brianrayfiction.com Blog

Here’s proof that we indeed live, as Voltaire liked to joke, in the best of all possible worlds. At least I do. (Not sure about the rest of you.) Of course, this assumes that in no world did I manage to avoid a big-time car wreck. Saturday morning, hoping to make a SIBA tradeshow signing in Greenville, I drove at the upper edge of the speed limit despite the obvious fact that rain had been falling on the roads for a solid day or more. Smart. Fortunately, I drive extra safe in light traffic. But with the road empty for a mile front and back, I was free to excel.

Already, I’d called people with Blair to let them know I’d arrive a bit late for my signing. It was 9 am, and I couldn’t push from my head the image of, like, a hundred people with long, weepy faces crying, “Where is the author of Through the Pale Door? I drove all the way from Charleston in hopes he’d be here to sign my book, or at least pose with me for a photo!” Well, that vision was more like three irate booksellers who would soon find another book and another author to fill their attention. Still, not insignificant for a first-time author.

Then the road took a hard curve and my wheels lost their grip on the asphalt. It was like navigating an exit, except it was a highway. The car spun and rolled to a stop in the middle of the two lanes. Contrary to what one might expect, I walked toward the roadside completely uninjured save a few scratches. Slouched against the concrete barricade, I scooped chunks of windshield glass out of my shoes. Meanwhile cars rolled past. Someone leaned out of a passenger window and said, “Hey, that guy looks like Robert Pattinson!” A first responder looked at a slightly bruised elbow. Then the highway patrol arrived and dealt with mounting traffic. As they approached, their expressionless faces seemed to say, “Hey, that guy looks like the dumb ass in question. But don’t make him feel too stupid.”

I called family.

Then I called Blair, to let them know I wouldn’t make it after all. Some confusion ensued. As many people who now me will attest, I’m dry and non-expressive at times (what some would call laconic). When the Blair people picked up, I said, “Looks like I’m not going to make it. I’ve got sort of a traffic accident up here.”

My contact said, “Well, we can talk about rescheduling when you get here.” Then she added, “Betsy’s here if you’d like to talk to her.”

Turns out they thought I was describing a traffic accident I was driving past, not an accident I was in.

Not sure how long I waited in the damp chill for the towing people. One officer pointed out that a motorcyclist had gone airborne at this section of highway last year. We know what happens to motorcyclists who go airborne. The tow-truck operator also brought to my attention that a van had spun out at this spot the week prior, plowing through another car’s windshield, with similar results. “Good thing you’re car didn’t go up over the edge of the bridge.” Indeed. What seems to be a hill is actually a bridge with dense trees and foliage growing up one side.

In a rental car, I drove back to Greensboro and began fishing for a replacement. The wrecked car now lies in a collision repair shop, and will soon make a final trip to the scrap heap.

Reflection is a bitch. What a difference 5-10 mph would’ve made. If anyone would like to contribute to the help-a-writer fund, please go here.

It’s about time someone started lampooning the recent turn in pop fiction to vampires, wizards, and goblins. Vintage will soon publish Nightlight, a Harvard Lampoon. (Read about it here.) Not that Rowling or Meyer deserve satire, but because their work offers so much material. It’s easy to rip a bad film. Those almost rip themselves. You can’t really direct or write a riff on “Snakes on a Plane,” can you? Likewise, the original Darth Vader is much more conducive to parodic spin than the new one. Nonetheless, I’m surprised we haven’t seen more of this on screen, including a parody of the Batman films. I wonder if the lack of cinematic joking owes to Youtube, which has already sunk its teeth into the market.

And yet sadness fills my undead heart. In truth, I wanted to write the Twilight parodies. Had I not been working on this other novel…

So I’ll have to satisfy myself with a parody of the parody: a writer who desperately desires to satirize paranormal romance. But all she manages to produce are best-selling romances that readers take seriously. Fans show up to her signings, cradling her fat books, telling her how much they adore Vincent the teenage heart-throb vampire whom Belle Swanson falls for and who also turns out to be a woman pretending to be a man. “It was such a twist ending,” they’ll say as author Stephanie Mired scribbles her name. “Do you think Belle will overcome her heterosexuality?”

“No,” Mired will say. “It was a satire.”

“Do you think Vincent will have a sex-change operation?”

