“It’s Ren Fair and Wasteland and Comic-Con and The Highland Games. It's sword-fighting and fire-spitting, It's winning an award for the most extravagant beard or for throwing a truck tire farther than anyone else. It's author readings and live music. Collectibles, antiques, vintage clothing, and trading cards. It's cosplay. It's taxidermy and outsider art. Pre-war motorcycles and hot rods. It's blacksmithing and glass blowing. It's raconteurs and roustabouts. Rotgut and goblin pulp. It's Neil Gaiman and Dr. Who, Hellboy, and Spirited Away. It's Mad Max. It's Diagon Alley meets Burning Man. It's books, books, and more books.”
For those unfamiliar, The Raconteur was originally a beloved Central Jersey bookstore popular for its artist-friendly reputation. The New York Times even once praised it as an avant-garde hangout and street theater emporium.
Originally based in Metuchen, NJ, the shop was for a time, the premiere place for anyone with an interest in culture. A genuine haven where one could find books, both new and old. A strange yet confidable safe space for young students who’d aspired to live in the worlds of imagination.
It was very sad when the original Raconteur store closed for a time… And surprising, when it somehow, magically returned almost 10 years later. This time, as a dieselpunk used bookstore built atop a ‘59 flatbed truck. Parked in the central lot in town for the weekend.
The new Rac-On-Tour serviced as a book truck. Like a food truck, but instead of sandwiches or empanadas or really cold smoothies on a hot summer day, this not-a-food-truck-store-truck doled out dusty old books for sale. Like a transformable traveling circus wagon, the Raconteur brought with it an artistic crowd with a debonair for flair. All flocked to a caravan of words and art and strangeness, beautifully packed away in this inner three-shelved book store. Which, despite all the fitting-in books, and the rear of the truck’s second-floor carpeting, still fit a Galaga/Ms. Pac-Man arcade machine in its corner, in defiance of space that would make the Tardis proud.
The shop is owned by a man named Alex Dawson. A full-time teacher in the creative writing department over at Rutgers. Alex instructed students on writing with a focus on fantasy, folklore, and strange fiction. He was one of the most well-read and surprisingly connected people I’ve ever met before, though, before all that, spent a large chunk of his life living as a bouncer and a bartender in some of the most demanding, and often, dangerous joints in NJ.
For a solid, almost forty years, Dawson has ridden a motorcycle to get around. He has a penchant for shirts without sleeves and is one of the chillest authors you’ll ever meet. He was a hard-knocked guy, though one with, a genuine softness and squishiness to him, only in so, that I’ve never actually heard anyone say a damned or nasty thing about the man since I’ve known him. As Alex genuinely seems to have a kind heart.
Alex was also one of the people who’d helped with the Rutgers Writer’s conference. Which was a retreat for so many promising young authors. The last time I attended, I had my chance to meet my hero Neil Gaiman, which I mentioned in a post a little while back.
Through this same writers network this past few months, I’d gotten to meet some really talented authors including authors Dave Rudden and Clay McLeod Chapman. All because of Alex and his classes, students, and the people he just attracts with his charisma to these events.
That Saturday was pitched to me by Alex over messenger as a part ren-fair meets live reading featuring a fire spitter, tire toss, and a wife and husband act who liked to do things like sit on a bed of nails or walk on shards of broken glass… open-toed barefooted - all for show. There was also some vinyl on sale and some trinkets sold by mom-and-pop shops from town.
It was a fun festival and one I highly recommend everyone visit at some point if you're in town.
While perusing, I’d ended up buying a comic book from an artist named Jack Shergalis, who'd drawn some trippy mushroom renditions of his journeys into the ecological preserve. The same one that I liked hiking in on the weekends. I sat down to read the comic when an older couple sat next to me to eat lunch, and while I fingered through… I couldn’t help but think…
“That this was… Today’s headliner… wasn’t it?”
Every ROT-Fest had a headlining act. A famous writer who’d read a piece for the event. I grabbed my phone to google and check that it was in fact, Michael Swanwick. One of the biggest short story writers in Fantasy and Science Fiction. He was the only person to have won five Hugo Awards in six years in a row, though is most popular for his adapted works which can be seen in the Science Fiction Netflix Anthology: Love Death + Robots.
His short fiction story, Ice Age, was adapted in season one and starred Mary Elizabeth Winstead and Topher Grace. In it, they discover a lost civilization in the refrigerator that evolves before their very eyes. All for a breakneck-paced silly but beautiful short story.
His second story, featured in the show's most recent season, was The Very Purse of The Machine. The story won a Hugo award in the 90s. In it, an astronaut experiences a transcendental experience while pumped with life-saving drugs while stranded on lo, a moon of Jupiter. On her last tank of oxygen, it is uncertain if her quest for survival is an otherworldly science fiction cog in the metaphysical machine, or simply, a drug-induced nightmare.
I sat there reading my comic trying my best not to stare, while Michael, rather patiently, sat with wife, Marianne C. Porter.
