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I told her I would sing for her, that this was the measure of my love. But I’ve heard your singing, she said, not understanding me yet again.

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Shame was universal once. Before it became an affectation and lost currency. I say to the unfortunate guy suffering in the stall next to me.

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The carpenter takes his shirt off. She says, You’re sexier with your shirt on. He says, But it’s hot. It is, she thinks, but not hot enough.

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She said, Our house is so perfect, and he agreed because it was, and she said, It’s so perfect we can’t have sex in it, and he agreed, sadly.

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RIP Lou Reed

Lou ReedLou Reed died today. He lived a great life, a life of art and passion. Full. Calling him a “rock musician” is kind of reductive and diminishes what he did. By a lot. There are already some great obituaries circulating and this is not an obituary.

My upcoming novel is called Waiting for the Man. One of the earliest images that inspired the book was, Reed’s “Man,” the drug dealer from “uptown” with his “PR shoes and a big straw hat” who the song’s narrator desperately needs to meet – and then he scores the “sweet taste” and all is well in the world. Until tomorrow. It was that straw hat though, that vision of the man “dressed in black” that gave me one of the first key images to write the book. The Man wasn’t just a drug dealer after all, he was a symbol, a promise, because, even after the high, or perhaps because of it, Waiting for the Man is an optimistic song in its own twisted way. Just as my novel is also optimistic, in its own way.

Salman Rushdie just tweeted this photo. From a night he and Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed went to see… Pee Wee Herman. For real. What a great image:

Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson and Pee Wee Herman

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The March To the Novel: Little Steps To The Real Thing (or, the ISBNification of me)

From Idea to ProductA book is transformed, slowly, from idea to physical creation to consumer product. The transformation from idea to physical thing is long and painful and fraught. Creating the thing isn’t easy and never was and never will be. If it has value, it shouldn’t be easy (though this is a kind of value judgement, I suppose). And the physical creation component can be broken down into an idea as it is revealed to its creator (on paper, on a computer screen) and then a thing that is about to be put out in the marketplace for consumption (ie: you could be giving it away for free but the idea of that and of selling it is the same – get it in consumers’ hands). Obviously, if a writer doesn’t want anyone to read their work, they will not embark on this transformative journey. typesetThe path from physical thing to consumer product is also long and slow but hopefully less painful, though no less fraught. This is when the thing starts to accumulate the elements that will render it into an item for sale: packaging (design), marketing plans (how do we get this into the hands of the consumer?), and the technology that will grease the path forward. For books, that technology is simple: the ISBN. The International Standard Book Number. Every book on your bookshelf (or virtual bookshelf) has one. Or should. It is what a machine will read when it scans the barcode at the store. It is how the world’s bookstores will find your book. Without it, you have to ask if your book even exists. Yes, this is analogous to a tree falling in the forest.tree falling
So, the past few weeks: the cover pretty much finalized; an early discussion about marketing; a first draft of typesetting; the ISBN. And then, magically, the book starts to appear in the ether. On Goodreads. On Amazon (Canada, US, UK, you name it). On Barnes & Noble. Chapters Indigo. Go on. Give it a search. It can be preordered. Because the book is about to be a thing. That you can purchase. At any bookstore, bricks n mortar or virtual. And you can do this even though the pub date is 5 months hence. April 15th. After a season that has yet to even start is pretty much finished.
When the idea becomes a thing and then a product, the creator cedes control of it. At least for a while. It becomes the readers’ thing (does your Egg McMuffin belong to you or MacDonald’s?). Another product in the marketplace. And, frankly, it’s about time. I’ve lived with this thing for long enough. Take it, it’s yours. For a low convenient price.

The second you purchase this baby, it's yours.

The second you purchase this baby, it’s yours.

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Here’s the Cover (March of the Novel, Part 3,000,001)

Waiting for the Man Selected V2

And then there was a cover. Here it is. The blurb will change. But otherwise, this is out.

This week, some writers/reviewers started to receive ARCs (advanced reader copies) – perhaps one of them will say something nice and their blurb will replace the blurb currently on the cover.

Also, I saw the catalog copy today. Or was it yesterday? No, earlier today. I saw it today. The catalog copy does what catalog copy is supposed to do: it makes the story sound awesome, it makes me sound interesting, and attempts to make an event out of all of this.

The cover was designed by Michel Vrana and he went through a lot to get to this place. Including thinking he was done and then learning he wasn’t.

