Watched Superbad a few nights ago on DVD. I like Judd Apatow’s work. There’s a bizarre freshness to it that appeals. For some reason though, Superbad didn’t hit me like 40 Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up did. The raunchiness which peppered those movies was on ALL the time in Superbad, and I spent most of the movie thinking, “wow, did I really talk like that in highschool?”  I’ll give it three out of five stars and recommend that you watch the movie with your highschool buddies, not your wife.

Edmund Schubert at IGMS passed on And Zeppelins.  He had some nice words for it, but complained about the pace.  Normally I wouldn’t revise based on one editor’s feedback, but hey, he’s Edmund Schubert, so I took another look at the piece.

I actually think that his worries about the pace were really about how slowly the story began, rather than the pace overall (although I’m guessing here; he didn’t give me pages of feedback, just a few sentences).  Not getting into the story quickly enough is a crime that I often commit when writing short fiction.  I’m not sure why I can’t absorb that particular writing lesson, but there you have it.  At least I can tell myself that it’s a common crime in the writing world.

Regardless, I axed about 800 words of exposition from the piece and started on what was page four, and is now page one.  I think it’s much better for it.  After a bit of reflection, I’m sending it off to Writers of the Future.  I know people are of mixed mind about that particular contest, but I respect the judges, and I even know a couple people who have placed, and I respect their writing.  So off it goes.  May the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard guide it to victory.

The Angels of St. Ambrose got rejected yesterday by Leading Edge magazine.  Leading Edge is an excellent publication, in my opinion.  As an educator, I love the fact that Leading Edge uses creative writing students as reviewers.  I got five full sheets of comments from students who had read the paper (and ultimately rejected it).  Many of the comments were positive, and some were not.  In general, I found myself disagreeing with the constructive criticism, but that’s okay.  I really appreciate the time the students put into carefully reviewing the story, and I want to honor that commitment on their parts.  I do have one beef however.  On the first page of the story, to describe the fear the protagonist is feeling, I use the phrase, “And Thomas’ felt his balls shrink shrunk up tight as he realized that it was not his breath… but another’s.”  Four of the five reviewers were really put off by that the use of the word “balls.”  One even called it, scatological.  Now, perhaps I should have kept in mind that Leading Edge is at Brigham Young University, and BYU’s largely Mormon student body might be more easily offended by such language, but I really think that balls works there.   The protagonist (a young boy) is in a terrifying situation in this case.  Young boys processing their terror in moments like these don’t think about their testicles, they think about their balls.  I guess ultimately I’d hate to think they rejected the story because of Thomas’ balls, but the comments weren’t specific about what exactly led to rejection.  No worries, though.  The story is already off to GUD.  And I really am thankful for all the feedback.

I was saddened to read of Gary Gygax’ death today.  I was a geek as a child, and always will be a geek.  Gary had a lot to do with that I suppose.  D&D was one of the things that showed me that there were other worlds out there, if you only had enough imagination to step into them.  I still have the original dice I bought to play the game back in 1982.  Happy adventures, Gary.

And Zeppelins went out today to Edmund Schubert at IGMS. Last Fall, Edmund rejected a story of mine but liked it enough to invite me to submit to him personally with my next story. So I did. He’s a busy, busy man, so I’m not sure this route will actually take any time off the submission clock, but at least I’ll know he’s seen it. It feels wonderful to have a new story out. I can’t wait for the next one…

P.S. Thanks to those of you who gave me feedback on this story. It helped a lot. The title received mixed reviews, but I stuck with it because at least one person really liked it, and because I’m really, really bad at coming up with good titles.

I occasionally visit cnn.com to get my dose of pre-digested pseudo-news. Yes, I know it’s a horrible habit that’s slowly killing me, but I could stop going anytime I wanted to, so get off my back.

Yesterday, this story about the stripper turned screenwriter Diablo Cody was headlining the entertainment section. The story began by describing a situation in which Diablo (who wrote the Oscar winning screenplay for Juno) had been caught in a lie on her blog about a red carpet shoe endorsement, and the delicious public pasting that ensued in the blogosphere. Her version of the events made her look good, and rebellious, and not willing to lay down for Hollywood ridiculousness. The truth made her look petty, and catty. This story reminded me of smaller-scale version of the debacle surrounding James Frey and his not-so-true autobiography, A Million Little Pieces. Now, as then, I find my self thinking, “are you kidding me? Of course they’re lying. They’re writers!”

