brianrayfiction.com Blog

A big thanks to the crowd at B&N Thursday night. We packed that place to the walls and lured shoppers near with our cackling. I’m told a couple of book sellers gave each other high fives.

Saturday, I’m off to Atlanta to catch up with friends and read at A Cappella Books. Past few days have been tour-heavy and wonderful.

A glimpse into my psychology: Thursday morning, at FOX 8 News, I chatted with a news anchor, before our live interview, who mentioned she was from Sumter, SC. My instinct was to say, “Ha, home of ‘Pee Wee’ Gaskins.” Fortunately I caught myself and suppressed it. Instead we talked about USC and Clemson. More conducive to weekday morning conversation, I think.

My interview with Jeri Rowe is a little more along the Pee Wee Gaskins line. Also see the article.

Burton trivia: Growing up, Burton freaked his parents out on a routine basis. One afternoon young Tim cornered his dad and said, “You know, you’ve got a really great view. I mean, it’s really great.” The father’s bedroom window overlooked a couple of huge dead trees and some rotting wood. A few weeks later, his parents bricked up young Burton’s window. Strange.

There will indeed be a sequel to the Greensboro reading, somewhere in Greensboro. So anyone who missed this time ’round, fear not. Stay tuned.

I’ve got the greatest idea for a novel. Sit, sit. So a famous author writes a book that’s a sequel to the Da Vinci Code. Okay? He won’t let anyone know what it’s about, and then he disappears.

His publisher delays the book’s release until the author surfaces. Experts in all fields of science go looking for him. But he’s never seen again.

So the novel is never published.

The end. Well, what do you think? I like it. The story is very uplifting.

What a day. Interview with Greensboro News-Record. A whirlwind trip to Columbia for an interview with ETV Radio. Tomorrow, TV Fox 8 in the morning. Then I’m reading at B&N in Greensboro. That’s the B&N in Friendly Center, at 7 pm. I’m pumped. Think it’ll be the best reading so far.

Sanford’s book deal with Sentinel has been crushed. This had to be Sanford’s idea, not Sentinel’s. For we all know scandal and mayhem sells. Here’s what Publishers Weekly said:

South Carolina governor Mark Sanford, whose extramarital affair, after becoming front page news, threatened his political career (and his marriage), has now lost his book deal. Sanford is no longer doing the book that conservative Penguin imprint Sentinel had planned to publish in 2010. A statement from the publisher said Sanford’s forthcoming Within Our Means, a book about “fiscal conservatism,” has been canceled. A brief statement from the publisher said that Sentinel was releasing Stanford from his contract after coming to a “mutual decision.”

A real shame. But I wonder. If Sentinel made the decision first, then that phone conversation must’ve gone well indeed. Let’s see. Sanford’s already boozing in the afternoon, depressed and hunched over a typewriter. Ever sense the scandal broke, his writing has provided his only refuge from the cruel world. The phone rings. He answers. Maria? he says. No, says the voice. It’s your editor, from Sentinel? Listen, we wanted to talk about our book deal. Oh, says Sanford. I’m making great progress. The emotion’s just gushing out in glorious prose. Well, the editor says, that’s what we wanted to talk about. Sanford asks for clarification.

We have to pull the plug, the editor says. Sanford can’t understand. Does it have something to do with my refusal of stimulus funds? No, the editor says. Was it my lack of responsibility, leaving the country without transferring power? No, she says. Lying about my whereabouts? No. Are you killing my contract because I skipped out on father’s day, only to visit my Latin mistress while my family feared for my health and safety? None of that, the editor sighs. Sanford sighs too. Then what? Why are you doing this to me?

Your prose, the editor says. But I haven’t submitted the manuscript yet, Sanford says. Frankly, the editor says, you don’t need to. We’ve already seen a sample of your style and find your writing less than inspiring. All right. I’ll come out and say it. Your writing sucks. There. Then she laughs. I mean, come on, Mark. She stares at her copy of The State newspaper. These terrible love notes. Tranquility that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds? Oh, no. This one’s better: A full tank of love in the emotional bank account? Yeah, good one. Or perhaps, I love your tan lines and your holding those two magnificent parts of yourself? To top it off, we have a lightning strike sneaking up on people: Oh, this impossible situation of love. How in the world this lightening [sic] strike snuck up on us I am still not quite sure. Mark, how does a lightning strike sneak? Does lightning slink through darkness and shadows like a burglar? Does it carry a pistol? I’m trying to visualize. Honey, watch out! There’s a lightning strike right behind you!

