Know your Poe: The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore –

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door –

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door; –

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" –

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door –

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before –

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never – nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –

On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

THE AFTERMATH. Never explain yourself! says the poet. All right then, I will. My dalliance with Poe is a shallow thing, and who knows if it will go anywhere. I certainly will NOT be writing any books about him. I have found a superb site hosted by the Poe Society of Baltimore, and I hope to slosh around in it in the coming days. It has simply everything - remarkably complete, even down to what his voice sounded like ("melodious", as poets' voices were often described, with a touch of Southern accent, the kind we hear in the polished and well-moneyed.  And in spite of dire poverty, he always affected a slightly shabby gentility.)

But this is my Poe moment. Having strung together a crazy assortment of subconscious images (and some people are SO annoyed at the lack of one-on-one or sequential significance to these, as I prefer to dredge them up from the depths of the Land of Bye-Bye), some of them taken from a weird old cartoon called Inky and the Minah Bird in which a mournful black bird trudges along, with an occasional hop-step, to  Mendelssohn's lugubrious Fingal's Cave - having done all that - yes, done all that - well - well - I bought a cask of amontillado, and. . . and. . .

Actually, I went for a walk. Sasamat Lake, a gorgeous place where I love walking, because the winding trail is bang up against the shore, so close you can dip your toe in. There's a white sand beach, and breeze, and many geese with goslings (we counted 18 babies last time, and by now they were almost as big as chickens and looking weirdly ostrichlike). We were delighted to see them promenade again, the adults with stiff necks and nodding heads which seemed to say, eloquently, "Bugger off, you humans, you're bothering me."

But it wasn't that.

Wasn't. That. At all.

When we arrived, just as we walked toward the white sands, we heard a - squawk.

An - AWWKK.

An - AWWWHHKKK!

This was a primal, even prehistoric sound, and soon it was joined by another voice even more evil and squawky, and then a third, and a fourth, and - God, how many were there?

"Ravens," I said to Bill. "It's ravens, and they're completely insane."

These ravens, at least four of them, or perhaps five or six, or even more, were not happy campers. The croaky squawks just escalated in frequency and volume until I thought I was in a Hitchcock movie. The resonance of their croaky Nevermore-ish throats just richochets and bounces off trees and rocks, and other ravens. This couldn't have been a good situation. Were they defending their territory? Nesting? Just plain pissed off?  I could see them wheeling in the sky, looking vaguely vulturelike above the treetops, while some of them hunched blackly in the branches.

The squawking and awwhhk-ing went on and on, until we outwalked it on the trail. Still there was an echo behind us, crows on steroids, murderous birds whose deep-throated squawks made cawing seem melodious.  I had the thought: a murder of crows, yes, but ravens - ?*  (See footnote - at the foot, idiot!).

At any rate, in light of my Poe-ish mood, it did seem like serendipity, or at least synchronicity, if only of a darkish shade.

I have not had time nor energy to analyze The Raven - God, what an undertaking, if I may use such an expression! And I hear there are Poe scholars who make it their life's work to sift out the meaning of all this macabre stuff. But I did notice some dark humor in it, lines that others don't seem to have noticed (humor? In Poe?).

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

To me, this verse, if not ALL the verses, has the feeling of a black ditty, a rhyme and rhythm scheme that is almost fun. "Surely THAT is. . . at my window LATT-ice. . . what there-AT is. . ." He's funnin' us here, and he knows it. It sounds like a patter song from Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps "I am the very model of a modern Major-General". 

And thinking the bird's name is Nevermore - why, that's nothing but an early version of "who's on second, what's on third"!

Surely Poe was one of the strangest men, who wrote one of the strangest poems, at the strangest time. For The Raven, which ran in an American newspaper, he was paid $17.00, not enough to keep him in amontillado for a week. Sometimes he was destitute enough to break up and burn his chairs for warmth in the winter - can't you see it? Poe always having to stand up? No wonder he looked so desperate!

But for him, this crow on steroids is an appropriate companion. The ideal Poe pet.  AWKKKKHH!

*Collective nouns for the corvids varies. 

A parliament of ravens is a reference to the robes the members of British parliament wear. 

An unkindness of ravens is another collective used because the birds are known to taunt and torment other predators. They will work together to steal prey and drive off raptors or dogs in the raven's territory. As in Poe's poem, ravens have an ominous image

A constable of ravens is what the roosting birds that live in the Tower of London are called. 

