30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 -- Your Earliest

Last month I did a 30-day writing challenge.  I posted about it in my last post.  Writing prompts were given and it made me think of writing in ways I hadn't before.  Some of it was good, some of it not.  Some of it was deeply personal.  I'm going to share some of my favorites.

#2: My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory comes from July of 1983.  I was four and change.  I sat in the bedroom that was partitioned off for my brothers.  We lived in a pre-war apartment building in Brooklyn, so we had the space to cram four boys into half a bedroom.

I was watching WPIX 11, New York's local independent station at the time, and home of the New York Yankees.  Stuff happened that I didn't understand until much later in life.  The game was honestly boring to me.  Then this happened:

 

 

 

 

 

It was weird, like a light went on in my still forming head.  This game was cool. Anything that could make grownups act like this was beyond cool.  And that day, I became a Yankee fan.

 

 

The Billion-Dollar (Day)Dream

Powerball is at $1.3 billion for Wednesday's drawing, and if you're like me, you've got most of it spent already,  what with the homes you would buy and friends and family you would help or avoid.  Some would see the world, others would invest in a solid gold bathtub (because, you know, gold is a stable investment).  And I would love for you all to comment on what you would do in the comments section down below.

Personally, I would send all my inner circle an email to go to the airport at a specific time.  There would be a ticket waiting for them.  And we would go on one EPIC adventure.  After that was done, though, it would be time to make that money work for me.  I may be crazy, and I'm definitely not a finance guy, but here's what I would do.

First, I would move my family (brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces) to one place, where we would own a block off homes, or a cul-de-sac or something.  Thomas Town would be born.

Next, I would set up my nephews and nieces with independent million dollar trust funds, untouchable until they turn 21.

I would section off an enormous amount to simply accrue interest.

I would then start Thomas Holdings, Ltd as a way to allot the money in a manner that it would never be completely depleted.  This company would be the way I did real estate back home (more on that later), do an entertainment startup, or any number of ventures that two or three hundred million would allow.  I would have the holding company pay me and my family a salary (to at least give the illusion that there should be some degree of responsibility for one's own money) and live.

The real estate thing is a big deal to me, as it would be my way of giving back to my hometown.  I'm from Brooklyn, NY (as most of you know), and grew up in Flatbush, one of the neighborhood that is at the center of the big gentrification issues going on back home.  While it may be all Starbucks and hipster now, when I was there it was affordable, low-to-middle income housing (the 'hood).  Some of my greatest friendships were forged there, some of my best memories happened there, and some of the best stories that can't be told start and end there.  If you go to my closest circle of friends and say the words "Silencio del Gato," they will smile, laugh... and bite the cyanide pill in their teeth to avoid revealing secrets (we take that seriously).  But I digress.

New York as a whole, Brooklyn in particular, has become inaccessible for the most part to the low-to-middle income citizen, despite that being the vast majority of the city.  Ask any one of the five co-workers sharing a two-bedroom, 950 sq. ft. apartment in Bed-Stuy or Sunset Park, and paying a grand.  Each.  What I would do is, starting with the block I grew up on, buy some of the older buildings, renovate them, and rent them out to low-to-middle income families.  Not the projects, but actual livable apartments.  With reasonable square footage.  That didn't demand 75% of your earnings to simply keep a roof over your head.  There are some that would regard this as a bleeding-heart fantasy devoid of any business sense, but I disagree.  Yes, can cater to the high-end and make large sums of money, but there are more people two or three tiers down than there are at the top, and that is a huge market in NYC.  With a little less than a billion dollars in the bank, profit wouldn't be my primary motivation, but it would generate income nonetheless.

It's a billion-dollar fantasy that makes me smile.  And if my $20 pulls that in and makes that fantasy a reality, how cool would that be?

But hey, it's the lottery.  I might as well ask Santa Claus to make that happen.

Feel free to comment with your daydreams and money wishes.  Cheers!

