FULL BLEED: INFORMED AUTOSUGGESTION

Took a break from the usual routine this last weekend. Not that the routine is backbreaking or particularly physically taxing. Maybe mentally. Yeah, it's that at times. Even with as easy as things seem to sometimes be on the surface. Packed my car with some books and drove down to Santa Clara for Bay-Con, which is a show I've gone to for a longer time than I'd care to remember at this point. Not that it's a bad show, just that it makes me old. Well, older.

This year, I was to give a presentation on Noir: Mode and Means in Genre (Film) though it got billed as being set primarily in fiction. That's on me. I ended up changing the talk around and not really informing the organizers about it. But then that's not the worst (semi-) deliberate mislead I've ever put down for work. Once I told a publisher that sure, this novel I'm writing for them is totally a sequel to a story I did, just ties right in. That was a lie. I just wrote what I wanted and by the time things happened, it was what it was. No regrets. That said, I did figure a way to tie the story into the novel, but it's one of those abstract dances, one of those performances of yours, as Laurie Anderson would've said.

I also had a signing booked over at the Word Horde Emporium in Petaluma. Because it was kind of in the neighborhood of the Bay Area. Reader, it is not actually in the area. It's not quite as far as going there from home, but it's not all that much shorter. Still, I get to stretch out the Challenger this way, which I don't get to do as often as I like. So I drove that big blue muscle car (stick shift, even, so I'm a lot less likely to kill myself with it) down a couple freeways ending in _80, over rolling hills still sheathed in tall grass gone pale gold and gnarled oaks that have been standing since before the Spaniards made their way up here and said "Well now what? No gold to be found."

Santa Clara itself is weird. It's, at least in the chunk of it I stayed, between the 101 and the 237, is one of those places that's designed for the frictionless generation and processing of capital. Lots of big industrial parks, a new stadium, a not-so-new amusement park all girdled by wide boulevards made for anyone but pedestrians, made for commuters and minivans and door-dashers. Reminds me of the industrial parks of south Orange County of my youth, big concrete boxes that aren't the kind of place that welcomes foot traffic. You gotta know what you want and where to find it if you're going there.

And it's expensive. Almost forty bucks after tip for a bowl of good ramen and a side of karage and a canned drink. But nobody in the busy place was complaining about the prices, or if so they kept it to themselves as they swiped their plastic in front of the ergonomically-designed readers. Good ramen, though. Just... Tres cher. It's a place made for folks who have triple digit jobs coding or wrangling data or marketing stuff to those people and their bosses. Well, if it's not made for them, it's certainly priced for them. Maybe that's everything. Yeah, it kinda is.

Signed in, picked up a badge that I actually didn't have to pay for (which is something that's new and kinda nice.) Caught a panel on collaboration in art/writing. Also caught wind of folks writing books with the aid of tarot spreads. That was something that I could parse all the words of and still couldn't make make sense. That's me. Sure, PKD wrote The Man in the High Castle with the I Ching as a plotting tool, but that's also baked into the book. I had a lot of thoughts about the process and I'll get back to a chance encounter that kinda changed my mind on things. But put a pin in all that.

Dinner in Sunnyvale of sushi, including a roll that was bundled up in a neatly-foil pouch like a zero-budget Roger Corman spaceship maybe, then lit with maybe alcohol, some other clear slightly tacky fluid and baked in the pouch briefly. Dinner and a show. Was also served another roll which they advertised as the hottest thing on the menu. And it was fine. Not really that hot (hint: the heavy lifting was on the shoulders of raw jalapeño which was... okay but not needed. Probably would've been improved if it had been mildly roasted, just enough to soften it some and release flavor more than heat. But this isn't a culinary review, just me on my own so I could get sushi more than I can at home (not everyone in the family is a fan.)

Drove back to the room, considered an old fashioned at the bar, but wasn't in the mood to pay what would be a third or half of the cost of a handle of bourbon from Costco would've been. Instead I went through old notes and picked at a thing and ended up with the bones of a short story. Kind of a nice feeling. It doesn't always come together like that. If I could figure out why/how it did, I'd work on replicating it. But humans are extremely nonlinear systems, sometimes a little input gets huge output and sometimes huge input labor ends up with a couple of useless lines scratched into the paper. Maybe it was the soundtrack. Heavy on the postpunk/goth/industrial. That happens.

