Archive for May, 2010

The founders of Electric Literature, a multi-platform (POD and electronic) literary journal, talk about distribution, production, and (of course, always) content. Among other things, e-publishing refactors time spent in production and distribution processes, allowing greater outreach to readers. The compression of unit costs facilitated by e-publishing allows publishers to take greater risks; these guys are focusing on the literary short story, a form that has had very few venues in recent years.

Another nail in the coffin of the tired old “e-publishing will kill books” meme, most recently propagated by Klinkenborg in the NY Times.

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Summary of the season (and series) finale:

– Where are you taking me?
– Who are you?
– Who are you?
– It’s okay, dude.
– Where is he?
– Dude, it’s okay.
– Do I know you?
– Dude.


Since the finale, the intertubes have been clogged with bloggers  mumbling bitterly about what a frustrating disappointment it was. 

(Spolier alert).

They’re dead.  The Island is purgatory.  It’s all a big clumsy metapor. 

Well, sure.  It was kind of a deus ex stupida, but I’m not sure where else the writers could go with the show having long ago exhausted reason, common sense, uncommon sense, story possibilities, and the capacity for the viewing audience to give a damn about the tenuous threads of the show’s characters.

As television drama goes, it’s been a reasonably diverting bauble, if so long winded it makes Anna Karenina look like flash fiction. Easy to follow even when it hasn’t been.  Just unfocus the eyes and let a shallow puddle of drool collect on the inside of the mouth. 

As science fiction goes, the best I can say is that it’s lacked finesse.  Look, SF is in the business of literalizing metaphors. Inimical aliens manifest our fears about the worst of our own nature, Frankenstein our hubris, cyberspace our emergent borderless post-industrial world.  Good science fiction does this with subtlety and purpose, creating an image grammar that resonates with the reader. One of the indicators of bad sf is that it does this arbitrarily. If there is no cohesion, no thematic coherence, no image grammar, it’s just … one thing after another.  Stuff.

Lost has been full of Stuff for a long time, and I’m glad we’re done with it. Dude.

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Unfortunately, it’s too late to sign up for this, but I think it’s a really cool idea and I’m looking forard to seeing the results.  Each writer rewrites  a page of  the Horatio Alger novel, Joe’s Luck: Always Wide Awake.  Now if only someone would do this for Stephenie Meyer.

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Garrison Keillor is worried that self-publishing will become so ubiquitous that writing as a profession and publishing as a business will go the way of the dinosaur, the 2-party system, and actual humor on SNL. I don’t think so. Sturgeon’s Law will apply on either side of the publishing industry singularity. Sure, there will be more crap, but there always is. People will still be willing to pay for the good stuff and there will still be gatekeepers. Lower barriers to distribution will mean more indie shops and more opportunities for both new and estabished authors. It’s not the end of writing. Just the opposite — it’s the return of the midlist.

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I listen to “progressive talk radio” a lot in my car, when I’m not playing Morphine, Little Big Town, or late Coltrane  loud enough to make my ears bleed.  One of the many things that distinguishes them from their toxic counterparts on the right is that they are somewhat kinder to crackpot callers.  Well, except Alan Colmes.

The unfolding cataclysm in the Gulf has brought a lot of crazy out of the woodwork.  About once a day, someone makes it past the screeners with some harebrained, Baroque scheme, invariably preceded with, “I’m not an engineer, but … ”  Then they launch into a deeply unlikely scenario involving balloons, pipe cleaners, trained dolphins, Libertarians, and Soviet submarines piloted by retired midget gymnasts.  Often, the disclaimer will be repeated midway through their lecture.  “I’m not an engineer, but they should really get somebody to do this.”  Then more midgets, more dolphins, more balloons until they run out of breath or the host has to break for commercial.

I don’t know what baffles me more — the hosts that give these citizens enough rope to hang themselves with and instead use it to make them a macrame trivet, or the people who call in and think they can end run around years of specialized training with a six pack and a box of crayons.

I’m not a brain surgeon, but I think if you drilled a hole in your head and stirred around in there with a grapefruit spoon, those cluster migraines would go away.

I’m not a lawyer, but I think if you get somebody to write to the IRS and tell them you’re dead, they’ll probably leave you alone. 

I’m not a musician, but that Lee DeWyze guy is a freaking nightingale.  

Maybe I’m being too harsh.  The desire to do something in the face of boundless incompetence, avarice, and arrogance is natural.  But, jeez Louise, put away the crayons, pick up the phone, and call your Congresscritter,  your senator, your President, and tell them you’re mad and scared as hell and if they don’t do something effective you’ll throw their asses out and elect someone who will.

