I always wanted to play SXSW

Posted on March 17, 2008

This past weekend was South by Southwest, Austin’s four day music festival.  Every year, thousands of bands descend on Austin to play as many shows as they can in a short span of time.  In addition to the usual music venues (of which there are a ton), bands end up playing in porn stores, front yards, tattoo parlors, and next to the front door of various restaurants.

I always wanted to play in a band at SXSW.

I first heard about SXSW in 1993.  There was a special report from the festival on MTV news, and it looked incredible.  It looked like this explosion of rock and roll, like Mecca for aspiring bands.  Every year, City Beat in Cincinnati would make special mention of the one or two bands who got to make the trip to Austin.  One year, I was going to be in one of those bands.

In 1997, I was in a band called Radioburning.  We’d recorded a particularly crappy-sounding demo called Gossamer in my garage.  With a fluttering stomach, I filled out the SXSW application and mailed it off with a copy of said demo.  I was convinced the next Spring would see a trip to Austin.  Nevermind we had no press and had only played one show in an actual city (to be fair, we did have almost ten people at that gig).

Any guesses how that application went?

Yeah, so these days I’ve realized my future isn’t in music.  I don’t want to lug drums around or stay out until 3AM on a work night.  I don’t want to schmooze in order to snag an opening slot. 

But dammit, I still wanna play SXSW.  I want to stand on a tiny stage and play with everything I have for forty minutes.  Is that too much to ask?

Yeah, it probably is.

Top Chef Returns, Pray for My Family

Posted on March 12, 2008

Top Chef, that reality competition of bad-ass chefs, returns tonight.  I can’t wait.  The show is one of my greatest guilty pleasures, and I can already see myself staying up later than usual (I’m lame and hit the sack early) while staring at my TV and salivating.

Of course, the return of this fine show creates some problems.  Not for me, of course, but for my family, most notably Shawna.  In the past I’ve discussed my love of food and cooking, and I’ve discussed my relative suck-i-tude at said cooking.  Well, maybe I don’t suck, but I’m no where as good as I’d like to be.  I tend to stress over details that shouldn’t affect a small dinner between Shawna and myself.  Couple this with my complete lack of maturity, and we’ve got one helluva a recipe… for disaster!

So, for your reading pleasure I now present a list of things Shawna is most likely to hear me say in the kitchen during the coming months.

“Don’t burn!  Why are you burning?”

“Fuck you, rice!”

“Everything we own is shit!”

“Get these motherfucking animals away from my stove!”

“Do I look like I need help?”

“Um, a little fucking help, please!”

“Fuck!”

“Motherfuck!”

“Motherfuck me!”

“Motherfuck your fucking mother, you motherfucking chicken breast!”

“Why the hell is it sticking?”

“The goddamn fish just fell apart!”

“Simon, get your fucking nose out of the wok!”

“Goddammit, I fucking suck at this!”

“Why do I even bother?”

“Seriously.  Fuck you, rice!”

“They don’t even look like scallops anymore!”

“Should have ordered a pizza!”

“No salt?  You don’t want salt?  Why don’t we just eat some motherfucking cardboard?!”

“Please cook this goddamn thing before I completely ruin it!”

“There is no way I can un-fuck this!”

“I could destroy Cheerios!”

And so forth. 

So you see, Shawna may have a bit of an adventure coming her way, courtesy of her stress-filled boyfriend who loves to cook but can’t keep things from going south.  Pray for her.

The Burden of Patience

Posted on March 7, 2008

Let me start by apologizing for the recent lack of any real news (this sentence reminds me that I should also apologive for my many attacks on proper grammar).  Trust me, I’d love to tell you about all the incredibly exciting things I’ve got going on right now.  There are, however, a few problems…

1) There’s not much going on.

2) It’s not that exciting.

and 3). The burden of patience.

See, over the last year or two, I’ve really tried to make it a point of doing things the right way.  I treat conventions like work (fun work, but still work) instead of a week-long party, I don’t go spouting off on message boards about certain “writers” (term used loosely) even though they might deserve the occassional drubbing, I try really hard not to be annoying, and more than anything I try to keep myself from announcing things that shouldn’t be announced yet.

