Category: Observer

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Found In Translation

Art = Literature = Music = Performance = Who knew? = Duh

All art is the same; all art is different; otherwise, it’s worthless.

This past week, I went to New York City with Larassa Kabel. If you lovely readers have been following along, you might remember that I used to be an art dealer. Larassa was one of the amazingly talented artists whom I represented, and she and I have remained friends even without the gallery connection. I have referred to her as my John Galt; I have mentioned her many times, most recently as the artist who created the 2012 White House Christmas card. Larassa needed to go to NYC for a portfolio review of her work, and I jumped at the opportunity to go with her. Like a trip in a time machine, I was transported back into the art world which I adored then, and still adore now.

The only change is that now I am bilingual. I speak ART and LITERATURE. And, I suppose, I have rudimentary knowledge of MUSIC/PERFORMANCE ART via my oldest son whom we saw perform while we were there. Each branch of the fine arts has the same ladder to the top, but in its own language.

As my friend and I attacked Chelsea, SoHo, the Lower East Side, and Brooklyn, she drank in the flavor-du-jour from fellow artists, dealers, and art critics in an attempt to assess her options and her competition. She wants a New York gallery as badly as I want a Big-Six publisher. And much to my surprise, I got as much out of the trip in relation to my writing as she did for her drawings and paintings. It’s the exact same scene, but with subtitles.

I’ve recently completed A Reasonable Price, technically my fourth novel, although if when it gets published, it will be known as my debut novel. That’s okay with me; think about the thousands of pages that any given writer wrote before s/he became “famous.” If they didn’t write (then burn) all that early crap, their debut novels would read like Twilight. (I make no apologies for that statement.)(I don’t care how rich she is.) I am currently looking for a literary agent just like Larassa is looking for an art dealer. I have often equated the two professions, which is one reason Rejection Letters don’t bother me—well, let’s say they don’t dissuade me. I’ve been on the other side of this equation.

For example, every artist being shown in New York has beaucoup talent. That’s a given. Correspondingly, every writer being published by a traditional publisher must be extremely talented. The competition in both fields is fierce. Every gallery has a niche; every lit agency has a niche; an artist/author must find the one where she fits perfectly. But, the artist/author must have a distinct style, or else why would the dealer/agent bother with her? She must have an edge that makes her work unique.

Although I knew all of this, conceptually, before the trip, I saw it in vivid color/line/material/sound in gallery after gallery. I saw what the dealers/agents see everyday, thus the level of talent that Larassa and I are being compared to.

I’ve often made the joke that if this writing gig doesn’t pan out for me, I could move to NYC to be a lit agent; I could go back to the business of finding and selling the talent. But that’s not going to happen for a lot of reasons, most of all, because I want to be a published writer more than anything. I am determined and focused.

Perseverance is my mission statement.

One day—unless the Internet goes the way of the Betamax—I’ll look back at this post of February 9, 2013 and laugh at the memory of when Larassa and I wanted to be famous… this as she and I are hunched over our respective canvases in the private studios of our neighboring mansions that overlook the Mediterranean Sea, creating yet another masterpiece to send out to the lucky sea of humanity.

Or maybe we’ll both stay in the thriving state of Iowa with our families and friends, and pursue our respective passions, and collect our modest but gratifying paychecks. Either way would be fine with me. I’ll bet Larassa would say the same.

And now, time for me to perservere. Au revoir, mes amis.

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So You Want To Be A Writer?

So you want to be a writer? That’s cool, <ping!> you are a writer.

Yep, it’s that easy. Anyone can call him/herself a writer. Now, if you mean you want to be an AUTHOR, that’s slightly different. Selling a book today the old school, traditional publisher way is hard. Your work must be similar to the Greats (so a publisher knows which shelf to put you on), but not exactly the same as anyone (they call that plagiarism). You must have a hook, an angle, or a twist that separates you from the others. It may sound simple to type out a story and sell it, but this is one of those professions where the more you learn, the more you realize there is to learn.

writing = storytelling + language + emotion + edge

A writer must have experienced the heights and depths of every emotion possible, especially the difficult ones, in order to create characters that readers care about. Readers want to go on a fabulous, dramatic journey—for less than twenty bucks. Your job is to make it meaningful, too. So how do you prepare yourself to be a good writer? You need to experience life, especially the not-so-pretty parts.

Where to begin? Hmm… If only you’d been born ugly…
Oh well. Sit down, shut up, and I’ll tell you what you gotta do.

