Page 333

On September 13, 2012 at 5:38 p.m., I completed the fourth and final draft of my new novel manuscript.  But the feeling of closure was eluding me, even as I wrapped up being a writer for the week and hit the road as a musician for the weekend, and it wasn't until days later that the point was driven home.  And it had everything to do with Page 333.

But first, fellow writers, a peek into my process.

Every chapter, regardless of whether or not I'm writing it for the first time or revising it for the thirtieth time, gets copied and pasted into my MacBook's "TextEdit" program.  Here, I use the program's "Speech" function to literally read the chapter back to me, and I do this to catch all of the dropped words and weird grammar and spelling problems that my tired eyes may have missed.  I then print out the chapter, put it in the binder, and move on to the next one.

Now, sometimes as I'm revising, I may find a few consistency problems in the manuscript that require my going back and making corrections to specific issues throughout.  Like any Word document, I use the "Find and Replace" feature, and then these pages get re-printed and then inserted into the binder where they belong according to page number.  Well, my aforementioned lack of closure was wiped away as working in conjunction with my obsession with the number three, the Universe dictated that the very last page out of approximately twenty-five insert pages would be Page 333.

Closure achieved.

I have since moved on to writing the Synopsis for potential agency representation, as it is all a part of the package, a crucial step in the traditional publishing game that I intend to play.  In a way, the Synopsis is harder to write than the book, as it forces an objective view of the material in order to include only the crucial plot points.  But even this step has enforced the closure, for as I go back into the actual manuscript to find where I've left off in the Synopsis, I find myself reading with a freed-up mind that's just enjoying the quality of the writing as a result of over a year's worth of hard work revising.

And it's all because of Page 333, the page that told me to stop, the key that locked this baby up ... at least for now.

The journey begins.  

On the Eve of Hurricane Isaac

I don't know exactly what Hurricane Isaac has planned for the city of New Orleans, but I do know two things, and it's that lessons were learned during Hurricane Katrina and that subsequent improvements have been made.

Which is why I don't understand the media hysteria right now, and the feeling that I get that most of the national coverage, and even one-such New Orleans meteorologist (who I won't mention by name here but will say that it rhymes with Sbob Sbreck) all seem downright disappointed that this storm in fact will not be another Hurricane Katrina.  Here in central Alabama, I have been as obsessed as a New Orleans native raised on hurricane-watching can be, keeping The Weather Channel on in the house, and then pulling up the local coverage on the Internet and the radio apps when I want to hear more-familiar voices.  And I do this because I want to get the perspective of those still weary from seven years of recovery, the ones who certainly celebrated (as I did) upon hearing that New Orleans was recently named the fastest-growing city in the United States, and who through all of this hype understand that New Orleanians have been through this less-than-Katrina type of storm before.

Again, I don't know what the storm has in store for my hometown, but I do know that 14 billion dollars have been spent to upgrade the levee system to withstand a Category 3 storm.  And believe it or not, the majority of what almost killed the city seven years ago was flood damage, inflicted upon a city unaware that the walls protecting them had not been touched in the forty years following Hurricane Betsy.  So, as much as some of you news people seem to want to, please don't go signing a new death certificate for the Crescent City just yet.

But I will say that I have been as preoccupied as the city has been today, and yesterday, and probably all of tomorrow and into the next day.  It's in my blood.  And I do hope that my comments here aren't premature, but in all honesty, I think they got this.

NOLA ain't goin' nowhere anytime soon.

The Hottest Blog Post in the World!

I'm still buzzing over an experience that I had a little over a week ago.  What you see here was my perspective for about ninety minutes, a fifth-row center seat to the Hottest Band in the World, and it's something that I'll never forget.  I felt as though I'd actually spent quality time with the band and was quite sad when they went away.

I've always said that KISS, along with "Star Wars" and "Saturday Night Live," were the three things that I was practically raised on.  All three were there during my developmental years, with "Love Gun" being the first album that I ever owned at the ripe old age of five.  So you can imagine how warped I was back in 1996 when KISS put the makeup back on and went on tour, during the same year that George Lucas re-released "Star Wars" in neighborhood theatres, confusing my subconscious into thinking that it was 1977 all over again like Christopher Reeve in that "Somewhere in Time" movie.

How's that for an obscure film reference, huh?

But now here I was, sixteen years and two more KISS shows later, and I was literally standing about thirty feet away from the band as I watched them do their KISS thing.  I didn't know what to do with myself, and the experience was almost awkward as I stood there, watching a show that in all honesty was designed to be seen from a distance.  Aside from the occasional point to my section and a few guitar picks thrown around me (I was too much in a sentimental daze to even reach for them), the band played to the rest of the amphitheatre, a facility that I turned to notice the immensity of only during breaks in my nostalgia trance.

