http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
Oh, thank god, someone has something reasonable to say about the "serious book publishing is dead" argument that keeps re-appearing. "Argument" is probably fancying up what is really just whining, but whatever.
I do my own fair share of whining, too. But whenever someone starts talking about how "serious" books are under threat because of [enter whatever factor you like here: ebooks/declining sales/Amazon/the end of the large advance/texting], they're ignoring the fact that serious books have always been under threat. Read the publishing adventures of James Joyce, trying to get Ulysses into the world, and how a bunch of women, independent publishers all of them, were the only ones brave enough to take on the censors. Joyce did not have a huge amount of money thrown at his head, publishers were not begging him to write his bizarro land books, they'd take care of his family and expenses.
People right now are using the example of Caro's multi-volume LBJ biography and how obviously this could never be recreated ever again. Because of texting or whatever. Dean points out what others have left out of the conversation:
Caro actually went broke writing the first of his biographies, The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York. Caro had to sell his house, and take a job teaching, to support himself and his family in the seven years it took him to finish the book. Plus: his wife worked. When I saw Caro speak at an event in Tribeca, recently, he was asked what kind of advice he’d give to aspiring biographers. “Become independently wealthy,” he said. And that’s from one of the biggest names in the “serious” business, who grew up as a writer in publishing’s alleged golden years.
From generation to generation there are always pressures. And some will fold. Some will do whatever the publishers ask them to do, cranking out two books a year because there's a "demand." Others will take the hit to their reputations and their bank accounts and do the work they feel has integrity. As it ever was and ever shall be, amen.
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
Carlos Fuentes, Mexico’s elegant public intellectual and grand man of letters, whose panoramic novels captured the complicated essence of his country’s history for readers around the world, died on Tuesday in Mexico City. He was 83.

Here is my basic popover recipe:
2 tablespoons solid fat (butter or animal fat (duck fat, mmm) or solid shortening)
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (250 ml) whole milk, at room temperature
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup (140 g) all purpose or white whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon vital wheat gluten
This tactic assumes you own a wand blender and a wide-mouthed quart Mason jar and a microwave. If not, just make the popovers the way you normally would--or if you are missing the wand blender but have a normal blender, you can melt the butter in a different container and use the normal blender.
About an hour or two before dinner, take your Mason jar. Put the butter/whatever in it. Put it in the microwave and melt it. (If you are making Yorkshire pud and are waiting for the roast to be finished before you add the fat, skip this step for now, and stir the fat in before you bake the popovers.)
Add the milk, eggs, salt, and sugar to the butter in the Mason jar (or blender)(or just put them in the blender if you are adding the fat later). Do not put the eggs directly into the hot butter before diluting it with the milk. Otherwise you will have scrambled eggs, which are nice, but not popovers.
Whiz them all up with the wand blender.
Add the flour and the wheat gluten.
Whiz that too, until you have a nice smooth batter.
Let the batter sit on the counter until dinner is nearly ready. If you are roasting something at 400 degrees, you're good; otherwise preheat your oven to 400 (F). (200 C)
Liberally grease 9 cups of a 12-cup muffin tin, or if you are making Yorkshire pud, drizzle a little of the fat from the roast into the bottom of the cups. If you have one of the giant-sized six muffin muffin tins, then you will have bigger popovers and they need to bake a little longer.
Using silicon cups for this results in popovers without stumps or a lot of loft, as they just levitate themselves out of the super-slick cups entirely. They still taste good!
If you are using fat from the roast you're making, add it now and stir it in.
Divide the popover batter between the nine greased cups. You can just pour it from the blender or the Mason Jar.
Stick in oven. Do not peek! If you open the door before they are set, they won't rise properly.
Bake for 35 minutes or until deep mahogany brown.
Pull pan from oven. Tilt popovers in cups, or remove them to a rack or basket. Pierce each one with a bamboo skewer. (careful of the steam!) The purpose of these two procedures is to (a) prevent them from getting soggy and (b) prevent them from collapsing.
Eat.
However you meant to eat them. Do not plan on leftovers.
Wash your one. dirty. dish. Oh, and the wand blender, sure. And the muffin tin. But that was inevitable.
ETA: Nota Bene
For even more loft in your popovers, preheat the muffin tin with the grease in it in the 400-degree oven for a few minutes before pouring the batter in. This is a bit tricky, though, and can be skipped.
- Mood:
i'm a fucking genius - Music:All Things Considered
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
And in the new publishing category of "Neuroscience! It Explains Everything!" we have Memoirs of an Addicted Brain. The Guardian shrugs at it:
It's very hard to feel the same towards Lewis once he admits giving his partner a black eye, before "explaining" it with neuroscience.
