Earlier this year, I read that Stephen King reads about 80 books a year. Christopher Moore reads 60 books a year. I read a lot of books, but I doubted I read that much. Perhaps I should. My goal was to read 50 books this year - one a week, although I am woefully behind already.
Here's the list so far:
Only Begotten Daughter: James Morrow
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues: Tom Robbins
Fool: Christopher Moore
Et Tu, Babe?: Mark Leyner
The Year of Biblical Living: AJ Jacobs
Dies the Fire: SM Stirling
So This is How the World Ends: James Morrow
I Love You Beth Cooper: Larry Shayne
American Gods: Neil Gaiman
Good Omens: Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Thing My Girlfriend and I have Agrued About: Mil Millington
I might have read others, but I didn't start keeping track until early April. I remember other books, like Cryptomicon (which should count as three books), and The Road, but that might have been last November or December, so I can't count them.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Still Waiting
I'm still waiting to hear back from agents.
I'm not sure if the longer wait is a good thing, like they're considering it, or if it's a bad thing, like they just don't care about it. My realistic guess is they just haven't read it yet. Agents are especially with reading submissions, contracts, keeping track of sales, and selling books, and they probably don't read queries everyday - which is why they say responds in weeks. Perhaps every few weeks they have an office wide query reading meeting, where they read each of them before rejecting them. That's what I'd do if I were an agent. And perhaps I just hit the right day with my first submission. Although it feels weird, I’d say sad, but it seems a little harsh comparing query rejection to the real life events that make me sad.
And, so far, I've only gotten the one rejection. My rational mind says it's only one. No big deal. Some people go through hundreds of them.
But another part of my mind is panicked, wondering if I should rewrite the query. I mean, Bob's Two Hour Day is a publishable book, and if I didn't get that across, then perhaps my query is faulty. Or perhaps, I am wrong about the publishiblity. More fodder for the irrational mind.
While writing this book, I read a lot about writers going through the processes of writing and submitting. They all seemed so overly dramatic, like 'pieces of them were dying' and how much doubt and self-loathing and questions about talent arose as they received rejections slips. And how the callous unfeeling 'form' rejections made them feel. I thought, get over yourselves. Now, I'm doubting my talent, doubting my story, wondering if the world hates me, feeling like a little part of me is dying and all because of one rejection. This is why writer’s start blogs bashing agents. Luckily my rational mind is winning out and ... telling myself to get over myself.
I'm not sure if the longer wait is a good thing, like they're considering it, or if it's a bad thing, like they just don't care about it. My realistic guess is they just haven't read it yet. Agents are especially with reading submissions, contracts, keeping track of sales, and selling books, and they probably don't read queries everyday - which is why they say responds in weeks. Perhaps every few weeks they have an office wide query reading meeting, where they read each of them before rejecting them. That's what I'd do if I were an agent. And perhaps I just hit the right day with my first submission. Although it feels weird, I’d say sad, but it seems a little harsh comparing query rejection to the real life events that make me sad.
And, so far, I've only gotten the one rejection. My rational mind says it's only one. No big deal. Some people go through hundreds of them.
But another part of my mind is panicked, wondering if I should rewrite the query. I mean, Bob's Two Hour Day is a publishable book, and if I didn't get that across, then perhaps my query is faulty. Or perhaps, I am wrong about the publishiblity. More fodder for the irrational mind.
While writing this book, I read a lot about writers going through the processes of writing and submitting. They all seemed so overly dramatic, like 'pieces of them were dying' and how much doubt and self-loathing and questions about talent arose as they received rejections slips. And how the callous unfeeling 'form' rejections made them feel. I thought, get over yourselves. Now, I'm doubting my talent, doubting my story, wondering if the world hates me, feeling like a little part of me is dying and all because of one rejection. This is why writer’s start blogs bashing agents. Luckily my rational mind is winning out and ... telling myself to get over myself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Rejection
Just got that first rejection. A very polite, form sentence from an assistant. I knew I was starting at the "top," the best case scenario agents, but there's still a part of me that hoped/dreamed/wanted everyone to see how awesome my book is. Alas, alas, the trite biting words 'we're afraid your project does not seem right for our list' stings to the heart, the soul and the dreams of this writer. (that sounded so corny).
But I should remember, there's more out there, and like love, I only need to find one. The rest simply aren't right for my list.