It was one surreal episode in this life o' mine!

Case in point, I only took one picture the entire night, and it's the one that you see right here.  I take that back.  I took more, but then I realized that this was one part of my day that I didn't want to experience from behind a phone.

    

A Reboot Made for Walking

I did a little assumptive research before starting this post into why the universe now has a movie called "The Amazing Spider-Man" as part of its cinematic tapestry, and I have to admit, when you're good you're good.  My hunch was that there was trouble in paradise in the Sam Raimi camp, maybe over some sort of contract dispute or creative differences that sent him packing.  And with the arrival this weekend of the final chapter of a real reboot, "The Dark Knight Rises," my intent was to rip apart the new Spider-Man movie, offer my definition as to what a "reboot" was, and then, in the case of Spider-Man, ask why we needed one so soon. 

But now I know.

Let me first say that the term reboot is being thrown around far too liberally for my taste these days.  It seems that there are a few Hollywood executives that need to flip back through their producer's glossaries and look up that word.  Good reboots involve a good amount of reimagining, and really, this latter term should be used in place of the former.  "It's getting a reimagining."  It may clarify some things around the production table when ideas and scripts are given the green light.  Christopher Nolan, for instance, reimagined Batman.  He took it from the weird ice-capade that Joel Schumacher turned it into and brought it back to where I think Tim Burton really wanted to go in the first place.  Of course, this Burton thing is just my opinion, and I'm saying this because I believe that the original franchise helmed my Burton had a marketing and promotional team that was teasing us with the reality of such a film without actually delivering.  We were all salivating over the vision of a sinister Gotham that was closer to the comics than the Adam West camp.  But the truth is, as soon as the opening credits started in 1989's "Batman," in came the camp.  The follow-up, 1992's "Batman Returns," was showing signs of derailing even then and really doesn't stand up to multiple viewings.  They were good movies, but not great movies.  Then came Joel Schumacher and his two films that I won't even mention by name, delegating them to that same place where the knowledge that Joel Schumacher even directed two Batman movies resides.  Who cares about the "nipples on the Batsuit" thing when there were questions like: did Jim Carrey's Riddler have a light and sound guy in his hideout?  I mean, designing all of those spinning, green-neon question marks would have been the least of my worries as a villain.

But I digress.

I think what we have here in the case of "The Amazing Spider-Man" is a Joel Schumacher-type thing.  The Marc Webb (I know, "Webb", right?) vision is less of a reimagining than it is a regurgitation brought about by some Hollywood one-upmanship.  I can appreciate the idea of taking Peter Parker back to his roots, and in some strange way, bypassing the origin story of his spidey powers was merciful.  But this was only because I didn't want to see it again!  The only problem is that this is a reboot, and unfortunately, it goes with the territory.  In all actuality, when I saw this movie two weeks ago, my first thought was that it was nothing we haven't seen before, and in fact, it was a lot less.  I smelled a rat.  And now I know why.

And it seems that it was just a matter of making a deadline.  Sam Raimi just couldn't do it creatively and put his name on it, and thus, neither could any of his cast or crew.  But from what I've read, it was an amicable split, complete with the standard-issue statements about how incredible the opportunity was and all of that.  If only I had known this going in, not only would it have forgiven this reboot that happened just five years after the last Sam Raimi Spider-Man movie, but I probably wouldn't have had such high expectations.

Now, I'm not going to go into why Christopher Nolan's reboot is the real deal.  Just look at "The Amazing Spider-Man," and like Gene Wilder said in the first Willy Wonka movie, "Strike that, reverse it."

See what I did there?  Because not only was there a new Willy Wonka movie that wasn't as good as the original, but it was directed by the original Batman director, and ...

Perhaps I need a reboot.

A New Orleans Story

I just got off of the phone with a close friend of mine from New Orleans who reminded me of a lesson, one that he had actually taught me while Jess and I were there less than a month ago.  It was a lesson and a reminder all rolled into one.  It was a lesson in the little reminders!

I have been struggling lately with the idea of being stigmatized as a self-published writer, and I have gone on about it here on this blog in a number of different ways, all of which if you were to put them into one, cohesive statement, would read: STOP!  NO!  DON'T SELF-PUBLISH!

Now, there is a big part of me that still feels this way.  In this business, the best way to go will always be the traditional way, and that way is by going from the agent to the publisher to the contract.  But what if your books are already out there?  What if, as is the case for me, your first two books are already formatted and saturated on the Internet and are available now in all of the relevant formats?  Do I just turn my back on my own bibliography?