Side note:  I'd be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to the late David Bowie.  Along with Madonna, he was the master of innovation and reinvention, both stylistically and musically.  You've gotta hand it to a man who managed to stay relevant since the mid-70s.  RIP, Mr. Bowie.

Words and Music

I write to a soundtrack.

I'm sure that doesn't make me unique or ground breaking.  I'm sure quite a lot of writers have at least some background music going when they create.  Music helps clear the mind in some instances and can be very beneficial to just about any activity that requires focus.  But part of my process is that I score my own work.  For instance, my last published novel, The Favorite, had a soundtrack that was one part driving hip-hop (down and dirty to power the fight scenes), one part 90's East Coast Gangsta Rap (for the more criminal scenes), and one part Emo Rock (for the reflective moments).

Some of the music I used to write The Favorite

That mix of music helped me direct scenes and make more sense emotionally of the movie that played out in my head.  The music helped me express what was going on beneath the narrative, and even if that stuff never makes it onto a page, anything I can do to better understand my characters as they navigate the world and problems I placed them in is a worthwhile enterprise.

But that was a general soundtrack, toying with the idea of writing to music.  Since then I've settled on using certain songs on repeat to write certain scenes.  In my current work-in-progress, titled Open (for the time being), a man and his wife have an ugly confrontation after they catch each other cheating.  That confrontation explodes in dish-shattering, fridge shaking sex in their kitchen, where they lose themselves in the heat of the moment.  The song that played (on loop) while I wrote it?

Yep, that's right.  Come Together by the Beatles.  Besides the pun, it seemed to fit the mood perfectly, given their circumstances.  No shortage of irony, I guess.

I've taken the approach one step further for my next project, a vigilante crime story called Urban Legend.  I've crafted individual soundtracks for the protagonist, antagonist and "sidekick" characters. I'm using the individual character songs to form a mood when I'm scene building and these characters have to interact.  I'm using songs like "I Am," by Eminem, "Animal I Have Become," by Three Days Grace, and "(Rock) Superstar" by Cypress Hill. This is an experiment that may cause more trouble than not but the easy way is not the way to grow.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Anyway, where do my fellow writers stand on using music to set the tone on their writing?  How do you use it?  Comment here or on Facebook.

Cheers!

My Nerd Is Showing

The week before Halloween was Bellingham Comic-Con.

You hear a lot about the top-tier shows, like the ones in New York (NYCC) or San Diego (SDCC) or Seattle (ECCC -- EC for Emerald City).  Those last for three or four days, are packed wall-to-wall with celebrities touting movies and cartoons and all kinds of nerd paraphernalia.  These events are big and loud and well-publicized, as well as expensive and exclusive.

Bellingham Comic-Con is one of my favorite things about the town I live in.  Sure, it's not big and flashy like its big-city cousins.  IGN has never and likely will never set foot in there, and you're crazy if you think you're gonna see footage from the new Star Wars movies.  What it does have is passionate locals, be it the guys at Reset Games who sell retro video games (even though they admittedly weren't there this year -- FAIL), or the local comic book sellers who bring in boxes of current and classic comics to help fill out your collection, or the toy vendors.  It has creative local artists and writers, passionate about their work.  It has one or two famous artists who have worked with major comic publishers (Savage Dragon's Erik Larson and creator of Carnage, Randy Emberlin are regulars), and talented indies who are trying to break out.  And this year, it
had this guy:

YES.  That is a dancing Deadpool.  There are very few things that bring the awesome more than this.  Except maybe, this.

Dancing Deadpool leading a conga line around the convention center.  Yup, that happened.

There was honestly so much cool stuff there, stuff that people wouldn't have been able to access in NYC without either a press pass or paying through the nose.  For a small donation I was able to take these pics:

A blind dog dressed as an Ewok.

The most badass Jedi since Sam Jackson

Hero of the Rebellion

I'm not downing NYCC.  I'd like to go one day.  That said... this is still pretty freakin cool.

Not These Fools Again, Part 1 (Vacation, Day four part 2: Park Slope, Brooklyn, NYC)

Nyilah and I were running late.

