Entrekin

I write to
And about
Will be someone.
Eventually, my lady, you
Will have a
Name,
A personality,
A face.
Eventually I will know
Just who you are,
You, about whom I have
Wondered for years.
Eventually I will not
Have to settle for a
Good time.
Eventually I will
Find you,
Know you when I
See you,
Hear you,
When your soft, light
Footsteps
Finally echo from my
Dreams to my floor.
Thank God I’m
Patient.

***

One of six poems in the collection, and one of the earliest overall. I wrote it during college, which is also true of “Inspiration Point,” “This Ain’t Wonderland,” and “A New Drink.” This was, of course, at a time when I thought every line of a poem should be capitalized (I’m no longer sure, and I’d concede this one might look better without the capped lines). These and my other college poems were the ones that came closest to not making it into the collection, in fact, because I thought so much else seemed so much stronger, but one of the good things about doing it in the first place was recording those times.

I think every writer has early work that makes them cringe a little. I know I have a novel on the top shelf of the closet in my parents basement, which will, as far as I’m concerned, remain there forever (or at least until they move), a big, thick, hunk of a novel I thought it took nearly a ream of paper to tell. I’m pretty sure it’s up near 500 single-spaced pages.

Better I offer you the poems than that, I think. The poems, it’s fun to see how I’ve grown.

The novel you might just bludgeon me with were I to try to sell it to you.

As well you should.

It’s nice to know, as well as a little ironic, that a couple of you cited this and other poetry as your favorite. We are so rarely good at judging what of our work will appeal to others.

***

Like this? Remember to buy the book; it’s only available for a limited time, and all proceeds go to the United Way NYC as tribute to those we lost on September 11th, 2001.

I finished my novel, The Prodigal Hour, earlier. At final count, I had trimmed nearly 15,000 words from the previous draft–the final clocks in at a brisk, crisp 90,000 words.

All of which, I probably don’t need to tell you, are awesome.

(well. That’s the hope, anyway. Ultimately, it’s for you to decide. And heck, you even show up in the book. Because you’re just that rad)

Given that, I’ve begun to submit it for representation. Just a couple of queries so far to a couple of agents I think would be a really good fit for it.

Actually, really, to a couple of agents I think would fall in love with it.

And can I just ask: in this day and age, what’s with any agent who doesn’t accept e-queries (or any editor/publisher, for that matter)?

Come on: it’s 2008.

(wow. 2008. Yaysh)

Anyway, a few queries out. First round.

Wish me luck!

I’m coming, once again, into the final heat of my novel. It’s a space I feel like I’ve been a thousand times already, which is funny, really, and a situation you’ll see the humor/irony in once you’ve read it. I’ve realized it needs a bit of restructuring, consolidation here and re-chaptering there, and I know there are now three key elements to write (after which, it’s mostly just pruning).

But I feel like I got it last time. The last draft, reading it (and writing it, for that matter), felt like an epiphany. Felt like the first time I really understood the story I was trying to tell, and what it was about (what? I’m dense like that sometimes).

I think part of the issue was that the story changed so hard between the first draft and one I wrote just as I started graduate school; not just because my writing improved, but also because of September 11th, which is somewhat significant in the story. The book itself is set on October 31, 2001, so the world is still, in a way, feeling the impact of those planes, and, in many ways, hasn’t yet understood how it will continue to be affected.

And now at the real end. Because I’ve realized that it’s time to move on. After this draft, I’ve said all I can of this story. I’m going to finish before the end of the month, and then next month will be devoted to job searching and submissions, two process which, I think, probably share a lot in common. I’m also going to finish a couple of short stories I’ve been thinking of, and then . . .

Well, lots. There’s a lot I’m uncertain of, considering the next project, considering what forms they may take, considering a lot of things, but then again, there’s a little voice in the back of my head I imagine as spoken by a sweet old man with giant spectacles and the sort of mischievous grin only someone familiar with magic can pull off, and he’s whispering in my ear, “Just sit down and write write write.”

As advice goes, I’m not sure there’s better at this point.

You should check it out. It’s good.

It’s really settling in, with full force, that I’ve finished USC’s MPW program for all intents and purposes. Today, in my email, I got a note about some loan exit interview I’m supposed to do before I graduate.

And then I came home to find a box from Lulu on my stoop:

Which I then opened:

To find a stack of two books, sheathed protectively in foam:

Which I then turned over:

To find my uber-pretty, perfect-bound thesis, The Prodigal Hour:

With its title page:

And then a page I’ll give you a ‘before’ of:

Because I’m meeting with my advisor tomorrow so he can sign it.