Believe it or not, this was indeed my plan.  I had already done the research weeks before my trip to New Orleans on how to pull my titles from the Internet as to not even exist as a published writer, saving that distinction instead for when something would actually happen, for when I finally sold my first book.  That's right, I was going to destroy everything that defined me up until this point, all of the celebrations by myself and by my family while we held my books in our hands for the first time, shaking the proverbial Etch A Sketch on my vocation as a writer.

I use the word "vocation" intentionally, mainly because I couldn't use the word "career" during the time I was considering erasing myself.  In my mind, I didn't have a career unless I could consider it how I made my living.  "Vocation," then, became a more appropriate word.  So, there it was.  I was going to rip my forty years as a writer-to-be from the history books, regardless of the fact that it would be virtually impossible to remove the books from every database that ever had an Internet spider go out and grab them and put them on their site.  In my mind, all I had to do was cut off the blood source, and the body would die.

And then I took a trip back home to New Orleans.

The last part of our trip was a visit to see some old friends, one of whom I just got off of the phone with, and together we walked through his recording studio and looked at all of the visual art that had poured out of him over the past few months.  It was astonishing.  There were paintings everywhere.  And hidden away underneath all the canvases was the actual recording studio, its shelves still holding tapes from recording sessions that were done years ago, still waiting in some cases to be mixed and put out into the universe.  And it occurred to me just then that no matter how much tinkering would be done to these master tapes, no matter what harmonies would be taken out or added in post, that the songs would still maintain their integrity by their titles alone.  They would all fall into a certain, chronological record of artistic productivity.  As my buddy said to me only a few hours ago, "It would be something else to add to your Wikipedia page!"

This last trip to New Orleans reminded me of what it is that I do, of where it is that I come from, and where I come from is a city of defiant creatives.  The audacity that we had in scheduling entire days around sitting in recording studios was almost as important as what we were recording.  It's where I get the discipline that I have today.  And judging from what I saw on Facebook and Twitter before our trip, it was still happening, and I got confirmation of that as I strolled through my friend's skull there in his recording studio.

And so, during the drive back, I decided that I was going to play ball with my fate.  I contacted my publisher and asked them about the possibility of reissues, like any, say, non-fiction book that would have to be updated in order to keep the information inside pertinent, and they said it was no problem.  Do I plan to do this?  Maybe.  But that would be between my publisher and myself and it would be undetectable.  The point is that I have that option, and the fact remains that those two books, the ones that exist in the universe with their covers and copyright years and ISBNs all over the world, are my first and second books respectively.  Period.  They are mine.  And they mark where I was then as a writer. 

Self-published books get picked up all the time now by traditional publishing houses, which marks yet another change in the industry over the years, and so having books out there that I can be proud of is simply the foundation on which everything else can be built.  Regardless of what harmonies may have been added or taken out, and no matter what changes are made to the original compositions, they are still the same old melodies by title alone that inspired me to want to launch them out into the universe from day one.

In summary, here is an excerpt from the "Acknowledgements" page of Scenes from the Blanket that I think says it all.  Written during the year following Hurricane Katrina, it is exactly what I meant when I said that I was reminded of a certain lesson while returning to the city that made me who I am:

"Lastly I would like to thank the great city of New Orleans, my hometown and infinite muse.  This book is about you -- about your people and your geography, about your spirit and your darkness, about your culture and your ideas.  You exist far outside your city limits, within me and within us all, through the aesthetics you've so graciously given to your children.  For this gift, New Orleans, I humbly thank you."

It's Alive!

About two months ago, during the week of January 30th,  2012, I commenced to temporarily shutting down as a writer.  I put every one of my writing projects on indefinite hold, and I envisioned the main one -- the final revisions of my newest manuscript -- to be lying under the sheet in my imagined lab like Frankenstein's monster.  Or in the case of someone with a mechanical bent, like a car without an engine, sitting under a tarp in my imaginary garage.  Either way, you get the idea.  I was walking away from some unfinished woodshed projects, and even though I was leaving them as such, they were made tidy and clean in their incompleteness.

The next month would be an experimental excursion into corporate America, a journey that I had always fantasized about but never really had an opportunity to realize.  The ideal version of this fantasy starred me sitting in a cubicle doing my work quietly, whatever that work was, as long as it was my responsibility and as long as I could do it without much thought.  But in taking the opportunity that was available to me, I was unexpectedly thrust into a world in which I simply didn't belong, one in which I could not function in any healthy sense.  Sure, the month-long training was a snap.  I can navigate through any classroom-type situation being that I'm an admitted career student.  But graduate from the hypothetical and into the applied, and, well, I soon understood why I was approaching the age that I was and had not yet held a job in sales.  I have since decided to give teaching a second stab, having already done all of the legwork a few years ago to get into the system.  I just never did any actual teaching, putting it on hold as my musical opportunities took off.  Such has been the story all of my life.  And my music career is still well into liftoff, it's just that this year, I'm all about the Benjamins!  I am thankful, however, for my journey into that particular level of corporate America, reminding me of where I belong, teaching me that although I have no real confidence when it comes to arguing with small business owners about their business, that I can certainly argue with younger, less-experienced students whose education is my business.