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
Mike McGrady, a prizewinning reporter for Newsday who to his chagrin was best known as the mastermind of one of the juiciest literary hoaxes in America — the best-selling collaborative novel “Naked Came the Stranger,” whose publication in 1969 made “Peyton Place” look like a church picnic — died on Sunday in Shelton, Wash. He was 78 and lived in Lilliwaup, Wash.
Originally published at Poise and Pen. You can comment here or there.
You’ve made it to Day Fifteen! Congratulations!
Has your usual writing space changed any the last few weeks from all this activity? Has it become cluttered? Or the opposite?
~Amber
It's a collection of lesbian and gay fantasy short stories, published in 1997. Seems like ancient history! Fifteen years ago!
It was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award, the Firecracker Award, the Spectrum Award, and the Small Press Book Award. (Whew!)
It was also published in Spanish as MI NOVIO ES UN DUENDE.
Anyway, if you're interested, email me at desayunoencama (at) gmail.com with your preference for ebook format (.pdf, .mobi, .epub) and I'll be happy to send a copy off to you.
And thanks in advance for helping spread the word!
(Even if you don't like it, or all of the stories in it, or etc. It's been so long, I'm not sure I would either. Although I hope it is an entertaining read, still!)
I Believe
Of course, the reactions to this peice--especially on Facebook--have been both amusing and insulting.
You see, the blanket assumption is that if you produce more work, clearly it MUST be inferior to those who only produce one book per year--or take longer.
I, for one, am tired of apologizing to the world, and to other writers because I am more prolific than they are.
I'm not the best writer; I freely admit that. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I am even in the top tier of writers--gay, mystery, whatever. I prefer to think of myself as a competent writer; one who can put words together and can create scenes and characters and do a pretty decent job of setting. I'm not Stephen King or Laura Lippman or John Morgan Wilson or any number of high-quality writers whose work I enjoy and whose talents I envy.
But this blanket assumption some people seem to feel justified in, that if you can produce a lot of work in a short period of time clearly you're obviously just a hack is insulting, but also kind of pisses me off.
I'm tired of apologizing because my mind works quickly, and because I can write a lot in a short period of time.
The average length of my books is about 80,000 words. So, in the last ten years I've published 17 novels, so in novels alone (not counting essays, blogs, columns, opinion pieces, and short stories) I've written 1, 360,000 words--and really, I have two coming out this year not included in that, so you can add another 160,000 to my output.
So, over a million and a half words. You add in the other stuff, and I have put out over two million in ten years; which of course averages to 200,000 a year.
Since the average novel now really comes in at an average of say 120,000, really, my output is the equivalent of writing one really long novel every year.
Do you see how stupid those snide remarks look now in that context? So, if every year I merely published one really long novel--well, then I'd be a quality writer. But since I chose instead to break it up into a couple of novels and other things, I am therefore a hack and a fraud and my work couldn't possibly be of any quality whatsoever.
It's bad enough that I am marginalized as a genre hack; and if that isn't enough, then I am even further marginalized as a GAY mystery writer. Horror of horrors!
I get bashed by the mainstream mystery world, I get bashed by the gay literary world, pretty much every where I turn my work is diminished, demeaned, marginalized, insulted and degraded.
I was told by the programmer at a major mystery conference I couldn't be on panels because I was a nobody--"I looked you up and all I found was you'd edited a couple of anthologies, and surely you have to understand that doesn't qualify you to be on panels, given how many Bquality writers we have coming to this event" are the exact words the homophobic bitch used in her condescending, insulting email to me when I asked why I wasn't assigned anything for the second year in a row.
My gay dollars are now spent elsewhere. I'll never go back to that conference again, needless to say.
And that buck-toothed bitch better hope we never meet face to face.
I'm not going to grovel to nobodies who think because they are in a position of "power" they can insult me and condescend to me because 'my work' isn't somehow worthy.
I, for one, am sick to death of this elitism.
I'm not going to apologize for being able to write more than most authors any more.
I'm not going to apologize for writing about gay characters and gay life.
If you want to think I'm a hack, be my guest.
Because I'm not going to slow down or stop writing as long as I have the ability to type or dictate.
Sorry to disappoint you.
- Location:my desk
- Music:Fuck You by Lily Allen
The Banco del Libro in Venezuela chose my translation into Spanish of Wanda Gág's MILLIONS OF CATS, published by Libros del Zorro Rojo, as one of the best books for children and youth 2012!