1) Recall everything your high school English teacher taught you, then forget it all again.
2) Read all of Ian Fleming’s books; alternately, buy every spy gadget that Sharper Image sells.
3) Start spying on people, especially when they’re whispering to others. Take copious notes; get juicy dialogue quotes.
4) Break up with your girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse for an imaginary reason and record their reaction right up to the point they call a moving van. Then tell them Never mind; it was just an experiment.
4a) Tell your kids you and your spouse are getting a divorce. In fact, go through with the divorce and record the way you mess up their entire lives. Eventually apologize.
5) Or, skip 4a and watch every John Hughes movie. Watch The Breakfast Club twice.
6) Get arrested. Stay in jail for at least 24 hours. Preferably in a small cell with a cranky psychopath.
7) Go to an animal shelter for a day. Watch the unwanted puppies be put to sleep.
8) Or, skip 7 and watch nothing but CNN coverage of the wars in the Middle East for at least two years.
9) Become schizophrenic. You must be able to think/act/talk like a thousand different people. You must be so good at this your spouse will want to divorce every one of you except The Stripper. This ain’t amateur impersonators night at Barnes & Noble, people.
10) Go on and on and on about your dreams to people who weren’t even in them. Do this until they actually care. (Note: this could take years of practice because no one really cares about another person’s dreams unless they were in them.) Once you’ve mastered the art of describing what goes on in your head to the point that people actually LISTEN (as opposed to just nodding their head until you shut up), then and only then proceed to step 11.
11) Write that sh!t down. This is what good literature is about. No one wants stories of pretty/happy/lucky/nice people. This makes readers feel BAD about their lives. Readers want to feel SUPERIOR to the characters in your stories. Why else would they waste their time reading about them? Occasionally let the handsome good guy get the girl. That gives your readers a modicum of hope (and prevents ALL your readers from committing suicide, thus ending the career you’ve ruined your life for).
12) Buy a coat of armor, ear plugs, and a blindfold. Because the better you do at all of the above, the more likely someone will say your writing isn’t even worth spreading on the bottom of a birdcage. They’ll say they need to put down shredded trash BEFORE putting your work in the cage because it’s worse than the bird poop.

And when that happens, you’ll know you’re a worthy writer—because that means your critics are jealous—or at least that you’re good enough for them to give you the time of day.

(wild applause)(deep, humble bow)(picks up roses thrown to my feet)

You are welcome, dear friends. Best of luck to you.

 

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Define “Writing”

When people ask me how many hours I write in a day or a week, I tend to stumble through my answer. My sweet husband will often jump in to say, “Sixty hours a week, at least.” I look at him askance and smile at his generosity.

But it all depends on one’s definition of “writing,” I suppose.

Write, writing, wrote… def: the activity or skill of marking coherent words on paper and composing text.

1. Adding new words to a page (and apparently they’re supposed to be coherent words)
2. Editing those words: cutting out the weak or superfluous ones (read: adverbs); exchanging the boring words for non-boring words (read: verbs).
3. Repeat steps 1 and 2 until your fingers bleed.

But there’s more. What about the planning stages? Parents and teachers used to scold children for daydreaming, but would any great book have made it into print if authors weren’t allowed to daydream? Many days I’ll curl up on my sofa with paper and pen and scribble down ideas and thoughts, but some of my best ideas come to me in the shower, or in those sweet, sweet moments of hypnagogia. (Look that one up; it’s worth remembering.)

And here’s the big one: reading. Could anyone write a decent novel if s/he had never read one? And if a person wants to write a memorable story, mustn’t s/he read a plethora of good books? (Where else would we learn the meaning of plethora?)

Blogging! There’s another necessary element to “writing” in the Twenty-first century. (Okay, I don’t think Ann Patchett has a blog, but… )

So, if I add up blogging, reading, daydreaming, editing, and writing… carry the one… From now on, my response to the question, “How many hours a week do you write?” will be: “A thousand, give or take.”

But then, I am a pseudologist, right?

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I’ve been trying to tell you!

I’ve been a writer for about five years now, before then I was an art dealer (a natural segue if ever there was one). I loved my time in the art world for many reasons, but most of all I was repeatedly amazed by the way artists see the world–very different from my life before that: a buttoned-up, straight-laced, business-oriented focus. Yeah, very different.