“It was a satire,” she’ll say.

Or possible I’ll write a book about a paranormal romance heroine – like a witch or something, or a vampire – who somehow crosses over into a satire. The heroine or hero try their best to flip humorous events into real action and tragedy. For instance:

Edwardo awoke to find himself in a strange new world. Instead of confronting a hoard of evil vampires who wanted to steal away his Bellatrix, he strode into Vermont High’s cafeteria and found a table full of black-shirted geeks playing Magic, their cards spread between milk cartons and soda bottles. There he saw the most beautiful girl in the world, as beautiful as a statue of Aphrodite, chained to the largest boniest goth he’d ever seen. Bellatrix reached for Edwardo, mouthing “Help, I’m dying of boredom.” Edwardo flew through the air and landed on the table, kicking their cards to the floor. But the Geeks wouldn’t fight. They simply unchained Bellatrix and gathered their cards. “Dude, you’re so lame,” the largest goth said. Bellatrix led him to the bathroom then and tried to undo his pants. “What the cross is going on here? Edwardo gasped. “We’re not supposed to be doing it this soon in the novel.” Indeed, it was only page five. Meanwhile Bellatrix threw her shirt over the stall and said, “Don’t worry, darling. I just turned eighteen yesterday!” Edwardo sobbed on the toilet. “You mean you’re legal now? But I’m supposed to wait and gaze at you while you sleep!” Bellatrix starts working on Edwardo’s shoes. “And you’re, like, 90 something. Come to think of itkind of kinky.” Perhaps we should stop here, the author thinks, and goes to refill his coffee.

Oh, irony. We know that Mark Sanford’s book ground to a halt this past summer, when he ruined his career for a Latina hotty. Now his estranged wife has secured a contract to write her own memoirs.

Oddly, I might plan to read this my-husband’s-a-bastard tale. Only Jenny S. probably won’t go in that direction. Here’s what The Washington Post says:

Jenny Sanford will follow in the footsteps of fellow wronged-political-wife Elizabeth Edwards with an “inspirational” tell-all to be released by Ballantine Books next May. The former investment banker will grapple with “the universal issue of maintaining integrity and a sense of self during life’s difficult times,” according to the publisher — so yes, all the fallout from South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford’s Appalachian-Trail-no-wait-I-mean-Argentine-mistress meltdown. Jenny Sanford moved out of the governor’s mansion with her four kids last month.

Please, Ballantine, make old Jenny write something funny. Don’t let her take the high road. Cajole her to villainize him. Because in truth we’re dealing with a hilarious sequence of events. Sadly, I don’t want to read about Jenny’s suffering spirit or will to overcome. Such stories play on the Lifetime channel every afternoon. Audiences across America hunger for the dirty gossip that stained the walls of the Sanford mansion the past four years. We want to know, Jenny, what whacky things your man did while in office and how you managed to endure him. Did he sing the state’s anthem in the shower every morning, for example? What rushed through your mind when you heard his rusty voice wail out,

Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas
Like thine own proud armorial trees,
Carolina! Carolina!

And we must know what you did upon discovering his treachery. What gave him away, by the way, strange messages on his machine? “Hola, Marco. I just wanted to say how mucho I love you tambien. Muah Muah.” We’d also like to know more about the pig incident back in ‘04. Please tell us he burst through the double doors of his study one night, hair frazzled and wild eyes, then grabbed you up by the waist and danced you across the Palmetto Ballroom, singing,

Now I know, my dear,
how I’ll show our spending’s pork-barrel.
Two cute little piggies’ll make it clear
how deeply our budget is in peril!
Carolina, Carolina!

And if you don’t mind, Jenny, tell us about all of Sanford’s kooky inventions for getting work done faster. Like the type writer that also opens letters. Or the necktie that turns into a hang glider so he could fly home and not waste tax payers’ money on gas to chauffeur his unfaithful bum to and from work. But above all, we’re eager to hear about the time you drove down to Argentina wearing an astronautic diaper with plans to give Sanford’s mistress what for.

SC Rep Joe Wilson finally broke his silence Monday morning, at a press conference in D.C. There before journalists he told a vivid tale about persecution and violence he faced following his bold move during Obama’s health care speech. (For those with short memories, he called Obama a liar. “You lie!” he shouted, jabbing the air with a finger.)

