Tonight finds me watching Captain Kronos: Vampire Hunter, with a new laptop on my lap, my dog asleep on his bed, and my eyes fairly zonked from a long day playing Mass Effect 2. After being told some of my ideas for a new video game project seemed recycled from ME2, I decided to play the damn game. And you know what? They did seem recycled. And you know what else? ME2 is ridiculously fun.

It’s not a great FPS, and the character animations seem cockeyed at times–I try to make my character handsome but he always has a touch of fetal alcohol syndrome–but it doesn’t matter. This is the first game that’s made me feel regret about my in-game decisions. When given a choice of saving one crew member over another, I actually think about it. I sit there, in front of the TV, pondering. Uncharted never did this. Arkham Asylum never did this. Escape From Monkey Island did this, but I could always change it. In ME2, many decisions are final. What’s broken cannot be repaired. As it should be.

So we’re in the final stages of cover design for JTB (with Tradd Moore lending his considerable skills to the process) and it got me thinking about this whole big publisher vs. small publisher debate. What, you’ve never heard of that debate? In an eggshell: some folks think big publishers are better because of their deep pockets and their reputations as gatekeepers of the literary establishment. Other folks think small publishers are better because of their personalized treatment of authors and their E.F. Shumacher-Small-Is-Beautiful vibe.

I remain blissfully on the fence. Such generalities are impossible to prove/disprove. Aside from sports talk, I’ve never bought into the “A is better than B” game.  Having published with companies both big (S&S, Crown) and small (One Peace Books), I’ve discovered a few things:

1. Big companies deal with more turnover. Both editors who bought my previous books were let go/downsized/reassigned during the editing process. Does this happen at smaller companies? Yes, though not as frequently, I suspect.

2. Deep pockets doesn’t necessarily mean deep talent. This isn’t a criticism of previous editors/art departments–I’ve worked with some wonderful people–but my current editor has been astounding in terms of hitting the details. The residue from my big-house snobbery made me uncertain as to how a small press would deal with stuff like cover design, copyediting, etc. I quickly abandoned such prejudice.

3. Smaller houses often take bigger risks.

4. The ego stroke from a big house is significantly greater than from a small house.

Just to show you I’m not bullshitting: #4 is important to me. I love a good ego stroke. You long-time readers know that JTB has taken a long road to publication, beginning with S&S saying No, a bunch of other big houses saying No, Tokyopop saying Yes, my camp saying No in return, and then…I shelved it and started working on Losing Graceland. Short stories were written. JTB was chopped from novel to novella. Jud and I discussed a different approach, he sent it to One Peace, and they made an offer.

What happened to the poor author’s ego? I decided that having fun was more important than impressing imaginary naysayers. Some of you might say “You can afford to have fun because this is your third book.” I won’t argue that point. When Gods of Aberdeen hit the shelves I was miserable (carve miserable into tiny pieces and pick scared, anxious, and angry from the pile). I was afraid everyone would hate it. I was afraid I’d be exposed as a fraud. I was afraid nobody would recognize my genius. I was afraid I wasn’t as good as I thought. This terror played out in different ways; the first time I saw GOA in Brookline Booksmith I remember feeling so disappointed, that six years of work had produced a middling–okay, lousy–book.

We whip ourselves so others can see the lash marks, and maybe, we hope, they’ll decide to not take a few licks. It doesn’t work that way. Nobody whips a writer as hard as they whip themselves. Trust me.

Anyway. Working with a small house has been an absolute joy. I’m having fun. What more can any artist want?

Quick recommendation: Pulling John. A documentary about arm-wrestling. If you turn it off after ten minutes, email me and we can discuss your bad taste.

Has it really been that long since my last update?

‘fraid so. Sometimes writers go into their shell because of depression, and sometimes it’s because they’re just too busy. The latter applies this time. Thankfully.

