Well I’m about 30,000 words into the new book and still going strong. This one’s about two convicts on the lam in the Mojave desert, in case you couldn’t gather that from the sample chapter I posted awhile back.
More soon.
Unemployed is not so bad.
Well, as promised I’ve quit my job and changed cities. Google gave me and everyone else a nice new phone for a Christmas present, so I’m pretty happy.
As of now I’ve relocated to my parents’ house in central New Hampshire while I decide what to do with the rest of my life. Yes that’s right. I’m 33 and I live with my parents.
The one thing I do know is that I’m about done with working cubicle jobs, and I’m probably over living in a mega city, too. I have a startup company that I’m focusing on in addition to the next book. For reasons I can’t get into just yet, there is a slight possibility I will have to move to Portland, Oregon for awhile. But I don’t know yet.
I’ve been re-organizing my childhood room to facilitate work, and below is a photo of what I came up with. I have this massive 44″ plasma TV that I have no place for here, so I naturally decided to use it as a computer monitor. It feels like I’m working at NORAD. Maybe I should change my wallpaper to be a map of North America with glowing dots on the major cities?
Got a nice blurb
…about Catharsis from Essie Holton, an indie book reviewer. Check it out here.
Some changes…
With me. I’m resigning from my job at Google, where I’ve been a loyal cubicle jockey for almost five years. It’s definitely been a great place to work (I mean how many offices have masseuses on-site and something like five cafeterias in one building?) but I’m bored to death with working on advertisements, and I’d never thought I’d say this but I’m finding myself a little bored with New York City. I grew up in a small town not unlike the one in Catharsis (only not full of, you know, evil people). Maybe that will always compel me towards places with yards and forests and PTA meetings.
In any event I’m out of here at the end of December.
Not sure where I’ll end up. New Hampshire to start, but I may find myself going west. I worked/lived around Yellowstone when I was 19ish, and I’ve been thinking that a return to the pacific northwest might be in order, at least for a time.
In other news my book about two killers on the loose in the Mojave is progressing nicely. I should be in final edit mode by the end of the year.
Underway
I have the rough plot of the next book mapped out and I’m starting the “serious writing” phase, which basically means I will not be in any New York bars for the next few months. If I can keep a steady pace I may be done by the end of the year.
Be warned though – I have horribly awful focus. Catharsis took years of on-again, off-again writing.
Intro to my next book
Here’s what I got. More chapters written than what you see here; this is just the first little vignette, completely unedited.
A boy was looking back at her, and the blond girl in the back of the car thought he was cute.
He wasn’t really a boy. He was a young man, but Maryanne, at seventeen, hadn’t quite got the hang of calling people in her age group men and women just yet.
He couldn’t be more than twenty, anyway.
Steam and dust was riding the air at the little truck stop just outside of Mojave, California. The faded striped awning of Dino Dave’s Stop-N-Gulp was the only shade to be had. The early-afternoon sunlight danced off the glittering, fresh asphalt that was slowly melting into a thick, rubbery gum.
A row of semis – Macks and Freightliners – was lined up in the big parking lot behind the store, engines grumbling a chorus of low idles. A few groups of beer-gutted truck drivers loitered between them, sipping from Coke cans and mopping sweat from their brows as they chatted.
“What’s taking him so long?” her mother tittered absently from the front seat. Maryanne’s father was paying for their gas and had left them both in the car. They were parked at the pumps, the air-conditioning was off, and the cartoon devil painted on the thermometer outside Dino Dave’s made it clear that it was 104 degrees.
The boy was talking to a big, square-jawed trucker wearing amber -tinted sunglasses and a green and white Mountain Dew hat. He looked like he was asking for something, and the middle-aged man wasn’t obliging. As they talked, the boy shot her a few glances. The second time, he winked at her, and her heart fluttered a little.
“Go get your father,” her mother said, fanning herself with a TV Guide, which was the only thing she ever read. “Oh, never mind. Here he comes.”
Maryanne was a little disappointed to see her dad push through the glass door to the Stop-N-Gulp, a plastic bag of bottled water under one arm. She would have liked the excuse to walk past the boy, maybe toss her hair in his direction. Sway her hips a little. So far, the boy was the most interesting part of this trip. Her eyes stayed on him. Maybe he would wink at her again. Maybe he would smile.
Whatever the boy had been talking about with the older man came to a sudden end. Mr. Mountain Dew Hat shook his head emphatically, lifted his canvas-gloved hands in an obvious Aw shucks wish I could help ya buddy gesture, and plodded off towards the store. The boy’s shoulders sunk momentarily, and he looked around sheepishly for a moment. He spotted her father approaching, straightened, and waved a greeting.
“Oh God,” her mother said. “Better make room back there. You know your father.”
Maryanne would have liked nothing better, but tried to sound bored and resigned just the same. “Okay.”
Her father was the captain of the everymen, and Maryanne had no doubt he’d pity the boy and offer to give him a lift, but she watched closely just the same. Her father’s broad stomach rippled with laughter at whatever the boy was saying, and he waved a follow-me hand at him. The two of them walked back to the car together, and Maryanne got a closer look.
The boy was lean and tall – taller than her dad, anyway – and had wheat-colored hair in an out-of-date style that made her think of her father’s Elvis Presley albums. On anyone else it would have looked tacky and ridiculous. On him, it looked just right, going right along with the faded jeans and the weather-beaten army jacket he wore, which was one of those olive-colored ones that she thought had been standard issue during Vietnam.
