Over the weekend, the ball and chain and I went to see the Queens production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was a fantastic show. So I'm thinking about Shakespeare. And thinking about as I grow older--now that I'm married I feel older already--I find myself liking Shakespeare. That seems insipid having written it, but before I'd have said, "Of course, I like Shakespeare" because...I mean, you have to like Shakespeare. But what I'm saying now is that I actually like Shakespeare.
Which brings me to my friend Derek Nikitas, whose novel The Long Division has recently been released to rave reviews. Including this one where he's compared to...that's right, Shakespeare!
Happy Holidays! Nothing puts me in the spirit like fiction, non-Santa-related fiction. So here are five I've been enjoying in no particular order.
1. Derek Nikitas, who, for full disclosure, is a friend of mine, recently published three loosely linked stories. My favorite is "Razor" at Thuglit (the other two are "Bronze Horsemen" in Plots With Guns and "Homecoming" in Pulp Pusher).
2. David Erlewine's "Always with Us" at The Pedestal Magazine.
I am sad. Which I will probably blog about when I'm not quite so sad.
In the mean time, Ben Tanzer's blog has made me angry. He reproduces a letter from Eric Spitznagel about the Monkeybicycle Dirty Comedy issue. Turns out its release has been delayed because all the printers they tried were offended by the content. Specifically offended by a cartoon that contained menstrual blood (because no one is offended by reading anymore because no one reads). Is this those wacky free-speech-hating foreigners upset at cartoon representations of Muhammad? No, it's god-fearing printers of America, practicing censorship. To quote Spitznagel: "I think we've learned something today, my friends. We've learned that the printing industry is afraid of menstruation." God bless America.
For fear of reprisals, I will say only that some Anonymous people have watched a little too much V for Vendetta. Granted Scientology seems like a cult created by a bad science fiction writer, but it's a cult with a lot of money and lots of lawyers. So as much as Anonymous excites the geeky warrior in me, I'm going to have to refrain from writing about my support of such nonsense. But what geeky goodness it really is.
Oops. I went and embedded that in my blog. First let me apologize to Scientologists everywhere. That's not good enough, you say? You want to take me where? I don't know what a Testing Center is, but I don't want to go there. Okay, okay. I give. Derek stole your signs in London. They're in the flat behind the bookcase. I had nothing to do with it.
Though I am surviving not getting my snow day—more like a slush day—Derek Nikitas pointed out to me that Brad Renfro has not been so lucky.He has died from currently unknown causes at the age of 25.
You can tell that Brad and I are not closely related because his cowardly ancestors dropped the “e” off the end of his name.As fate would have it, my brother is named Brad Renfroe and has suffered as so many others who share a name with a celebrity (surely there should be a word for that by now).My brother is almost the exact same age as Renfro and was forced to follow the star’s career through jokes.“Hey,” his friends would say, “I heard you tried to steal a boat this weekend.”I imagine my brother Brad will now be dealing with rumors of his own death that are greatly exaggerated.
But here's to you Brad Renfro, another in a long line of troubled Renfro(e)s.
So I'm pissed at myself. Normally, I can rely on my coping mechanism of transference and blame my problems on others, like Blockbuster, for instance---I hate those bastards and you should too---more on that later no doubt. But it's hard to hate someone else when you're angry about your writing. Unless you use a ghostwriter and then you can yell at that person and fire that person or possibly kill that person, because hey, they're a ghostwriter after all. So what I'm saying is: anyone interested in being my ghostwriter please contact me.
To assuage this feeling of guilt, I'm working again on THE NOVEL. The novel I wrote in grad school between D&D marathons with Brad Land and Derek Nikitas. It was my thesis. I wrote two novels after that, but who's counting (here's a hint...it's me). So as of right now since yesterday I've written 959 words. That's a lot for revision. I'm basically gutting it and rewriting from the inside. Keep some of the frame. Over here's where I'll put the walk-in closet.
Let me back up and say that 959 words is a lot for me. For many of my writerly friends, they could have that knocked out in an hour, and that's the ones that have to stare at the keyboard and use the hunt-n-peck typing method. I am mind numbingly slow at writing. I fear other writers spill words down a page as easily as I spill my drink at parties. I belabor each word. Except for here, though I'm sure you can't tell. With me dropping any ole word here or there. Turnip
Over the weekend, the ball and chain and I went to see the Queens production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was a fantastic show. So I'm thinking about Shakespeare. And thinking about as I grow older--now that I'm married I feel older already--I find myself liking Shakespeare. That seems insipid having written it, but before I'd have said, "Of course, I like Shakespeare" because...I mean, you have to like Shakespeare. But what I'm saying now is that I actually like Shakespeare.
Posts
