sometime

The first book, the second book. Both still manuscripts, but so what? Heart, time, and emotion drip-dropped minute by minute into these words. Friday night edits and rewrites. Intensity of my eyes focused on the screen and everything else in the world absent.

From Somewhere, Sometime, Some Enchanted Life

We’re a long way from anywhere. This trip has taken us so far from what we were and what we’d known. And we didn’t know what we’d find when got wherever we were going. This was just an interlude.
I lean against the side of the Cougar at a rest stop just off the interstate. It's not one of those rest areas with a gas station and fast food and a gift shop and mini-vans of weary families. No, this is a wide gravel driveway, a few cockeyed and weathered picnic tables amid tangled weeds, and a cluster of wood-encased bathroom stalls. It doesn't seem the safest place at midnight, but I don't feel threatened. As a matter of fact, I feel almost tranquil. Cal's inside, taking care of urgent business, while I huddle in my jacket and wait and suck in the crisp air.
I exhale puffy cold clouds and gaze at a clear night's starry skies, no clouds from here to the unseen horizon. My eyes rove and I try to pinpoint a familiar constellation, or determine whether the brighter gleams are planets. Or maybe I just want to catch a glimpse of God.
I imagine what a movie or a stage play means to us mortals; the planet earth is to God. We enter a theater for a predetermined length of time and sit and watch the story play out. Images flutter across us, drama or comedy, absurdity or farce, along the boards. And then it's done and we're outside and back to real life.
So God, in immortality and fathomless might, looks down upon this tiny speck of infected blue and white and watches our histories and destinies unfold like the two-hour escape we find behind the swinging doors. God as director goes for the improvisational. He views this massive mise-en-scene as it develops its own plots, it own ostensibly endless acts, scenes drawn out for decades, a billion character arcs, dramatic crescendos, comedic pratfalls, stirring tragedy. A script written to infinity.
Maybe God put us into production to alleviate his boredom. It’s his show - introductions, rising action, and a constant montage of climax and catharsis and eventual denouement. The billions of stories would be so effortless for God to follow but it boggles us.
I wonder if God has grown bored. Maybe he left the theater early. Maybe he became tired of our story. Here we are, abandoned and playing out our roles and no one cares. The seats are empty.
But a sliver of hope placates me - I picture him above. My intense anger has subsided. The death I’ve seen, numbed by pain, family now decaying in the ground, and me alone to carry on, almost seems another life. The homicidal fantasies that spun me to sleep for too long have receded – shredded Seraphim and impaled cherubs and Heaven’s golden cloud palaces afire against a sooty dark sky.
Could it be that out here where there is nothing and no one that I find what I need? My eyes rove the skies with a reverse twinkle.
God's resemblance is some vaguely humanoid shape but featureless - emotion without defined physical characteristics. I know, so many religions want to create the image of god in their way, but what do they know? Everyone is right while everyone else is wrong.
I imagine God trudges across expanses of void, the imprints of what would pass for God's feet leaving black holes in the fabric. He floats and hovers and throws a planet here, tosses a star there, two-finger-flicks a playful quasar over that way, with a comet or two in the mix to distill the monotony. God wants a light show and detonates a star and causes a nebula, tendrils of starlight seep across black. Who's to say he doesn't require entertainment? Being omnipotent could prove a lonesome gig in the grand scheme, no matter how many angels lick God’s perceived boots.
Cal comes out of the derelict facilities. He is hunched against the chill, hands thrust into his knee-length black coat. His junked cargo pants with a rip in the knee do not help to deflect the cold. "I wonder if the state sends out a clean-up crew even once a year." It's more statement than question. "No soap and cold water."
"You expected warm water, and soap, here?"
Cal opens the driver's side door. "People are disgusting. They need to learn not only how to aim, but how to flush. It took me five minutes to find the stall least festering with feces and disease."
“Lovely.”
Cal clambers behind the wheel and closes the door, starts it up again, and rapidly rubs his hands together. He revs the engine.
With a last glance straight up at the sky, I smile with a kind of contentment and slide into the car as the word maybe echoes in my head.
We lurch out of the gravel driveway and onto the Interstate. We’re off again. I twist in my seat to look at Cal. His eyes are focused straight ahead, the corner of his mouth upturned, and eyes with long lashes in slow blinks. He doesn’t even look over at me, but takes my hand in his, squeezes. I smile and look away, out at the road. There is something about this man I love so deeply, but it is something I cannot wholly define. He’s the penniless outsider, pure of spirit, and has nothing left to lose. He will help me find who I am again.
Cal’s foot steadily eases down on the gas pedal to the speed of light and we’re two taillights receding into the dark.

