Apologies for the 24 hour delay, friends. I spent all of yesterday battling through a return to work that included responding to (roughly!) 23 work emails and (definitely less than!) 4 phone calls, and then made it a priority to attend the redesign party for Boston Magazine. After TK years (eight? thirty?), BoMag totally redesigned itself, and threw a party celebrating that fact, which included samplings of foods from a ton of ridiculously upscale restaurants around Boston -- including a butter soup from No. 9 Park, which satisfied my caloric needs for 2009. Pathetically, that's my excuse.

But enough about my eating habits. January -- an underrated candidate for worst weather'd month of the year in Boston -- is the time when people sit inside and reflect about how they're going to do things differently outside. I have 19 goals for the newest year. Three(ish) involve writing:

1. Finish the d*$% book. We don't need to talk about this. This needs to happen. This needs to happen soon. This needs to happen so my life can progress and not resemble a particularly extensive writing version of Groundhog Day. I think Thomas the Tank Engine said it best when he said, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can... buuuttt my engine is kind of tired due to my other jobs, and I definitely don't dig getting up early, especially when I'm wearing these cashmere socks."

2. Put a story in a prominent national magazine. WD aside, I have pretty much remained a regional magazine writer for the last five years, content to sit on the beanbag chair of comfort, zoning out with the blinds shut and my iHome (Christmas present!) set to that catchy version of "Devil Town" from the third season of Friday Night Lights. No more. All I ask this year is one story -- one solid story in a national mag. That's all. Just some sort of forward tilt there. Frankly, I don't understand why it hasn't happened yet, especially with all the Sweet Query Letters I've showcased on this blog.

3. Get my a$$ promoted. See how I put those dollar signs in place of the s's? That's because promotions mean mo' money (also, we're vaguely admonished for swearing) and it means you're doing something right. I guess. I wouldn't actually know, seeing how this is my first full year of gainful and traditional(ish) employment, but I think that's the gist of that Rich Dad, Poor Dad book.

That's it. Three simple, yet powerful goals for the year that I will celebrate my tenth reunion with my high school class -- the first actual reunion where people sort of look different, have real jobs, and aren't even embarrassed that they no longer remember which superlative you won.

Anyway, this is not all about me. It's 78% about me. The other 22% needs to be filled with your own writing, personal, work, or pop culture goals for the 20th anniversary of the first time I heard a New Kids on the Block song. Donny D's on the back up, indeed.

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You spoil me.

I was living in,
a Devil Town

Glen Hansard

There is an article in the NY Times from December 5 about the troubles people face in book clubs. Click here to read it.   And click here to watch Young MC bust a move.

...Part of me wanted to make that my entire entry, just for the awkwardness, but that part of me is a jerk, frankly, and I wouldn't really do that to you, friends. You know that. Anyway, the article talks all about issues faced when in a book club. The nut graf is this: Yes, it’s a nice, high-minded idea to join a book group, a way to make friends and read books that might otherwise sit untouched. But what happens when you wind up hating all the literary selections — or the other members? Breaking up isn’t so hard to do when it means freedom from inane critical commentary, political maneuvering, hurt feelings, bad chick lit and even worse chardonnay.

The article goes on to cite a number of women who left their book groups for various reasons (not reading the types of books they liked, not being allowed to talk about politics, only talking about politics, discussions of poopy diapers overtaking anything else, etc), but also talks about how the number of groups (which stands, apparently, somewhere between 4 and 5 million) tend to increase during hard economic times, most likely due to the solidarity and free-ish wine. 

But why are we still talking about that when we can just as easily talk about me?

I, friends, have never been a part of a book club. Some of the editorial staff at Boston Magazine have an appealing group that they call book club, but it involves magazine articles and leaving work early on a Friday to drink. And all the other ones I know about (two, actually) are girls-only, and unlike that guy who ended up suing so he could go to Wellesley College and document the orgies for Rolling Stone, I have no motivation to interrupt their single-sex solidarity.

As for the more important question: "Kevin, would you even want to join a book club if one was made available to you?" I remain balanced precariously on the non-electric part of the fence. One could argue that I just spent the last three years of my life in a high-minded $30K a year book club that also involved writing, and I certainly don't miss the infighting, and the vicious passive aggression, and that harrowingly angry young lady who told me she couldn't read my stuff anymore bc I "kept doing the same not-funny bulls***", but I do miss that rare class when everyone actually got along, and the talks would be productive, and the points would be thoughtful, and everyone would retire to The Tam post-class to speculate about who was sleeping with who and lose to a group of Trivia Night ringers clearly using some sort of web-phone.