And now there is a cover and catalog copy and I told my brother that the book is dedicated to him because it is and he should know (Squishy was dedicated to my wife) – and he probably forgets that years and years ago I told him I would dedicate my first novel to him and now I have.

So between now and April (the book is due out April 15), I’m going to sit and twiddle my thumbs. Or not.

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The March of the Novel, part 3,000,000

talawa waiting godot So, we move forward. Waiting for the Man now has an ISBN and its own Goodreads page.

I just finished my final readthrough after some last minute and astute edits and queries. And, frankly, I hope to never read this book again. Ever. Oh, I’ll read parts of it. I have to. But not the whole thing. It’s finished for me. The cover is being finalized. The ARCs (advance review copies) are being sent out. The marketing people are thinking up ways of creating desire. Or desirability.

So basically, the hiatus I’ve taken from my next project needs to end now and I need to get back to work. Like now.

The book is now the world’s. Or, to be less grandiose, it belongs to the reader. To you. It’s now your book. The book should be published around April 15, 2014.

The winter is going to feel a little longer this year. Even if it’s a mild one.

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Ceci N’est Pas Un Blog Post

Not a PipeThis is not a blog post about anything.

This is not a blog post about the unimaginable inanities taking place in Quebec, or Washington, DC, or Syria, or anywhere else.

This is not a blog post about what makes a blog post and what makes an essay and whether or not the word blog is a mere indication of media and not of intent.

This is not a blog post about blog posts.

This is not a blog post about Jonathan Franzen.

This is not a blog post about how much I hate Facebook even if LinkedIn is more annoying.

This is not a blog post about why I’m not deleting my accounts on said social networks.

This is not a blog post about last night’s fried chicken.

This is not a blog post about not writing blog posts or the new novel or anything else.

This is not a blog post about the tyranny of time.

This is not a blog post about booze of any sort.

This is not a blog post about watching my son do his math homework and being incapable of answering his questions because with me and math that ship sailed a long time ago.

This is not a blog post written to complain about me.

This is not a blog post written to complain about you. Or anyone else.

This is not a blog post about the state of the world or how I feel about that state.

This is not a blog post about 2013 being the Year of Aggrieved Majorities.

This is not a blog post about the discounting of the possibility of life on Mars because they haven’t found methane.

This is not a blog post about Breaking Bad.

This is not a blog post about the amount of blog posts in the world.

This is not a blog post that complains about something while using the very medium being complained about.

This is not a blog post about irony or that revels in irony or that drips with irony.

This is not a blog post at all.

This is about nothing.

This is a blog post.

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What Do You Mean It’s The End of Summer?!?!

summertime
Summer was too short.

Summer IS too short.

I’m Canadian so I mean it.

When summer already feels too short (and it does, I said it so it’s established) Labour Day (or Labor Day to my American friends) should not be allowed to fall on the first weekend of September. Or, to be technical, within a few days’ of August’s end. This is morally and ethically wrong. It’s perhaps not WalMart Labor Practices or Bangladeshi Factory Conditions wrong but it’s a kind of wrong that must be kicked in the ass and righted.

Does this early Labour Day mean I can no longer wear white? Not that this cramps my style but I’m still asking. My white shirts need to know how despondent they should be feeling. My seersucker suit (and damn, it’s a fine custom tailored suit) WANTS TO KNOW.

Yes. Rules are meant to be broken. Especially bad rules. I think we all agree with this. You just need the confidence to pull it off. Or, at least, the moral authority. (or a really dashing seersucker suit…)

So here’s a rule that SHOULD be broken in years where the calendar has the audacity to pull off what it’s pulled off here: Labour Day shall NEVER fall within 5 days of the end of August. (I would also like to apply this rule to the Jewish Holidays but I might need help to fight 5,000 years of well documented history, while Labour Day was enacted by an act of a very guilt-ridden Congress to appease American workers after President Grover Cleveland (and pause, here, for a second, to acknowledge how awesome it would be to have another leader – any leader – named Grover once again) busted a union in a most egregious fashion – meaning Labour Day is fudgeable).

Summer was too short.

It was fucking short. Like the shorts the girls wore this summer. Which they might not any more because it is no longer summer. At least where I live.

But then, I’m thankful I’m no longer in school. I’d be lamenting the end of summer AND trying to keep up with @Vodka_samm. Because I would. Try that is. And I would fail. Man, would I fail. But it would be a glorious kind of failure. The perfect way, perhaps, to kick off the fucking fall.

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