blackdirt

Am three hours from popping off to holiday. A week of R & R with my sweetheart which begins with a soccer tournament for Carson later today, a hand-off to Carson's dad, then bring on the M&Ms 'cause it's road trip time!

This spring break couldn't be more welcome. It's been a rough winter. Kirk's been sick half of it, and I'm coming off some horrendous stomach/head thing (mixed with a particularly heinous "monthly" sitch--God, bring on menopause for real, this perimenopause crap is like giving birth to eight pounds of placenta. ok, tmi. But it's my blog, so fuck it).

Ahem.

So I just finished a rewrite of a project I began in, uh, 1993. Yes, 20 years ago. This project, a novel, has gone by the name BLACKDIRT lo these decades, and it's chock full of homage to the grotesque (in particular, grotesque's intersection with Old World Catholicism), as well as more than a few erotic elements, along with a smattering of, well, let's call it twisted girl-power.  I'm pretty sure the period from hell is nature's way of sage-sticking the project from my uterus. A 20 year pregnancy (albeit, many of those years dormant, you know, like a virus that hides in a rat?), followed by six weeks of labor.

Want to know more about this baby? Of course you do!

Here's my elevator speech-in-progress:

Lily’s father is a second-generation Austrian immigrant, second-generation small town physician, at the mercy of a proud and spiteful mother and a dutiful, sickly father. Lily’s mother, an orphan raised by Polish onion farmers in the fertile Hudson Valley black dirt, slowly dissolves into madness. Lily’s world view develops in the spaces between her Polish grandparent’s onion fields and the mahogany halls of her paternal Oma and Opa’s house.

Brought up in a dying Catholic culture by parents who are torn apart with longing they can neither satisfy nor transcend, dyslexic Lily falls prey to the nefarious elements of a collapsing rural landscape, and slowly sinks into the voices of Rue and Camellia, a duo that acts as both guide and the bridge to dark family secrets. Once Lily discovers the haunting truth of her existence, the voices take over and propel her to seek revenge and transcendence.

Framed with a thriller overlay, Blackdirt edges into magical realism and allegory, where myth and reality merge, the edges blur, and Lily becomes a symbol of pagan transfiguration on the cusp of a contemporary fin-de-siècle. 

Okay, guys, I'm packing the car. What's your favorite road trip food? 

last words

Hey, writer friends, let's play a game! 

A few years ago some pals and I decided to do NaNoWriMo and encourage one another by emailing our "last paragraph of the day" each day. We thought it might be fun to create some additional deliverables beyond the daily word count.

No other rules, no other context, no "what you need to know," simply, the last paragraph you write before tucking yourself into bed.

Our investment in each others' writing blossomed, as did our enthusiasm for our own projects. There was that little "whip" you know? And the feeling that if we didn't submit our paragraphs, we were letting our readers down. Plus, there were some HILARIOUS paragraphs that had us aching for more, more, MORE!

And, hello, it ensured we all were writing every single day.

Do you want to play with me??

Here's how it'll work. Each day, for the next 2 weeks, (March 6 - March 20), post your last para in the comments section below.

As added incentive, everyone who participates and manages to post a paragraph EVERY day will automatically be entered in my lottery for a SIGNED COPY OF THE STUD BOOK BY MONICA DRAKE!!!!

To get us started, here's my last paragraph from yesterday:

There are no sections in party stores where you can purchase Welcome Home from Prison banners. No piñatas in the shape of a ball-and-chain. Forget ordering a cake with a nail file baked into it. The only even close-to-gag party favors for a newly minted ex-con are squirt guns. So I bought a dozen, and then drove to the Little York Package Store for the booze.

Ready, set, GO!!

