the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 6 of 17)

Three Stories

A week ago, Actress #1 ( the woman with arm behind her back) mentioned to her friend, Actress #2 that she had an audition at Warner Brothers; Dick Wolf was looking for a actress to play a female rookie cop in some new crime drama. She hadn’t had a decent gig in years. Actress #2, also desperate, called up her agent and set up her own audition, keeping it a secret from he friend. A few days later, Actress #1 is surprised to discover Actress #2 leaving the production office.

“I got the role!” she said.

“What? How…?” a confused Actress #1 wondered. “I thought they were looking for a “stocky woman toughed by the streets?”

“They’re changing the character for me!” she chorted. “They want her more “sexier.” Typical Hollywood, right? No hard feelings, right?”

When Actress #1 heard this inauthentic patter, her face turned white. She could feel her fist tightening. She imagines bashing her friend in her pretty Hollywood face, over and over again, until the bright red backstabbing blood was rushing into the Los Angeles river, turning the water into the color of a Pacific Ocean sunset.

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They were eating Sunday brunch at their favorite cafe in Santa Monica. She had ordered the broccoli and swiss cheese omelette. He made a note to himself that she had ordered the exact same breakfast entree for the last fifteen years of marriage. Not once has she ever ordered oatmeal or scrambled eggs.

“You’ve ruined my life,” she suddenly said. “I’ve begun to hate looking at you.”

He closed the calendar section of the LA Times. He was reading about the box-office failure of his movie director friend, and was glad to read about it.

“I ruined your life?” he said, loud enough to reach the other two couples crammed into the cafe tables to the right and to the left of them, like overpriced sardines.

He tried to come up with something that would hurt her feelings.

“I hope you choke on your broccoli and swiss cheese!”

He knew it wasn’t a great retort, but he meant it. She was the writer in the family, not him. Fuck her if she didn’t think his job at Toyota was “creative” enough for her tender Bohemian, hat-wearing friends. He was the one who supported her ridiculous photography seminars.

The husband and wife didn’t speak at all as they walked back to their home, a three bedroom they bought in 2005, that lose most of its value after the real estate bust.

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After his MRI, Jason didn’t want to go home and face his roommates. He found the darkest corner of his local Starbucks and looked at photos of young girls, all of them topless and tattooed. It bothered him that he had never fucked a woman with a tattoo. Should he add this to his bucket list?

Jason was still shaking from the experience in the hospital imaging center. “Keep perfectly still” said the lab technician, a young Asian woman with a tattoo. He watched her disappear from view as he slid into the hard white high-tech MRI coffin. Jason was tied down to prevent him from moving, and he wore earplugs to soften the deafening sound of the machine.

One day, he will die for real, and he will be buried in a wood coffin. “And most of my bucket list will remain unchecked,” he thought, as he drank from his cup of coffee.

My Night with Jenny

There is nothing more beautiful than seeing a friend and talented writing colleague achieve her dreams, and being there at her side when it happens.   Such was the case on Thursday when Jenny “The Bloggess” Lawson came to Beverly Hills for an exclusive reading of her new book “Let’s Pretend this Never Happened.”

I was thrilled to receive a VIP invitation to the event.   Sure, it cost me twenty dollars in cash, I had to wait in a long line, and they lost my reservation when I reached the booth, but boy was it worth it.  Jenny was glowing on stage. And she is funny as hell, whether talking about her unusual upbringing in Texas or her time hiding in the bathroom at BlogHer during an anxiety attack.

As I watched Jenny trade barbs with the hostess, Soleil Moon Frey of Punky Brewster fame, I mused on the fact that despite her new friendships with Hollywood lumanaries and best-selling authors, from Wil Wheaton to Neil Gaiman, Jenny was still ol “Jenny from the block,” that is if they call sections of the street blocks in Texas like they do in New York. Jenny was dressed comfortable, reflecting her modest background, in her black Louis Vuitton dress and “F**k me” eight inch heels that she bought hours earlier on nearby Rodeo Drive.  She hadn’t changed a bit!

The venue was packed with fans and for some, seeing Jenny in the flesh was akin to a meeting with the Pope himself (if the Pope spoke about vaginas a lot, which surprisingly he does).

Everyone in the audience was grasping a copy of Jenny’s newly released memoir, a best-seller, a project ten years in the making, a life dream!   I was the only one without a book.  I told the others sitting in the front row with me that the book was on my Kindle Fire, which was a lie, since I don’t even own a Kindle, but I was afraid of the consequences if I told the truth — that I had no intention of ever reading her book.   After all, I just spent twenty bucks to get into this theater.

Besides, my main motivation for going to the event was to hopefully get laid by some of Jenny’s anxious fans, and saying I wasn’t going to read the book would have been like saying I’m a premature ejaculator — never good to say up front.

But I had a plan.   I would tell some of the women that Jenny recently said in an interview  that “Neil’s blog is 100x better than mine,” which of course, she never said, but then again I doubt every line in HER book is completely accurate.  James Frey, Jenny?  Is it a coincidence that Soleil Moon FREY, possibly a close relative of James himself,  was the moderator?  The shadow of Frey is hanging over you.