A conspiracy of ravens refers to their low rough group muttering. Ravens have a range of vocalizations that sound like undecipherable talk. 

(To that, I have nothing to add.)

Order The Glass Character from:

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Chapters/Indigo.ca

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Clowns who sell shit

It doesn't take too many trips to the YouTube store to make you realize that Milky was far from alone in existing just to sell stuff.

He may have been more dedicated than most, wearing a bedsheet costume (hopefully, not used - whoa there, Mr. Milks) to match his product. But this Kedso creature, covered in mysterious spots and holding a tiny useless umbrella, is willing to take some major leaps for the corporation.

Live-action clowns are, of course, far creepier, like this Fizzies clown with the orgasmic facial expression. One of the worst aspects of clown closeups is the fact that we can see the guy's real eyebrows, lips, teeth, etc. - which was probably never meant to happen while clowns pranced around the circus ring at a merciful distance. This guy has the teeth of a rabid beaver or a most unfriendly hamster about to fasten itself on to the end of your index finger. Fun.

This is Clarabell, perhaps the most famous clown in TV history, and goddamn, is he mud-ugly! The makeup consists of two squares drawn above the eyes, and a gory-looking Satanic mouth ringed in white. The advantage is that he could probably apply his makeup in less than five minutes, but the disadvantage is that, this close, his creepiness is so extreme as to be nearly incomprehensible. Yet clowns are always described as "loveable". Might there be something a little bit wrong with a man who needs to do this every day?

Krinkles the Klown is downright disturbing, so much so that I had to make two gifs of him. Here he hands a bowl of his product to an unwitting victim. If he looks a little more peculiar than usual (for this isn't the first time I've giffed Krinkles), it's because someone, not me, mind you, but SOMEONE has slowed down the YouTube video just a hair, so that he looks glassy-eyed and stoned (I mean, more than usual).

This guy's upper lip freaks me out. Watch it while he talks, and when he chews his cud, it's awful. And the way he blinks his eyes, blink, blink. I want to rip the fake hair out of his fake skull and tear off his nose. Perhaps this is where John Wayne Gacy got his inspiration.

Post eventually replaced the oh-so-stoned Krinkles with something a little more animated. But might the boy have a sugar problem?

But for sheer incomprehensibility, we can't beat the first incarnation of Ronald McDonald, a goof with a crappy cheap clown suit, surgical gloves, and a box on his head. Yes, a box, with burger, fries and drink. At first I thought that was a toilet paper roll strapped to his nose, but now I see it's an empty paper cup. Does he anticipate a nosebleed, or a freshet of snot, or what? I apologize for the quality of this one - it was the best I could do with a badly-edited, flickering video so degenerated that it's nearly green. It's so cheaply made, so jerky, that one wonders how this could have been the genesis for Ronald McDick, a cultural icon second only to Chairman Mouse in universal appeal.

OMG: MORE new photos of Milky the Clown!

OK, so it isn't THAT great. Somebody put together a collage or montage of the few existing photos of Milky (unless someone, some day, discovers a cache of hundreds or even thousands of images of the Twin Pines clown, stashed away like reels of ancient movies from 1914). I did isolate two that I haven't seen:

I apologize for the bleariness of these, but this was another time. Meantime I did a little digging about the origins of Milky's "Pierrot" costume, which actually fits the category of a Pulcinella (in English, Punchinello, or Punch for short, a la Punch and Judy). Hard to believe that the original medieval clowns wore white. No rainbow wigs or slap shoes here.

Pulcinellas (or Pulcinellae, as I prefer to call them) were nasty little creatures in costumes made out of bedsheets, and this one seems to be holding a butter-churn (though most of them were troubadours and played lutes or flutes or whatever came to hand). They typically wore black masks with long curved beaks on them, raven-like. Like most clowns, like ALL clowns, there was a creepy element to them, and part of their mandate was to sneak up on people and scare the shit out of them.

When the Milkster dominated the airwaves in Detroit, the Pulcinella-style clown was rare, if not unheard-of. They're still pretty rare outside of Europe. But I think I figured it out: the Punch costume is white, like - well, like milk, of course! The only way a clown could wear a costume that matched the product he was flogging was to style himself like his nasty medieval forbears.  His dry cleaning bill must have been astronomical.