So what’s new? I’m working on another video game, writing the first draft of my next novel–a big one, folks–and just finished final edits for Jack the Bastard and Other Stories.

Remember when I mentioned how Phil Noto would be lending his talents to JTB? There’s more. Michael Allred (of MADMAN fame) joined the team.

Yeah, it’s humbling. But that’s not all. I also got Tradd Moore:

And Russ Nicholson:

My fascination with artists dates back to childhood, where I first discovered my lack of drawing talent. After years of practice, this talent hasn’t grown. Need proof? Here’s a recent nude sketch (the model shall remain nameless), drawn with pen on paper:

Note the unusual lines, the (inaccurately) bloated torso, the misshapen areolae, the inexplicably-bestial left foot. The less said about the face, the better. Is that a navel with a tuft of pubic hair below? Did the model suffer a dislocated wrist? Was her left arm a victim of Thalidomide poisoning?

This was not drawn in haste, mind you. I spent a whole fifteen minutes on it. Perhaps this is one reason why I write–to illustrate a world I cannot illustrate any other way.

Yes. That must be it.

It isn’t cool to admit that procrastination sometimes wins. Especially when it seems that many authors boast about how often they write (this one included). So I’m deeming this my water-cooler break, even if it was preceded by two hours on Wikipedia and will be followed by an hour of exercise.

(See how I slipped that in? This is how you mythologize yourself: When I’m not producing novels, I’m either exercising, traveling, eating, or doing something that increases my authorial gravitas. That might even include reading about Fordlandia, courtesy of bizarre-story-buff Brian Jenkins.)

So let’s start with a quick chat about my schedule. The next few months should be interesting: another video game gig, work on my next book (about 1/3 finished, barring any major blocks), and marketing prep for Jack the Bastard and Other Stories. Editor-extraordinaire Erin Canning at One Peace delivered a tight ms.; her eye for echoes is very, very good. She called bullshit on one particularly purple passage, to which I first responded with hackles raised, then diminished to a raised eyebrow, then conceded with a shoulder-dropping sigh. Yes, it was bullshit, and yes, it needed to go.

Here it is. Er, was:

Henry’s head stared at Judge’s swollen feet. In the oxygen-starved gloom of his dying brain, those feet were the crescent halves of an autumn moon, and like all old, evil men, his last thoughts were that of regret.

As Erin so gently put it, that passage doesn’t fit in with the book’s overall tone. She didn’t bother picking it apart, because that’s not her job. That’s mine. Ready to pick?

“In the oxygen-starved gloom of his dying brain…”

Too many adjectives. Gloom is Gothic, oxygen-starved a bit too clinical; together they seem forced.

“…those feet were the crescent halves of an autumn moon, and like all old, evil men, his last thoughts were that of regret.”

Autumn moon flirts with cliche, and echoes gloom. Claiming that all old, evil men have regret is too gnomic for my tastes. Last thoughts is classic telling-rather-than-showing. I could’ve described a particular thought to demonstrate the regret, but even then, are the thoughts that important? Do they move the story forward? No. The character is dead. Instinctively, we shut down our interest in him because any agency he had is now gone.

Also: were that of regret is stilted and clunky.

This is why having a good editor is so important. She strangles the bad ones; I decide who gets revived.

Oh, what sort of twaddling madness is this?

http://nerdapproved.com/movies/han-never-shot-first/#more-52459

George Lucas explains—in a semi-coherent manner—that Greedo had always shot first. Han was never supposed to be a “cold-blooded killer.” Hence, the fan outrage at Lucas’ tweaking of the infamous cantina scene is misplaced.

Nope. I don’t believe him. I don’t want to believe him, because this means my idea of Han Solo as a smuggling, jaunty, charming anti-hero with a heart of gold who doesn’t stick his neck out for nobody (see: Rick in Casablanca), is wrong. I clung to this belief despite the Star Wars redux, thinking that Lucas had succumbed to his inner parent-group, but since he keeps bringing it up, maybe he really never wanted Han to shoot first.

