In response to Mr. Highland’s challenge to come up with a counter point to my list of the fringe benefits of writing, I offer to you, the fringe detriments of writing:

• Not enough people worship me. Jesus had a whole pool of suckers to write for him. Am I comparing myself to Jesus? Yes. Which brings me to…
• An inflated ego brings nothing but misery. But on someone as awesome as me, misery looks damn good.
• Something can easily take years to write, but can be read and forgotten in hours (wow, that was a bit of an honest one. I wasn’t expecting that)
• If you are so brash as to call your writing an art-form, very few people will be interested. People who don’t care for art will change the subject. People who don’t write but enjoy art will simply not believe you. And people who do write and do enjoy art will immediately resent you for stealing their form. Those few that do take interest will likely wane once you start describing character motivations and narrative arc. The trick, I think, is to write about boobs.
• If the page is a reflection of your soul, as hippy writers like to say, then a writer must be fully aware and be willing to accept that your life and soul both suck. Get a job, hippy!
• Paper cuts are a job hazard. Pen stabbings are too. Computer maulings happen. I once choked on the “T” key.  These are all self-inflicted. For fuck’s sake, I sit in front of a computer for hours each day; I go mad!
• One man’s masterpiece is another man’s throw-in to offload a used lawn mower at his yard sale.
• When caught burrowing in a dumpster, the excuse “it’s research for a project” only works once. Subsequent times require the truth: “I’m a writer, so I am homeless.”

As far as meeting this goal, I failed. I did not reach 5,000 print-quality words in one day. However, I did learn something very important. I am simply not meant to write all day. I am glad that I can no longer blame my non-productivity on time constraints. In fact, I actually work better given 2-3 hour windows. As you can see by the time-line below, the day started off quite well.

What to make of this? As much as I would like live the romanticized writer’s life, I simply do not have the constitution to do so. My apologies to anyone who lost gambled wrongly on this outcome. My advice is that next time you wager money on someone’s likelihood to meet a goal, don’t use me if your choose the affirmative side.

When my lovely wife asked what I wanted for Father’s Day, I replied quite simply: a day to myself. Fearing that the request may imply that my primary desire was to spend the day away from my family, I quickly explained that I wanted the day to write. I’ve been spoiled by the frantic life of parenthood, being able to blame my lack of productivity on the burdens of being a father. “Why haven’t you finished the first draft of your world-changing novel?” my non-existent editor asks. “Well you see, sir, I have this child…” But I know the days of those lies must end. I only hurt myself when I don’t get shit done.

My beautiful wife has allowed me the entire day. I’ll be spending the time at her parent’s house where I can be assured just enough discomfort to keep me isolated to the page (they are out of town; I’m not saying that they make me uncomfortable, just that being in their house alone will be a bit weird and that I won’t be tempted to explore the area for ways to derail any progress).

My goal is to cough up 5,000 words. But not just any words, truly good words. Even 5,000 draft-quality words would be a feat, so planning on just as many print-quality words means I’ll have to cut away many of my bad habits. I check my email too often. I refill my coffee cup too much. Basically, I’ll use any excuse to step away from the page. Not today. How? I’ll be taking on a few tips from my friend Axel Taiari:

Kill your internet connection, only bring Tom Waits albums, rock some caffeine/nicotine, have food/sandwiches/snacks prepared in advance, forget about showering, and for the love of god, if anyone disturbs you and breaks your flow, it should be legal to stab them right between the eyes.

Here’s the survival gear:

• An old-fashioned notebook – This will hopefully keep me from my computer and by that, the internet.
• My computer – yeah, sorta self-defeating considering the above item, but I’ll use it primarily for morale-boosting updates via twitter and similar ego-maniacal social mediums. Maybe I’ll wear the winner shirt I made (above) with my face on it to really tell the virtual world how awesome I am.
• Headphones – I’ll likely replace Axel’s Tom Waits suggestion with Bohren und der Club of Gore, only because vocals can be distracting. Even a casual search on this site will show how much I love Tom Waits, so normally, he’d be my life’s soundtrack.
• Prepared food – I don’t want even the need for nutrition to be an excuse to lift my fat ass off the chair.
• Cigars – I think it will be too hot tomorrow to enjoy any smoke, but just in case, I’d like to have a couple think-sessions away from the paper, fueled by some delicious ACID cigarillos.
• Coffee
• A knife – for stabbing right between the eyes.

Wish me luck. But don’t bother me A-holes!

Jose Saramago, who quickly became one of my favorite authors after I read Blindness just last year, has died. But damn, he had a fine run, producing some of the most amazing novels I’ve ever read. There truly is no writing like Saramago writing.

