brianrayfiction.com Blog

Friday night I headed to Atlanta for the Decatur Bookfest, with a short stop in Salisbury where I sat looking intellectual and hopeful as possible as Salisbarians (?) wandered through their local bookstore’s new digs. (They moved across the street.) One woman I met had gone to UNCG back when it was the women’s college. She said “your book was so horrific,” although whether that was good or bad seemed unclear. Nonetheless I said, “Thank you!” and signed her copy. The only other person who came to my table was a young kid, about ten. When he approached, I thought better of trying to sell him a copy. I thought maybe he liked the art on the cover or wanted to know what it was like to be a professional writer. But instead he asked, “Do you guys have movie monster books? Where are they?” I said we certainly did and that Through the Pale Door had tons of movie monsters.

Around nine I was on the road to Decatur. Rolled up into that joint around 1 am and stood anxiously at the reception desk with my bags, feeling a little like Raul Duke in Fear and Loathing as the woman clicked the same button over and over while muttering she didn’t understand why the system wouldn’t check me into my room. There was no way of explaining the terror I felt. I was pouring sweat. My blood is too thick for this climate. “But we must have that suite,” I said. “Yes, we must have it! So what’s the score here? What’s next?” A poet and teacher from Greensboro I ran into later said the hotel had overbooked and that he’d had to stay with friends. How close I came to the same dismal fate, we can only guess.

Around four am, some jerk pulled the fire alarm and a hundred traveling authors drug themselves downstairs in boxers and bath robes. The thing about hotel fires is that nobody seems worried about burning alive; we care more about how much sleep we’ll loose waiting for the fire department to ride out and inspect a gigantic hotel to conclude indeed no fire was transpiring. To our luck, as soon as we’d gathered into our pool of skepticism and dry jokes, a fire fighter waved us back inside. I had the distinct pleasure of riding up to the third floor with Robert Olen Butler, who seemed quite pissed but that’s just my impression. “What I want to know is how they figured that out so fast,” he said. A day later, I also had the distinct pleasure of seeing him ask someone for directions to some place. I wanted to stop him right there on the street and slap him on the shoulder. “Boy, remember that night some jerk pulled the fire alarm? Oh, man, that was a wild ride, wasn’t it, Robert? By the way, do you like darkly funny Gothic novels? I just happen to have written one.” I can only imagine how he’d have responded.

My favorite panel on Saturday: George Singleton and Daniel Wallace. Both funny guys, although Wallace admits that he has to research his jokes, whereas Singleton is naturally funny. Wallace also said he sort of hated Singleton before they met. Why? Because Singleton published in all the journals he wanted to be in. “And so I saw the space that George was taking up in those magazines as my space.” But I’m going to one-up Wallace and say that I hate Wallace and Singleton because combined they’re taking up my space in magazines like Oxford American, etc. No, not really. But I hope to make that joke in about, eh, five years. I’ll keep everyone posted.

Saturday night, watched an amazing film called The American Astronaut. Imagine Tarantino and Joss Whedon and, say, Fellini directing a science fiction grunge musical set in Outer Space where women actually do live on Venus and seeing a woman’s breasts can make you famous, as with “the boy who once saw a woman’s breast” can attest to. Shot in B&W, it’s one of the most beautiful and funny films I’ve seen. And yet nobody seems to know about it, including me until recently. But I order you all to order it off Netflix. Now.

On to the main event. Me, reading. When I arrived at the church where my event would take place, I gazed out at the sea of 200 or so people and thought, “My God, these people have come to see me. I must give them a show they’ll never forget.” Then I was reminded I’d be reading with Jack Riggs and Philip Lee Williams and said to myself, “Oh…” (Not really.) We had a great time. I was surprised by how kind everyone was. And I had no idea that Riggs had shot the first two Guns ‘n Roses music videos. Just wait until my mom hears this. Seriously, dude. My mom got me started on that band – and, hey, 20 years later I religiously listen to Chinese Democracy every night and pray to the lord that “this time, I’ll enjoy it.” Ah, Axel, what happened? There’s another blog post entirely.

Now here I am in Greensboro, typing away at novel #2 and pumping myself up for some Heidegger. Feels good to blog again after three days off. And I hear that Governor Blago has a memoir out. So, fellows, you can guess what’s coming down the pipe.

Saturday morning. The sky opens and leaves streets in NC gushing with water. I head onto the highway for McIntyre Books for an 11 am reading. When I reach my exit, Google Maps says “Take a left at 64-West.” I look at my directions. I look at the road. Going left at I-64 means I would drive onto I-64 East. Why doesn’t Google just tell me to go I-64 East. Oh, why do they always do this?

So I do what any natural person would do. I assume that my gut is right and go the wrong way, driving for about 20 minutes. This means I lose 40 minutes at least in the end.

I arrive at the book store in the midst of a flood. They say, “It’s okay, Brian.” For the first time in my life I want them to say, “Nobody came to your reading anyway, so you didn’t let anyone down.” But I did.

Good news is we’re rescheduled for 0ct 9. Now, a few days later I give a reading in Greenvillle full of dinner tables. It’s great. I read with Joni Tenvis, who read a little bit about everything – including a job at a cemetery. Definitely grimmer than working at a steel mill. Among some familiar faces in the audience and surprises were John Jeter and George Singleton.

Now I’m wrapping up my first day of the fall semester. Almost. Still have a three-hour seminar to sit through. At least I get Mon, Wed, Fri off so to speak. It will help now that the book tour is kicking into high gear. I’ve got something every weekend from now through mid October. If anyone’s interested in buying a book so that I’ll be sure to afford the oil changes and tune-ups ahead, you’re welcome to do so. Otherwise, I’m fully prepared to walk up to strangers on the street with my novel and say, “Hey there, sir. How are you? Good, good. Can I ask you a question?” Or, no. Perhaps I should sit on the curb and shout, “Good afternoon, how are ya’ll? Do you have a couple of minutes? You see, I’m an emerging author whose aunt is in the hospital with amnesia…”

All this said in jest. Like all panhandlers, I have 50k in the bank. Seriously, dude.

Finally, the new Pynchon novel is either in my gym bag or my apartment. I’m so thrilled. The last Pynchon book I read the whole way through was Mason & Dixon. I’ve made it about 1/2 through GR. I think Pynchon might be the only author whom you can claim as an influence while having read less than .5 of his works. Anyway, this one’s only about 300 pages! This is a great new direction for him. I was expecting Inherent Vice would fall around, oh, say, a gagillion billion pages.

Other updates: Hub City has secured funds for the second first novel prize. Now this promises to be confusing. “Hub City is pleased to announce the second first novel prize.” Wait. The first second novel prize? I like the sound of that much better, must say.