Outcry of the Heart
March 10, 2012

When I take the stage, the outside world disappears. That's why I started doing stand-up. I've performed with a headache, with a full bladder, and twice with a broken molar sending pain novas screaming through my brain. As soon as I took the mic, the pain went away. The moment I kick into my set, my brain immediately becomes too involved with the present moment to register anything else. But one night, the real world cut too deeply for the balm of comedy to heal.

My friend John is a fellow comedian and nerd. We played Magic: The Gathering at open mics, taking a lot of good-natured ribbing from other comics. We went to Friday Night Magic tournaments and pre-release events. We traded cards, discussed comic books and bands. I don't make friends very easily or all that often. It had been a while since I made a new friend. It felt good to bond. Then John announced that he had to move back to Texas, where he was from. The news didn't really set in till the night he was supposed to leave. He went to the open mic one final time. All the comics wished him well. He did his set and killed. Then we hung out on the sidewalk for a bit. Said our good-byes. Exchanged man hugs. Then my friend went away. I walked back inside and was immediately told it was my turn to go on stage. The hurt did not disappear. I fumbled for five excruciating minutes then gave up. Maybe that means I'm not that strong a comedian. After all, Weird Al performed the same night after learning both his parents had died at once. But it's good to know there are some emotions too powerful to be driven off by jokes.

Not One of Us
February 25, 2012

I've always considered myself a nerd. It seems everyone needs a label, and I feel comfortable with that one. But what is a nerd, how do you know you are one, and if you are, should you seek treatment?

The definition seems to have shifted since the 1980s. Back then, a nerd was pictured as an obvious outsider, dressed in short sleeves with a pocket protector stuffed with pens. His glasses were crooked, often broken then repaired with bulging rolls of tape or rubber bands. And the laugh of the nerd sounded a lot like the hiccup of a congested buffalo played in reverse.

Now, a nerd is someone who likes science fiction movies, video games, and computers. And you know who else likes those things? Everybody. Avatar made so much money it has its own place in the UN. We all have an arcade's worth of games on our cell phones. And even the Amish have a website.

Today's nerds are defined simply by what they like. Which makes it a far less exclusive club than it used to be. You and I are not the same because we both went to see Harry Potter. You are a regular person who likes action movies. I'm the socially inept guy who once spent a Saturday night hot gluing aluminum foil stars to his graduation gown to make a wizard robe. We nerds have always been different than the rest of you. We don't know how to talk to people or what to do at parties. We talk funny or fast or quiet or all of the above. But we all had certain hobbies that helped us connect with others like us. We got together and exchanged trading cards or rolled dice or discussed the plot points and terrible science of the latest Star Trek episode. And as with any group of friends, it was us against the world. Nerds versus normals.

But now anyone who can make the "live long and prosper" sign thinks he's a nerd. I knew a girl who liked the Battlestar Galactica reboot. While talking about the show one day, she said, "I'm such a nerd." No. You're not. You're socially dexterous, and you have big boobs. You'll never be a nerd.

So I'm taking the word back. Because you're not a nerd. I have repaired my glasses with a rubber band, and thought women would be legitimately impressed by my ingenuity. So back off you wannabes, you posers. Don't make me enact revenge on you.

With a Bang
December 4, 2011

The problem with the end of the world is that no matter what scenario you imagine, there's always that messy clean up afterward. Corpses to round up, zombies to shotgun, vampires to stake. The list of post-apocalyptic chores tends to get pretty distasteful. Can't you people just disappear and leave me alone to read? I've been hoarding prescription glasses for just that occasion. And invent an electricity source I won't have to upkeep. And figure out a way to can pizza so it stays fresh for decades. You can take the mosquitoes and gnats with you. But leave me one of those Star Trek easy-to-use sickbay machines you just walk into and it cures your blood poisoning and mends your broken bones. Leave the keys to your cars in the ignitions, but please clear the streets before you go. And tidy your houses up a bit. Maybe class up your movie collections a little. I'm gonna want to watch some foreign flicks, but I don't have to have to row across a couple oceans to find them. Maybe you could build bridges over those, or step up research on the transporter technology you guys have been talking about for years. You'd think if you were gonna leave me here on this planet alone, you'd at least have the decency to make it easy for me.

