Alone In the Dark

“Remembering is only a new form of suffering.”  ~Baudelaire

“It is a pity fairy tales cannot consist solely of beginnings.” ~Camus

The Publishing Paradigm Has Officially Shifted

My novel, futureproof, was published this Tuesday by Harper Perennial. It took me five years, countless revisions, a learned-on-the-fly marketing savvy, and finally a self-published version of this novel before I was ultimately successful in obtaining a Big Publishing book deal.  Just this week, both Time Magazine and the New York Times have posted articles highlighting the growing visibility and viability of self-publishing. While self-publishing has long been considered nothing more than a vanity endeavor undertaken by no-talent would-be writers with no other means of seeing their work in print, the time is fast approaching, and indeed has already arrived, when this way of looking at an ever-growing market is not only a prehistoric fallacy, but also a potentially fatal oversight by the publishing industry at large.

 

While futureproof is being trumpeted as a self-published success that found a big enough audience to warrant a chance for a larger audience, the truth is that my experience of living this authors’ dream is far from isolated. I’m not the first writer to have found his way into mainstream publishing by using the self-publishing route. But more important than that, I will not be the last; not by a long-shot. In fact, it would be more than safe to say that as the entire publishing industry is shaken to its core by the current shitty economic climate, a completely new publishing paradigm is taking root. Just as the music industry has seen a similar seismic occurrence, publishing has not been immune to the shifting sands that are inevitable as a society mutates in concurrence with the technologies of the day.

 

Harper, and specifically its paperback imprint Harper Perennial, have strived to stay ahead of the curve in this new publishing environment. Writers like Tony O’Neill (Down and Out On Murder Mile) and Lance Reynald (Pop Salvation) have either already been picked up and published by Perennial or are slated to be published within the next year (and both are writers who I struggled alongside to find the ever-elusive publishing contract). But these are only the writers with whom I am personally acquainted.

 

CONTINUE READING….

 

Harper has extensively begun mining the infinite and continually expanding universe of self-published books that are dotting different corners of the internet with ever-growing regularity. Writers such as Brunonia Barry, an author at Harper’s William Morrow imprint (The Lace Reader), Kevin Sampsell (The Suitcase), and Justin Taylor (Everything Here Is the Best Thing Ever) also had big online platforms, which ultimately played the lynchpin in Harper’s decision to acquire them. This web presence would not have been possible even a decade ago, let alone the existence of such easily accessible means to self-publishing technology.   

 

Think about this: every year more and more books are being published by those who are discovering the ease and merit of self-publishing. Ten years ago my own self-publishing venture would never have had a chance to gestate, let alone find itself a fully formed book that could be bought by anyone on any corner of the globe. If one wanted to self-publish, there would have to be exorbitant costs expended by any wanna-be writer. You would go to a printer and pay him up front for the cost of materials to cover the cost of printing and binding a specific number of copies of a book. You would receive, in numerous boxes, however many copies of the book that you could afford to print, which would then be stored in your garage or basement until you found a way to coerce people into buying copies of your baby. More often than not the books you scraped together the money to print would end up moldy and forgotten—the ditched pet project of an author who, like his last foray into the world of model trains, turned out to be just another fad that had to be discarded in favor of more realistic pursuits.

 

But not anymore.

 

No matter how shitty your writing is, ANYBODY can write and publish a book, paying out little to nothing up front. How this is possible is that the technology has caught up with the demand of would-be writers. The term “print on demand” means just what it sounds like. You electronically submit a pdf of your personal dream project and all that remains is a dedication to finding an audience for your book. This potential audience has never been easier to connect with. Yes, I carried copies of my self-published book around in the trunk of my car, but the great majority of my book sales came from people buying it off of Amazon and other electronically-connected book sellers. The books were only printed when a reader ordered a copy. Gone was the need for warehouse space. Gone was the risk of monies expended on materials needed to actually print the book. Supply and demand were one and the same.

 

This is the new paradigm to which publishers around the world are struggling to adapt. Those publishers that stay ahead of the curve are the ones that will flourish. Those that refuse to adapt or simply cannot figure out how to are going to wither and die on the vine.