Writers are in the business of lying. Or to put it more nicely: story telling. Is it any surprise that when it comes to their actual, real lives, the story telling creeps in? Frey (who, don’t get me wrong, is a total ass) looked at the story of his life and said, “I can tell this better than it actually happened. I can make my life a better read.” And it worked, the book sold like gangbusters; Oprah’s stamp of approval didn’t hurt, of course. And for God’s sake, Diablo’s real name is Brook Busey-Hunt. She’s telegraphing from the very start that she’s created a character for public consumption out of herself. She’s going to tell the story of her life in a way that is entertaining, and holds our attention, and makes us want to hear more about this rebellious, tough tart turned Hollywood success story. Picking apart that story is the critical equivalent of the know-it-all who points out how the magician did his trick. I don’t want to know how the magician did it, you asshole.  I just want to enjoy the magic and let myself be fooled for a while.

Of course, none of this sort of story telling is reserved for writers. Everyone tells the story of their life they way they wanted it to happen. We know from psychologists that people’s memories are notoriously faulty. Here’s just one study talking about how easy it is to plant false memories and the perils of eye witness testimony.  Other studies show that it goes way beyond simple faulty memories, and that many of us re-write our lives almost daily as we recount it to others.  These little lies build upon themselves, until we each believe the daily bullshit we’re handing out.
So why do we get so pissed when creative celebrities do it? Is there some contract for the truth that we co-enter with authors and creators? In Frey’s case, which was half self-help book, and half autobiography, I’m more likely to come down hard on him, but in Diablo’s case, where only an idiot wouldn’t see her life for what it is: a production, I’m more likely to tell the investigators to piss off. Let the woman write her life the way she wants it, and ultimately, the way we want it too: entertaining.

I’ve already had two authors I respect agree to give me some feedback on “And Zeppelins.”  Which, given how busy I know both of them are, reaffirms my feeling that writers are generally good people.  Maybe its the communal struggle against the overwhelming odds of being successful, but I’ve experienced a lot of sympathy and empathy from my writing peers.  Of course, there is also a healthy amount of competition in this group.  I know that I personally will go out of my way to help a fellow writer polish a story into a publishable state and then turn around and be green with envy when they succeed at getting that same story published.  Not sure why that is, but it’s probably just human nature.  It’s also a good thing for my productivity.  I happen to be extremely motivated by envy.  So keep writing, and keep publishing you lucky, successful bastards.

The first draft of the new and improved version of “And Zeppelins” is done.  Rang in at around 6500 words, which will hopefully slim down to 5500 when all is said and done.  I’m doing something new and trying to get some feedback from other writers before diving into the final version.  I’m hoping that will pay off when it gets submitted.  No rest for the recently re-enthused, though.  Tonight I tackle another failed story (called “The Chat”) and try to reshape it into something better.

I feel good.  I forgot how much I love this stuff.

I’ve been reading Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” trilogy for about two months now.  Six months ago I would have read all three books in a few days.  Since having a child, my reading habits have sort of dried up.  I’m sure this will get better as she gets more scheduled, moves out of our bedroom, and sleeps more at night, but for the moment my reading is restricted to…how to put this…private time in the WC.

One of the things you hear every successful writer say is “read as much as you write.”  This is good advice, it speaks to a need to stay current in the field, keep the creative impulse stimulated, and to see how others wordsmith.  It works for me too, when I’m reading well, I’m writing well.  And I see that it works for my peers too.  I look at the amazingly prolific Ian Rogers and see that he is reading a new book or story every day.

So, why am I prattling?  Because my daughter turned three months on Sunday, and I don’t want to use her as an excuse not to write anymore.  I’m recommitting to writing, and therefore recommitting to reading.  If you’ve got any good recommendations for someone who loves almost any genre, I’m open to them.  Let me know.

My brother-in-law is in town visiting his new niece, and to break up some of the monotony of watching my daughter coo, smile, coo again, and the poop herself (over and over), we went and saw Cloverfield.  I actually liked the movie quite a bit.  Yes, I got motion sick.  Yes, the acting was rough at times.  Yes, the movie requires a fair bit of suspension of disbelief.  But c’mon, it’s a monster movie!  You’ve got to be willing to swallow all these things.  I was, and I had a great time.

On top of the slight queasiness that I did not enjoy, and the anticiatory fear that I did enjoy, I was haunted throughout the movie by sense of real unease.  I couldn’t figure it out during the movie, but it was really bugging me and weirding me out.  I didn’t nail it down until I got home; there were no children in the movie.  I might be wrong about this.  I might just have missed them.  But I think one of the most noticeable things during a monster attack on a heavily populated city would be the terrified and wailing children.  Maybe that would have been too much to see.  Maybe J. J. Abrams was trying to spare us.  I do know that the last time I noticed this was on 9/11, because the planes hit during a school day, in the business center of New York.

I’m not sure why this is bugging me as much as it is.  Maybe because without children to take care of, I felt like the adults would be even more terrified.  I don’t know.  Creepy.