What showed up in this unassuming envelope with the sick lightning-bolt-heavy-metal handwriting that looks more at home on a high school notebook cover?

The new Caketrain! Can’t wait to read it. How insane is that Cure All cover, btw? Looks like someone’s got a BBCDW coming their way.

Random thoughts:

I love that Dan Chaon takes advantage of a dimension of books that’s so simple but rarely gets taken advantage of: unlike a film, you cannot see the characters in a book. Some of the characters identities in AYR come into question and you get the sense that if you could only see them with your naked eye then this wouldn’t be an issue. An aspect that could make filming the book somewhat complicated:

(This is the best book trailer I’ve ever seen btw.)

Chaon puts his characters in the dusty flat plains of the midwest, the desolate northern territories, the hidden cabins of Michigan. He cuts up the isolated locals with brief moments in Las Vegas and the Ivory Coast. But for the most part he uses these lonely backdrops, ones that are rarely shown so honestly, not as places that industry has left unsullied, bastions of the real America, but as what they are: places where people go to disappear.

AYR is one of those books where it’s all about the third act. The first 2/3rds exist solely to setup the final 100 pages, and it’s evident when you’re reading it that these long ruminative chapters of characters hemming and hawing about the decisions they’ve made will eventually pay off if you just keep reading. But Chaon makes it frustrating sometimes as he’s so stingy with the clues, with the revelations, with the breadcrumbs. He makes you starve for information. Which can be a risky move. If you’re starving you’re either going keep reading or you’re going to go to McDonalds.

One thing I gotta mention though is his style. Chaon’s goes for simple and direct, which is great and I applaud him for that. But what feels simple and elegant at first gets tiresome a couple hundred pages in. The adverbs were what killed it for me. A few here and there are excusable, inevitable at some point. But used too often adverbs just read like lazy writing to me. Saying a character sighed wearily, or gestured nonchalantly, or looked blankly into the distance doesn’t really illustrate much for me. It makes one word do all the heavy lifting instead of dispersing it over an entire sentence. That’s not to say Chaon is a hacky writer. Far from it. There’s moments of true style in this book but they’re lopsided by the unnatural sound that adverbs make in my head.

While it did leave a bit to be desired in the language department, it had been a long time since I’d read a story as tightly crafted and intricately thought out as this. Something strangely satisfying in putting your trust in an author and having it pay off so well in the end. Thanks Dan.

Happy Friday everyone. As a special present for making it to the end of the week, we give you the fruits of the HTMLGIANT “When Writers Get Off” contest. In retrospect, it may have been wise to choose a less confusing title to parody, but whatever, it makes for some good ol’ fashioned time wastin’ on a Friday afternoon. Thanks to everyone who submitted!

And now, Annalemma is proud to give you a work of classical literature that has been totally porn-i-fied. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…

Finnegan’s Wank

force that through the green fuse drove the wildebeest in rear of the long bus with high seatbacks for high school play, untucked oxford shirt, corduroys unsnapped, downzipped to match her plaid skirt split thigh-wide, knees pinked, still drives me to wankshire, memory slick with swells of youth, yea, I was still a boy back then, virginia’s son, unlicensed but with mansome fingers, guitar-licking at the loudhouse, labial mimetics of miss winnie who would whimper first, a chorus, huff-n-hew, then lift me with her muttonbrooch, the niceliest mouthing of fist with slurp hole, oh, imagine the sound, how I would soak the buttoned cotton clean through. learned to launder by eleven, so dear mother, sweet saintly mami, immaculate cleanser of marriott and sheraton, would not know nor touch the spraycrust from breath slide, wring and bell-tongued ball (like wool-white plunge for heaven’s serf) of the selfsame girl who’d heave jameson at the freshman formal, but not before geyswerk beneath cloth table. we told ourselves no one could see, yet when discovered otherwise saw no need for disgrace, groan with willful eyes, glouch before mirrors, windows, open doors, like this one now, upon the aerie annalemma. finn’s splooge is yours.