But most importantly, where, friends, do you fall on the book club debate? Are you in a club? Do you like it? Do you non-like it?  Is there a particularly compelling anecdote that will serve as a great example of your opinion and is shorter than the average Tom-based comment (jokes, Tom, just jokes)?

If so, please place your comment in the overhead bin with the wheels sticking out, as to give other commenters room. We've got a very full flight this evening.



It's Off To The,
Principal's Office You Go

Young MC (Again)

History has shown that periodicals like to ask authors, "how long did it take you to write this book?" and the answers are startlingly different, ranging from "twenty two years" to "two consecutive taxi rides." Preempting the obvious fact that someone somewhere is going to want to profile me very soon and going to need this information for filler when the body starts to lag, here's a little timeline breaking down the birth of my novel, from conception to, you know, whatever happens after that:

May 2003: During a moderately alcohol-influenced deep conversation with an English Major Senior Week of college realize that I should write a book about "like, college, but obviously deeper than that." Tell her that. Seriously.

July 2003: Said English Major calls me from Columbia Publishing School, or whatever it's called, and I reiterate my need to write a novel. "My life goal," I may have called it. "So... I'm thinking the main character's dad has to die because that makes it deeper, right?" I ask. "You know the sadness and what not?" EM doesn't answer me directly.

September 2003: Bored with my grad school homework, start writing down some crazy introduction in second person, and randomly creating a fictional college. Name it after my favorite college basketball player that never did anything post college, Chris Kingsbury. Write sixty-ish pages in three days. Feel triumphantly productive. Don't touch the book again for almost exactly two years.

September 2005: MFA program starts. Take Writing the First Novel class. Homework is to... write. the. first. novel. Start haphazardly "mapping" my book.

October 2005: Realize that I'm embarrassed by that convo I had in July 2003. Finally.

December 2005: Have produced another 60ish pages, 13 of which are coherent. Tire of critiques that begin, "It's funny but the characters never really do anything..." Bitch about my "art" at the grad school pub with a bi-sexual short story writer from Montana who has never ridden a subway or heard of Cosi. Find both of these things extremely satisfying.

May 2006: Another 50 pages written, probably 8 of which are salvageable, giving me 21 solid pages of work. Am writing through the "dreaded middle lull"... barely can look at the book each day. Doesn't help that my social life is in chaos, and I live by myself in what could honestly be deemed a retirement home in South Boston. Throw myself an infinite number of pity parties, and get really into watching seasons of The West Wing. Cry when Rob Lowe leaves.

August 2006: Write 30 pages on my own at my father's house in SoCal. Actually pretty good stuff. SoCal makes everything better. Plus, I don't have to pay for my meals.

December 2006: Tell people that I have a full draft written when, in fact, I have 150 pages, 30% of which is strictly filler. Get the "Jack Black 3 Pack" DVD set in my stocking.

January-April 2007: Take a leave of absence from school, and travel around Eastern Europe with the Big Cat. Eat guac in Slovakia, see infinity cats in Istanbul, and "Czech Me Out" tees in Prague. Buy a dream journal. Write an extensive short story. Actually start editing the novel on long train rides when the Big Cat abruptly puts in his headphones while I'm telling a story.

May-July 2007: Spend all my time telling everyone how "they can't understand the complexities of life until they've been to Slovakia." No time for writing!

August 2007: Go out to SoCal again, on a mission from Twain, and have the writing week of my life, banging out 90 odd solid to good pages of work, am completely fired up for the semester, plan on finishing the book by October and strictly re-writing during my final semester.

October 2007: Hmmmm. Yeah, um, that was a little optimistic.

December 2007: Finish the semester with 40 odd pages written. Can see the finish line but refuse to walk across it, probably because I faked straining my writing hamstring. Get Friday Night Lights in my stocking.

April 2008: Oh man! Remember my Thesis freak out? (shudder) Literally writing non-stop revisions and 2000 word daily overhauls for a month straight... subsisting on a diet based almost-exclusively of Honey Bunches of Oats, which I haven't eaten since.

May 2008: Thesis defense. Novel (kind of) finished! All I need are about two solid weeks to revise and then it's off to my agent and certain literary fame. Plus, my dad knows the dude who wrote Two and a Half Men, and he can definitely get me a movie deal-- damn straight-- he knows Charlie Sheen!

Late May 2008: Get a job.

November 2008: All I need are about two solid weeks to... (sigh).

Comments will be recorded for quality assurance.

Love,
Lockdown

Kanye West


 

The weather in Boston has finally re-arrived at cold, a situation that always feels like it's right around the corner, even in July when I'm writing outside in my sports bra and cut off jean shorts summer bathrobe. As I type, I can almost see my breath, and I have no idea how to work the heating system in my apartment other than yelling at my roommate, who is not here. Perhaps I should rummage for firewood, like they (probably) do in Ansel Adams photos.  

