Last Sunday, I submitted my manuscript to a publisher. I am now faced with the question of whether there is still (provided there ever really was) a point to this blog. I may let you know or I may simply stop posting.
-Cary
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Query/Publisher
I think I've got the query letter pretty well put together. I also think I have decided upon a publisher for my first round.
-Cary
-Cary
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Goodbye to Someone I Never Knew
My grandparents' house was the biggest house in the world when I was a child. It was huge. There was a garage, a den, a large front hallway, an upstairs living room, dining room, and kitchen, and then way upstairs were the bedrooms. At this time, when I was about five years old, the residents of the house were: my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, my mother's two younger sisters, me, and my younger half-brother.
As I said, the bedrooms were way upstairs. At the top of those stairs, one had to either turn to the left (a bathroom) or turn to the right. To the right was my aunts' shared bedroom, then a left turn went down a hallway to the other bedrooms. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway. The light at the top of the stairs was not on the same circuit as the lights in the hallway, so, at night, usually only one light was on: the light at the top of the stairs. This meant, for me, a long, dark hallway even during the day.
I was a curious kid. A snoop, if you will. And my aunts were twelve and fourteen years older than I was (they still are), so, seventeen and nineteen. My aunts went to concerts and to parties and they listened to the cool rock stations on AM radio, so they were naturally targets of my envy and curiosity. I didn't know precisely what concerts and parties were, but I knew they were cool. Very cool. So, whenever I saw an opportunity, I went into my aunts' bedroom and I snooped through their personal things. I read their letters, mostly. (This was before the internet, back when long distance calls were a million dollars per minute, so my aunts wrote letters to their friends.) I also tended to leave tracks which were discovered and met with anger. My aunts put a latch on the door, but I was much smarter than a dead coat of paint, so that was no problem. Then they installed a locking doorknob, the kind you push the button in to lock, the button on the inside. Again, being smarter than paint, I quickly learned that a butter knife was also a key. Consequently, my aunts brought out the dynamite. I wasn't scared of them, nor of my mother, nor of my grandparents, so they brought out the dynamite. I wasn't deterred by locks, nor by reason, nor by empathy, so they brought out the dynamite. They did something that changed me forever. They did something which set me on a course so irreversible that I am, to this day, still following that course. They did something that gave me nightmares from which I still suffer.
Dynamite.
One day, while the aunts were away, I went up the stairs, ready to snoop. This was during the day, so there were no lights on upstairs. At the top of the stairs, this wasn't so bad, but past my aunts' bedroom was a long, dark hallway. A long, dark hallway. This was bad, but I had no intention of traveling down the hallway. I had no intention of running that spooky gauntlet. All I wanted was to snoop around and read letters.
I went up the stairs, turned to my right, and there it was...the dynamite. I found this picture nailed to the front of their bedroom door:
For those of you who don't know, this is Barnabas Collins as played by Jonathan Frid. I ran back downstairs, in tears. For years afterward, in order to get to my bedroom, down the long, dark hallway, I had to pass Barnabas. I would run. I would avert my gaze. I wouldn't even touch the goddamn door after that. And, as I said, there were nightmares.
There are nightmares.
I think most actors, those with any sense anyway, would be reluctant to take sole credit for the impact a character they play(ed) has or had on an audience. Dan Curtis, Art Wallace, Robert Cobert, and many others share in this credit, but when I went to sleep and I dreamed about Barnabas standing at the foot of my bed, or floating outside my bedroom window or above my bed, or sliding his cold, dead hand beneath the blanket and grabbing my foot, none of those people existed. It was just me and the vampire.
I will turn forty-four years old in nine days and the face I have seen in my dreams more than any other face is the face of Barnabas Collins as played by Jonathan Frid. I know nothing about the actor, the man, but I like believing he was a joyful man, something remarkably opposite of the vampire who haunts my dreams. I use the past tense because I just learned of the death of Mr. Frid.
The adult Cary is saddened by this news. The adult Cary feels sorrow for the passing of someone, an actor, whose work eventually caused me to want nightmares, to want more shadows and monsters, to want to create them where they don't exist. The adult Cary feels sorrow for the passing of someone who has always been with me, especially at night, when the lights are out and there is a strange noise for which I simply cannot open my eyes, nor build up the courage to investigate.
The adult Cary. Hmm.
The five-year old Cary? The one who is really in charge? Well, he's more worried now than ever before.
-Cary
As I said, the bedrooms were way upstairs. At the top of those stairs, one had to either turn to the left (a bathroom) or turn to the right. To the right was my aunts' shared bedroom, then a left turn went down a hallway to the other bedrooms. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway. The light at the top of the stairs was not on the same circuit as the lights in the hallway, so, at night, usually only one light was on: the light at the top of the stairs. This meant, for me, a long, dark hallway even during the day.