Which brings me back to the monster under the sheet, and the thrill I allowed myself on Monday, March the 19th, 2012, when I yanked back the cover and revisited my works-in-progress.  The truth was that I really couldn't afford the time to think about them in any productive way, and on more than a few occasions, I've actively had to put my work out of my head.  I know, "Who doesn't?"  Sorry.  In my case that would be suicide.  It's what gets me out of bed in the morning.  Say what you want, I don't think that's any way for an artist to live.  And live I will, as will my work, both of us once again, alive!

"Midnight in Paris" (2011)

Writers have a certain universality of concern, and I know this not just because I'm a writer, but because there are books and films and music and all kids of art that reflect this commonality, stories that touch to the heart of what all writers tend to think are unique only to themselves, whether they truly are or not. 

And Woody Allen knows this.  Which is why "Midnight in Paris" has quickly become one of my all-time favorite "writer movies."

I first discovered "Midnight in Paris" last summer during a solo trip to the movies, satisfying both my need for a flick and my enduring fascination with the Woody Allen cinematic canvas.  The trailer didn't show much, and as the surprise of the plot unfolded, I understood why.  I hadn't felt that treated by a movie in quite some time, and it had everything to do with the fact that I am a writer and that there are others out there like me.

And Woody Allen knows this. 

I revisited the film recently after having the DVD handed to me on Christmas Day, and it held up completely on second viewing, and even a third viewing as I had it running in a little window on my Mac while I worked on my own writing.  What is it in particular that I found so alluring about this movie?  I love the idea that the Woody Allen-type protagonist, played this time by Owen Wilson, is a shameless Romantic who finds himself in Paris with the freedom to explore the city streets at night.  What he finds would be a spoiler here, but let's just say that he is left to his own devises to take these walks at midnight and explore the fantasies (and let's be clear here, his fantasies are more literary than anything, and there is nothing darker going on here), fantasies that, dare I say, are important only to a writer.  He rubs elbows with the literary elite who show interest in him and in his writing, who want to read his novel manuscript, and he returns to his hotel during the day to obsessively sort out not only the details of his nightly wanderings, but to also "re-write, and then re-write the re-writes," and he does it all with the wide-eyed enthusiasm that only a writer experiences when they know that they're in the right place at the right time.  The movie is in fact heavy on this theme, of one's position in life with relevance to some imagined ideal. 

And Woody Allen knows this, too.

If it seems like I'm latching onto the idea that only writers can appreciate this movie, I'm only saying that because the temperament certainly does allow one to experience the movie differently.  Otherwise, "Midnight in Paris" is not to be missed if one is a fan of the prolific Woody Allen, as this one easily goes down as one of his best if not the best of his annual offerings in recent years.

Revoking the Katrina Card

This is my New Year's post, which was inspired as I stared at the bonfire you see here on our property during our Christmas Eve celebration.  "How far I've come," I whispered to myself that night after everyone had left, standing over the glowing embers with my hands in my pockets.  But this is a mantra I say often.

I remember one trip back to New Orleans in late 2006, during which time I was still displaced and re-establishing my life in Birmingham, Alabama, when someone I barely knew asked me when I was coming back to the city.  My reply must have had something to do with Hurricane Katrina keeping me away, and I remember his response being almost as if he was under some spell, as if he was part of some communal group hug that the entire city was locked into during that period, one that prompted him to say, "That was a year ago!"

Yes, it had been a year ago at that point, but it was still fresh in the minds of those like myself who for whatever reason couldn't just "come back" to New Orleans.  It was an ironic time of great desperation and tremendous growth as I took care of my ailing mother far away from anything we were accustomed to.  I would in fact spend the months following the storm in a hotel room in Tuscaloosa, Alabama before moving farther north, and it is that balcony that I still consider the starting point to where I am today.

And today I am sober, with the only new comment I have on this subject in the new year being the realization that I would give anything to be this way for parents that are still alive.  Even though I know they realized I was sick, how wonderful would it have been to engage them at this level of maturity (pushed into existence as the result of Katrina) rather than the semi-volatile person that they knew as their son?  My mother would in fact have to endure this person even in her latter years, with the event of her death meeting some quota of piled-up tragedy that would help push me toward sobriety.  Well, that's not entirely true.  The decision, as is always the case for the recovering addict, is the decision of the addict alone.  But the decision was a good one, kick starting a period of productivity and awareness that has filled up my journal pages exponentially.  My journal for 2006 was 109 pages.  My journal for the year 2011 is now well over 500.  And how strange it is to think that the documented year following the storm had so little activity, or at least, activity worthy of writing down.