But I should remember, there's more out there, and like love, I only need to find one. The rest simply aren't right for my list.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The First Query
I sent out my first round of query letters today. I'm guessing my easily distracted mind will make it impossible to write tomorrow morning without checking my email for responses every 3-5 seconds.
I have enough trouble staying away from the internet when I'm not waiting for something like this.
I have enough trouble staying away from the internet when I'm not waiting for something like this.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Agent Search ... First Steps
Where I’m at: Done writing, read by several critiquers, and rewritten several times. I’d like to think it’s done.
Next step: An agent
For the past few weeks, I’ve been researching agents. I have a copy of Guide to Literary Agents and for several hours over several days, I read through each listing, making notations next to ones that seemed to fit my needs. I’m still not sure what genre Bob’s Two Hour Day is, which as far as I can tell is bad (that’s a whole ‘nother blog), so on my first pass through the Guide I marked any agent listing who represents comedy, because I know for sure Bob’s is supposed to be funny. In fact, I hope that all my books will be funny, so an agent that accepts comedy is paramount. That narrowed it down to 50 or so.
On my second pass I noted which of these accepted sci-fi/fantasy, because the book clearly has these elements, and also which took mainstream, because that’s where Christopher Moore books land. (I read a suggestion somewhere to find the author or authors closest to my style and perhaps that’s my genre.)
And you have to start somewhere.
I divided my list into three: first, all the listings that represented all three categories, then two and then one. It seemed to make sense.
I took that first list and looked up each on the internet, checking philosophy, sales, experience, and news. I put most of my stock in recent sales and how comfortable I felt reading the websites. Were these people I could have a relationship with? Do they seem to have a sense of humor mixed with their professionalism? Do they sell and are they accepting manuscripts? But I added a couple personal lesser qualities to my research in order to weed out ties.
I took my second list and did the same. I eliminated several agencies and other’s moved to the top.
I listed my top 5, second 5 and next 10.
That was my process.
Now, I am in the process of crafting letters to the first 10, checking to see if they accept email queries (because why waste paper?) and which want a synopsis or sample chapters or only accept submissions through online forms.
It’s a process, but one I don’t want to rush through, even though I am getting anxious to put my book out there and see what kind of reaction it gets. I want to make sure I am as professional as possible. Go about the process the right way. I’ve read extensively on line, in magazines and books about the query process, and I’m trying to follow that process as best I can.
The hardest thing? Explaining why I chose this particular agency and sounding sincere in saying I think we’d be a great fit, you, me and my book, but knowing they know I’m sending that same message to 10 other people.
Next step: An agent
For the past few weeks, I’ve been researching agents. I have a copy of Guide to Literary Agents and for several hours over several days, I read through each listing, making notations next to ones that seemed to fit my needs. I’m still not sure what genre Bob’s Two Hour Day is, which as far as I can tell is bad (that’s a whole ‘nother blog), so on my first pass through the Guide I marked any agent listing who represents comedy, because I know for sure Bob’s is supposed to be funny. In fact, I hope that all my books will be funny, so an agent that accepts comedy is paramount. That narrowed it down to 50 or so.
On my second pass I noted which of these accepted sci-fi/fantasy, because the book clearly has these elements, and also which took mainstream, because that’s where Christopher Moore books land. (I read a suggestion somewhere to find the author or authors closest to my style and perhaps that’s my genre.)
And you have to start somewhere.
I divided my list into three: first, all the listings that represented all three categories, then two and then one. It seemed to make sense.
I took that first list and looked up each on the internet, checking philosophy, sales, experience, and news. I put most of my stock in recent sales and how comfortable I felt reading the websites. Were these people I could have a relationship with? Do they seem to have a sense of humor mixed with their professionalism? Do they sell and are they accepting manuscripts? But I added a couple personal lesser qualities to my research in order to weed out ties.
I took my second list and did the same. I eliminated several agencies and other’s moved to the top.
I listed my top 5, second 5 and next 10.
That was my process.
Now, I am in the process of crafting letters to the first 10, checking to see if they accept email queries (because why waste paper?) and which want a synopsis or sample chapters or only accept submissions through online forms.
It’s a process, but one I don’t want to rush through, even though I am getting anxious to put my book out there and see what kind of reaction it gets. I want to make sure I am as professional as possible. Go about the process the right way. I’ve read extensively on line, in magazines and books about the query process, and I’m trying to follow that process as best I can.