On this Terrestchul Ball
November 20, 2011

Some years back, a tornado touched down in a couple of places in Nashville, TN. In between those two touchpoints was a Baptist church. The ministers and the members and the media called it a miracle. In 1999, Hurricane Floyd made landfall on the coast of North Carolina. It dumped rain on top of an already drenched area. The Tar River flooded, and the town of Princeville, NC was almost entirely destroyed. It was underwater for ten days. I drove through Princeville after the water had receded. I saw broken houses sitting slanted on their foundations. But I saw no people. Everyone in town had fled. Nobody called that a miracle, though it was a result of the same sort of meteorological manifestation as the event in Nashville. So what exactly constitutes an act of god? When people are saved by happenstance, or when people die by accident? If we attribute every weather event to the hand of god, god has shown himself in recent years to be quite a bastard.

Anyway, I wrote this song in response to what I saw in Princeville. I recorded the ominous backing track years ago. Pulling it off the storage disk yesterday, I was struck by how much I liked it, weird and noisy as it is. I didn't like the words as much though, so I rewrote and re-recorded them. So here you have a collaboration between me from ten years ago, me from five years after that, and the me that I am now. I'm glad we can get along.

It's More Fun to Compute
November 7, 2011

My relationship with video games has changed over the years. At first, the Atari was a toy I shared with family and friends. Something to do. Then as video games grew and matured, they became touchstones for myself and my like-minded close friends. We loved exploring and playing in the woods, so The Legend of Zelda was an immediate favorite with its forest mazes and extensive maps. Games like Dragon Warrior and Bard's Tale became extensions of our tabletop role playing sessions. We gamed on our own at home then met at school to share what we found. When I had to move away and leave my friends, video games were a way I could continue those explorations on my own. Though I was alone in the basement, there were always plenty of adventures to be had. Now I don't have much time to game. But when I do, the frustrations of work and the expectations of adulthood melt away. For a short time anyway. I know I can't go back to those carefree days of youth when my biggest responsibility was to clean my room. But once in a while, I can take a vacation to that always welcoming digital world.

Gooble-goble
October 30, 2011

It's Halloween. Time for a scary story. This the second in a series of stories about three boys and the mischief they get into. You don't have to read the first one to understand this story.

I know a lot of people, grownups even, who are really into dressing up for Halloween. I loved getting a costume as a kid just like everyone else, but as I got older, the urge left me. These folks, however, put serious time, effort, and money into their costumes. Zombies, Doctor Who characters, Cobra Commander, comic book heroes. Meticulous in every detail down to the props that character would carry. I guess the idea is to express your individuality by masquerading as someone you like or identify with. But it also seems to me that these folks, especially those who attend SF and comic book conventions, dress up to be accepted. "Oh, you're dressed as Dr. Clayton Forrester? I love that show, too. You're just like me." It's strange to dress as someone else in order to be accepted as yourself.

How Green Were My Eyes
October 22, 2011

In writing about Neil Gaiman, I mention being jealous of his artistry. I play it up a bit. I'd like to think what I feel is more respect for a fellow writer than anything else. I don't get jealous of other writers because I don't hang around very many. But I do hang around a lot of stand up comedians, and sometimes, that green-eyed monster rears its ugly head. There's a local free paper in Asheville that runs a poll every year of favorite businesses, places, performers, etc. They have a Best Local Comedian category, and guess what, this year it wasn't me. Not that I truly deserve that honor. To be honest, that title should go to Art Sturtevant for all the support, work, and love he's put into the comedy community. But did I hope to see my own name not only in that list of favorite comedians but at the top? Sure did. Can't deny it. But just yesterday I listened to the Carlos Mencia episodes of Marc Maron's podcast. Mencia's need to be the best comedian in the world has left him friendless and reviled by almost all his peers. There's a lesson there. I recognize my own talent as a writer and a comic. But no one can ever be the best at anything. Someone better will always come along. Even Babe Ruth had his records broken. So I won't even say I'm good. I'm just me and I'm working. And that's good.

A Poison Forest
October 14, 2011

Sometimes you need to scream in furious anger. And while the nightly news offers many outlets for your rage, the futility of yelling at The Glass Teat just leaves you exhausted and depressed. So do what I do. Choose your favorite anger representative and scream along with him or her. Is it Trent Reznor? Tracy Bonham? John Fogerty? Here are my favorites.