CLOP: must be Monday!

I find weird things on the net,  probably just because they are there to be found. At some point when I was rewriting my piece on Richard Correll, I wanted to find an image of a chimera - something elusive, secretive, and probably not even real, the sort of thing that exists mainly in your mind but tortures you forever.

Tortures you forever, for this particular chimera keeps getting its horn stuck in the ground. 

These gif images are part of a game - at least I think it's a game - called CLOP. I don't know how to play it because I have never played an internet game in my life, nor will I ever, I don't think. I don't particularly like games - they seem stressful to me, and a waste of time, when you could be doing something much more enjoyable, such as eating.

This unicorn does not strike me so much as a chimera as, well, myself. The course of my life has been sort of like this, a rough gallop with periodic nasty spills, from which I must try to pick myself up. Each time, a little more damage is done. But like an idiot who never learns, I always get back up, and for the most part things aren't any better. Lather, rinse, repeat.

This gif is particularly strange because while the unicorn seems to be advancing - the tree and the mystery person slowly disappear stage right - we can't see how it could ever propel itself in this manner. It seems to be sliding along on its nose, hind legs kicking frantically in the air. A state I know all too well.

Here, the unicorn is having a really bad day. Must be Monday.

Determined to move forward nonetheless, the unicorn encounters a flight of stairs. Stairyway to freedom? Or at least uprightness?

He's doing OK, folks. . . let's cheer him on. . . 

Now we KNOW it's Monday.

Know Your Poe: The Happiest Day

The Happiest Day

The happiest day–the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been–
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day–the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel–have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt–that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd–fell
An essence–powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

You thought I was kidding, didn't you? DIDN'T you? - that I would ever run a series about Edgar Allan Poe? No, I was deadly serious, as serious (and deadly) as I could be about such a topic.

I don't know all of his poetry, and to dip into it is difficult, for it's melancholy and dense and written in that Victorian way, full of morbid verbal bric-a-brac and swirling emotional effluvia. So I cast around for something a bit lighter. Ah! This must be it, The Happiest Day! Even a morose bugger like Poe must have had a little fun, even though it's said he never had sex with his wife, and perhaps not with anyone. Maybe he liked to play canasta or enjoyed chilled melon balls or something, I don't know. But when I found this poem and realized it was relatively short, I thought, aha, here's one I can analyze line-by-line without busting my brain or bursting into tears.

Wrong. This guy just never lightens up.

Analyzing poetry is an awful thing, really, because it should mean exactly what it means to the reader. If it's really good, the poem reads you. It pulls uncomfortable stuff out of you, the stuff we shove aside in order to get through the day and deal with its noise and tussle. Whilst all this slimy stuff lurks beneath.

So I will let this poem read me. It seems to be saying - and here I am reminded of Oscar Levant's statement, "Happiness isn't something you experience, it's something you remember" - that what we call happiness is so evanescent that it melts and evaporates even as we experience it. The poet, who was maybe 22 when he wrote this, feels his life has already peaked and it's all a downward slide from here on in (though little did he know he'd only make it to forty).

It's a short poem, after all, certainly short for for Poe - but he packs a lot into it, or rather sneaks it in. Two weighty words repeat almost as alarmingly as those infernal "bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells": "pride" and "power":

The happiest day–the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Is the poet in some sort of disgrace here? Or has he missed out on something? "The highest hope of pride and power" - this isn't about happiness at all, but about position, worldly position! Loftiness, almost. And because he fell off his high horse, he's whimpering about it: "sear'd and blighted" seems to imply some sort of assault from the outside, a burn, a rotting on the vine, which is a vastly different thing from internally-generated grief.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;

But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been–
But let them pass.

Here we get a clue. We get a clue what this guy is really all about, what turns his crank. What he dreamed about as a youth. What he hoped for. Longed for. And it ain't a pretty picture. He argues with himself for a moment, as if somewhat incredulous: Power? Are you sure that's what did it for me? Then (after using the almost supernatural term "vanished" to describe the loss) he dismisses the whole thing, though there are several more stanzas to come.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?

Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

Now here's a mysterious couple of lines: "Another brow may even inherit/The venom thou hast pour'd on me". Who is this "other", and is "inherit" to be taken literally? And how can pride - whom I assume he is addressing rhetorically - pour venom on someone? Or perhaps it's the loss of pride?  Again, it's the external assault, the snakebite from the bluff. "Be still, my spirit!" may not have been quite as histrionic then as now, but it's still an obvious play for sympathy.

The happiest day–the happiest hour

Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel–have been:

"The brightest glance of pride and power" - but now we begin to see the vanity at the core. Bright glances, ah, those too must come from the outside - glances of approval, we must assume. Or is the "glance of pride and power" really his own? I can't figure this man out! Whichever it is, it's revealing that this is the thing that made him happiest - a happiness he is certain will never come again.

Or does he not deserve to be happy?

But were that hope of pride and power

Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt–that brightest hour
I would not live again:

Now is he really telling us here that, given the chance to relive it,  he would turn away the brightest moment of his life? Is this sour grapes - who needs this shit, anyway? - or is he so far into his own self-pity that he actively chooses pain over pleasure?  I'd murder the guy, if he weren't already dead.

But he's not saying that at all.  He is saying "the HOPE of pride and power" - and a hope isn't the same thing at all, it's just a desire, unfulfilled. Something that was never real to begin with. A fantasy. 

And then he tells us - if I'm digging anything real out of this at all - he tells us he wouldn't want to experience that hope again because he KNOWS it would be followed by some awful, shot-sparrow, plummeting despair. This is some sort of definition of soul-destroying melancholia.

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd–fell
An essence–powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

I can't help but feel, as this densely-written, enigmatic thing comes to a screeching close, that it's really about the old Biblical warning, "Pride goeth before a fall". Certainly the image of the falling bird (or bat? Ewwwww!) seems to imply that all his lusting and yearning for power and approval will eventually bring about his downfall. I don't quite get the "alloy", which is a sort of metallic reference that does not fit with shot sparrows or ravens or whatever-it-is (though it is a dandy rhyme with "destroy"). Alloy seems to indicate two elements fusing together. Pride and power? Poe and status, perhaps literary status? Is this alloy the "essence" which is so powerful (oops, that's ironic - power IS the problem) to destroy? It's unclear if the alloy is an external element this time, or something inextricably bound up with his own heart. Which would mean that the poet has, in contemporary terms, sold out. 

But the kicker is that last line. "A soul that knew it well" - knew what, the shallowness of power trips and pride, of drawing-room debate over which poet has scored the most literary Brownie points (or pale waxen virgins gently expiring on velvet divans)? Has he been playing worldly games all along, and being utterly seduced by them? Is he afraid to re-enter the Eden of his youth, because he knows damned well he'll just be thrown out of there again?

Oh, not another original sin poem! Anything but that!

POST-BLOG NOTE. I was amazed but not surprised, in trying to find tasty images of Poe, that I kept coming up with pictures of John Astin, the actor who portrayed Gomez Addams in The Addams Family. It seems he has played Poe on the Broadway stage, and my goodness, they wouldn't need to put much makeup on him! He's a dead ringer for the man (except too jolly by half).  I think Astin must be, oh, God in heaven, 80 years old by now if he's still around, and Poe croaked (so to speak) at 40, so it must have been a long time ago.  I will do more research on this fascinating topic once I've had some sleep.
Sleeeeeeeeeeep. . . . . . . .)

Order The Glass Character from:

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Chapters/Indigo.ca

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Skeleton Belly Dance Trio

My Book Launch, Part 2

This is the only really good picture from the launch of The Glass Character today, but it kind of makes up for all the rest. When these two blondies ran into the room, I knew the launch would be a success - because they were there. Nothing else mattered at all.

And it was a good event, quite enjoyable, with a great bunch of people. As for no one showing up, I needn't have worried - extra chairs had to be set up. And I talked to a couple of friends I haven't seen in years, including Loranne Brown, an author and teacher who did readings at my first two launches in (gasp) 2003 and 2005. 

What impressed me about the group, a local writer's collective called the TriCity Wordsmiths, was the calibre of the questions, and the genuine curiosity behind them. I've been to events where, after the presentation, "Any questions?" was met with dead silence, then an embarrassed, "No? Well, I guess we'll move on then." None of that happened here.