Since the day I closed my gallery, I have stayed in touch with–no, more than that, I’ve stayed friends with–a few of my artists. One of these has recently shot into national (worldwide?) fame. Larassa Kabel, whom I have mentioned here often (search her name on my site, if you don’t believe me), made a painting that was just chosen for the White House Christmas Card! The lovely image and her name have been plastered on websites and news stations all week. Like this one.

First, I would like to congratulate a very talented woman. I have long considered her my “John Galt,” my North Star, if you will, the one who gives me the strength to persevere if I have even one second of doubt about this creative life as a writer. She is so deserving of the honor and fame, and the invitation to a White House Christmas Party!

Second, I’d like to say, I told you so. Every time I mentioned her, I linked you to her website. Yes, the card is a painting of Bo, and on her site you’ll see her large, photorealistic and powerful drawings of horses, but do not mistake her for an animal portraitist. Keep going on her site to see the range of her talent and sense of the absurd; it is fantastic.

Congratulations Larassa!

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Get To The Bottom Of It!

This post is about reading all the books on your bedside table. It’s not a coincidence that it coincides with many publications’ Best Books of 2012 lists, of which I’ve read exactly ONE. If any of us are ever going to get to those new great books, we all need to get through our previous “Must read” books.

Life is busy; we all know that. But each of us has the same number of minutes in every day, and yet some people get so much more accomplished than others. It’s about PRIORITIES, People. Have you noticed that everyone seems to get done what’s most important to them, yet they can easily be “too busy” to accomplish what others want or expect them to do? (Yeah, I’m talking about children.) But, I digress. This is about your Books I Want To Read list.

I have had at least eight books on my bedside table for months. How is it they never disappear? I read every day! Add to those the books I have purchased that are on my bookshelves gathering dust, and the list on my Goodreads page that I want to read but haven’t purchased yet, plus the books on my iPad that are weighing that down, and don’t forget my audible.com app on my iPhone. Getting the picture? I’m overwhelmed, as I know many of you are.

I needed a plan. I came up with a plan. I am sharing my plan.

Whether or not your TBR list is as ridiculous as mine. There is a way to make a significant dent in it, if not clear it completely. Here’s what you do:

  • Be realistic. You’ve probably lost interest in some of those books, yes? They’re gone. If you haven’t purchased them yet, cross them off your list. If you have already purchased them, give them away. Regifting? No! Not if you bought them, and they’ve never been read. ‘Tis the season!
  • Divide and conquer. Undoubtedly some of them will be quick reads, some might take weeks or months to get through. Let’s focus on the easier lot. (Save the loftier ones for your next Attack of the Books.)
  • Skim or savor? Among the stack of “quick reads,” some are probably more important to you than others (favorite author; information you really need to absorb), and some might be “books you should read” or humorous books. Put the latter kind at the top. This is Pile A.
  • Now, clear your weekend. Yes, if you’re going to take this seriously, you must set aside the time as if you decided to go to the mountains for the weekend, or tackle the mountain of debris in your garage. If it happens to coincide with a snowstorm, all the better. Just commit! Turn off your phone, and for Pete’s sake, turn off the TV and the Internet. Those will always be there to suck away your precious life.
  • Divide again: Let’s say you can earnestly commit 30 actual hours to reading. Look at your books: add the number pages and divide by the hours. (2,000 pages ÷ 30 hours = 67 pages/hour) Start with the easiest book first, and knock it out; skim it if you have to. You’ll have such a sense of accomplishment that you’ll be inspired. Make notes as you go, if you like, or write a brief summary when you’re finished so that by Monday morning, the books won’t all have run together.
  • Read and repeat. Do the best you can with Pile A. With realism and perseverance, you got to the bottom of it!
  • Now Pile B. You may or may not get to this on your first weekend, but you can prioritize them the same way. Stack them according to the order in which you want to tackle them. Get started on these books if you can. Or, if your list is as ridiculous as mine, you will need to repeat this effort a few times a year.
  • Pick a Favorite. Which book is the juiciest book of all? (NO! I do not mean 50 Shades of Sh*t.) This is the one you want to read the most! This is the one you will take home this holiday season. Either you can read it (or listen to it) as you travel. Or, this is the one that will save you from too much family time. Practice this line on the way home: “I love you all so much, but I’m really beat. I’m going to read a few pages and call it a night.” Then of course, you can stay up all night if you want and read in peace!

Okay, fellow book lovers, think you could do this? This is on my calendar for the weekend of December 1st & 2nd. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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Please Step Away From Mr. Lehane

When I was young and foolish, I was young and foolish.