frenetic

Okay. It's just getting too damn busy for one person to handle.

I need a part-time personal assistant. Just for a while. I can pay with liquor, witty banter, an unhealthy dose of sarcasm, my uproarious jokes, and a hint of brooding. How's that for recompense? If you need an application, just jot all of your relevant info (what authors, music, and movies you like) and stats (including height, weight, gender, and hair color) on the back of a cocktail napkin, then email me with a photo attachment via this blog, and I might reply with the pertinent details.

I vigilantly await a virtual tsunami of responses.

For the first time in many months, I opened up my manuscript for my second novel, "Somewhere, Sometime, Some Enchanted Life." And though dozens of the passages struck me ("Wow, I wrote that?"), I also noticed that it needs work. Editing. "Fading out of sight, we spun westward... The damage incurable, the damage done. Now, we were running at the speed of light."

So, the Falling From the Sky anthology goes to the printer Friday. As in, this Friday the 30th of March. That means it will soon be available to you, the eager and discerning reader. And it also means that the publicity machine is about to kick into gear. Okay, it's not like the clamor surrounding the release of celluloid claptrap like The DaVinci Code, for example, but still, for an independent publisher, it's fairly impressive.

One of the authors, Steve Quinlan, has set up a May 10 reading at Edinburgh Castle Pub on Geary Street in San Francisco. It's a 90-minute block, from 7:30 until 9:00. Quinlan will read his contribution to the anthology (Glimmer), Oakland resident Mallory Small will read his story Night Time Is the Right Time (which is set in the very district where the reading is happening - the enchanting Tenderloin). Other west coast anthology authors might just hitchhike or pogo stick to the City by the Bay for the reading, as well.

And me, the editor of the anthology? I might - might - just head out to San Francisco, too. I haven't been back since I left - nearly ten years. And besides the fact that I occasionally miss my old stomping grounds, this reading is another reason to get back there. Plus, I always enjoyed drinking at the Castle (Harp beer was my libation of choice there). The company I work for has a hotel near the financial district (on Clay Street near the Embarcadero), so I can, in all likelihood, lodge for free. This is all dependent upon how badly my taxes deplete my bankroll (one of this weekend's many tasks and assignations) and, of course, the cost of airfare.

Perhaps my imponderable non-assistant could do my taxes for me. And secure me a surfeit of prescription mood elevators for the flight.

There is also the Third Annual New York Round Table Writers' Conference on April 13 and 14 at the Small Press Center (20 West Forty-Fourth Street here in New York) which I will be both attending, and lending my sardonic self as a volunteer. I attended a couple of years ago, in April 2005, and the conference is a fantastic venue in which to mingle, promote, and network with an abundance of creative types. So Falling From the Sky and Another Sky Press promotional materials and bookmarks will be distributed by the handful to any and all in attendance.

There are a few other events coming up in the next month or two at which I will press the flesh. But I have rambled enough, and I do not have a personal assistant (yet), and I need to continue the forward momentum (even if I am stuck at the office right now).

What's for lunch?

métier

Métier (or, "Career Opportunities")

After a demurral for several months, the search for editing and writing-oriented work has resumed. With the editing for Falling From the Sky complete, my résumé has been reworked and updated to reflect my new status as an "editor." The editorial work for the book was a joy, a highly-involved learning process, and a great deal of hard work and focus.

