hell breaks loose

I am home.

Yesterday morning I got up very early to go for a run before my ride to the airport.

It seemed that at 4 in the morning on Sunday, people were just coming home from the Saturday night bars.

I ran past a fistfight in the middle of 8th Avenue.

It was actually a small-scale war, I think, because there were at least eight guys involved in the fighting, and each of them had flanks of supporters shouting encouraging slogans from the sidewalks.

That is what friends are for, I think.

When the police drove onto the scene, their lights made the whole area look like a disco from hell.

Then everyone started running.

Did I mention I was running, too?

Because everyone started running in my direction.

The cops did not run so fast.

Further on, down in Chelsea, I ran past an old storefront where, for a nominal fee, one could purchase a psychic reading.

The building had caught fire and burned a couple nights before.

While I was in New York, I met several people for the first time with whom I had had many written correspondences.

I was fascinated by the expectations I'd developed concerning voice.

Do people, in general, communicate with sound the way they communicate with writing? I tried to see if the expectations I'd developed about how my friends would say things - as opposed to writing them - would be accurate.

Anyway, I found myself thinking about that idea for some time.

It was an interesting trip.

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sometimes i am confused

So last night I got to sit and talk with Dave Barrett, managing editor at Macmillan.

It was good.

We were at a bar that had been established by a boxing "cut man."

Afterwards, I met up with Joe Lunievicz, author of Open Wounds, a terrific book. We walked down through Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea, and he took me to a fencing salle, where we sat and watched kids practicing fencing, and Joe explained what was going on and told stories about how he came to learn the sport.

Naturally, we also talked about rugby. Joe is a rugger, and he's also one of the first people who had a chance to read the manuscript of Winger. I didn't know Joe at the time I sent him the manuscript. I did it because I was very fortunate enough to read a manuscript version of Open Wounds, which I loved, and during the course of our exchanges, I found out that Joe played rugby, so I told him about this book I had written about kids who play rugby.

Um... which is this book called Winger.

So the biggest part of our evening was taken up by a conversation that wove together probably the two biggest forces in our lives: fatherhood and writing. Joe's methods and discipline toward writing are different than mine, but I have always said this from the beginning: Nobody who expects to succeed should ever write (content or execution) like anyone else. That is the largest force behind an aspiring author's frustration and failure.

You have to find your own way, just like the kids we watched fencing got dinged up and driven back, trying to find their own way against the opposition.

Something Jonathon said on yesterday's comments came up during our conversation last night, too: The Fantasy life of an author.

I think Joe and I both agreed how amazing our experiences have been, and what a gift it has been in our lives to have earned the opportunities we have worked for.

I should say that again: My experience as an author has been an amazing thing, and I am appreciative of the gift of the whole trip, and the opportunities I have earned through my hard work.

I work very hard at what I do, and I earned all this good stuff.

I do not believe in luck.

I didn't ask Joe if he did, but I have a feeling I would know his answer.

As far as the other part of Jonathon's comment, the "It's harder work than you'd think" part: I don't know if being an author is harder work than anyone thinks or not, but I do know that the difficulties I have faced were surprising and debilitating at times.

Like losing my whimsy and zaniness, and shit like that.

Here are some pictures I took yesterday when I was out and about:

It was a spectacular day. The New York Public Library.

What can I say? This has to be one of the most photographed buildings in the world, but every time I come to New York I end up taking another photo of the Empire State Building.

Um. I went shopping here. I did not know that people who worked in elevators actually do what the people at Tiffany & Co. do.

Um.

Um.

Those are really big.

And this was shot, post-Dave Barrett, on my way to meet Joe for dinner.

And yes, all these were shot with an iPhone.

Now, off to the Met.

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and here's number five

I spent yesterday at Simon and Schuster in Rockefeller Center. It is quite the impressive place.

Also, Rockefeller Center has that really giant Christmas tree.

It is an unstoppable Christmas tree.

I have a hard time with books. I left Simon and Schuster with a bag filled with books.

Making books is probably the greatest thing that humankind has ever done, if you think about it. Books probably do not offset all the awful things humankind has done, but they do offer some brief respite from our evident bend toward evolutionary nihilism.

I could easily have gotten lost in that last paragraph. I could also have gotten lost walking around inside Simon and Schuster. I must have looked like an acidhead walking through Disneyland. Good thing my editor, David Gale, stayed with me so I didn't get sucked into all the pretty colors. Everywhere, naturally, were books and books and books. And there were posters and cover art, artists' examples of images worked and re-worked.