“Here they come,” her mother said, and it sounded a touch ominous.
Her father eased into the driver’s seat and unlocked the back door. The boy slid in next to Maryanne. He gave her a cheery smile and said, “Hello.”
“Hi,” Maryanne said shyly.
“This is James,” her father said, looking at his wife. “He’s on his way north, trying to get back to college before the fall semester starts.”
His mother gave him a wan smile. “Hello, James.”
“Hello, ma’am. I sure appreciate the lift.” His eyes dropped to the leather upholstery. “This a Beamer?”
“Sure is, M3,” Maryanne’s father answered. “Just got her.” He turned the key as if to demonstrate this, and it started right up. The engine was smooth and quiet.
James let out a low whistle. Maryanne noticed his eyes had dropped to her legs, which were summer-tan and covered only in a pair of white shorts. He looked up quickly, noticed her watching him, and smiled that same warm, disarming smile, and Maryanne melted.
Her father pulled away from the pumps and onto the street – Route 58 – which would get them home. “We can get you as far as Bakersfield,” her father continued. “There’s another truck stop there you can probably hitch a ride at.”
“Thanks a lot, sir. I can’t tell you how much this helps me. I must’ve been standing in that parking lot for an hour.”
“I was a college man myself once,” her father said, and threw a knowing smile at his wife, but she’d gone back to reading her TV Guide. “You from around here?”
“Oh, down around Barstow,” James said. “I left there this morning.” His eyes drifted back at Maryanne. “What’s your name?”
“Mary- Maryanne,” she managed.
“You go to college, Mary-Maryanne?”
“Not yet,” she said, and giggled. “Next year.”
“You should think about San Fran City College,” James said. “That’s where I go.”
She flushed, and said she just might.
“What are you studying, James?” her mother asked absently, not looking up from her magazine.
“Pre-med.”
Her mother looked up sharply, half-turned around. “I didn’t think they offered that. It’s a certificate school, isn’t it?” Maryanne’s mom worked at Santa Barbara Business College, in the dean’s office.
“They do now,” he said, and smiled winningly. “It’s a new program. Just started last year. So, this a family vacation?”
“Yes,” her mother answered. “Well, the end of it. We were at the Grand Canyon for a week.”
“Oh, no shi- no kidding? I hear that’s a sight.”
“Yes,” her mother answered. “No shit.” She turned back to her reading.
Maryanne said, “What’s that?”
Running alongside the road was a fence of rusted, corrugated tin. Over the top they could see the tips of airplane fins spotted red with rust.
Her father grunted. “Must be near the airport.”
“Nope,” James said. He leaned close to her, looking out the window as they drove past. “That’s the airplane graveyard.” His head pivoted, and he looked directly into her eyes. “That’s where they send the old birds to die.”
She didn’t object when his hand fell onto her thigh and gave it a squeeze.
My favorite Amazon review so far…
“If you want mindless smut, murder, blood and gore then this one is for you.”
That’s an analysis I can fully support.
New book announcement
I’ve committed to getting something new released by next February, if not sooner. This will let me set a strict writing schedule instead of my usual eh-guess-I’ll-write-today routine.
I’m a few chapters in, and so far I’m liking what I’ve got. It’s about two escaped convicts on the run in the California/Nevada desert, and that’s about it for now. Maybe I’ll call it “Manhunt” as a working title.
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate Writing.
I really, really hate writing.
There, I said it.
Every other review I’ve been getting compares me to Stephen King, and that’s great, but I wish I had a tenth of his productivity. It took me something like four years to churn out Catharsis, and it’s not an epic length. Something like 400 pages, double spaced. A hundred pages a year.
To put that in perspective, while I was struggling with things like character development, Bush’s entire second term passed, I went from my 20s to my 30s, and babies born to friends of mine began toddling around under their own power.
I have started writing my next book. I don’t know what I’m going to call it yet, but I’m only one chapter in and I’ve been sitting on that one chapter for a month. The difference now is that I feel some pressure to be timely with it, since I’m building an audience and don’t want to lose momentum. This blog was supposed to help make it easier, as thought writing about my daily, mundane activities would force me to write when it counts. Maybe it will; the jury’s still out on that.
So the natural question from all this is if I hate it so much, why do it? Well, I’m fairly good at it for one, and quite frankly it’s either this or play video games or watch All In The Family marathons on TV Land. I’m single, have no children, and live with a cat. My day job is a good one and I make a decent living from it, so I’m not someone working a shit job and dreaming of financial independence – but it’s fairly uninspiring work. It pays the bills, and allows me to spend time making up stories about winter storms and ghosts in the fog, and killers on the road.
So I guess the answer is – cause I can. Maybe next time I’ll try my hand at oil painting or calligraphy or making wacky figurines out of recycled beer cans. Tourists love that stuff.
I’ll be writing on this more frequently, anyway, since I’m actually getting hits now.
First reviews…
are in, and both were phenomenal. One person insists that I’m definitely, seriously Stephen King’s alter ego. Another guy said my writing ranges from fantastic to okay, and I remind him of John Updike.
I’m still steeling myself for the inevitable nasty review – everyone has a few – but insightful, positive ones like I’ve just received definitely soften the blow.
Please excuse any typos – I’ve had a few drinks.
- Jonathan Face's blog, or something.
Shameful Self-Promotion
Catharsis, my first novel. (Kindle, free)