A note on the cover: I actually made one myself, with Photoshop, but then got up to the Lulu page and decided to just go with one of theirs, for a simple reason: this copy, in particular, is going to do nothing more than collect dust on a couple of shelves (one with me, the other with my program). It’s really kind of cheesy, but then, I was like, well, who’s really going to see it, and it does sorta match the story (with cool light effects around a pair of eyes, and a cityscape, and then cosmic implication, all of which are included in what the novel is about).

Yes, just two copies:

And here will be the only place you’ll ever be able to see them.

Lucky you.

Fuckall, I’m done with grad school.

I was going to write about why I’m moving on to Denver, but that’ll wait for another time. I’m going to take an evening to process this.

First, this post at BookSlut, a books blog, which points to this post, over at Self Publishing News. I was unfamiliar with the latter, but its author discusses, at length, whether self-published books will ever be recognized for their quality, etc., thesis roughly being: “But an indie or self published book will never get one of the major book awards as things presently stand, simply because the major book awards are a completely closed shop.”

Sorry to call it a thesis. I’ve been grading all day. We’ve been talking a lot about argumentation. My students would probably note that as a hasty generalization or a logical fallacy.

Back at BookSlut, there’s a tag on that link: (No. -Ed.) I think the Ed in question is Jessa Crispin. Seems to be. Again, hasty generalization.

Of course, my students require support for the claims they make, so here’s mine: in 2006, Dave Eggers’ What is the What was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Fiction Award. The book was published by McSweeney’s, an independent publishing company founded by Eggers, where he is also an editor.

You don’t have to take me at my word he’s self-published. Over here, Sarah Weinman notes the guidelines of the Mystery Writers Association, mainly in the context that a former Edgar winner was disqualified because he owns the company that, in conjunction with another, published his novel. Which means Eggers’ novel would be disqualified there (well. Were it a crime novel. It’s not, of course. But you get my point).

I think self-published authors should stop worrying so damned much about the attention they believe they are entitled to but haven’t yet received and start worrying more about the work they’re producing. Also, the continuous talk about sales, copies, and marketing is tedious at best.

I’ve read a bit about Marie Philips’ Gods Behaving Badly (though not the book itself, I’ll admit). The premise, to quote its Amazon.com page, is:

the Greek gods and goddesses living in a tumbledown house in modern-day London and facing a very serious problem: their powers are waning, and immortality does not seem guaranteed. In between looking for work and keeping house, the ancient family is still up to its oldest pursuit: crossing and double-crossing each other. Apollo, who has been cosmically bored for centuries, has been appearing as a television psychic in a bid for stardom. His aunt Aphrodite, a phone-sex worker, sabotages him by having her son Eros shoot him with an arrow of love, making him fall for a very ordinary mortal-a cleaning woman named Alice, who happens to be in love with Neil, another nice, retiring mortal. When Artemis-the goddess of the moon, chastity and the hunt, who has been working as a dog walker-hires Alice to tidy up, the household is set to combust, and the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

And while this sounds intriguing, as such things go, the reason I haven’t already picked up the novel is that, reading that, I feel like I read the book back in 2001, when Neil Gaiman wrote it and called it American Gods.

American Gods is not my favorite Neil Gaiman novel (that’s Anansi Boys), nor do I think it’s his best (actually, I think that’s Anansi Boys, as well), but it’s certainly damned good enough to have won a whole mess of awards and slake quite well my thirst for novels about no-longer-employed gods. It’s long and meandering (in a very good way), with an extraordinarily likable protagonist matched up against extraordinarily likable antagonists.

I bring this up because, for the month of March, HarperCollins is basically giving the book away. Well. Close to, at any rate.

So here’s my part: I’m going to embed their code here, which you can click to follow and read the novel in its entirety.

If you like it, you can pick it up here.

And I think you will. Like it, I mean. It’s a great book.

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Yes, I wrote that I’d begin blogging again, in earnest, the moment I finished my novel. And I am, just about.

I finished it last night around five in the evening. I saved it in, like, nine different places (one can never be too rich, too thin, or have their work saved in too many places), copied and pasted 80,000 words to fire off to my thesis advisor.

Which means I haven’t just finished my novel. I’ve also finished my thesis, which means I’ve finished my degree. All that’s left is the formality.

I remember two years ago. I remember how scared I was to do this, how I worried I was going to fall on my face, but I knew that I could no longer remain where I was.

It’s funny, the cycles in which life moves. Two years later, there’s something beautifully poetic about accomplishing exactly what I set out to do (and more), growing and changing and working, and then looking up and finding myself in exactly the same place I was in before. Scared about what I’m about to do in a few months, worried I’m going to fall on my face, but completely knowing that I can no longer remain where I am.

“And it was mom who showed that raging terror of where you’re headed is the surest sign you’re traveling in the right direction.” -Marty McConnell