It was very hard to pay attention. But I have that thing where it is always very hard to pay attention.

At Simon and Schuster, I noticed that all the people I met -- when I was introduced as the person who wrote Winger -- got broad smiles of recognition, like, oh, that's the guy who wrote that book. Clearly, they like my book.

It is very different.

I also got to meet the art director who will be overseeing the artistic design of the book, because it has some weird stuff (go figure) in it, like comic strips and graphs and notes, pie charts, random drawings, stuff like that. Anyway, I came out of that meeting convinced that this book (which is coming out in early 2013) is going to look and read like no other book you have ever seen. I know early 2013 sounds like a very long time from now, but it's not.

And the ARCs will most likely be out in the coming fall, so you can live with that, right?

You know what else will be coming out in the fall?

Passenger.

And the paperback edition of The Marbury Lens.

I spent the evening with my great friends at Feiwel and Friends. It was probably the best evening ever. I signed books for people in the Flatiron, and got to see some friends I hadn't seen face-to-face in quite a while. It was really nice. Better than anything.

So I ran into Rich Deas, the amazing artist behind the cover of The Marbury Lens, which, face it, was probably the best book cover of 2010.

Rich is amazing. He works in absolute secret. Naturally, the first thing I assaulted him with was a half-joking demand to see what he was doing for the cover for Passenger.

Nobody in the world knows what Rich has been doing.

But he did tell me a story about something he did to get a visual idea for what he might put on the cover, and all I can say is this: Holy Shit.

Later today, I am going to get to meet up with author Joe Lunievicz, who wrote Open Wounds, one of the best books of the last few years.

Tomorrow will be an epic day that I will try to record in as honest and unbiased a manner possible: I am going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with copyeditor Anne, whom you know as hellskitchen.

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a cigarette with the saint

I am in New York.

I have traveled forward in time from California.

Flying here I was reminded of two things:

First, it is inescapable that flying on an airplane consistently reinforces my deep, deep hatred for human beings.

Second, why do people at the baggage claim carousel always fall under the hysterical delusion that somehow their luggage may have developed stripes, changed color, shape, or size while in transit?

Why do people not know what their fucking luggage looked like when they put it on the plane?

Whimsy.

Zaniness.

Ebulience.

These shall be my Tantric mantras while I stagger through the days.

I am channeling my inner motivational speaker.

Because I can.

Today, I am going to spend some time over at Simon and Schuster, which, I am told, is in "The Rock." I know a lot of author friends who are published by Simon and Schuster, but, so far, I have only met and spent time with my editor, David Gale. He is one of those top-notch, editors' editors. I realized the other day that I actually met David at an ALA conference back in 2008. It is very weird how paths cross and cross in this kingdom of the perky, over which I rule. I also met publisher Justin Chanda, but only in passing... kind of like the way you'd brush a hand across the garment of a Pope.

After my visit at Simon and Schuster I am going to go for a run.

I run no matter what, every day.

It is what gives me my sunny disposition.

When I was in Florida, one of the kids who waited in line to ask me a question on "The Mike," asked me how I stay so young.

I do not know how I stay so young.

I suppose the alternatives are unpleasant.

This afternoon, I am going down to the Flatiron Building, which is where Macmillan Publishing Group is located. I really enjoy the people I work with there. I will be going out to dinner tonight with my publisher, Jean Feiwel, and editor (chimey chimey chime) Liz Szabla.

the evolutionary slot machine that will destroy mankind

I am going to New York.

This week has not been much of a farcical romp. Maybe in New York I will recapture my elusive whimsy.

Whimsy and romp: these are the things I live for.

Prancing, too.

But you already knew that.

This week I have been sullen and morose.

I realize I have used a lot of adjectives.

Sometimes when writers feel sullen and morose, they turn to alcohol.

Not me.

I turn to annoying descriptors.

I need to recapture the zany.

Zany is what I am.

I am the walking personification of Klezmer music.

I will tell you if I find anything in New York.

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the future of mankind is... um... inside our jumpsuits

I'll be totally honest again.

I do not like jacket copy.

You know, the shorty-short stuff inside dust jackets or on the back of the book that serves to abbreviate the attractive elements to a story?

That stuff.

So when I read it, I keep reminding myself that it is no good. In fact, I often will not read jacket copy on a book until I'm nearly finished with the book, and then, I'm usually, like, eeewww!

I'll be honest yet again: A good cover will make me pick up a book. If I put it down, it's because of the jacket copy (which I won't read at all if I'm seriously thinking about reading the book). I won't even pick up a book with a bad cover, or if it has a cover that would be embarrassing to carry around.

