The God Particle of Literature

You see this? *

You probably see an asterisk. I see the most potent and powerful typographical symbol of all time. And that includes the interrobang.

The asterisk is no mere glyph. As I explain in a Soapbox piece in the current issue of Publishers Weekly, the asterisk is nothing less than a repository for every book ever written. It is a microdot containing all the volumes ever published. It is the God Particle of literature.

Seriously--no sh*t!

Researching The Rogue: Selected Entries From the Secret Journal of Joe McGinniss

From The Huffington Post:

To research his book The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin, author Joe McGinniss spent the summer of 2010 in a house immediately next door to the Palin home in Wasilla, Alaska. The following are excerpts from McGinniss's private diary from this period.

May 23 -- Took possession of the Wasilla house today. There must have been bad blood between the Palins and the previous tenant -- some of it's still on the living room rug.

May 24 -- Todd Palin dropped by to say hi to his new neighbor. You should have seen the look of surprise on his face when I answered the door! I gather he misheard my name as Joe Guinness and was expecting to meet imported Joe Sixpack.

May 27 -- Seemingly overnight, the Palins have erected a huge fence around their property. This temporarily obstructed my view, until I made a few peepholes with some power tools. Drill baby drill!

June 1 -- Sarah Palin called me out on her Facebook page, practically accusing me of being a stalker and pedophile! Is there no depth to which she will not sink? Fortunately I had the chance to air my side on the "Today" show, where I took the high road by saying she'd sicked the Hounds of Hell on me and comparing her to Nazi storm troopers.

June 4 -- Spent the day familiarizing myself with the Wasilla terrain. Turns out the bedroom with the Justin Bieber poster is Sarah's, not Piper's.

June 5 -- I constantly have to ask the Palins to turn the music down. Every night they play the same song over and over at ear-splitting levels. How many times can you listen to "Barracuda?"

June 7 -- The Wasilla Welcome Wagon paid a call today. I can't decide which aspect of this visit was more surprising: The fact that Sarah Palin drove the Wasilla Welcome Wagon; or that she aimed it at my house and then leaped from the vehicle and ran away, sending it crashing through my front door and obliterating my pantry. I called the authorities to complain--they told me Sarah had chosen that moment to resign as Welcome Wagon Lady, half-way through her term.

June 8 -- The Palins challenged me to a hockey game on Lake Lucille today. Foolishly I took this as a friendly gesture. I hurried out to the lake in my skates and pads and nearly drowned. Turns out there's no ice this time of year! I'll bet the Palins knew that the whole time.

June 10 - There have been press reports that Sarah had her breasts enlarged. Sarah went on Glenn Beck's radio show to say that if her bust seems larger, it's because "Joe McGinniss stuffed my bra with surveillance devices." Is she insane? How did she find them so quickly? Beck took the opportunity to endorse the bra as a wholesome accessory for women who love freedom but not too much freedom.

June 11 -- Coming back from the store this afternoon I saw a familiar figure hurrying from my house into the Palins' yard. It was Joe the Plumber -- I recognized his crack as he climbed over the fence. I couldn't imagine what he'd been up to, but when I went inside and ran the kitchen faucet, my dishwasher drenched the room like a water cannon.

June 15 -- In an apparent attempt at rapprochement, the Palins invited me over yesterday for a tea party. Enchanted, I stepped next door anticipating Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches. Instead, I was nearly lynched by a mob screaming about taxes and limited government. One man shouted about keeping government hands off his Medicare, but couldn't be convinced to keep his hands off my windpipe. Having barely escaped with my life, I have decided to ignore today's invitation to be a fourth at bridge, as I am convinced it will be bridge to nowhere.

June 17 -- Yesterday evening I was indulging in a beloved childhood pursuit: catching fireflies in a jar. Suddenly Sarah was overhead in a helicopter, picking off the lightning bugs one by one with a .30-06. So typical of her to use too much gun! Diving for cover behind the gazebo, I had to admit it was a remarkable display of marksmanship. Subsequent forensic examinations confirmed that each insect was shot between the eyes.