But, seriously folks, my friendship with Jenny goes back a long time.  I’ll never forget the special moment we had last year at BlogHer.

From My BlogHer 11 Recap

“I pass by “The Bloggess,” one of the funniest women online. She is sitting on a bench, her suitcase standing in front of her. I seem a whole lot more excited to see her, than vice versa.

“Hey, it’s Jenny, the famous Bloggess!”

“Uh, hello, Neil.”

I point at the suitcase.

“Where you going?”

“I’m going home early. I’m exhausted after the People’s Party.”

“I can imagine. Hey, when is the book coming out? I’m so excited.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Why don’t you sent me an advanced copy? I’d love to read it.”

Jenny pauses for a moment.

“My publisher decided not to send out advanced copies,” she says.

“You mean when the book comes out, you want me to BUY the book? It’s going to be like $25 dollars in stores!”

“That’s how much books cost, Neil.”

“C’mon, Jenny. Surely your old blogging friends will get a reader’s copy in the mail.”

“No, sorry.”

“Not even Laura?”

“Well, Laura read it already. But she’s more of a real friend than a blogging friend.”

“What is this shit? I’m not going to pay $25 bucks on your book when I can read your blog for free.”

“The book is going to be very different than the blog. It is about my real life.”

“I see. So the plan was to put your shitty superficial material online, and then force us to buy your f*cking book?”

“Well, I do have a family to feed.”

“You’ve changed, Jenny. You come off as a sweet cutesy Texan mom, but you are a fucking shark. I bet William Shatner was part of your marketing plan all along.”

You know, f*ck you , little man. I could destroy you in a second with my Twitter followers.

“Suck my c*ck, Jenny.”

“Yeah, I already saw your tiny c*ck in that photo you sent me last year. Don’t make me laugh. Be happy I didn’t put it on Flickr.”

“Go to hell.”

Ha Ha.  Now you know why I go to blog conferences.  It is one of the rare times that you can sit down with your online friends and get to know them on an intimate level.

Jenny is famed both for her sense of humor AND her heart. One of her most profound and beautiful posts started a entire movement called “The Travelling Red Dress.”

I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies.  I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be.  And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”.  Things like flying lessons, and ballet shoes, and breaking into spontaneous song, and building a train set, and crawling onto the roof just to see the stars better.  Things like cartwheels and learning how to box and painting encouraging words on your body to remind yourself that you’re worth it.

After reading the post, I thought it would be funny to mock this inspirational movement that was helping so many women achieve self-acceptance.

Jenny blocked me on Twitter that day. So, the joke was on me!

But that’s how old friends behave — each trying to outdo the other with practical jokes!  I love you, Jenny. It’s time to unblock me!

The line for the book signing after the reading snaked through the lobby and back into the theater. Most of her fans were glad to wait for a moment with their heroine, but I figured that Jenny would want to see me first.  I arrived at the signing table just as Stephenie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, was getting HER book signed.  It was so cool to learn that this super-successful author asking for Jenny’s signature.  But as they say in Texas, blood is thicker than cow piss, so I cut in front of the line AND Stephanie Meyer, my Iphone raised.

“Jenny, hey there sexy, let me take a photo of you for Instagram and put it on Twitter, too, so I can show everyone that we are friends!”

“We’re not really, friends, Neil,” she said, and two burly Filipino men, both former wrestlers, escorted me out of the building.  I later discovered that these men were hired to be Jenny’s personal bodyguards during her book tour.

She’s such a joker!

Several of my blogging friends were at the event, but since so few of them talked to me, I figured it was because they didn’t recognize me.   I decided to grow a beard this week!

Taking a page from Jenny’s book, I used my beard-growing to create a viral internet phenom, much like Jenny did with Beyonce the metal chicken. I took an instagram photo of my white scraggly beard and shared it on Facebook and Twitter.

“Yay or Nay,” I asked.

It was unanimous. I should keep the beard.  (Believe me, it doesn’t look as good as it does when I hide it under three Instagram filters)

“You are sexy as hell.” said one mommyblogger.

I was instantly the blogosphere’s George Clooney.

I had created a social media trend — my Yasir Arafat-looking beard  — that made everyone forget Jenny and her best-selling book.

Later that night, I presented a new question for all my good friends on Twitter and Facebook.

“Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge to see if I can survive the fall — Yay or Nay?”

The mob overwhemingly voted yay.

Social media sucks.

Congrats, Jenny “The Bloggess” Lawson!   You are an inspiration.  Sometimes.

Paradigm Shift

I want you to read my post.

I want you to buy my book.

I want you to vote for me in a contest.

I want you to come to my seminar.

I want you to help my friend in need.

I want you to listen to my political beliefs.

But BEFORE you do any of these things, I want you to write something great. I want you to go outside and take some beautiful photographs.

Because I am touched and inspired by YOUR creativity. It is as important for me to partake of your work as it is knowing that you are spending time with mine. Your work feeds my soul and makes me a better person.