The city of New Orleans has long loosened that communal group hug, replaced instead by a version of the city perhaps not entirely as it was before, but close enough by the resident's standards.  Therefore, it is more than possible for Jessica and I to "come back," and our future plans include just that.  But for now I am revoking my "Katrina card," satisfied here, as are my people in New Orleans, that we are all where we need to be for the time being.

Those are my reflections.  What are yours?  Happy New Year.

The Authority of Anne Rice

And she really does have the authority, doesn't she?  When one stops to think about it, after she single-handedly provided the modern vampire fiction blueprint with the publication of Interview With the Vampire, it's almost unheard of to know that she's gotten little to no credit in the wake of the not-so-recent-anymore vampire craze that finally may be showing signs of stopping.  Rice, in fact, has been quite vocal when it came to Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series, criticizing among other things the idea that Meyer's immortals inexplicably felt that it was necessary to attend ... high school.  It's the stuff that's made Rice fans like myself furious in a way that one gets when they watch someone take credit they didn't deserve, especially when the real credit may go to a friend or a family member, or in our case, an author that you think of almost as family!  It's like hearing someone claim to invent a brand when in all actuality, the brand exists because it's being targeted to a market that had no prior knowledge that the brand already existed!  Vampires have become afterschool specials and we're all sick of it, and apparently, so is Anne Rice. 

It's no wonder that she's given up on the genre for the time being and has instead moved on to werewolves with the February 2012 release of The Wolf Gift, a book that I guarantee will redefine the mythology.  And I haven't even read it yet.  I don't have to.  That's just what she does.  She turns legends inside out and fills in the holes that have existed for centuries.  She did this reworking with vampires, witches, mummies, an ensemble of ghosts (most all of whom were from New Orleans, by the way), oh, and a marginal literary character by the name of Jesus Christ.  And guess what?  Anne Rice is about to do it again, readers, and no one has earned the authority to do so more than she has. 

I've also seen recently that Anne Rice's Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt is being adapted into a film to be directed by Chris Columbus, and I may have this wrong, but it looks as though she may have some casting pull this time around.  This, as some of you may remember, is a far cry from when Tom Cruise was cast as Lestat in the film version of Interview, a complaint that she later retracted, but one that I suspect kept her out of the creative meetings that resulted in the horrendous 2002 film adaptation of Queen of the Damned.

I certainly hope that this is the case, which would give Anne Rice the "author"-ity that she has deserved from Hollywood for well over thirty years now, taking her place as the reason why vampires are still around to make sparkly and send to proms.

Fourth Draft

Have you ever seen one of those shows on any of the various home and garden channels where they tear apart and remodel a house?  Or maybe they bring in a celebrity inspector to point out all of the various problems and then proceed to rip down walls, all the while in a frustrated huff, even though you know these guys will be able to do the very labor-intensive work required, and even enjoy doing it?  My girlfriend, Jess, has turned me on to these shows being that she is quite the handywoman herself.  But I find inspiration not from gaining knowledge on home improvement, but from the obvious metaphor, the idea that "constructing," or in my case, "reconstructing" a fourth draft of a novel is very much like going into a building, finding where the leaks are coming from, and then going to work to patch things up.

The good news is that rarely does a novel written in such a meticulous way as my third book was written see anything beyond a fourth draft.  As I've stated earlier on this blog, the third draft was the one that I was going to build on, the foundation that will hold the structure together just long enough for the inspectors to come in and snoop around.  This is where, in my case, the trustworthy beta reader came in, pointing out that certain parts needed to be developed, and that the piece could benefit from as little as a few more lines here and there.

I have made my construction plans via sticky notes (index cards are traditionally used here, but hey, I have a "Stickies" app on my computer) arranged like a storyboard with each chapter getting its own, color-coded note.  The notes put on these sticky notes will be inserted into the manuscript via what I call "prompts" typed in bold, cueing me to start there and write those few lines, or whatever is needed to make that part work.  This is where I am, and it's a good place, being that the beta reader admitted that it was the "cleanest" manuscript they'd received in a long time, and perhaps more importantly, that the novel was more than salvageable and "needs to be represented."