The hardest thing? Explaining why I chose this particular agency and sounding sincere in saying I think we’d be a great fit, you, me and my book, but knowing they know I’m sending that same message to 10 other people.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
What I read at my brother's funeral today
I am the youngest of four, so this unenviable task fell to me. It fell through the lawyer who regularly argues in front of judges and juries, right through the most outgoing of all the brothers and landed with me; the comedian, I guess.
So I took up the task.
I’d already written my brother’s obituary. It was hard.
Not just because he died, but because I wanted the world to know who he really was, which is tough to do in the conventional, services informative newspaper style.
It’s practically impossible without using worn-out, flowery adjectives or writing six pages worth of text. So I left some stuff out.
Here’s the obituary I wish I could have written:
My brother Andy died yesterday. Sunday, April 26, 2009. It sucks.
When you grow up with three brothers, you’re really not supposed to have favorites, but Andy made that tough, because he was funnier, smarter, wiser, harder working, more intelligent and more experienced than the rest of us. Naturally, we all liked him best.
Andy was only 48 years old.
Much too young to die. That’s less than half a decade; cars older than him still rumble through the streets on sunny days, but … you know, Pancreatic cancer. It sucks.
As the disease progressed, I knew there was nothing I could do. I wished and I hoped, and I didn’t believe it would come to this, because I didn’t want it to come to this. But it came to this.
Helen, who was absolutely amazing throughout this whole ordeal, made him as pain free and comfortable as any human being could have, but all I could do was sit next to him and hold his hand, whisper words of encouragement and love, hoping somehow, some way, that would ease some of his pain.
Sometimes I’d rub his arm, maybe because touching him made me feel better, because in my family, that’s what we do, and I hoped it made him feel better. Although, in retrospect, I could have just been annoying. Sometimes little brothers are.
Sometimes his thumb would squeeze me back, and I knew he was in there, stubbornly hanging on, refusing to quit, never wanting to give up, because that’s how my big brother was. Tenacious, or stubborn, depending on where you were standing at the time.
He stubbornly hung on even when we’d all resigned ourselves that the time was near; he hung on for another day, like he just didn’t want to let go.
Or perhaps: because Andy had done so many great things in his life, had so many monumental occasions, it just took two days for his life to ‘flash before his eyes.’
He packed a lot of life into 48 years.
30 years ago, if you would have asked any of the four brothers which one we thought was going to travel to Poland, Italy and Japan; I’m willing to bet we wouldn’t have said him. But he did it.
For a while he raised horses, not to mention three great kids. He played hockey, once in a tournament in Lake Placid on the same ice where a year earlier the US won a gold medal.
He built models when he was younger, and he built decks for his friends when he was he was older.
A few months ago, right after the devastating news that the chemo treatments didn’t work, when Andy had lost a lot of weight, and a lot of his positive attitude, he said, “People can come visit, but I’m not the Andy that I used to be.”
And to that I say, “No.”
He may not have had the same strength, or the same body, and perhaps his demeanor was a little depressed, but he was still the same guy.
He was still the same guy who used to wear that crocheted hat my grandmother made him. He’s still the same guy who taught me how to play hockey, and how to swing a hammer and drive a nail like I meant it; and the same guy who used to drive me around in his Trans Am.
Cancer may have taken his body away little by little over the past year, and I won’t forget that, but that’s not what I choose to remember.
That sucked. He didn’t.
And I’ve got a thousand stories to prove it.
Ask me about the time the passenger window fell out of that Trans Am and onto my lap and he thought someone was shooting at us, so he floored it and proceeded to do 80 down Dutch Ridge Road. Andy was that good.
Ask me about the time we were catching football in the house and knocked over a lamp, and he rightly reasoned if we blamed the dog, mom wouldn’t get mad, because she liked the dog and the dog didn’t know better. Andy was that smart.
Ask me how he used to hit stones from our driveway into the woods across the street, using a 16 pound sledge hammer for a bat. He was that strong.
Let me tell you about the time I helped him build a barn, and stayed on his couch for almost a month. We’d work all day, then come back to his house, where I just wanted to relax, but he would end up in tiny soccer games with his kids, because he was never too tired for them. He was that dedicated.
And of course, I felt bad he was outnumbered 3-1, so I’d join in too. I was that much in need of wisdom.