There’s this antiquated proverb that behind every good man is an even greater woman. In the case of their relationship, I fully believed that this was true.
As we'd talked, I'd gotten to learn more about both of them and learned that Porter had owned her own nano-sized book publishing press. She was initially more open to speaking with me than Michael, or perhaps, just easier to speak with that day. That either gave me time was surprising, to be honest.
I’d opened to them that I was a journalist. That I was here, mostly to meet Michael, though not as an interview per se, just more out of professional curiosity as someone seeking writing advice. I told them that I was a person that interviews celebrities for a living. Someone who’d written about conventions, entertainment, and some video games-related media, including a short stint at IGN – which I’d described, more-or-less, as the New York Times of the video game industry. We began talking and I shared my writing journey detailing my career in mental health and how I called it quits to write full-time.
We had originally both came from science. Originally, when Michael was sixteen, his father caught Alzheimer's and so he sought out to be a scientist. But when that wasn’t working out as a life path, he inevitably, became a writer. Taking the leap and submitted some of his first short stories. I’d shared that I started out in science, psychology specifically, but then got out and pursued creative writing until what happened with my father a few years ago.
How he died right in front of me from a heart attack. At least, for a few moments, until I had to resuscitate him, uncertain as to whether or not he would live or die as the paramedics restarted his heart.
I shared how afterward I was forever changed. How, though I was already on the journey to try and make a living off writing, I'd become absolutely dedicated to sort of give writing my all from that moment onward. At least, until the pandemic happened and sort of confused all of that plan.
Marianne empathized with my grief. She shared a story about how her mother died when she was much older, and how, even in her 60s, after losing mom, she still felt like an orphan. She spoke about how that feeling never seems to change. How parents will always sort of be your parents no matter the age.
That comment stuck with me pretty hard. Recently, there’ve been a lot of deaths in my life due to everything. Parents who are no longer there anymore. Friends who’d lost their mothers and fathers of late. There were some friends as well, who had prematurely died, most, barely even into their 30s…
Death seems to surround me wherever I go. Like a distant voice of an old friend. It always has. I don’t really know if I’m better or worse for it.
It has though, given me a purpose. As I feel like I was put on this planet to do something very specific. That I was destined to convey these moments of loss and learning in stories. The art and rebirth in crafting something… some sort of lesson out of all this trauma, darkness, and loss.
I convinced myself, somewhere along this journey, that I guess, by some dangerous cocktail of messiah complex, along with a pinch of survivor’s guilt, I was destined to be an author. Not because I wanted to, mind you, but because, I think the world absolutely needs to hear my stories…
Hear them before it’s too late.
Which, I think, is a better reason than most give as to why they write.
That or I'm just plain stupid.
On a lighter note, Michael and I shared of our mutual love of the convention circuit during conversation.
How I covered every convention imaginable interviewing various types of celebrities and executives and folks, just way bigger than I. Michael, shared stories about attending writer's and science fiction conventions and what it was like traveling to China, the growing fandom for SF and Fantasy there, and overall modernization of the country, which coincidentally, was just announced as the next location (Chengdu) for the upcoming 81st World Science Fiction... AKA WorldCon.
If you don’t know, reader, the original WorldCon is the foundation of every comic con in existence. The Primal Convention per se of all the conventions that have come after. I wrote about the history of conventions for a piece about DerpyCon last year, Which I still think is pretty neat, in terms of conventional origins.
Together, Michael and Marianne gave me loads of advice about writing and… life. We’d spent what felt like an hour together just talking, me apologizing for taking up their lunchtime, but also, just picking their brains as there was so much they had to know that I still needed to learn.
I remember, in terms of structure, Michael mentioned emphasis on the importance of the first few pages of any story and the necessity to WOW the audience. How editors go through the beginnings and the ends of the story, as those who approve of these projects go through a giant stack of slush piles for submissions. A revelation not all too different from screenplay scripting.
In turn, I’d shared a story about a screenplay I’d submitted to Screencraft that I’d written as a pilot spec script. An example of me ‘Wow’ing the reader to only have gotten a negative review panned for ‘not following the rules of the genre’.
The script was called: Social Work. I’d written it as a dramedy about the mental health field. Like Orange Is The New Black meets The Office, the story was about mental health workers and their clients, who I’d structured to serve as fun cases of the week... often, in supporting roles.
What was different, was that the script detailed what it was like in the mental health field, not as some once-in-a-while closed-thearpy session of notes, but as someone living in the same spaces as the mentally ill. The unstable environment that is federally funded-backed treatment facilities, and really, diving into the headspace of what it’s like to be around someone with hallucinations and schizophrenia 24/7.
Which I think no one has yet, done a great job at depicting in media.
The mental health side of my story was praised in its notes of feedback for its unique approach that’s never been told before, and to be honest, still hasn’t been told. But the genre I was submitting under was labeled drama and my script failed because there was too much comedy. Which, to be fair, is the problem for a contest where the options are Drama or Comedy and never: Dramatic Comedy.
