Here’s a well-stated, strong argument in favor of self-publishing. If you’re new writer, there simply are no good reasons to go with a traditional publishing house. That’s right. Zero. Zip. Nada. self-publish, expressed very well.
I’ve been wracking my brain all damned day about the new dramatics facing Amazon. The more I research indie publishing versus legacy publishing, the more inclined I am to urge fledgling authors to consider publishing independently. I also advise all authors to follow Barry Eisler, one of the most respected traditional to indie published authors I know.
I met Barry on Myspace roughly ten years ago. At the time, I didn’t know who he was-I was just networking and ran across him by chance. I was shocked to find that this NYT Bestseller actually talked openly and directly to me-not something that had ever happened to me before. It was nice, too-talking to a real live human and not a cursory exchange that I would otherwise expect from a famed author.
After I started speaking with him on occasion about writing, I…
The divine winds were still, so the pitiless roar of enemy bombers was drowned out only by the desperate wail of the air raid sirens. From the faintest purr of the first enemy plane until the last bomb fell, the world was noise, nothing but noise; the sirens would scream, the engines would roar, the bombs would fall, but fall somewhere else.
That morning started as all others, but it was not; three planes the radio said, so it could not be a raid. Only one was seen. It sounded almost lonely. Had it gotten lost, separated from the other planes, on their way to deal death to some other city? Would it deliver its death dealers here? At 8 o’clock, the ‘all clear’ sounded.
In a flash, the sun came to earth, followed by darkness. The bomb brought no fire, but small fires, started by stoves and fallen wires, ignited here and there, feed on the rubble of the collapsed, wooden city, swept by the bomb-born wind.
And above the destruction that signature cloud rose, towered miles above, like the shadow of a colossus, or of some monstrous god. In its wake, the menacing echo of silence.
My first impression of Merrill is that she is a woman on a quest or an odyssey, though that would imply a goal of some sort; apparently Merrill’s goal is to simply go. Go, and keep going.
At the beginning of Merrill’s journey we find her in a dead-end marriage to Teddy, who seems a decent enough guy, good looking, but clueless; he doesn’t like Merrill bringing up that “stupid women lib stuff” that she gets from that “commie magazine” called Ms.(yeah, they are clearly not living in the same reality). She’s also working at the perfect dead-end job, a “freaking travel agency,” that leaves her envious of her customers: “even the lowly student with a cheap Eurail pass.”
What’s a girl to do? Join a rock band, what else?
Merrill’s view of the world seems zany at times (“I won’t dye my crotch,” I whisper in his ear.), but what I find irresistible is her courage. Despite missing the aqua walls of their house, she leaves Teddy (It’s not like he didn’t have it coming after inviting the spies and their devil dog Mungo to share their house) for Eddie, the lead guitarist in the band she joins (“It’s blasting idyllic for a week, until it comes time to do the laundry.”).
Speaking of Teddy, she writes, “his gray vision forming a gray life. I take no responsibility in this outcome!” This is what I love most about Merrill; other people are responsible for their own lives and, as the story progresses, we see that Merrill holds herself to the same standard. Her successes, blunders, and mishaps are hers (even when others have a clear hand in the troubles).
Not surprisingly, the singing gig doesn’t pan out (the place she shares with Eddies burns down) and so it’s off to London to sell truffles as Merrill Kimberly and marry well, only to also leave him and go to Greece in time for the revolution. And so Merrill goes, and goes, and goes. I love a girl who is not afraid to put the wind at her back
Besides Merrill herself, I also enjoy how Tepper has constructed a unified whole of the thirty stand-alone chapters that make up The Merrill Diaries. It is an intriguing, seamless (zipless?) read that keeps us wondering, what will this girl get up to next? While reading it I was perpetually smiling and frequently laughing out loud thanks to Tepper’s wit and timing.
If someone called one of my books “a delight,” I’d probably turn snarky and ask, “What is that, a dessert?” Merrill herself might ask, “Me? A delight? You must have me confused.” But what can I say, The Merrill Dairies IS a delight, as is its eponymous irrepressible heroine. As one other reviewer noted, “I want more of Merrill!”
One of my favorite authors is Richard Brautigan. I like him so much that in addition to reading his novels and poetry, I’ve also read memoirs about him (I normally do not enjoy memoirs and biographies). In two of these, Downstream From Trout Fishing in America: A Memoir of Richard Brautigan, by his long time friend, Keith Abbot, and You Can’t Catch Death: A Daughter’s Memoir, by his daughter, Ianthe, I encountered a true ghost story. I was pleased by the discovery because I’ve also recently become interested in ghost stories (both true and fictional accounts). Both authors had contact with this ghost, and provide accounts that are both close enough and different enough that I can accept them as true. I’ve included both here so that you can judge for yourselves.
In the early 1970s, Richard Brautigan bought a house in Bolinas, California (along the coast north of…
I was thinking of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg, as I walked down Polk Street,
laid now bare by AIDS and indifference, walked under a fog-shrouded
moon, thinking of you and Kerouac and hipster Zen haiku.
In my hungry fatigue, I wandered into Safeway, that luminous
cornucopia, open 24-7 and gleaming in supernatural ecstasy, the pursuit
of bread and cheese at midnight enshrined in the Declaration.