But the problem is that I get excited about what I’m working on.  I think any good writer should get that sharp thrill from their work.  The trick-and it’s a damn hard trick-is to keep that excitement below the surface.  I want to tell people about the stuff I’m writing, and it usually ends up embarrassing me.

Case (well, cases) in point: since I started this blog, I’ve probably talked about close to ten comics projects that have fizzled out, disappeared, or blown up in my face.  I should have kept my trap shut, but instead I blabbed.  Now, you might be wondering what happened to Saint James or To the Last Man.  Well, one went through three artists over as many years and the other went through five artists without the script ever getting finished.  Then, I stopped liking comics and decided to concentrate solely on prose.  Now, I love comics again, but I’m keeping my feet in the prose world because I don’t have to sit around begging artists to turn in pages that way.

See what I mean?

So I’ll try to come up with other things to write about here.  There will be much fun and entertainment, and I won’t announce anything until it’s ready to be announced.  How’s that?

Have a good weekend, everybody.

Gary Gygax

Posted on March 4, 2008

Today is the Texas Primary and Caucus. I’m told it’s important, but in all honesty it means less than a shit to me. Why? Well, for one I hate politicians. Two, Gary Gygax died today.

If you read the blog of any horror writer this week–hell, any writer–odds are you will see mention of Gary’s passing. See, Gary Gygax created Dungeons and Dragons. This man spent his college years creating a brand new form of entertainment. In essence, he turned a backyard game of fantasy into a creative wellspring for creative types everywhere.
Maybe that sounds ridiculous. It looks a little ridiculous to me, and I just wrote it. If I’m being honest, however, I have to admit that the first real story I ever wrote was a Dungeons and Dragons adventure I took my friends on when I was eleven years old. Well, really it was just my friend George, who I let role play eight characters because we didn’t have anybody else in our gaming group.

See, when I was eight, I played D&D for the first time. A gaming group whose ages ranged between my eight and the dungeon master’s sixteen enlisted me because they needed somebody to play a monk. A week later, I begged my mother to drive me to Children’s Palace in Florence, Kentucky so I could buy a Player’s Handbook. At sixteen dollars, the book was a bit expensive for my third grade pocket, but I just had to know what my bardiche-wielding monk would be capable of in the future.

Long story short, an obsession was born.

These days, I play Dungeons and Dragons every Friday night with my friends. Everything else gets put on hold so I can go spend some quality time with my buddies, hacking and slashing and role playing our way through adventure after adventure. I made my first real friends in Texas because of Dungeons and Dragons. My best friend George became such a good friend because of Dungeons and Dragons. Damn-near every writer I’ve ever met has played Dungeons and Dragons.

Thank you, Gary Gygax. Come Friday, I’ll roll a d20 for you.

Thoughts on Self-Publishing

Posted on February 28, 2008

My good friend (plus excellent writer and God-pimp) Maurice Broaddus recently wrote a nice essay on why he hasn’t self-published.  Go read it.  It’s a good essay, and every part of it is true, especially the “Money should flow to the writer” bit.

After reading the essay, it got me thinking about self-publishing and the different ways it can be used and abused.  See, it’s a different evil depending on the type of work.

For prose, self-publishing should be avoided at all costs.  If you want reasons, go read Maurice’s blog.  Sure, it’s fine for hobbyists, but it will not make your career.  Every once in a while I see some talented writer pushing some half-pro/half-trash looking thing, and it makes me want to throttle somebody.  They’re making themselves look like a joke.  Instead of realizing this, however, they consider themselves mavericks of the publishing field.  Gah!

Which is not to say self-publishing your prose can be all bad.  I’ll add this exception to the rule: free promotional items.  The little “A Team-Building Exercise” chaps I’m putting together for STAPLE! are an excellent example of this.  I’d never dream of charging somebody for these things, but they do make for a rather cheap way of getting my name out there to 100 lucky folks.

Now, I tried the same thing a few years ago with some other stories, but I sold them for one dollar.  A year later, I recycled about 94 of them.