Ask me about the time he was feeding M&Ms to the dog, or when we built the hockey rink in the backyard, or the time I was wracked with guilt for thinking something I considered selfishly inappropriate at a time of grief, but he said to me, “You never know how you’re brain’s going deal with something. Sometimes you think things just to be able to cope. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He was that wise.
I could tell you about the time we went canoeing and he and Tom accidentally steered themselves under a fallen tree, bounced off a log and came roaring out backwards, Dan screaming ‘get me outta this canoe’ and me in a canoe between my parents yelling, ‘let me in that one!’
I could tell you about when he played baseball and used to hit monster home runs, pay-off from all those hours swinging a sledgehammer, or how he wanted to chew tobacco like the big leaguers, but hated tobacco, so he chewed shredded coconut. But he didn’t want the other team to know, so instead of spitting the white, obviously not tobacco juice out, he swallowed it. And I’ll say this, if an opponent thinks you’re bad enough and crazy enough to swallow what they think is chewing tobacco, you have an intimidation edge.
He was that bad and that crazy.
And these are only the stories I know. Ask other people about their stories. Ask his best friend Dave about racing stories; ask Tami to tell you the story about how she met Andy for the first time because it’s classic Andy; ask Merideth, Weston and Garrison about how wise and loving he was, and, at times, maybe a little dorky; ask Helen to tell you about his quick wit; or Sam and Jesse about his dancing skills; ask Tom about the time he drove Andy’s car for the first time, while Andy napped in the passenger seat. He woke up, glanced over at the speedometer and said calmly, “You want to slow down?” because evidently speed in that Trans Am was hard to judge; ask Dan about the time they built two bikes out of spare parts in the garage and then raced them through the woods; ask Mark or Jim about his problem solving skills; ask my parents to tell you how, once when Andy was just a child, my dad needed to correct him, so he called him over, and when Andy came, his little sad face got so close, their noses touched.
Ask anyone who knew him, and they could tell you a story about how funny, or smart, or hard working or nice he was.
But let me tell you about the time he changed a flat tire in a tuxedo, because I tell it better.
Let me tell you about the time we went through the Wendy’s drive-through backwards, so I could do the ordering because he didn’t want to. Or let me tell you about the two brothers basketball duo of Dr. A and Tragic Johnson , or how he used to tease me when I was clumsy, saying I broke everything, until one day on the CB someone said, ‘breaker, breaker’ and he said, “Larry, someone’s calling you.” He was that funny.
Let me tell you about the first time someone called me Andy’s other little brother. It was at the Beaver County Ice arena where he was a goalie, a teammate, a friend, and a hero to a lot of people. Kinda like now but with skates. Two of his teammates walked by, looked down at me and said, “That’s Andy’s other little brother.” Dan was already his little brother and now I was Andy’s other little brother. I guess I’ve been called worse.
But I’m not sure I’ve ever been called better.
And that’s what I’m going to remember.
People tell me, this will get easier over time. I don’t believe that. What I believe is this: I will get stronger over time; I will be stronger because when someone dies, I think they pass their strength on to us. We’ll all be stronger because, Andy was so incredibly strong. That strength is here now for us to take, so tell a story and take a share.
Trust me, there’s enough to go around.
So I took up the task.
I’d already written my brother’s obituary. It was hard.
Not just because he died, but because I wanted the world to know who he really was, which is tough to do in the conventional, services informative newspaper style.
It’s practically impossible without using worn-out, flowery adjectives or writing six pages worth of text. So I left some stuff out.
Here’s the obituary I wish I could have written:
My brother Andy died yesterday. Sunday, April 26, 2009. It sucks.
When you grow up with three brothers, you’re really not supposed to have favorites, but Andy made that tough, because he was funnier, smarter, wiser, harder working, more intelligent and more experienced than the rest of us. Naturally, we all liked him best.
Andy was only 48 years old.
Much too young to die. That’s less than half a decade; cars older than him still rumble through the streets on sunny days, but … you know, Pancreatic cancer. It sucks.
As the disease progressed, I knew there was nothing I could do. I wished and I hoped, and I didn’t believe it would come to this, because I didn’t want it to come to this. But it came to this.
Helen, who was absolutely amazing throughout this whole ordeal, made him as pain free and comfortable as any human being could have, but all I could do was sit next to him and hold his hand, whisper words of encouragement and love, hoping somehow, some way, that would ease some of his pain.