Slept. Woke at 4:30. Would have gone to work out (I am not even moderately in beach shape but I don't want to kill myself climbing stairs when I'm seventy) only I forgot the one thing you need to work out when you're in public. Yeah. Pants. Kind of a big deal. Instead I read some more of Simon Reynolds' Retromania. Of which I have a lot of thoughts, some of those mutated by a recent piece dropping into place from internet pal/correspondent Andrew Hickey (who runs that 500 Songs podcast you might've heard about.) Something along the lines of satire not being meant to save the world or upend the current set of injustices in the social order, but it simply being a signal that yes, you are not alone. Other people see how insane things are and we can at least make fun of them even though it's like yelling at calving glaciers to stop. You can see one another like this. That really hit. And of course, it's not just satire, but everything, right? So, yes, wrestling with Retromania. Drove to early breakfast, scratched out some more notes of dubious utility.

Then off to my signing in Petaluma. Which took me through San Francisco. And, having some extra time, I reached out to a friend to see if he was around for coffee or something. He was, but after an hour or so. So I was left to my own devices taking pictures of stuff that caught my eye, everything from agitprop xerox art to repurposed public phones to the ghosts of old neon signs to walls riddled with just enough texture to make them interesting as a grunge layer in Photoshop. I've been teased for my ability to take pictures of interesting rust. I am a perfectly normal human being. Very. Very. Normal. Walked the chunk of Mission past Cesar Chavez until it got to Bernal Heights and turned around, back through the more familiar to me end of the Mission. Lots of beautiful public art and murals and in short the whole place felt alive and defiant and vibrant in a way that's really invigorating and maybe even inspiring. No, it's not perfect. I've seen perfect cities. They're dull and made to separate you from your wallet for the privilege of the perfection you get to walk through. The Mission is a place, goddammit.

Met up with my friend. He introduced me to the musician behind the counter of the coffee stand as another musician and that felt really weird. I wanted to say lapsed but didn't really say much of anything. That's a dead part of the past. Sure, there's a Bandcamp page where it's still alive, but I wasn't much of a musician even then when I was practicing. I'm maybe less now. Though there's moments where I think about restarting. But who needs another white dudes with a handful of electronics and a tube amp making something that's only barely music? Does that need to be seen? Does anything need to happen? Still, coming from said friend, that title meant something. He was the only one to review the only solo album I did (most of them had been done with my fellow accomplice in The Roswell Incident) and had some nice and perceptive things to say about it. Is that something that I can touch again or is it good and dead? Neruoplasticity ain't what it used to be.

We walked and talked, munched on corn/cherry scones and sipped black coffee daintily enough that I didn't splash my face with the open top. We're both getting older. Everyone's getting older, but that indeed beats the alternative. So I get to talk about my grown children and their lives and he talked about potential retirement. Me? I don't think I get to retire. Or perhaps I already am. Not that I've had a regular job in a dog's age or more. Still get by. Exceedingly fortunate in that regard, and not so in a few others.

We parted and I got routed on a bizarre trek from the Mission through Diamond Heights (beautiful views coupled with overburdened roads) and finally on the 101 to Petaluma. Ran a playlist that I hadn't listened to in forever, a big one just stuffed with songs unthemed other than they were favorites and it was a really great feeling. Windows down in the cool and overcast ocean made air atmosphere of SF, the Prisoners blasting or is it ELO now, maybe some Guadalcanal Diary, Phil Dadson, Velvets, Stooges. Or Spacemen 3 who combined a couple of those.

Petaluma awaits. Passed a sign advertising Rain Dogs Records, even though Mr. Waits no longer lives in Petaluma proper and hasn't for some time apparently. Sometime I'm gonna track down the SRL compound, too. Maybe they'd let me in to take pictures. Or maybe they'd feed me to a giant articulated steel death machine piloted by a frantic kangaroo rat. I'd certainly have it coming. I know what I did.

Lunch of carne asada and pineapple/mango agua fresca. Put on game face. Get books out. And wait for the crowds to roll in. After all I made such a nice little poster for it.

Anyways, the first hour was dead as dead gets. It happens. Got two actual sales, one on the basis of "LA in the 80s" sold and the other on "the monsters in this book aren't what they seem" and sold. Sold a few shelf copies to the store as well, but pretty pretty pretty quiet. Sold more by number than the last time I was here, but not by much. Ross and I chalked it up to the 4th being on Friday and lots of people headed out of town. That or everyone's holding their breath waiting for the next terrible thing to happen and that's a real consideration. Walked out with a few bills and a copy of the new Mariana Enriquez story collection. I've had worse signings, really.

Piled back in the Challenger and just rolled tunes as I drove through the hills to the east bay and somehow ending up on the 237 again. I didn't think too hard about it. Geography was never my strong suit.