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I was chatting with Schmutzie on IM. It was a typical IM conversation. I was bitching about Twitter, and how it felt like there were a hundred voices shouting at me to read, listen, or do something.

“So ignore them,” she said. “Your priority is your own work.”

Schmutzie has a passion for quality work. It is why she started Five Star Friday as an outlet for the best posts of the week.

I had another question for her.

“If I truly focused on quality work, I will have less time for everyone else in the community, including READING YOUR POSTS. Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. I respect those that focus on their own work. I’d rather you write something of quality that enhances MY life than having YOU read one of my so-so posts.”

In my nearly seven years of blogging, no one has ever said anything like this to me. It was so counter-intuitive to the economic marketplace that we have created for ourselves.

It was as if Quality was the God, and was bigger than both of us, and it didn’t matter which one of us connected to it, because it was to everyone’s benefit when it was reached.

Can you imagine someone coming onto to Twitter and typing, “Hey folks, my post today is a rush job, so instead of you spending too much time reading it, why don’t you go focus on making YOUR post as good as possible!”

I’m not sure Schmutzie meant to be inspirational, but it felt as if there was a paradigm shift inside my head about the artist’s life, like Gallileo’s first sensing that the the planet revolved around the sun, and not the Earth.

The power of CREATIVITY was our God, and it was available to all..

Don’t bother to comment today. Spend that time writing your own post. Or, if you do want to comment, tell me about a creative act that you plan to do today, even if it is just making lunch.

Halloween Tale 2011: Roger’s Brain

From the writer of such horrific Halloween tales as The Old Parsons Tree in Flushing (2010), The Mommyblogger’s Demon Child (2009), Giving Head (2008), The Werewolf (2007), and The Joy of 666 (2006)!

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About a year and a half ago, I had a mild cold. I went onto Twitter, as was my daily habit, and I wrote this status update:

“I have a cold and I am by myself and nobody seems to care. Boo-hoo.”

And no one responded. It was as if I was invisible to the world. A ghost.

Later that day, I noticed another update that was being retweeted several times. It was a tweet by a male writer/blogger named @RogerF.

The tweet said:

“I have a cold, but no cold will stop me from choping wood to help warm those in need at the senior center. I promised those wonderful seniors and I keep my promise!”

“You are such a mensch” replied @AngellaB on Twitter.

“Make sure you take care of yourself, too,” said @JeanninefromNV.

“I wish I could be there and make you some of my healing chicken oregano soup,” wrote @SaucySandy.

Roger lived in Montana, was a real outdoorsman who kayaked and climbed mountains. He also had a PhD in environmental science from Yale. He was as fine a specimen of the male species as God has ever created, a perfect combination of brains, confidence, and brawn, beloved for his grace, humor, and his writing — oh, his writing! He was branded as the best male writer on the internet, his poetic, witty, and heart-felt prose beloved by everyone from mommybloggers to the geekiest tech blogger. Whenever there was a Top Blogger List, he was always #1.

Roger was like a God — respected and popular — and I was jealous. I possessed a deep, burning envy that blackened my heart.

My hatred for Roger grew and grew. I started to have shameful thoughts. I wished him dead. I would kill him with my bare hands, then bury him in an unmarked grave. No more Roger. I WOULD THEN BE THE KING OF THE INTERNET.

On Yom Kippur, I refused to go to Temple, fearful of facing God with my own wickedness. But I didn’t care. Jealousy had turned me into a madman. I was not a real man compared to Roger, this Adonis of Montana. I knew I had to destroy him.

My life reached a new low when there was an announcement made online: Roger was chosen as a blogging representative by the United Nations and “Starbucks Helps” to travel to Nicaragua and report back on the country’s poverty.

The news made the mainstream media. Roger’s name trended on Twitter, surpassing even Justin Bieber.

Then, two weeks after Roger left for Central America, there was a massive earthquake in Nicaragua. Roger was in the middle of teaching English grammar to a group of impoverished students when the the Nicaraguan flag hanging in the classroom unhinged and fell on his head, crushing his skull. The US Army sent a special airforce jet to wisk him to the top rated brain-injury unit back in the states — Mount Sinai Hospital in New York.

As a New Yorker, I knew Mount Sinai quite well. One of my best friends from elementary school was once a top brain specialist at the hospital, even though he has worked as a busboy in the hospital cafeteria since 2009.

(It’s a long story. Aparently, and this was never proven in court, Reefer (Rob’s nickname because of his love of smoking exotic weed during medical school) was caught “feeling up” a busty female patient during her brain surgery, and he was promptly disbarred, although union regulations prohibited the hospital from outright firing him, so they transferred him into the kitchen instead)

I called my old buddy, curious about Roger’s condition.

“Is he going to survive?” I asked my friend.

“As I was busing tables for lunch,” said Reefer,”I heard his doctor say that he is in a coma and will never come out, which is a shame because his brain is still alive, and the perfect specimen of brainhood.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” I replied. “He’s always so perfect.”

“I have an idea,” said Reefer. “Meet me at the diner at 86th Street.”