Hey, those folks occupying Wall Street, they sure are angry aren't they? This has been an angry year. Egyptians and Libyans overthrew their governments, tossed out their leaders like yesterday's tuna. People are pissed at bankers and businessmen for making millions in bonuses while actively driving their own companies into the dirt. Folks are mad all over. I got mad at my phone a few days ago. It took forever to connect to the Internet. And when it finally did, the the goddamned media player wouldn't play my favorite podcast all the way through. It would reach a certain point and then restart at the beginning. And when I tried to fast forward past the place where it snagged, I would go too far and miss minutes at a time. It was torture. I will be starting my own Occupy movement this weekend. It will be called Occupy the Recliner. I am dedicated to this cause. I have books and snacks already sitting on the coffee table, episodes of Mystery Science Theater set to go. But I won't be using my phone. At least not to go online.

My Words Fly Up, My Thoughts Remain Below
March 5, 2011

Here, in this chapter, we meet a character called Rags. Of all the characters I've ever written, he's my favorite. He speaks in clipped bits of pop culture: song lyrics, literary quotations, advertising slogans, lines from movies and TV shows. This trait also allows me to flourish his speech with poetic twinings that border on the purple. Rags offers me a break from having to write semi-realistic dialog. If you have actual, true-to-life dialog, you end up with people discussing their jobs, what they ate for lunch or saw on TV. This maybe insightful, but it's far from exciting. (Note, I liked Bubble, but the dialog was dry and forgettable. It was the situation that captured me.) On the other hand, when you have people on roller skates speaking in iambic pentameter, it's just goddamned ridiculous. So we have realistic dialog in a realistic setting, and fantastic dialog in a fantastic setting. Neither works that well. What I'm trying to do in this story is meld both worlds. Rags is homeless, dependent on TV and pop culture, but full of poetry. He's a walking Tom Waits song.

But I Like It
January 23, 2011

Rock-and-roll has always been my muse, my motivator, the sound track to my stupid, little life. The first band to impress itself deeply upon my psyche was Living Colour. I heard "Cult of Personality," and my world changed. Before that, I listened to whatever was on the radio and accepted it as good simply because it was there. Then Living Colour kicked out that blazing guitar riff and sang about fallen heroes, about politicians, about the Frankenstein's monster of the Media. It was a revelation. You could sing about those things and still rock hard? Suddenly, all the songs about good times and girls and parties meant exactly fuck all. So why isn't "Cult of Personality" on this list? For the same reason I wouldn't list myself as a favorite writer or comedian. It's a song that exists within me now, and I can't disect it anymore than I can my own heart.

Best Laid Schemes
December 17, 2010

I've mentioned more than once my plan to post something every week. But now a month and a half has gone by. I'm easily distracted. And there's all this great stuff to do and see beckoning me to come play. I'm writing this at a computer, and my fingers are itching to click over to the Internet and find something cool. And I've got lots of games and books and movies right here in this room. It's a wonder I've gotten any work done at all. But how can I remedy this? What can I do to increase my own productivity? Let's start by removing all expectations. Those are hard to live up to, especially when I'm the one doing the measuring. Stephen King made the suggestion that what a writer needs most is a room with a door he can close. So I'm moving my computer into the closet and shutting myself in.

I'm now surrounded by clothes and a chest full of old pots and pans various relatives have given me over the years as though I were their local Goodwill drop-off point. I wonder what new outfits I can come up with. And those pots and pans might make a cool drum kit. I bet I could record a Tom Waits song.

Damn it.

What it comes down to is, writing is work. And work is defined as "stuff we'd rather not do." Writing is enjoyable work. It's rewarding work. But it's work. So let's redefine. Okay, here we go. Writing is fun. Writing is better than video games. It offers more choices than all of the Internet. And sometimes, if you let the story go where it wants, it can surprise you.

I've written this book before. I went into this rewrite hoping to find a similar but different story than the one I cobbled out the first go-round. With this chapter I found it. It came right at the end. I discovered something new that I was apparently hiding from myself. Where we go from here is anybody's guess. And that is an amazing feeling. I'll have fun getting there. But I just don't know when that'll be.

Bloody Good
October 31, 2010

What better day for our hero to die, than on Halloween. Traditionally, I watch a movie on Halloween. This year I chose Natural Born Killers. Not a horror film, per se, but damn freaky and full of monsters. I've also recently finished a great book called On Monsters by Stephen T. Asma. I highly recommend it. It asks the question I've pondered many times myself. Why are we simultaneously disgusted by and attracted to monsters? Why do good people pay good money to watch films that revolt and frighten them? Is there a beast of pent-up rage stirring inside us? Does he get his rocks off on torture porn then lie back down in the darkness? What would happen if we never gave him any relief? Would he break his cage one day and take full control? If this is so, I'd rather we have a whole slew of Saws than become a people of barely-chained creatures sharpening our fangs on frustration. So have a bloody good Halloween, folks. Dress as demons and crank the Marilyn Manson. Pop in Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, or go to a haunted house. The life you save could be mine.