The Steve Jobs cover is good.

You know what it says to me?

It says, "This man is insane."

If it were the author photo on the back of the jacket, as opposed to the cover, I would never touch that book.

That is another thing: If a book has a full-cover author photo on the back of the dust jacket, I will not pick it up. If you are such big-name author that your publisher would actually suggest printing a dust jacket with a photo of YOU as the entire back cover, and you (assuming you are that big of a name) actually are okay with that, you know what it says to me?

This author is insane.

I mention all of this simply because over the weekend I was reading some short jacket-copy summaries for books that are going to be coming out in 2012. I will not say what books they were, or name the publishers or authors, but they all sounded unreadably horrid.

But that's just what jacket copy does to me, I think.

So let me circle my literary wagons and offer an intervening blast at jacket copy for 2012's Passenger, my book, the sequel to The Marbury Lens.

Excited?

Here goes:

A magical flying unicorn that shits frosted raspberry cupcakes from its ass enchants the whimsical world of Marbury, turning it into a fanciful playland...

Fooled you, didn't I?

Bet you want a frosted raspberry cupcake now, don't you?

Um.

Okay.

How about this - the version without the unicorns and cupcakes:

Jack and Conner prepare to leave for England. They have a plan. They think it's the only reasonable way to deal with the Marbury lens. But the four boys - Jack, Conner, Ben, and Griffin - end up scattered in different places at different times. Jack is lost in a Marbury that isn't Marbury, a Glenbrook that isn't Glenbrook, pursued through every crumbling not-world by an uncaring cop trying to solve the mystery of Freddie Horvath's murder, and a deceitful kid named Quinn Cahill who believes he is the King of Marbury. Jack's universe is collapsing in on itself. He finds his friends. He finds his home. There's always just one thing, and Jack knows it. This can't be it.

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rat boys from mars, and an unfortunate incident involving an inflatable whale

I'll be totally honest.

I was asked to submit a short piece for an upcoming anthology. You may have heard about it. It's got a website and everything. I won't say the title, but you probably know what it is.

I said okay.

I wanted to try to do it, and the editors wanted guys to write, because, as is the case with the kingdom of the written word, there are few male voices to be heard.

The anthology involved authors writing letters to themselves as teens. You know.

Um. I'll be totally honest again. When I told my agent I was thinking about doing it, he groaned.

I like my agent. I should have high-fived him on the spot, but I wanted to try.

I realize I have almost nothing to say to myself as a teen that would not be laced with f-bombs.

No part of my teen life was cute or whimsical.

I tried. I read several of the other submissions. They all sound so fun, perky, and shit like that.

I could not do it.

I kept looking for signs of misery and helplessness, and all I came up with was encouragement and dogged determination.

Optimism.

Squee.

I mean, what can I do? I tried, but words like fuck and shit magically started coming up in my letter to my teenage self. I tried to be whimsical and bubbly, all you-can-do-this-kid! bullshit, but the absolute truth is there were no encouraging adult voices at all in my teenage life.

There are also almost NO photographs at all from my teen years.

Here is one of them (taken when I was 17):

Um. I was not a happy kid.

Dear Teen Drew: You are on your own. When you fall down, you have 2 choices. You know what they are. That is fucked-up, but it is the shitty truth. P.S. -- If it is any consolation -- surprise! -- you live to be older. Squee.

You know what I would rather do?

I would rather write a letter to my office.

Here it is (taken this morning, at 5:45 AM in California):

Dear Drew's Office:

You have let yourself go, man.

I think it is time we stage an intervention.

Since I do not have time to participate in an intervention with you, I am hoping someone else will pick up the ball and run with it.

I'd like to be all encouraging, promise that I have faith in you, and will still be here for you when you straighten the fuck out, and shit like that, but I am leaving for New York and I am afraid when I come back home nothing at all will have changed about you.

Let me clue you in: When men enter relationships with offices, they expect them to STAY THE SAME. What is all this change bullshit?

Just look at yourself.

The rest of the house isn't like this.

Well, I am only guessing, since I am not actually allowed to go into any of the other rooms.

But trust me: It isn't me, it's you.

I wonder if there is a place like the Betty Ford Center, or shit like that, where I can send you for 30 days so you can clean the fuck up, and then come back and be reintegrated as a decent part of the household.

Dear Drew's Office: Straighten your shit out.

I mean it.

I am at the end of my rope.

signed,

Drew

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