– jesusangelgarcia

Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute, he tips un a topping swank cheroot, giving the Paddybanners the military salute, from out the belfry of the cute, to send more heehaw hell’s flutes, comming nown from the asphalt to the concrete, from the human historic brute, schwants (schwrites) ischt tell the cock’s trootabout, to traverse same above statement by saxy luters, and the Beer and Belly and the Boot, in spite of all that science could boot, like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot, very largely substituted taker of the tributes, for render and prender the doles and the tribute, when rodmen’s firstaiding hands had rescued, the prettiest pickles of unmatchemable mute, when an explosium of his distilleries deafadumped all his dry goods to his most favoured sinflute.

Saddenly now. On a second wreathing, a celt, unwishful as he felt, was pelted (in pelted thongs), lugging up and laiding down his livepelts (birthday pelts), a lad’s thing to elter, and boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt, where the poules go and rum smelt, and yet smelt the highstinks aforefelt, erning his breadth to the swelt, and devious delts, a bright tauth bight shimmeryshaking for the welt, and candlestock melt.

– William Walsh

Finnegan sat in the corner, spent.  He was sad now.  The softest part was always the hardest part. He spit on the ground and looked around.  He grabbed a dirty towel and weakly cleaned himself.  A big fart let loose from his fat ass. The magazine he used was called Phoenix Park, and Finnegan made a note to himself to remember the title.  It was a keeper.

The bachelor’s apartment only had one room, other than the bathroom.  The only sink was in the bathroom.  Finnegan kept a hot plate on a table near the only door in the apartment.  He occasionally cooked grill cheeses on the hot plate.  He had never cleaned the hot plate.  He owned two dishes, and he would clean them in the shower at the same time he showered himself.  He owned one fork, and cleaned it with spit.

Through the dirty window, Finnegan spied a bird flying.  He coughed once and turned away from the window.  He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, scratching his belly.  He imagined the two Asian girls he saw at drycleaner earlier in the day.  They leaned over a sink, each washing a shirt.  One was tall like a tree. The other was squat and short, like a stone.  They were both beautiful.  They were both perfect.  Each time he jerked it thinking of them, he felt closer to them.  Every day he felt closer to them.

Finnegan waited to get hard again.  It wouldn’t be long.

– P. William Grimm

Attended the Publishing in the Age of Blah, Blah, Blah event at Mellville House last night. Pictured from left to right: Lev Grossman, Dennis Loy Johnson, Joe Meno, Sarah Manguso, Heidi Julavits and Myla Goldberg. Not pictured: John Wray, Tao Lin, and Joshua Henkin.

The question of e-books and online publishing has, thus far, been primarily discussed with editors and publishers. But what about the people writing the books? No one seems to be giving a shit what they think about any of this. Why don’t we ask them?

And with that, a panel discussion was born.

I didn’t take any notes, nor did I snap any photos except for the one above (was a little gun-shy as it was a somewhat formal event and I didn’t want to be that weird, scene report, blogger dude, but apparently that’s what I’m becoming), but here’s what I got out of the discussion: e-books and online publishing will not, nor should they, effect the author whatsoever.

Joe brought up an interesting point that if you’re a writer, why wouldn’t you want any possible avenue of distribution at your disposal?

E-books and online publishing is an area of frustration and panic for editors and publishers because it’s strange and new, two concepts that seem to scare them. And it maybe has the potential to fuck with their wallets. Writers make money off of book sales, print or electronic.  But here’s why it’s not going to effect them whatsoever: out of eight authors on the panel only one of them professed to make a full time living off of their novel writing.

Some of your favorite authors, really successful and talented ones, have supplemental income. Teaching, editing, copy writing, janitor, whatever. You know this. Writing’s never been a gold rush industry (though with the amount of people trying to write these days, you could have fooled me). And this was where the night got a little depressing. This panel of critically acclaimed, award winning authors came flat out and said that they weren’t making a livable income off their books.If they can’t do it, what hope is there for us?

But there was also an interesting discussion point brought up that the writer needs to be industrious and entrepreneurial, to be experimental with ways of getting their work out to people. John Wray went served as the “opening act” for Colson Whitehead on his last book tour. And for another book tour he proposed to his publisher that he ride a raft down the Mississippi River.

