Dispatches From the 8th Annual Oxford Film Festival

I was out past ten o'clock last night.  If you knew my habits, which are generally those of any 80-something retiree, you'd know that was news.

Oxford is holding its annual film festival this weekend.  We managed to catch several indie films, and while I don't have time to talk about them all, one does stand out.

It's a short called Pillow.  It contains less than a dozen words of dialog, all spoken by a character who never appears onscreen.  It's a twisted little tale -- devoted but dimwitted sons, monstrous mother, and a quest for a pillow as soft (literally) as an angel's wing, set in a nameless corner of the Depression-era South.  Deliciously cruel and inventive.

The documentary 'Mississippi Innocence' is easily the most powerful factual entry in the festival.  It's the heartbreaking true story of police and judicial incompetence in present-day Noxubee County, and the years-long struggle by the Innocence Project to set two blameless men free after they were railroaded by courts eager for a conviction, never mind the facts.

More later!  

The Unwriting Life

It is said that Tragedy is most often found on the heels of Triumph.

Nah.  I made that up, just now.  But it should be said, because in my experience it's true.

Take my triumphant completion of The Bonnie Bell, for instance.  I crowed about it in these very pages.  I even named a blog after the word count, which in retrospect wasn't a very smart thing to do, because that very word count came quickly back to haunt me.

The Bonnie Bell weighed in at a somewhat overfed 128,000 words.  Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with a novel being 128,000 words long.

Unless one's publisher has a firm 120,000 word upper length limit.

Oops.

So eight thousand words had to go.

I've known a few writers who would have balked at the very idea of cutting 8K out of a finished novel.  What of my vision, they would cry.  What of my artistic integrity?  What of my soul?

What of my bank account, quoth I.

I'm not one of those artsy guys.  If eight thousand words have to go, they have to go.

So I began the process I call unwriting.

Writing is easy.  You put words together so they bring the movie in your head to life.

Unwriting is harder.  You want to keep the scenes intact.  You want the flavor, the mood, the feeling of the words to remain intact.

But you've got to go into the text and make words disappear.  And you've got to do that without ruining the images and feelings they evoke.

It's like playing Jenga.  You've got a precarious, leaning tower of words.  Each word touches the others.  Removing even one is tricky.

Removing eight thousand is tricky indeed.

But that's what I get paid for.  And even my ego recognizes that if words I wrote can be removed without harming the work, then they should be removed, because they aren't vital.  And if they aren't vital, then they're just loafing around, and that's no way to write a novel.

So I'm unwriting.  Reading the thing aloud, listening for awkwardness.  Slashing when I hear it.  Tightening.  Tweaking.  Surgically removing dead tissue.

When I'm done, The Bonnie Bell will be leaner, meaner, faster, stronger.  And better. Much better.

It's back to the delete key for me.  I think it snowed earlier.  White cold stuff, that's snow, right?

No matter.  Back to unwriting!

Requiem

Like most writers, I've worked some unusual jobs.

Back in the 1980s -- yeah, I was of working age back then, but if any of you kids write in asking if I ever met Lincoln or what we did before radio, I'll drive to your house and smack you in the noggin -- I did shift work.  Graveyard shifts, mostly.

I met some fascinating people doing that.  There was Tom Yancy, who went on to become a Washington journalist.  Worked the White House Press Corps.  Tom commanded the quickest wit I've ever encountered, but he was kind soul and a hard worker.

We used to tune an AM radio to New Orleans radio talk shows while we burst and decollated all the computer-printed forms we generated during the night.  Most of the programs featured preachers -- not the cadaverous, monotonous lot we have around here, but flamboyant New Orleans late-night radio preachers to whom saving souls was a distant second in priority to selling their Hoodoo Bags and Magic Money Hands.

Those nights I spent running endless reams of paper through hungry bursters and listening to Tom critique charlatan hoodoo men were absolute comedy gold.  Of course, I didn't know that then.  I held it to be the worst sort of drudgery.  I was a man, you understand, bound for bigger and better things.

Fast forward a decade or two.

Tom passed a few years ago, far too soon.  He'd known he'd die young.  He even talked about dying, all those nights ago.  I wish he'd been wrong.

And today, I got the news that another of us is gone.  I won't say her name.  The incident which led to her death is all over the news, but they haven't released any names, and I won't either.

She was a nice person.  We all liked her.  And though she was very different from the rest of us misfits, she  laughed with us, worked with us, drank bad coffee and talked the night away with us.

The bursters are gone.  The AM radio too.  That whole room is silent now, and empty.

So, to the valiant members of the dreaded Third Shift, I lift my glass in salute.  Both of you left this world far too soon.

You will be missed.

Live From New York...

If you grew up in the US during the 70s, 80s, or 90s, then you're familiar with the TV show 'Saturday Night Live.'

Back in the day, SNL was the best thing on TV.  Akroyd.  Murray.  Murphy.  Belushi.  And the list of names goes on.

Yeah, the show today isn't what it was, although it does have its moments -- my favorite bits are usually the Andy Samburg digital shorts and the opening.  Hearing someone shout 'Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!' is something I've been hearing for lo these many years.  At the end of a long hard week, it's reassuring, on some primal level -- yeah, the world may be falling apart around me, but all that can wait.