I also would argue, that funny/sad is absolutely the field of mental health. Pointless moments of obsession, but oftentimes also, hilarity, found not just in the patients, but really, the mental health bureaucracy. Which was always imploding around you. As moments of severe trauma, loss, and open wounds filtered the cracks, the journey, or really, whatever ends up surviving through this strange period of time: is often the end result. AKA your cured person.
Changing topics again, we’d somehow found a conversation start regarding my favorite author: Neil Gaiman. A writer whose works have been heavily influenced by the style and who many are learning about now, given the massive success that The Sandman has been for Netflix.
Michael had been a part of the literary scene for decades and had actually spent a good deal of time with some of the biggest names in science fiction and fantasy including Neil Gaiman and George R.R. Martin. This was, of course, before the gigantic fame both writers are experiencing right now.
The one thing that stood out to me regarding these stories of gossip and celebritydom that Michael shared with me, is that when you hit it big... you really start to separate yourself from everyone else.
G.R.R.M from what I gathered, became the nerdy celebrity turned Jay Gatsby of the community. The popular kid amongst the losing crowd. At least, until that final season of Game of Thrones was out. Which was bad, and of course, some of the fallout involving himself and a certain mispronunciation of names.
This got him a lot of scorn, especially, in regards to what used to be his celebrity in the community. It was really bad when after botching that year’s Hugo awards, a blog essay entered the following year was nominated for a Hugo, entitled: “George R.R. Martin can Fuck Off Into The Sun.” Which you can read here.
Anyway, As I learned more about the side of the industry I’d learned so much about a part I never really ever thought about: the parties, after parties, and awards ceremonies. Marketing tools and networking chances at these soirees.
I kind of realized writing isn’t what I always thought it to be.
Because there are writers, and then, there are… the ridiculously successful writers. The kinds of writers who have made a shockingly large amount of money to purchase castles and tiny estates on islands that I won’t get into details about, that else be crushed by the weight of my own pismire status as a writer, by comparison.
Hearing these stories made me feel alive for a second. It was, I think, for the first time in a long while where I’d felt like that.
My life… and really seeing the bigger picture of what it’s like to be a majorly successful author: the wealth, prestige, or otherwise, I guess hearing what that part of that world was genuinely like… was something I’d sort of forgotten about.
I've been always pursuing work and the story and what comes next… I’d forgotten what it meant to be a person who likes things like money... a long time ago. That side of things... stopped interesting me. As I feel like I write more to feel a sense of purpose and belonging, more than anything else these days.
Eventually, we took our seats to see what was happening. I spent the rest of R.O.T.-Fest doing what writers are expected to do: meet people, make contacts, and add acquaintances. There were a lot of interesting events and several readings from students though, to be honest, my mind was preoccupied with my… I guess, failure, of the past several years.
It’s strange.
I always wanted to adapt Cowboy Bebop as a live-action series as a script until I saw that Netflix did it. I also really wanted to be the person able to do the screenplay for The Sandman until Neil Gaiman, of course, took the task on himself. Of the bucket list of scripted adaptations, the only one that remains is an HBO script of The Last of Us, and even that, is coming out soon, and from what I gathered, will be strictly written by showrunner, Craig Mazin (who is a fantastic writer anyway).
I say this because, at the moment... my dreams are starting to die. As time continues, my heroes in the realms of story crafting, seem to keep either supplanting what could have been my dreams or just, keep disappointing me in some way (I was once the world's biggest Woody Allen fan, for instance). This is why it’s become harder to have heroes in my 30s. And I know now more than ever: I just need to be my own and release my stories. Be my own hero.
Something in me has changed. The culture shifted. The incessant nagging thought of anxiety constantly pangs at me: that the time of your relevance, unless you’re careful, can come to an end. You can become old news before you know it. The last thing you want is to give up what could have been your best years, having accomplished nothing.
I guess now I feel that pressure… mortality crushing your heart. Wanting to live before you die. That adage that you have to make do with the time you have now before it’s too late.
----------------
Towards the end of the event, Michael was asked to recite a poem by Doctor Seuss called, ‘What was I Scared of?’.
While reading it, Alex brought out a mysterious pair of green pants slapped onto a mannequin’s legs, and propped it behind Michael for us to see while he read on the makeshift outdoor stage. These ‘Green Pants’ were revealed to have belonged to someone else who’d really enjoyed writing. His name was Jack Kerouac, beatnik author of ‘On The Road’ and ‘Big Sur’.
Before leaving, I’d seen Michael again and he gave me one final piece of advice that I think will be the one that stays with me most:
“All advice is a tool. It’s up to the person to see what works and what doesn’t. The big thing,” which I didn’t know at the time, was absolutely bothering me in my heart of hearts and that I needed to hear at that moment “Is if it isn’t working out for you right now that’s not necessarily on you. Sometimes in life what you’re doing, the things that aren’t working, they might just be not the right tool you require at that moment. That real writing is in moving forward whether it works or doesn’t work.”
“Eventually, you’ll find what you need to get going.”
So I guess… maybe now’s the time to go do that.
No comments:
Post a Comment