Mumble Herder

I had hoped to start posting more of those wacky polls, but sadly that's not going to happen; I'm having to let my paid account expire due to being broke. Instead I'll, I don't know, finish writing this novel or something.

- I finally saw "Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World." For about the first half I was gleeful; by the second half I was still gleeful, but I was also distracted by the things that had come out of the story in order to pack six volumes into one film that still felt a tad long. Good: The 8-Bit touches that they kept were great. Kim Pine was PERFECT. Also Wallace, and Gideon--pretty much all of the evil exes were great except the Katayanagi twins, who sucked. I'm sorry, but they did. This is related to the fact that my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE SCENE IN ALL OF THE COMICS was cut. That would be the one where Scott fights the Katayanagis' robot (which is of course named Robot-O1) at the Day of the Dead party but all of Scott's friends are so over his crap that the fight takes place almost entirely offstage while they bitch about him. I'm telling you, that should have been in the movie. I guess I'm sort of over Cera, too, which makes me a little sad because it seemed like I was the only person alive who still liked him. I still loved the movie and want to see it again; it's just that adaptations are always a horrible gloppy sad mess and it frustrates me. OH BUT I think I did figure out why I like the comics so much. It's because basically it's a story about my twenties, except that I was never Scott--maybe some amalgamation of Wallace and Young Neil, but playing lots of video games, reading lots of comics, mooning unproductively over various girls and hanging out at clubs listening to bands that seemed all that much better because almost nobody had ever heard of them. And I was hanging out with some people whom I was not exactly friends with, some of whom may have actually despised me, and yet we were all part of this Sphere of Tolerance that created a weird social cohesion. Which is an entirely idiosyncratic reason to enjoy something and I don't expect that most of you will relate to that at all. If you do, I sort of pity you. (Us.)

Today (Cont.):

- I went to the State Fair and saw robots, a gigantic knitted fish, a huge elephant made out of straw, an impressionist Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox that my friend Steve made out of tiny Post-Its, a bag of Tom Thumb mini-donuts for a brief time before they went into my face, Princess Kay of the Milky Way and a butter sculpture of same, my dad (who works at one of the admissions gates), a Native American drummer, a bottomless cup of chocolate milk WHICH I DRANK, an awesome Hmong-craft dragon WHICH I BOUGHT, sheep, chickens, ducks, horses, cows, pigs, and piglets--WHICH I HAVE DECIDED ARE THE MOST PERFECT FORM OF LIFE--at the Miracle of Birth building.

Today (Concluded):

- Is three weeks to the day until I turn 40. I do not normally get much worked up about birthdays--to the point where I often fail to celebrate them at all--but this one feels Big and has caused me some anxiety. Anyway I know that many of you will see it on Facebook when it comes around and leave the ritual wall posting, but I am telling you now because something. I dunno. You could get me something if you wanted, but I think it's more about wanting some sort of weird acknowledgment for being half dead. I don't know what that would be; I suppose you could stab me or something to remind me that I'm still alive. Or perhaps something more convenient for those of you who do not live nearby. If I figure it out I'll let you know.

Friday: I am up early, not because my flight is early, but because I cannot help it. On the flight to Denver the man next to me is reading McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales, and I am tempted to start a conversation about it, except that I fear I will be unable to suppress the urge to rant about how much better most of the stories by genre writers are than the ones by the literary writers who seemed to view writing genre as a chance to do lazy work. On the Denver-to-L.A. flight I try to get some work done, but typing into the laptop from scribbled notes proves challenging. The man in the next seat offers me his tray table as a workspace. It turns out he is a writer too. Everyone I meet on this trip, it seems, is a writer.

This includes my friend Derrick, although he hasn't had any time to write since his second daughter Serena was born. He picks me up at the airport with Serena's older sister, Jordan, who at 2 1/2 is very shy and responds to all my attempts at conversation with a worried "Daddy?" I haven't seen Derrick since a flyby afternoon in Chicago three or four years ago; before that it was for his wedding up in San Francisco, which was memorable for a wicked sunburn, my first tuxedo, and my first (and so far only) visit to a strip club, for the bachelor party. Derrick and I were roommates in college--our first year, in the dorms, he lived next door to me and would walk into my room while I was playing music, dance an ironic dance, and then walk out.

Fatherhood has not changed him all that much. We drive aimlessly around L.A. for a bit--D's parents moved here when he went away to school, and though he is here for a visit with them, he does not know the city, and I have failed to provide directions. Also I have decided at the last minute that I need black Chuck Taylors to complete my ensemble for the banquet. Plans for the Museum of Jurassic Technology are abandoned, and we head up to Santa Monica for a quick shopping stop and a visit to the pier. I haven't been to L.A. (except the airport) since I was ten. The main culture shock is not the sun (although I keep my hood up most of the time so as not to horribly burn my bald head again) but the preponderance of outdoor malls, open lobbies, terraces, etc. These things exist in Minnesota but not in such numbers, as they are impractical for one-half to two-thirds of the year.