Now the focus shifts from the anthology to work in the professional field of editing, copywriting, or research - often it's an amalgam of all three. At the risk of seeming brazen (who, me? Never!), I am adept at all three of those functions.

Here's an example of work for which I would qualify: "If you’re a fast, meticulous editor who can consistently meet tight deadlines and handle lots of copy, you’re halfway there. If you have experience editing, command of Associated Press style, a flare for headline writing and fine-tuning copy, contact us. Responsibilities: • Copy edit for clarity, grammar, spelling and Associated Press style • Handle numerous 100 to 1,000-word articles each day • Fact-check using the Internet, other reference materials and by contacting writers • Write headlines and rework copy when needed..."

Yep. That has me (bad pun ahead) "written" all over it.

So, I will see what is listed in the classifieds (The New York Times, mediabistro.com, hotjobs, etc.) and what leads I can find through my scattered contacts. I'm sure the industry eagerly awaits a clever, capable, and competent word slinger like me - the rebel writer/editor with a professional focus and a cause.

Of course, another anthology awaits in the near-future, but that's on my own time (just like Falling From the Sky). There is also work on my own writing, such as edits for my novel "Ache."

Meanwhile, we've entered the final stage of copyediting the forty-seven stories for layout. We have to ensure that all punctuation is correct, that there are no "hanging words" (a huge waste of page space), and as a method to double-check my original edits. I am preparing my editor's introduction to the collection. That goes in, we secure an ISBN number from the Library of Congress, off to the printer we go.

And then this spectacular volume of stories will be in your hungry little hands. Well, after you order it, that is. At 340 to 350 pages, it's thick, but you can handle it.

So support Another Sky Press and support your occasionally humble editor™. Thank you.

renewal

I felt this stream of consciousness coming on all day, from the moment I woke up. Two straight days with a blog entry. Get out of my way, world - I'm back in the writing groove.

This morning, naked before my shower, I noticed I've lost weight. I see the number on the scale and I am not displeased. I look in the mirror and my cheekbones seem slightly more defined. My face lean. I smile. Wider. I guess I have a "nice" smile. At least that's what I've been told most of my adult life. I'll take the compliment.

I look into my hazel eyes. Clear eyes. Clean conscience. Destructive old habits inhaled, exhaled, and gone. New dawn fades. New day dawns. The cycle of life. Renewal.

It was dark when I walked to the train today, half-moon in the onyx sky. But somehow, I did not feel as lethargic as usual. I did not dread the commute, the office, the people who would surround me on the streets, quite as much. I felt almost above the crowd. It was some existentialist reverie, I suppose - among the people but alone, never sure of my place. And that was okay. I don't need to belong, or be accepted, or become like all of them. I'm not sure I will ever be fully comfortable in my own skin. Insecurity? No, just an adjustment to the circumstances of my life. Confidence, swagger, and an intermittent sense of dominance might be construed by some as hubris. I can understand that, but see it as acclimation to who I am.

And who I am has been adrift in a haze of diffidence and renunciation. I am not the classic "nice guy," and my words can often be harsh and... too honest, I suppose. I don't always regret my words, though I realize I can be a little more tactful and act less on impulse. But I will not play games, I will not use or manipulate, and I will not fill anyone's head with banal mantras or circumspect advice meant to serve my own ends. I expect honesty in return. Usually, I brood on feelings and thoughts for too long a time. I push them away, but they linger and gather with a redoubtable persistence. To reclaim oneself is to feel a corroded iron halo lifted from around the head. To feel a threadbare shroud of antipathy open and lift and drift away. To feel scorn and derision wrenched from me like the parasites they are, replaced with an empathy - a benevolence. I toss childish grudges and destructive malice aside.

It's the new me! How will the world react? Okay, so...

I went about Monday with a convivial detachment. The office was business-as-usual. The noise, the chatter and clatter, the vicarious stress, the gossip. It didn't faze me. I strode among the cubicles and desks, seeing and knowing that this was simply a fraction of who we are.