I am lucky enough, however, to still have a robust back catalog of his work to dive into. In fact, just yesterday, I started The Stone Raft, and already, just 10 pages in, I’m hooked.

Even stranger is that I began work on a novella a few weeks ago, that contains some Saramago-inspired passages. Now, I suppose, I’ll be giving even more time to these sections to ensure they are worthy of their heritage.

Most of you probably don’t know this, but secretly, I am not the cunning stallion that I appear to be. Sure, I am a sexy reader, I can do the robot worm electric slide, and I dress in the finest clothes straight from snazzy street (Snazzy and 14th Avenue is where the local Salvation Army clothing depot is located; they always have the hippest fanny packs). But underneath all of this slathered-upon cool, I carry a potentially social-life threatening secret. I like signed books.

Sure, it’s not the most embarrassing collection out there. I know a kindergartner who collects rocks. Seriously. And not even cool rocks, either. Regular, gravel-style gray lumps of compressed sediment nonsense. I drove him down a country road once and his head exploded.

But this post isn’t about dumb kids. It’s about dumb adults. Here’s my collection for all of you to pick through and criticize.

A few of my most treasured (though I love all my babies):

• Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson (personally inscribed)
• The Fifty-Year Sword by Mark Z. Danielewski (super-rare
• Altmann’s Tongue by Brian Evenson (first edition)
• Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk (first edition)

Anyone else out there collect signed books? What are your treasures?

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Writing fiction is not a rich man’s game. Though some authors are able to attain and sustain luxury by writing novels, that club is quite exclusive. In fact, most of the authors whose books you see even in national bookstore chains (Barnes & Noble, Borders, etc.) have day jobs. Fiction is usually a supplement their better life decisions.

Did you know Jim Lehrer has published 17 novels? No, you didn’t. John Lithgow, Alan Arkin, Jimmy Buffet, Wes Craven, and so many others also wrote fiction. But they were smart enough to go to celebrity school instead of author college.

But, fiction writing is not without its fringe benefits. Here’s a few I’ve discovered:

I change into my pajamas at around 5:00pm, not out of laziness, but as a mimetic character channeling method. It’s entirely coincidental that I write about lazy characters. Nobody expects me to be socially comfortable. Conversely, I can fart in public, and people simply assume I am expressing my angst at society or government or foreigners or something, and that I will eviscerate these areas of contention in fiction. Despite the relatively few people who read (or perhaps because of it), fiction writers carry an aurora of mystery and sexiness. But because writers are socially awkward (see point above), I am not expected to validate that illusion. It’s like having cake and eating it, too…in front of people who don’t read. Drinking counts as career advancement. In most cities there is at least one person willing to buy me a drink. I reciprocate, because I’m a swell guy, but usually I match their top-shelf with well. I can do that; remember, I am socially awkward. When I scribble on napkins, voyeurs tend to assume I am capturing literary greatness. The fact is, when drawing boobies, the porous napkin paper pretty much draws the areola veins for me. Some writers complain about people always approaching them with “surefire bestseller ideas.” I pretend to be upset. Then I steal their ideas. So far, no bestsellers among them. No, Ronald, the Mormon werewolf idea didn’t pan out…wait, dammit Stephenie Meyer! Writing a list of lies for a blog post technically counts as story, as long as there is a narrative arc. So, that lazy character I mentioned in point #1, he grew up wealthy, but now he has cancer, and a violent mother, and his estranged wife doesn’t let him see his kids. He’s probably dead, too. Or his he? Dah Dah Daaahhhhhhhh…

Things need to change. I need to blog more. I need to have interesting things to say. Yes, that is the correct order for those last two items. Blogs, generally, are dumb. So many of them tend to be self-infatuated messes. The argument that this egotism is their exact purpose stands, true. So perhaps my contempt is like me at an orgy: so many people doing it must mean it’s fun, but every time I try one, I leave with a bad taste in my mouth. Gross.

I read plenty of industry blogs, which I see as more an evolution of the commercial print world (magazines, trades, etc.) than as an evolution of the private world (diaries, journals, bathroom stalls). So, maybe I am meant simply to avoid the diaries and try to make this blog more about the industry.

Problem: I don’t know much about “the industry.” I don’t even know what industry that would be. Publishing? Authoring? Is drinking an industry?