Shock gives way to anger which quickly reduces to a shoulder-shrug.

One action does not negate an entire character. Despite Lucas’ absurd explanation, Han still deserves to wear the black leather vest. But this issue magnifies the fatal weakness in George’s craft: he insists on a simplistic, almost childish view of morality, reminiscent of Ron Howard at his worst. You see, having Han shoot second—my God, we’re still talking about this—doesn’t increase Han’s stature. It dumbs him down. The audience knew what was coming. Han knew what was coming. How could he not?

Greedo: I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time.

Han: Yes, I bet you have.

Why would Han wait? Why would anyone wait? Is he that naive? Does he think Greedo intends to merely insult him? To slap his face with a green glove? We know the answers to this rhetorical outrage, and it’s been asked so many times that I risk being seen as a Lucas-basher. Maybe I am. Who knows. Who cares? A character’s first scene is crucial; it sets a tone that the audience expects will be followed for the entire story. To do otherwise is a form of “viewer punishment,” unless narratively consistent reasons are given for that character’s shift.

A better way of saying it: Han Solo isn’t as cool anymore.

Hi Mr. Nathan,

I notice you talk alot about D&D. Do you still play it? How did it help you become a writer (if it did)?

Thanks for your time.

Sincerely,

G. A.

What a polite young man you are, G.A. Allow me to burst the bubble: I don’t play D&D anymore, and haven’t participated in a campaign since 9th grade.

But let me inflate a new bubble: I still read the 1st edition books, usually every few months. Why, you may ask? Because they’re fun, and they’re fun because they were (mostly) written by this chap:

That’s a young E. Gary Gygax. His stuff—specifically, MM1, MM2, DM Guide, Player’s Handbook—was my nightly reading back in high school. Yes, I also read the “important” books, but when I was feeling tired, or a bit down, or (especially) sick with a fever, nothing kept me entertained like 1st edition AD&D guidebooks.

I adopted British spelling because of Gygax and Lovecraft, until I realized that it made me sound Anglophilic, and my strong anti-nationalist streak demanded I cease. I also started using the word “dweomer” because Gygax used it. Last year I discovered he made it up. I’ll still use it, though. If “incentivize” is a word—and what an absolute crap word—then I’m using dweomer. You should, too.

As to your second question, playing D&D helped me grasp story structure. It was a practice field for world-building, character development, and narrative flow.

An important note: D&D contained very little irony. It was serious (while still being jovial) and demanded respect for the immersion.  Sounds like the mark of quality fiction, yes?

A not-so-important note: Without those books, I never would’ve discovered this fellow…

Okay, so maybe there was some irony back then.

My good friend Brian Jenkins claimed there’s a correlation between number of episodes in a series and the quality of that series. He’s right. Mostly. (Wolf Lake notwithstanding.)

So what of Sherlock, which only has three episodes per season? It’s a watchable show, a touch too slick at times, not as intellectual as it could be, and you can sense the disagreements behind the camera; the editing overwhelms the direction, veering from sublime (blurred-around-the-edges establishing shots of London, clever dissolves) to gaudy (CSI-style zooms, jump cuts, and jet-engine-in-reverse sound effects). Still,  I plan on watching the second season, though I’m becoming a bit impatient with the show. Bored, at times. And nervous–maybe that’s overstating, but I get nervous when shows with great potential start to falter. I want them to stay perfect. I want them to improve upon perfection.

Here’s the good:  Performances, casting, locations, crimes, costumes, lighting, explanation of said crimes, sleuthing, music, motivations and…those moments when it becomes a “hang out” show (especially in episode 2, in the Baker Street apt., when Watson, his lady, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson are all present).

Not one character is miscast. Not one performance is grating (even Moriarty, folks). And the heart is the heart: Sherlock and Watson are terrific.