The editor continues to read from recently published emails between Sanford and his mistress, until Sanford hangs up amid her torturous torrents of laughter. He calls Random House and they say, Hell yeah we’ll publish your lapidary erotic political thriller interspersed with essays on economic leadership. Will you write about the affair, too? Great. Contract’s in the mail. Happy ending.

Although I don’t plan to discuss recent serial killings in South Carolina, I would like to point out that SC has now jumped into the national spotlight twice in the last week or so for terrible things. In fact, seems like any time the news comes to SC it’s always bad. I promise, people of the world, there are good things about the state. Generally speaking, living there does not involve missing governors and lunatics. We have mountains, islands, wildlife, rapids, the world’s oldest tree, Charleston, and huge swamps.

Poor Palin – that speaks for itself. Finally, I’ll read at the B&N this Thursday in Friendly Center, starting at 7 pm. Copies of my novel will be there and I’ll sign them.

To a an intimate crowd, I read a chapter from the novel about cheap fireworks that don’t go off but skipped the part about Giacometti’s nightly fantasies.

I read at Quail Ridge, which has lots of books. Go there.

Those who were present laughed their bottoms off, and then we talked about the impact of technology on reading and teaching. We concluded that technology is bad and should stop immediately. A friend suffering the plight of dissertation did, in fact, purchase a copy of the book. Hunter S. Thompson was wrong. There is indeed one thing more helpless and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. I hope the novel provides some salvation.

Here’s a bigger quote from the latest review, now in the July Atlanta Magazine:

Marietta native BRIAN RAY won the inaugural South Carolina First Novel Prize for this mesmerizing coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of a looming, otherworldly steel mill…In Through the Pale Door, a young artist named Sarah West takes a summer job at her father’s steel mill in South Carolina, hoping to earn money for college while also avoiding the life with her psychotic mother in Marietta. Her mother is insane, “like an unwound ball of yarn, tangled and sprawling, dangerous . . . My dad had asked me to stay here and keep my mom’s yarn clumped together.” In the unlikely sanctuary of the steel mill, Sarah finds a kindred spirit, Edgewood, who wrangles steel by day and paints magnificent murals on company property by night. Their story is so gently told, in a setting so beautifully grim, it’s easy to forget this is a debut novel.

And you can read more online by going here.

For Alice Hoffman

New York, N.Y. – The publishing industry came to a standstill this morning as a famous author was taken into custody by police for allegedly murdering a critic who gave her novel a mediocre review in a national magazine.

Alice Walkman, author of seven fat romance novels and three self-help anthologies, was turned in by a fellow emerging writer after Walkman apparently confessed over margaritas that she’d strangled her nemesis and used his internal organs to make the crust of several apple pies, which provided desert for Walkman’s pre-Fourth of July party. “Bragged is more like it,” said the author, a 34-year-old man who wishes to remain anonymous.

According to several critics, editors, and authors who attended the party, Walkman appeared happier than many had seen her in months. “She moved with a kind of levity,” said an unnamed source with Viking. “She talked really, really fast. And she insisted on everyone having seconds. I mean, there was a lot of pie.”

“Come to think of it,” said another editor, “the crust did taste kind of like people. Um, not that I would know, of course.”

Authorities were initially unsure of whether to arrest Walkman based on a single report. “You never know about these literary types,” said Lt. Drake with NYPD. “Always making crap up.”

But Walkman herself removed doubts about her involvement when she began a now-infamous Twitter marathon, posting every hour in rhyming couplets: “Think you can nail me with a bad review? Well, just wait until you taste my critic stew!”

As many as 800 Walkman fans took to the streets this afternoon, filling Times Square with their weeping and whining. Some held signs, others brandished copies of Walkman’s most recent book, chanting, “It’s not so bad!” One protester, a 17-year-old high school student from Cuny High, said, “I just hope she doesn’t get the death penalty.” Wiping away a tear, she added, “And if she does, like, I pray to God she finishes the series first. I’ve got to know what happens to Lady Oliver.”

“This situation has gotten totally blown out of proportion,” said a spokesperson for Walkman’s publisher. “Who is going to miss one book critic? New York is full of them.”

“I see this as a natural mechanism of population control,” he added. “Reviewers are entitled to express their opinions, sure, but they should be aware of the consequences. What was this guy thinking, accepting an invitation for ‘tea’ from an author he’d just trashed?”

Walkman’s agent, Havilah Smarts, could not be reached for comment. But when a NY Times reporter looked through the window of her Fifth Avenue townhouse, Smarts was seen to be smirking and taunting a sizable piece of apple pie, picking at the crust with a fork, and licking her fingers.