We are at a sushi restaurant near UCLA when my agent Shana texts me to ask where I am, as there is a reception about to start and I am supposed to be receiving a certificate and a pin. This is news to me, and there is no way we are going to get there now. Jordan spills OJ on herself and all three of us gorge ourselves on sushi, and then I say goodbye to D and his little girl and hand myself off to jennreese. Jenn and her boyfriend Chris have graciously agreed to put me up for the night so that I won't bankrupt myself staying at the hotel. I've known Jenn for a while, but primarily in online- and convention-space, so it's a pleasure to talk to her about fiction and TV (Jenn writes both), watch some "Dollhouse" (dissecting it along the way), and get a little better acquainted.

Saturday: After a bit of "Twin Peaks" on cable, during which Chris and I bond over some shared TV favorites, Jenn and Chris take me to their favorite breakfast place, More Than Waffles, where I wolf down an omelette, two Belgian waffles, a side of bacon, tea and tomato juice. It's a good thing I ate like a pig, because lunch just never happens. Jenn and Chris drop me at the hotel, where I'm able to check in early, and then I head over to the Luxe for the WGA brunch. There I find a crowd of folks, among them shsilver, Shana, John Kessel, Jim Kelly, Sheila Williams, Mary Robinette Kowal, Gary Wolfe, and Amelia Beamer. I chat with Shana and hang out at the brunch for a while before heading off to be interviewed by Gary and Amelia. This turns out to be relatively painless, basically just a conversation about writing; I don't think I embarrass myself, but time will tell. Then it's picture time, where I try to smile my pasty best.

Next up, the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I have a signing at the Mysterious Galaxy booth at 4, and I'm going to hang out with castellucci until then. Cecil is hugely generous with her time, and seems to know everyone in the author's Green Room. Randomly, we run into pgtremblay, at the festival to promote The Little Sleep. We talk for a bit, and then I have to find the MG booth. The staff over there are awesome; I chat with them between trying to sell books (I am making an effort to be "on" all weekend, and it's starting to tire me out), as well as the other writers. This place is huge. They say 125,000 people attended last year, and I believe it. The UCLA campus is like a city in itself. They also say that it was 95 degrees earlier in the week, and I am grateful that it is a much more comfortable temperature today.

Then it's time to find a shuttle, get back to the hotel, take a quick shower, and glam up. I'm wearing a fancy black t-shirt, black pants, black Chucks, and a sort of sand-colored sport coat. Also my Nebula nominee pin, which completes the ensemble. I think I look OK, but the main thing is that I am not going to spend the evening hating my shoes. I think I will never wear dress shoes again.

Doselle picks Shana and I up for the awards. There's some confusion getting there, as we need to drive to one part of the UCLA campus and get a permit, drive back and park, and then find our way to something called the Commons. We end up wandering into the banquet via the service entrance, a bit late. I chat a bit with Jim Kelly before we head in for dinner, and say hello to Paul Melko and his wife. Maryelizabeth Hart, the head of publicity for Mysterious Galaxy who set up the signing, is at our table, along with Mary E. Pearson, her husband, her film agent, and a regional rep for a publisher, I've forgotten which. Doselle tries to start up a drinking game based around certain science fiction keywords ("singularity" would have been a good one), but I am wary of drinking much lest I have to deliver yswilce's speech. I have not written a speech for myself, as I do not expect to need one.

Janis Ian sings a version of "Seventeen" that is about finding a home in science fiction, and while I usually don't care for this sort of thing I find it funny and somewhat moving. Chuck Lorre also talks about his love for SF. The Norton is announced early on, and I'm glad I stayed sober because I end up having to give Ysa's speech. This goes fine, although apparently I have been pronouncing SFWA wrong forever, and do so again. Ysa's award is gorgeous, although they could not fit her entire title on it. (Yay Ysa!)

More awards are given--Grand Master, Solstice and Emeritus awards. Tim Powers presents a Solstice, posthumously, to Algis Budrys. Later on I will tell Tim about how I used to send all my stuff to Budrys at Tomorrow Magazine, and how he would send me encouraging and instructive rejections. ("Your formatting is all wrong." "Well written, but didn't find the characters convincing.") Tim will say he was an unpaid editor, and that Lester Del Rey used to do the same thing for him, rejecting his manuscripts but pointing out all the things he needed to fix.