I used to think that now that the old publishing model was broken people were struggling to find the new one. But I don’t think that anymore.

Our age won’t be defined by finding a new model to operate from. We are the age of constant flux. The age of uncertainty, like jumping form one cracking iceberg to the next, we are surviving, taking chances. Very scary, but also very exciting.

Random notes:

Two separate mentions of the word “codify” were used by two separate people on two separate topics of discussion.

I introduced myself to Tao Lin to make sure there was no bad blood over a recent blog post of mine. He punched me in the face.

Actually, he said he liked the post and I gave him a magazine.

Holy shit, did you know that the deadline for our first themed issue is this Sunday?!? It’s true. If you want to be in the print issue this time around you’d better get your stuff in soon. For the month of February and March we will be reading for online stories only. The shortlist is growing and there’s some impressive names on there as is, so quit monkeyin’ around and send in your A+ material. Today!

Random thoughts:

Last Sunday night I rode the L train out to meet David Peak at his house. I texted him beforehand to get his address. He texted it back to me and also wrote It’s a little dirty in the hood, just to warn you. David lives in a neighborhood that straddles Brooklyn and Queens. A hairy neighborhood apparently, one that’s getting its first trickling of gentrification. I got off the train, the furthest I’ve ever been on the L. It was quiet on a Sunday night, all the storefronts with their metal shutters drawn closed, as if in preparation for a hurricane. The few people on the street were either walking to or from work. There were even fewer white people. I walked past a trio of white women and we made eye contact with each other as if to say “What are you doing here?” In his building there was a baby crying that you could hear from every floor. Across the street was a gang of stray cats. It was an apt preface to reading David’s chapbook.

This book is about being a young white man living in a fucked up city. Or at least, living in a fucked up part of the city. David collects images of decay, of cruelty, of insanity, and shows them to you, not to force you into guilt or pity, but to get you to recognize that we live in a fucked up world, and that you’re a fool if you ever forget that.

Excerpt:

Economy

I read in a magazine that you’re never supposed to give pets away for free on Craigslist. You’re always supposed to charge money, like forty dollars minimum for a cat, or maybe more for a dog. A person interested in killing animals for pleasure would never pay forty dollars.

Google imaging “Museum of Fucked” brings up some unsettling pictures.

Head over to HTMLGIANT where the results for the “When Writers Get Off” contest have been announced. Congrats to Chris Killen for having the most depraved brain.

Went to the Rumpus/HTMLgiant thing last night. It was at this kinda fancy place on the boarder of Chinatown and LES. I said hello to Stephen. I went to shake his hand and he offered me a hug. He said he linked us yesterday. I said he was correct and I thanked him. Then I said it was good to see him and I walked away. He started speaking and then asked everyone to sit on the floor.

So we did.

This is the lady who runs the NY end of things on the Rumpus. She was wearing an amazing dress but she was very uncomfortable in front of the microphone.

This is Justin Taylor. It’s very strange seeing people, who are previously known to you only over the internet, in real life. This was an entire night of these encounters.

Tao Lin. Same could be said for people whose books you’ve read. He quit halfway through cause his throat was bugging him.

This girl sang Niko Case songs. I looked over and Tao Lin was asleep awake.

This is a terrible shot of Deb Olin Unferth.

This is a not-as-terrible-but-still-unsatisfactory shot of Deb Olin Unferth. Which is unfortunate, because I love Deb Olin Unferth.

It was in a very strange bar/restaurant place where they decided to put the stage at the top of the stairs. Which meant if you wanted to go get a drink you were out of luck if the show started up when you tried to get back to your place, and you were forced to watch strange images projected onto the wall of the bar and imagine they were accompanying the stories being told.

Tao Lin, Alina Simone and Stephen Elliot read a transcript of a facebook chat she had with a complete stranger.

And then there was Jeff Lewis. Who I used to not like, but then respected him quite a bit more after seeing him live.

He did an illustrated, A cappella song explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis. So… lifelong fan. He hit the nail on the head when he said he’d never played a gig where he’d acted as goalkeep by keeping people from getting their drinks at the bar.