 

Never have the keys to the gates of publishing been placed directly in the hands of readers. If you write a book and do the legwork to get your writing in front of readers (and most importantly have a decent writing ability), the chances are higher than ever that a publisher like Harper Perennial is going to take notice. You are the great democratizers now. You are who determines what you want to read, in a more direct manner than ever before. So get out there and start reading and promoting those books that you find have merit. And if you are currently in pursuit of The Dream yourself, check out the resources out there specifically designed to make the reality more of a possibility. I’ll get you started: Self Publishing Review is a great site containing numerous tips and tricks to getting your writing noticed, and all written by writers who have themselves achieved success in this exploding market.

 

Talk soon.

~Frank    

Fear Eats the Soul (for immediate release)

Charlie Kaufman: There was this time in high school. I was watching you out the library window. You were talking to Sarah Marsh.
Donald Kaufman: Oh, God. I was so in love with her.
Charlie Kaufman: I know. And you were flirting with her. And she was being really sweet to you.
Donald Kaufman: I remember that.
Charlie Kaufman: Then, when you walked away, she started making fun of you with Kim Canetti. And it was like they were laughing at *me*. You didn’t know at all. You seemed so happy.
Donald Kaufman: I knew. I heard them.
Charlie Kaufman: How come you looked so happy?
Donald Kaufman: I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn’t have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.
Charlie Kaufman: But she thought you were pathetic.
Donald Kaufman: That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That’s what I decided a long time ago.

~from Charlie Kaufman’s 2002 screenplay Adaptation

My wife left me on our 7th anniversary. In the year and a half that has since passed, I have watched as my life fell apart, not a participant but a willing observer. I lost all will to live. Not long after my rapid deterioration began, my wife packed up our children and moved out of state and everything I cared about and loved was so far removed that nothing mattered. I consistently fantasized about all manner of suicide. I was in a constant state of depair and self-loathing, guilt-wracked and ultimately alone.

But what was just a much a part of my inner devestation as any of the above was the feeling of complete abandonment and utter betrayal. It was a humiliation the likes of which dwarfed anything I had ever known. How could it be that I could love so thoroughly and completely only to be dropped like a 2 dollar whore? There was no recompense. There was no bottom. There was no solace or redemption or sanctuary anywhere–only a recurrent and ongoing state of anguish; and a knowledge that I could never actually go through with murdering myself because the effects this act would have on my children were immeasurable. 

From the moment my son came into this world I made the decision that I would dedicate my life to making his life better than mine had been. This determination was only made stronger when my daughter was born 4 years later. But after this seismic disturbance of everything I had built my life around, I was left with little but the clothes on my back and self-hatred that could fill a football stadium. I spent all of my time pursuing a never-ending state of intoxication and self-destruction–suicide by tiny increments. It wasn’t being found hanging from a tree or with the back of my head blown off, but in just as complete a dedication to ruin as both of those endeavors, I was ending it all.

But this shit has to stop. I have to remember what got me to where I am and know that my self-worth cannot be determined by whether or not the woman I dedicated my life to has abandoned me or shacked up with some grocery clerk, or any of the things that have consistently pushed me closer and closer to the brink of utter insanity.

I have been working on a memoir about the toll chasing a dream takes on a person and those he loves. It has been incredibly trying for me to write this book. In it I have been recalling meeting my wife and our falling in love and establishing our life together, as well as our slow descent into ruin: spiritual, financial, emotional. But the anguish I’ve been putting myself through while writing this book is not a satisfactory reaction to the life I once led with this woman. She literally ceased loving me, and there was not a goddam thing I could do about it. Fuck feeling abandoned, fuck feeling betrayed, fuck feeling humiliated around everyone to whom I had proclaimed my undying love for my wife. None of that really mattered. What matters is that I loved her and nothing can ever take that away. What matters is that I have been given a gift, an opportunity to reach out to thousands of people through my words, through my writing–I mean, motherfuck, I am in a position so many would envy. I am able to make a living as a writer, pursuing art as a means of survival. How many can claim they’ve had such an opportunity?

So when I see articles like this, I am no longer going to scoff at the very possibility of something as absurd and unlikely as true love. True love does exist. Nothing will ever be able to crush that belief from my heart. If for whatever reason my wife no longer felt such overwhelming feelings for me as I still felt for her, it was her problem, not mine.