Back at the ceremony, more awards. I don't realize Jane Espenson is there until she presents the Bradbury for Joss, whose speech is pretty funny. Wil Wheaton, Shana points out, is at the table in front of us. John Kessel wins for "Pride and Prometheus," which makes me very happy. Then they are about to announce Best Novel. I am not nervous, I realize suddenly; I am terrified. Being nominated for a Nebula is a thrill and an honor in ways I can't express, but winning one at this stage in my career, for my first novel, is the most frightening thing I can imagine at this moment. I am, I confess, relieved when it does not happen. As I've said already, I can't think of anyone I'd rather lose to than Ms. Le Guin.

Before I can process anything we are back at the hotel, and Tim Powers is buying me a drink. This is a this-can't-be-happening sort of thing on a par with my being here at all, which I suppose is fitting. It gets weirder, as I have a long talk with Sheila Williams about short fiction and Tim Powers and I brainstorm '50s SF books and stories for Gary Wolfe to pitch for a project.

Eventually it is late, and despite the awesome people I've hung out with I am suddenly lonesome for my peeps. I head back to the hotel and try to sleep.

Sunday: I catch a Super Shuttle to the airport. The security line at LAX runs out of the airport and up the sidewalk halfway to the next terminal, but it moves pretty quickly. I have a window seat on the way to Phoenix, this time. It's a short flight. I read, and in the Phoenix airport I finish Bridge of Birds, which is lovely. I keep my head down so the other people in the food court won't realize I'm weeping as I finish it.

The flight to Minneapolis is the only one of the four flights that sucks, for multiple reasons: they make me check my carry-on, which has been fine on three flights so far; there is considerable turbulence all the way through; I am tired and cranky; and I am seated next to the most annoying woman in the world. I survive. Life is good. It's not perfect, but it's good.

I could have spent my unexpected afternoon off being productive, but what fun would that be?

This meme went around a while ago but I was not feeling as brave then as I am now. SO DO YOUR WORST.

- Describe me in one word--just one single word. Positive or negative.

- Leave your word in a comment, before looking at what words others have used.

- Copy and paste the meme to your journal to find out how people describe you when limited to one word.

. . . but I'm pretty OK with it, actually:

"Imagine if Syndrome from The Incredibles decided to write a novel about Supers, and you've got Superpowers."

I ain't telling you where I found it.

Things I have not posted about on account of being busy and scatterbrained:

Yes, that is me in the latest issue of Writer's Digest. Jordan Rosenfeld interviewed me for the "First Impressions" column, which features first-time novelists. I sure make it sound easy. And, thanks to the lies of photography, I look good doing it.

Comics: Ed Brubaker and Matt Fraction are leaving Immortal Iron Fist. Wah! For serious, their run has been incredible; retro-pulp updated for the modern day, with the glorious feel of grainy, badly-dubbed kung fu flicks. This, combined with John Rogers leaving the sadly underselling Blue Beetle (Seriously, do people not want their superhero comics to be good?), is going to cut down my comics reading considerably.

DVDs: I gave up on The L Word, finally, because I can't stand Mia Kirschner or her character or the way that the writers apparently view writing on that show. So. Grating. Like, Baltar-and-Six grating. (Them being the reason I can't watch BSG.) I started on Weeds, which is pretty great so far. Also started on Season 1 of the new Doctor Who, which is . . . cute? I can appreciate that it's all about the fun, and they're aiming at kids, but man is the plotting preposterous. Yes, Rose is wonderful, and the show is funny ("Harriet Jones, MP Flydale North"), but I'm not sure I'm going to last with it. I finally saw "Network," and I'm sorry I waited so long. Genius. Also saw "A Streetcar Named Desire." (Yes, I have many gaps.) Brando was amazing, as usual, but it took a long time for Vivien Leigh's performance to work for me. There's a particular definition of "feminine" in Streetcar that I find extremely off-putting in fiction as well as in life. Which may actually be part of the point of the play, and may be why it works in the end. Obviously I haven't decided.

Books: Am reading Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women In Revolutionary France, by Lucy Moore. This was recommended to me by stephanieburgis, and man am I grateful. Really evocative, and sad, and inspiring. Also reading Lost White Tribes: The End of Privilege and the Last Colonials in Sri Lanka, Jamaica, Brazil, Haiti, Namibia, and Guadeloupe by Riccardo Orizio, which sounds a lot more awesome than it is. It's more a travelogue than anything, neither historical nor anthropological in focus; a disappointingly shallow look at a potentially rich subject.

