointed that a novel that took that long to write didn’t have a snappier ending. He thought there were too many descriptions and, really, when you thought about it, nothing really happened.

I can picture the day my parents finally finish reading my manuscript. Dad in his recliner, a little embarrassed. My mom, shrugging her shoulders and stifling a giggle. “Well, she’s no John Grisham, is she?”

No, she’s not. She’s just a writer who should have kept her mouth shut.

But, blogging about it — that doesn’t count, right?

SPOILER ALERT: This clip gives away most of the ending of “The American Friend”. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, you might want to skip the clip.