Sometimes I’d rub his arm, maybe because touching him made me feel better, because in my family, that’s what we do, and I hoped it made him feel better. Although, in retrospect, I could have just been annoying. Sometimes little brothers are.
Sometimes his thumb would squeeze me back, and I knew he was in there, stubbornly hanging on, refusing to quit, never wanting to give up, because that’s how my big brother was. Tenacious, or stubborn, depending on where you were standing at the time.
He stubbornly hung on even when we’d all resigned ourselves that the time was near; he hung on for another day, like he just didn’t want to let go.
Or perhaps: because Andy had done so many great things in his life, had so many monumental occasions, it just took two days for his life to ‘flash before his eyes.’
He packed a lot of life into 48 years.
30 years ago, if you would have asked any of the four brothers which one we thought was going to travel to Poland, Italy and Japan; I’m willing to bet we wouldn’t have said him. But he did it.
For a while he raised horses, not to mention three great kids. He played hockey, once in a tournament in Lake Placid on the same ice where a year earlier the US won a gold medal.
He built models when he was younger, and he built decks for his friends when he was he was older.
A few months ago, right after the devastating news that the chemo treatments didn’t work, when Andy had lost a lot of weight, and a lot of his positive attitude, he said, “People can come visit, but I’m not the Andy that I used to be.”
And to that I say, “No.”
He may not have had the same strength, or the same body, and perhaps his demeanor was a little depressed, but he was still the same guy.
He was still the same guy who used to wear that crocheted hat my grandmother made him. He’s still the same guy who taught me how to play hockey, and how to swing a hammer and drive a nail like I meant it; and the same guy who used to drive me around in his Trans Am.
Cancer may have taken his body away little by little over the past year, and I won’t forget that, but that’s not what I choose to remember.
That sucked. He didn’t.
And I’ve got a thousand stories to prove it.
Ask me about the time the passenger window fell out of that Trans Am and onto my lap and he thought someone was shooting at us, so he floored it and proceeded to do 80 down Dutch Ridge Road. Andy was that good.
Ask me about the time we were catching football in the house and knocked over a lamp, and he rightly reasoned if we blamed the dog, mom wouldn’t get mad, because she liked the dog and the dog didn’t know better. Andy was that smart.
Ask me how he used to hit stones from our driveway into the woods across the street, using a 16 pound sledge hammer for a bat. He was that strong.
Let me tell you about the time I helped him build a barn, and stayed on his couch for almost a month. We’d work all day, then come back to his house, where I just wanted to relax, but he would end up in tiny soccer games with his kids, because he was never too tired for them. He was that dedicated.
And of course, I felt bad he was outnumbered 3-1, so I’d join in too. I was that much in need of wisdom.
Ask me about the time he was feeding M&Ms to the dog, or when we built the hockey rink in the backyard, or the time I was wracked with guilt for thinking something I considered selfishly inappropriate at a time of grief, but he said to me, “You never know how you’re brain’s going deal with something. Sometimes you think things just to be able to cope. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He was that wise.
I could tell you about the time we went canoeing and he and Tom accidentally steered themselves under a fallen tree, bounced off a log and came roaring out backwards, Dan screaming ‘get me outta this canoe’ and me in a canoe between my parents yelling, ‘let me in that one!’
I could tell you about when he played baseball and used to hit monster home runs, pay-off from all those hours swinging a sledgehammer, or how he wanted to chew tobacco like the big leaguers, but hated tobacco, so he chewed shredded coconut. But he didn’t want the other team to know, so instead of spitting the white, obviously not tobacco juice out, he swallowed it. And I’ll say this, if an opponent thinks you’re bad enough and crazy enough to swallow what they think is chewing tobacco, you have an intimidation edge.
He was that bad and that crazy.
And these are only the stories I know. Ask other people about their stories. Ask his best friend Dave about racing stories; ask Tami to tell you the story about how she met Andy for the first time because it’s classic Andy; ask Merideth, Weston and Garrison about how wise and loving he was, and, at times, maybe a little dorky; ask Helen to tell you about his quick wit; or Sam and Jesse about his dancing skills; ask Tom about the time he drove Andy’s car for the first time, while Andy napped in the passenger seat. He woke up, glanced over at the speedometer and said calmly, “You want to slow down?” because evidently speed in that Trans Am was hard to judge; ask Dan about the time they built two bikes out of spare parts in the garage and then raced them through the woods; ask Mark or Jim about his problem solving skills; ask my parents to tell you how, once when Andy was just a child, my dad needed to correct him, so he called him over, and when Andy came, his little sad face got so close, their noses touched.