Forward
October 16, 2010

In this chapter, our hero learns what awaits him in the next twenty-fours hours. And I'm looking at what the next few chapters will hold. Yeah, I wrote this part already, but I can see some changes I need to make. I made a few already. For one, Pin now lives next door to our hero, where as before she lived across town. It's a move of convenience on my part. Now I have to figure out how much of the previous incarnation to keep, and how much to rip out like so much pumpkin innards. I don't think you'll get to meet Pusher this time. Or Grandma. I'll miss them both, though they may show in a sequel. But I'm getting way ahead of myself. We'll get to bond with Ringo soon. And I'm looking forward to hanging out with Rags again. But for now, there's dying to be done.

Brief Pause for Action
October 9, 2010

I write at a glacier's pace (and those are actually receding, aren't they?). Chapter Four, which isn't any longer than the first three, is almost done, but I very much want to get in the habit of posting something new at the end of every week. So this week I present a story I wrote last year. I wrote it after my return to Asheville, and it marks a deliberate change in my writing style. I wanted to write an adventure story, something with more plot and less brooding than my usual fare. In trying to figure out what type of adventure story I was best equiped to tell, I rediscovered my love for tunnels. From computer games to the movies, my ideal adventure takes place underground. I'm in full nostalgia mode here, wrangling various images from my childhood as I invent a few others that should have been.

Home Again
September 25, 2010

The video store described in this chapter is based on a store here in Asheville called Broadway Video. Bob and I rented Fireworks there, but I don't hold that against the store. Broadway Video has since shut down, but another store bought out their inventory and is now filling the void left by Broadway's passing. Every town needs a spot where you can rent flicks Blockbuster would never cary. A place where you can find Foxy Brown on the same shelf as El Topo and Leprechaun 4: In Space. You'll only find one of those titles in my fictional store, but if you like monster movies, you may find yourself home.

Love Interest
September 11, 2010

I had fun rethinking the original book, the structure, the characters. Here, we meet a girl named Pin. Later, we'll learn why she chose that name for herself. For now, let's learn a little of our hero now that he's grown up and the bad times are, for the time being, in the past.

A Very Good Place to Start
September 3, 2010

This is an experiment. And a challenge to myself. A couple of years ago, I wrote a novel called Good Monsters. It had too many things going on for the plot to gel properly, and the ending was most unsatisfying. But I love the characters and the premise. So I'm trying again. I could have taken another two years to rewrite before shopping it around to agents again. But the thought of sharing it a chapter at a time as I write them is kind of thrilling. I don't know how fast these chapters will come. But as soon as I write and proof a new one, I'll post it here. Can I make it through without having to retroactively change some previous chapter? Will I finish the damn thing at all? The unknown is frightening. And delicious.

I'm Sure He'll Never Read This
August 27, 2010

This is a very short one, less than a thousand words, but it took a long time to write. You all know Stephen King was struck by a van in 1999, nearly died, almost retired. You may or may not know that he has a place in Florida where he lives part of the year. Well, I was in Florida one night, suffering from a bad sunburn. I slipped in and out of sleep, by brain on fire. And I left my body. I looked down at myself on the bed, tortured. At that moment, Stephen King entered my vacant head. Maybe he passed by my hotel on the way to some place. Maybe it was just a fever dream. But I thought of him and his accident and of the man who nearly killed him. I wrote a very confusing story about all that a few weeks later. It was disjointed, eerie at times, but ultimately a failure. It was difficult to make sense of the point-of-view shifts. So I tried it again last year, on the tenth anniversary of the accident. It worked better but wasn't quite right. So I set myself the goal of carving away every ounce of fat. I wanted it lean, tight, powerful. I think I got that for the most part. I like the clown. And the title. That was the one thing I kept from the original.

Ordinary Magic
July 30, 2010

One morning, floating between dreams and reality, I challenged myself to come up with the first line of a story. I found this one, got out of bed, poured my routine cup of coffee, and sat down to write the story that went with the line. I was halfway through before I realized what it was about and just who the real antagonist was. Now that's it's done and the magic of having a story to work on has faded, I don't know what to do next. I find myself fully within the realm of reality, and I'm a bit lost.