That being said, I want to thank all of you who have stood by me through this trial, the most trying time I have ever endured. I know I have dropped the ball in many ways. So many of you came to me after reading the original P.O.D. version of my book–people from around the country and all over the face of the earth telling me how my words had helped them get through similarly trying times. I have been absent for too long. I have abandoned my duties to you and to myself. But no longer. Hit me up. Pass my book around, make this movement that we started 3 years ago bigger than it ever was before. Because this is far larger than me or some fucking book. This is about a slew of broken, wounded people finding eachother and becoming empowered to continue on despite the obstacles.

“I hope that you are a disaster. I’m sorry, but I do. I hope that you are thunder and lightning. I hope you are a forest fire, I hope you kill the dead wood and burn off the rotting leaves. With the canopy gone, the sun can get in. You need new growth. I hope you’re terrible and broken and perfect.”                                        

~Joey, asofterworld.com

Talk soon.

~Frank

My Life On the Road (CHAAAANGE!!!!)

Essential long-term travel material

So since my life completely fell apart, I have taken to the life of the wandering bedouin. While it has been very trying in many ways (constantly having to appeal to friends for space on the couch, recieving mail from my publisher, not having the security of a ‘home base’, not having cell reception in many areas), it has also been in many ways liberating. I have pretty much eliminated all but the most necessary things needed for semi-civil existence. I carry a back pack and a duffel bag from one place to another.

In my backpack I carry toiletries, two notebooks for journaling, as well as a small Moleskine used for jotting down random sentences that are hopefully going to be useful at some point in the future. I have also made sure to carry around 20 CDs, for those times when I’m actually near a computer or stereo. The albums are as follows:

Nirvana “Nevermind”: Pretty much a given for any “road” trip. Infinitely sing-alongable and great for getting drunk to.

Leonard Cohen “Various Positions”: I had to have at least one Leonard album. I went with this one because aside from two songs, I love it all.

DJ Shadow “ENDtroducing”: Changed everything in my hip-hop mindset. Reeks of cool.

Daft Punk “Alive 2007″: Takes all of their best tracks and re-invents them in front of a giant frothing crowd. You cannot be down while listening to this record.

Massive Attack “Mezzanine”: The most stellar album in a long history of stellar albums. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this album. It is orchestra for the 21st century.

The Cure “Disintegration”: Ive loved this album since I was an angst-ridden 10th grader. Still great for an angst-ridden 34 year old. Great for self-pity and feeling not alone.

Mix CD made for me by my estranged wife when I first started my nomadic existence back in September: Honestly, I cant even listen to this CD anymore. With songs like Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” (‘This song is you,’ my wife said.), The Flaming Lips beauty “Vein of Stars” (one of ‘our’ songs), and Regina Spektor’s “Samson”, its just too heartbreaking to listen to.

Pavement “Wowee Zowee”: This is the deluxe double-album re-issue. The sounds here are all over the map, which makes it great for schizo freakouts, of which I have no shortage.

Radiohead “Amnesiac”: It was hard to go with one Radiohead CD, but I chose this one because it has the most bang for the buck and I havent listened to it nearly as many times as I have “OK Computer.”

System of A Down “Hypnotize/Mezmerize”: Another double album, this one is filled with anger and insolence, therefor a must-have for anyone trying to keep the old head above water.

Eminem “The Slim Shady LP”: Recorded when he was still hungry, its also funny as shit, even when he’s rapping about murdering his wife while his toddler daughter looks on (“There’s a place called heaven and a place called hell/ A place called prison and a place called jail/ And da-da’s probably on his way to all of em except one/ Cause mama’s got a new husband and a stepson”).

DJ Irene “Live @ Spundae”: An incredible club banger.

Tool “Undertow”: My favorite album by Tool. Every song kicks fucking ass.

Sinead O’Connor “She Who Dwells”: Yet another double disc, this is filled with otherwise unavailable tracks on one disc, as well a second disc that contains a full concert. She ends every live set with “The Last Day of Our Acquintance”.

Love Is Ours [Demo] – Sinead OConnor

7% Solution “All About Satellites and Spaceships”: An ex-girlfriend of mine from way-back-when discovered this band and when we bought the CD, it actually contained two copies, which I thought was great marketing–one for you, one to give a friend. Unfortunately I never heard anything else by them. A beautiful, melodic rock album.