Ask anyone who knew him, and they could tell you a story about how funny, or smart, or hard working or nice he was.
But let me tell you about the time he changed a flat tire in a tuxedo, because I tell it better.
Let me tell you about the time we went through the Wendy’s drive-through backwards, so I could do the ordering because he didn’t want to. Or let me tell you about the two brothers basketball duo of Dr. A and Tragic Johnson , or how he used to tease me when I was clumsy, saying I broke everything, until one day on the CB someone said, ‘breaker, breaker’ and he said, “Larry, someone’s calling you.” He was that funny.
Let me tell you about the first time someone called me Andy’s other little brother. It was at the Beaver County Ice arena where he was a goalie, a teammate, a friend, and a hero to a lot of people. Kinda like now but with skates. Two of his teammates walked by, looked down at me and said, “That’s Andy’s other little brother.” Dan was already his little brother and now I was Andy’s other little brother. I guess I’ve been called worse.
But I’m not sure I’ve ever been called better.
And that’s what I’m going to remember.
People tell me, this will get easier over time. I don’t believe that. What I believe is this: I will get stronger over time; I will be stronger because when someone dies, I think they pass their strength on to us. We’ll all be stronger because, Andy was so incredibly strong. That strength is here now for us to take, so tell a story and take a share.
Trust me, there’s enough to go around.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
A new experience
I did something today I have never done in the past 44 years of my existence. That’s right, I put myself out there, tried something new, lived on the edge, stepped outside my comfort zone so to speak, and it felt good.
Some of you who know me may not be surprised and others may be. In a game of truth, truth, lie, I could have lied this and gotten one over on people.
Here’s the big experience (which isn’t that big):
I bought a book on the very day it was released.
First time.
Every book I’ve ever read, and there’s been quite a few, including new novels released by Chuck Palahniuk, Nick Hornby and even Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite of favorites, were bought well after the release date. None have moved me to purchase on the day of release like Fool, by Christpher Moore.
Usually, I wait for books to go on sale, to drop in price, come out in paperback at least, but I so anticipated this book that I reread King Lear. Shakespeare of all things, and not for a college class, because Fool is a novel about Lear’s Fool, and his take on the story therein.
Fool is Moore’s 11th novel, nine of which I have already read, making me, in my own mind, an Author Guy expert.
Maybe a big fan.
An admirer.
Perhaps, a stalker, at least on-line.
In my opinion, there’s no better author of the twisted tale, with a bite of irony, sarcasm and laugh out loud humor. Moore doesn’t just spin a funny tale, he spins an interesting tale with humor, like a more transparent Vonnegut, a less nihilistic Palahniuk and slightly subtler Douglas Adams.
Pretty good company, no?
Moore creates realistic comic characters with true comic perspectives, sometimes going outside the realm of reality to do it, but making them come alive none-the-less.
I discovered him late, after nine of his novels had already been published, and I missed the release of A Dirty Job, but I wasn’t going to miss Fool. I didn’t dress up like the release of a Harry Potter book, or Twilight, but I made the pilgrimage on the first day, and that’s what counts.
If you want to jump into Moore mayhem, here’ s the novels:
Practical Demonkeeping: Road trip with a demon. Nice. You got to love a story where a good well developed character is eaten on page 3.
Coyote Blue: A fantastic blend of modern city life, modern Indian life and ancient Indian lore. And a chase scene across the west.
Bloodsucking Fiends: New kid in town finds a hot new girlfriend, who happens to be newly vampired. She needs help adjusting and surviving, and he fits the bill – he works nights.
Island of the Sequined Love Nun: Playboy flyboy crashes the company jet while initiating a young lady into the mile high club. This starts a series of events that land him in the South Pacific, working for some shady folks, but what’s a suspended pilot to do?
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove: A therapist stops the drug therapy she’s gotten the town hooked on, and when an ancient lizard arrives, hormones turn the town upside down.
Lamb: The Gospel according to Biff, Christ’s childhood pal: By far, his best book, telling the tale of Jesus and his friends during the years the Bible doesn’t cover. Laugh out loud adventures and not a lick of blaspheme.