It strikes me that these are the rewards. This book hasn't been reviewed, in print anyway (though you should check out the two raves I got on Amazon!), and distribution has been limited. It's a different game altogether, and often frustrating. I still have wild dreams of stalking big game in Hollywood, but what are my chances of doing that?  I've bought up lots of copies in case, not wanting them to be pulped like my last two. And I refuse to believe my window of opportunity is already closing because spring is over and we're into June.

I'm tired but gratified. This is the first time I've had any  feedback from a group on the book. And it does feel good to be asked about your craft, even while knowing the experience is different for each person.

And oh, those grandgirls were good, through two hours of boring-for-kids stuff. But they did like the DVD of Harold Lloyd climbing up the side of the building. I was amazed and gratified when the group howled with laughter all the way through the video, reacting with delight to every gag. I had no idea if they would "get" Harold or enjoy silent film at all. But there you go. He's timeless. He's eternal. And once more, he saved the day.

(Bill only took a few minutes of video, and when I saw them I could see why. In my gesticulations and facial expressions, I gave the appearance of a madwoman who had escaped the gates. It was irresistible - I had to gif this! I even found a way to caption them. In keeping with the spirit of the book, these are "silent movies" - they just happen to be five seconds long.)

My book launch

As I sit here, I realize something for the 97th time: I do not have the nervous system for public events.

In a way, this is good, because it looks like I won't have to do too many of them. Trying to set up an event for a book release now is a nearly-impossible, or at least daunting task. My information is nine years out of date, and even two years would make a difference, given the speed with which things are changing in the publishing world.

We're straddling systems, it seems - the paper and the electronic, not to mention the self- and the traditionally-published, which may be an even more profound schism. I am tired of reading articles, as I so often do, that claim "publishing is dead", followed by a screed on how to publish your book "the new way" (i. e. it all turns out to be an ad for a self-publishing site). Whatever irked me about the old system - just not enough slots for books from the smaller houses to gain any attention - is worse than ever now. Authors go on, bravely or foolishly, publishing in paper, with a side of ebook to dip a toe into the World of Tomorrow.
But their only chance to gain a solid readership is through winning a major award, and if your book has dropped off the radar, how is it going to do that? To be well-known, you must be well-known.

All this I write as I sit here enjoying the truly sickening part of a book launch: the time "before". The waiting. There is no guarantee anyone at all will be there. I am committed to a time slot which was the only one available to me: a Saturday afternoon, and as it turns out, a gorgeous one when not too many people will want to go to a book launch, anyone's book launch, let alone the book launch of an obscure fiction writer whose orientation in the publishing world is nine years out of date.

We have the internet now, of course, and social networking, and blogs, and YouTube. We had them before, too, in some form, but it was all a little more arcane and less accessible. I was able to set up a Facebook account in five minutes, and this blog was no harder, though I had great trepidation about my ability to use any of it. But has it furthered my cause, or the cause of most writers, in any significant way?

I think not.

The group who is graciously setting up and hosting my launch, the Tri-City Wordsmiths, has asked me to give a presentation on whatever aspect of writing I chose. I had to choose the only one I felt qualified to speak on. I called it "how to keep on keepin' on", probably the worst title ever, but the only one (besides "keep on truckin'") that would express the things I needed to say.

You see, the only thing I know how to do is keep on. I won't quit because I can't, for some reason. It is wired into me so hard and deep that to stop would be a recipe for disastrous depression. I have learned things that help me keep going - or just things that are of necessity a part of the writer's life, such as spending a lot of time alone (and being willing to turn down fun things for the sake of finishing a chapter before it flies out of your head, which it will in short order). I had no idea what I was going to say at first, then did one of the things I recommended, sat down and wrote down everything I could think of about the topic. I ended up, quite quickly, with four single-spaced typewritten pages, and ended up having to boil it down considerably.

So why DO I do this, when times like this are such torture? I loved writing The Glass Character more than anything else I've ever done. I assumed someone else would love it too, but I have had, to date, no reviews - not just negative reviews, NO reviews at all. I have been completely shut out.

What do I do now? I go to my launch, I give my presentation, to seven people (counting me!) if I am lucky. If I am even more lucky, this feeling of a screwdriver relentlessly turning and turning in my intestines may stop before then.

Or not.

William Shatner performs "It Was a Very Good Year"

Captain Kangaroo: the lost tapes