“I’m actually the number one target of Washington Democrats now, as well as a Communist groups like ACORN.”

It started the evening of his inflammatory remarks when, walking back to his office, he was spit-balled by Nancy Pelosi – who then gave them the universal “shove it” sign, grasping her elbow and giving a stern pump of the forearm. Appalled, he fled to the lobby. There he was splashed in the face with cold water by Sen. Chris Dodd.

“John Kerry wouldn’t even say good morning to me,” Wilson said, whimpering. “Harry Reid growled at me and tried to piss on my shoes in the bathroom. And someone planted a whoopie cushion in my office chair.”

Later last week, he was walking to his car in the VIP parking deck, where waiting for him were none other than Obama himself and his two home boys – Biden and Emmanuel. They proceeded to “step up” at Wilson, waving their hands in his face and calling him derogatory names like “cracker” and “Uncle Jefferson.”

Biden danced circles around Wilson as he patted down his coat for his car keys. Obama cackled and dangled said keys before his eyes and gave them a shake. “You looking for these, country boy?”

Biden snapped his fingers. “You try to tell the word my buddy Barack here lies. Well, now, we’re here to tell you it’s time to…fry!”

Emmanuel jumped onto the floor and spun on his back. “And pretty soon your career is going to die.”

Obama twirled on his heels and slapped Wilson on the forehead with his palm. “But maybe you’d like a little slice of pie, ’cause your end is nigh!”

“Why, you’re looking kind of shy,” Biden said and grabbed Wilson’s tie, yanking them face-to-face. “Don’t tell me you’re about to break down and start to cry.”

“You’re banality is making us want to sigh. Now we’d like to know why you’re such an unpleasant guy. What fills your head and heart at night when you turn your eyes to the sky? Do you think sometimes the way you live is sterile and dry, and that’s what makes bitter men tell emissaries of truth they lie? But, hey, maybe you’d like to give my job a try. The life of a prez isn’t always what you think, most of the time it’s a toss of the die. If you can’t answer me right now, that’s okay, we’ll just ponder the reasons why and forgive us – we don’t mean to pry.” With that, Obama kicked Wilson squarely in the rear toward his car. His keys landed at his feet. As he stooped to lift them off the cold concrete and fumbled his way into his car, he saw Emmanuel, Biden, and Obama all giving each other styling high fives.

Reporters were all snickering as Wilson teared up. “Why’s everyone laughing? I’m telling you, I was fearful of my life. It was the most traumatic event I’ve ever lived through.” He then repeated his statement that his outburst during last week’s joint session of Congress was spontaneous. “I believe people should be courteous, be civil, I mean, except when moved by their passionate convictions and opposed to outrageous, leftist, liberal lies! Except when someone is a bald-faced liar, like Barack Obama!”

*Nobody Owens contributed to this report.

Finally posting after a helluva week. I’m in Myrtle Beach now after reading to a room full of voracious readers at a fancy country club kind of restaurant on Pawleys Island. Not too shabby. Accumulated some interesting stories, including that of one woman who’s gathered a nightstand drawer full of book lights – trying to find just the right one.

Getting to Pawleys Island wasn’t terribly hard, but finding which version of US-17 would lead to my hotel was. And so I arrived at Litchfield having not slept, having given up on finding my hotel buried in the neon magnificence of the Carolina coastline. Next time I come here, I’ll ask my hotel to shoot off fireworks near my ETA.

Many more interesting tales gathered at the NC Lit Festival, where I was this last weekend. Learned that John Hart, for example, quit his job for a year so he could write his first novel – and did so with the full support of his family. This is quite something. I’m not sure I’d even want my own kids, in the future that is, taking a year off to write their novels. “Don’t be such a sissy,” I’d tell them. “Just sleep less.” But it actually has paid off for one of us.

Being back in SC, however briefly, has got me thinking once again about Carolina politicians. We’ve wound up in the news at least twice this summer, thanks to our reps. Just recently, U.S. rep Joe Wilson shouted spontaneously “You lie!’ to Obama as he addressed myths and information about health care reform. Obama took the heat pretty well, and Wilson apologized later. But, if you ask me, people should ease up. He was just trying to take some heat off of Sanford. He was also speaking up for his beliefs. And, furthermore, he was doing his job! In the country! Now if he’d issued those marks from Argentina or France we’d have a different story altogether.