June 19 -- This morning I took a seemingly random stroll along the Palin's fence line, projecting the casual air of a man trying out a new pair of stilts. (I'd borrowed a set from the fellow who plays Uncle Sam at Wasilla's Fourth of July celebration.) From my elevated position I was trying to sneak a glimpse over the fence into my neighbor's yard when suddenly Todd was in my path, sticking out his leg to trip me. Just before I toppled from the vertical to the horizontal, slamming into the ground at a velocity normally attained by only our most daring test pilots, I couldn't help noticing that I could see Russia.

June 27 -- I successfully infiltrated the Palin compound today by dressing as a moose. I enlisted the aid of a local man named Zeb who bears the Palins a grudge -- he once got in an argument with Sarah at a Little League game and she tried to field dress him. With me in front and my confederate bringing up the rear, we crossed into Palin territory, moving with a very satisfactory approximation of the stately gait of the Alces alces. Indeed, our performance may have been too convincing, for as we reached the center of the yard, gun barrels appeared in each window of the house and discharged simultaneously, laying down a withering fusillade that left Zeb and me no choice but to beat a hasty retreat. We did our best to stay in character by imitating the frenzied gallop of a frantic moose, but I fear our cover was blown. An observer in the house would have seen the escaping moose suddenly bifurcate, with the rump preceding the head around the fence to safety. I'm happy to report that I escaped unharmed and my companion suffered only a flesh wound, though unfortunately it was in the fleshy part of his liver.

July 4th -- In anticipation of a quiet Independence Day observance, I purchased some sparklers from a local dealer and thoughtlessly left them on my front porch. I'm certain someone from next door tampered with them. I lit one this evening expecting to enjoy a delightful spray of harmless glittering sparks. Instead, my taper detonated with the same force that must have rocked Indonesia when Krakatoa blew, leaving everything above my abdomen singed and smoking.

July 14 -- The Palins hosted a little dinner party last night in honor of Bristol and Levi's engagement. Sarah even made a short speech. (Note for book: At rallies, Sarah reads speeches off her hand, but in the intimate setting of this casual family dinner she read off the Hamburger Helper hand.) There was a discussion about what song the happy couple should dance to at their wedding, and they quickly settled on "Barracuda." Then they played it. All night.

July 16 -- It was hot today, so I decided to cool off by jumping through my sprinkler. When I turned on the hose, the ice dispenser in my fridge began firing cubes like a Gatling gun. My kitchen is so full of ice it looks like the hold of a swordfish boat. Even now I can hear the Palins and Joe the Plumber sniggering through the fence.

July 20 -- Last night Sarah and Todd had a bitter argument over a Scrabble game. Sarah was insisting that "refudiate" is a real word but Todd wasn't buying it, especially not for a Triple Word score. They both screamed at the top of their lungs, but even with the shotgun microphone I was using I could barely hear them over "Barracuda."

July 28 -- I did some pogo-sticking near the Palins' fence today, which afforded me intermittent glimpses into their den. Here's the amazing thing: I spotted Putin's head in there! It's mounted on the wall, right next to a moose. I guess Alaskan airspace is secure, but it made me pretty uncomfortable. Do they have a similar fate in mind for me?

August 4 -- I realize the Palins are using amplified music as a psychological weapon, in much the same way that Santa Anna had his band play "El Degüello" to torment the occupants of the Alamo. Mustn't let it get to me. Must remain strong. Bar-ra-cu-da. Bar-ra-cu-da. Bar-ra-cu-da.

August 12 -- Had a dream last night in which Sarah Palin literally unleashed the Hounds of Hell on me -- all pit bulls wearing lipstick.

August 17 -- I'm seriously thinking of abandoning the book. Sarah P has told friends she has me in her "crosshairs." When I got home, someone had drawn bull's-eyes on all my pajamas.

August 22 -- I woke up screaming this morning, convinced the Palins had put a horse's head in my bed! It turned out to be the headpiece from my moose costume -- I forgot I was mending the bullet holes last night when I dozed off. Just another indication of the state of my shattered nerves.

August 30 -- I've decided I can't take it any longer. No book is worth this torment! Tonight I tore up my notes and ripped the manuscript to shreds. When I tried to flush the pieces down the toilet, my washing machine overflowed.

In Honor of the 60th Anniversary of The Catcher in the Rye: Still Trying to Rip It Off

Today is the 60th anniversary of the publication of J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. In honor of the occasion, I thought I'd revisit my brilliant idea for an unauthorized sequel. It's what the kids nowadays are calling a mash-up, combining characters from The Catcher in the Rye with plot elements from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I'm calling it The Snatcher in the Rye.