UPDATE 3/20/13 THANKS FOR BEING PART OF LAST WORDS! I'M SO INTRIGUED BY THE STORIES HERE. I'M AN EPISODIST AT HEART. (IS THAT A WORD? SHOULD BE.) ANYWAY, I DECIDED TO DO A RANDOM # GENERATOR THING TO DRAW FOR THE MONICA BOOK. I FIGURED IF I PULLED MY OWN NUMBER, I'D JUST REDO IT. BUT I DIDN'T HAVE TO. THE RNG PULLED 38, COUNTING DOWN, THAT MEANS THAT DAVID MILLSTONE WON THE SIGNED MONICA DRAKE BOOK! DAVID, THE BOOK COMES OUT APRIL 12. I'LL GET YOUR COPY SIGNED LICKETY SPLIT THEREAFTER AND SEND IT OUT. THANKS AGAIN EVERYONE!

unkiss me e-chapbook experiment

love. love. love.

I have several clients who either want to self-pub or are self-pubbing, and it occurs to me that, although I have a distance-learners understanding of the vendors, options, players, I've never done it myself, so all my advice is abstract.

A few weeks ago I signed on as a member of the "launch team" for this sweet little book by one of the most revered experts in the agent/pub community. If you're scratching your head about how, whether, when, what or if in the self-pub hubbub, I highly recommend HOW DO I DECIDE, by Rachelle Gardner. It's a $3.99 ebook, and a terrific reference.

chock full of goodies!

Me? Pretty much my whole adult life is a DIY experiment. I've freelanced for over 20 years, dabble in a variety of $-producing writing, editing and teaching gigs, and here I am, at 10:15, in my bathrobe (I'm not recommending that, per se, just trying to offer up the flexibility factor that defines, and will continue to define, my life).

And yet.

I have an agent, and she's pedaling two one of my novels at the moment, and I truly, truly want to nail the elusive traditional book contract. That said, I see a lot of potential in utilizing the technology, the social media marketing options, and the entrepreneurial spirit I'm cursed blessed with to learn more about getting some of my work in front of readers and building my platform and readership.

So, dear readers, I conducted a little Valentine's Day season experiment over the weekend, and uploaded a skinny collection of my stories that (but for one) have been published in small presses over the years. I did it via Smashwords, and I'm still messing around with paragraph formatting, but I think with the latest upload I figured it out. (The gatekeepers are finicky, which is probably a good thing.) I'm selling the book for .99 on Amazon, but am going to give it away for Valentine's Day (coupon code VP23Q until Feb. 15th) if you buy it through Smashwords. So far I've "sold" five twelve 17 27 copies, but the day week is young! Picture me at a mall food court donning an apron and a tray o' chicken teriyaki samples--that's going to be me for the next few days.

The other funnish thing that went along with this, was creating a web page to platform my little e-book--which relied on finding an amusing image for the cover that was big enough for the the background on the web page. (Thank God for morguefile)!

I'm thinking of making a video/trailer, too, but that could be a stretch.

On balance, so far this feels a little like playing house with a new boyfriend--you know? Like, you're not married or even officially living together, but you spend a few weekends testing the waters -- working in the garden, making soup -- it's about possibility as much as it is about caution, this little "let's put a book together and offer it up." Fun without all the gravity and seriousness of true commitment. I'm not sure that's what it's supposed to feel like, though ...

What about you? Have you lost your e-book making virginity yet? What did you think of the experience?

plot remediation

for plot-tards like me

I’m reading this book, OUTLINING YOUR NOVEL: MAP YOUR WAY TO SUCCESS by K.M. Weiland. Have you seen it? I was attracted by the cover, the sketchy visual cartooniness of it, which mitigates the cheesy marketingish title. (Having spent years writing that sort of imperative call-to-action, I’m always leery of taking the bait).

According to Ms. Kindle, I’m 30% of the way through it, and I’m already drinking the Kool-Aid. Chapter Three, “Crafting Your Premise” has some salient advice on taking a What if … ? statement and concretizing it into a premise. Yeah, it’s basic stuff, but my mind’s such a messy place, I’m happy to step out of the classroom with the Special Ed teacher and have it all broken down for me, particularly in the connection to solidifying characters, conflict and plot.