Here’s the bad: Whenever it switches from intelligent, efficient BBC-style to CSI-style. The aforementioned jump cuts, the “Sherlock’s-eye cam.” Blech. Feels like directorial masturbation. Feels too American. It cheapens. It bothers.

(Annoying type #36: The guy who insists all British productions are better than American productions. Effective defense: Cite “Benny Hill.”)

Let Sherlock ponder, and let us watch him. We don’t need to see through his eyes. We only need to hear his explanations. Instead, they insist on showing and telling, which makes both redundant, which wastes our time. I don’t know what I’m looking at when Sherlock spies a pinhole in someone’s forehead, and while I appreciate the opportunity to figure it out, the deck is stacked; nobody can figure it out because we’re not given enough. So why bother showing us? I take Sherlock at his word. I trust he’s seeing what is there. Give me a few glimpses. Nothing more, nothing more.

(This only applies to the “real-time” observations. Once he’s figured it out, do the voiceover-while-showing-the-clues thing. That works.)

As for Moriarty, yeah, he’s weird. But it’s a necessary weird. Sherlock and Mycroft fulfill the smooth-talking British type, complete with arched eyebrow and RP accent. We needed Moriarty to sound and act different. Jenkins was right, though. The chap reminded me of this creature.

Someone asked, so here it is. My first–and last–entry in the “Al Qaeda is now freelancing for Zagat Restaurant Guide” failed internet meme. I thought it would catch on. It did not.

Renowned restaurant guide Zagat just announced Al Qaeda will be a part-time contributor. From their review of Goldblatt’s Deli in Upper West: Infidels will love “the hot pastrami on rye with just a touch of mustardy kick” though be careful of “Jewish conspiracies to poison pickles using the blood of demonic pigs” and recommends you “take up the sword in the beloved name of Allah, driving all non-believers to the fiery wastes of their doom.” Make sure to try their “perfectly-balanced Reuben” using “just the right amount of buttery, nutty Swiss” and then “find the nearest Jewess and cut off her head” before completing your meal with “some of New York’s best cheesecake.”

The semester started and I am very, very happy to be back. You know what comes out next month? You’re guessing Micah Nathan’s story in the February issue of Glimmer Train? You are correct. GT will contain my short thriller “Quarry” (among other excellent stories by various excellent writers).

I read about bees being used as security guards and it doesn’t feel right. Leave them alone. They’ve done enough for us. Also, hornets would be so much more effective. Or rats. With scorpions mounted on their backs.

We were in Buffalo for two whole weeks, a nostalgia-laden trip sprinkled with just enough of the new: a photo shoot with the awesome Katie Ambrose, dinner at some excellent restaurants, and various wintry evenings around the fire. I discovered Settlers of Catan. I finished a book by Camus. I didn’t write a lick.

I also rummaged. Through my old boxes and dresser drawers, wherein I found some old love letters, high school essays, and the occasional hate note.

Hate note?

Indeed. I went through a brief hate note phase back in junior high–blame it on hormones and self-exploration of one’s outrage–and thankfully I still have copies of those notes. Including this one:

A transcript of the outrage, for the curious:

Sean,

When you and me [sic] first met, I thought we would stay friends for a long time, but I was wrong. You lie! Craig was the one who said Kevin was “Grinch who stole Christmas,” and I agreed. Craig made it up! I’m so mad at you, not at Kevin. I think I should fight you! Not Kevin. You can’t blame any of this on Kevin or me, it’s you! You seem to use “double-crossing” a lot. That’s stupid, its [sic] called betrayal. You switch sides when your’e [sic] mad at someone. First your [sic] on my side, then your [sic] on Kevin’s.

I’m sick of it!

You were never a friend! You used me!

Never call me, never talk to me, I don’t even want to see you!

You pushed our friendship too far, I have a very long wick on my temper, but it has ran out!!!! [sic]

You don’t deserve to see my signed name!

And there we have it.

