Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

Sunday, November 13
7:00pm - 8:30pm

The Iliad Bookstore
5400 Cahuenga Boulevard
North Hollywood, CA

Come let your imagination be seduced in this evening of Baudelairean debauchery as Maria Alexander reads from her latest poetry collection, "AT LOUCHE ENDS: Poetry for the Decadent, the Damned & the Absinthe-Minded." Internationally acclaimed musician Jill Tracy reads her foreword to the book and talks about her days in the underground absinthe scene in San Francisco. We then cap off the evening with a divine performance by Jill Tracy of her noir cabaret.

Don't miss this one-of-a-kind event! There is no charge, but we do ask that you consider buying a copy of At Louche Ends there at the bookstore ($8.00) and Jill Tracy CDs. (We should have a bundle deal available.) Both Maria and Jill will available for signing.

"Dark as night, sexy as hell, this collection of poetry is not one you will easily forget."
DEBORAH P KOLODJI, PRESIDENT, SCIENCE FICTION POETRY ASSOCIATION

“Jill Tracy is utterly intriguing. She transports you into a magical world solely of her creation.”
NPR, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

Holy hell, there's been a drag races on Dream Street!

I used to be a really prolific dreamer. And it wasn't just the amount of dreaming and recall. To say that my dream life was extraordinary would be an understatement. This isn't a brag. This is a curse.

My dream life has declined significantly in the last five years, which in some ways has been a relief. I chalk it up to hormonal changes -- less estrogen, less sleep. Less dreaming.

The last few weeks, however, my dreams are resurfacing in a major way. I had my first dream hangover in a long time night before last. And what the hell was going on night before last?

WARNING: What ensues interests probably only my shrink, whom I haven't seen in much too long. Plus, some of it is really horrific and involves very bad things happening to children. On second thought, you probably do want to read this, you perverts.

I was visiting a house where clothes were left all over the floor. I looked in the mirror: I was probably 20 years older, but very fit and dressed like a hootchie with low-slung gray shorts, belly chains, and big Dolly Parton hair. When I turned sideways, a long flap of skin hung off the back of my leg, like a snake shedding. I also had some cellulite on my stomach that I don't have now.

Some of the dreams have been horrific -- like the Malaysian gangsters who put a terrified street urchin boy on their billiard table, driving a metal stake into his open mouth to fasten his head to the green felt surface. They proceeded to play billiards, driving the balls against his head until his blood soaked the table.

I honestly do not have it out for Malaysian gangsters or street urchins. Or even billiard tables.

Last night, I was living with these two Caucasian women who had a five-year-old daughter named Martha. (This is a leak in from watching Doctor Who last night.) I left the flat we lived in and stepped outside into Disney World's Main Street, U.S.A. I came right back to the flat because I wanted to pick up something and found the two women hysterical. "We thought you were home! We stepped out for a few moments and left Martha here. Now she's gone!" I said, "Why didn't you make sure to ask me to watch her? I could have totally watched her." I decided it was pointless to argue. I ran outside, looking for Martha. Last I'd seen, she was wearing a white dress with white stockings and white shoes, her long blond hair pulled back from her face. I looked everywhere. There was a parade. I shouted her name everywhere I looked on Main Street. She had vanished. I decided to hop into a single-person transport pod to jettison back to the flat. They had these things lined up like four telephone booths, shoulder to shoulder, by the restrooms near The Haunted Mansion. Just after I jumped into this very snug compartment and was about to launch home, these two Japanese women tossed in their baby. I shouted, "NO! Don't do that! It's not safe!" There wasn't enough room for this tot and me both. She was almost squished up against me. I could see her face turning blue because the safety bumpers inside the pod doors were pinching her neck. I tried so free her, but to do so would require wiggling out of the safety bumpers myself. The baby turned purple. I started screaming...

The beginning of the week featured a dream hangover from a somewhat recurring dream so tedious and deeply annoying, I'm not relating it here.

I don't know, though. I don't think I want my street bumps back that prevent the drag racing. Maybe just a few more races, and we'll see what I'm wishing then.

Sorry for not blogging.

I could chalk it up to the instant gratification I get from blurting out everything on my Twitter account or my Facebook wall. It's every writer's dream, this throwing out into the wind every witty or not-so-witty phrase that comes to mind.

Truth is, I'm overwhelmed.

Last month put me in three different time zones in as many weeks, followed closely thereon by a very successful book signing at Dark Delicacies. Let's be clear: poetry just isn't a big deal commercially. When you can sell out of copies post-signing, that's ridiculously cool. And I seem to have done it.

Jill Tracy and I are trying to wrangle an L.A. event together to promote one another that will be so hot, it'll singe your socks. But the stars must align, so keep your fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I'm looking for an agent-publisher-royal patron for No Rhyme Goes Unpunished. (Yes, yes, it used to be titled Silence of the Iambs, which I still think is clever, but I got a little tired of people asking me if it's a book about cat food.)

Honestly, I can understand the dramatic surge in self-publishing. At BoucherCon, two successful authors recommend it to me because it helped them get started. One is now a New York Times best-selling author, and the other just had his 7th novel come out from William Morrow. And given the lack of response from agents -- and I mean, not sluggish response, but almost NO response -- over the last 6 months of targeted, strategic queries, I have to wonder if my new friends aren't right.

I wish I believed in self-publishing.

Why not? Because the writer doesn't get the collaborative benefit of an agent, editor and publisher -- all extremely valuable partnerships toward shaping the end product. Even if I have a pretty good book, I know that chances are this tiered partnership would make it a great book. I get the whole "indie" thing for the music, games and comics businesses. The art from those media are by their nature developed through partnerships and collaboration. But books are very solitary. If you've ever listened to an author's ramblings about how they love a character or a scene they've just written, you can hear the saccharine self-absorption. This isn't a bad thing at all during that incubation phase, but once the book is hatched for the broader world, the love affair must face a level of professional scrutiny that it bypasses when it's jettisoned into the Amazonsphere via Kindlepod or whatnot. It potentially cheats the reader in a fundamental way.

I would say there's a higher possibility this isn't necessarily true for much more advanced writers -- people like Harlan Coben who have a massive audience and who are absolute, top-notch pros. Still, clearly it wasn't true for my two new friends.

That said, writing is a vocation. A calling. Many of us who answer the call also feel a deeply intrinsic need to share our stories. We don't need or want permission to do this. Waiting around for other people to help us tell that story just isn't in our DNA.

So where does an author find the balance between being a professional who makes a living and honoring the need to tell a story? I am personally taking several books to my grave at this rate -- books I know people want to read. (Trust me. I know my audience, and one is based on a script that placed highly in the Austin Film Festival once upon a time.) I also know agents are overwhelmed, publishers are pressed to make bigger profits than ever, and the market is crap. It'll probably remain crap for a long time.

That leaves me wondering what to do differently, if anything.

I'm plugging along for now on the traditional path. If you happen to know someone on that path who would love a damned funny, laugh-out-loud crime book, let me know, okay? But if you've got some other insight, lay it on me. There might be a day soon where I will take it up...