And It Only Took Me a Month and a Half
May 8, 2010

A Facebook friend started posting a haiku everyday. In a horrible attempt at flirting, I began to respond each day with one of my own. Turns out that haikus about dead birds aren't very sexy. You'd think I would have that figured out by now. Neither of us lasted an entire month before we stopped, but I set myself a goal of 31 haikus.

Riding Out the Day's Events
March 26, 2010

Last Saturday I made my first pilgrimage of the year to the River. I hopped from rock to rock when I could, crawled through weeds and over-hanging trees along the banks when the rock islands were too far between, traveling upstream as the sun thawed my sleeping bones. Alone on the water, my thoughts ran clear. I saw only my next step, heard only the rush and dribble of the water. I took over a hundred pictures, never stepping far before some new beauty captured my eyes. I sat on a boulder in the center of the current and wrote a poem. Two days later it snowed. It's been a long winter. I've enjoyed watching the seasons change for the first time in years, but it's been a long winter, and I'm ready for the ice to melt and the fire to burn again.

Something for Me
February 21, 2010

Once in a while I will write a love poem for no one in particular and send it spinning out into the universe, hoping someone will find it and take it as her own. This is one of those poems. But it's not really a love poem. It started out that way. Then it shifted as I wrote it. Yes, it's meant to draw someone to me, but it also serves as a reminder to myself of my good qualities. I sometimes forget I have those.

A Gift Given
January 26, 2010

I wrote this poem for a friend's sister. She told me at the open mic that I owed her a poem for her birthday. I take such requests very seriously, so I wrote her this. She said she liked it. I hope it means something to her. I'm more proud of this poem than anything else I've written in a long while. I started it at work, and it poured out of me in a rush. It took an hour to nail it down properly. I finished it at lunch, and when I first read it aloud to myself in its entirety, tears welled in my eyes.
I did two of my finest and most fun shows this past week. One of them on my birthday. On Friday, the audience roared. I was literally taken aback. It was a gift, a day late but greatly welcomed. Many things came to me on my birthday. I feel I'm still unwrapping.

Electric Just-Friends Land
December 31, 2009

It may have been a while since I've posted here, but I have not been lazy. I've just been writing elsewhere.

I've been meeting and hanging out with amazingly smart, talented, beautiful girls who want nothing more than to be my friends. Which is fine. Except I keep hearing all about how they can't get laid or about the douchey guys they keep meeting and/or sleeping with. Futher proof that girls don't want a nice guy boyfriend who compliments and respects them and writes them poetry. They want a goddamn vampire to treat them like glory holes so they can continue to complain about how horrible men are. I tell myself just being able to talk to these lovely and artistic girls is a boon to my existence. But that doesn't take the sting off.
The first of two poems this week is about the lonelyache I find myself keeping company with these days. Even Rollins has dealt with this feeling in the past. We deal with it in different ways.
The other poem is a happier one. I wrote it as a going away present for one of my just-friend girls. She was going to move in with her boyfriend in New York, but guess what. He's a douche and won't return her phone calls. I hope the poem gives her something to run on.
Anyway, thanks for listening to me bitch. You're a good friend.

Flow My Faith
Nevember 6, 2009

As a young man, I wanted there to be a god so I could hate him. To repay all my unanswered prayers, I cast insults at the heavens. Of course that did about much good as praying and in the end turned me into an enormous asshole. I dated a girl who was a witch. She had many gods, and I cursed every one. I quoted Mark Twain who said if one believes there is an all-seeing, all-powerful god, one must come to the inevitable conclusion that he is a malign thug. But I thought of Huck Finn's trip down the Mississippi. When he and Jim returned to the river, life was easy and pleasant. The river provided food and safety, time to ponder the stars and our place among them. On land, however, were the cheats and criminals, the slavers and the drunk fathers. And I realized Twain had found his god in the River. Then this happened to me.

Blasphemy-ish
October 28, 2009

Unlike Douglas Adams, Henry Rollins, or Harlan Ellison, I've never declared god to be nonexistent. I like the idea of a higher power. But not someone to blame my misfortunes on or an excuse to level judgment at others. (Do you really need an excuse for that?) I want a god who'll show me around his creation, tell cool stories about how he burried some of his dinosaur toys when he was a kid and never found them again, point to the Grand Canyon and say, "Check this out over here," and basically show me his etchings. And when I ask him why he let Hitler do what he did, he'll say, "Who was that again? I was dating this hot love goddess over in the Crab Nebula for a couple centuries so I missed a lot. And let me tell you, I didn't name it the Crab Nebula for nothing."