Then there’s comics. Self-publishing is often a badge of honor in comics.  A lot of incredibly talented people started out that way (and a few stayed that way).  Hell, when I pitched one of the major comics companies back in 2002, I was told, “We usually only published people who have self-published before.”  True story.

But you know what?  Self-publishing comics is no business for a writer.  Hell, I’ve found over the years that pitching comics is no business for a writer.  If I were an artist I would have self-published a book years ago.  Instead, I’ve spent the last three years going through the same pitch, waiting for various artists to turn in pages for a year before they either get their own deals or decide they want to self-publish their own books.

It’s a vicious circle of sorts.

So there you have some of my own thoughts on self-publishing.  Feel free to send comments and/or hatemail.

Bracing for Impact

Posted on February 27, 2008

Three days left until STAPLE! and the official start of my convention season.  True, I don’t have a big convention season.  I don’t know how I’d ever afford one.  Truth be told, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to do STAPLE!  I inch farther away from comics each and every day.  I guess we’ll see, but I know I don’t want to be that guy still trying to sell the same three graphic novels four years from now.

Tonight, I have to finish putting together the “A Team-Building Exercise” chaps.  I hate to put things off to the last minute like that, but a family emergency has left me a little aimless for the last month.  Between that and working feverishly on rewrites for several projects, I’ve barely kept myself from spinning off into orbit.

With any luck, STAPLE! will change that and I’ll feel some return to normalcy.  Even if it doesn’t, I have to hit the ground running.  It’s impact, and another stretch of conventions follows along behind it.

Here we go.

Another Year Older… Not Bad

Posted on February 22, 2008

I turn 31 tomorrow. Now, before you run for the hills, let me assure you this is not one of those “I feel old” posts. Nope. I like turning 31. No problems with it or the aging process. Balding at the tender age of 17 will have that effect.

Okay, so I wasn’t happy about going on cholestorol medication this year, but I can deal. I’m a big boy, now. Fuck, I’m 31!

The last year has been a good one. I built on the career, and actually made it to the point where I can say cool shit like “Important announcement coming soon!”

I became a home owner.

I dropped twenty pounds. I put a lot of it back on. I started exercising. I kinda stopped exercising.

I wrote seven drafts of three different novels. I wrote four drafts of the same novella. I sold five short stories. I was invited to two anthologies. Invited! Me!

I had a beautiful baby girl.

I made that last one up. Never happened.

I reconnected with all of my brothers after several years.

I killed a bear with my hands.

Made that one up, too.

I had a lot of sex. Sometimes with a partner!

I ate both scallops and mussels for the first time, and I loved the hell out of both of them.

I broke a lawn mower (actually, we don’t know who broke the lawn mower, but we assume it was me).

I did not, at any time, wash my car. I did, however, get a tape stuck in the tape player. All class, baby!

I didn’t kiss Shawna nearly enough for my own liking.

I’ll fix that, though!

So here’s to 31. Raise a glass and give us a toast. It’s gonna be a fun ride!

The Idea Stampede

Posted on January 28, 2008

Well, it’s a new week, and I’m still forced to hold off on telling you any good news.  Everything is too shaky right now.  With any luck, the coming weeks will hold good news like a strip club patron clutches a fistful of singles (thus goes the worst simile I’ve ever written).

In the mean time, I’ll tell you about something fun that’s been happening lately.  Every now and then, I get a stampede of idea, just a bunch of stories popping in my head at once.  I can maybe hear them approaching like a subtle thunder in the distance, but I never have time to fully prepare.

See, I write pretty fast.  Not Jim Moore fast, but pretty fast.  I do not, however, write fast enough to write each story as it pops in my head.  I’ve got to queue them up in my brain and make each wait its turn.

This isn’t as easy as it sounds (does it even sound easy?).  There’s a notebook next to my bed full of ideas.  There’s a word file on my desktop full of titles and descriptions of upcoming stories (five of which are novels-nevermind that I have to sell the first four, still).  I have close to a dozen short stories that currently consist of a first paragraph followed by a few sentences of description.  That’s more than a little clutter created in the pursuit of storytelling.