Moving on, I get mediabistro.com's Revolving Door newsletter partially because I like to know the gossip about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism, and partially because I feel like I need to get mediabistro's newsletter, to stay "in the know" when other people ask me about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism.

Here is a semi-related convo I had this week with my friend Casey:
Me:You see the dude from Valleywag got canned, and is now just writing for Gawker?
Casey: No.
Me: Oh. But that sucks, right?
Casey: (long pause) Is this the reason you called me?

Anyway, more of my point is aimed at the fact that the traditional media world is a sad sight to behold right now. Every newsletter talks of tons and tons of cuts, and most of the quotes sound exactly like this example from the last letter, but with less religious holiday references:  "CondeNet, Conde Nast's Internet division, let go "dozens." The parent company also cancelled Christmas."

I had no idea companies could even give a thumbs up or down or holidayz! But in this sad climate, with traditional jobs being hacked and tightened and squeezed down into moderately difficult yoga poses, one has to look on the bright side or one could stay down in that position forever, and that can't be great for your back.

I, for one, realize I'm extremely lucky to have found a writing job with a company that utilizes the World Wide Netz and is actually growing, and also lucky enough to be able to complain about these things in my own blog, and complain about my own pieces in the dying art of the long form magazine. In fact, I probably shouldn't complain ever, but it would be boring if I was always so upbeat and cheerful and full of positive emoticons, and you wouldn't read my work, or my fake poems, or occasionally participate in Commenting Adventures;) And since you asked, my feeling on the changing world of writing and journalism is this: there are always going to be people who love reading, and there will always be people needed to put those words in front of them, and we just need to understand that--like any job-- adapting with the technology is part of the game, baby. More jobs are going to move to the 'Net. Big expensive magazines with big expensive ad buys to fill their pages just won't make sense, like purchasing a super-nice VCR to play your Blu-Ray discs. And the magazines that do stay afloat and remain financially viable will figure out ways to deliver info that people don't want to get on the web, like thoughtful step-back analysis and clever, semi-reported narratives about high school... 

And please, don't mistake my candor for some sort of gleeful repositioning. This sucks for me. I love magazines and newspapers and other paper-based readery. I have 14 subscriptions that I know about, and that doesn't count the Blender that gets shoved into my mailbox every so often, piggybacking onto my real mags like an annoying, spoiled preschooler. But just because I love something doesn't mean that I can't see it changing. And it'd be stupid and pointless to just wax on about the good ol' dayz... and not only because I'm 27.  I just think we're going through a painful correction, and it's going to get worse before it gets better, but in the end we're all clever, adaptable creatures, and we'll figure something out. And if we don't, we can probably just join Kim Kardashian over at Tom's place and start work on next years pumpkins. After all, I'm pretty sure he mentioned something about sodas and snacks.

Apologies for the elephantine ramble. Drop your name in the Comments to be entered into a drawing for the safe return of my ephemerality.

I find it hard,
to concentrate

Red Hot Chili Peppers

You, friends, know what time it is. It's time for the third installation of what critics have called, "kind of lazy, but definitely better than listening to you rattle on for 600 words about the HBO show True Blood," the CYCA3!

Directions: Read the graf pertaining to our protagonist Casey, and then take it in whatever way you deem necessary to extend the story, following along from the point where the person commenting above left it. And try not to spend too much time on your part or someone else may come sweeping in and post from the same place, leaving us with two Robert Frost-esque Roads to Travel Down, neither of which wants to end up less traveled.

Anyway, let's get to the real thing:
Casey is at the bar and it's packed. He moves past a crowd of girls in skinny jeans and high boots sipping 64 calorie MGD 64 or vodka sodas or both, and runs right into a pack of dudes eyeing the chicks. The guys are also wearing skinny jeans.
"Oh man," Case says, looking down at his straight leg denim, "why did she have to pick an Allston bar?"
He spots her in the corner. Aron is just under five feet tall and pretty, with green eyes and dark hair that Case describes in his diary as "raven." He starts to walk up to her, with a smile on his face, but her eyes are telling him that something is up. Then, as he gets close, her mouth does the thing that her eyes were trying to do, but better: "He's here," she says, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "And I'm pretty sure he knows."
....
AHHHHH??!! OMG! Knows what? Who is he? And why are they at a bar in Allston surrounded by people in skinny jeanz?? That, friends, is up to you... Unleash the writing hounds. 

See my,
vest

Mr. Burns

Little known fact: I was a political science major in college, friends. I had a very real interest in the science of politics, an interest that almost pushed me into the work-heavy grasp of law school, an interest that kept me from taking more than two writing classes in college, an interest that was also made more palatable by the less rigorous routes to sweet grades. Point being: I like politics. I'm interested in them. I read about them. For me, they represent a very real sociology entwined in our lives that harks back to my days of student government.