None of that has anything to do with this song, except they both ponder upon the existence of the afterlife. If you could make up your own Heaven, what would you do?

Going Off
October 22, 2009

This week brings two new poems from right outside my house. I'm liking my apartment more and more, now that it's stopped raining in my utility closet and the place no longer smells like a monkey house. But every weekend I get the urge to leave. I usually go downtown and walk. But being the awkward social animal I am, I then get the urge to go back home and play video games. My heart is a cowardly suicide bomber.

Many Leaves Fall
October 14, 2009

This week I present a new song. It's about sadness and being alone. Big surprise. But I'm finding out that, like Rollins says, there is much to be learned from depression. The days last longer, for one thing. And familiar things take on new light. I was reading a Ray Bradbury story at a little restaurant downtown one night--the story was "The Foghorn," one of Bradbury's best--and suddenly it took new shape. It became a story about isolation and unrequited love instead of a simple tale about a dinosaur pushing over a lighthouse. I was able to connect with the story in a way I never have before. And of course, when you're lonely, every human contact, regardless of intensity or duration, becomes much more important. You savor every interaction. Just be careful not to cling too tightly. That's what started this whole desolate journey in the first place.

Foma
September 25, 2009

While many writers have influenced me, Kurt Vonnegut is one of the few I have deliberately tried to imitate. I wrote a story in which I appear as myself alongside my fictional contructs, as Vonnegut did in a few of his books. I called the story "Karass," and it's still one of the best things I've ever written. Just can't get anyone to buy it. I keep thinking about publishing it here, but I would really love for it to find a home in a magazine somewhere.

I learned this week how impotent and useless words can be. I love words, but when someone tells you her father may be dying and someone else says her life is empty and lonely and her soul feels shot through with cannonade, what can you say? Nothing. Words lose their power. All I could do was listen.

Shoulda Known
September 3, 2009

This week is dedicated to things you ought to know. And if you don't know this week's WHOF inducteee, you have missed out.

At the comedy open mic this week something wonderful happened. It was after the show, but it started like this: One of the comedians was trying out a fairly new bit about retardation. The crowd was wiling to go with him for a while. Then he did the voice. Lost them completely. Afterwards, gathered around for beer, cigarettes, and commiseration, we went over our sets. And I got to put the sage advise of Tropic Thunder to practical use. That's right. I was able, with all sincerity, to use the line, "You never go full retard."

Oh, and I am now offically awkward. But that's something you already knew.

Grand Reaper
August 26, 2009

I was once in the same city as Tom Waits. Columbus, Ohio 2008. Bob and I were there, of course, for the Origins game fair. Waits was on his Glitter and Doom tour. His show fell on the same night as the Smithee Awards. Now I admit the Smithee Awards are a highlight of my summer, maybe even of my year. But, Tom muthafuggin Waits! Bob wasn't really into Tom Waits, so he vetoed the concert. That year was the greatest goddamned Smithee Awards ever. I keep telling myself that over and over.
I've had this song in the can for a few years. Since Waits has been a powerful influence on my music, I figured now was as good a time as any to unleash it on the public.

Good Grief
August 12, 2009

This Week I honor Charles Schulz.
I write these Hall of Fame essays in a mad rush, so sometimes I forget something, but going back I find it difficult to squeeze it into the essay without disrupting what I see as a smooth flow. So I wanted to take this space to mention how Peanuts inspired me to draw my own comic strip. I was a lousy artist--still am--and I had no life experience to draw humor from. So my strip was full of bloated people with long fingers spouting dumb jokes I probably read in Readers Digest. I wanted to call my strip That's Life, which is a title actually worse than Peanuts. I only drew a few strips before I got frustrated with my lack of talent. Thank goodness Bill Watterson didn't feel that way.
I know Snoopy is a terrible writer, but I have to admire the guy's perseverance. Sometimes I use the image of him at his typewriter for my screen saver.