Concluded the sale of the bulk of my comics collection. Used the proceeds to buy a bunch of hardback collections of stuff I love even though it's on glossy paper and not colored right. And a check. Which will get plowed into the charges I incur by writing for not a living but writing as a means of living, maybe. Writing for a living? Now? I have a very very hard time imagining it. But I'll get to more of that later.

Met up with two longtime friends who I get to see maybe once a year or so if the stars are right. Wide-ranging talk over dinner about everything from how Smart Times Make Stupid People and that cycle continues, to random nuclear accidents to how Stephen King wrote a whole literature of The US Is Very Angry And Can't Manage It to how not even theatrical limited release would put a dent in the streaming economy. Maybe we'll all get to hang next year. Special shout out to the restaurant's seasonal mystery cider, this time an agave and ginger cider which was light and dry and crisp perfection.

Back in the car, feeling the weight of the day, finally. Back to the room. No work, just right to bed. Tomorrow (which is yesterday now) was gonna be a long day.

Up. Shower. Lace up boots and make note to steam clean the insides or something. Try to find something open at this hour that isn't Denny's. Nothing wrong with Denny's, just not what I was in the mood for at the moment. Put the right search string into the Mother Box finally (ping!) and found a place. Found myself in wonder of the phenomena local to this part of Silicon Valley, that being the notion of an Expressway. Neither freeway nor a surface street, but wiggling between the two. I live in the hinterlands where everything is overburdened or abandoned, nothing between. So this was a novelty. Found the place, ordered a fried chicken eggs Benedict, because why wouldn't you? Pretty tasty, though I knew that the hash browns were going to reassert dominance later or at least try to.

Back to the show. Now keep in mind, that presentation I'm giving? That I've never done before? It's at eight tonight. Right now it's maybe nine in the morning. I've got plenty of time to overthink things. In an effort not to, went and sat in the audience of a panel about alternate histories and timelines and notice there's a guy up at the table who's got a hand-written placard in front of him, decidedly casual. I look closer and it says LARRY NIVEN, which was not what I was expecting. But when you're Larry Niven, you can crash panels. Spent most of the time thinking about how the questions for the panelists applied to my own work since there's a kernel of that sort of thing in the Hazeland books, though it's been on the down-low in the first three. But it's definitely there. This will send some of you back to re-reading them and maybe you'll figure it out before I do.

Walked the marketplace floor. Kinda bummed that the guy who's usually there selling old SFF paperbacks was simply not to be found. Couple years ago, I scored the whole run of those DAW Elric books. At least I think it was DAW. Michael Whelan covers. Ate 'em up and flipped them for credit not too long ago. Gosh what fun. Picked up a couple books from Graveside Press. Hope I can even read 'em sometime soon. (I'm an unfortunately slow reader.) Ditto some from Tachyon. Talked with an editor who was very pleased that one of her clients had gotten on the NYT bestseller list and then went on to talk how she was already a big figure in a activity group before she wrote and had lots of fans of her writing and how they could all be trained to buy the book on the same day, and how her publisher actually backed the book with a ton of ads, thus triggering the magic of the Amazon algorithm and all the time I was just thinking to myself "Not only is this not me, but this is a physical impossibility for me" and nodded my head a lot. This feels more like gacha than publishing.

I'm sanguine on the whole thing. All of it. I still like the writing. Once I understood better what it actually was. That it's communication, that there's no jobs in it anymore (and if you're still doing that for your job; I know some folks who are, my hat is off to you and I hope it keeps working.) It will not work for me. Has not. Won't. I try not to beat myself up about it. I try to just keep going. It's easier if I don't think about how little I sell or what manner of contortions publishers will go through to scrape the serial numbers off Harry Potter fanfic and offer it as something new and worth publishing instead of something you'd kill a couple hours with on AO3. If fanfic is your thing, revel in your time. It is not mine. Hell, I can't get excited when a publishing house gets the rights to CL Moore's books and starts publishing new stories without her voice. It is without point. There can't be than many fans of the character. But more power to the writers getting work because of it. Hell, if paid enough, I probably wouldn't say no, either.

Stopped in front of the banner announcing that World Fantasy was happening in Oakland in 2026. I thought to myself "Oakland is pretty close, as these things go," so I signed up to go. I hope it turns out better than my last trip to WFC in 2019, which ended with... I'm not sure what to call it. Anxiety attack oversells things. Just malaise gone rancid, a feeling that no, there was absolutely no way that I belonged in this company. It's not imposter syndrome. I know I can write. It's that these people are all denizens of a publishing world that's been enduring an ongoing Chicxulub over the last decade or so (I was going to say "Chicxulubed" but, well, yeah, that's not gonna get past the censors, is it?) They were not ghosts, but dinosaurs who hadn't yet been overcome by the sulphuric acid and smoke from the fires.