Which brings me to a decision I've made recently that you can read more about in the "A Brief Disclaimer" section of this blog, and it has to do with the previously self-published versions of my work.  Basically, I've realized that nothing is going to happen with them in the form that they are in now, that is to say, stigmatized as self-published works.  If I am to recognize the integrity of my past work for what it is and what it could be, I need to take it out of the market for now, knowing that they are simply not ready to be consumed.  They are early works that tie into this third work-in-progress, one that is designed to stand on its own, and one that will still stand as my potential launching pad into the industry.  But since I cannot un-publish those novels, the novels exist now in my mind only as manuscripts (self-publishing companies should make clear that you still own the rights to your book) and nothing more.  As a result, these novels have been unlocked, giving me the freedom to go back and change minor punctuation and grammar, things that had previously fallen victim to both my inexperience as a writer, and the heavy hand of copy editors assigned to make my book more "marketable," and thus destroying any stylistic consistency.  It is because of this, you will no longer hear me acknowledge these editions as even being in existence, and it is my wish that these editions no longer be included in my body of, as of now, un-published work.

These manuscripts have in fact already been altered, but only in matters of the above mentioned grammar and punctuation with the content remaining the same, and I've sat down to do this in wonderful new writing locations.  As you know, I love finding new spaces to work, and I have recently discovered the University on Montevallo's Carmichael Library in Montevallo, Alabama as the place where I will more than likely write most of my next novel.  It reminds me very much of the university libraries that I've worked in throughout the years as both a student and a post-graduate alumnus, sometimes choosing to immerse myself in its academic atmosphere of desks and cubicles and campus tranquility instead of drinking it up on a Saturday night.  Nowadays, the drinking part isn't even a factor, but revisiting a college campus not only gives me the inspiration that I need in such a rural part of the country, but it allows me to tap into my natural wiring as an academic, working in the environment that at one point in my life, I'd planned to become a part of.  It's good to know that these constants exist around me to mirror the constants of my artistic sensibility. 

It's very much like when you hear of an artist's career in some retrospect documentary, where the artists themselves are talking about their work as if its relevance to them has never dissipated.  They are able to pick apart and dissect their movies or songs or books as if they had just created them, and you realize that this is the case because the artist lives with the art that they create, and the places where they were created, and the reasons that they were created, for the rest of their lives.

20 Years of Nirvana's "Nevermind" and My Time in the Cult of Cobain

I don't remember exactly when it happened, but I do know that it coincided with another transition that was happening at the time, at least in my world.  The year was 1991, and I was only then exploring life outside of what I already knew.  As was the music industry.  The timing was perfect. 

Nirvana's "Nevermind" was just there one day, as was the first and most earth-shaking single off the record, "Smells Like Teen Spirit."  The song was soon followed by most all of the remaining, radio-friendly tracks that played like the soundtrack of my life then, along with Pearl Jam and everything else that was being pushed through the system.  But I was oblivious to the actual sequence of events, knowing only that I really liked the music and never really making a noteworthy transition in my mind that what came before was dead and that I was no longer a part of it.  It just became "not real" anymore, replaced instead with the spirit of the music and the musicians who were making this new music, very much akin to the spirit of the 1960s in my opinion, where a Romantic introspection was taking place that was designed to eventually change the world.  It was why I latched onto the charismatic Kurt Cobain as my generation's John Lennon, a perspective that wasn't unique to people my age, but one that would eventually play out in a grim parallel of death and martyrdom.  It would also raise a discussion only a few years later that stayed with me to this day.

The year was 1994, and I was in one of my writing courses at the University of New Orleans when the topic came up of what Kurt Cobain meant to the youth of his generation in comparison to what John Lennon represented to his.  And I remember being shocked that so many students dismissed Cobain as just another troubled addict who ended up doing the inevitable, claiming that he "took the coward's way out," and all the other stock reactions that people have who seem almost jealous that they possibly didn't have the courage to do what they really wanted to do (this is generally a very strong opinion of mine when it comes to reactions to suicides, but that's for a different piece).  The result was that John Lennon -- who keep in mind, I hold absolutely dear -- won out in a landslide as to the more influential artist, and for some reason, this sent me right to our assigned journal exercise that night, an assignment that I knew would have to be turned in, and one that I knew was going to make a ripple.  I don't remember exactly what I wrote (if Hurricane Katrina hadn't claimed all of my college notes and materials I'd be a much happier man, that's for sure), but I do remember the line: "Back off.  We don't want or need your sympathy."  And I'm absolutely positive that this was aimed directly at the Lennon sympathizers, or to those who just didn't understand what it was I did then, to the point where I felt the need to refer to myself as part of a "we," as if being a member of some Cobain cult!  This was what Nirvana's "Nevermind" and the records that followed did for me, or more to the point, to me.  It was an interesting time.

But perhaps more interesting was the mark in the margin made by my professor, right next to the line I mentioned, where she simply drew a red exclamation point.  Yeah!  At least I had one. 