A Little Help From My Grrlfriends
July 29, 2009

Sadness is something we all have to live through. Writing helps me work through it. I feel driven to wrench myself out of the grip of ennui. But when I write about sadness I usually come off pretentious and use words like "ennui" to make myself seem important. So if this week's WHOF fame entry sounds overblown, blame it on the French.

Wocka Wocka Wocka
July 23, 2009

To mark my triumphant return to the comedy stage, I honor one of the funniest men who ever lived.

The only all-comedy open mic in Asheville is called Tomato Tuesday. It's at a bar, and on every table is a small basket of foam tomatoes. After a few minutes, the MC flips on a light, illuminating a brass gong on the stage next to the performer. The audience can then decide if the comic can continue, or kick his unfunny ass off the stage by pinging the gong with a tomato or three. Bob and I thought the same thing: alcohol plus the welcome invitation to throw things equals a barage of toy tomatoes. But not so. You forget, this is Asheville. They were a sophisticated audience who realized most of the comics were very green and working on brand new material. Still, two comics were actually tomatoed, but they deserved it. One guy peppered his set with long pauses then finished an unfunny declaration with "That's no joke." In retrospect, it should have been. The second tomatoee told a tasteless cum-joke, at which time the teenaged girls in the front row and their parents let fly. The final comic was a for real professional. He talked to the young girls and their parents, got one girl to demonstrate two of the dances that all the hip young kids are doing nowadays, and even got the mom to crack a smile. The girls provided a wealth of material. It was the comedic equivilant of a slow pitch over the plate. When I talked to him afterwards, he didn't seem to realize what he had done. He had created an event that will never occur again. Comics by nature have to repeat the same words and actions hundreds of times. They call it a comedy routine for a reason. But that night, he was part of a unique event. I hope he knows how special that was.

Oh, and my set? Not bad. It took a few minutes to shake the rust off. I told a story I'd never told before, managed a few chuckles, then did some tried and true material that went over well. I didn't realize how much I missed being on stage till I left it that night.

Another Asphalt Adventure
July 17, 2009

Last week, I went to a show. Throughout my life I've taken on many epithets. About two months ago I became The Guy What Gets Things Done. Now it seems I'm The Guy What Has Adventures And Writes About Them. Which I'm okay with. Writing these essays and Hall of Fame entries has kept the words flowing. And, after starting one particular short story three times now, it is a triumph to actually finish something.

Flex
July 15, 2009

A whole month gone by with no posts. Good things and bad things got in the way. But I'm back. I'll have something fun later this week.

Stephen King has been on my mind recently. Last month marked the tenth aniversary of his accident. He was lucky that day. That's he's still here means we were all pretty lucky.

I've found that writing is like exercising. As you do it more everyday, you build up your endurance. And you increase your strength. It never really stops being work, but it's good work, work you look forward to. When I first started a month ago, it was difficult to stay focussed more than ten minutes before I felt the urge to check e-mail or play a game or just wander around the house looking for a digression. Now the words come faster, and I can stay within the story longer. Now that I have a regular old job and much less time for myself, it's actually easier to slip into writing mode. As my time is taken from me, I have a mental need to devote more of it to what's important.

Hired!
June 18, 2009

Had a job interview the other day. Went about as well as could be expected.

I wish I Had That Drive
June 17, 2009

I just realized yesterday that Neil Peart is the only song writer who's entire catalog I have heard.

Reading through Dangerous Visions today, I read something from Harlan Ellison that put my recent writing slump into perspective. He said it took him fifteen months to complete the story he included in the anthology. I suddenly didn't feel too bad about the stories I am currently staring at with no idea how to finish. But in the next paragraph he reports that during those fifteen months he wrote "a film and a half-dozen TV scripts and two dozen stories and uncoutable articles, reviews, criticisms, introductions, and edited this book." Fuck you, too, Harlan.

Asphalt Adventure
June 16, 2009

I had an adventure over the weekend. This is why I came back to Asheville.

The site is changing slowly because I learn by experimenting, testing, experimenting again. And I don't have a lot of time to devote to coding. But I have added a Share This button to all the content pages. So whenever you see this button click it, and you'll be able to share my work with your friends and enemies through all the major social sites as well as plain old e-mail.

And speaking of e-mail. I'd like to remind you that until I put up the comments ability (still working in the lab with that one) you are free to e-mail me using any of the e-mail links on the site. Share you thoughts on writing--mine yours, or anyone else's.

