I threw. Scout ran. I threw again. Scout ran some more.
And now he waits.
Evidently when one uses “cyclobenzaprine” in a post, worry ensues. Fear not–my back is almost all better. I resume boxing next week.
This link to a Boston Globe article about my good friend Steve Trefonides is long overdue. He’s an incredible artist, person, and mentor. In the few years I’ve known him, I learned that self-doubt is universal–among artists especially, though maybe we just whinge louder–and the most talented seldom realize they are.
In 1961 The New Yorker tossed off a snarky mini-review of Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road. Does it dissuade? Actually, it made me want to go back and read RR again. Criticism does that sometimes. Like a man in a suit imploring you not to look behind that door.
Cyclobenzaprine is one hell of a drug. I now understand why they called it Mellow Yellow. But it’s gotten the back spasms under control. On that note (really?) I have some long-overdue pics taken by my (un)official photographer, Vincenzo Colecchia.
Short story shorter: Met Enzo while on book tour in Como. He runs a small bookstore there, a single room tucked among the sloping alleys of that old Roman village. We became fast friends, he and his lovely girlfriend visited us April ‘09, and we plied them with maple syrup, french toast, tapioca, and other random American goodies.
He also took this pic of our living room, complete with resident superdog:
The local diner was of particular fascination to our Italian friends. They’d seen American diners in movies. Never in person.
My eyes are closing. “Doped” would be an appropriate word. As would “fairly mulled” to coin an old Sinatra phrase.
The pre-order is here for LOSING GRACELAND. Barnes & Noble has the best price point, but the others work fine as well. Along with your local bookstore, let’s not forget, and they probably need the business.
Nine consecutive days of chin-ups turned my back into a spasmed mess. I’m lying in bed, legs crossed, listening to the whine of circular saws across the street.
Frank Frazetta died. He introduced me to Conan. The barbarian, that is. Without Frazetta we would not have this:
Almost every sci-fi/fantasy cover of almost every pulp mag post 1960-ish has that Frazetta composition: the thick-legged damsel in distress (often in foreground, dagger in hand), the broadsword-wielding hero in midpoint (broad shouldered, vein-strewn biceps), the dragon/long-fanged gorilla/green alien looming in the back.
I love Frazetta’s work. I love that in his later years he suffered a stroke and taught himself to draw with his left hand. I love that a first edition of his Conan portrait just sold for 1 million. Mr. Frazetta, may the afterlife hold plenty of thick-legged damsels. You will be missed.
The Facebook Fan Push begins. My publicist complains that I’m not doing enough to hype my Facebook fan page. Okay, okay–it starts here. Here’s the page. Click and become a fan. Our first goal is 1,000 fans by December 1st. ‘Nuff said.
“The Mensch” is in the hands of Those Who Can Do Something With It. All we can do is wait. One quick email–relevant to the topic, actually–and then I must go to bed:
Hi Micah:
What happened to your screenplay? Is it being made into a movie, and if not, why not? I heard that 98% of screenplays don’t get made into movies. Does that include stuff written by authors?
I didn’t like the end of your book, but the beginning and middle were okay.
-Danny
The 98% stat sounds anecdotal–hell, let’s just call it so–but the percentage is certainly high. Last I checked, my screenplay had gone to the screenplay graveyard (I’d like to envision a misty hill, the howl of wolves, a pale moon, etc., but it’s probably just some closet in a producer’s office). And that, my friends, is the last I’ll speak of this topic. Seriously. People love asking about screenplays; the reflected glory of a project that might somehow touch the mouths of celebs seems to summon more curiosity than a dozen novels.
I liked the end of my first book. Many people did, some people didn’t, which is the best I can hope for. Danny, I’m glad you at least made it through. At a reading in Seattle some guy ate the free cheese I’d set up near the book table, took one glance at the cover, and asked me, “What’s this about?”
“A young man goes to a wealthy college and gets mixed up with a group of hyper-intelligent rich kids,” I said. “They research alchemy and something bad happens.”
He shrugged, popped another cheese cube in his mouth, and said, “Fiction never sounds believable.”
Kinda’ awesome, right?I should’ve come back with that whole fiction-is-the-lie-that-tells-a-greater-truth. But I was tired, and pissed that he was eating all the cheese.
Been meaning to post this early Danny Elfman clip:
It’s atonal, bizarre, and…somehow ahead of its time. I think.
Question: How long until they resurrect The Gong Show? Was it not the proto-version of “reality TV”? (which is a label that must die, just as friend Brian Jenkins insists “epic fail” must be tossed in the word-bin).
The NYT ran a piece on one of my favorite directors Bong Joon-ho. Genre-blending at its finest.
Copy-edits are usually a chore, but the Random House copy editor is so damn good that I’m actually…well, entertained.
I’ve won the Saul Bellow Prize for fiction. Super-agent Jud and I celebrated by trading stories about Rick James until 4:30 a.m. I’m trying to convince Takashi Murakami’s NYC gallery to host the book launch. How cool would that be? Forget the book–seeing superflat up close is incredible.
This time of the year always finds me antsy; an hour hitting the heavy bag in the garage does little to calm my nerves. I’m between projects, and two options arise:
1. Begin something new.
2. Flee to Isla Mujeres.
Happiness may be found somewhere between those two.
You do not stand still. A man of genius should be like a young boy who is never, never and never will be a grown up. He must have a new style and new methods. Not for fashion’s sake, but because he has outgrown the old ways.
Wise words from Oscar Wilde’s dad.
It is hot today. My writing shed still holds the evening cool, but I feel heat encroaching. Right now, as I type, a cluster of hornets bangs against my window screen. Scout lies in the dirt, kong by his head, eyes narrowed.
So the year is almost finished, and the MFA program concludes, and I have a pile of stories in the middle of my floor. No idea what to do with them. Edit, maybe. Then send somewhere. Or just post them on this site. Other tasks beckon louder–copy edits for LOSING GRACELAND (galleys in June), movement on the graphic novel, and a two-week writing frenzy on the screenplay adaptation of THE MENSCH. There’s also the matter of novel #4. Seventy pages in it’s not terrible, and that’s all the incentive I need to stick with it. For now. A fickle bastard, I am.
Speaking of bastards, remember good old JACK? Well, I do. And he’s not gone. Just shelved, temporarily. I received an interesting email from–oh, hell. I’ll just put it up.
Mr. Nathan,
I finally got around to watching KILL BILL and it reminded me a little of the book you keep talking about. “Jack The Bastard.” Was this on your mind when you were writing it?
I too am from Buffalo. Thought you’d like to know that.
-C. Wiktor
Picasso said good artists borrow, great artists steal. Years ago–before KILL BILL–I watched a nice little Japanese flick called LADY SNOWBLOOD and thought to myself: “Self, this would make a good plot line.” I’d always wanted to write something set along the Tex-Mex border (a female classmate recently asked what the Tex-Mex border was; doesn’t everyone know the Tex-Mex border? It’s lawless, liminal, and one other L word…maybe licentious?). So I added one part female revenge tale to one part Tex-Mex spaghetti western, and you get the genesis of JTB.
For a graphic novel it’s an easier sale. For a novel, not so much. Hence the delay. And I knew a C. Wiktor in Buffalo, but I doubt it’s the same guy. If it is, what’s with the “Mr”?
