Fellow Blogger and surname-sharer David Ellis and I occasionally joke about being related. After reading his Ode to Robert Downey Jr I am convinced more than ever that we are indeed kin.
You see, I am such a huge fan of RDJr that it borders on embarrassing. This man does it all; acts, sings, wanders aimlessly in drug-induced stupors to crash in random strangers’ beds. What’s not to love?
But seriously, how can you not admire a grown man who is Iron Man one moment and dances as a back-up singer the next? I’ll let David honor him with his following poem: (more…)
This is the opening to Chuck Palahniuk’s novel DAMNED, a story about an angsty teen dead girl and her journey through Hell. Or more accurately, the story I’d have written if I’d been, you know, a better writer.
My new years resolution to make my writing a priority ended the moment I finished the book DAMNED, and was forced to face the reality that my writing sucks balls compared to Chuck Palahniuk’s.
I’d like to tell you this revelation prompted me to get busy on a book of my own, working with all the drive and ambition of a writer inspired by Palahniuk’s genius to, as Neil Gaiman put it, “Make good art.” But it didn’t. Instead I curled up in a ball and cried like the giant hack baby that I am. I also haven’t written a word since.
That’s because I have my own personal cock-blocker, and his name is Chuck Palahniuk.
So why all the literary flacidity, you ask? Well I’ll tell you why.
[I’m going to give you my answer at the end of this next passage because it builds suspense. It’s a technique good writers use, or so I’ve heard]
The book world is filled with writers whose work makes me feel like I’ve been junk-punched in the literary genitals. One of them is James Ellroy. Take for example the opening of his pulp-fiction inspired novel, L.A. CONFIDENTIAL:
“An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninety-four thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he’d bought off a pachuco at the border—right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.”
Only Ellroy can write a 78-word sentence about grizzly murder and police brutality and craft it to read as high poetry. In lesser hands this opening would have been a disaster. I am sure if I were tasked with the challenge of writing this novel I’d have Bucknered all over it (for all you non-New Englanders out there scratching your collective heads at the word BUCKNER, click HERE and feel my pain).
Another dream-crusher is Chuck Bukowski. Take for example his poem SOME PEOPLE:
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I’ll rise with a roar,
rant, rage –
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
I’ll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
I doubt Nicholas Sparks ever wrote a poem like that, the epic tool. Now I’ll admit that Bukowski is not for everyone, but personally, I cannot get enough of him. Seriously people, I hear Roberta Flack’s voice inside my head whenever I read his work. Whenever I read my stuff all I hear is Bobcat Goldthwait.
I admire Stephen King for his mastery of characterization and worship Neil Gaiman for, well, everything, but Chuck Palahniuk is the only writer who ever made me WANT to write. His literary voice and story lines are so eerily similar to mine that I have to wonder if we are related somehow. For me, reading one of his novels is like reliving painful childhood memories spent with a better-looking, ultra-talented sibling, feeling the push-pull of striving to be like him only to hate him when I fail in comparison. Now I truly know how it feels to be an Oakland Raiders fan.
So at the end of the day what does all this self-contemplation/flagellation mean? Why it means I am an insipid douche-bag writer, that’s what it means. It means that instead of wasting my time lamenting why I will never be as successful as my heroes, I need to get busy, you know, writing. It means it’s time to get my head out of my ass and get my ass to my desk.
Yeah. Easier said than done.
Not only was the day I met Neil Gaiman one of the best days of my life, but it was the first half of what may have been the best weekend ever. That is because I spent the very next day rubbing elbows with some of the most die-hard fans ever to converge in one place- a massive, multi-genre gathering better known as…ConnectiCon.
That weekend, from now on known as the Pilgrimage of Awesome, began in New Hampshire where I journeyed east to Harvard Square, Boston- the place where I would meet and become best buds with Neil Gaiman. From there I traveled southwest to Hartford, Connecticut, the place of my birth and home of the comic extravaganza, ConnectiCon.
It was there, amidst the historic and stately buildings of the insurance capital of the world, I found myself in a convention center surrounded by a throng all dressed as their favorite cartoon/comic/video game characters. Never in my life have I felt so out of place for not wearing fangs or serpent contact lenses (you all have no idea how angry I was to have forgotten my Jayne Cobb hat).
I’ll be honest with you and say that if a person wore anything other than a BrownCoat, I probably didn’t know who they were supposed to be. That’s how new I was to this sort of gathering. I was such a newbie, in fact, that I was chastised by HR Nightmare for not taking pictures of me meeting Marina Sirtis, and then later by our daughter for not getting the autograph of some dude called, “Fargo.” Both of these actors were pleasant and approachable despite the hoard of hangers-on converging into their booths, but I didn’t want to be a bother and ask for attention. From what I’ve learned, being a “bother” is what it’s all about.
I would have to say that the highlight of my walking tour of weird was to a booth manned by a company specializing in Steampunk/Vampire wares known as Great American Gothic.
Not only was I impressed with the quality of their work, but their showmanship during the event was very entertaining as well.
Yeah, I’ll admit they suckered me in for a Chimera’s Blood flask which I then gave to Prince Charming, an avid flask collector himself. A little networking may have landed me a sweet deal for a line of custom flasks, all designed around the REAPERS WITH ISSUES novella series. I’d love to see each Horsemen get his own flask. How’s that for clever marketing?
ConnectiCon is by no means as big a deal as Comic-Con, the uber convention held yearly in San Diego, but I imagine it is still as fun and entertaining as anything the west coast has to offer (minus the crowds and price gauging), and I for one am very glad to have attended.
Now, if I could just convince Nathan Fillion to attend next year…