Coming home from the train, now before sunset, mellow music in my ears, and seeing. I mean, really seeing. I know it's a romantic notion, but I looked beyond the skyline to the great stratus-streaked blue and smiled. Now, that should have proven an exigency for a nocturnal creature like me. I am so accustomed to my own darkness, my own introspective and brooding nature, that to see and enjoy and feel the light on my skin was almost a revelation.

I don't know where all of this came from, especially on a Monday.

Perhaps it was the sense of accomplishment I had earned with the completion of the short story anthology. I felt I was justified to take a moment to enjoy my own cocksure self-satisfaction. In the moments after I knew it was done - through all the late nights and early mornings, through all the personal turbulence, the ceaseless voices in my ears and inside my head, the words across computer screens, phones, text messages, crowds, work, and the overload of it all - something inside me shifted. A village idiot's grin spread across my face as I realized the last story was finished - that the book would be on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and several other online outlets, as well as available in independent bookstores, in roughly a month. And there is my name - as the editor. But despite what I felt, this wasn't just for me. In the land of reality, it was for thirty-eight other writers, for a burgeoning independent publisher, for a discerning and intelligent readng audience who would be offered something different than, and superior to, the usual pseudo-literary fodder.

And now Ache edits await. A new manuscript idea. Short stories, perhaps. More editing. A new résumé. New people. New projects. New prospects.

Maybe my next blog post will simply be my résumé. Without my phone number or address, of course. I must have my stalkers somewhere out there.

I will now firmly place my tongue-in-cheek, not only because it's something I quite enjoy, but because it seems I've discovered a "pro-life" outlook. No, fear not, my steadfast and affectionate readers, your trenchant guide to this side of the city will always have that misanthropic edge - it's inherent. But now I feel it tempered with... hope?

editor

Editing. Words, sentences, paragraphs. Punctuation, spelling, grammar, syntax. More words.

The editing is finished. 47 stories. 38 authors.

It was a weekend of words and a certain newfound wisdom in those words. On the couch, music and the lava lamp, blanket draped on my shoulders, computer in my lap, focused on the prose arranged across the screen. Sure, I'm awaiting a few author approval responses, but the editing for Falling From the Sky is essentially complete. The contracts are in and there are no more stories on cue. There is a huge sense of accomplishment, and even a degree of relief, but I also feel a bit... doleful. Over the course of the past several months, a great deal of time and effort has gone into this omnibus, by both author and editor alike. From different corners of the globe, the hearts and thoughts and ideas of dozens of people have built something wonderfully original and creative.

I find that it's difficult to let go. But I have to send it out into the world to find its wings.

Enough of the lachrymose. I'm much better at editing others than editing myself.

After a solid four-hour block of edits and Another Sky Press related work on Friday, R. called me and asked if I was coming out. I was reluctant at first. After all, I was on a roll, absorbed in stories and author bios and marketing ideas. But R. insisted - he informed me that I needed to be out. He was right - it had been a long week of daytime work, night time editing, and obdurate illness. But my cold had receded, and I needed a few cocktails beyond the confines of my apartment. Thus convinced, out I went. It turned out to be a restorative evening. Some friends I'd not seen in a while showed. Drinks went down, much conversation ensued, and the mood was upbeat.

Saturday morning, the sun through the blinds awakened me, cottonmouth and heavy head. But after food and self-medication, I quickly recovered. It was back to work. I rolled through the afternoon, one story after the other, but a break was necessary. My eyes felt as if they were about to drop from their sockets. Daylight Savings brought Saturday night to an earlier close than I expected, but at least there was no hangover today. And late this afternoon came the last story. The last one. It didn't quite seem believable. With all those hours of focus logged behind me, what would the hours ahead bring?

Regardless of any evasive ontological questions I couldn't quite answer at the time, I knew one thing for certain...

Your occasionally humble editor™ now has his first book to his credit.

Sure, in the past I'd rewritten papers and essays for my college classmates. I'd taken a mostly useless creative writing course where we evaluated each others' work. I'd proofread several screenplays and the intermittent short story or manuscript, usually as a favor, over time. I'd proofed and corrected a (successful) college admission essay. I edited the online newsletter for the law office where I work.