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I really like the authors’ description of the use and abuse of  “complex” as vernacular for “difficult” in describing current social and political problems.  I especially like their discussion on optimization — ie, fixing stuff.

Their conditions for “fixability” are simple — a situation needs to admit change, to admit the measurement of change, and to be able to react to change.  Simple, really, if we ever did it. 

Look at the BP mess.  Certainly changeable, and the change would be measurable if the Obama administration would grow a pair and enforce transparency on the part of BP. 

Why isn’t this happening?  It’s complicated …


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Sitting at the counter in Bette’s Ocean View Diner (no ocean, no view), squeezed between an elderly man on his left who, immediately upon sitting down, had placed a dental prosthetic in his glass, and a large matron on his right reeeking of patchouli and jabbering into a mobile phone, Abraham felt the beginnings of a migraine intrude into his awareness like the rusteed corners of household appliances poking through the surface of a stagnant junkyard pond. 

    It wasn’t exactly a headache, not yet.  His fingers tingled slightly and he could see his pulse out of the corner of  his eye as a kind of shimmery throbbing almost too subtle to notice. He was at a familiar tipping point.  The symptoms would either recede or blossom into full bore migraine, complete with nausea and vomiting. 

    The waitress dropped his salad in front of him with a clatter.  
    God damn it.

    He had asked for the dessing on the side.  On the plate in fornt of him, romaine, raddiccio, and frisee, fennel, walnuts and raisins, swam in an oily, vinegary soup.  He looked up, hoping to catch the waitress’ eye, but she was already hurtling towards another customer, balancing three plates aligned in a row on her extended arm.

    He speared a limp, dripping leaf and conveyed it to his mouth. The back of this throat felt scalded with vinegar, seared, and he coughed, earning a glare of disapproval from the perfumed woman. 

    “Sorry,” he said.  “Vinegar.”

    She looked him up and down and actually sniffed audibly.

    He speared another leaf, shook from it as much liquid as he could, and slurped the slimy thing down. He couldn’t take his eyes off the partial denture drowned in the glass to his left.  Small bubbles collected on its pink ridged surface.

    When Abraham was about half done with his salad, the waitress came by.  

    “How we doing?”

    “Good,” Abraham said.  “Good.”

    As if to demonstrate, he speared another dripping bouquet of greens and stuffed them into his mouth.

    “Asshole, I’m talking to you.”  A male voice from the fornt of the restaurant cut through the lunchtime buzz of conversation and brought it to a screeching halt. 

    Along with all the other patrons, Abraham looked over, craning his neck trying to see what was going on.  Two men in the waiting area, a young guy in a leather jacket, clearly the guy who had just spoken, leaning heavily into the personal space of a late middle-aged business type doing his best to ignore him. 

    “Yeah, that’s right.  I was sitting there for five minutes waiting for that lady to put on her meakeup and pull out of the space and you just come in, cut me off, and take it.  I was just passing by here and saw you.  Who the fuck do you think you are, man?  Where did you learn common courtesy?” 

    The businessman fidgeted, looking right and left, everywhere but at the other man. Someone in an apron hurried to the waiting area and spoke softly to the two men, touching them both on the shoulder.  After a few more words, the younger man waved his figner in the businessman’s face one last time and stalked out the door. 

    Abraham hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he took in a long, shudderig gasp.  He’d been transfixed, pinned, incapable of movement. 

    His migraine symptoms were gone.

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• What is your character’s name? Does the character have a nickname?

Abraham Soloff.  No nickname, ever, not even “Abe.”

• What is your character’s hair color? Eye color?

Shaved head;  dark brown eyes, almost black.

• What kind of distinguishing facial features does your character have?

Intense gaze.  Smiles often but rarely laughs out loud.

• Does your character have a birthmark? Where is it? What about scars? How did he get them?

He has a burn scar that sprawls across his lower torso like an open hand.  He got it as a teenager working in a neighborhood paint store that caught fire

• Who are your character’s friends and family? Who does she surround herself with? Who are the people your character is closest to? Who does he wish he were closest to?

Abraham’s parents emigrated from Israel to the United States in the 70s.  They were both killed by a terrorist bomb when they were visiting Tel Aviv while Abraham was in graduate school at Cornell.  In spite  of this, Abraham is not a kneejerk Zionist.  He is failrly apolitical, a halfhearted Democrat, a pragmatist.  Every now and then, a wave of grief or rage washes over him.  He cannot identify the source of this discomfort.

Abraham is an Assistant Professor of Statistics at UC Berkeley.  He likes his colleagues well enough, and they seem to like him well enough, but he does not feel fulfilled in his current relationships.  Something is missing.

