Another Instalment in the March of the Novel

Since we last spoke. Or I wrote and you read. Or, man, what is the correct nomenclature here?

I went through edits with my editor. Twice. The second one took less than a few hours. This process started with a breathtakingly lovely letter from her. And it ended with me pressing “send” a few weeks later.

The manuscript now goes to the copy editor.

I filled out an author questionnaire sent by my publisher. I answered it as truthfully as I could. But I write fiction….

I was asked about blurbers. Those writers who might be nice enough to write nice things for the book jacket. Hey, if you want to blurb me, let me know.

We had some back and forth on design. On what the cover should look like. As long as it doesn’t look like any of these. I told them who I thought should design it. They were thinking the same person. So that’s good.

I had my author photo taken. By my friend Jane Heller. It was a cloudy day so we did the thing on her back balcony. Took less than half an hour.

Now I’m starting to think more and more about my next one. I started it but then the final edits of Waiting for the Man took over, but now I’m ready to start writing again. Creating. That is, when I’m not getting bogged down by the NHL playoffs, or by the hilarity of politics in Canada right now. How hilarious? Let’s see: politicians in Montreal (and some of the suburbs surrounding it) are being exposed for being on the take for years; Canada’s governing party is being embarrassed by a very embarrassing man; and Toronto’s mayor is, well, funny. It is touched on here, in what is nominally a weekly online discussion about sports. But that’s hard to do in Canada right now. As you can see. Canadians are good at laughing at themselves. Because what’s the alternative?

So when I get around to ignoring all the stimuli, and that’s tough, don’t get me wrong, I have more work to do. There’s always more work. Aided, as always, by other kinds of stimuli.

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Rejected Names for Canada (another ArjunBasuList™)

Canada, eh?

Pepe Le Pew

Snowdon

Bunchanothing

Calis!tan

BeaverCastor

CastorBeaver

Goose Droppings

Canadian Tire

Quebec Nordiques

Sorryda

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Questions One Should Never Ask

Horshack

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Does it get any bigger?

Do you have this in flax?

Are those pants?

Why is it moving?

Which one is the dog’s toothbrush?

Do you want to see my extra nostril?

What do you mean what do you mean?

Does your mom know?

When will you shut up?

For free?

Did it get itchy?

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The March of the Novel

It is almost done. The editing part. I received what has to be one of the best letters ever from any editor anywhere. And then I read the manuscript, which was odd – I haven’t read it in over a year. I went through my editor’s comments. We Skyped (she’s based in Brooklyn). And then, in a kind of frenzy, I went over the manuscript like a sudden and violent downpour. And then it was done. I think. And, over the weekend, the managing editor at ECW wrote me asking me about thoughts on the cover. I told her I had no idea. The designer is going to have some heavy lifting to do, but then again, they always do; book design is important because you CAN judge a book by its cover. What this thing is going to look like is something that’s occupied me and hasn’t: I have ideas but all of them are bad. I imagine there’s going to be some back and forth on this. For Squishy, I had a basic idea: a female finger poking the fat on a belly. The designer took that and ran with it, in the end showing a finger poking a big Conehead-esque head, creating something memorable and slightly disturbing, but, more importantly, creating something far far better than I could have created. That’s why I’m not a book designer. I just write.
And even though the novel’s publication is a year away, it feels close. I had lunch with my publisher last week and visited the ECW offices and met most of the staff. I felt a part of something larger. These people are going to work for me and I’m going to work for them. I opened myself up to as much publicity as they want to throw at the world. Why not? I’ve been writing this book for a long, long time. Might as well do everything I can to sell a few copies.

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T 6453

We are all accidents of history. The professor writes this on the blackboard. Some more than others, he sighs. A bit too loudly. On purpose.

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T 6452

Her son came home early. He was drunk and reeked of pot. She was watching porn on her laptop. Her jeans were undone. Dad’s outside, he said.

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T 6451

We watched our dogs, their sniffing of intimates, the simplicity of their lives, and later I went home and took a long shower. Just in case.

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T 6450

He was drunk, so he could admit he was named after a cartoon, but the bar was so dark, and the ladies were too, because they were all goths.

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T 6449

He told her he was rich and famous. He told her he had a big house. He told her he loved her very much. Why should I believe you? she asked.

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T 6448

We were fighting about fighting a lot. I had started sleeping on the couch. The air in the house reeked of decay. The dogs seemed sad lately.

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