But this was a book. A real book I'll soon hold in my hands. And it's well over 300 pages long.

I believe I shall toast myself with a glass or two of red wine this evening.

My heartfelt thanks go out to all of our writers for their first-rate work. Overall, the editing was a delight. Not only that, but it was also a learning process for me, from inception to completion.

Back in the spring of 2006, Kristopher and I bonded over the Press, and the ideas behind the Press. I'd known Krist for a fairly long time, since when he'd lived in New York, and our beliefs ran a similar path. I suggested a short story anthology. In my opinion, this would be a perfect method with which to introduce the Press to a mass audience. Whereas a single book might have a theme that appeals to a more concentrated, narrow readership, a story collection would showcase an array of writers, each with their own unique talents, ideas, and voice. I joined up, and it was a go. In a burst of inspiration, the title came to me - "Falling From the Sky." I envisioned the stories as a random assemblage of creativity, pieces of prose from beyond the limited scope of the mainstream, tumbling into the Press and onto the printed page. And the title incorporated a part of the Press name. Cool, huh? I have my moments.

The stories filtered in, and the majority were of terrific quality - proficient and imaginative. We were on our way. I sorted through every submission in the approval/rejection process. The approved authors were informed of their acceptance into the book, and an edit of their story would be forthcoming. I consulted with the lawyer at the office where I work and got Krist a boilerplate literary contract which he tailored to the needs of the Press and anthology. Contracts were sent and returned, my edits were approved by the authors, and final text versions of the stories were submitted for layout. Soon we had a thick volume looming.

Encapsulating the editorial process in a couple of paragraphs might make it seem easier than it actually is. No, it takes an appreciable amount of time. From submission to editing, it requires a keen eye, attention to detail, patience, and time. It is a system of evolution. Plus, as I discovered, any worthwhile editor will treat each story almost like one of their own.

I've now developed my own method, which I will streamline to create a nearly seamless process when I undertake editorial chores for the upcoming Sci-Fi/Cyberpunk anthology (tentatively titled "Digital Sky.") We already have submissions for that volume, with a release scheduled for sometime in the autumn.

No, your occasionally humble editor™ did not contribute a story of his own to "Falling From the Sky." Writing is my first passion, my true talent (though I might add editing now), but it is not usually the editor's place to use the book being edited as a personal platform. I was fine with that, and I will be adding the two or three page introduction. Good enough, and I will submit my stories to future volumes I am not editing.

So. Next comes copyediting for layout, and the volume goes off to the printer, but that is on the production end. With the long timeline for the Sci-Fi/Cyberpunk anthology submissions, approval, and editing, I now have time to devote to some of my own writing. I have a couple of story or book ideas, some manuscripts I've started, and I'll also concentrate on an overhaul of my first novel, "Ache." Plus, there is always something to evaluate for Another Sky...

I should perform some social interaction exercises. Time to press the flesh. This Friday I will be attending a National Small Press Month Reading Marathon at Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction at 34 Avenue A, here in New York. I'll be armed with Another Sky bookmarks and promotional materials, as well as my dazzling smile and magnetic personality. Ahem.

The editing is done. I crouch down by the open window next to couch, hold my hands at my chin in what might be called a pensive gesture. Contemplation, thoughts, a hint of the melancholy, looking out across the night. I usher out negative energy. There's been too much of it built up for too long. My focus is on the positive now. Strength. Integrity.

And words. Always unedited words through my head.

crank

I love to steal this living steam
My head in someone's dream
I'm tired of sleeping
--Crank

Friday night, Rob Dickinson appeared at the Mecury Lounge on Houston Street here in the New York. For friendly purposes, I am simply going to call him "Rob" rather than "Dickinson." I think he'd want it that way.

It was an intimate show, about two hundred people in the Gen X age group, all of us apparently ardent Catherine Wheel fans and curious to see that band's former frontman solo and acoustic. That's right - no backing band and no stacks of Marshall amps. There was only Rob on a stool with his guitar and a harmonica.