Embarrassing Truth #1: When I was in grade school, I was CRAZY for David Cassidy. But that was 40 years ago so you have to give me a break on that. After him came Robby Benson, Ryan O’Neal, Robert Redford, George Clooney, Bono… the list goes on and on. If you’ll forgive me here: When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a writer, I put the ways of childhood behind me. Now that I’m a grown woman (in some senses of the word), I’ve learned to value talent and intelligence over a pretty face—though there’s nothing wrong with a pretty face.

Embarrassing Truth #2: When I was 49, I was CRAZY for both Ann Patchett and Dennis Lehane. (Wait, that’s right now. Oh, well.) I’ve even gone so far as to wish (out loud) that one day I hope to be known as the literary love child of these two great writers (never mind that I’m older than both of them; as a writer, I’m still an adolescent). For those of you who don’t know this already, Lehane wrote Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone, Shutter Island, and Live By Night, among others. His stories are intense and suspenseful, if a little grisly—that’s where a dose of the lyrical Ann Patchett might come in handy.

Embarrassing Truth #3: Sometimes I scare myself. More often, I scare others. Take this summer, for example. I went to the Jackson Hole Writers’ Conference for many reasons, but somewhere near the top was the opportunity to have Lisa Bankoff (Ms. Patchett’s literary agent) review my Work In Progress (WIP). That’s not a bad thing, but strangely, when I told that to Ms. Bankoff, she looked a little… nervous.

I promise, People, I’m harmless. I’m simply a dork, kind of like a puppy who’s just been let out of her kennel.

In a few weeks, I’m going to meet Dennis Lehane. I know this because I’m paying for the opportunity. That keeps me just outside the stalker category, right? I don’t have to tell you that I got front row tickets. Dennis Lehane (Let’s call him Dennis, shall we?) is coming to the great city of Des Moines for our first annual book fair. It’s fantastic for the book fair and our city, but it’s a little scary for me. I must NOT behave like a dork in front of Dennis. (Having my husband at my side will help; he’s wise and rational and he works out a lot.) I must somehow stress how much I admire his writing without creeping him out. This is going to take some practice.

I’m thinking of trying Mental Imagery, whereby I picture myself behaving like a normal person in Dennis’s presence. Not like someone who wants private writing lessons, or his personal review and opinion of my latest WIP. Not like someone who wants to observe his writing process, or to dissect his brain during the planning stages of his next novel.
How does he do it?

Did I mention that Dennis now has a publishing imprint, and is looking for young authors?

All right, wish me luck. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes. And just in case the whole meditation thing doesn’t work, I think I’ll slip a Xanax in my pocket as a backup plan.

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The Pinball Game Called Life

I’m sure most people believe that our personalities are shaped by how we were raised when we were young children. But I have a theory about how this actually happens.

Bonus news: My essay was just picked up by More Magazine’s website at more.com! Check it out here, or simply keep scrolling:

Personality Pinball

“Step right up, little ladies and lads, and play the pinball game called Life. Test yer skills to find out who you’ll be when you’re all growed up. Will ye be a teacher, a doctor, President of the U-nited States—or an outlaw bad as Jesse James hisself?”

I have a theory about life: When a child is born, it’s like she’s been shot into a pinball game, bouncing off this comment, garnering points for that inspiring teacher, bonus points for choosing wise and loving parents, or possibly falling into the vortex of bad luck. Game over! Everything that happens to a person—particularly a vulnerable child with a blank slate—affects who she will become as an adult. Some parents smother their babies with love, others smother their babies with pillows. Most parents, though, try to guide their children delicately into caring and inquisitive adolescents. Then, Heaven help us, they start middle school and meet other teenagers. We hope by that point that their scoreboard shows they’re off to a solid start in the pinball game of Life.

This theory helps explain why we remember only certain days or moments from our past. No one remembers the days before they could talk because they didn’t have words to assign to the memories. But once we have language, why don’t we remember everything we’ve ever experienced? The mundane stuff fades away, and what we’re left with is the highs and lows, the Bonus Point days, to carry on the analogy, or the Tilt days, if you will. The brain can hold only so much, so these memories become the factors that shape who we are and how well we respond to what life throws our way.

One stellar example is the biracial child from a shotgun marriage who grew up to be the most powerful man in the world. What did he hear, what did he experience, what is the one comment that someone made at the very moment he was most open to hearing it that propelled him into the White House?