The Post & Courier reviewed my novel on Sunday. Hurray. That makes three big-venue reviews between my Booklist starred review, AJC, and this new one. The latest review completely neglects the role of Sarah’s father, steel mill incarnate and counterpoint to her crazy mom, while dismissing the importance of the industrial setting. But that’s fine. People get what they want or need out of what they read.

Hanging out at NC Lit Fest this weekend. Wish I had more time to go to the evening events. By then I’m wasted and still have to slug through postmodern and 18th-century rhetorical theory.

Did get to attend a reading by Fred Chapell and Robert Morgan. Before reading with his wife to celebrate their 50th anniversary, Chapell asked, “Can creative writing be taught?” No, but it can be learned, inspired, and-most importantly – edited. I found myself wondering what kind of spouse is overjoyed by reading poetry as an anniversary gift. Whatever kind of spouse that is, I’d like that kind of marriage very much. “Honey, I spent my last paycheck all on books. So I thought instead of that dinner at Al’s Upstairs we’d go to this poetry slam down at Art Bar. Sound good?” And she’d jump into my arms and say, “Why, that sounds even better. I love you, dearest!”

I’ve never mentioned my good war reporter friend on this blog before. But I will now. David Axe has written for The Guaridan, the Village Voice, Washington Times, Popular Science, World Politics Review. He also does documentary pieces for Voice of America and C-SPAN. Not to mention he has a slew of nonfiction books and graphic novels either published or in the works.

Axe is going to Afghanistan again followed by a trip to some god-forsaken place in Africa (my words, not his.) Of course, Afghanistan is pretty god-forsaken as well by our standards. The economy is getting better, but the recession has wasted the publishing industry and hasn’t been kind to freelance writers, either. So if you have, like, $2 to contribute to his fundraiser campaign then do it and save democracy and journalism.

One more review of my novel up on the web, for any curious folks out there. In other news, Gov Blago has just published a memoir, which some say reads like a frolic in the land of denial and myth-making. Most politicians don’t plan to spend much time on this act of literature. But prosecutors seem to think it’ll be useful for building a case against him. I also heard that the thin pages make for good toilet paper and/or kindling.

Here’s what the NY Times says about public response to the memoir:

Around this city last week, some Chicagoans, spotting the book cover, responded with weary eye rolls and complaints that Mr. Blagojevich, whose corruption scandal enveloped the state last winter, now seemed determined to gain wealth or more notoriety from his travails.

But we should be kind to Mr. B. He’s gone through some hard times, and his journey has approached true epic. Did you know that his story actually parallels that of many epic heroes, like Odysseus and Icarus – and also some tragic Shakespearean heroes like Hamlet, Lear, and Othello? Oh, and Macbeth? Neither did I, until I read a little about his book:

When Mr. Obama and Mr. Blagojevich first met, he wrote, they were seen as rising stars. “He’s now the president of the United States, like Zeus in Greek mythology, on top of Mount Olympus,” Mr. Blagojevich writes. “I’m Icarus, who flew too close to the sun. And I crashed to the ground.”

Obama as Zeus, I like that. So who would play Aries in this dramatization of American politics? I nominate Dick Cheney. No, wait. Too easy. How about General Petraus? Closer. I’ll keep thinking about this. Now, on to Aphrodite. Hillary Clinton should play the goddess of love, obviously. Or, wait. Scratch that. She’d make a much better Hera. But then that role’s reserved for Michelle Obama – if we’re going to go the literal route. So perhaps Clinton should play Diana – goddess of the hunt.

This could get complicated. But at least we know who ought to fill the role of the Minotaur. Who better than Joe Biden? Can’t you just see him lurking through the Rose Garden, on the lookout for lost tour parties to gobble up?

I’d like to imagine some conversations between Blago and his editors on these concepts. Blago says, “So I’ve been thinking and, you know, I think my story has a lot in common with the Illiad? Right? Because, like, Agamemnon is a real sonuvabitch. And so am I?”

His editor responds, “But Blago, baby, Agamemnon is the bad guy.”

“Oh, well. Wait. Wasn’t he the one that caught the arrow in the ankle?”