This was quite a change of pace for Rob. One of the best concerts I have ever seen was Catherine Wheel at the Fillmore in San Francisco back in the dark ages of 1995, on tour in support of their third album, "Happy Days." I recall that the amps were stacked, but Rob took the stage alone, explained that their drummer was under the weather, and began to perform the song Pain acoustically (foreshadowing, anyone?). I remember I so hoped this wasn't going to be an acoustic set due to the drummer being ill. The band was renowned for their "wall of sound." I wanted that Catherine Wheel thunder. My fears were allayed when the rest of the band came out, with the drummer for the previous act that evening, Belly (remember them?) filling in - he did double duty.

Belly had put on an energetic show. Superconnected is still a damn poignant and fierce tune. And, the opening act that evening was an up and coming singer-songwriter named Jewel. Mallory and I arrived for the tail end of Jewel's set. We wondered if Sean Penn might be there since they were rumored to be dating at the time (a bit of archaic gossip column fodder there for those of you who didn't know or don't remember or don't care). Well, no Sean Penn was out and about in the Fillmore that night. Mal and I liquored up at the bar while Jewel and her yodel finished up on stage.


So the rest of Catherine Wheel (well, with Belly's drummer) took their positions and blasted into the chorus of Pain, amps at full roar. From there the band just crushed. Tanya Donnelly from Belly came out and shared the microphone with Rob for Judy Staring At the Sun. They covered the newer tracks from "Happy Days" (Heal being the highlight), as well as classics, of course, like Black Metallic, Crank, The Nude, I Want to Touch You, and Flower To Hide.

And I know
The sunlight bleaches you
It colours everything you do
And I know
A flower's fading far too soon

Now, here I was, many seasons and a city later, feeling good. And the Catherine Wheel singer/guitarist was back, by himself. Much like me, he had a decidedly different vibe in his life from the time of that staggering Fillmore show. He came out, said hello, took the stool, strummed the guitar, and launched into Heal ("It's how high you are/and the time it takes to heal"). An auspicious start indeed. His voice was pristine, and unlike too many contemporary "singers," it was immediately noticeable that his vocals had rarely, if ever, been tweaked or modulated in the studio. This guy can sing.

And what a stirring set. He interspersed songs from his recent solo album, "Fresh Wine for the Horses" with several timeless Catherine Wheel numbers, as well as one brand new tune called The End of the World. The solo material was perfect for the intimacy of the Mercury Lounge. Intelligent People, Handsome, Oceans, and My Name Is Love (which is, according to Rob, a conversation with the goddess Venus) came across well. I glanced around and people were absorbed in it.

Oh, I say
that my life has changed
in many ways
If your name is love
show me some grace
When everything you know
falls apart when the wind blows
When everything seems so tough
My name is Love

Rob bantered with a loose friendliness and a keen sense of self-deprecation. He gave background on a few of the songs, and threw in a humorous story involving his cousin Bruce Dickinson, the singer for heavy metal band Iron Maiden. The only letdown (and it wasn't even a "letdown," per se) was when he did one song off Catherine Wheel's final release, Wishville. I hoped for Mad Dog, my favorite from that album, but instead it was Ballad of a Running Man - which is groovy, but it's no Mad Dog.

At the close of the set, as expected, he performed Black Metallic. It was a briefly sententious moment for me to finally hear it live again. Much of the audience sang along with Rob ("It's the color of your skin"), including me, but luckily no one could hear me caterwaul and warble over the din of the show. Nah, I ain't much of a vocalist, but that won't stop me.

I think of you when you're sleeping
Of all the secrets that you're keeping
You can't stay all day under the covers
Cause under there you'll discover
It's the colour of your skin

The music opened the heart, attenuated emotion, built into a series of ebullient peaks - imparted a keen sense of momentary catharsis. After one more song, the set ended.

We wormed our way to the restrooms, then outside and onward to another place where the positive spirit Rob Dickinson had instilled continued into the small hours... but that's another story.

It was an inspiring evening.

I'm tired of sleeping.