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

I have four sons who are all wonderful human beings. But my sons, born less than six years apart, could not be more different as adults. What exactly did each of them hear, see and experience that turned them into the individuals they are today? How is it possible that they’re so different from each other? It’s possible because every child gets his or her own New Game.

My theory can also be used to understand strange or unique behaviors in others. The shy coworker? The angry neighbor? It’s easy to dismiss people as odd or rude, but often when you get to know a person, if they open up about their life or childhood it can help explain why they behave the way they do. Were they ridiculed by their parents, given too much or too little attention? Their pinball game shaped them the way yours shaped you. It has even become a cliché: psychiatrists often begin their analysis of a new patient with questions about her childhood.

And this leads us to the fact that Personality Pinball can be applied in retrospect. Our parents are our primary role models in life. And who did they emulate? Their parents, of course, with knowledge and experiences from two generations ago. No wonder all parents seem so backward to their children! It’s not until a woman becomes a mother herself that she realizes how difficult it is to be a parent—as well as how much our mothers love us. A new mom’s romantic ideals of “how to be the perfect parent” often dissolve to dust the first time their two-year old dissolves into tears in the check-out line at Target. That’s when, I believe, our earliest teachings surface, and the game begins again. The beauty is, though, it doesn’t have to. The moment a person realizes she isn’t a puppet but the puppet master, is a gift. When we are able to isolate specific values and behaviors from our childhood, we can add or remove those features from our children’s pinball machines. If our own parents yelled or hit us, if they were too strict or too lenient, we can consciously choose to eliminate those options from our family’s arcade.

Parents cannot nor should they strive to control every moment of their children’s lives. It might be nice, though, if young parents were taught how the pinball game called Life really works. And with any luck, if we learn to forgive our parents for embarrassing us throughout high school, maybe one day our children will forgive us.

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Like the Terminator, or the Exorcist

Forgive me, Followers; it’s been seven weeks since my last post. The last time we spoke, I was on my way to a writers’ conference in Jackson Hole.

So was it fantastic or horrible? Why did the trip silence you, Karolyn?

Ah, it was fantastic. The faculty, the guest writers, agents and editors, plus the other wanna-publish writers, everyone was friendly, helpful and extremely talented. I filled an entire legal pad with notes and quotes and ideas and more books to read. I got feedback on my work in progress (WIP) from four different people: three writers and an agent. Each weighed in with sage advice, some of it conflicting, but some comments were repeated by all. More than 100 writers attended the conference, and I made a few friends. I saw the dedication in their eyes that I see each morning in my bathroom mirror. From age 15 to 75, writers from across the country came to listen to the likes of Michael Perry, Anita Diamant, Dennis Palumbo, Lisa Bankoff, Robert Guinsler, Sarah Bowlin, Denise Scarfi, Katherine Sands, and many more.

In other words, it was intimidating.

The thing about being wanting to get published is this: nobody cares if you do. Seriously, nobody. Unless, I suppose, you have a family to support whom you’ve convinced that the only way you’ll ever be published is if you quit all other money making ventures to focus on your manuscript. They might care. But no one else will. Not agents, not publishers, not your friends. You know why? Because there are thousands upon thousands of other writers who will give them finished manuscripts.

But here’s the thing. The definition of a publishable novel varies as drastically as the definition of a good president. A newbie writer just has to find one person who thinks his/her book meets that definition. If that person’s not an agent or publisher, then the writer just puts it out as an ebook! Some writers have the confidence (or… stupi  naiveté) to put any work out into our glorious literary world with their name on it for eternity. Either I lack confidence, or I’m playing it smart. One day you will be able to judge.

So how does this explain my silence, and what does it mean for our future here?

Okay, I might have had a momentary (read: weeklong) lapse wherein I stopped writing, but then, like the storm that follows the calm, I woke one day with a screaming vengeance. I will not give up! (Winston Churchill taught me that.) But, I also learned that small publication credits will immeasurably boost my chances of having an agent take a second look at my query letter once it lands on his or her desk.

In other words, I’ve been cheating on my novel with a couple of non-fiction essays.

There, I said it.

I’ve also just returned from a weeklong plane/bus/automobile trip covering the northeast part of our beautiful country. Oh, the things we do for family.

But now, I’M BACK… and curious….

How do you recover from that overwhelming feeling of “Do I have what it takes to do this?” Whom do you call? What do you tell yourself? What is your motivation to follow your passion or simply fulfill your obligations? I look forward to reading your comments.

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Act Your Age!