A lot of this has to do with my own pragmatic realist sense of the political arena: I love knowing specific reasons why people have strong or muted like or dislike for certain candidates, why they'll vote outside their economic interests, what actually drives them to the polls, etc, because so often these things have very little to do with cold hard factual data. And trust me, I am not judging others and claiming myself immune-- my love of words, and sweetly worded speeches often pushes me to a point of irrational exuberance, not unlike discovering a pot of gold, or a well-groomed and potentially rideable unicorn. Crafting speeches is another obsession. I have several books featuring the great speeches of all time, and nothing gets me more fired up and immersed in goosebumps than sitting down in my nightgown and cap, opening one of those heavy books, and reading some crazy rhetorical geniusocity.

Anyway, my aim is not to render some last minute crazy political speech. It is simply to say vote. Cynics tend to claim that, in reality, certain states have pre-determined outcomes bc of heavy pockets of liberal or conservative votes, and that aside from say, 8 states, what you do doesn't really matter-- but that is missing the point. There is something intensely illuminating and powerful about walking into a booth and checking a box, or coloring in an arrow or hanging a chad, and it fills me with a kind of knowing power and quiet satisfaction of being a part of the political process, however small it may be. We the people decide who run (and potentially wreck havoc on) our country, just as we the writers decide who run (and hopefully wrecks havoc) on our books, and my hope is that--no matter who you choose for either-- the resulting narrative is crazy, sexy, and undeniably cool.

Thank you for allowing me to go off like that. As a reward for your understanding, next week we'll engage in a fantastical new choose your own commenting adventure. Promise. Thoughts on what make you irrationally exuberant should be taken out of your carry on, placed on the Commenting conveyor belt in a clear plastic bag, and contain individual clauses not exceeding 2.5 oz. Happy Election Day.

Vote or,  
Die

Diddy

This week is, of course, Halloween-- our tribute to the old Celtic festival Samhain, and the appropriate time for the professions of nurse/doctor/army chick/hobbit to suddenly become intensely "sexy." A lot of you may be asking, "Kev, what particularly hilarious costume have you come up with for the festivities on ol' Hallow's Eve?" and I would reply, "Oh God, I still have no idea, why do you keep bringing this up at such inappropriate times?" Then I would Facebook message you later bc I felt guilty about the way I spoke to you.

Writing is important, friendz, and indeed the lifeline that separates this blog from, say, a blog dedicated to LOLCATZ, but the book re-writes are moving in slow and mysterious ways. Would you believe I still haven't printed out a copy of my book to read through for the re-writes? Would you consider that I thought about saying that I had, because I felt so guilty that I was letting you down? Do you see what our relationship is doing to me?

I want to say it's not my fault, but that's obviously not true-- it's quite obviously my fault, but I caught a particularly busy week at work last week, my boss was in to-- blah, blah, excuses, excuses, etc. That is the issue. It is so easy to make excuses. See? I just did it earlier, but the issue is, nobody but yourself cares, or notices... the only thing that'll change when I don't get my own writing in is my likely my mood, which'll go from light and fantastically high-spirited to dark, and close-mindedly eager to consume six packets of Swiss Miss hot chocolate (w marshmallows!) using milk instead of water. This will have to improve if I have any hope of being able to make one sided small talk with Jodi Picoult (when I inevitably run into her in the dried fruit section of Trader Joes) beyond:

"Remember when we had a column next to each other for six months or so? Crazy right??"
"Ummm... you don't by any chance want to purchase four million copies of my book? Ha! No, I mean, of course I was kidding..."
"Oh, well, that depends on what you mean by 'published'..."
"Yeah, that does make it kind of difficult. I mean, I could send it to you in PDF..."
"Oh, no, totally, I know, this has been quite an economic downturn. Maybe we should just exchange emails and I'll shoot it over to you..."
"Ok... so you're saying I just send it to: jodip@TheInternet? No dot com or dot org or anything? And that synchs up with your iPhone?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't even realize my body was blocking the exit! Anyway, it was so good to see you again! And not to be annoying but can you get it published and sold before Friday-- I've got to go to this Halloween thing, and I want to casually slip that into conversation..."
"No, Jodi. I have no idea what I'm dressing up as."

Wow. That really went much longer than expected. Jodi is quite the talker. Comments should include costume ideaz, deep thoughtz, and your honest opinion of Seven Layer "Magic" Barz. Feel free to make me feel tiny if it makes you feel tall.

There's Always Someone,
Cooler Than You

Ben Folds