We were supposed to meet up with my friend Kevin at a bar called Dram Shop.  I had put out a blast on Facebook, signaling people he and I both knew to join us there.  Unfortunately, due to the last minute nature of the activity, no one he and I used to work with were able to make it.  And because of my aging phone's declining battery, I was unable to keep up on Facebook with whomever could.  I knew Kev would be there though, it was his idea.  Kevin is one of the people that inspired my first novel, The Fab 5.  We had known each other a good 22 years, had worked together at various places.  He is one of the absolute funniest people I've ever met, and easily a highly ranked person on my bullet list.

The train from Coney Island had a few delays, adding 30 minutes to a 40 minute trip.  When we finally got to the bar, Kevin was nowhere to be found.  He elected to wait for us at another bar, but joined us fairly quickly once we arrived.  We picked out a booth and ordered our drinks.  Nyilah had a vodka tonic, and I only remember that because I had never been in a bar with my niece before.  So strange, having a drink with this girl I watched grow up.  Kev thought so too; it was evident when the two of them got into discussion on a topic of shared interest: music.  My niece went to school for music management, and Kev is a drummer in a band that's about to release their first studio album, as well as a producer.  I observed and intermittently participated in this conversation for the better part of an hour over drinks and appetizers.  By the way, if you're ever in Park Slope, Dram Shop has amazing wings and burgers.

After an hour we were joined by Eric, who's tangentially related to me.  He's the younger brother of my oldest nephew by my oldest sister, though neither of them has the same mother.  Through the family connection alone, he's on the bullet list, but even without that he's one of the most stand-up people I've known.  If you're in with him, everyone you know is in with him.  He's loud and brash and quick-witted, and VERY New York.  I say that as one of the highest compliments.  Eric was at my dad's funeral, which says a lot as to how close he is with my family.  Once he joined our table, it was a party.  After E got over the initial shock of Nyilah being 24 and able to drink, he treated her like part of the group, that is to say totally indifferent to the fact that she was a she.  Ah, the stories we told.

We talked a lot about playing football in the park, especially about two games in particular (more on that later).  We talked a lot about prank wars.  We talked a lot about being in my old apartment and playing cards or dominoes throughout the night.  And a lot about old girlfriends.  Periodically I would look up at my niece and realize that, holy crap, she shouldn't be hearing this, only to find her cracking up at the stories we told.  And we were loud enough that the wait staff couldn't help but laugh at our stories.

A giant shadow passed over our table and said "wassup, fellas" in a voice that was familiar, but deepened by age.  I looked up to see Vachel, a guy I literally watched grow up.  His sister went to Erasmus Hall High School with my brother, and we became friends through that, even though he was several years younger than me.  He's always been a big kid, built like an offensive lineman.  We hadn't spoken in quite some time as life gets in the way occasionally, but he had gotten married a few years back and had his first child late last year.  Both situations agreed with him.

When he got to our table the stories only got raunchier.  We again referenced football.  Two games in particular -- the game where I got hurt (where, as Kevin put it, the group tried to carry my big ass to the hospital) and the legendary "Ninja Please" game, where after some trash talking by a friend in absentia, my normally mild-mannered self responded with a high-pitched "What?! Ninja Please!"

I didn't say "ninja."

We drank for a few hours, remembering our childhoods and the time we spent together in those formative years.  We reflected on the people who couldn't make it out that night, and definitely agreed we needed to make an effort to get together more frequently.  However, responsibility crept up on my friends as time went on and while they didn't want to leave, they weren't on vacation.  We got outside and puttered around a bit before Vachel had to get back to his family, Kevin had work to do and Eric had to return the car he borrowed.  We agreed to barbecue at Vachel's place when I came back to town in a week.  After all, I had a plane to catch the next day.