You see, friends, I am a plot-tard. That part of a writer that bravely marches down the path of most-resistance? The conflict-seeking organ? Well, I was born without that. I’m all, can’t we just be friends? with my characters. I like hanging out with them, and who wants to hang out with troublemakers?

OYN suggests you ask questions specific to your premise and define four or five big moments that will occur in your plot. And then, you dream up at least two complications to those moments—complications that will make your characters uncomfortable. I have pantsed my way toward these ideas in the past, but only in revision, and only after fighting the urge to keep my characters problems private. I mean, I’m embarrassed for them! What if they get caught?

Last time around, I built my little three-panel plot board and sticky-noted illegible plot-points upon until it looked like a colorful skin disease. That helped me visualize the arcs and so forth, but I didn’t do the initial work on blueprinting the premise from the gate, and by the time I’d scribbled on those stickies, I was already invested in my “people,” so the premise and the elements of plot had to serve them. My forte, if I have one at all, is voice, and I like to fit story around voice. Going back to my SPED teacher, if she was any good, she’d put duct tape on my mouth until I came up with the complications to four or five big moments. It’s for my own good!

Now, I’m not saying that this remediation is appropriate for all writers. All you TAG students, you know who you are. Keep pantsing or plotting as per usual, I’m sure your natural aptitude for having darling protagonists open all the wrong doors will spring from your pen like so many frogs (do I sound bitter? Do I?), but if you stutter and drool at the mere suggestion of conflict, pick up (or one-touch) a copy of OYN.

Happy outlining!

Liars, cheaters and frauds. Oh my.

Hey everyone, I'm in Las Vegas! My very first trip here. Possibly my last!

The thing I like most about traveling are the weird dreams I get fitfully sleeping in a foreign bed. And nothing shakes up the dreamworld more than the ridiculous over-stim of Sin City.

Right now, I'm sure you're all like, Oh, God, is she going to detail her dream last night? I hate that! Well, so do I. But hear me out. This one deals with something many writers face, particularly writers in long-standing writers' workshops.

In my dream, I was helping another writer flesh out an idea. The writer was this anonymous guy who tried his hand at a tropey little RomCom and was dissatisfied with it. I took a look and got all inspired and found all these ways to deepen it, strengthen it, get it off the ground. He liked the enthusiasm behind my counsel, but was all, "Nah. I think I'll just throw it in the garbage. I sort of hate the idea, anyway."

At this point I was thoroughly invested in the book. In my dream I contemplated asking him if I could steal his idea and make it my RomCom. But, even in my dream, I decided that was completely unethical, so I watched the manuscript fly off a building (similar to the Flamingo Hotel) and into the great black netherworld of aborted WIPs. I was horribly sad when I awoke. As though someone had died.

So, I guess I have a question to you writer folk. Have you ever been tempted to adopt someone's abandoned WIP? Where's the line between inspiration and thievery? 

need some mind-fi

It's the new year and we all want to be healthy, am I right? Trot that ass to the gym? Banish the sweets? Do more of this and less of that?

Typically, I'm up for all sorts of rearranging come January. Last year, I timed the launch of my new website with the new year. In 2011, I went on that cleanse. Remember that? In 2010, I pledged, once again, "to write before my monkey mind has a foothold." Ha! And here I am in 2009 with my workshop besties, promising this and that.

Now, I'm not knocking the tradition of taking inventory and forming intentions to better navigate the path ahead. I'm for it big time. And yet. Life, you know, sort of happens. The unscripted disasters. The earthquakes, the shootings. Biology, destiny and gravity all meeting in secret, putting together a powerpoint on the ways in which life will conspire to fuck you up.