I was a curious kid. A snoop, if you will. And my aunts were twelve and fourteen years older than I was (they still are), so, seventeen and nineteen. My aunts went to concerts and to parties and they listened to the cool rock stations on AM radio, so they were naturally targets of my envy and curiosity. I didn't know precisely what concerts and parties were, but I knew they were cool. Very cool. So, whenever I saw an opportunity, I went into my aunts' bedroom and I snooped through their personal things. I read their letters, mostly. (This was before the internet, back when long distance calls were a million dollars per minute, so my aunts wrote letters to their friends.) I also tended to leave tracks which were discovered and met with anger. My aunts put a latch on the door, but I was much smarter than a dead coat of paint, so that was no problem. Then they installed a locking doorknob, the kind you push the button in to lock, the button on the inside. Again, being smarter than paint, I quickly learned that a butter knife was also a key. Consequently, my aunts brought out the dynamite. I wasn't scared of them, nor of my mother, nor of my grandparents, so they brought out the dynamite. I wasn't deterred by locks, nor by reason, nor by empathy, so they brought out the dynamite. They did something that changed me forever. They did something which set me on a course so irreversible that I am, to this day, still following that course. They did something that gave me nightmares from which I still suffer.
Dynamite.
One day, while the aunts were away, I went up the stairs, ready to snoop. This was during the day, so there were no lights on upstairs. At the top of the stairs, this wasn't so bad, but past my aunts' bedroom was a long, dark hallway. A long, dark hallway. This was bad, but I had no intention of traveling down the hallway. I had no intention of running that spooky gauntlet. All I wanted was to snoop around and read letters.
I went up the stairs, turned to my right, and there it was...the dynamite. I found this picture nailed to the front of their bedroom door:
For those of you who don't know, this is Barnabas Collins as played by Jonathan Frid. I ran back downstairs, in tears. For years afterward, in order to get to my bedroom, down the long, dark hallway, I had to pass Barnabas. I would run. I would avert my gaze. I wouldn't even touch the goddamn door after that. And, as I said, there were nightmares.
There are nightmares.
I think most actors, those with any sense anyway, would be reluctant to take sole credit for the impact a character they play(ed) has or had on an audience. Dan Curtis, Art Wallace, Robert Cobert, and many others share in this credit, but when I went to sleep and I dreamed about Barnabas standing at the foot of my bed, or floating outside my bedroom window or above my bed, or sliding his cold, dead hand beneath the blanket and grabbing my foot, none of those people existed. It was just me and the vampire.
I will turn forty-four years old in nine days and the face I have seen in my dreams more than any other face is the face of Barnabas Collins as played by Jonathan Frid. I know nothing about the actor, the man, but I like believing he was a joyful man, something remarkably opposite of the vampire who haunts my dreams. I use the past tense because I just learned of the death of Mr. Frid.
The adult Cary is saddened by this news. The adult Cary feels sorrow for the passing of someone, an actor, whose work eventually caused me to want nightmares, to want more shadows and monsters, to want to create them where they don't exist. The adult Cary feels sorrow for the passing of someone who has always been with me, especially at night, when the lights are out and there is a strange noise for which I simply cannot open my eyes, nor build up the courage to investigate.
The adult Cary. Hmm.
The five-year old Cary? The one who is really in charge? Well, he's more worried now than ever before.
-Cary
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Book Report
I pulled a marathon reading venture. That is to say, since we spoke last, I began and finished reading The Regulators by Richard Bachman. I have mixed feelings about Bachman and this reading did nothing to change that. I have read the book once before and I think I liked it more upon the first read. Bachman just gets a little silly for me, style-wise. Still, not bad.
Now, back to Faulkner.
-Cary
Now, back to Faulkner.
-Cary
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Book Reportesque
That's a lie. This is not even close to being a book report. I'm just letting you know that the next book report will not be on anything written by William Faulkner. Oh, I am going to keep reading the Faulkner library for a while, but I am taking a short break in order to read The Regulators by Richard Bachman.
-Cary
-Cary
Book Report?
This morning, while waiting on a plumber, I read Vision in Spring by William Faulkner. This is a collection of poetry by Faulkner, a cycle, which... Okay, look, people who analyze poetry are almost always the most pretentious fartsniffers on the planet. I hate them. I hate hate hate them. "Oh, this poem symbolizes the struggle the poet felt while on his inner journey of discovery." You know what I discovered on my inner journey of discovery? I discovered that people who say shit like, "inner journey of discovery" would make the world a better place if they did their masturbating in private.
That said, I will offer this: Vision in Spring is much more compelling than is Mosquitoes (see last post). The story is amazingly well told, the writing is tight, and Faulkner's mastery of verse is damned impressive. As with other poetry collections/cycles, I will need to read this again a few times in order to feel that I've gotten what I want from it, but I do strongly recommend Vision in Spring to anyone who enjoys poetry or interesting stories.
-Cary
That said, I will offer this: Vision in Spring is much more compelling than is Mosquitoes (see last post). The story is amazingly well told, the writing is tight, and Faulkner's mastery of verse is damned impressive. As with other poetry collections/cycles, I will need to read this again a few times in order to feel that I've gotten what I want from it, but I do strongly recommend Vision in Spring to anyone who enjoys poetry or interesting stories.
-Cary
Book Report
I recently finished Mosquitoes by William Faulkner. This is, as I understand things, Faulkner's second published novel. I don't really understand why it was either written or published. It was like what might happen if you tasked Faulkner with writing a novel as though it were written by a bad writer trying to emulate Faulkner. There were moments of compelling writing (the end is notable), but the story was largely crap. I cannot recommend this book to anyone who isn't determined to read it anyway.
Also, spanking.
-Cary
Also, spanking.
-Cary
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