Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

Late last night, the Hedgebeast called me. She'd just bought a book at Dark Delicacies that was on their "Top 10" list and got 50 pages in, but could not go on.

"This is...shit!" she said. "It's so bad, it's depressing. I can't believe someone published this! Do you know this guy?"

Hedgebeast is a professional writer and entertainment journalist. She's patient beyond comprehension with the pecadillos of films, but mostly horror films, which she loves. She's also a published fiction writer and she has a deal to direct a knock-em-dead, low-budget script she wrote that's "Jumanji meets The Evil Dead." Truly good stuff.

The book and author she named didn't surprise me. I can't fathom why anyone takes him seriously. One of the blurbs on the book heralded him as "the next Stephen King." According to the Hedgebeast, "King would be embarrassed!"

Welcome to my world, where there is an unbearable amount of excrement being published.

I do have some hope, though. Sarah Langan's first book is coming out in October from HarperCollins. It's called The Keeper. We got an advanced copy in our World Horror goodie bags. I've just started reading it and -- wow! -- it's very good. My pal Jon Evans, a good friend of Sarah's, tells me it took Sarah a loooong time to find a publisher, and that it came in a roundabout way. Regardless, thank the gods that someone seems to have picked up the ball where so many other publishers have dropped it.

I hope to finish it before I leave for Middlebury at the end of June. I'll give a review then.

So, it's done.

I delivered the cats to Grandma and Grandpa. They hid under the bed in the guest bedroom a great deal, only coming out to romp on me and the Frenchman when we locked ourselves in the room with them. Ophelia poked her head out from under the pink bedskirt for Grandma, but that was all. Yesterday, she and Cairo figured out how to open the closet and get inside. (I didn't think they'd smuggled the ACME opposable thumbs, dammit.)

A couple of things worry me. I forgot to bring Los Angeles water for them to drink to transition them to the water where they are at. It tastes very different and I worry that the kitties won't drink it. They didn't seem to eat or drink much while we were there two days and two nights, but I suppose that's to be expected. The other thing that worries me is that the separation might be harder on them than I thought. The Frenchman spent a lot of time with the cats while I talked with my family, and he said that Ophelia cried at the bedroom door to get out whenever she heard my voice in another part of the house. Poor baby!

I feel pretty terrible.

On Saturday, we went to Santa Cruz where my dear friend Feral was being initiated as a Priestess in the Craft. The ritual was very moving -- even the Frenchman got a bit leaky in the eyes. She is a fantastic witch already; she hardly needed anyone to say, "Hey, you're a witch and stuff now." What's important, though, is that she chose to make a public statement about her path. I was incredibly proud of her. Afterwards, we feasted and then read poetry. I sang "Don't Cry Baby Mithras 'Cos Jesus Stole Your Birthday," and it was a hit. We stayed with Feral and her husband until yesterday afternoon, then headed back here.

Today, I was so stressed out about the kitties that I got the worst stomach ache ever. The Frenchman took care of me until I felt better. We then went swimming and that helped me relax somewhat. It was my first swim with my new eyes! I can't tell you how awesome it was to be able to see as we played.

But then I had to come home to my now kitty-less apartment. The Frenchman keeps reminding me that this will be over before I know it, that the separation is only temporary and that the kitties have very strong personalities. I just feel horrible putting them through any stress at all, even if it's for the opportunity of a lifetime. It doesn't seem fair. I'll feel better when Grandma lets me know they're eating and drinking okay.

Sugar Free Vanilla Wafers might actually be sugar free, but they have a gargantuzillian number of calories.

Which is approximately how many calories I consumed this weekend as we entertained the very nice people who are babysitting my car for a year. We had juicy steaks and a superb bottle of Blackstone merlot followed by Canadian maple whisky. I then turned into a cat for nine hours.

NINE HOURS.

STRAIGHT.