A word that gets bandied about this time of year is "balance." Yoga and cardio. Fun and work. Kale and steak. Coffee and cigarettes green tea. Balance. Yeah. I'm feeling that one. Lack of balance, actually. Despite my carefully-crafted work time management plan:

• 25% writing for paycheck
• 25% teaching/editing
• 25% marketing, email-checking, blogging, tweeting and generally fucking around on social media
• 25% work-in-progress writing (includes research)

...that ain't happening.

The "marketing, email-checking, blogging, tweeting and generally fucking around on social media" is probably, oh, uh, 78% of my office time. If you pull the "research" out of WIP and stick it where it rightly belongs, in the "fucking around" section, then we're probably up to 86%.

Look, at the start of 2009, Facebook was just beginning to get its foothold. Nobody was on Twitter yet. Blogs were ramping up, but not ubiquitous. Pinterest? Not even a gleam. Now, there are all these sparklers and messages and imperatives to join this, respond to that. And don't, by the way, make a mistake because your digital footprint is unerasable. Sometimes, I'll follow a trail that starts with a tweet, and before I know it, I'm up a dark alley that holds no clue to what I first set out to explore.

What I want for 2013 is engagement. Substance. Depth. I want more steak, but balanced with kale, 'cause, you know, kale is good for you. I want to immerse in my projects and not write myself into a Googleable corner. (Oh, I guess I'd better find out what the world record for the 1500 is, 'cause my character needs to beat it--wait, what sort of training shoes should she be wearing. Better text my stepson and ask him.) Like that. Sometimes, I'm multitasking from device to device, as in:
Yeah, need some serious Mind Fi. So. What's my plan? Do I have a plan? I'm not sure I do. Other than, I think this whole idea might start with reading more. Reading deeply. A novel, a memoir, an article. From beginning to end. With engagement. I long to get deep enough into a book that I forget to check my email, my texts, my Google Analytics. Do you know what I mean?

new adult wip

One of the things I like most about writing is its unpredictability. What other vocation allows, and, indeed, encourages, prurient exploration in the pursuit of production? Say you wake up one day and decide to write a novel set in the red light district of Vancouver, BC. Road trip! Or, suppose your character is undergoing brain surgery--cozy up to a surgeon, and tell him you're writing a thriller, and, BAM! You're in the OR.

I hope I'm never implicated in a homicide--one peek at my Google history this last week and I'd be locked up for a very long time. Why, you ask? Well. Just for the hell of it, I'm writing a crime novel. Novelette, really. Call me a casualty of the GONE GIRL Zeitgeist, mix that up with a fascination for noir classics and, just for the hell of it, throw in a little "new adult" à la Lena Dunham, and, et voilà! It's my new WIP.

Who knew I'd be wrapping my mind around a college-focused whodunnit? And during the holiday season no less. 

Anyone out there starting something new before the calendar-prescribed season of the clean slate?

Prizes! Tips from my hot writing group!

UPDATED AUGUST, 2013
Okay kids. My SUPER popular Dialogue Boot Camp via LitReactor is scheduled for a reprise beginning October 3rd.

As before, I'm bringing the big guns to this class. You will not be disappointed. Not only am I gonna pack it with lectures that will give you insight into what makes dialogue sing, but there will be deconstruction. Evisceration. Good times aplenty!

In ten days, you'll have some mad skills. Some understanding of authority, voice, and the intersection of the two and a have a chance to practice.

And not only that.

The literary heavy-hitters in my workshop, those folks you always see in the New York Times? Yeah, them. They've ponied up some tips that will be unveiled during class. Worth it just for those, eh?

But, that is not all.

The Den Mom, aka, me, will critique three prompt-driven assignments (decided in a lottery). And as an added bonus: Three more students will be selected at random at the end of class to have their work critiqued by me—anything they want, up to 10 pages. We're talking detailed, line-by-line critique.