Baseball: Bit of a rocky start for the Twins, not unexpectedly. Liriano's shaky, and the offense is unreliable; but Hernandez is a rock, and Bonser seems to have matured nicely. Not to mention that Carlos Gomez is as much fun to watch as Torii ever was. Dropping two to the Tigers = not cool, but it's early yet. (If you catch me saying that in August, I give you permission to smack me upside the head.)

. . . 'cause then I might have seen this a little sooner.

All I can say is I didn't expect the evil twin to be unmasked quite so soon.

Thanks to calico_reaction for the heads-up!

Yesterday, while you were all at your wild, all-day George Washington parties and I was at work (NOT THAT I AM A RESENTFUL PERSON*), I posted about blogs that cover future urban concepts, one of my personal manias. I also posted the shiny trailer and banner for the upcoming Paper Cities antho, which Jeff VanderMeer (among others) has said very nice things about. (Scroll all the way down for the review.)

The Minnesota Roller Girls are at Roy Wilkins this Sunday. Locals: anybody going? Anybody want to? My planned companion has flaked on me discovered a scheduling conflict. I am in the mood to watch tattooed girls in fishnets shove each other around.** I'll go alone if I have to, but it won't be pretty. (Well, I won't be pretty. But then I rarely am.)

Things that are awesome: Chris Sims kicks off his "Bring It On" week with the 30-second recap. If you have not seen "Bring It On," you might be under the impression that a movie about cheerleaders cannot be awesome. You are sadly mistaken. Of course, Sims does his best to amp up the awesome with his stick-figures*** and Shakespearean dialog.

Finally, it has come to my attention that I am a cipher wrapped in an enigma, smothered with secret sauce. No, I am not Jimmy James. But being as this is a personal blog where I tend to skirt around the personal, when I actually do talk about something that's very personal--like, say, my recent tirades about Valentine's Day--apparently people aren't quite sure what to make of it. So, inspired in part by mrissa, I'm opening the floor. Ask me anything. Yes, anything.**** I will make an effort to be forthcoming, even if it's personal. If, on the other hand, you'd rather just trade smartass quips, I can do that too. It's kind of where I live.

* This is a lie.
** I am almost always in the mood for this.
*** Stick figures + Spirit fingers = Fail
**** Except THAT.

So, my news is simply this: I'm moving back to St. Paul. Like, in a week. For some reason I tend to play these things very close to the vest, but now the truck is reserved, the boxes are . . . here, and the lease is signed and all that.

Chicago has been pretty good to me, overall. But I have to say that it's never quite felt like home. And there's the money aspect. As Gavin once said about living in a big hip city without having lots of money, "You're missing something cool every night." Yeah. An illustrative point on the economics of St. Paul vs. Chicago; the place I'll be moving into is $40 cheaper per month, and has one bedroom more (for a total of one). And it's in a great neighborhood with lots of stuff in walking distance, and public transit, and a three-mile bike ride to my folks' place. Which brings us to the second big reason for the move, which is family; most of them are in the Twin Cities or at least nearby, and I'm at a point where I'd like to be able to see them more.

Things I will miss about Chicago? Friends. My writing group, the Semi-Omniscients; great people all around, who've really pushed me to write better. The Art Institute. The trains, although that's more for the way they were a year or so ago than the way they are now. The Lakeshore Path. The Hideout; actually, the music scene in general. If I weren't so stuffed-in-the-head I could perhaps think of more things.

I'll be crashing with my folks for a month until my lease kicks in; I'll post the addresses as they change. My phone will hopefully stay the same. Now I am off to kill this cold.

*Apologies for the bad John Prine reference.

I took the weekend completely off from writing, which was crazy but it worked out well because it gave me time to figure out that my plan for the next chapter was Bunk. Basically the plot was originally supposed to focus more on a certain group of characters whose twists and turns have become rather vestigial, and I had to prune one out that I hadn't really thought about. Full speed ahead, now; one chapter yesterday, one and a half today, and I know where the next four are coming from. Between this week and next, when I will be taking a writing vacation with some lovely folks, I hope to push through to chapter 50 or so; I expect to wrap it up in 60 or less. The timing is good because, as some may have noted, I've had a shuffling of editors, and we've yet to start editing Superpowers; if I can get this first draft done by April or so then I can concentrate on revisions for the sold book without having back-of-the-mind anxieties about finishing this not-yet-sold one.

In an effort to make sense of this full-time writing life, however temporary that turns out to be, I've put myself on a schedule. At least, I've put a cap on my writing day; no new stuff after 5:30, no computer after 7. Typing scribbles into the computer between the hours of 5:30 and 7 is acceptable. This may be a temporary measure, but so far it's been good. Making the shift from having all my spare time be potential writing time to having ALL my time be potential writing time was kind of disorienting. Structure, good.

That's really it, I'm afraid. Told you it was boring.