What perfect fruit! What perfect red meat! Amber-lit aisles of
genetically modified cereal grains dosed with sugar! All America is shopping
tonight, three carts over-flowing and don’t forget the latest National Enquirer!
Is this America, this endless consumption? America still has its
nuclear bombs, so what the fuck, and what the fuck has changed–and you,
Bill Burroughs, junkie-queer, when did you fly in and what were you doing,
lingering in the produce aisle, sniffing peaches, squeezing the tomatoes?
I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, lonely and childless, grubbing among
the cleaning products, the bleach and the Pine Sol, mumbling, wondering
when America will finally come clean, and like Walt, eyeing the grocery
I heard the questions you asked America: Why are the graves full
of tears? Where are the angels of our better nature? Why are you naked?
I followed you though this labyrinth, secure in the certainty that you
had strung the string that would lead the way out.
We dragged ourselves through these canyons of splendor, fingering every
Made in China delight two dollars and twenty-seven cents, and never finding
that angry fix.
Where are we going, Allen Ginsberg? The parking lot is chained and
anyway, it seems I have lost my car. Can you divine where I left it?
(I clutch your book and dream of our sojourn in California. Eureka!
Where has it gone?)
Are we lonely enough to dance together down the dark, negro streets
toward the false hope of dawn? There is no sun, no shade, and the twilight’s
last gleaming is shrouded in fog.
Shall we cross the bridges to the new America, past the rusting shells
of blue automobiles and vacant strip malls, to our cinderblock motel?
Ah, dear friend, monkish iconoclast, where is the revolution? Did it die
in Vietnam with the 58,000? Where can America go now that Charon’s outboard
has no gas? When it comes time to depart this smoking ruin, shall we swim
in the black waters of the Lethe?
29 August 2011
After Allen Ginsberg’s “A Supermarket in California” with references from his poems “Howl” and “America,” all of which can be found in Howl and Other Poems (1956).
“A Supermarket in San Francisco,” was first published on the Dead Beats Literary Blog on 13 September 2012.
On the plane in, some guys fingered their crosses, but I didn’t have one, so I fiddled nervously with my signal clicker, breaking it. By then we were on our feet and hooking up.
I had joined the airborne because I wanted to know that the guy fighting next to me was the best, but I’d never liked the jumping. Waiting for that green light, though, I’d watched one of the other planes break up after taking a hit, flaming paratroopers, guys I certainly knew, spilling from its door. After that, all I could think of was getting off that plane.
When I finally landed I was so surprised to be alive I momentarily forgot where I was, surrounded by the enemy, my weapon and leg bag torn from me by the plane’s prop wash, with no idea if I was anywhere near my drop zone. I crouched next to a tree, listening to the anti-aircraft guns, which didn’t sound nearly so frightening now that I was on the ground. Compared to inside the plane, where the noise had been deafening even before the shelling started, this grove where I hid was almost peaceful.
I heard movement close, but with no weapon, I feared using the password, feared giving away my position. Then I heard the sweetest word in the English language.
“Flash,” said the darkness.
“Thunder,” I said, emerging from the shadows. “Thunder.”
“One ‘thunder’ is sufficient, trooper,” came the voice of my lieutenant. I could tell he was smiling.
* Adapted from Band of Brothers, Episode 2 “Day of Days”. The HBO miniseries Band of Brothers is based on Stephen Ambrose’s history of Easy Company (506th Regiment, 101st Airborne). Episode 2, “Day of Days” recounts Easy Company’s part in the D-Day invasion of Europe, June 6, 1944, when the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions dropped into German-occupied Normandy the night before.
The challenge/response password system dates to Roman times, as recorded by Polybius, but this story recounts one of the best known recent uses of the device. The paratroopers on D-Day also used a ‘cricket’, or toy clicker, wherein one click was to be answered by two clicks.
“Flash—Thunder” appeared originally at 52/250 A Year of Flash, and is part of an upcoming collection of flash fiction and poetry entitled Kindergarten of a Thin Mind.
I’m sitting in the park, under the big maple, intent on reading some poetry, Whitman as it happens, when a fledgling drops out of the tree and lands next to me. It is so young and ugly that I cannot discern its breed, and it’s squawking like all get out, undoubtedly at the shock of suddenly not being in the nest.
I look at it for awhile, thinking I should perhaps let natural selection take its course, do nothing so this individual can’t pass on the clumsy gene, or the over-anxious gene, or whatever gene caused it to tumble from the nest. It seems of little consequence one way or the other. Thousands of birds fall from nests every year, and that’s that. Had I not been here, this one would be no different.
But this one is different. It’s flailing in the grass next to me, right now. I look up into the tree, dubious of my ability to reach even the lowest branch, let alone find the nest. Then there’s that thing about mother birds rejecting chicks handled by humans, but I don’t know if that is even true, or if it is, that it’s true for all birds.
So I pick it up, thinking that I’ll take it home and nurse it until it can fly away. As it lay in my palm, flapping its tiny wings to no avail, I see how easy it would be to close my hand and decide the issue.
And with that thought, I understand why we imagine that our gods are terrible.