It Went Straight. Up. (Vacation, Day four part 1: Coney Island, Brooklyn, NYC)

Another day in Brooklyn started with the gym and no other particular agenda.  Ahh, that is the life.  I knew I wanted to hang with my niece, and that I wanted to go to Coney Island.  She, however, wanted to get a pedicure first.  I sometimes forget that she's 24 now, and the condition of her hands and feet are important tools in attracting men that my brothers and I would later intimidate.  Recalling that I very recently (and accidentally) shredded my girlfriend's sheets with my feet, I elected to join her.  It was relaxing, and right after we made our way to the train to Coney Island.

My niece and I went to the same high school, twelve or so years apart.  As we passed it on the train, we both fondly remembered some of the neighborhood's food options, largely consisting of bagels and pizza that I can confirm are simply much better in Brooklyn than anywhere else.  It's the tap water.  After that, we watched as the Q train pulled up past Brighton Beach and the iconic Parachute Jump came into view at Stillwell Avenue.  Welcome to Coney Island.

I hadn't been to Coney Island since 2008.  Know what?  That's too far to start in the story.

I'm a contradiction: I'm terrified of heights, but I love roller coasters.  I grew up with one of the most famous ones in the world in my own backyard, so to speak.  I last went to Coney Island in 2008 with a good friend of mine, and while the rides mostly sucked, the corn dogs were tasty and the log flume ride wasn't so bad (okay, okay, I screamed like a little girl and it was caught on camera).  But it was Coney Island, Astroland as it was called then, and it's heyday was well, well past.  Before that afternoon, I hadn't been to a real theme park, on a real roller coaster since 2004 or so.

A couple of years ago, Astroland closed and the area was almost completely razed except for the three landmarked spots: the Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, and the world-famous Cyclone.  In its place was Luna Park, with upgraded and updated rides and attractions.  There were two that caught my eye: the Soarin' Eagle ride, and the New Thunderbolt.

My niece accompanied me to Luna Park, and it's nice to hang out with her as an adult. She had been like a little sister for so long, it was interesting and refreshing to finally interact with her as an adult and a peer instead of as a really smart kid.  I kept that in mind as I watched her descend into a terrified mess on the Wonder Wheel.  To be fair I wasn't much better.  It's a 94 year-old Ferris Wheel with selected cars that swing on a track.  We were on a swinging car.  I won't pretend like I was brave, but I couldn't panic the way I wanted because my niece was freaking out (Jesus, take the wheel, and such).

So after five minutes of protracted circular terror, I decided to venture on to the Thunderbolt.  Coney Island was going to be an abbreviated visit this time as we were meeting friends for drinks later that evening.  I had to decide between the Thunderbolt and the Soarin' Eagle, and the Thunderbolt looked interesting.  To me, at least; my niece decided that she would sit this one out.

Remember what I said about her being really smart?

From a distance, the Thunderbolt looked interesting.  It had a 90 degree initial ascent and a 90 degree initial descent, and loops and twists and the like.  There had been a couple of steel coasters in Coney Island's past, but they were mostly designed to scare seven year-olds.  I assumed the Thunderbolt was just a cool-looking continuation of this design sensibility.

Then I got up close and saw the thing got up to about 120 feet.  And it moved along at a pretty good clip.

Still though, I thought, this is New York City, where in the past a coaster of sufficient size and speed to actually be a thrill ride couldn't exist alongside the Cyclone, simply for reasons of not enough real estate.  How bad could it possibly be?

Spoiler alert: bad. Very, very bad.

The thing about a 90 degree ascent is that the car pointed straight up.  You were basically on your back, looking straight up.  The chain pulley towed the car straight up.  Most roller coasters drag out the terror with a gradual incline.  Even the legendary Cyclone, whose terror is based in its age and its composition (90+ years, made of wood, I believe it's the oldest wooden coaster still standing in the US) only had an initial drop of  58.1 degrees, and that drop was 85 feet. Not this nightmare.  Nope, the Thunderbolt would not delay gratification.  It went. Straight. Up.  After the hump, it went straight down.

Allegedly.  I had my eyes closed on the drop.