But the ideas keep coming.  Sometimes the stampede slows down a little, but it always picks up again.  All I can do is type away and hope I get caught up.

Or hope I don’t get caught up.  Maybe it’s more fun that way.

What a week

Posted on January 18, 2008

On Wednesday, I received an email that gave me some real reasons to celebrate.  Seriously, this was the most exciting bit of correspondence I’ve ever received.  No, I can’t tell you about it.  Instead, I can tell you this…

During this week when I should have been ecstatic, I was instead drowning in a little financial crisis.  See, on Tuesday, the comany that handles my webhosting charged me roughly 23X the usual amount, leaving me with an available bank balance of about -$20. 

I used a cash advance to put me back in the black.  I figured it would only be a day or so, since my webhosting account shows that they’ve already refunded the erroneous amount.  Right?

Wrong.

See, it took 3-5 business days for the charge to go through.  Now, I have to wait another 3-5 business days for the refund to arrive.  Man, fuck that.  Fuck all kinds of that.  Fuck, fuckity-fuck, Fucky McFuckerstein, fuck.

And damn.

So I’ll be home editing and hoping I don’t need food this weekend.  How about you?

Guilt makes you do stupid things

Posted on January 6, 2008

Here’s a story to entertain you.

October 3, 2007. That was the last time I ate fast food and the last time I drank a carbonated beverage. The culprits that day were a Wendy’s spicy chicken and a large coke, as good a last meal as possible, I think. Since then, I’ve lost twenty pounds and feel much better about myself.

And then Saturday came along.

It was a normal Saturday–some relaxing, some proof-reading–no big deal. About halfway through the afternoon, however, I started to crave some fried chicken. Now, I haven’t eaten fried chicken since August, so I thought I was due. Problem was, only two places near my house sell the stuff: KFC and the local grocery (where the chicken tastes like deep-fried cardboard). After discussing the possible end of my streak with Shawna, I jumped in the car to grab some KFC.

But I started to feel guilty about a half-mile from my house. By the time I reached the KFC drive-thru, I really hated myself. I really wanted some chicken, though. I needed a solution, and I needed one fast. Lucky for me, I saw a shitty neon sign across the street that said WING STOP. Hmm. Looked like a local place to me, so I pulled out of the drive-thru and crossed the busy street. Two minutes later, I was in line.

And what a line it was. I ended up behind a group of four. There’s was a mother, father, and two teenage girls. Weird thing: one of the girls wasn’t wearing pants. She’d just painted her ass red with the word SWIM painted over it in white. Oh, nevermind. On closer inspection, I learned she was just wearing booty shorts. So I start to listen to this family’s order (I observe, it’s my job), but decide to tune them out once their order crossed the 150 wing mark. Oh, and the dad ordered three beers for himself.

Lovely.

So it was finally my turn. I walked up to the counter and ordered ten hot wings and an order of fries. My total wound up being eight dollars, twice what my total would have been at KFC. I was cool with that, though. It’s a local place, right? I was supporting local business. I paid my tab with something close to a smile on my face.

Then I was told my wait would be twenty minutes. Twenty minutes because I walked in behind a family of three and their resident porn star. Whatever. I was stuck in this now. Might as well deal with it.

So I sat down to wait, and that’s when I noticed Wing Stop boasts Troy Aikman as a national spokesman. National. Fuck. I did walk into a chain.

That’s the exact moment when I started to hate myself. I’d traded a shitty chain that sold exactly what I wanted for a shitty chain that sold a somewhat close approximation. My choice would also cost me an extra twenty minutes. Maybe the wings would be good.

They weren’t. As a matter of fact, each wing was about the size of a baby’s thumb. The fries were the worst I’ve ever had, apparently cooked in lukewarm water before rolled in salt.

So I spent twice what I’d intended for a terrible meal that took twenty minutes longer than I wanted to wait. I didn’t even get to spank the booty shorts girl. I suffered through all of it because I felt guilty about going to KFC for fried chicken.

Guilt, it makes you do stupid things.

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