Also, I met David Peak and Greg Gerke in real life. They are cool dudes.

Definitely worth the five bucks but it was a very strange night. I was expecting a more spirited celebration like the last Rumpus event I went to. It was at times a regular old reading, at times exciting and funny. Overall, I was more excited to see my internet friends in real life. Readings in New York should never, ever, be boring. There was one girl who sighed through her reading. If you are not excited about your work, what makes you think I will be?

?

Random thoughts:

Why don’t people talk about Paul Beatty? I’m sure they do. I’m sure they talk about him in hushed tones, looking over both shoulders before they mention his name at literary cocktail parties, as if he has the power to be everywhere at all times, so you’d better watch what you say about him. It’s like when racist white people say the words “black people.” They whisper it, as if the words had the power to invoke the wrath of Voldimort. Which, I guess, in their mind, the words do.

People don’t talk about Paul Beatty in the same sentence as Jonathan Lethem, as Michael Chabon, as Junot Diaz. And why not? Beatty is just as talented (if not more so) than Lethem and Chabon, can hold his prose weight in the ring with Diaz any day. So why do you never hear about him? My theory: because he uses the n-word.

I took a critical writing class in college called American Voices, which was vague liberal arts college speak for “non-white authors.” It was taught by a writer in residence, a lovely woman named Valerie with an amazing smile who wrote mystery novels for a living. She introduced me to Beatty and, subsequently, to the concept of talking about and thinking about race. We read an excerpt of White Boy Shuffle aloud in class and afterwards we were discussing it. Actually, we were forced to discuss it. We went around the room and everyone had to say something. I was one of three white people in the room, and I’d never talked about race in front of black people before and I was terrified that if I even spoke the words “black people” in front of the class that I’d get assaulted with an unanswerable line of questioning, “Black people?! What do you mean black people?” which would quickly devolve into “Let’s kill this racist motherfucker!” So instead I rambled about the style, the structure, something about maximalism. Basically sidestepping the race conversation as much as I could. For an entire semester. The funny thing was I never heard a mention of Beatty after that. Almost as if he was banished from the earth. I had to search for him. And I found him in Borders a couple weeks ago.

A hallmark of Beatty is that he plays around with race and I think that’s what scares most people about him. People are so shook-up by the PC movement that they’re scared to even talk about race for fear of sounding racist. Beatty appears dangerous. Which is probably why you’ll never see him on the Oprah book club (btw, there’s a hilarious footnote in Slumberland wherein it mentions Oprah buying the movie rights to each and every black American in history, therein becoming the embodiment of the black experience in America).

*taken from the Vice Guide to Everything.

Overly defensive Post-Script:

There’s arguments for using the word in a non-racist way* (which always sounded kind of ridiculous to me, as it seems like it would take a millennia for the word to be diluted of its cultural history and connotations, and even after all those years it would probably just take on a new form of negativity), arguments that say it’s just a word, and that everyone should be able to use it, that we should rob it of its power by using it ias a joke, that you’re a bit of a Politically Correct pussy if you’re too afraid to say it. And the reason I don’t is cause I have a lot of people I deeply care about who would be deeply upset if I used it, and not only with me, but with life in general. And isn’t that what personal politics really boil down to? Whether or not you want hurt the people around you? That, and maybe I just don’t have the comedic inflection for it.

Like setting sandbags against the portals for an oncoming flood, we’re bracing ourselves for the deluge of work on our next print issue. Which means a few months from now a giant semi truck is going to arrive at our doorstep delivering ten or so heavy boxes full of books. Our storage space is bursting at the seems. To empty it a little bit we’re giving you the opportunity of a lifetime:

Annalemma Issue #4 is on sale for half price! That’s $5 for stories by Joe Meno, Nick Ostdick, Thomas Cooper and many more. What else does $5 get you? Illustrations by Spanish illustration sensation Raquel Aparicio, photos by Simi Valley photographic inspiration sensation Alex Martinez, and an essay by Sam Weller about Kiss.

What are you waiting for? Forget that five dollar foot-long, spend your money on something that will last!