New Story: Uncle Walrus
June 12, 2009

A little late today. I'm depressed, working slowly when I work at all. Sometimes I get the urge to just stare up at the ceiling for hours. Then I argue within myself that this is getting nothing done. But what's the point of doing anything when nothing you do matters? This is the part of depression that scares me the most. When thoughts like that begin to make sense. So we have a fun story today. An old one I re-edited because I wanted to work with something silly. I feel better, I do. Because I finished something. The problem with doing nothing is you never know when you're done.

A Note From Joe Hisownself
June 10, 2009

Hi. Joe Lansdale here. I appreciate you letting me drop by. I feel like a door to door book salesman, trying to sell my wares. Which, I suppose, is exactly what I'm doing. I want to let everyone know about my latest novel, a Hap and Leonard book, the seventh in the series, from Knopf, VANILLA RIDE. And I think one of the best I've done. I'm excited about it, and my new short story collection from THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS, SANCTIFIED AND CHICKEN FRIED, THE PORTABLE LANSDALE. Check them out. And good luck with your site, and thanks for letting me drop by.
Joe Lansdale

Thanks for the note, Joe. What a cool guy. Coincidentally, Joe is my lastest inductee into the Writers Hall of Fame.

I've started reading online fiction. Some of it is not very good. And some of the not very good writing was paid for and posted in a professional e-zine. This is the moment Stephen King said would come, when I (or any writer) would find published work and say, "I can do better than that." I'll put up a list of links soon, though I'll let you be the judge of what is good or bad.

I've not given up my dream of making a career as a writer. I still want to get paid. But I also want the challenge of post a new story here every Friday. So that means extra work. I've always had a regular old job so I could indulge myself with luxuries like food and a place to live, and I'll have to maintain one for a while yet. But I know the day is coming when I can do what I love for a living and look myself eye-on in the mirror with pride and know I am what I was born to be.

When the Radio Tries to Kill You
June 3, 2009

Henry Rollins has done so much for me. The least I could do is put him in my hall of heroes. I could certainly use his strength now.

When you end a relationship, does your ex call up all the radio stations and tell them to play nothing but love songs and break up songs? That's all I hear these days. When I go to a store, over the intercom comes songs about how we're perfect together, or how it's over and we must move on. Then all the security cameras track me as I walk up and down the aisles weeping.

Music can certainly aid the healing process, but you need the right kind of music. You don't need The Beatles. Driving to my new home, I found a radio station playing nothing but Beatles tunes for two hours. Nearly killed me. "Hey, Jude," "All You Need is Love," "The Long and Winding Road." These will tear into you. But the Mount Everest of break up songs is "Yesterday." If you listen to "Yesterday" after a break up it will, like Everest, suck the air out of your lungs and crush your heart.

I recommend Rollins himself. Or Motorhead. Something fast and loud and violent. Jump around, scream, shake your fist and feel righteous. It beats feeling sorry for yourself.

If you must delve into your pain, at least put on some blues. Blues songs talk about loss and pain, but they do it with a Nietzschean strength that builds not only character, but armor against the next time. Because when you're done yelling or crying, you will try again. And when that person asks what radio stations you listen to, say you only listen to books on tape.

The Way the Wind Blows
May 29, 2009

In the wake of major upheavals in my life, I have vowed to refocus this website on story writing. No new comics for a while, but there will be a new short story every Friday and new Hall of Fame inductees on Wednesdays.

Eventually readers will have the ability to leave comments and tell me how great I am. Because I want the learning experience, I plan to design and code the comment or forums area myself. Till then, I welcome any input (positive or negative) via e-mail.

Even before the internet came along, the markets for short stories were shrinking. There once existed dozens of magazines for every genre, and writers could make a living on just stories. Now it's harder than ever for an unknown to break into print. So writers seeking an audience turn to the internet. Now the problem with that particular market is that we've all come to expect (perhaps rightly so) content on the web to be free. So when posting on the web, should writers hold back better stories to sell to magazines? If so, that means you're left with substandard stories for all to read on the web. And if you give away your best material, how can you ever hope to make a living at your craft? The answer I came up with is to put your best work forward and build a readership that enjoys your writing and recognizes your name. You then have an existing audience ready and willing to buy print copies, be they magazines or books. This will be a major selling point when you begin to shop your stories or novels to paying venues.

So part of my new resolve is to not only consistently post what I feel is my best work, but also to read the work of others scattered across this vast electronic library, and encourage writers who need and deserve it in hopes that they will, in turn, find my stories and become part of my audience.