Despite many hours of lounging, I managed to work on "The Last Word." I also wrote a very funny little article that I submitted to the Washington Post about growing up in my crazy, ricochet-zing-zing-zing! religious upbringing that introduced me to All Thinges Judeo-Christian and then some. It's for their series on faith. Although I was only able to write a little about my own faith towards the end, Miss I-Can't-Write-Nuthin'-Under-4500 still managed to hit the 400-word limit.

As part of the Saturday evening entertainment, we went to the MOCA and saw the grand opening of the Rauschenberg exhibit. Viewing a Rauschenberg "combine" is like listening to a schizophrenic mumble and realizing the crazy guy is actually saying something sensible and sinister.

Which explains the nutty dreams I had Saturday night. Either that, or I'm more than a little nervous that this new agent will like the book. She sent me an email telling me she was reading it this weekend. I have a zingy sort of surprise transit tomorrow. It's related to either publishing, legal issues, or Middlebury. I'm hoping for publishing...

Now that the World Horror Convention is a bit behind me, I've had a chance to reflect on the trip. In some senses, it feels like a tremendous failure. I did not schmooze with the Super Writers* (such as Peter Straub, Paul Wilson and Kim Newman), not even the ones I've gotten drunk with before. I did not discuss any potential publishing deals, except perhaps a cool project semi-brewing with John Everson that would involve myself and three of my favorite female horror writers. But I did not pitch to publishers. I did not throw in with editors and agents. I gave John Pelan a kiss on the cheek, but I did not lunch, brunch or otherwise intoxicate myself with him.

It felt as though there was a thick layer of activity above me at all times, and that my far better networked friends occasionally stuck their heads down from the clouds to blow into my parasail. I loved seeing my friends, too many here to count. I introduced The Frenchman to them. They treated him far more like a family would than my "real" family did. They looked him over with a critical eye, they asked questions, they got to know him. Mostly they just enjoyed him. I would expect their more guarded reception, given he's taking me away from them for more than a year.

I couldn't really pinpoint where the detached feelings were coming from, or why I felt lesser of a writer, which in many instances simply isn't the case. I was part of a terrific panel put on by the Persephone Writers, where we each took four minutes to discuss an important contemporary or historical female horror writer. The panel was a hit. The next day, I gave a reading that was well attended and well received.

And then Koji Suzuki read my pants.

I have this pair of karate-style black pants with kanji scrawled down one leg. In an incredibly lame moment of not-thinking, instead of having the famous author of The Ring to sign my copy of "Birthday," I asked his interpreter to read my pants leg. He squinted at my leg, his bottom jaw clenched. Sounds ground under his tongue as he conferred with Koji until they announced that it might say "Ichiban Number 1," but they weren't sure because the kanji was so messy.

Thank god it didn't say, "Dopey white girl who buys cheap crap in strip malls from Korean couples in West Hollywood," which is how I felt later.

Throughout the convention, I had this faint sense that my life was about to veer ever so slightly left -- enough so that, whether or not I was friends with the Super Writers or if I'd spent three days drinking with all the right editors, it wouldn't matter a jot. That those memories would pleasantly pepper my memory of the convention, but that the events made no difference whatsoever as to what was about to happen to me...

And that's more than a little scary.

What cusp am I on? What transition am I about to make? Where am I going in the next few months that will transport me to a life tangential to everything I know? I have major changes afoot, surely. I'll quit my job. I'll move first to Vermont, where I'll learn a new-ish language, then move clear across the Atlantic to Aix en Provence. This I know. But I didn't feel that this was the turn I was taking, as wildly sweeping as the changes will be. The turn would come from another quarter. My intuition can't shake this loose.

I guess that's the annoying thing about intuition: I'll just have to see.




*Notice I speak of them as Paul speaks of the Super Apostles -- James, Peter and John -- in his New Testament epistles. As if anyone or their writing were that close to the divine.

I feel terribly remiss for not posting something comprehensive about World Horror here, but I will soon. Promise!