The plot: Holden Caulfield has finally realized his dream of working in a big field of rye where children are playing. His job is to catch them before they fall off a nearby cliff. It doesn't pay much, but since there aren't a lot of employment opportunities of this sort, Holden considers himself lucky to have it.

One morning Holden notices that overnight, crop circles have appeared in the field of rye. He soon learns that these elaborate designs are a message from an alien race! They come from a planet almost exactly like earth, except on their planet they don't have to dial '1' when making a long-distance call. Turns out these aliens do all their writing in crops. A field of grain is their preferred medium for writing and information storage, and they have long since run out of room on their own planet, even with abridgements. They picked up an old radio broadcast from earth that mentioned "amber waves of grain," and have come looking for something to write on.

Holden tries to convince the authorities that the crop circles are an advance warning of a secret alien invasion. No one will listen to him, mostly because they can't understand why anyone would give advance warning of an invasion if it's supposed to be a secret. The police also suspect Holden of being an unreliable narrator. He is further hampered in his efforts by the fact that he's about 103 years old. Even kindly Dr. Miles Bennell won't listen because he's too busy hitting on Becky Driscoll.

Back at the crop field, Holden finds strange seed pods growing amidst the rye. They soon turn into exact duplicates of the children, who are then replaced by their emotionless alien doppelgangers.

The story ends with Holden running into traffic in the middle of the Interstate screaming, "They're phonies! All of them! Can't you see? They're all a bunch of goddam phonies!"

Publishers: Don't be discouraged by the fact that the Salinger estate is guaranteed to bring a massive and devastating lawsuit if you attempt to publish my book. It's  just too good to pass up.

Ahab at Starbucks

From The Huffington Post:

Whenever it was a damp, drizzly November in my soul, I would drop by Mr. Starbuck's for a steaming double-cupped grande vanilla latte with extra foam. Our industrious First Mate made a habit of buying coffee from local growers in whatever far-flung lands The Pequod made port -- from Brazil to Peru, from Sumatra to New Guinea -- hand-selecting beans at the peak of their ripeness and flavor. He would double-roast them in the same vats we used to render oil from whale flesh, then grind and blend them into full-bodied brews that bore aromatic hints of tropical flora and blubber. His potables were quite popular among the crew; in particular, I found his Spermicetti Breakfast Blend to have a dark, robust flavor that was more palatable then it sounds.

Such shipboard entrepreneurial enterprises were not unusual among seamen of the day. Many an evening Queequeg and I took our supper at the berth of Popeye, a sailor whose fried chicken and biscuits were counted a bargain; and Long John Silver was said to serve up a hearty batch of popcorn shrimp and hushpuppies for a reasonable price.

Captain Ahab was not known to visit Starbuck's often, nor to partake of his offerings. The Captain kept to his cabin and preferred the consumption of grog to coffee drinks. He was thought to consume the former in such prodigious quantities that it was common for members of the crew to jest that Ahab must have a hollow leg. This witticism was one of the few sources of mirth aboard The Pequod, the other being the assertion that the Captain's wife was named Peg.

One evening a cohort of the crew was gathered at Starbuck's, sipping their drinks and staring at their laptops (where they were carving scrimshaw). Outside in the passage we heard the approach of Ahab's familiar measured tread -- clip-clop...clip-clop... clip-clop. In he limped, a scarred, brooding figure, whose powerful chilling effect on the men was diluted somewhat when his ivory leg became momentarily stuck in a knothole. So fearsome was his countenance that none dared snigger at his predicament.

As Ahab hobbled further into the cabin Mr. Starbuck called out to a waiting seaman, "Here's your white mocha, Dick!" The Captain, who counted poor hearing among his sundry afflictions, misconstrued Starbuck's cry for an alarm that Moby Dick had been sighted. He became violently agitated and barked a confusion of orders at the men -- "In stunsails! Down top-gallants! Stand by boats! Over the side! Larboard! Starboard! Prepare to dive! Luff a point! Hoist the mizzen! Flush the heads!" Soon The Pequod was sailing in figure eights. It was some time before the Mate could convince Captain and crew that Moby Dick was not in the immediate neighborhood.