So my question is, what is useful? What is my unique knowledge? Or if not that, what is the unique perspective I can offer? Here’s a list of possibilities:

• I edit the OWC site, so I know some about small presses and “outsider” authors
• I write fiction, so I know about lying
• I have a lot of concepts for niche products, so I could give away million-dollar product ideas for free
• I’m really good at eating pop-tarts. The trick is to turn them upside-down before eating, so that the icing touches your taste buds directly. Shit, there goes that blog post.
• I know a little about podcasting
• I once helped nurse a bird back to health after nearly hitting it with a lawn mower (yes, “nearly.” The bird was emotionally traumatized)
• I marketed my debut story collection, Charactered Pieces, with a zero-dollar budget, so I know how to spend a lot of time not writing constructive fiction. Related: I blog

Any of these sound good. Why do you, dear reader, come back to a blog? What would bring you back to me?

photo credit: Scott Beale / Laughing Squid

@ UnRonic, Stephen Krauska offers some truly amazing words about Charactered Pieces. There’s so much more than I deserve in the full review, so I urge you to click over the UnRonic to read everything. But here’s a snippet:

Between his spectacular characters, interesting stories, excellent metaphors all held together with great imagery and vivid description, Ross is a must read. He’s young, fresh and down to earth enough to admittedly “steal” lyrics and write an “Acknowledgment” section that sounds more like a bonus story than a Hollywood awards speech. Keep an eye on him, he is bound to turn up more great work in the future.

@Outsider Writers Collective – on the above note, there are only 23 copies of Charactered Pieces left of the entire 150 copy print run. I don’t think there are any plans to go into another print run anytime in the near future. Of course, .pdf and Kindle copies will be available for the foreseeable future. However, if you want a print copy, now would be the time to claim one. Click here to visit the purchase page at Outsider Writers Collective.

Jim Gaffigan is right (and is the source of this post’s title). We admire beauty above most else in this country (this world?), despite all that’s been taught by teachers (probably ugly teachers) and parents. Beauty shouldn’t be all that matters. As ethical beings, we should be able to look beyond physical appeal when evaluating our various options.

But the one outlet that has for so long stood strong against the ravages of superficiality has come under attack as of late. Ugly people, you are no longer royalty in the world of novels. Katie Price, Courtney Thorne Smith, Lauren Conrad, Meg Tilly, Pamela Anderson, the list goes on. It’s only a matter of time before “chapters” will become a breast synonym and asking someone if they’ve read any good books lately will initiate locker-room tales of “creasing her spine until even used bookstores wouldn’t take her.”

Bookselling is a business. Attractive people sell things. We understand that. But when the product being sold is cerebral, why does a beautiful spokesperson (which I argue is essentially what many of these celebrity novelists are; those with ghostwriters) even matter? Are cover bylines and dust-jacket photos really that sexy? Or are most of these “fair weather” readers simply retarded?

The latter. Definitely. That’s not the question, here. The real question is whether or not it’s still feasible for authors to make a good living by writing intellectually stimulating literature without having the commercial backing of a celebrity or the commercial appeal of being a celebrity themselves. My hope, of course, is that if a book is artistically brilliant, it doesn’t need to be commercially brilliant; brilliant should sell intrinsically. But with that logic, I’m probably the retarded one.

So what is this ugly author going to do? Become an accomplice. I’ve got a few completely finished novel manuscripts, ready to have a celebrity author name slapped across the cover and printed for much monetary gain. I’m serious. Contact me.

@ Blinding Loud, Sean P. Ferguson gives some great words about Charactered Pieces:

The stories don’t change you because they cause you to rethink how you’re living in some great respect. You’re not forced on with issues that want you to decide whether or not to have an abortion, or pick a side when it comes to same sex marriage. They don’t beat down your door demanding that you give all of your belongings to charity. You’re presented with life and the ability to deal with what you’re dealt. Now put down what you’re doing, read, and start to live. Really live. Because if these people can, so can you, we all have Charactered Pieces in us.

@ kenwohlrob.com, site namesake and author, Ken Wohlrob, says some very flattering things about Charactered Pieces:

The prose is punchy and has a great rhythm to it, especially when the stories are told in first person. Ross nails his character’s voices, so you can feel yourself sitting in a bar and hearing the grim tales first hand. “Charactered Pieces,” “The Camp,” and “An Optimist is the Human Personification of Spring” — the best of the stories where you can’t help being drawn into the lives of the narrators — are worth the cover price alone.

@ Trick with a Knife, I’m contributing sporadic rants, opinions, essays, whatever strikes me (in accordance to their mission, of course:)

Trick with a Knife is the internet destination for commentary, opinion, and tidbits related to the artistic and literary scenes. Our contributors are writers and artists who are passionate about words and images and sounds.

@ RedRoom, Vicki Nikolaidis writes some great words about Charactered Pieces. She even comments on the cover art. Me, as just an armchair artist at best, takes this compliment especially well:

His phenomenal artwork graces the cover, but don’t look too hard, the drawing will make sense later…before you understand what is happening it is your world and you will be sharing a space in your brain with Charactered Pieces several weeks after you thought you had finished the stories.