Ramblings of Jeff Somers, author
I keep a PO Box for my zine correspondence, and yesterday I found an airplane-sized bottle of vodka in it, sent by an angelic benefactor:
I suggested a few years ago in my zine that if people wanted to buy me a drink but couldn’t travel to New Jersey/New York, you could mail me a tiny bottle of booze, and more people than I would have originally imagined have taken me up on the offer. Thank god!
I have nothing coherent to say this morning, partly due to having drinks with the very interesting and talented Sean Ferrell at the World’s Greatest Bar last night. Sean and I share an agent and have been trading random pantsless jokes for months, so we decided it was time to put all that brain power into one place and pour whiskey over it. The experiment went well; I had some nice Glenmorangie Port Wood 12 year and we had a great conversation that ran the gamut from the movie memory hole to day jobs to the modern affliction that is modern pants requirements. Also, Sean outlined a story idea for a novel that I am going to steal, it was so good. Avast!
What was fun about meeting Sean, as well, is that at no time did either of us give any serious thought to dinner. Myself, I like to have cocktails after the working hours (9-5), and often when I indulge in cocktails (which for me means whiskey, neat) I slowly lose the desire for food until I wake up the next day starving. It’s hard to fnid folks who either share this sort of approach to serious classy boozing or who can at least tolerate it; usually people are tossing cheeseburgers at me, interrupting the flow of booze to me, which is unforgivable. In the immortal words of Mel Brooks as channeled through Gene Wilder: Food just makes me sick.
It’s a glum, rainy day in Hoboken today, which is good writing weather. Of course, any day is good writing weather. I think I’ve decided to put a personal embargo on any essays concerning Twitter and the Kindle-slash-eBooks; I’m personally getting tired of everyone weighing in on whether Twitter is destroying conversation and privacy as we know it or just a toy for overly self-liking kids, and I’m definitely tired of the debate about whether the Kindle will destroy print books and whether that’s bad or not. I do have my opinions, but I doubt either technology will change/destroy the world, as nothing – not even the goddamn hydrogen bomb – has managed to do that so far. I’m no fan of the Kindle (because it strips you of your rights as a reader) and I’m still trying to decide if Twitter is fun and useful or just weird and pervy, but I don’t fear either technology and so I think I’ll just let them marinate for a while.
I’m sure someone will alert the media.
I’m also pondering Lost, which I’ve watched faithfully almost since the very beginning. I’m not as excited as other folks are about this season, and I have 2 theories: One is the inevitable letdown whenever the curtain is pulled back. The only revelations in a story that really sock you in the head are the ones you don’t expect. When Tyler Durden turns out to be the evil second personality of the Narrator in Fight Club, that hit me in the head (let’s table discussions of my intelligence and perception for later, thanks). But with Lost, I’ve been waiting for these revelations – and guessing at them – for years now, man. It’s like any monster movie: The Monster always seems cooler and more badass when all you get are shadowy glimpses and people screaming. When they real that latex-and-CGI hokum, you’re invariably less afraid of it. With Lost, half the power was in the mystery, and as those mysteries get revealed they simply become spokes in the plot wheel, and thus a bit of a letdown.
My other theory is that Sci Fi is leaking into the mainstream at such a rate that you have a lot of folks who have never read/watched a time-travel story in their lives suddenly hooked on this show and it. is. blowing. their. minds. Don’t get me wrong: Lost is a great show. But I’ve read so many time-travel stories that the idea of looping back on your own life doesn’t, by itself, amaze me, so maybe I’m wanting more from Lost than some folks who started watching because it was a creepy and well-done survival story at first.
Anyway, I started this post at 10:30AM and now it’s 2:11PM, and I did absolutely nothing in-between. Talk about Time Travel. I’m apparently fast-forwarding through my entire life.
I’d never claim to be anything like a technology guru; as a matter of fact here’s a typical conversation I have with my friend Jeof all the time:
ME: What time is it?
JEOF: With my new IPHONE TOUCH, I can have the time read to me by Clive Owen any time I want. (Waves hands in magical gestures over iPhone)
CLIVE OWEN: It’s 3:15, mate.
JEOF: My IPHONE TOUCH also makes cookies whenever I want.
ME: (Looking down at his own ancient Nokia phone). My phone lets me play Tetris.
So whenever I stumble up to the podium to say anything about technological issues, keep this in mind. Still, I’ve been Twittering for a few weeks now and thus I imagine myself to be an expert, the same way I read one book on Chess in 2001 and played a free Chess game on my computer 5,982 times until I finally beat it, using the same opening each time (Queen’s Gambit), and decided I was a Chess Grand Master. So what I’ve noticed about Twitter – and, dare I say it, social networking software in general – is this: The name of the game is making yourself seem smarter, cooler, and more informed than you actually are.
