A shift in objective

It is funny how sometimes I feel I have nothing to say and then other times I feel like I could sit down and bang out 5000-word essays non-stop. I've been coming up dry when it comes to blogging. I still like the idea, but there have been so many occasions when I don't feel like anything I say is worth putting out there into the ether to be read by my extremely limited internet audience. And the less I post, the more that audience shrinks.

Yet, I want to be writing. I am willing to take on the most uninteresting of journalistic assignments in order to be writing and to have my name out there in the world--and in print. The trouble is that I remain conscious of a future audience. I worry that the words I write will somehow negatively influence some one's decision about me. It could be a future or current employer. I'd love to write about the Russian-Georgian conflict of last week, but it is likely to be a sensitive issue for people in my organization and I'd be better served by staying silent on the issue. And there's always the idea that sometime in the future my children might get a hold of my writing. If course I'd really be in trouble if they ever began reading through my journals.

For some time I've had the notion of changing the purpose of the blog. There are plenty of people writing about books and writing, and while I'm not likely to stop doing that, there's no reason to compete with people who could do a better job. It is better to capitalize on my unique position, using my life, my personality and personal predicaments instead. And at the same time it would better show case my writing abilities, which really should be the purpose behind the blog.

The work-life-writing balance, an issue that has plagued me for some time, and inspired many too many journal entries, is about to get worse as it, again, becomes the work-life-writing-school balance. I imagine that there are few MFAs out there pursuing MBAs. By shifting the blog's objective somewhat I might actually end up writing more and writing better and more interesting posts.

Litblogger on NPR

The Millions' Max Magee made an appearance on NPR last weekend identifiying his summer reads. The blog is one of my daily stops. So congrats, Max.

Hitchens, the Great Literary Critic

Inspired by the absurd choice by the NYTBR to have Christopher Hitchens review the new Harry Potter, Ed Champion gives us Hitch on "Green Eggs and Ham."

I was in the children’s section of a Barnes & Noble in Stanford, Calif., shaking down the dregs from my flask and firing up a cigarette for fortitude when I was kicked out by the employees. They told me that I could not smoke or drink and that I was an evil man for practicing my habits in an apparently sacrosanct section of the store. They didn’t know I was a writer of some note, that I was the Hitch and I could write them all under the table. Literally and figuratively. I then proceeded to berate the idiot behind the counter because it amused me. He could not identify Khruschev, even when I tapped the sad sod repeatedly on the head with my heavy shoe to help him get the hint. He called the police. An arrest and a court appearance later, and I was on the phone with Sam Tanenhaus, seeing if I could write a piece that would pay my bail. He told me that I should write about Green Eggs and Ham. I could write it completely drunk if I liked. I wouldn’t be edited.

Hitch is a parody of himself and, as absurd as it might be that NYTBR might would choose this caricature to give us his self-righteous and self-aggrandising take on the cultural phenomenon of Harry Potter, I find some humor in it. And of course Ed just exploits it all.

NYTBR's Got a Blog?

Wait, I thought blogs were killing book sections. Didn't NYTBR editor Sam Tanehaus say as much? Then why is Dwight Garner writing a new blog for the Times, titled Paper Cuts?

Now, I don't hold as much against Tanenhaus and the Book Review as others, though I think hostility towards blogs is misplaced. I also don't see blogs, even the best of them, as replacements for good print reviews. And, in the same way, I don't see how a NY Times version of a blog is going to take anything away from the good book bloggers out there.

All this being said, it is a pretty boring blog. Even though he started strong with a post on old book ads (where this ad of dapper Cormac McCarthy was nicked).

On NaNoWriMo

It is easy to get protective over something we do, that we feel is special, requires a certain amount of talent, skill, and a shit-load of hard work. So, it may feel natural to react negatively to a bunch of amateurs giving it a go and patting themselves on the back the whole way. Such is the world of National Novel Writing Month, and the accompanying attitude of those with a bit more concern about the quality of work than about total word count. Yes, I admit that I can't help but resent someone who's never even written a short story banging out over 1500 words a day. I wish I could do that. But my resentment ends there.