A few hours later, we were sitting in the fake red leather booths of the coffee shop, eating corn muffins and drinking coffee, and Reefer was telling me the most astounding story that I had ever heard.

“Every since I was disbarred, I’ve been bored out of my mind being a mere cafeteria busboy. To keep my mind occupied, I returned to research, particularly my medical school thesis on neuro-brain transplants.”

“You mean like Frankenstein?!” I asked.

“Don’t be silly. That is fiction. This is real. I set up a secret lab behind the kitchen, catching the mice that frequently found their way inside looking for food. I then “borrowed” human corpses from the morgue for experimentation regenerating nerve cells in transplanted brains.”

“Did you also steal medical equipment for the work?”

“Of course not. I had the kitchen next door. You’d be surprised what you can do in the brain with a butter knife and soup spoon.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

“I need a healthy person and a live brain to do the ultimate test. And now we have the opportunity.”

Finally, I understood. Reefer intended to transplant Roger’s superior brain into my head. I would lose much of my own “self,” including my memories and consciousness, but I would obtain all the greatness that was Roger. I would inherit his writing skill, his good humor, his confidence… and his way with women.

There was no reason to think about this matter any further.

“Give me his brain!” I said.

Now, dear reader, here is where I skip over many of the more gruesome details of the operation for those of you with delicate sensibilities, particularly the women. Mind you, it was not pretty, as Reefer used a jagged steak knife to slice open my skull, and a turkey baster to siphon out much of the excessive blood dripping onto the linoleum floor.

Two days later, I woke up with Roger’s brain. The operation was a success. I was thinking, acting, and living just like Roger. My writing improved as did my social skills and IQ score. I was confident about every decision. Women send me flirtatious messages, wanting to cater to my ever whim.

One night, a half-undressed woman showed up in my hotel room during a writing conference.

“What has gotten into you? It’s like you’re a new man!” she said.

“I’m just thinking differently,” I replied.

But as I went into bed with the woman and the blood flowed to my manhood, I suddenly had an incredible headache, so much so that I had to stop the activity and ask the woman to leave.

This painful headache continued throughout the night, and kept on returning at the most inopportune times. What was happening? Had the experiment gone awry?

The answer came soon enough.

It was Reefer on the phone, with the troubling news. He had been looking over Roger’s medical history, and discovered that he had a lifelong issue with severe migraine headaches, a condition that affected many aspects of his personal life, particularly his sex life. Despite the appearance of his perfect life, he avoided sex at all costs. It gave him a migraine. And now I had his brain!

“What the hell…!” I screamed into the phone. “Who needs all this fame and glory? I want my stupid old brain back!”

“I’m so so sorry,” cried Reefer. “Last night, I smoked a little bit too much weed with the head chef, and accidentally left your brain in the kitchen. And since he was a little high as well, he made a mistake and mixed your brain into the chop meat for the meatballs at lunch today!”

I was in tears.

“But on the positive side,” said Reefer, “the meatballs were excellent.”

And that is how I got stuck with Roger’s brain.

And now I have a f**king terrible headache, so I’m stopping this story.

Storytelling and “Doing Good”

Blogging story of the day:  Big-time blogger goes to third-world country, writes post about what she saw, and others criticize her for being a wealthy white woman doing “poverty tourism.”

But this blogger is “doing good!” say her defenders.

I’ve now read ten posts on this topic, all focusing on how wrong it was for others to mock a person doing so much good. In two days, the personal blogging community went from caring only about “monetizing their blog” to  the importance of “doing good.”

In my opinion, you are getting the argument wrong.   The “doing good” is a red herring.   It has nothing to do with anything.   I’m not friends with any of the parties involved, so there is no one I want to defend.

I’m just interested in storytelling.

I believe writers should be able to tell their stories without others mocking them.   A person has the freedom to go to a Third World country and write about his or her experience.

If I went on this trip, I might talk about my allergies, the smog, and how the cab driver ripped me off.  I might even HATE visiting this chaotic country, and reveal I spent the entire week in my hotel room drinking mojitos   And you know something? — you still don’t have any right to mock me.   It’s my story, even it’s about a weekend in a upscale hotel in a Third World country.    Not an editorial on how you should live your life.

Of course, a person also has the right to criticize.   But only the issue, not the story.  The story is above the issue.   That’s what make stories last longer than the issues.   Because stories not about “doing good” or being right or following any political or artistic agenda.

They are about life.    Write your own stories.

Stuck on Page Ten of My Memoir

I’ve read a couple of terrific memoirs written by YOU over the last few months. I’ve enjoyed them tremendously. But something about the genre makes me uncomfortable, particularly when I wonder if have the ability to write my own memoir. Most of these memoirs revolve around a personal journey. Something dramatic happens to the writer, and through hard work and the meeting of mentors, he comes out stronger by the end. The memorist may have more gray hairs by the final page, but he is wiser.

I am stuck on page ten of my memoir. I was born. I went to school. I went to work. Something dramatic happened to me that set me off my path. I need to crawl out of the darkness and become a wiser man.