Sunny Day Real Estate “The Rising Tide”: I dont know why the fuck I carry this around. Every track reminds me of my failed marriage and depresses the hell out of me. But there it is, daring me to get rid of it.

There is nothing like having to dump off everything you own to force a person to know what is really most important. I have about ten pairs of socks and underwear, some warm clothes, hat and hoodie, a pair of clippers for cutting hair on the fly. Some nick-knacks that remind me of my kids, a copy of FUTUREPROOF in both P.O.D. edition as well as the current release from Harper Perennial (best paperback publisher on the planet–if you think I’m just saying that because they are publishing me, go to their website and check out their roster of current authors as well as their even more impressive back list.)

Since August I have traveled from ATLanta to Nashville to Buffalo, NY to New York City, back to ATLanta. After my Feb. 10 reading here I’m back to Nashville (permanently, as I cannot go another month without seeing my kids), and then in March I’m off to L.A. for a reading out there. Change like a motherfucker, right? Its non-stop. But one thing Ive noticed is that in all the places Ive been, the people who have been most forthcoming with–lets face it, its charity plain and simple–are people who own multiple pets. Not just a single dog kept out in the yard, but pets with free roam of the whole house, shedding and jumping up on you. Whats the deal with that? Ive come to the conclusion that it has to do with a certain care-taking type of personality. If a person cares enough about animals to let them take over their residence, even bringing two good-sized dogs into the heart of New York City, then they evidently also give a shit about a fellow human being. Pet owners of the world, unite and take over (apologies to Morrissey, though shop-lifting does have its merits.)

Talk soon.

~Frank

Don DeLillo Scares the Shit Outta Me

I just saw the following on The Onion:

This actually made me laugh. I needed to laugh. I guess the thing is, we’ve been really making headway with FUTUREPROOF over at Harper, to the point that we’ve finished all edits and have selected a brand new cover for this “wide” release (which you’ll see at the bottom of this post). But now we’re getting to the part where I have to appeal to other writers—established writers—big name writers, to see if they’ll endorse my book. This is a daunting as fuck experience, approaching writers I have idolized for years and asking them to take time out of their lives to read my book and hopefully give it a glowing 12-15 word review. It helps that I know a few very good writers who know a few other good writers and can therefore get my foot in the door with the writers I only know through a few degrees of separation in that way. I know that makes only semi-sense but it makes total sense to me…read: I’m fucking daunted and it feels like I’m holding my breath to see what these other established writers are going to have to say about FUTUREPROOF.

Anyway, the Onion DeLillo spoof reminded me of a parody I co-created long ago with my friend and mentor Brandon Stickney. We were both attending the Skidmore Writers Institute in Saratoga Springs, New York and met over a few rum and sprites. Then we drunkenly laughed at all kinds of funny shit (trust me, it would have been funny even if we weren’t drunk). Then after having gotten along so well, he told me that he was working on a project for Jay McInerney’s Fiction class. He asked me if I wanted to collaborate on the project with him. I mean, can you believe this motherfucker? He is in a class taught by BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY writer Jay McInerney and was asking me to help him write something that McInerney was going to read. The next day we got to work. The project was to take an acclaimed piece of fiction and write a spoof or parody of a section of that work. Brandon chose to spoof Don DeLillo’s WHITE NOISE. Following, the original text and our parody of it:

DeLillo:

Murray asked about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove twenty-two miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the signs started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. The were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras. Some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides—pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
“No one sees the barn,” he said finally.
A long silence followed.
“Once you’ve seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn.”
He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.
“We’re not here to capture an image, we’re here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies.”
There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
“Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We only see what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We’ve agreed to be a part of a collective perception. This literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism.”
Another silence ensured.
“They are taking pictures of taking pictures,” he said.
He did not speak for a while. We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons, the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film.
“What was the barn like before it was photographed?” he said. “What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can’t answer these questions because we’ve read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can’t get outside the aura. We’re here, we’re now.”
He seemed immensely pleased by this.

Not bad. Some philosophizing, the typical “literary” writer’s forte. But then Brandon and I got ahold of it.

Our Version:

Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the SECOND MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We drove twenty-two miles into the country around Dylartown. There were meadows and apple orchards, silos and horse shit. White fences ran as fast as they could through the rolling fields. Soon the signs started appearing.