It's time for SNL.

This Saturday's guest host was Dana Carvey, former cast member (86 thru 93, I think).  His characters are some of my favorites.  He did Church Chat, Hans and Franz, and of course, Garth from Wayne's World.

The Church Lady and Wayne's World, complete with a cameo by Mike Myers, were featured in Saturday's show.  I loved seeing the bits again -- until I realized just how many years have passed since they were fresh and new.

Can I really be that freaking old?

Surely there's been some mistake.

But while I check my records in a doomed attempt to establish my current age at 27, here's a link for you to enjoy.  It's my favorite Andy Samburg digital short.  Enjoy!

Andy Samburg's 'Gonna be a Great Day' video

Get Yours At Off Square Books

And now for a bit of shameless self-promotion!  My latest print book, THE MARKHAT FILES, has hit the shelves at Off Square Books in Oxford.  Here's a pick of the cover -- oh, and note that 2 copies of my other printed Markhat novel, HOLD THE DARK, are right beside it:

The Markhat Files

So, if you live in or near Oxford and you've been waiting for the book to hit the stands, they've hit! And remember, for each copy of THE MARKHAT FILES sold, an angel gets a puppy.  Or maybe it's a kitten.  Either way it's cute and fluffy and its got big trusting eyes and you feel a sudden irresistible compulsion to buy this book right now yes right now go go go...

So hit up Off Square Books and make a huge scene when you buy the book.  Really.  Run up to the shelf, grab the book with both hands, then scream "I have been looking for this book for ages AAAAAAAAGH here it is AAAAAGH MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!" before throwing wads of cash at the confused clerk and then charging out into traffic on the Square.  

Let's make this an event.

So, to recap -- THE MARKHAT FILES, Off Square Books, 662-236-2828, open 9:00 AM till 7:00 PM Monday through Thursday, 9:00 AM till 8:00 PM on Fridays and Saturdays, noon till five on Sundays, give me a call and I'll drive you myself if you'll buy a few books!

Snowmen in the Mist

If you live pretty much anywhere in the United States, here's your weather forecast, in a single image:

Sorry about that.  Those of you who have already endured seventeen feet of snow this winter are probably ready for a bit of sun -- but that isn't likely to emerge for some time now.

Here in Mississippi, all we're getting are winds and heavy rains, both howling down from a lead-grey sky.  I got a faceful of cold rain a while ago, driven by a gleeful gust that I suppose had been dying to slap someone since leaving Alberta.  I took the assault personally, and had words with the atmosphere. 

In non-weather news, I have decided to update my ancient version of Word at home before I'm too deep into the new novel.  Yes, I know, word is a product of Microsoft&Evil, Inc., but it's also the industry standard and unless one wants to pay for a WordPerfect to Word conversion and then re-write the whole thing because the conversion is flaky at best, one will use Word from the start and like it.

I want Word 2010.  Word 2007 is slightly cheaper, but not much, and I'll probably spring for the extra twenty bucks or so and get the latest and greatest.  I've looked at some of the new features in Word 2010, and it seems the biggest changes have been to add shadows and reflections to the various fonts.

Really.  Shadows and reflections.  Just what a weary-eyed editor wants to see -- squiggly Olde English characters, in light yellow, casting delicate shadows at their feet and dim reflections in the background.  Either one alone assures a quick sale.  Make a note of that, all you up and coming young writers...heh heh heh.

What I really get, though, is compatibility with everyone else.  My version is so old I have to use an actual pencil.  When I click HELP, a little old man eventually wanders up to the house and says "Eh?"  When I decide to save a file, I have to have a wax cylinder ready.

You get the picture.

I'm still working on the opening to Brown River Queen.  I'm taking it slow, having fun with it, letting the rest of the book plot itself out in my subconscious while I fiddle with the first paragraph.  You hear that, subconscious?  I want this thing plotted, paced, supplied with relevant subplots, and moving along a graceful story arc by the end of next week, or it's another marathon of old 'Love Boat' episodes for you, pal.

Oh, and if Microsoft is reading this, and I must assume that they are stroking a fat white cat and plotting world domination while reading this, you could generate some much-needed good karma by sending me a free copy of Word 2010 (the 64-bit edition, please).  

Chasing Chandler

"It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars."

Raymond Chandler, THE BIG SLEEP

Now that, gentle readers, is how you start a novel.

Anyone who reads that opening knows they're in for a ride.  I've read and re-read that opening passage a thousand times -- ten thousand times -- just trying to pick apart every last nuance of it.

Darn right I'll steal, but only from the best.

Every time I start a new book, I try my best to start it with an opening as powerful as Chandler's above.  I do this for two reasons -- one, because it hooks the reader and draws them in, as surely as flies to trout.  And two, because no editor alive could resist the siren song of Chandler's prose, and verily, this author needs a new pair of metaphorical shoes.

So now that I'm starting a new book, I've got another shot at matching Chandler's famous opening.

There's a lot of drudgery, tedium, and just plain hard work involved in writing.

But this is one of those moments that is pure magic.