Without that wisdom, I can’t continue my memoir.

And by memoir, I’m not really talking about a memoir.

The problem is that I don’t feel any wiser than I did last year. I can’t offer you any profound insights into your life. I haven’t overcome my obstacles. Has there ever been a memoir about someone’s life being the same as the year before?

Maybe we can only care about third parties when they have truly overcome their “hardship,” whatever it is, no matter how small. We hate the drug addict face down in the alley, but praise him when he overcomes his addiction. The Neo-Nazi disavows his views and gets applause on a talk show. But wasn’t he the same guy who spat on you the month earlier? But, of course, he has changed, and we cheer change. He has learned his lesson. That is the template. We must learn to overcome our bad childhood, a death, a divorce, the losing of a job.

I am still in the “IS” state, the lesson unlearned. I can’t write that memoir until I overcome this “IS” and turn it into a “WAS.” Then I can write about my “NEW IS,” and move past page ten of my memoir.

And by memoir, I’m not really talking about a memoir.

Interview with Emily

Success as a published writer is possible.   Currently, I am reading the terrific “Planting Dandelions: Field Notes from a Semi-Domesticated Life” from long-time blogging friend, Kyran Pittman.   As talented a wordsmith as Kyran is, even she will tell you that luck and the right concept go a long way in getting your project published by a major publishing company such as Riverhead, a division of Penguin.   I’ll write more about her book next week.

My blogging friend Emily Rosenbaum has also just published a book. But she has gone a different path than Kyran by self-publishing it.

In the past, this approach to self-publishing might be viewed with mockery.  But I’ve been around long enough to know that not every book Random House publishes is good, and not every book they reject is bad.  I’m also familiar with Emily’s writing talent online.  I think anyone who finishes a book and puts it out there to be read by others should be proud of their work, and there is no reason I shouldn’t take it seriously.

The publishing industry is in chaos. Things are rapidly changing, especially as we all begin to read our novels on Kindles and Nooks.   As the world becomes digitized, it is easier for writers to bypass the traditional system completely.   The question remains — is this a good development, an opening of doors, or does it destroy the quality of our literature, as maintained by our gatekeepers, the agents and editors?

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The following is not a review of Emily’s book.  I have not read it.  The book is not geared for me.  This is a conversation between me and a blogging friend, a writer, about her experience self-publishing a book, and what it means to her.

Oh yeah, I also would love to help her sell some books, because I think the subject might appeal to quite a few of my readers.

Her book is titled “Cooking on the Edge of Insanity.”

Her bio reads as following, “Emily Rosenbaum is a writer, mother, adult survivor of child abuse, and lousy gardener striving to live sustainably in New Jersey.”

The book blurb: “Emily Rosenbaum is that mother; you know, the one who avoids chemicals, minimizes food waste, shops locally, fears sugar, hides from corn byproducts, and tries to convince her son that lemonade is not a fruit. Don’t even get her started on BPAs. Six years after making her first batch of muffins, she’s not just pureeing squash and baking bread. She’s forming little lumps of chicken-apple-spinach mush into nuggets, coating them in homemade breadcrumbs, and lovingly brushing them with olive oil. She is poised on the edge of craziness, unless she toppled in last Tuesday.  In Cooking on the Edge of Insanity, Rosenbaum shares recipes and tells the tale of living sustainably while cooking for a family of five.”

It’s available for download to your e-reader for $2.99, from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The Interview:

1) First of all, this is a book about sustainable living, part essays/part recipes.   Just so I understand more of where you are coming from, when did you get involved in worrying about the food you eat? From your parents? College? Friends? And how do all your kids manage with such a crazy green mother? Have they ever eaten a Big Mac? Do they feel as if they are missing out?

Well, definitely not from my parents. My mother died when I was two, leaving me with a detached father and abusive stepmother. They actually were very into the whole sustainability thing: compost, gardening, etc. They were also assholes. Then I lived with a few other relatives, none of whom were at all foodies.

I didn’t even start learning to cook till college. I had an old Moosewood Cookbook I had taken from my aunt, who most likely never had cooked a single thing in it. Have you ever seen a Moosewood cookbook? The recipes are labor intensive, to say the least. Learning to cook out of it is like learning to play the piano starting from Beethoven’s Fifth. But, I began to teach myself, and over the years learned to love the process of figuring out how ingredients work together.

Then I had kids. And when you put nine months into making a little body (not to mention the fertility treatment) plus another year into breastfeeding it, you get kind of particular about what you put into it. I also really began to worry about the future of the planet because I have these little people and they’re going to inherit the earth that I leave them.

There were two other catalysts for my eco-mania. The first was rereading and teaching Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower when I was pregnant with my first child, Zachary. It is a phenomenal book, and it made me think hard about the world my son-to-be child would inherit. Then, Hurricane Katrina happened right around Zachary’s first birthday. It was a wake-up for a lot of people. We’re screwing up the planet so badly that it’s actually fighting back.

