Monthly Archives: January 2008

fun new game for all you writers out there…

find a writer buddy. if you need one, comment below, and see if anyone steps up to volunteer to join you.

then, pick the last three things you wrote about. exchange this information with your writer buddy for the last three things they wrote about.

now, both of you write a short story.

fun, right?

hell yeah it’s fun!

i’ve already got a writer buddy this round, but check with me later and we’ll see if my schedule is free.

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if i had a camera, i would have taken a pcture of this sign

squeezed between a discount liquor store and a laundry service were these black letters on a white messageboard:

special laundry pants
help wanted

i spent the rest of the bike road home imagining what special laundry pants might look like. perhaps they are made of the same material that one uses in lint brushes. one walks around, and everywhere their pants touch, the lint magically collects upon the secial laundry pants.

either that, or they look painfully colorful like a bottle of laundry detergent, and no amount of bleach could ever reduce the eye-searing agony of viwing them.

regardless, help is definitely wanted among the signmen of the world.

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Whoops!

I just got this book:
http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=httpjmmcdtrip-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0312375042&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr

Confused with this book:

http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=httpjmmcdtrip-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0441015220&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr

When I was e-mailing the wrong person to congratulate them, because one of them (the latter) just made it to the NYTimes Bestseller list.

Of course, you do know that both are going to get to the list, so it really is very easy to get them confused. Give it a few weeks, Rox. Maybe a few days.

Still, don’t they both look so shiny and nifty and cool?

(oh… and 8 days left!)

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count down with me now….

ten days left until the book comes out.

tomorrow, there will be nine.

no, i probably won’t be coherent enough to update regular-like until then.

first signings

16-Feb 1:00 PM Borders@Hulen and I-30 in Fort Worth
17-Feb-08 2:00 PM Eurotazza Cafe on Bryant Irvin in Texas (link somewhere on the right… Hey, I’m there right now! *sips Americano*)
22-Feb Allday ConDFW
23-Feb Allday ConDFW <- Book launch party in the ConSuite beeotches!
24-Feb Allday ConDFW
1-Mar 2:00-4:00 PM Barnes and Noble in North Arlington on Collins, in the shadow of the new stadium.
2-Mar 2:00 PM Barnes and Noble in Hurst near 183/820, across the highway from Northeast Mall, where the North Texas Speculative Fiction Workshop regularly meets.
8-Mar 1:00:00 PM- 3:00PM Books-A-Million in Grapevine Mills Mall, the only Books-A-Million in D/FW.

There will be more. Makr yer calenders guys and dolls.

And come by, say hello, buy a book, get some chocolate.

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abandoned in the air

My mother was pregnant out of wedlock. She was locked up for it.
The old women shook their heads. Then, the old women gathered round the rudder wheel. The engineers were busy making their calculations. Until then, my mother was locked up in the bilge. The ship’s crew and passengers gathered round the rudder wheel.
The pilot ignored all of it. He had to guide the ship through the jet streams, and had little patience for crowds clogging his viewports, thermometers, and turing engines. He pushed the elder women’s bodies away from the wheel lest one of them lean in a roll and push the wheel to our doom.
The crew and passengers waited for the engineers to return from their abacuses and papers and quills.
I abandoned them there. Nothing I did there mattered. I went down to the hold, to my mother. She sat on her haunches in the little cell. If they decided her crime was too much weight upon the helium,
“Will they throw you overboard this time?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly, Crumpet,” she said. “It’s all an act. The old birds are just trying to make a big show to scare all you children.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be, Crumpet,” she said. She reached her fingers out from the cell bars. She ran her hands through my hair. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
First, the engineers measured the impact of the weight upon the hydrogen core. Then, they gave their numbers to the elder women that rationed food. The elder women made their recommendation based on a male or female child. The boys are bigger, with larger appetites. The women would set a weight limit for the new child that might be very high or very small. I had heard a rumor that once the weight limit was five pounds. When the baby was born, it was six pounds. It was thrown overboard immediately. No record exists in the logs because the child was never even given a name. It was just excess weight dumped into the endless sea.
All the people wait around the rudder wheel. They vote on their recommendation, and argue the numbers. The passengers and crew listen in utter silence as the women speak. There are no secrets on an airship, after all. Even I knew who my mother’s lover was, and I was only a child of nine.
When the elder women argued the number into a unanimous vote, they wrote their recommendation and amended it onto the form that would go to the Captain. They did this at the rudder wheel so their old legs wouldn’t have to travel far to the Captain’s tea room behind the bridge.
The bilge deck was at the lowest point on the ship, just below the bridge. I didn’t have many ladders to climb to abandon all the people crowded around the Elder women, cluttering up the ladder to the higher decks and the storage halls where the fishermen should have been busy on the calm day with their hundred yard twine and the gentle seas below their windows.
“How’s Jonathen doing?” she asked me. Jonathen was my little brother. I hadn’t seen him since my mother was taken to the bilge. The last I saw of him one of the elder women had carried him off.
“He’s fine,” I said.
“And what about Clarence?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “Shouldn’t he be here?”
“Of course not,” she said, “because he knows everything is going to be fine.”
Clarence was the engineer’s son that had done this to my mother. He was only ten years older than I was. The baby’s grandfather was right this second working the numbers to decide whether his family’s great shame was going to live or to be tossed into the sea.