(This is the only book I've translated INTO Spanish, I normally translate from Spanish into English.)
UK poetry journal AGENDA (http://www.agendapoetry.co.uk/), founded in 1959 by Ezra Pound and William Cookson, has accepted my translation into English of a poem by Jordi Doce for an upcoming issue.
I haven't written much (poetry or prose) in forever, but my poem "Kristallnacht" and two translations by me of poems by Sofía Rhei are reprinted in THE MOMENT OF CHANGE: AN ANTHOLOGY OF FEMINIST SPECULATIVE POETRY edited by Rose Lemberg, Aqueduct Press. (http://www.aqueductpress.com/books/The
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
How far can this kind of thing go? For example: how long will it be before a severely cash-strapped government will be tempted to sell people-killing licenses? There are sure to be people out there who would pay to shoot, say, a condemned murderer. One could add to the fun by setting the the murderer free in the fields, and the shooters could go after him in helicopters -- an updated version of the Roman circus where gladiators dispose of those already given the thumbs-down. Come to think of it: what about creating a market in killing Taliban, allowing people to buy an opportunity to do so from a drone-control center in the safety of Texas? The variations and possibilities are legion. But if (as I hope we do) we think these are horrible suggestions, then we think that there are moral limits to markets. And that is exactly Sandel's point.
Michael Sandel's What Money Can't Buy continues to make the rounds, and allows us all to speculate on the debasement of humanity. AC Grayling has a review at B&N, and the Guardian is running an excerpt.
I just did my fucking German taxes (they're saving Europe, they're saving Europe, they're saving Europe), so maybe I should grab myself a copy of the book, find out specifically what money can't buy. Because that's all I'll be partaking in for a while.
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
And while we're on the subject of author misdeeds, Alex Heard digs around a bit in the work of that lying liar David Sedaris, to see how much of it is made up. (A lot!) He also tries to figure out how much that might actually matter. (It's complicated!)
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
In our actual world Heidegger was a Nazi, a cowardly hypocrite, and the greatest European thinker of our time.
From the LRB archives, one of the better pieces I've read about dealing with a writer's unsavory politics.
http://www.bookslut.com/blog/archives/20
Ah, the weird problem of the memoir, when you like the book but come to dislike the author. It happens. And it's a weird feeling, at least for someone as bleh about the whole memoir genre to begin with, because in novels, who cares? But in memoir it kind of matters.
This week's Kirkus interview is with Héctor Abad. I liked sections of the memoir Oblivion immensely. At some point, though, I was feeling irritated with the novelist. Maybe it was when he started calling people who hold religious beliefs foolish. Maybe it was when he started making proclamations about what makes a "real writer." (God, I hate that shit. Because it always suspiciously aligns with the characteristics of the writer speaking.) But huge sections of the book are beautiful, so I decided to submit a few questions to Abad about the story of his father's assassination in Colombia.
Rock Chick reads like Stephanie Plum fan fiction for the Rangerettes (the shippers who wanted a pairing between Stephanie and Ranger). There is the intrepid heroine who rushes into danger. There is the hot, mysterious security guy. There are drag queens, irascible older people, people getting shot at and cars exploding.
Michael isn’t just any twenty-six year old. He’s “Mickey Flynn” the creative genius behind and the keyboard player in one of the world’s most successful bands, NinetySeven. He and his band have come back to their home town to play the last concert of their current tour. A few weeks before the concert, he’s walking his dog Max in the park and Max, who has a serious obsession with pastrami, smells the sandwich Diane is eating and begins dashing toward her. Diane, standing on the picnic table she’s jumped up on, decides her lunch isn’t worth being tackled by a very large dog, and gives Max her sandwich just as Michael finally catches up with his marauding pet.
Jessamine Hamilton is shocked to find herself attacked one night while on a clandestine visit to the City Clerk’s office. While walking through a parking lot, she finds herself chased and cornered by what could only be described as a demon. Just as she thinks her life is about to end, the demon is destroyed by a hulking man, who stabs the demon causing it to turn to disintegrate into ice. This man is Broder Calderson, and he is a member of the Brotherhood of the Damned. A thousand years ago, Broder committed a crime so atrocious; he was damned to eternal service to the Norse god, Loki. During his servitude, Broder feels nothing. He has not been with a woman in a thousand years, and has lived for a promise made by Loki, that once he’s completed a thousand years of service, he will be given a woman as a reward. Little does Broder know when he rescues Jessa that she is that woman. He knows she’s in danger, and isn’t quite sure why the Blight (demons) would be after her.