Hell, no. My kids have never had a Big Mac. Once, I let Zachary have a chocolate milk at McDonald’s. That said, it’s easier to shield them from McDonald’s than it is to avoid the sugar/chemical-laden snacks and candy that pervade kids’ lives. People hand that shit out to kids all the time, and adults get all huffy if I try to object. Really? The teacher doesn’t know why I wish she wouldn’t hand my first-grader a candy necklace?

I think it’s hard for my kids, especially now that we live in a very conservative area. I make some concessions, to be sure, like the chocolate milk thing. But some things are non-negotiable.

2) How many books or stories have you written outside of blogging that you have sent into magazines or publishers? From your blog it sounds, like with many writers, you’ve had to face some rejections with publishers, even when they gave you positive feedback, saying things such as “It’s very well written and compelling, but in the end I just don’t have a clear enough vision for how to position it.” How have you been able to overcome these frustrations?

Oh, yeah. That’s the $10 million question, isn’t it? How do you overcome rejection?

I only really became a writer four years ago, when my second child, Benjamin, was turning one. I was so sensitive to rejection at the beginning. I have no confidence in my work at all, and every rejection made me feel like I should give up. A good friend and far more established writer, Jacob Sager Weinstein, believed in me as a writer. His willingness to see me that way made a huge difference.

The last year has been good to me. I’ve been fortunate to have quite a few articles published – Hip Mama, Glamour, Bitch, and Brain, Child, to name a few. Plus, I have gotten a lot of bread-and-butter work, so I’m starting to feel like it’s not just an indulgence as the checks come in. Of course, I also lost the agent who was representing my other book, so the year has not been perfect.

Rejection still hits me hard. We all want that stamp of approval from the people who are supposed to know about such things. And you have to understand that I went to college with Elizabeth Banks and others who are unbelievably successful. So, I get that whole, “Well, we started from the same place and look where she is and look where I am” jealousy thing sometimes, no matter how happy I am for them. On the other hand, the amazing actress, Jamie Denbo, was my high school friend and she has been one of my staunchest supporters, so that has lessened the sting of her being beautiful and talented.

Ultimately, I remind myself it’s not a contest. Given the childhood I had, I’m proud of myself for getting my ass out of bed every day. I have three lovely kids, only two of whom regularly tell me they hate me. Life is about slowing down and living, and I work very, very hard to realign my idea of success whenever it gets out of whack. Cooking does that for me. It’s so completely basic. Food is what life is about, not blog stats.

3) Was there a moment during the process after writing the book where you just said to yourself, “Screw the system, I’m just going to publish this myself. I know it is good and there is a audience for it?”

There are two books. There’s the first one I wrote, which is not about food, and which was a much longer, more intense process. Then there’s Cooking on the Edge of Insanity, which is short and a labor of love. I’ve wanted to do a cooking book for years, but it’s a completely saturated market and my husband isn’t famous. Plus, there isn’t a whole lot of market for cookbooks with the F-word on the first page.

So, I decided to e-publish the book that would never land an agent or publisher, anyway. I figured it would be a great way to see if I am up for this kind of publishing or not. I didn’t care whether 5 people or 5000 people read it, so there was nothing to lose by trying.

4) You are selling your book as an ebook for $2.99 on Amazon and Barnes and Noble? Can you give my readers a quick breakdown on what steps you did to do this? Was it a simple process of downloading the content to these companies? Did it cost you anything to publish an e-book? Do you have a business plan or are you winging it for this first time?

Publishing an e-book is absurdly simple. Seriously. Kindle Direct Publishing and Pubit (which sounds dirty but really is the e-publishing arm of Barnes & Noble) are very, very user-friendly. You get about 70% of the profits from those sites, so it’s win-win. They don’t care if you only sell three copies, because they’ve done nothing to publish your book, and you don’t get charged anything upfront.

Anyone can get a Kindle App for a smartphone, iPad, or a computer, so people can download the book even if they don’t have a Kindle or a Nook. The bigger problem is that people wanted to see the book on the iBookstore or get it for their other e-readers. That’s where it got sticky.

There are several sites that host e-books and would have channeled it to those other readers. I chose Smashwords and uploaded my book there. But to get “premium distribution,” you need to format it just so, and my book as complicated formatting because it is a combo of essays and recipes. They also end up taking a larger chunk because Smashwords gets a small take and then the other stores take another chunk. Plus, you need to buy an ISBN in order to get into the iBookstore. That’s a $125 cost, so I’d need to feel I’d have an additional 60 readers to make up the difference. Since anyone can get a Kindle app, I knew that some of those who would go to the iBookstore would just get it from Amazon, so it wouldn’t be cost-effective.

The book is up on Smashwords, so folks can get it from their website. This is important because Smashwords knows no international borders, unlike Amazon and B&N. But I eschewed premium distribution. So far, I’ve sold one book on Smashwords.

You do need a cover, and you should get a professional to do one. I am lucky that another woman I went to high school with, Karen Hallion, is a bitchin’ artist, and she designed my cover.