Katie Ambrose made me laugh. She kept shooting while I laughed. I was embarrassed.

(Said photos are for a Buffalo Magazine profile, due in their February issue.)

A few days ago I laid on my back, on the local high school football field, and stared at the clouds. It was 60 degrees and sunny. A winter without snow seems aborted–my shed isn’t cozy, my writing is a slog, and I long for an excuse to wear long scarves. Yes, yes, the lamentations of the relatively-spoiled. I know. Let me lament anyway.

Some excellent news: Phil Noto will be contributing his considerable talent to JTB, and while my tone may seem sedate, it’s only because I usually avoid exclamation points. I am, in a word, thrilled. I’ve been a long-time fan of Phil’s work–from his covers to his comics–and I can’t wait to see what he cooks up.

The uproar over Amazon’s sponsor-a-retail-spy is understandable; yes, they made a big no-no in targeting indie bookstores, and yes, whatever sort of backlash they receive will provide a nice (if very small) boost for the small business set. But what’s the real issue? Is it that Amazon is trying to corner the market in books, by cutting out booksellers, agents, publishing houses, etc?

I don’t know. And I’m not sure I care all that much. Well, a part of me cares–the idealistic bibliophile, who thinks all books should be purchased from Dickensian shoppes–but another part of me (we’ll call him the shrugger) thinks that whatever gets folks buying books is ultimately good for the entire industry. Why? Because it’s an open marketplace. Because challenge often spurs change, and we can already see how Amazon’s muscle has forced traditional publishers into revealing sales figures to their authors (something that should’ve been done long ago).

The doomsday scenario, imagined by several hysterical-types, is that Amazon will smite indie bookstores into ruin, leaving the masses clueless as to what books to buy. Or that this over-centralization of the industry will degrade literature. I shrug at all of it, including the recent Slate article that lobbed some (misguided) grenades at the so-called “cult of indie bookstores.” Art–including books–is a type of product. That doesn’t make it bad art. It just means it’s not as fragile as the screamers would have us believe. As long as bookstores are well-run, and offer services that online shopping cannot, I’m optimistic about their survival. Hell–I guarantee it.

(Besides, if price and convenience were the ultimate factors in Where A Person Shops, outlet malls would obliterate all else, and record stores would…okay, bad example.)

The end of the status quo is always bemoaned; blame it on our collective terror of death. Book lovers are, by nature, conscientious and romantic–we’re willing to spend a few more bucks if it makes us feel good.  Shopping at local booksellers feels good. Browsing the shelves feels good. Getting recommendations from the staff feels good. And sometimes, when it’s 2 a.m. and you’re internetting and you stumble upon a particularly compelling title, there’s Amazon. Thank god for them. Thank god for all of them.

Shadowgun made Yahoo!’s (now that’s some odd grammatical structure) “best-looking iPhone games.”

Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know. But still…I’m proud of this little guy. Here’s the Yahoo! slideshow.

A Memory

This morning, while shaving (my face) I remembered my second-favorite scheme from college. I used to strategize the sexiest “entrance” for girls coming to my apartment.

(“Entrance” might not be the best word because they were the ones entering, while I waited to receive them. Like a king. A foolish king, but a king, nonetheless.)

Sometimes I’d pretend to be sleeping on my couch, with Aristotle’s Poetics lying on my chest. Other times I’d be finishing a set of push-ups. But my ultimate “entrance” involved shaving; after watching one of those Braun ads–where the hot girl snakes behind the hot guy and rubs his freshly-shorn face–I was convinced that men look their best while shaving.

So I filled a large bowl with hot water, set it on the dining room table, lathered up, propped a mirror against the wall, and started shaving the moment I heard that unfortunate girl pull into my driveway. It was…weird. A kid standing shirtless in his living room, shaving out of a large metal mixing bowl just isn’t the same as one of those stubbly TV models.

Anyway, Shadowgun is awesome. Buy it.