“No, that was Achilles – the unstoppable killing machine.”

“Hmmm. I guess I’m an unstoppable machine in some ways.”

“Tell you what,” his editor says. “Why don’t you just compare yourself to Icarus?”

“Is he the guy who makes the first woman?”

“No, he’s the one who…oh, forget it. Look, just say you’re like Icarus. Okay? I’ll take care of the rest. Oh, and this chapter you sent me. It needs more references to Obama and other politicians with solid reputations. Okay?”

Click.

The End.

Now here’s a daily-blog double, and proof that googling yourself at 1 am when you should be doing work does yield results sometimes. A thoughtful review of Through the Pale Door is up at the Hipster Book Club, a featured review in fact.

This is the first review to explicitly (and fairly) point out some flaws. There will be no Alice Hoffman twitter revenge on reviewers in these parts, nor a need for it in this case. (For kicks, read a response to a response to a review by my novel’s reviewer). Now, a preface: In MFA land, we were all trained to play dead on workshop day as, one-by-one, our peers sliced open the cadavers of our stories and measured their internal organs. Then, sewn-up and jolted back to life, we could respond. Thus I think authors can and should address items in their reviews if they can do so in a civil manner. (continue reading…)

Friday night I headed to Atlanta for the Decatur Bookfest, with a short stop in Salisbury where I sat looking intellectual and hopeful as possible as Salisbarians (?) wandered through their local bookstore’s new digs. (They moved across the street.) One woman I met had gone to UNCG back when it was the women’s college. She said “your book was so horrific,” although whether that was good or bad seemed unclear. Nonetheless I said, “Thank you!” and signed her copy. The only other person who came to my table was a young kid, about ten. When he approached, I thought better of trying to sell him a copy. I thought maybe he liked the art on the cover or wanted to know what it was like to be a professional writer. But instead he asked, “Do you guys have movie monster books? Where are they?” I said we certainly did and that Through the Pale Door had tons of movie monsters.

Around nine I was on the road to Decatur. Rolled up into that joint around 1 am and stood anxiously at the reception desk with my bags, feeling a little like Raul Duke in Fear and Loathing as the woman clicked the same button over and over while muttering she didn’t understand why the system wouldn’t check me into my room. There was no way of explaining the terror I felt. I was pouring sweat. My blood is too thick for this climate. “But we must have that suite,” I said. “Yes, we must have it! So what’s the score here? What’s next?” A poet and teacher from Greensboro I ran into later said the hotel had overbooked and that he’d had to stay with friends. How close I came to the same dismal fate, we can only guess.

Around four am, some jerk pulled the fire alarm and a hundred traveling authors drug themselves downstairs in boxers and bath robes. The thing about hotel fires is that nobody seems worried about burning alive; we care more about how much sleep we’ll loose waiting for the fire department to ride out and inspect a gigantic hotel to conclude indeed no fire was transpiring. To our luck, as soon as we’d gathered into our pool of skepticism and dry jokes, a fire fighter waved us back inside. I had the distinct pleasure of riding up to the third floor with Robert Olen Butler, who seemed quite pissed but that’s just my impression. “What I want to know is how they figured that out so fast,” he said. A day later, I also had the distinct pleasure of seeing him ask someone for directions to some place. I wanted to stop him right there on the street and slap him on the shoulder. “Boy, remember that night some jerk pulled the fire alarm? Oh, man, that was a wild ride, wasn’t it, Robert? By the way, do you like darkly funny Gothic novels? I just happen to have written one.” I can only imagine how he’d have responded.

My favorite panel on Saturday: George Singleton and Daniel Wallace. Both funny guys, although Wallace admits that he has to research his jokes, whereas Singleton is naturally funny. Wallace also said he sort of hated Singleton before they met. Why? Because Singleton published in all the journals he wanted to be in. “And so I saw the space that George was taking up in those magazines as my space.” But I’m going to one-up Wallace and say that I hate Wallace and Singleton because combined they’re taking up my space in magazines like Oxford American, etc. No, not really. But I hope to make that joke in about, eh, five years. I’ll keep everyone posted.