I am developing a business plan as I go along. My husband has an MBA, so he’s helping, but we’re treating this book as a learning experience. For example, I had thought it would only be an e-book. Then I realized that there’s a huge potential readership in farmers’ markets. So I’m creating a physical book with on-demand publishing. Added bonus is I get to spend the summer cruising farmers’ markets, which is about my favorite thing to do.

We’re winging it, here.

5) Did you have to develop a thick skin because the promoting of the book fell entirely onto your shoulders?

I’ll let you know if I ever develop a thick skin.

Women have a much, much harder time selling ourselves then men do. We’re taught it’s grabby to throw back our shoulders and say, “I’m the shit.” I can say, “My writing is good,” but I feel like I need to sit back and wait for people to notice. It’s a damned good thing I am fortunate enough to have so many lovely and supportive people around me.

6) Do you think our opinions on self-publishing are changing? How did you feel about self-publishing in the past? Did you see the content as “lesser?” Have you changed your views since then? Do you think that this is the wave of the future in publishing? Are you as proud of your writing as you would be if Random House published the book? Do you consider yourself a real “writer?” Do you think this project will help you get noticed by traditional publishers for your next project? Or would you prefer to continue self-publishing?

Great questions.

I used to think self-publishing was for narcissistic assholes. Mostly because my father self-published.

But, now, with e-publishing, we as writers are redefining the marketplace. It’s a heady time. It’s still a tiny market, and trust me when I say we’re not going to pay to fix my daughter’s teeth on what I’m making on this book. The majority of people still want a physical book. I agree, I have to say. Since I figure the Apocalypse is coming in the form of us destroying the planet we live on, the day will come when we may have to live off the grid. When that happens, I’ll be glad to have all my paper books.

I digress. No one knows the future of publishing, right? The agents and publishers are all scrambling. Right now, they still have a headlock on the channels of distribution. It’s awfully hard to get noticed as a self-publisher. I don’t see the content as lesser, but there’s still a stigma attached. Is that changing? Absolutely. To what degree? I’m not sure.

As to whether I’d prefer to continue self-publishing: I don’t know yet. You have to understand that I hate the nuts and bolts work. HATE IT. I like the writing and author appearances, but the rest is paralyzing for me. I fight that, but it’s painful. That said, you sure keep a lot more of the profits if you do it yourself.

7) Any insights or advice about the publishing world that you would give to someone writing their first project? How did you learn about the worlds of agents and publishing and e-books? From websites? Books? Conferences?

Mostly? I learned as I went. You need to build a platform, which means publishing other places. If you want to get published in magazines, which is a great way to build a platform, you need to start small. Send things places that don’t pay, just so you can say you’ve been published there. Then build your way up. It scaffolds.

The most important thing to do is read, and read things longer than 140 characters. I read so many magazines and books. It’s the only way to figure out where you want to publish.

And get a professionalish website.   Jennifer Schmitt (who introduced me to you, by the way) designed and maintains my website. She has saved my ass many a time. It’s an easy place to portal all my work, and it looks professional, so I can channel people through there.

8 )  How do you see your blog and your presence in social media as related to you as a writer? Are they separate entities or do you find yourself “branding yourself?” Do you find interaction with other writers helpful? Do you consider yourself a “mom blogger” or a “writer” or both?

For a long time, I couldn’t understand why my blog didn’t get noticed. I thought it was a reflection of me as a writer. I’ve been blogging for four years now, and I never get listed in those “top blog” things, even by magazines I write for.

I made peace with it last summer. I’m a writer who blogs, not a blogger who writes. The difference being that my blog is not my primary way of getting noticed. I use the blog to develop my voice, write about things that matter to me, etc. It has been a great way to connect with some amazing people. No matter what happens, Coco, and Magpie will keep coming back.

I hate the idea of branding myself. I’m not a brand. I’m a person. I won’t post pictures of my kids or talk about their genitalia or try to fit myself into some mold. Life is too short for that shit. I write. I sell writing. The minute I start branding myself, I’ll be caring more about the brand than I will about what I want to say. What’s the point of that?

I am so very lucky to have had so many people support me as a writer. I have a small following, but they’re there because they trust me to keep it real.

Finding Nirvana

Editor’s Note: Dear Reader, I know there is no need for me to ask your permission or apologize for what I do on my own blog, but I am who I am, so sue me. I have NO IDEA what I am doing on my blog this month, ever since my birthday. Mid-life crisis maybe? I’m just writing, with little editing or thought. I’m in a bit of a state at the moment. So, instead of falling apart in real life, I am trying to manage my life while going a little bonkers on my blog. If you are a troll, fuck you, but if you are a friend who feels the urge to make fun of the pretentious nature of my posts, feel free to mock away in a friendly way. I always make fun of you on your blogs. Fair is fair. I am enjoying playing with “earnest” writing, something that is not my usual cup of tea. Unlike some of you wimps, I am not afraid of failing on my blog. I am quite proud of that, actually. And besides, there is something personal that I am trying to express here. I’m just not sure what it is as of yet. I really appreciate you reading this, knowing that it isn’t particularly entertaining, or even good, and might be as painful for you to read as my eighth grade poetry. But it is therapeutic.