Back in the Game

Not that I was ever really out of the game, but by way of a quick update, the manuscript that I've been chronicling the production of here has not only been completed, but is now in the hands of beta readers and editors alike.  In addition, I've been preparing to begin writing a new book, my fourth, and it's a novel that will mark a certain departure for me stylistically.  This new one is completely under wraps, however, and probably won't get mentioned here again for quite some time.  Shhh!

But this puts me in the first-time position of being in both post and pre-production on two separate novels, and when I factor in the calendar event of my two-year sober point back on the 9^th of this month, never before have I felt so back in the game.  My first two books had been written, re-written, and then re-written again and again by the time I made the haphazard decision of self-publishing.  Once again, I don't recommend it, even though back when I did it -- and I'm only going back to 2001 on the first novel -- self-publishing meant that a publisher would actually print your book cover to cover on a "print-on-demand" basis.  Nowadays, eBook publishing has put a nice little dent in the business model for both vanity presses and traditional publishers alike, being that it seems that self-published eBooks are actually making money for their authors.  I really don't know that this new trend has loosened the grip on the very secured route of traditional publishing.  That is, has the process for getting a manuscript through the system, from editor to agent to publisher gotten any easier simply because of competition with the growing online industry?

I suppose I'm going to find out, because the thought of self-publishing online or in any other format again is an absolute last resort for me at this stage of the game.  It's all or nothing.  Either way, someone has to write the books, right?

Midnight in Key West

With only two nights to go in Key West, I wanted to post a quick something about this scene, nighttime on this section of the island, only hours after the bustle of the tourist-friendly Duvall Street closes and the customers and employees scatter.  This is the "Blanket," Key West style, and it is a time of night I've grown accustomed to while here.

It is in fact so safe to walk these streets late at night, that for me, it's a little unnerving.  The area in and around Duvall Street reminds me so much of New Orleans, with Duvall being closer akin to Bourbon Street, and the neighborhoods surrounding looking like parts of the Garden District.  But in no way would I consider taking to either one of those neighborhoods in New Orleans on foot after hours, especially when there seems to be not a living soul around!  It truly is amazing.  Where does everybody go?  Walking through the French Quarter for so may years has wired me to check for movement in passing car windows and to keep a steady, peripheral awareness that produces a special kind of tunnel vision.  Here, I lapse into that pinhole-size perspective, and it makes it quite hard to sightsee.

But the points of the late-night walks have been all centered around a certain centering, for processing the night on stage, for exploring the storefronts and points of interest for any daytime outings, and more importantly, for walking around inside of my writer's mind.  I felt like Owen Wilson in Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," and what a coincidence it was that I was in the land of Hemingway.  I was looking for that old Rolls-Royce around every corner.

What Inspires Me

Greetings from Key West, Florida.

Been here for three days now, performing nightly with my band at Sloppy Joe's Bar, the alleged place where Ernest Hemingway tied quite a few on in his day.  But if you eavesdrop on one of the tour trams that pass every now and again, you learn that the original Sloppy Joe's, and Hemingway's liver, have remnants further down the block in an entirely different location.  But I digress.  Key West has gone off my radar as far as rants go.  It is what it is, and I'm here first on business, and second, to get lost in my imagination for a solid week.

Which brings me to this post, which was inspired by a Twitter feed in which a fellow writer blogged about their influences.  I'd never thought to do that myself, usually reserving that information for when I was a drinker and would talk many an ear off about literature and writing and the best of both.  But those days are gone, and with it went the bravado of a loud drunk.  Nonetheless, I'd like to take this time to mention the latest book I've read (pictured above), which I found very inspiring for reasons I'll explain, and then say a little something about what influences me as a writer.

First and foremost, I have to mention the Queen of the Damned herself, Anne Rice, my surrogate mother of letters and inspiration to this day.  Her contemporary fiction is what put me on the path of the novel as my primary means of storytelling, and I admit it without shame that she has been most all I've read in that field to date.  I can't remember the last book I've read (fiction, mind you) that she hasn't written, with the exception of one (again, pictured above).  I just recently saw a YouTube video of her in her little office in the California desert, and it made me think about perseverance.  Anne used to live quite the extravagant lifestyle in New Orleans, but apparently lost all of it due to bad investments and a crashing real estate market.  That information came from a separate interview I read recently, but when I put it all together, it made me think, "I can and will write everywhere."  Anne used to write in a Garden District mansion, and now, by the looks of it, she writes in a small room in a suburban California condo.