Once upon a time...

Spooky Moon

A picture is said to be worth a thousand words.  I doubt this, since the only words that apply to many pictures are "Is that your thumb?" and "How long has your camera been broken?"

With that in mind, here is a picture.  I call it Spooky Moon, because A) it looked spooky when I took it, and B) it's the Moon.

Fig. 5a, re: the Moon

That's precisely the kind of Moon I always picture when I'm writing.  So, if you're reading something of mine and the Moon is mentioned, think big and ominous and, in the spirit of accuracy, also grainy and overexposed.

I do love a big fat harvest Moon, served up with a bit of chill in the air.  

But wait, you may ask.  With so much going on in the world, why are you posting old pics of dubious quality and ignoring the historic events unfolding in Egypt, for instance, and elsewhere?

You'd be right to ask that.  After all, my old blog was nearly all political.  

But this time around, the sad truth is that I just don't give a wet hang.  I'm not mad anymore.  I'm not appalled, or shocked, or outraged, or even mildly discombobulated.

I just don't care. 

So if Charles Manson is installed as Speaker of the House, or if a bag of Cheetos winds up on the UN Security Council, fine.  You won't hear me grousing about it.  Raise taxes to pay for public displays of ornamental taxidermy.  Establish a government commission to regulate gerunds.  Make it illegal to demonstrate left-handedness on a Tuesday.

Yawn.  

I've decided to defend myself with stout walls of military-grade apathy.  I shall erect a fortress of impenetrable uncarium.  My lack of concern to matters domestic and foreign will be not only visible from space, but also a navigation hazard due to its blazing, continuous intensity.

So, no more Dick Cheney jokes.  No more mixed references to American foreign policy and massive head injury.  Nevermore shall I cast scorn, corn, or Bjorn toward Washington or those that dwell within.

With that, I bid you all goodnight.  I hope a spooky Moon smiles down upon you.

Blast From the Past

The thing about the net is this -- it keeps everything.  Maybe it's an old photo of you in a schoolgirl outfit and a Richard Nixon mask with an aquarium full of ferrets balanced on your head (okay, maybe that's just me).  Maybe it's the complete record of an ill-advised flame war in which you were a combatant back in 1999.  Maybe it's that old high school yearbook picture someone on Facebook keeps reposting.

In my case, it's a short story I sold way back in 2004 to a webzine named Abyss&Apex.

The story is called The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree.  You can still read it, for free, seven years after it was posted.  Abyss&Apex is still going strong.

This is one of the few stories I set in the so-called real world.  It's about two white kids befriending a mysterious black man in 1970s Mississippi.  Yeah, there are ghosts.  Everything I write has ghosts.  A therapist should probably address that, someday.

I just re-read DD Dupree again today, mainly to see if something I wrote seven years ago would make me first cringe in horror and then hide under the desk in shame.  Surprisingly, it doesn't.  My writing has changed in the last seven years, but that's a pretty good story.

If you've gone and read the story, you might be interested to know that the character Wade Lee was based on a real man, who was really missing both legs and an arm.  He lost them the same way the Wade Lee in the story lost his -- they were torn off by a corn picker.  And the real Wade Lee lived in a tiny shack exactly like the one in the story.

The Browny Woods are based on a real place, too.  The real location has no name, but I could take you to it, and I think you too would feel the same creepy sense of  being watched, of being asked for something, that I always felt there.

The grease truck man?  Also based on a real person.  I worked at a deli as a kid, and we emptied spent fryer grease into a huge barrel behind the store.  It vanished, twice a month, in the dead of night, whisked away to parts and fates unknown.

So if you're bored and you've got a few minutes to kill, here's a blast from the past, entitled The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree.  Enjoy!

A Brief Blast of Summer

From the looks of things, we're all fairly sick of winter.

I am.  As much as I loathe the unrelenting heat and merciless humidity of a Mississippi summer, I'm ready to trade in cold rain and lingering snow for heat prostration and chiggers.

So, for anyone else ready to bid farewell to short dim days and long cold nights, here are a few reminders of what's in store for us, a few short months from now.

I call the image above 'The 4th of July.'  Mainly because I took it on the 4th, at the big fireworks show here in Oxford, right on the edge of campus.  I took this shot with a Pentax K1000 film camera, ASA 400 film, and I held the shutter open manually with a cable.  I got lucky and got the explosion, and got very lucky and caught the spectators too, in all their blurry glory.  Long live film, baby!

The next shot is from Cade's Cove in Tennessee.  Those are the Great Smokey Mountains in the background. That's grass in the foreground.  I guess.  If it's not on the salad bar, frankly I don't know much about it.

Finally, we have a glorious sunset, shot from my own backyard.  It was nice and warm that night.

Not a single snowflake anywhere in that sky!

Wait until about August.  I'll be blogging about how wretched the heat is, and posting pictures of last month's snow.  Such is human nature.

Lou Ann is with me now, just a few feet away.  She's on her back in the recliner, with all four feet stuck in the air.  Her tongue is hanging out of her mouth, and despite that somehow she's snoring.  

I think maybe she has the right idea about wintertime.

Just roll over and sleep right through it.