Neil

++++

I re-write over and over again, trying to strip away the excess fat, in the misguided attempt to reach some point of pure honesty, to catch a glimpse of my soul, or the face of God, thinking it the ultimate goal of writing, not the mere use of words, pedestrian tools found in any magician’s bag, used for manipulation. So I was completely shocked that, while writing in a black and white notebook, I reached that point of complete emptiness that few every see. It was a 7:45PM EST. It was as if I walked through a golden light that went from paper to pen to soul, and transported me into a zen retreat on a silent moutaintop. But rather than feeling ecstasy or a sense of wholeness, I felt alone, even with the bright colors of the rainbow sky surrounding me. This is not who I am, where I belong, born to a Jewish family from New York who love the hearty stories told that fill the thick air, like letters emanating from the Torah. I turned back. I love the earth, the senses, and the illogic of everything real. I respect the solitude of nirvana. I am impressed that I came this close to knowing it. I feel older now, more experienced with life. But I would be crushed under the weight of NOTHING. I returned to immediately make a joke about the food in nirvana’s cafeteria, just to comfort me like a goose-down blanket. Back to writing.

++++

(for BHJ)

Tuesday Writing Challenge

Today’s Challenge: Write a post that is honest and authentic, but at the same time appeals to every single sector of your completely incompatible readership —

1) socially minded, highly educated, overly neurotic mothers whom you can safely flirt with without having to do anything in real life

2) trailer park denizens who loved your numerous dick jokes from 2007-2008, when you were funnier

3) social-climbing “friends” from Ivy League colleges who now live in Manhattan, work in “media,” think personal blogging is a waste of time, read The New Yorker magazine, and love to name drop pretentious shit like a bunch of pampered assholes.

— in an effort to please everyone, like the pussy writer you are, making yourself sound likable and approachable, but ultimately destroying any sense of authority.

++++

“What kind of ridiculous writing challenge is this?” I asked.

“It is an ideal one for you.” answered my Penis.

“Penis, what are you doing here. I haven’t talked to you on this blog for ages!”

“Exactly. And why? Because Veronica said she didn’t like the posts.”

“So, I trust her opinion. Maybe she was right…”

“No… no… no… Fuck Veronica. The reader is never right. You are the writer. You need to listen to THE VOICE.”

“Who’s voice? Yours?”

“No. Yours.”

“I don’t want to do this prompt,” I cried. “Overly-neurotic mothers? Trailer park denizens? Social climbing “friends?” These are my dear readers. The ones who pay the bills”

“Fuck your readers.”

“But everyone is going to hate me.”

“Do it!” demanded my Penis. “Show them who has the cojones!”

++++

Tuesday Writing Challenge

Melissa
by Neil Kramer

I couldn’t believe my eyes as she stepped into the bedroom. It was my first time seeing her without a stitch of clothing. I admired her full breasts and her long, strong legs.

How lucky was I to have met Melissa at their reading Saturday night at the 92nd Street Y by Russian-American novelist Gary Shteyngart! Not only was Melissa gorgeous, with flowing golden brown hair the color of the finest wheat, but she had a PhD in Molecular Biology, was a noted feminist writer and speaker, a Fellow at the Nieman Lab, an animal rescuer, and the mother of three beautiful, brilliant, well-behaved, healthy young children, all who attended top private schools and could read and write in English, Mandarin, Hebrew, and Portuguese.

When I looked into her eyes, the sensation was so intense. This was the perfect woman.

Here is where I reveal something to you, dear reader. Despite my bravado in print, I am really quite shy and modest. While I was brazen in my gaze at her nakedness, I felt vulnerable and uncovered in my own, and grabbed a magazine from the night stand, spreading it open to cover manly arousal.

As she walked closer and closer to me, her eyes grew hungry as she stared at me. Or rather the issue of The New Yorker which I used as my shield of honor, opened to pages 42-43 of the latest issue. “Oh, a Roz Chast cartoon! I love her,” she cried, as she swiped the magazine off of me and went to read it on the easy chair.

++++

“How was it?” I asked my Penis.

“Eh.” he answered.

“Fuck you!” I finally screamed at my Penis.

“Finally! Eureka! You did it.” he said, laughing with glee. “You passed the test. You fought back against your own Penis! And when a man can finally fight back against the will of his own Penis, the world is his oyster!”

“You know that expression is from Shakespeare.”

“The Merry Wives Of Windsor Act 2, scene 2, 2–5”

“Fuck Shakespeare!”

“Keep it going! Now you got the mojo!”

++++

(for Kate’s amusement)

Operation

A medical degree is not essential.  Just a steady hand and nerves stronger than a mighty oak tree.  Mentally fit as as a steel plank.  But gentle as a whispering dandelion.

Hello, my name is Neil, and these are my ailments —

A butterfly in my stomach, water on the knees, a broken heart, a Charlie horse, and a very funny bone.

Will you be my Specialist?   Pick a card and heal me.   If you can avoid the shock of the electricity, I will kiss you forever.

Sent from my iPhone

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