Yesterday at lunchtime just before a 12:30pm meeting, I went to the Iliad Bookshop to see Zola the one-eyed pirate kitty, who they'd recently adopted. Christa Faust rescued her and I helped with vet bills, so I feel a bit like an Auntie. Poor Zola had been severely neglected and Faust managed to get the crazy lady who had her to give her up. I was so happy to see Zola so happy that I nearly started to cry in the store. It's so good to see a rescued animal having a good life.

Last night, as the the Frenchman's last birthday present, we saw a beautiful stage production of The Tempest. (It seems that all of their productions have gorgeous costumes and color schemes.) My only problem with it, other than the actors rushing the lines sometimes, was that they cut out Prospero's speech at the end. I love that speech, where he asks the audience to forgive him so that he can go back to Milan. I want to kick the director in the shins. But the Frenchman was happy, and that's what matters with birthday presents.

I'm particularly excited because I got a personal invitation last night from Carolyn See to a signing and talk she's giving in June being sponsored by Random House. She's been such a help to me lately with navigating the agent stuff. Her new novel, There Will Never Be Another You, is about a woman surviving a nuclear blast in Topanga Canyon. It got a rave review from the Los Angeles times. They say that those who can't do, teach. Well, although she teaches at UCLA, I'm here to say that Carolyn is the direct contradiction to that: she teaches because she can and does so very well. It looks like I need to check out this book!

And not necessarily in that order.

Last Wednesday, I went to the French Consolate for my interview with the Head of Long Stay Visas. She was a friendly woman who rifled through huge amounts of paperwork, took money from me, made an extra copy of my passport, and eventually informed me that I'd be receiving my long stay visa in about a month. Hurrah! I'll be good to go to France very soon.

I then hurried off to the World Horror Convention in San Francisco. I spent most of it just enjoying my friends who I wouldn't be seeing next year, as we won't be back from France until after WHC2007 in Toronto has occurred. I'm going to miss my horror family tremendously. I also felt more relaxed than at other conventions, I think because I just had a great connection with a new agent who loves my Top Secret Humorous Nonfiction Project. She's now reading my novel, as well. It's been tough finding an agent, but not as tough as dealing with publishers. Things look very positive with this lady, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. It could be a very good match in every way. While I was in San Francisco, I had decided to reject another agent's offer, as she only wanted to represent my nonfiction. That would be problematic, as an agent represents everything a writer writes, which would mean I'd only be able to write nonfiction. It doesn't make a lump of sense, I know, but that's the way the business works. So, I opted to keep looking.

But yeah...World Horror was fun in lots of ways. I was on a panel of Persephone Writers where we each spoke for 3-4 minutes on a female horror writer who influenced the genre. Some went back as far as 250 years. I spoke on Edith Wharton, as she wrote dozens of very creepy ghost stories. The panel was a huge success. Attendees told me that they wished the panel was two hours long instead of one hour. I was complimented on my eloquence in speaking about dear Edith, which was a great compliment, indeed. I was very touched. My own reading went well. A couple of people who have enjoyed my stories told me that they like them because there's so much emotion in them. That made me very happy, indeed.

And I took The Frenchman to the convention, which was extra nice. He met all of my horror family, who seemed to like him very much, and generally made me very happy just by being there. He's an amazing guy -- which is good because soon I'll need all his amazingness as I navigate his country.

May comes boldly today with big splashes of romance in my life and liberal doses of humor, as the Frenchman and I celebrate one year together.

Not part of the romance but dear to my heart was Stephen Colbert's lampooning of Shrub at the Whitehouse Correspondents' dinner. I sent Colbert a love letter; you can, too!

Now, I know there are some polls out there saying this man has a 32% approval rating. But guys like us, we don't pay attention to the polls. We know that polls are just a collection of statistics that reflect what people are thinking in "reality." And reality has a well-known liberal bias.

In other news, a new publisher might possibly want to publish a collection of my short stories, but I still haven't heard back from the agent at Curtis Brown who's reading Mr. Wicker. I'm starting to scratch nervously. I want to get my Top Secret Humorous Nonfiction Book proposal into the hands of the right agent soon. Very soon. I just hope she's it.

Good night, Mr. Colbert. And good luck.