The New Black
April 8, 2005 @ 11:15 pm
Two and a half years since first emerging, the Handbook continues its slow burn. After a warm and fuzzy reception from the critics in 2002, the ebb and flow of the distribution tide seemed like more of the former and less of the latter. Then Wendy Dale sent a copy to Dennis Widmyer, who sent it to Chuck Palahniuk, who went on a tireless campaign of whistle-stop Handbook pimping during his tour for Diary. Irvine Welsh has since granted a visa to one of the polyonymous Vincent’s numerous home cooked passports with some very kind words over in the U.K. More than anything else, the ceaseless whispering from scores of contortionist loyalists both behind and beyond the Velvet ropes continues to spread the John Vincent virus via blogs and barstools.
The paperback is slowly nearing a fourth printing here in the States. A hardcover translation has just been released in Germany as “Der Geniale [ingenious] Mr. Fletcher,” the U.K. paperback has just been released from HarperCollins, and “Il Manuale de Contorsionista” should hit bookshelves in Italy any day, now. The next twelve months, roughly, will see the Brazilian, Polish, Russian and Japanese translations appearing in their respective countries. The film rights were optioned a year and a half ago by IEG and Appian Way, and that option was renewed last March for another eighteen months. Richard Kelly is still on board to direct, but his dance card is more than full, as he and his production partner Sean McKittrick are juggling numerous projects at the moment. I’ve got faith in Richard and, if it means waiting, then so be it. I’d rather have the film done right, than done now.
All said, none of the above answers the frequent question, Where the fuck have you been, Clevenger?
The end of ‘04 was a strange one. My machine went up in smoke, taking most every bit of data with it. I had the foresight to back up all of the work I’d done on Dermaphoria for a year and a half prior. Well, almost all of the work. Some of it wasn’t recoverable, and it did indeed set me back. C’est la vie. Then the Firebird, where I’d been slinging drinks and maintaining my social skills after days of talking to mirrors and sock puppets, closed it’s doors. The list goes on, but the confluence of events during the latter part of the year all pointed me North. I’ve since relocated to San Francisco and haven’t looked back. I miss the weather in Santa Barbara, and the familiar faces, especially Brother Chris and his angelic family. But this city’s more my speed. The literacy rate among the homeless is higher than the national average; even signs outside the massage brothels advertise wi-fi internet access, and the locals utter wide eyed questions such as, “Stranger, tell us more of these ‘parking spaces’ that you speak of…”
I’m working part time as a bar back, where I sling ice and bags of broken glass in lieu of actual liquor. I spent the last three months living on my brother’s couch, which meant competing for sleeping space with two cats Mick claims to have raised from kittens. I believe this is a gross exaggeration. My guess is that he’d been saving roadkill in his freezer until he’d accumulated enough spare parts for an entire cat and, as luck would have it, he’d salvaged enough animal anatomy for two. Wolfgang and Scissors were then sewn together with dental floss and reanimated with jumper cables. They’re friendly, albeit moody and unhygienic. They leak more than Michael Jackson’s PR firm and frequently mark their territory which, by rotating coincidence, was always where I’d put my clean laundry. They could foil whatever means I devised to protect my tableside glass of water during the night; I’m pretty sure they went through my wallet while I showered and can probably pick locks. I’ve since moved into my own apartment with my own room. For the time being, furniture is not on the priority list. I have a pillow, a blanket, three pair of jeans, a stack of black t-shirts, my manuscript and notes, all of which I can scatter about without fear of anything being mistaken for a litter box by a spiteful zombie cat.
During the days, I write. I’ve had a long, love-hate relationship with Dermaphoria. The honeymoon ended when I put the first draft through the shredder. Since then, we’ve had periods of literary bliss followed by long stretches where we don’t speak to each other. We fight. I storm out of the house. I drink. I see other stories. I scribble short pieces into my black notebook over a cold pint and then come crawling back to my desk with ink smeared on my collar, begging forgiveness. I promise no more whoring about with any anorexic, 3,000 word harlots. No other novels. Once my love and loyalty are secured, another frost slowly envelops the keyboard and the codependent cycle begins anew.
In spite of everything, I’ve stuck it out and recently handed in a draft to MacAdam/Cage. Jason Wood and Pat Walsh are tag teaming– think Joe Pesci and Samuel L. Jackson with red pens and style manuals. They’re just warming me up for John Gray, whom I refer to (with the utmost of respect), as The Gray Ripper. Perhaps one day Chris and I will tell you about Mr. Gray. Let’s just say he was instrumental in guiding me from the Handbook’s earlier drafts into what it was. Let’s just say I’m glad he’s not a book reviewer.