So we'll see. But acknowledging that folks are living in a world that simply is not any longer is a hard thing to do. Or maybe it's me that's the ghost of the now, a shape that doesn't fit into any of the categories that people are still holding up as How Things Are. Potato, tomato.

Caught the tail end of a panel about spirituality/afterlife in a couple of non-Western faiths. Always interesting to see how much these things are absolutely and totally integrated into the societies which host them. These things aren't always so portable. Anyways, played some of that against what's going on in my own work. Always a useful exercise.

Ducked out for dinner. Sushi again. Because I could. Really exemplary this time, too. Just perfectly balanced. Drove back and bounced stuff around my head about the upcoming talk and how the hell was I going to explain to people what "intergenre" meant? Or maybe it's like "cyberspace" and something that suggests semiotic potency but is really an empty phrase. Don't worry, I didn't drag semiotics into it.

That'll be for next year.

While I was testing out the AV rig for the show and making sure I'd brought the right cable, the woman presenting next door found she was locked out and she needed some space to pull her notes together and asked if she could use the other end of the table. I'm strange and awkward, but not impolite, so yeah. Go ahead and work.

We chatted a bit. She was an actress, including a bunch of DTV films as far back as the eighties which was an interesting and very specific point. Talked about how Tubi is the best streaming video service. She was presenting on tarot and writing. Told you I'd get back to that, right? I tried to put it as delicately as possible that it was an idea I had a very hard time wrapping my head around, as a writer. And she was matter of factly, "Well, you just don't need it, do you?" To which I agreed. I then said something along the lines of "Writing is the only magic I practice" which sounds insufferable as I type it out, but I absolutely believe it. And like most things that are magical, we've managed to decouple the magic through ubiquity or commonness of this very thing. "It's the oldest magic," she said, or words to that effect. Which clicked for me.

So my earlier and let's face it, scorn driven by ignorance, of the practice was something that was wrong. It's always about touching the divine and bringing its echo back. Which is a big thing to wrap your arms around, particularly when you let ego and finance and the market and the whole social presentation of This Is What Writers Are Now. All that stuff really gets in the way. Especially if you use it as an excuse to leave it in the way. So something to think about, maybe even think seriously (but not too seriously) about.

Finally, the hour was nigh. It was time for me to fly solo up at the front of the room and deliver this talk, which if we're honest was more a lecture. Which is idiotic because the idea of me lecturing anyone on anything is enough to make me start unhinged hyaena laughing like one of those characters from The Lion King.

Aside. There was a time that I was a teacher. It was back in college, where I ran the discussion groups of various sociology classes, classes I'd already taken from one particular professor, a huge and wrenching influence on me at the time and to this day (even if has read my fiction and can't track with it, a disappointment but one I've learned to live with.) So there'd be the lecture and then shortly after, the discussion group where me and another discussion leader would try to help folks understand the stuff that the professor had just baked their noodles with. I can't say that I was the greatest at it. I like to think that I did help folks into a better understanding of the material and the concepts being played with. That was a long, long time ago.

My primary aim with this talk, this wandering into Intergenre Noir, was to open up brains a little bit. To crack some of those categories open some. To look at things not simply as periods but as traditions. How this art that was new and novel ninety-five years ago still echoes out to today, even across genre categories. I wasn't trying to rigidify but to liberate, or at least consider that there was something on the other side of that wall. And I was doing it for seven total strangers.

It seemed to go pretty well. Though there was one weird moment in the q/a part of the talk, after the little bit of conceptual judo that I threw and seemed to work just fine, where one gentleman was scratching down notes and he asked "Okay, what were your definitions of pastiche and parody again?" and I was right back there in 1989 with an undergrad looking for a lifeline to understand whatever turn in ethnomethodology had been uncovered in the lecture that day. Suddenly I was an authority. Someone to copy down the words of.

And that, folks, is weird. I could get bogged down in the weeds about authors and authority and all that. Let's just know it's a peninsula to explore that we're overlooking right now.

Anyways, folks seemed to like it and maybe even got it. Got applause at the applause line. Got a request to do it again next year, to which I said "Go tell the organizers." But it sure would be a shame to let this giant slideshow lay fallow after all that work, huh?

Mission accomplished, piled stuff back into the car. Woke up the V8 and pointed up the 680 and mostly auto-piloted my way home. Only getting real tired in the last fifteen minutes or so. Not as young as I used to be. None of us are.