There were twists and turns and zero gravity sensations abound, and when it was over, all I could muster were a vacant stare and a constant drone of "Oh $#!7.  It went straight up." My niece, the smart one, laughed.

Afterward, we grabbed a quick bite to eat.  Neither of us had much in the way of food, and it was a long train ride to Park Slope, where we would meet old friends of mine for food and drink.  She had a knish, and I had a funnel cake.  Bits of happy all around.

Wings. (Vacation, Day Three: Brooklyn, NY, Lower Manhattan, NY, and Hoboken, NJ)

A day that started in Brooklyn, went past the World Trade Center, cruised through North Jersey, and ended in Brooklyn.

Ah, it's much less dramatic than all that, but I did get a really good shot on my phone.

That is a picture of the Fulton Transit Hub with 1 WTC in the background.  Shot with a Droid Phone, only in New York.

So let's recap.

I spent the morning at breakfast with my sister and my niece, catching up over coffee and IHOP, expressing our differences of opinion regarding sugar vs. substitutes, organic food vs. non-organic and the appropriateness of singing in public.  If I'm being honest, there was no difference of opinion on that last one.  Singing in public is always a good idea.  We chatted and laughed and talked about all manner of fun things.  I realized I hadn't had the chance to catch up with these two in any real manner in months.  The last couple of days had I had focused my energies inward, and because of my schedule and the three hour time difference, I'm never able to catch them on the phone for any real length of time.  These two women are among my favorite people.  After breakfast and a long walk, my niece went to work and I went to sleep.  I've slept more in the last three days than I have in the last three months.

After my morning/afternoon nap, I arranged to meet with my longtime friend from college, Sara, who I haven't seen since my father's passing a couple of summers back.  On the way to meet her I got to take the Subway into Manhattan.  For as long as I can remember, I've always loved the New York Subway.  Not the cost of it, of course, $2.75 is railway robbery.  But it is beautifully efficient as a people mover.  I made it a point to take the train to Cortlandt Street, first time I had been at that station in more than a decade.  Cortlandt was one of the more heavily damaged stations in the aftermath of 9/11, and Hurricane Sandy a couple of years ago didn't do it any favors either.  It was shuttered for several years until the completion of the Fulton Transit Hub.  The World Trade Center was complete when I was last in town, but not open, so it was all kinds of cool to see people going in and out for work or what have you.  If I wasn't on the clock I would have ponied up the money to check out the observatory.  Oh well...

From there it was a trip on the PATH train to Hoboken.  I've never been to Hoboken.  Imagine my surprise when I stepped out of the station to find a city that seemed...

... well, a lot like Downtown Brooklyn.  Great views of the skyline.  Awesome seaside park. Vibrant, energetic, young.  It was cool.  I went to the W Hotel and hung out at the bar, engaging a couple of locals in a conversation about what's wrong with baseball while I waited for my friend to arrive.  It was entertaining.

Here's a little backstory: Sara is one of my oldest and dearest friends, having long ago earned herself a spot on the bullet list, the short list of people for whom I would take a bullet, largely because they wouldn't put me in a position to do so.  She was the first fan of my writing, which is what made me think "I can do this," instead of pushing for a more stable/prestigious/boring career in criminal justice.  She's been a stable friend throughout the three major deaths my family has dealt with.  I attended her wedding and congratulated her very loudly at the birth of each of her three children.  She has stated that my atheism is the only reason I'm not her kids' godfather, which is fine.  My Brando impersonation is terrible.  I'm guh make youa offa you can't refuse...

We had a drink and caught each other up on the events of our lives.  She was happy for me and my relationship, I made googley noises at pictures of her soon-to-be one-year old.  She asked about my mom, my grandma, and my family, I asked about hers.  She was supposed to be planning her kid's birthday party but her husband let her off the hook to hang out with me.  I said he should have got his ass out here too.  We laughed and talked and enjoyed company like we did 20 years ago in school.  Then we realized how old we both were.  20 years.  We are nothing like the kids we were back then.
We laughed loudly and reminisced wildly, recalling some of the misadventures we had as teenagers and young adults.  Her son Noel accelerated her maturation into a grown-up, whereas I'm just now getting my feet wet in the adulthood arena.  After a couple of hours and a brief tour of Hoboken (birthplace of Frank Sinatra, apparently), we parted company, and I headed back to my city.