Social Networking Stuff like Twitter or Facebook is sold on the idea that people want to be more in touch with each other, and since we live in a world where you’re in front of a screen of some sort (PC, phone, PDA) most of our day, the best way to do this is via Teh intarwebs, which Jebus sent to save us all. This may be true; just because I’m a dislikable bastard who doesn’t actually want to be more connected to people, since people frighten and confuse me, doesn’t mean the rest of you aren’t tickled to have an always-on connection to your (possibly imaginary) digital friends. But once people are one the social networks, they seem to spend most of their time trying to convince you that they’re smart, funny, and knowledgeable, when we all know they aren’t.
Twitter is the worst: Everyone on Twitter wants me to think they’re an expert on something. Writing, real-estate, Search-Engine Optimization, or – in a funky twist of the space/time continuum – Twitter itself. You can’t call yourself KINGOFREALESTATE without me thinking you want me to believe you know a thing or two about real estate, homie.
Homie? I should stop writing these posts drunk.
The time-delay aspect of these sites allows everyone to massage their public image in a way a live, face-to-face interaction doesn’t allow. Even Twitter, which thrives on immediate, apparently lag-free interactions (when the fucking site is actually working) allows everyone a small window for quick googling to pull up facts, quotes, or links that would have to hide behind a vague statement if you were, say, in a bar. Even someone like me can seem erudite and informed, when obviously I spend my days drinking at inappropriate hours, playing guitar badly, and giggling.
That time-lag is important. It’s short enough to appear instantaneous to our wetwork brains, but long enough for quick, broadband research. If it was perceived to be any longer, the illusion would be broken. If it were any shorter, no one would be able to type star wars quote bad feeling fast enough.
This is what technology is being applied to, kids: Making us look good. More and more, I figure this is what technology will be exclusively applied to. Eventually I’m sure we’ll all have earbuds which will supply information to us on the fly, solely so we can impress first dates, which would be pretty cool. Although I would probably use mine solely to have my own quotes piped into my ear, which surprises no one.
Met up with reader[1] and sometime blog-commenter Damaso yesterday at Rudy’s Bar and Grill in New York City yesterday, after conquering my general fear of everyone who is not already known to me. Aside from a very interesting conversation about a variety of topics, and some of Rudy’s delicious Rudy Red beer, Damaso gifted me with this:
That’s right, moonshine from Hungary. When Damaso emailed me some weeks ago saying that he’d read my pleas for more, more more! liquor on this web site and in my zine and in just about everything I write, and he would bring me back some excellent homemade liquor he’d encountered in his travels, I didn’t believe him. When he emailed and suggested we have a drink so he could pass it over to me, I thought he was probably there to kidnap me and force me to be his own personal ghost-writer (shut up, that happens ALL THE TIME).
In reality, Damaso’s a cool guy and we had a great time drinking and chatting – though I drew the line at risking my life on the free hot dogs that Rudy’s offers. Damaso took a chance, and I hope he is still with us today. And also, he wasn’t lying about the homemade hooch. Sometimes, being a world-famous writer is worth the constant kidnapping attempts.
A week or so ago I was sitting in my agent’s office, signing some contracts. Since I infect everything I do with incompetence and laziness, we had some trouble getting things going in the right direction:
ME: Uh, was I supposed to sign this page?
AGENT: (peering through cloud of brimstone and smoke that swirls around her perpetually) No! <thunder rolls> Does it have your name next to it?
ME: Uh. . .no.
AGENT: Only sign the ones that do.
ME: Thanks. <Flips pages and signs several> Uh. . .it says here sign in blue ink. This is black.
AGENT: Lord, give me strength.
ME: Also, I’ve been signing a fake name. I don’t know why.
AGENT: What?!?
ME: And I was a little nervous. . .coming here. . .so I drank a whole. . .bottle of whiskey. . .
<JEFF PASSES OUT>
You’d think, after having several books published, having appeared on radio shows and on Con panels, after being interviewed and cashing all those advance checks, I’d feel like a professional. or at least an adult. The sad truth is, I don’t feel much different than I did a decade ago, when my biggest published credit was a comic book episode of Sliders (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I still usually feel like a kid, and a socially awkward one at that.
I don’t have business cards. Every time I go to some official event as a literary guest or something, everyone else has nice, professional-looking business cards to hand out and if I have anything it’s just some quickies I dashed off on the home printer. And that’s unusual; usually it’s just me stuttering and writing my email address on slips of paper.
The fact is, I still think of myself as a zinester who’s photocopying his latest issue on the company machine after hours, and writing mostly for himself. No matter how many people send me emails telling me they enjoyed the books, no matter how many books I actually publish, I still feel like I’m faking it in some way. The constant endrunkening is part of it, as is the pantslessness, the tendency towards gibberish, and my rare ability to make my own books sound boring when speaking about them off the cuff.
Oh yes, the pungent scent of incompetence is everywhere.