THE SECOND MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA

While Murray kept track on his fingers and toes, we counted twenty signs before we reached the site. There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along the cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing, buttressed by a small nearby tent for fucking. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides—pictures of the dilapidated barn taken from the elevated spot. Another booth sold condoms, vibrators, sensuous oils, edible underwear, whips and bondage gear. We stood near a grove of trees and urinated. Murray occasionally scrawled some remembered Muzak notes in a little book.
I asked Murray why he wanted to come here, rather than to the more trendy and fashionable Most Photographed Barn in America, just up the road.
“Because there is no such thing,” he said. “Oh, it’s there alright and people visit it but they don’t really see it. The first or best of anything is an unattainable ideal, a thing too big to be made, seen, touched, photographed.”
Enraptured in his thoughts, he continued, “The second of anything is always better because we, humans, you and I, and everyone can fully and completely grasp the second, the failure to be the best much better, and with more satisfaction, than with that which is Number One. For example, did you ever make love to the most beautiful blond in school, the one every boy drooled over, the one who dated the quarterback?”
“No,” I replied.
“Yes, you did,” he stressed. “You did for real or in your head but no matter what, you never really had sex or made love to her. You had sex with the idea of The Best, the most beautiful, the ‘number one,’ but you never actually had her because she never existed.
It is the girl you married, the one you hung on to and hung on to you, no matter what, whom you have and continue to make love to because she’s real. Every man you know knows that too, about her, and they want her too because she is so perfectly genuine. With experience, the intelligent man will always photograph the Second Most Photographed Barn in America. It’s obvious.”
He seemed immensely pleased by this.
“Plus,” I said, “I guess the Most Photographed Barn doesn’t have a fuck tent.”

While this was hysterical in its own rite to Brandon and I when we wrote it, we had no idea whether Jay McInerney would find it nearly as fun and hilarious.

But he did. He laughed his fucking ass off. We won the competition. That night I got to go out on the town with Brandon and Jay McInerney and his entourage (yes, SOME writers eventually get to have entourages, too). And because of that one 400-word parody, I had a permanent connection with Jay McInerney. He is now going to read and hopefully blurb FUTUREPROOF. Through a few other well-placed connections I’ve also gotten a few other lit heroes of mine to agree to read my book.

The work is just beginning. There is so much to do when it comes to hyping and getting FUTUREPROOF read. But I’m on the road and not looking back. Fuck Sarah Marshall. Oh, and that stuff about the Second Best being better? Bullshit, all of it. I always aim for top-tier. I’m let down often, yes, but think about the rush when something actually gets through. There’s nothing like it. Though I won’t be approaching Don DeLillo anytime soon for a blurb.

NEW COVER:

1984 Rapidly Approaching (It’s Here Already)

I’ve been looking for a suitable job for going on four months now. And by suitable I mean one that pays at least eight or nine bucks an hour and lets you actually work 40 hours a week. My first offer finally came from Starbucks. Yes, I was part of the global coffee terrorist conspiracy. But it didn’t last long. Perhaps it was the fact that there are literally dozens of ways to prepare coffee at that place, and even more ways to ring up every coffee order and even more ways to write each coffee’s distinctive characteristics on each cup so that the barista making the lattes knows exactly what the customer wants for her coffee, a distinctive combination of flavors and specifcations that separates her from the rest of the $4 coffee drinking crowd. I felt like I had down syndrome every time I came in to work. Two shots of espresso for one size, three shots for another, skim milk, 2%, 4 extra pumps of vanilla. It was harder to grasp than a lubed up inner tube on a white water rafting trip down the Colorado River. And on top of the M.I.T. degree needed to figure all this shit out, I was informed that every “partner” (corporate-ese for employee) was required to work for 90 days at 16-20 hours a week before even being considered for 25-30 hours. In the end I was “temporarily laid off” for not being “cheerful enough to maintain the atmosphere Starbucks strives to deliver to each and every customer.” Never mind that I was going through THE hardest time of my entire life, which is saying something seeing that I used to be a junkie and sold everything I owned for one more shot in my track-ridden arms.