Sign up now! Don't delay, class starts bright and early October 3rd!

fantasy dinner party

Here's who's on my guest list:
Beatrix Potter
Leonard Cohen
Bill Clinton
Chip Kelly
Julia Child
Sofia Coppola
Bruce Springsteen
and, of course, The Empress

Alternate: Tonya Harding

Who's on your list?

revising a life

Just back from a particularly sweaty walk in my West Portland neighborhood. I often go on these make-it-up-as-I-go-along quests when I'm feeling the metal edges of the hamster wheel too acutely.

This was a five-miler, lots of up and down, and at the end, as I turned up my street, I ran into a neighbor lady out on her own sojourn. A woman who I'd just heard was recovering from breast cancer. She looked lovely in her white knit cap and scarf. Alive, the way only a scrape with cancer can propel a person into aliveness. She was taking a little post-chemo constitutional, and I flagged her down.

Her son is a year ahead of mine in school, so we chatted about freshman year and the local high school and the things that are most important to 14-yr-old boys.

Ah, life. The seasons, the trajectory, the misfires and mayhem. You just never know, right? One day you're thinking you should give that gluten free diet another chance, or hm, maybe go somewhere warm for spring break. The quotidian, "Gee, what should I make for supper." Next day your husband gets hit by a trolley. Which leads me to my little cardio-epiphany on today's slog.

It had to do with God. Really, apropos of nothing, after cresting a particular muddy hill clotted with wet leaves, the idea of God as a writer of the Big Narrative crystallized. What if God was writing a book, and the default for this book was to have each character follow his or her well-worn arc in service to the grand trope. Behave in ways that were consistent with the narrative, because God is under contract to produce a certain type of book. Thinking some more about this, the oft-spoke term "Let go and let God" came to mind, and I had a visceral reaction to it. A roiling rejection of the notion that a person should break their particular stranglehold on something and let the chips fall where they may, as opposed to, say, giving God a little smack. A little, "WTF, Dude (sorry, God will always be a dude in my mind), I'm not down with the plan."

 Did I just swear at God? *Turns around to see if a lightning bolt is on its way through the window*

Heresy aside, what if, instead of believing in a power greater than oneself as the platitude offers, people began to embrace the highest power--the God--inside themselves.What if people were encouraged to stray from the prescribed path in service to their own narrative?

That's when Malala came to mind. Malala, the current face of courage and rebellion. The girl who, with everything stacked against her, continues to write her own narrative, embracing that fire within, bucking the tide.

I was thinking that how the long-sufferers of the world, those chronically complaining that the wrong people keep coming into their lives, and that their jobs suck, and that they can't get no, hey, hey, hey, that those folks are often the ones who invoke God's will when it comes to dealing with their chronic misfortunes. What if those people took the pen from God's hand, just once, and revised the section of the narrative in which they get fucked over, yet again. (Writers know about this. We hear our characters staging revolts all the time. On the page for me today, in fact, my character smacked me upside the head and declared, I'm not doing that. Thus the need for the walk.)

But in terms of staring down the alpha--having the hubris, the audacity, to grow the balls to make the scary decisions, to Malala your way to your dream come-what-may, I'm for it.

What would you be willing to throw away for the dream?

brooklyn castle

Last week I took my schoolteacher husband to see this documentary about a Title 1 public school in Brooklyn nationally recognized for its chess team. Really, I just wanted to have a date with the hub--you know when you get that urge to hold your guy's hand in the dark? It was one of those.

Kirk has been having a really crappy year at school. His district is operating on a skeleton budget, and over the summer the administrators played Pick Up Sticks with the staff in a desperate attempt to balance a totally out-of-whack fiscal situation. You know, the "cliff" everyone's talking about. He has over 40 kids in a few classes. He's teaching a grade he hasn't taught since his practicum days some 35 years ago while grade school teachers have been transferred to high schools faced with subjects they are ill-equipped to teach. I could go on and on, but I'm going to stop there, because this isn't a rant. No, it's a love note.