Saturday night, watched an amazing film called The American Astronaut. Imagine Tarantino and Joss Whedon and, say, Fellini directing a science fiction grunge musical set in Outer Space where women actually do live on Venus and seeing a woman’s breasts can make you famous, as with “the boy who once saw a woman’s breast” can attest to. Shot in B&W, it’s one of the most beautiful and funny films I’ve seen. And yet nobody seems to know about it, including me until recently. But I order you all to order it off Netflix. Now.

On to the main event. Me, reading. When I arrived at the church where my event would take place, I gazed out at the sea of 200 or so people and thought, “My God, these people have come to see me. I must give them a show they’ll never forget.” Then I was reminded I’d be reading with Jack Riggs and Philip Lee Williams and said to myself, “Oh…” (Not really.) We had a great time. I was surprised by how kind everyone was. And I had no idea that Riggs had shot the first two Guns ‘n Roses music videos. Just wait until my mom hears this. Seriously, dude. My mom got me started on that band – and, hey, 20 years later I religiously listen to Chinese Democracy every night and pray to the lord that “this time, I’ll enjoy it.” Ah, Axel, what happened? There’s another blog post entirely.

Now here I am in Greensboro, typing away at novel #2 and pumping myself up for some Heidegger. Feels good to blog again after three days off. And I hear that Governor Blago has a memoir out. So, fellows, you can guess what’s coming down the pipe.

Seems like only yesterday I was walking around USC’s campus with coffee, making mental plans to revise and send off my mss on the assumption it didn’t win the first first-novel prize. Now, alas, some other poor joe or jane can have that pleasure. The SC Arts Commission has just announced the second first-novel prize:

Bret Lott, the author of 12 books, most recently “Ancient Highway” (Random House, 2008), is the contest judge. Lott is a former editor of the “Southern Review” and teaches creative writing at the College of Charleston.

That’s right. Another big-time author whose opinion you can trust. You don’t have to worry about Danielle Steele or Thomas Pynchon judging the award (two polar ends of the spectrum). As for a testimonial, consider going to my website and looking at the reviews – if you don’t believe the $25 entry fee is worth it. Buy a copy of my novel, or just go to B&N and hold one of those hardbacks in your hands for a few minutes, and ask how you’d like that to be you. Now some advice on submitting to a first-novel prize if you’ve never considered doing so before. The deadline is Jan 5, 2010.

1. Money helps. Slipping a $20 or even a $50 into a blue envelop is the way to go. The first round of readers are usually overworked editors or college/grad students like myself. A little bone here and there cheers us up.

2. Wine helps more. Especially a vintage. Odds are, we’ll just spend the $20 you give us on booze anyway – being literary types. You might as well save us a drive to the grocery store. Trust me. Envelops big enough for wine exist. But if you’re a cheapskate, most stores are selling those little mini-bottles now.

3. Cigarettes not so much. Do you want to stink up your manuscript, or give one of us cancer? Also, cigarettes are prison currency. Consider the implication that sends. Same goes with cigars. And even if the reader happens to smoke, shipping will likely grind them into tobacco dust.

4. Illustrated stationary a plus. When I worked for Yemassee, we always smiled upon seeing monkeys or unicorns on every page. Really, even if the stationary makes the words difficult to distinguish, go for the glory. If you really want to impress, print on pink construction paper and encircle your name in hearts.

5. Food to be avoided. Except for dry and canned, non-perishable gourmet items. Do it with class. Don’t insult us by including Ramen noodles with your submission. That stuff is loaded with Sodium, and it’s cheap. Nor would you be wise to go with candy bars or M&Ms. There is only one kind of chocolate. Godiva. The rest is imitation.

6. Pet food. Obviously, unless your stalking the contest judges and readers, you can’t know what kind of pets they might own. Chewable dog bones, on the other hand, can be digested by humans and taste quite good, um, I’ve heard.

7. A cover letter. Absolutely. First sentence should say something like, “You’re looking mighty fine today” or “You are so smart!” Most people enjoy compliments, and it puts your novel on a solid footing. To be honest, you might even want to make a compliment the first sentence of your novel. Consider the difference between a novel that opens, “It was a dark and stormy night” and one that opens “Have you lost weight? It was a dark and stormy night…” No contest, my friends.

*Take this with a grain of salt. I’m not actually serving as a judge or reader in any way. Just speaking as a former editor, judge, of a humble literary journal.*