The White Whale was the object and focus of Ahab's vengeful wrath, but in truth his hatred extended to all cetaceans, no matter their shape, size or species. Some months earlier, on the occasion of Ahab's birthday, the Fourth Mate, Mr. Carvel, had surprised the Captain with his playfully configured comestible Fudgie the Whale. The Captain instinctively snatched up a harpoon and drove the iron straight through the frozen confection. To save face, he then ordered us to take it below and boil it down for the marzipan.

"I would speak with ye, Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab.

"Aye, sir," said Starbuck. "But first, might I get thee a cup of joe?"

"If ye must," growled the Captain. Starbuck then pressed him for his preferences, employing the arcane lexicon of his avocation as if he were a medieval alchemist. The captain grew increasingly perturbed as the First Mate wielded cryptic words such as grande, venti, trenta, and frappuccino.

"Damn it, man!" thundered Ahab. "Are ye speaking in tongues?"

"I'll just give thee a latte," said Starbuck, and set about preparing the captain's libation.

"I wish to speak again of Moby Dick," said Ahab.

"Thou knowest my feelings in the matter," said Starbuck. "'Tis blasphemous to seek vengeance on a dumb brute. I have told thee this before."

"Hark ye," cried Ahab, "I strike at the inscrutable malice behind the White Whale! All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks--"

"Speaking of pasteboard, Captain, here's a little sleeve for thy cup, that thou wilt not burn thy fingers."

"Hmm? -- er, thank ye," said the Captain, accepting the cup from Mr. Starbuck. As he raised the brew to his lips, Starbuck said, "That will be $4.86," which caused Ahab to spew foam like a typhoon straight into the First Mate's face.

"Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab, his brow darkening like thunderheads on the horizon, "I would sail round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I'd pay five dollars for a cup of coffee!!"

"'Tis the customary price," said Starbuck firmly, "the same for Captain and seaman alike."

"Blast!" cried Ahab, and swearing oaths that were terrible to hear, he checked all his pockets and looked inside his lone shoe and the band of his Quaker hat, but came up empty. Then his stern visage brightened and he snapped his fingers. "There's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast!" he cried. He scurried out to fetch the coin as quickly as his mismatched legs would carry him, and we listened to his staccato steps sounding twice as fast as when he entered -- clipclopclipclopclipclop -- which faded as he mounted to the upper deck.

I immediately took out some foolscap and a quill and began this account of all that had transpired. Mr. Starbuck stood over me and inquired about my labors.

"'Tis a book," I told him, "a full account of our voyage."

"That's grand, lad," said he. "Perhaps when ye publish it, I could make it available right here. Folk like something to read with their coffee. Have ye a title for it?"

"I think I shall call it A Long Way Gone."

"That's a fine title for a whaling man's book," said he. "We'll make it a Starbuck's Book Pick!"

"Call me Ishmael Beah," said I.

Second Anniversary

Two years ago today, HarperCollins and I parted ways. One year ago today, I took stock of my situation on the first anniversary of my layoff. This second anniversary seems an appropriate occasion to do so again.

This is my fourth day into my new job at Free Press and it feels good. Coming here felt a little like coming home. There are so many familiar faces, from the distant past and the more recent past--there are more than a few alums of Harper now roaming the halls of S&S. I’m glad to have colleagues again, and I’m glad to have these colleagues in particular. It’s all very new--I’m still in the process of figuring out how to access digital assets, get an outside line, or find a serviceable pencil—but it’s familiar too. I think it’s going to turn out to be OK, and even better.

I was sustained in the last year by a freelance association with the renowned publishing PR firm Planned Television Arts. It was an arrangement that suited me very well and saw me through some thin times. I’m grateful to my friends at PTA and hope they feel they got their money’s worth.

My blogging and some of the other writing I do has continued to draw occasional attention from trade press such as Shelf Awareness and GalleyCat, as well as other outlets. This blog you’re reading right now, and the role it played in landing my new position, became fodder for Joyce Lain Kennedy’s “Careers Now” column, syndicated by Tribune Media, which hit earlier this week--just in time for my first day on the new job.

I continued to contribute to the health, feeding, and education of my children. I still managed to have some fun along the way.

This will be the last time I will use my layoff as a reference point for taking stock. That incident fades with each passing day, and I can’t be bothered with it now. From here on, I’ll be fully occupied with looking ahead to see what comes next.