Except, of course, when I am actually writing. It’s always been the one time I feel absolutely competent: When I put two words together, they are meant to be. Writing the books has always been the easy part. Promoting and marketing–selling–them has always been hard. Which is, I suppose, how it should be. And socially awkward is why Jebus gave us booze, right?
Being a writer of Science Fiction, let’s face it: You’re making predictions. Now, of course, no one takes us seriously. First of all, we drink. A lot. My experience with writers is, stereotypes be damned, we’re all sodden with booze (or other things) all the time, and it’s actually surprising that we create anything worth reading. Secondly, despite the word science in our job title, the shocking truth is very, very few of us actually have advanced degrees. In anything. Even our unAdvanced degrees aren’t worth much, as a rule.
Still, despite this kind of deep unreadiness, I’ve made it my business to predict the future every day. In a gonzo, unserious way, of course, but still a prediction. Thankfully, no one really expects me to be accurate about these things. I write about a future where cyborgs eat your brain and steal your knowledge, and no one starts building anti-cyborg bunkers (that I know of; if you have, let me know immediately). However, some folks make predictions for a living in a more serious way: Pundits. There are always going to be people in this world who want to tell you what’s coming, and, like Nostradamus, people tend to only remember when pundits are right.
Thankfully, someone thought to start up http://wrongtomorrow.com/.
I think it’s great to track the ridiculous things people say are gonna happen and have some sort of serious statistical report concerning pundit accuracy. I have a feeling that the scores are going to be really, really low.
All I ask is that no one add me to the site for predicting brain-eating cyborgs and such.
What does jeff do when he’s bored? He creates ridiculous videos and posts them, of course. Because clearly Jeff needs more structure in his life.
Anyway, check out my Day in the Life of a Writer video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ4syncct44
Now, back to my busy schedule of napping and drinking.
Well, new best friend Ja’Michael Bush attempted to create a Wikipedia page for Your Humble Author here, which lasted about three seconds before the Powers That Be Wikipedia took it down. I never even got to see the actual page. <sniffles, looks away manfully as he masters his emotions> This is getting embarrassing, really. I’ve got what, the 356th best-selling science-fiction noir paperback books in the English-speaking world, and I don’t rank a Wiki? Jeff is the sad clown today.
We might have to splinter off and start Somerspedia. Who’s with me? Hello?
Ah, Monday. My sainted mother tells me that she still wakes up at 6AM every day despite being retired for 20 years now, trained by 40 years of waking up for school, for jobs, for her screaming, bratty kids. Similarly, I figure Monday will always be a drag even when I’m sitting on a yacht somewhere dozing through a good book and a bottle of good Scotch: I’ve been trained to view Monday was a descent into grim struggle.
Today though, there’s something fun to brighten my day: The Digital Plague is part of Bookspot Central’s March Tournament. In round one I’m up against Black Ships by Jo Graham, and after 2 votes (one by my sainted agent) we’re tied 1-1. Get over there and cause a ruckus and GIVE ME MY TITLE. I’m told there’s an engraved trophy, and I’ve never won a Major Award, so I demand everyone go there and make sure I win. Or I will be wrathful.
Twitter has its uses, eh? After tweeting some of my ridiculous schtick (I’ve been using Twitter as a sort of stream-o-consciousness platform, just riffing on whatever random topic comes to mind), this time concerning how I want everyone to send me their battered well-loved copies of my books in return for a pristine new copy. I’d encourage everyone to sign their used copies before sending them to me, and I’d start a little museum of the personalized copies of my books. Sean Ferrell replied with an even better idea: Folks should send me their used copies and I send them a new copy with a different ending.
This is genius. We quickly sketched out a fantastic idea: Publishing a book that had many, many different subtle variations. Like, 250 different versions of the book. We’d tell no one. No announcement, no PR campaign. One person’s copy would have the hero dying in the end, another’s would have him live. Some would be almost identical except for different adjectives used throughout. The point is, we’d tell no one. Slowly, people would start to realize what we’d done.
This would be an amazing idea, a social experiment cum publishing stunt. But of course you’d need a publisher that doesn’t mind being a little ridiculous, and the brass balls to do it all with a straight face. Not to mention possibly invalidating your story completely if there are sixteen different endings and a basic admittance that it doesn’t matter what adjectives you use in that scene.
Still. . .I’m tempted.
Of course, you could do this much easier with an eBook, just serving up randomly selected files from a pool. Still, as Nick Mamatas pointed out on a recent SF Signal mind-Meld, eBooks are overpriced currently ($10 for a file I don’t even actually own, but only ‘license’? Jebus save us) and many are encumbered with DRM. So eBooks currently=Fail. Plus also too, doing this sort of thing with actual printed copies is so much more grand and epic. People could spend years trying to collect ’em all! And then think of the translations!
So, next time you’re reading one of my books, you might want to call up a friend and compare some pages. You never know.