I discovered a fun phrase while searching the Web yesterday. When Russian writers like Mikhail Bulgakov were writing traditional Russian novels that the Soviet regime wouldn't publish, they called it "writing into the desk," because they wrote books that they knew they couldn't get published.

Sounds a little like what most experimental writers are doing these days, given the present-day corporate publishing environment.

So last week I rode my bike over to St. John's to check out Jeff Selin's new writers' space the Writers' Dojo. Writing communities have always fascinated me, from fabled writing groups like the Algonquin Round Table to the Grotto in San Francisco to my own writing community here in Portland, so I was excited to see what Jeff was starting.

The space is absolutely beautiful. It has an Eastern theme, as its name suggests, with bamboo flooring, polished wood beams, and grounds with a well-manicured garden. When I walked in, Jeff asked me to remove my shoes, and I could feel the perfect spring of the spotless floors.

With all due respect to Jeff, and his vision of bringing a writing community to St. John's, which I completely support and think is a great idea, well, I didn't like it.

This says far more about me than it does about the wonderful space Jeff created. I have an ongoing debate with my wife about wearing shoes in our house, and the last thing I want is to have the same issue in an office space. To me it's just one more thing to have to remember to do. Like I walk in the door, all excited to see my kids, and then I get, "Jim! Take off your shoes!" and I'm completely deflated and grumpy.

And then, I don't know, I just like my work space to be a little grungy--my office space in the Periscope Studio is full of the tchotskies of comic artists. I loved it. Crap everywhere. And God, you should see the mess in the Baby Wit garage.

The Writers' Dojo was simply too clean for me. I mean, where would I put my shitty, old, spray-painted 500-pound Steelcase? And what about my pile of wadded-up notebook paper?

Anyway, I'm going back to my trash-ridden hovel. The space is great, please ignore me...

Labels: Portlandia

It's been a chaotic summer. A new baby, an endless flow of relatives, and summer break for my daughter have all contributed to a dearth of writing (not to mention blog entries).

I'm back this week, though, and I've started working on Draft #8 of my next novel. As usual I'll keep you up to date.

In honor of this new beginning, I've decided to relaunch my blog with a new theme. The whole "agentless novelist" schtick was getting old. I mean, I am proud that I was able to sell a book to a major publisher without agent, but people weren't taking it that way--instead they're saying things like this.

The second version of the Frost book, created in response to the author’s objections to the first, didn’t appeal to me, but I might not be the reader for this kind of book. Finally, the clearly frustrated author had an illustrator create a sticker to cover up the publisher’s art. I wonder how that’s working for him. The tagline of his blog says “The life and opinions of an agentless novelist.” Agentless? Maybe that’s a clue. My literary agent has extremely good judgment when it comes to things like cover art.

Ouch. I can certainly understand that opinion. And it's likely a good agent would have helped. But a more committed publisher, a less prickly editor, and just in general less of a production line publishing environment would have too.

Anyhow. The blog relaunch.

I'm going to be writing more about the Portland writing scene. Thus the new blog description. I'm also planning to let my angst fly a little more--the world just ain't right these days--and there's nothing like a blog for releasing pressure.

So expect darkness. And lots of it.

Labels: blog issues