Fluke: or I know why the winged whale sings: When a marine biologist sees a whale with the words You Suck painted on his tale, he becomes suspicious, and learns about some things he might not want to know about.
The Stupidest Angel: Raziel is sent to Earth to grant one Christmas wish to one lucky child. But the child just witness the death of a “lodge” Santa, which he mistakes for real, and wishes the dead man back to life. Zombies. (this tale incorporates characters from several other Moore novels. Not a good starter book.)
A Dirty Job: Being Death is a dirty job, but someone has to do it, even if that someone is a Beta Male, the kind who is reluctant to take the lead.
You Suck: A Love Story: the sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends, which I actually started reading before I knew it was a sequel. A few chapters in and I couldn’t figure out why things seemed weird, and then I discovered my mistake.
I encourage you to dip your funny bone into Mr. Moore, and coat it with genius.
Peace
Larry
Some of you who know me may not be surprised and others may be. In a game of truth, truth, lie, I could have lied this and gotten one over on people.
Here’s the big experience (which isn’t that big):
I bought a book on the very day it was released.
First time.
Every book I’ve ever read, and there’s been quite a few, including new novels released by Chuck Palahniuk, Nick Hornby and even Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite of favorites, were bought well after the release date. None have moved me to purchase on the day of release like Fool, by Christpher Moore.
Usually, I wait for books to go on sale, to drop in price, come out in paperback at least, but I so anticipated this book that I reread King Lear. Shakespeare of all things, and not for a college class, because Fool is a novel about Lear’s Fool, and his take on the story therein.
Fool is Moore’s 11th novel, nine of which I have already read, making me, in my own mind, an Author Guy expert.
Maybe a big fan.
An admirer.
Perhaps, a stalker, at least on-line.
In my opinion, there’s no better author of the twisted tale, with a bite of irony, sarcasm and laugh out loud humor. Moore doesn’t just spin a funny tale, he spins an interesting tale with humor, like a more transparent Vonnegut, a less nihilistic Palahniuk and slightly subtler Douglas Adams.
Pretty good company, no?
Moore creates realistic comic characters with true comic perspectives, sometimes going outside the realm of reality to do it, but making them come alive none-the-less.
I discovered him late, after nine of his novels had already been published, and I missed the release of A Dirty Job, but I wasn’t going to miss Fool. I didn’t dress up like the release of a Harry Potter book, or Twilight, but I made the pilgrimage on the first day, and that’s what counts.
If you want to jump into Moore mayhem, here’ s the novels:
Practical Demonkeeping: Road trip with a demon. Nice. You got to love a story where a good well developed character is eaten on page 3.
Coyote Blue: A fantastic blend of modern city life, modern Indian life and ancient Indian lore. And a chase scene across the west.
Bloodsucking Fiends: New kid in town finds a hot new girlfriend, who happens to be newly vampired. She needs help adjusting and surviving, and he fits the bill – he works nights.
Island of the Sequined Love Nun: Playboy flyboy crashes the company jet while initiating a young lady into the mile high club. This starts a series of events that land him in the South Pacific, working for some shady folks, but what’s a suspended pilot to do?
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove: A therapist stops the drug therapy she’s gotten the town hooked on, and when an ancient lizard arrives, hormones turn the town upside down.
Lamb: The Gospel according to Biff, Christ’s childhood pal: By far, his best book, telling the tale of Jesus and his friends during the years the Bible doesn’t cover. Laugh out loud adventures and not a lick of blaspheme.
Fluke: or I know why the winged whale sings: When a marine biologist sees a whale with the words You Suck painted on his tale, he becomes suspicious, and learns about some things he might not want to know about.
The Stupidest Angel: Raziel is sent to Earth to grant one Christmas wish to one lucky child. But the child just witness the death of a “lodge” Santa, which he mistakes for real, and wishes the dead man back to life. Zombies. (this tale incorporates characters from several other Moore novels. Not a good starter book.)
A Dirty Job: Being Death is a dirty job, but someone has to do it, even if that someone is a Beta Male, the kind who is reluctant to take the lead.
You Suck: A Love Story: the sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends, which I actually started reading before I knew it was a sequel. A few chapters in and I couldn’t figure out why things seemed weird, and then I discovered my mistake.
I encourage you to dip your funny bone into Mr. Moore, and coat it with genius.
Peace
Larry
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