I have to think that NaNoWriMo weeds out a lot of would-be writers. It's one month of make-it-or-break-it writing. Like a jaded writing teacher, I want them to learn that it's damn hard work and if they're not cut out for it, better they learn now. But the whole idea is about encouragement, a healthy challenge among writers. That sounds to me like a good thing.

For more on the NaNoWriMo discussion: The Millions, Shaken & Stirred, Counterbalance, Mark Leahy at MetaxuCafe.

Used vs. New

There's nothing in the world like a library book sale. I had the pleasure and luxury of going to one twice last weekend. Once when hardbacks were $2 and paperbacks were $1, then again on the last day when a bag stuffed full of books was only $4. I know, I know, I should be supporting publishers and authors by purchasing new books, but it also makes me a little sad to see a really good book out on the table along with twenty dusty copies of really bad popular books. I came home with over forty books and part of me wonders why I would ever go to a book store again.

As much as I love used books, I have never bought as many new, hardcover books as I have this year (D'ambrosio, Woodrell, McCarthy, Ford, and more). And not just as gifts. I'm more than pleased to help out their numbers and shell out the money for books I'm dying to read. When books get a little older, I wonder why I should being paying full price for a book that's been sitting there on the shelf for a couple of years or more when I can go to a book sale or used bookseller and pick up the same book at a considerable discount.

I have always loved used book stores. Dark aisles, shelves crammed with books. I'm always looking for the rarity, the special first edition or out of print book I can't find elsewhere. And then there are classics, public domain books or not, in mass-market size that I really should own and read. How can I rationalize paying full-price for these?

I don't really think I can take a side on this. I'm cheap and I love a good bargain, but I want to support authors and the industry. So, if I want To the Lighthouse, I'll look for it used, and if I want the next Litblog Co-op pick (I'm particularly interested in Sidney Thompson's collection Sideshow), I'll buy new.

Book Love

No surprise, but Edward Champion is a book lover, or possibly an obsessive:

I wonder if I read too much, and why I feel compelled to have a book on me at all times. I’m not anti-social, although I like to spend long periods alone. I must have books — the way that others crave cashews or chew nails. I sometimes panic when I run out of books to read and I am in the middle of nowhere with time to kill. On long trips, I pack more books than I can possibly finish. I contemplate strange scenarios where I’m stuck in an elevator or locked in a building and there’s the small possibility that humanity will fail me. The books are trustworthy friends. And unless I get mugged by a pugilistic bibliophile, the books won’t leave me anytime soon. I wonder if this is a horrible conceit on my part or if this makes me a misanthrope. I wonder if all this is insalubrious. I wonder if this is an addiction.

I am the same way. Going to wedding last weekend, I wondered if it would be right to bring a book in with me (I decided against it--and was sorry for that). I feel completely ungrounded when I am in between books. I love the feel, the smell, the words passing before my eyes, the immersion that happens with a good book.

I am still recovering from reading Cormac McCarthy's Suttree. I need to write a review, but I don't even know where to start. The book had me so deep within that I feel a bit like a grounded fish. And how I am supposed to start another book now?

Rejection Update

Rejection slips have been appearing what seems like daily in my mailbox. At the sight of each self-addressed stamped envelope my wife offers an "oh, honey." I try and respond with something about how it's the nature of the business, or the circle of life, something like that which doesn't reveal that the sight of those white #10's doesn't make me a little sick inside, that each one doesn't steal a little of the joy out of life.

During July and August I sent out 8 stories to 3 literary journals each, putting a total of 24 submissions "out there." Flooding the market, you might say, but I can only buck up enough for the business of submitting every so often and when I do I ought to get out as much out as I can. Of these, one was rejected immediately because they (Chelsea Mag) aren't reading new fiction until January of next year, and I then sent another one out. So let's do the math:

8 x 3 = 24 +1 = 25

And so far I have received a total of 10 rejections.

25 - 10 = 15

Fifteen submissions remain in circulation, so there's still a chance.

The good news is that journals that weren't reading during the summer will be reading now. Many more markets are available now. It will soon be time to steel myself for another round of submissions.