But here’s the 1984 part: For the first time EVER I was able to finally locate a job with a major company that actually wanted to hire me based on my prestigious and little-used resume. Everything was set. I had gone through the regimented interview process, pressed the regional and district managers to give me another look. They told me that I was all set to start…all I needed was to pass a drug screen, a criminal background check and, GET THIS, a fucking CREDIT CHECK. As if your ability to work a job has anything to do with whether you paid your fucking bills on time or not. So basically, if you robbed a convenience store at gunpoint or molested a child–youre precluded from gainful employment the same as if you let your fucking power bill go three months overdue. Can nobody else see the fucked up logic in that? If I sound jaded, congratulations, you have just officially won the blue ribbon for reading between the most obvious lines ever written.

So my English degree being basically worth a discarded Kroger coupon, I now work for a guy who dropped out of high school and started his own pressure washing business. Its pain-in-the-ass work, but its work none-the-less. You take what you can get and run with it. I’m now patiently waiting for the barcodes to be scanned onto our necks and the job assignment microchips to be implanted in our palms. If you arent angry then you arent paying attention.

From an actual poster promoting the London Tube

Progress Report

Realization:

REALITY

HAPPY THOUGHTS

Where My Head’s At: A Year In Review

Georgia’s in the worst drought in 50 years. The Governor held some kind of seance to pray for rain. Now its raining non-stop 3 months later. Doesnt help the outlook much. Things seem bleak I gotta tell ya. I write “thankful” lists daily in this empty house that grows emptier by the day as boxes are loaded and frames are removed from walls. Shelving and dishes. Havent written a goddam word in weeks. Havent done anything in weeks worth noting.

But there is the hope of the New year. Theres always that hope. And the gallon of 15 dollar bourbon siting in the freezer. And the friends that dont call and dont trust anymore. The stain of tough love.

Oh and the 3 bottles of Icehouse carefully rationed. And the kids home on Tuesday.

All the “Demoncrats” are hellbound with the rich people and those old guys with the funny hats that drive go-carts and collect change at stopsigns.

Never thought to do the old “blow in the face” trick. Might’ve saved everything.

I like this video. Retro.

Theres always dancing.

WRITERS STRIKE BACK; PORN GOOD FOR SOCIETY; GREATEST FINISH IN THE HISTORY OF FOOTBALL

 

Tina Fey puts her mysteriously scarred mouth and ass on the line like a normal anonymous blue-collar writer.

If your head’s been completely up your ass for the last week then you are one of the unfortunate few who haven’t heard that the Writer’s Guild of America is now on strike. What this means, ultimately, is that aside from sports and shitty reality TV programming, there isnt going to be anything original on TV, and if it drags on long enough, no new movies either. In some ways this could be seen positively, as it could give some big breaks to aspiring writers who dont have the pleasure of being part of the Writer’s Guild, and have a script they’ve just been dying to get in some studio stiff’s greasy hands. But other than that positive, there’s every good reason for this strike. In fact, more than 21 so-called “entertainment” blogs are now blacking themselves out to show solidarity with this overlooked and under-appreciated segment of the production machine.

Writers are easily the most disrespected artists in the entertainment industry. This is due in part (I can only guess) to the fact that writing is so far from flashy and is done alone, much like masturbation and suicide. I’ve heard a lot of people deride this strike as the writers just being greedy and cant they just get their lazy overpayed asses back to their darkened rooms and hunch over their nicotine-stained keyboards so we can see new episodes of any of the 4 or 5 Law& Order spin-offs. Truth is, the writers of all this entertainment that’s been rotting your brain for the past 50+ years have been getting shafted for pretty much the duration of the history of writing for popular media. And as this new show standstill will make perfectly clear, though the writers are strictly behind the scenes most of the time, none of the shows you like to watch (yes, including Family Guy) are possible without those witty writers pecking away at keys for days on end. They are quite possibly THE most essential part of the entire process. And yet they’ve been getting royally screwed for years. It’s time for some payback. Here’s the breakdown:

Of course, there’s always a flipside to all of this. Looked at from another perspective, this could be seen as the equivalent of a power blackout, where the family gets together by candlelight and breaks out the age-old techniques of boardgames and having conversations. Because no matter how great we writers are, none of what we right is actually real, as explained beautifully by screenwriter extraordinaire, Paddy Chayefsky in his timeless 1976 film NETWORK:

So think about both sides of the coin and try to find a happy medium. And for God’s sake, try to improve on the dismal 3% of Americans that read books on a regular basis, a figure that’s probably even lower now seeing as this film is 30 years old. But mainly let the powerhouse entertainment corporations know that you’re mad as hell and you arent going to take it anymore. Give these writers their fair share!