As much critical feedback as I’m getting, Jason and Pat are still extremely happy with what they’ve read. Nonetheless, I’ll abide by one of my own rules and assume the role of my own worst critic. The fact remains, I’m not happy with it, and I’ll stay with it until I am. When I absolutely can’t find another flaw, I’ll throw it to the gladiators to see what it’s made of. Chris is already leading the bloodthirsty hordes, seeking vengeance for my remarks on an early version of Hell’s Half Acre. He sent me a note after reading the first few chapters and offered some candid feedback, and being a true friend, expressed sincere concern. “I got the feeling you were literally letting this book eat you alive,” he said. I suppose that’s true to some degree, and I can only hope the resulting pages reflect some of that self-induced mania. No doubt some recent personal shit wove its way into the story, but it always does.
I used to be firm about posting something substantial every week on my old site. That’s no longer practical, but I will commit to maintaining a semi-regular presence on my home page, at least. The coming year will also bring some other fiction to this site– at least one more excerpt from Dermaphoria, and some short fiction I’ve been working while the novel wasn’t looking. This particular wing of the Velvet owes its existence to a crew of sleepless workaholics, without whom I’d still be lurking on the Velvet with the occasional smartass post. Sincere thanks to Dennis, Roland, Kareem, Kirk and Mirka for doing battle in the digital trenches. The Velvet would be lost without them.
I will be back soon, and I’ll be bearing gifts.
Stay warm and bound,
-Craig
Harrison IV, Clevenger I
May 2, 2005 @ 11:22 pm
It always starts with a voice. Sometimes there’s an idea for a person or a plot, but the pen doesn’t hit the paper until I hear a voice. Without the voice, I’m lost. Eight hours of writing means three hours of scribbling and five hours of pacing, listening and waiting. It helps to assume the role of the voice, which is one of the reasons I’m comfortable working in the first person. Dermaphoria has been written in chunks as a pseudo diary, and many chapters were refined in blog format in certain nethercorners of the web, as I found it easier to be the narrator posting a personal account of his life, anonymously on line, than to be Craig at his desk writing a novel. Sometimes, I feel the best way to inhabit the voice, or vice versa, is not to write a story, but instead write a letter.
I was out one night, during a particular cold spell with the novel. At the time, we hadn’t been falling asleep spooning, and I hadn’t been awoken with anything more generous than a thump to the head, for some time. Things weren’t going well, and another idea blew me a kiss from across the bar. I went home and, in the upper left hand corner of a blank page, I wrote Dear Lyle, without an inkling of who Lyle was or who was writing to him. As usual, when another voice competes for my attention, the novel starts calling again, making breakfast and whispering sweet nothings and rude nasties into my ear that I transcribe as quickly as possible. The letter to Lyle was continued between cold spells, on the backs of bar napkins and in my notebook. When I finally assembled my clandestine notes, I resisted the urge to strike the trappings of correspondance, normally first on my rewrite list.
Short fiction scares me, and I’ve avoided it for some time. There’s more to a short story than word count would have one believe, and I maintain that a master clocksmith is but a novice watchmaker. What follows is my first attempt in well over a decade to return to this form, and I thank you for your patience with my apprenticeship. The attached piece, The Fade, is for keeps. There’s no hourglass or stopwatch on this one. It will be here whenever you come back, and it’s dedicated to the members of the Velvet, as thanks for your unfailing support. A special shout out to Kareem for enduring my last minute edits.
To Mr. Carpenter, get better. We’ll be waiting.
Going bump in the night,
-Craig
Blatella Transmitus
June 30, 2005 @ 1:44 pm
In the beginning, the Dream Factory was built of sugar cubes and belched rainbow smoke over gardens where the butterflies sang and the hummingbirds shat glitter. The process of finishing the first book was all anticipation and newness, but this isn’t the first book. Oompa Loompas don’t wake me up in the mornings, anymore. This time ’round, I’m in the MacAdam/Cage offices the night before the Gray Ripper comes calling, inputting the last of Jason’s edits and even more of my own, having recently shaken a furious head cold and trying to finish this second book before the wedding (and preceding bachelor party) of a close friend. As I write this, Dermaphoria is in the hands of the typesetter, and the list of post-op complications grows in my head by the minute.
The last month has seen my roommates enduring my schizophrenic work habits, having set up camp in our living room after trashing my own room with a mixture of dirty laundry and scattered notes. I found a desk in the street late one night, and hauled it up our stairs at about 3:00 in the morning, and have since turned our collective space into a sort of hellish study hall. I’ve neglected friends, dishes, trash, laundry and the Velvet, in no particular order. I’ve refused all interview requests over the last year, swearing I wouldn’t do another until I had a new novel. I’ve avoided the Interrogation Room, as it grows more daunting by the week, and will do my best to start chipping away at some of the unanswered questions.
For now, the house has returned to normal, minus the yellow police barrier tape over the entrance to the Pit. I’m going to avoid the place for a while, let my brain breathe a bit. I’m happier than I thought I’d be with the story at this point but, in truth, I still feel a long way from the shore. Nonetheless, I’m going to force myself to not write for the next few weeks and let the ideas ferment.
Godspeed to Mirka and Dennis. Thanks to everyone at the Velvet for the kind words, thus far. I hope the finished work exceeds expectations.
By all accounts,
Craig