Back in NYC, and eager to erase the Jersey funk off me (sorry, Jersey is still Jersey), I walked a couple of blocks around the World Trade Center area to find the one thing I had been searching for the last six years I've been in Washington... a good slice of pizza.  My vacation goals are easily attained, aren't they?  Pizza is supposed to be cheese and sauce and perhaps some form of cow, pig, or chicken product. The dough is to be made with mineral-heavy New York tap water (otherwise known as wau-tuh.  My New York tongue returns!), not whatever it is they put on it or in it on the West Coast.  It's not supposed to have anything artisanal or soy or low-fat.  Dough, sauce, cheese, meat.  In that order.  The pizza place I went to, whose name I can't remember but is right next to the New York Dolls Gentlemen's Club, had two sausage slices that I claimed as my own (I was willing to do it Ariana Grande-style by licking the damn thing).  Three long but well-spent minutes in the oven later, and I was snarfing down hot pizza while making sounds like I was really enjoying a lap dance.  I even took the long way back, so I could enjoy my slices in pizza... I mean peace.

Wow, that was a baaaaad joke.

This week, I'm learning something about being home.  It's not so much the place I miss.  Don't get me wrong, the place is awesome, and I definitely miss it some.  No, it's the people I miss.  People I associate with these places.

Tomorrow is the last full day before I take off to London. Maybe I'll finally make it to Coney Island.

Jan's Paperbacks Event (7/26/2014)

This past weekend combined a road trip, an author event, and hanging out with some very cool people, old friends and new.  See why I love what I do?

After a 12-hour shift I was asked to do last minute, I made a solo drive to Beaverton, OR for an afternoon at Jan's Paperbacks.  The staff there was welcoming and fun (those ladies were actually incredibly awesome).  I was paired with an author much more local to the area than I was, one Anne Riley, author of Aerie.  I picked up a copy that day to check out.

Aside from the cookies and the charming customers that came in pretty steadily throughout the day, it was  also great to pick Anne's brain about writing and self-publishing, give our opinions about Amazon (short version, CreateSpace is awesome, but indie bookstores won't touch Amazon with a ten-foot pole).

I'm gonna take this very brief post to thank Shari, Debbie, Jody and Anne for a wonderful afternoon! I am going to definitely make them a part of my next project's promotional tour!

Summer Resolutions

The one thing about living where I live is that the summers are gorgeous.  The sun doesn't go down until unfathomably late and while I sometimes get sentimental about the stultifying heat and humidity in New York City, a mild summer day isn't so bad.  Being outside in the summer in the Pacific Northwest is natural and encouraged.  I've developed an affection for Disc Golf.

The problem with that however is that the time I'm spending outside is time I'm not spending writing.  It's time I'm not spending on skill development or research or world building.  And while that's awesome in small doses, I worry about too much of a good thing.  I still carry with me a bit of the person that was on the Public School calendar, where I did a whole lot of not much between mid-June and Labor Day.  Old habits are hard to break.

But here's where I try: I've got a commitment in my head to not only finish the first draft of the new novel I'm working on, but to also post two short stories -- at least -- on this blog, all by the end of the summer.  Lofty goals, I know.  I've been working on the first draft for three years already, and I'm only a little better than halfway done.  That's why I'm stating it here, on the blog.

I joined a couple of like-minded individuals in a writing group that was based on a simple concept: accountability.  Our stories are our assignments.  Not unlike school, where a teacher handed out homework (Every.  Damn.  Day.), only here there's no algebra.  We are accountable to the group, lest we provide the coffee.

I'm also going to use the summer to make my weight loss goals, once again made public for the sake of accountability.  I'm going to restart the "Chubby Me" posting I did a couple of years ago and work myself into being less "fluffy."