NOW….onto porn!

Feminists and Christian and Muslim fundamentalists around the world are reeling after the Stanford Law School demonstrated empyrical evidence showing that the faster an area gets access to the internet (and therefore a never-ending supply of free porn), the faster instances of rape have declined. “A 10 percent increase in Internet access, Kendall found, typically meant a 7.3 percent reduction in the number of reported rapes. For other types of crime, he found no correlation with Web use. What this research suggests is that sexual urges play a big role in the incidence of rape — and that pornographic Web sites provide a harmless way for potential predators to satisfy those desires.” So stick that in your pipe and smoke it in the most phallic way possible, porn haters. Porn, despite all the self-righteous haymaking by Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson and other “upstanding” members of the extreme religious right, is actually beneficial to mankind. *Side note*: Isnt it interesting that such extremes in political and cultural views, the far right and the far left, can agree on something of this or ANY nature? Just goes to prove the theory that the more extreme one gets, the closer it comes to its opposite extreme.

And this is funny too, an actual Craigslist posting.

And now, finally, I present to you the most amazing closing I have ever seen to a football game. I’m pretty sure this just happened over the past weekend because I surely would have heard about it before now. Even if you dont like football you’ll definitely appreciate this. It’s just amazing.

 Blew your mind, didnt it, even more than that time when the team ran the ball all the way back with no time on the clock and the player had to run through the opposing team’s band that had already run onto the field to prematurely celebrate their losing team’s victory.

 

Hope you enjoy the new site. This site contains every single blog post I put up since trying to get futureproof recognized by readers and publishers back in October of 2005. It really has been an amazing journey. And the best is yet to come. You’ll see improvements popping up over the next few weeks. Its a work in progress. In the meantime, enjoy, and spread the word.

 Talk soon.

~Frank

 

 

 

FUTUREPROOF SOLD(!!!) To Harper Perennial

After a month or so of awkward negotiating, FUTUREPROOF has officially been sold for publication worldwide to Harper Perennial (an imprint of publishing giant Harper Collins). As can be expected by anyone who’s been following the journey-to-legitimate-publishing saga of FUTUREPROOF over the previous 2 years, I am more than elated at this completely unexpected turn of events. I mean, I couldnt be happier. Soon FUTUREPROOF will takes its place on Harper Perennial’s list next to such authorial legends as Allen Ginsberg, Joyce Carol Oates, Aldous Huxley, Russell Banks, Charles Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, Thomas Pynchon, Denis Johnson, and two of my closest author friends, Josh Kilmer-Purcell and James Frey–both of whom had a hand (I believe) in getting the editors at Harper to take a look at FUTUREPROOF. But get this: This couldnt have come at a more surprising time.
When I was contacted by HP last month I had already decided that I was finished trying to find FP a publisher. It had nearly torn my family apart and had brought me to the literal brink of insanity and complete exhaustion. I had to walk away from it, focus on writing my next book and hope that it would fare better in finding a publisher. And I was totally at peace with that situation. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders when I decided to lay off chasing this publishing dream for FUTUREPROOF. It was as though I was given a reprieve from a Sisyphus-ian life of neverending toil for no return. And then it happened. THEY contacted ME. Yeah, you got that right. Harper Perennial contacted ME and asked if I’d be interested in becoming a part of their list. Just like that. Two years of chasing readers. Two years of building a following for this book in the hope that eventually it would be noticed by someone in a position to do something that would result in the wide-spread germination of this book. Two years of single-minded drive that stretched everything close to if not past its breaking point. And then it dropped in my lap. There’s a lesson here somewhere. I know its going to take some time to figure exactly what it is. But I know this much: never stop reaching. Never give up. If you believe and a whole lot of other people believe as well, eventually something IS going to happen.
Thanks to everyone who has offered me and FUTUREPROOF support over the months and years. Now we move on to the next phase. Stick with me. We’re going places.
FUTUREPROOF: due for publication by Harper Perennial next fall or winter. Everything’s about to change.
Talk soon.
~Frank