He has two sisters who he rarely speaks with, and a brother with who he has a tumultuous relationship, alternating hot and cold.    

• Where was your character born? Where has she lived since then? Where does she call home?

Born in Chicago.  Lives in Berkeley, California. 

• Where does your character go when he’s angry?

He gets in his car, a beater Corolla, pulls into traffic laying rubber, and drives very fast for 4 or 5 blocks, then, a little calmer, gets on the freeway and drives aimlessly until his mind is clear

• What is her biggest fear? Who has she told this to? Who would she never tell this to? Why?

Dying alone.  He has told nobody.

• Does she have a secret?

Shortly after his parents’ death, he was driving slightly drunk one evening and hit a pedestrian, a young woman out for a walk.   It was a dark street, deserted.  He drove away.  To this day, he does not know if she was killed or badly hurt.

• What makes your character laugh out loud?

Almost  nothing.

• When has your character been in love? Had a broken heart?

Abraham is currently single.  He once married a violinist in the San Francisco Symphony, but they split up after six months. 

Then dig deeper by asking more unconventional questions:

• What is in your character’s refrigerator right now? On her bedroom floor? On her nightstand? In her garbage can?


Tub of deli hummus

Blood oranges


Wilted lettuce

Bedroom floor:

Underwear, socks, spine-bent thriller, copied of mathematics research paper he is peer-reviewing.

• Look at your character’s feet. Describe what you see there. Does he wear dress shoes, gym shoes, or none at all? Is he in socks that are ratty and full of holes? Or is he wearing a pair of blue and gold slippers knitted by his grandmother?

Abraham usually wears comfortable, slightly expensive walking shoes – Rockport, etc. 

• When your character thinks of her childhood, what smell does she associate with it? Sauerkraut? Oatmeal cookies? Paint? Why is that smell so resonant for her?

Once a year, his family would trek from Chicago to the Rhode Island shore for 4 weeks where they shared ownership of a house on the beach with two other families.  The slightly sour smell of death that clings near the shore at low tide is ambrosia to him. 

• Your character is doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for her to throw out? What is difficult for her to part with? Why?

Abraham is a fierce and aggressive cleaner.  He purges fearlessly, but sometimes at night, hovering on the edge of sleep, he will inventory what he has discarded.  Once, he spent hours digging through the trash for a ticket stub to a Chicago Bulls game that he and his Dad went to on their own when he was 14, but he could not fid it

• It’s Saturday at noon. What is your character doing? Give details. If he’s eating breakfast, what exactly does he eat? If she’s stretching out in her backyard to sun, what kind of blanket or towel does she lie on?

Abraham is sitting in his kitchen grading student papers.  The sun comes into the house in thick beams, filtered by the eucalyptus trees in the yard.  Fat motes of dust drift lazily in the golden shafts of light. 

• What is one strong memory that has stuck with your character from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting?

During one of their beach summers – he was perhaps 8 or 9 – Abraham and his father were driving at night on a narrow, dimly lit road.  Rounding a turn, they hit a dog.  Abraham remembers time slowing suddenly to a crawl:  his father’s belated pumping of the brakes, the dog, pale in the bright headlights, sailing limply through the air as if completely boneless.  The dog slammed hard into a tree and time resumed its normal flow.  His father got a flashlight from the trunk and the two of  them went to look at the dog.  It was clearly dead – eyes open, a froth of blood on its muzzle. Abraham’s father looked at him and shook his head.  He bent down, gathered the dead dog in  his arms, and took it back to the car, placing it on an old blanket in the trunk.  Abraham never asked his father what happened to the dog after that, and his father never spoke of it.

• Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where is she going? What does she wear? Who will she be with?

Abraham is going to  a “dinner club” outing – a kind of group blind date.  4 men and 4 women are thrown together on the basis of their answers to a questionnaire to assess compatibility.  He has done this twice before and had a miserable time, but still he attends because he feels he should.  He is dressed in academic casual – khakis, Merrills, workshirt, corduroy sport jacket.

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Here is the character developmet assignment I gave to my class.  The posts that follow show my take on the assignment. 

I find these kinds of exerecises very useful, even if I am in the middle of another work, even if I will never use the content.  They are akin to scales and arpeggios for the musician.

Part 1.

Fill out a character profile for this guy.

Part 2.

This character is having a quick bite to eat in a diner and there is a problem with the order. Show us how he handles the situation.

Right near him, a yelling match between two men escalates into a real physical fight, a fight that is spilling into his space. Show us how he handles this new turn of events.

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