And, of course, I'm going to blog more.

Including The Sun/The Dream and The Reality

First of all, yes, this is the same blog.

I decided on a little facelift, within the confines of my web design ability.  Meaning I looked at the Settings tab to see what Google would let a novice like me do.  So the color palette has been brightened, and it looks kind of like a sunny day.  Because, you know, Under The Sun.

It was either that or change the name to "Through The Black."  Which some people might think to be racist.

***

When I decided that writing was what I was going to eventually do with my life, I had this vision in my head of it being not unlike the creative writing and journalism classes I took throughout high school and college.  Publishers, intellectuals, professors and high school English teachers alike would laud and praise my work, it would be consumed by the masses in quantities unheard of, and I would not only achieve fame and fortune but I would usher in a new era of world peace.  And I'd have groupies at coffee shop readings, because Sean Connery in Finding Forrester said so.

As an adult, the reality was a bit different.  My first novel was rejected out of hand by two dozen publishers, big and small, often without any word that they'd even opened the proposal.  The nerve of them, I thought, impeding my path to wealth and glory with their small-mindedness.  I chose to self-publish.

In the early 2000's, just before Kindle existed, conversations about publishing went like this:

"Oh, I published my novel?"

"Oh, really? Congratulations!"

"Yeah.  I self-published."

"Oh, really.  Congratulations?"

There were a lot of things that an arrogant 25 year-old tried to do.  First off, I decided that the traditional publishing model was broken.  After doing several hundred hours of very focused searching (the Internet is wonderful for giving you an unbiased base for your bias), I came to the conclusion that the only people making money anymore from publishing were the publishers and the very big name authors, the Dan Browns and Tom Clancys, and unknown writers like myself had little to no shot of breaking in.  The big publishers wouldn't look at you unless you had an agent, and an agent very likely avoided you unless and until you had a deal (I kept one of my agency rejection letters that actually said I should think of them when I secure a deal with a publisher).  I looked at self-publishing -- through iUniverse (as shady as they are, they are useful for what they're useful for)-- as the only way to unleash my genius upon the world.  And The Fab 5 was born.  I completed my book, had my name in print, and all I had to do was sit back and wait for my money to roll in.  My landlord at the time wasn't as fond of the idea and recommended I keep my day job.

With time and distance I realized The Fab 5 wasn't going to make me money.  I was an unknown who hadn't promoted my work at all and had no clue how to do so.  There are life reasons for that I won't get into right now, but anyway.  It was a slap in the face; how could all of those English teachers been wrong?

Fast forward some years, and I've adjusted my expectations.  The Favorite is enjoying a modicum of success, which for me now means more people dig it than not.  And one of the things I've realized is that I have to constantly promote, constantly remind, constantly pitch and sell.  And the truth is, as much of a hassle as it can be, I kind of enjoy it.

I was right about a few things.  The traditional publishing model is broken.  It is reliant on the idea that the big  publishers are the gatekeepers of inclusion into some sort of artsy-fartsy literary club, and the only way to have any sort of legitimacy is by begging for their approval  (I had an iUniverse employee refer to self-publishing as the "minor leagues").  Technology has made them the keyholders to a vacant, dilapidated and overpriced apartment building in a really crappy neighborhood.  Yeah, you could live there, but for the same amount of hassle you could live somewhere else and have more money. 

When I'm Bored in a Border Line.

So...

I was visiting my girlfriend in Canada last night, and on the way back, there was a long border line.  Apparently, Canadians don't work on Good Friday.  Slackers.

It was a bright sunny day, so what's a guy to do?  He rolls down his windows, turns up his stereo, and belts out songs at the top of his lungs.  To my surprise, many of the people mired in wait alongside me appreciated my vocal stylings... or at least that I was a happy guy trying to have fun in a situation most would find at the very least oppressively dull.  I wish I had pictures of my newfound fans, but alas, I'll save that for next time.

Cheers!