***

somebody tagged me in comments. will i be it? will i not?

this i do not know. i do know that today i will not be it.

mayhap tomorrow.

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public appearances

You know, one of these minutes, I’m going to put a post up here with public appearances that I’ve scheduled, so anyone can track me down and stab me with pointy objects.

Also, this will come in handy for folks who want to rob my apartment. They’ll know when I won’t be home!

Hm… I still need to do one, but I am talking myself out of doing it tonight.

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coolest moment in my writing life, yet:

coolest moment in my writing life, yet:

one of my writer heroes just outed himself as one of my new fans, at his blog.

http://www.jeffvandermeer.com/2008/01/21/last-dragon-by-jm-mcdermott-bes
t-first-novel-of-the-year-or-just-one-of-the-best-period/

If you’ve never visited Ambergris, let me assure you should. Jeff VanderMeer is one of the world’s leading fantasists.

And, he likes my book!

I remember when I first got an e-mail from him about my book, and it took a good long while for me to squelch my inner fanboy enough to actually read the message.

This is awesome!

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cowboy at breakfast

(old junk found hiding on mom and dad’s computer…)

I’m sitting at the table eating eggs
and pancakes and the deepest coffee dregs.

these stupid rats keep rubbing up
against my legs their teeth rip
at my leather shoes and furniture.

my bloody tile won’t clean clear.

everytime i turn another darts from
the walls and cowers under the chrome
frigidaire.

they must be in the walls
having sex — their rodent balls
so puny but so full of filth
every litter huge and hungry flees.

I stomp them dead with my sharp boots
those mewling rats of nibbling tooth

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do you know what makes me mad about "cloverfield"?

i’ve been working on this story, and submitting, and then working on it, and then submitting it (i think i might done got it, this time) called “dragon came to galveston to die”, about a big motherfucking monster that wanders ashore ahead of a hurricane on galveston island in tejas. the monster walks ashore, and then it fucking dies. no parasites. no military response. no gojira.

anywho, now every editor in the land is going to assume i watched handcamerafield and wanked out a bastardized version of it with a hurricane.

not true.

i’ve been toying with this one long before j j abrams infected the web with his viral marketing. see my local writer buddies who saw early drafts…

blah movie people. blah. blah on all of you.

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i like this cafe

two men are sitting across from me. One of them is reading Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse Five”. The other is reading “The French Revolution” by Mr. Doyle.

I like to ask people what they’re reading. I am always curious to see how people feed their brains.

Of course, the question arises: do people read one thing at a cafe and another at home, where no one is looking?

Hm. I do know that my computer will probably stop working any second now, and I just wanted to say that I have been taking a ride on an airship with Thomas Pynchon, and I am most pleased. Most, most pleased.

Indubitably, this text is most delightful.

http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=httpjmmcdtrip-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0143112562&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr

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