How old are you? How old do you feel?

Your answers to those two questions might vary wildly, and that is something that fascinates me… to the point that I ask a lot people these two questions. Sometimes I get the sardonic, “I must be close to 90 based on my aches and pains,” (this by a forty-something with a bad knee). Usually people “feel” younger than they are, but the answers range from 17 – 70. This got me thinking: What factors into a person’s “mental age,” or “emotional age,” as compared to their physical age?

In a recent article in More magazine, the fabulous Anna Quindlen said, “Old is wherever haven’t gotten yet.” I agree with this. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve related a story to my husband (who is 12.5 years older than I am) about an old man, or an old woman. Inevitably, he’ll ask, “How old was the ‘old’ man?” and I’ll have to stammer my way through, “Uh, he’s about… your age.” As a writer, I should know better, but as a writer, I get to go back over my gaffs and edit out the lines that would bury me.

But most people I know don’t act their age. You know, an old soul, or someone who’s young at heart. So what gives?

On the recommendation of a friend, I listened to Rob Lowe’s Stories I Only Tell My Friends via audible.com. (I LOVE audible; I get to “read” books and workout at the same time.) His story is fun and fascinating, but the line that jumped out at me was, “There’s a school of thought that believes your emotional maturity is frozen at the exact age you become famous.” I grabbed onto that line because until then, I thought it was the other way around. (Mr. Lowe blames a lot on the fact that he became famous as a teenager.)

For example, I am 49, but I “feel” 35. My husband is 61, but I swear he doesn’t act a day over 17. What’s interesting is that we both had major life changes in those years. I think (or used to think; now I’m not sure) that our “fates” had a predetermined emotional age for each of us, and when we each hit our predetermined age, well, as the saying goes, the shit hit the fan.

Changes happen.

Adding to this conundrum, I have a son who’s 23, but he feels 40. He relates better to older people, he acts much older than he is, he even dresses more like Don Draper than his contemporaries. So what will happen to him when he hits his emotional age? Anything? Nothing? Should he fear it or look forward to it? Looking back under this theory, I think I always felt 35. Through high school and college, I never really fit in with my classmates. I dressed like a “mom” even when I was 20. I hated the bar scene! Of course, I had no way of knowing that it wasn’t until I was 35 that I would have the “strength” to make the changes my life desperately needed (yeah, we’re talking divorce). But which came first? The age or the event?

I have a saying: If timing is everything, and everything is relative, then timing is relative.
(Ok, not sure what that has to do with anything, but I thought I’d throw it in.) (The same goes for age, I suppose.)

So what about you? How old are you? How old do you feel? Did anything major happen in your life at your “emotional age”? Or do you anticipate anything happen when you reach it? Would you try to control it if you could? Which do you think comes first?

I love your comments, so please chime in!

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What’s The Opposite of Prescient?

I was at lunch recently with my dear friend Larassa Kabel, aka. my personal John Galt, and she asked my if I ever felt prescient. Didn’t see that question coming! Alas, I rarely see anything coming. In fact, today I had another shining example of “I’m always the last to know!”

Writers often hear the advice: Write the novel you want to read. That’s what I’m doing with A Reasonable Price, my current work in progress. I read a lot, but few books, even the great ones, really speak to me. I love a plot-driven, emotional roller coaster of a book with characters you love to hate, e.g. The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith. So I started poking around the internet in regards to antiheroes. Would you look at this list! This looks like the Mother List from where I’ve picked all my favorite books and movies (and a few I hated for the same reason (see American Psycho)). Who knew? I’m a sucker for an antihero. And indeed, I’ve got a terribly good one in A Reasonable Price.

I had a similar bonk on the head about a year ago when I was talking with New York Lit agent Jenny Bent about my last novel, and the same thing happened. She told me I write noir fiction. How did I not know that before she did?

In the art world, there is a category called Outsider Art. The term actually grew from the name art brut coined by French artist Jean Dubuffet to describe, among other things, art produced by insane asylum inmates, but I’m not going to touch that connection here. It does make me wonder though, if there’s an official category for Outsider Literature. (Wikipedia says no, but that I can ask for it to be created. Hmmm.) In essence, outsider art, and by extension, outsider literature is that which is created by untrained “artists.”

Yep, that’s me! And countless other authors who do not have Lit degrees or MFAs; I’m certainly not alone here.

All of this makes me wish, however, that I were Benjamin Button, living my life in reverse so that I could finally be prescient.