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From here to Unity
Jul. 18th, 2011 11:06 pmI recall reading somewhere about how there are two terrible fates which can befall a man; to be denied his wish or even worse to be granted it.
As of this writing, knock on wood, I have submitted my final draft for the perusal of my editor and publisher. The scenes shifted. Bullets counted. Moth hole inconsistencies stitched up. Fat trimmed. Grammar checked. Tenses streamlined. Brain fried. Eyes strained. Nerves frayed. Excuses shattered.
Because beforehand, when I self-published, I had plenty of excuses. I told myself my lack of sales were due to my poor grasp of grammar or the text I used or my lack of marketing skills or that it was just my first book, and as everyone told me when I started, first books just don’t get published.
But now, in a few short weeks, (knock again on wood), High Midnight will be launched and I will have achieved my promise to my 21 year old self all those years ago after getting kicked out of the Navy: That I would become a published novelist.
And then if it bombs, if it doesn’t sell, if it goes ignored… it won’t be the grammar or the marketing or the text font or the first-novelitis that sunk it. It will be because of me and the story I told.
So, I sit here in my ghetto exile, watching my friends vanish one by one and waiting to see if my big gamble on my little story will pay off.
Scared. Nervous. Stage fright, but drawn out into a constant buzzing under the heart that lasts for days and threatens to never end. Trying to think of anything but what will happen next.
I remember why it was called ‘Unity’ – the autobiography buried in fictional work. Unity was one of those words bandied about back in the late 80’s punk scene of SoFL. “Punks + Skins = United” and all that. The concept sounded great in say a 7 Seconds song or as bellowed by a Minor Threat. In real life, Unity to my eyes, amounted to a collection of those who weren’t so much as refused by society (as most of them would have had you believe) but rather populated by those who showed little to no interest in signing on for the Social Contract. Preferring instead a soft revolt dictated by a belligerent apathy. Recollect, all those nowhere people milling around the stage all anxious moments before the show - sneaking drinks, talking shit or looking to start some drama. Everyone around me drunk, stoned and wasted. Everyone ready to scrap, slam, fuck or forget. A micro-society hidden inside the suburban wasteland of my teenage years, one with its own unique rules enforced by an unspoken hierarchy of inebriated mayors and self-appointed sheriffs, a world of reluctant heroes and charming villains, of doomed loves and new romances.
I was just a shadow back then. There but not really. I lacked the mass I pack now and was easily trampled aside in the pit. I lacked any basic social skills or the looks to make up for the deficit with, so hooking up was beyond my reach. But I had nowhere else to go. Here at least I didn't stand out as a freak, but rather was just considered a shade too vanilla for anyone to notice. So that was that – I would make my way to the Pink Lincolns or Uniform Choice show. Wait for the music. Go berserk. Ricochet harmlessly off the old schoolers. Take my blows. Bide my time. Do my best. Eventually I lucked out. I made friends despite myself. I got an in to the after parties. Sat there bruised and silent and listened to tales of scene glory.
Listened. Learned. Took notes.
Knew that my silence was just an incubation. My inability to make small talk was because the words I needed weren’t big enough yet. Worked on that and in doing so wrote terribly. Which is the only way to really learn how to write that I know of - to be willing to do all the bad work it takes to get to the good. So I stuck at it. Until one day a small town on the edge of the American Dream appeared to me a thousand lifetimes after those shows, nestled in a geography of absurd monsters and fantastic myths. A place where people went when they were tired of trying to be anything but the rejects they knew themselves to be.
And I knew just where to start...
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Besides the hour grows late. I need to start dinner for the woman soon. See about getting on with the rest of my life one tomorrow at a time. Big changes coming soon, some I can control and some I can’t. Either way best to start preparing for them
As of this writing, knock on wood, I have submitted my final draft for the perusal of my editor and publisher. The scenes shifted. Bullets counted. Moth hole inconsistencies stitched up. Fat trimmed. Grammar checked. Tenses streamlined. Brain fried. Eyes strained. Nerves frayed. Excuses shattered.
Because beforehand, when I self-published, I had plenty of excuses. I told myself my lack of sales were due to my poor grasp of grammar or the text I used or my lack of marketing skills or that it was just my first book, and as everyone told me when I started, first books just don’t get published.
But now, in a few short weeks, (knock again on wood), High Midnight will be launched and I will have achieved my promise to my 21 year old self all those years ago after getting kicked out of the Navy: That I would become a published novelist.
And then if it bombs, if it doesn’t sell, if it goes ignored… it won’t be the grammar or the marketing or the text font or the first-novelitis that sunk it. It will be because of me and the story I told.
So, I sit here in my ghetto exile, watching my friends vanish one by one and waiting to see if my big gamble on my little story will pay off.
Scared. Nervous. Stage fright, but drawn out into a constant buzzing under the heart that lasts for days and threatens to never end. Trying to think of anything but what will happen next.
I remember why it was called ‘Unity’ – the autobiography buried in fictional work. Unity was one of those words bandied about back in the late 80’s punk scene of SoFL. “Punks + Skins = United” and all that. The concept sounded great in say a 7 Seconds song or as bellowed by a Minor Threat. In real life, Unity to my eyes, amounted to a collection of those who weren’t so much as refused by society (as most of them would have had you believe) but rather populated by those who showed little to no interest in signing on for the Social Contract. Preferring instead a soft revolt dictated by a belligerent apathy. Recollect, all those nowhere people milling around the stage all anxious moments before the show - sneaking drinks, talking shit or looking to start some drama. Everyone around me drunk, stoned and wasted. Everyone ready to scrap, slam, fuck or forget. A micro-society hidden inside the suburban wasteland of my teenage years, one with its own unique rules enforced by an unspoken hierarchy of inebriated mayors and self-appointed sheriffs, a world of reluctant heroes and charming villains, of doomed loves and new romances.
I was just a shadow back then. There but not really. I lacked the mass I pack now and was easily trampled aside in the pit. I lacked any basic social skills or the looks to make up for the deficit with, so hooking up was beyond my reach. But I had nowhere else to go. Here at least I didn't stand out as a freak, but rather was just considered a shade too vanilla for anyone to notice. So that was that – I would make my way to the Pink Lincolns or Uniform Choice show. Wait for the music. Go berserk. Ricochet harmlessly off the old schoolers. Take my blows. Bide my time. Do my best. Eventually I lucked out. I made friends despite myself. I got an in to the after parties. Sat there bruised and silent and listened to tales of scene glory.
Listened. Learned. Took notes.
Knew that my silence was just an incubation. My inability to make small talk was because the words I needed weren’t big enough yet. Worked on that and in doing so wrote terribly. Which is the only way to really learn how to write that I know of - to be willing to do all the bad work it takes to get to the good. So I stuck at it. Until one day a small town on the edge of the American Dream appeared to me a thousand lifetimes after those shows, nestled in a geography of absurd monsters and fantastic myths. A place where people went when they were tired of trying to be anything but the rejects they knew themselves to be.
And I knew just where to start...
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Besides the hour grows late. I need to start dinner for the woman soon. See about getting on with the rest of my life one tomorrow at a time. Big changes coming soon, some I can control and some I can’t. Either way best to start preparing for them