What makes Brooklyn Castle such a satisfying film has to do with the humanity that pours out of kids and teachers on the screen. The documentary covers more than a year at the school, and follows several students through the ups and downs of competition and the realities of an economy where social programs and education are perennially on the chopping block.

 The filmmaker does a masterful job of bringing out the kids as they really are. Capturing the essence and spectrum of adolescence. The hopes. Pitfalls. Fear of failure. And the backdrop of dedicated teachers and administrators pushing that rock uphill during a perilous time in our economy makes the movie all the more stunning.

Kirk and I both teared up. Sitting there in an audience of four, quietly holding hands and rooting for these kids, for the school. And what a week to be watching such a film, right? The hurricane. The election. So much at stake.

The common denominator of the last seven days, I think, is love. When human beings work together, striving to accomplish that thing just outside the grasp, it's infectious.

What has inspired you lately?

just for fun

http://www.wordle.net/ Have you clouded your ms?

NaNoWriRant

  Greetings from your resident naysayer and spoilsport. Today is November 1st. Day of the Dead AND day one of the 2012 NaNoWriMo blitz. Coincidence? I think not.

Don't get me wrong, I have been a fan of the writing bootcamp, and think it can be instrumental in getting a project off the ground. I've done it. It was an interesting experience, and I got a lot of pages written. Where are those pages now, you ask? On a long crashed hard drive--but the kernel of my project morphed into something that ultimately survived.

The best part of the experience for me was the connection element. I had a few buddies, and at the end of each session we'd trade our final paragraphs of the day. I looked forward to them sparkling down in my inbox, and was eager to share my own, so that kept me motivated and accountable.

That said, I do have reservations about NaNoWriMo. Or, I should say, one GINORMOUS reservation, and that is, the experience can lead to the absolute opposite outcome for writers. Instead of fueling production, it can be one more distraction. E.g. checking in on all your fellow WriMos to see how many words they've written, or spending additional time blogging, responding to blog posts and tweeting about word count, or lack thereof. Even locating the widget you want and backending it onto your blog sidebar can take as much time as writing four pages.

Can you say sink hole?

In the last four years, since my foray, writing communities have bubbled up all over the place. Social media and its ubiquitous, meteoric presence can be another full time job on its own, so with the addition of WriMoVille, you're taking minutes away from writing time. And who has minutes, right?

A few months ago, I wrote a novel in 70 days. A novel that, according to my agent, was in pretty good shape. The final draft took another three weeks, and now it's out to editors, so it's not that I'm a killjoy regarding butt-in-the-seat. For me, it's all about focus. I had to do less things instead of more things to get those 60K words down (and those were the keeper words--double that for rough draft). I had to be strict about my time on social media and extra curriculars and the sorts of communication enticements dangled before me.

I do like the idea of setting goals though, and I think what's most important about the idea of National Novel Writers' Month is figuring out what's the right goal for you. Maybe it's three chapters you work hard to polish. Maybe it's shitting out that initial lump of coal. Maybe it is, indeed, simply connecting with a writing community. My bit of caution, as a dyed-in-the-wool non rule-follower, is to make your WriMo experience particular to your goals as a writer. Don't get sucked in by the numbers unless that's what's important to you as a writer. In other words, make your own rules!

So tell me, writers, what do you wish for writing selves this month?

name that character

Mitch? Rod? Morgan? Julian? Broc?

   So, in between obsessively checking Sandy reports (lots of family on East Coast), today I've been working on fleshing out an outline for a sequel to RAISING CHEER. I'm one of those writers who has to name my characters before I can even write the first sentence (or truly tap out a meaningful outline). Of course, I often search-and-replace the names in subsequent drafts, but I simply cannot lope my people through their various conundrums until I get initial purchase on names.

And before I can name them, I need to know what they look like.