Now, before I go further off track here, let me mention The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson (that's right, pictured above), a wonderfully written and structured book that inspires me in its simplicity.  I'm sure Mr. Davidson himself would not be so kind with my calling his work "simple," mainly because according to the background information on him, the novel took seven years to write.  But the book is simple only in the fact that it manages to carry two story threads framed in a plot-space that is really uneventful.  Without reviewing the book, I just want to make the point that it showed me how less can absolutely be more, and Davidson is very much akin to my approach.  It's vivid, beautiful, and internalized in the Romantic tradition.

Back to what inspires me, I have to mention the very same Romantic tradition, more specifically, the English Romantics of the eighteenth and nineteenth century.  Even more specific would be the second generation led by Byron, Keats, and Shelley.  It would be downright weird for me to claim that as a novelist I was influenced by them stylistically, being that they were poets.  But their philosophies are what molded me, and the study of their time and work is what gave me the Promethean flame that I write so much about.  That flame, in my opinion, was carried centuries later as the writers of the Beat Generation -- another great influence on my work -- internalized their passions and made the written word like new, post-World War II monuments of expressive achievement.  William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Allen Ginsberg truly believed they were changing the world, like the English Romantics before them, and in a way they did.  Only it was the world inside.

Yes.  The world inside.  Writers can't move into any other words unless they're satisfied with the one inside.

That is what inspires me.  What inspires you?

Third Draft

The third time is the charm!  Here is the draft on which I'll build, the one that will be placed gently into the hands of beta readers and potential agents.  The Internet was down when I completed it, which is probably a good thing.  It reminds me of stories of mass conceptions during power outages.  It has been nine months between drafts! 

Anyway, this one clocked in at 422 pages, which means I was able to chop 44 pages from the previous draft, a statistic that only now in finishing I realized.  I would never have expected that.  There was numerology involved in today's completion, today being August the 3^rd, 2011 (8+3=11), and as if to punctuate my belief that my work tends to be in sync with the universe, by no effort of my own, the novel was completed at 11:11 a.m.  My "Silver Screen" channel was on in my office, and while the final pages of the manuscript slipped out of the printer, triumphant soundtrack music accentuated the event!  But in all seriousness, today is the culmination of quite a bit of personal growth, and it is a testament to how far I've indeed come.  I love you, Jessica.

As is one of the main purposes of this website, there will be more posts to follow regarding plans for the future of this piece.  We will track my pursuit of agency representation, and ultimately, of legitimate publication.  Let's do this together, shall we?

Key West Revisited

Thought I'd post a little something here about my recent week spent in Key West, during which time I edited my new book during the day and played music at night. It was wonderful in this regard. As long as I have this opportunity, my Key West weeks will double as writing sabbaticals.

But I do want to mention the literary significance of Key West, namely, the well-documented fact that Ernest Hemingway lived on the island for a short time during one of the most prolific periods of his life. The Hemingway House is a tourist attraction, and I did make the trek on foot to the house, and I did take the tour, and I did buy a souvenir coffee mug. Now, I did all of these things during my first trip to Key West (sans the coffee mug), and I have to report that the Hemingway mystique was much more potent that first time around. I think I know why.

Simply put, I grew up as a writer in New Orleans, the same city as a literary idol of mine, Anne Rice, also lived. I'd pass her house on a regular basis in the Garden District of New Orleans, the mansion sitting behind the gates on the corner of First and Chestnut, the residence the model for the Mayfair house in Anne Rice's own The Witching Hour. I even had the privilege of being inside two of her other properties, one being her house on Third and St. Charles during the Bacchus parade back in 1997. I remember walking around the house saying, "This is what words on paper built." I actually imagined the walls themselves being made of pieced-together manuscript pages. It was something to aspire to, an atmosphere that even now I try to reproduce in my own home. I dream often of being in her house, roaming the halls in search of her writing space, just to have a look.

I can't say the same for the Hemingway House in Key West, and to be fair, I'm going to assume that the main reason has to do with the fact that it is not a very well-kept place. Window fans circulate what little air there is in there, and aside from evidence of a bedroom and a kitchen and a bathroom, the house doesn't really look lived in. It looks like what it was, and that was a place for Hemingway to entertain and then eventually crash while on his never-ending benders in Key West. He does have a "writing studio" in a separate small building that the tour guide said was once connected by a walkway straight from his bedroom, but even that looked stifling and uninspiring. But the six-toed cats that roam the property were ... well ... there were six-toed cats that roamed the property.

Therefore, Key West for me is just as I had mentioned earlier, and that is a place that I have the luxury of going to twice a year (for now) and spending a week inside of my writer's mind. I saw very little of the island aside from certain streets that were essential for me to roam in order to survive. Unfortunately, Key West represents everything that I no longer am as a man two years sober, yet I will move confidently into the midst of this beautiful part of the United States and take from it what I can. Thank you, Key West!