Brady

In the old days, before stock photography, I used to sketch my characters, and make tab-festooned clothing for them. Sort of like those Betsy McCall paper dolls of yore. Thank God I don't have to do that anymore. I'm not much of a sketcher. Now I just pop on a site like this one, and peruse the offerings. It's sort of like porn for character development. You know, like, Hey boy, what're you wearing? You never know where it will lead...

Since the second RC book will have most of the same characters as the first one, the only real name challenge is a new character. A love interest. A swarthy fellow (the pic above is a guy a bit older than the character in my book, but same brand of attitude). The third party in a love triangle. The romantic foil.

Connor

The stoneresque boy pictured left is the hero, Connor, from book one (that's a soft spot I have, I guess-- a sort of scruffier Josh Hartnett type burnout with a heart of gold), and the young gal with the cell phone above is exactly who I envision my main character, Brady, to be.

So, top picks for naming the ass hat (as discussed on Facebook): Julian, Prescott, Marcel (Marc), Broc, Adam, Georgio, Shane.

What do think, oh fabulous writing community? What would you name my asshole?

sit your ass down and write season

   The rain has arrived. Like a reverse groundhog's proclamation, the serious pile up of storms on the Doppler radar has announced six more months of the same.

Not that I'm bitching.

In the 23 years I've lived in Portland, I can't remember such a fantastic lingering sun spell. No rain since the beginning of July. Tomatoes that rival New Jersey August-grown ones. Umbrellas clenched like fists. Car windows left open all night (shit, that reminds me...). Enough, already.

Fitting that weather would change with the onset of Wordstock. Rain is writing weather, after all. Gone is the stray, "let's go bang a couple balls around the court" notion. It's curl up in front of the fire with a stack of books. With your notes. With your big, big ideas for the next book.

It's here. Yes it is. Whatcha gonna write?

art. portland style.

Go to any happening, any event -- concert, sports, literary -- and the most ubiquitous aspect is the bevy of rectangular discs surgically adhered to the palms of the people. The viral share--the YOU ARE THERE--the feeding frenzy of HERE'S WHERE I AM RIGHT THIS MINUTE -- delivered in scooping haste by the masses. Gone are the dusty press-pass-toting members of the media, who, until very recently, everyone relied upon for reportage. Well, maybe not gone, exactly, but certainly upstaged.

Case in point. Last night three members my writing group, Chuck Palahniuk, Chelsea Cain, and Lidia Yuknavitch, teamed up to help launch Lidia's latest book, DORA: A HEADCASE. The venue, one of a handful of surviving indie bookstores, made 100 tickets available (and were sold out within the hour) for this unique confab: bedtime stories for grown-ups. The idea was to spike sales for DORA, while benefitting a brick-and-mortar book store by offering something you just can't get via, ahem, Amazon. Yes, there were adult beverages involved.

Well, the media showed up:



and, as is their style, the on-the-beat reporter began to voiceover during Chuck's reading of a story he'd just, that afternoon, written. Well, if there's one thing I've learned about Chuck lo these 20 years I've been in workshop with him, he's 1) not fond of being interrupted while reading, and 2) he thinks  lightning speed fast on his feet - even when they're covered in bunny slippers.

After a brief brow furrow, the ascot and smoking jacket-clad Chuck put down his fresh, reasonable story and picked up a three-hole binder (another Chuck thing--the binder). "That's it, I'm reading the dirty one," he said. "No going back."

Monica and I and the leopard theme

So while the reporter snagged Chelsea for commentary, and muted Chuck's super graphic, sexual, shocking and amazing reading of the sort of story that has the editors of Playboy salivating, the audience collectively squeezed their prized stuffed animals and got all Harry Potter-eyed while the iconic author of FIGHT CLUB hefted the lets-get-you-good-and-uncomfortable bar to new and glorious heights. Again, demonstrating how now, more than ever, art is defined on-the-ground, by the terms of the artist and audience. Which is really what this celebration of transgressive fiction is all about, right? And what better place than Portland to show it, eh?

What's the coolest event you've been to in the last year?