How significant is it that Austin Grossman re-tweeted your ASK MAX tweet and has he had any input into the computer game you allude to, and if not, why not? And, can we expect more writers to turn their hand to computer games unaware that indie computer games creation is about as profitable as indie novel writing?
This is a timely question because Austin Grossman has a new novel out about Richard Nixon fighting demons. Literal demons, that is. No, actually, both kinds. It’s very fun and does that Austin Grossman thing of taking someone you’d think was totally cool and together and tearing them apart with insecurities. If you enjoyed Soon I Will Be Invincible or You, or you are intrigued by the idea of a Cold War fought with intercontinental necromantic missiles, take a look at Crooked.
But no, I haven’t consulted with Austin on the computer game I’m fooling around with. I probably should have, since he is excellent at writing both novels and games. That would make a lot of sense. But the only way I know how to be creative is to take the thing away somewhere private and smash my brain into it until it’s done. So I’m doing that.
The crossover between fiction and games… on the one hand, there are more similarities than people might think. In both cases you are world-building, one way or another. And I like that I can dive in to either and build something all by myself. This is handy because I lost the ability to work with other people sometime around 2002.
On the other, the mindset is very different. I’m kind of horrified by how programmers can spend so much time focused on the tools: choosing and tweaking their IDE and plugins and language and platform and agonizing over the process. It’s like what writers do but times a thousand. And that looks like a lot of busy-time spent Not Writing to me. You can tell me this attitude will come back to bite me hard in about twelve months but I say it never will.
Probably indie game design is exactly as profitable as indie novel-writing, as you say, Dan. But it is interesting. And in gaming, people aren’t debating whether their industry is dying, which is nice.
Her mother drops her at five and tells me what she likes to eat now. There are times I look at this woman and feel an echo of affection. But not today. She won’t eat peas any more, apparently. I am to encourage her to eat peas.
And she’s had nightmares, says her mother. Two.
Bad dreams. It’s common at this age.
Dreams about what?
Fish, she says. Don’t make a big deal out of it.
I say, How would I make a big deal out of it?
We talk it out, old wrongs flipping and snapping below the surface, and she turns and walks to the car. Then, at last, I have the girl to myself.
There is a puzzle in her overnight bag that she wants to show me. We solve and scramble it four times. Then she says she wants to go to the beach.
Maybe next visit, I say. We can’t go to the beach now.
Because it’s late.
Can we go to the beach tomorrow?
Tomorrow I have to drive you back to your mother’s.
Oh, she says.
Next time, maybe you can stay longer. Then we’ll go to the beach. Today, we can do puzzles. And read books. Maybe do some drawing.
She’s disappointed. I don’t blame her. This apartment, it is no beach.
I tuck her into bed and kiss her forehead and she sits up and says, Do you look after me when I’m asleep?
Yes. I look after you all the time.
She frowns. I’m not getting it. I mean, do you look after me in my dreams?
I even look after you in your dreams.
This satisfies her. She snuggles down, throws an arm over Elephant, her faithful companion.
Good night, Daddy.
Good night, bunny.
I wash the dishes, looking out the window at the alley below. The apartment is eight floors up. If you fell, you’d die. Tonight, three men are down there, exchanging a brown-bagged bottle. One shoves the other. The bottle smashes. Profanities are exchanged. I hope she’s asleep, can’t hear this.
I go to bed reluctantly. It’s different with her here. Sleeping feels like a waste. But I need to be rested for the morning.
I rarely dream any more, but this night I do: I dream we’re on a train. She’s sitting opposite, legs tucked beneath her, wearing her favorite top, one with a cat. I look outside and realize we’re going to the beach.
When the train stops, we walk to the shore and build sandcastles. I suggest we stomp them, but she doesn’t want them ruined. We walk along the water and inspect washed-up jellyfish. Her arms and legs are thin as sticks, and I remember how fragile she is, how she needs protection.
A shark comes. Not a real shark, a toy, inflatable, big and floppy, full of plastic teeth. But still a fish, I think, the stuff of nightmares, and I try to pull her away. The shark snaps and wobbles across the sand and begins to gulp her down, until all I can see of her is her feet.
I knock my elbow on my bedside table. I’m cold and wet. She’s standing beside the bed and I sit up, disoriented. Hey, bunny. Hey.
You were shouting.
I’m sorry. I had a bad dream.
I have bad dreams sometimes.
I didn’t have one tonight, though.
Maybe I took it.
She smiles, a big one that lights up her face. Thank you, Daddy.
Can you sleep in here tonight? I ask her. Do you think?
She climbs in without answering. I feel the bed shift with her tiny weight. She snuggles up beside me, this girl who’s keeping me safe.
I’m not sure if it’s like this for other writers, but I have
trouble writing something new while I still like my last book. It
hangs over me. It makes me feel like I should write that kind of thing again.
Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad. But imitating something you
think is awesome doesn’t work. It’s much better to imitate something
something you think is flawed. Flawed, you’re all, “I loved THIS PART
but it would have been SO much better if THIS.” Then you make
something new and interesting. Aping something you admire, though,
you only get a photocopy.
Some people who discover me via Lexicon ask which of my books
they should read next, and I’m never sure how to answer, because
I think they all suck. I had to reach that belief in order to write the next
one. A lot of what I do relies on delusion; I also have to convince
myself that the new book is THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD, because how
else would it make sense to spend a year or two on it. Despise the old,
adore the new: I’m sure it’s the same in any relationship.
Lexicon has been doing well, which created a problem I hadn’t
really faced before. Usually, when a book comes out, I’m deep into the
early exploratory phase of the next one, and I take some time out to return
to that little lost world and talk about it on radio or bookstores or
whatever. And it’s always slightly fraudulent, because I’m also thinking,
this book kind of sucked, you should see what I’m working on now. Again,
this is more about delusion than truth. I have to believe that in order
Now, promotion is good fun; people generally say nice things and make you feel
like all the work was totally worth it. They even start to convince you,
you know what, this book didn’t suck that much. It was kind of great.
You used to love it, remember? Then before you know it, you’re flipping
the pages, thinking, This was good. Why did I ever leave?
So the thing with Lexicon is this phase has lasted much longer
than usual. It’s maybe not all about the book; it’s maybe social media,
too, bringing everyone so close you even can hear their thoughts. And it’s wonderful, of course, everything
you dream of when you’re lost in a third draft, trying to stitch plots
But after a while I started to feel like I was cheating on the new book. It’s one thing
to stay friends with your ex. It’s another to still think about them,
talk about them, and open their covers and run your fingers down their
Anyway, this is why I haven’t been on Twitter et al lately. I’ll be back;
it’s all good. This book I’m seeing now, wow. We just needed some time.
I was in a bookstore recently and there was a boy, about 10, who
wanted a book. His dad was not sure he should have the book. The
issue wasn’t the book itself; the book was fine. The issue was that
the book was #3 in a series, and Dad established that the boy had borrowed
the first two from a library.
“Why don’t you borrow this one from the library and I’ll buy you
a different book?” he said.
The boy mumbled something I didn’t catch but I’m guessing was
some variation of, “I want this book.”
I figured that Dad was seeing the book as an object, and feeling it would
be wrong to have book #3 sitting on the shelf without
#1 and #2. The boy was seeing the book as a story he wanted
to get into his head. He had already loaded books #1 and #2 into
his head and he didn’t much care how #3 got there.
E-books have made a lot of people think about whether they want
books or stories. Because you can get stories
cheaply and efficiently in e-book form, but you can’t put them on your
bookshelf. You can’t gaze lovingly over your collection, or hold
them in your hands and feel the paper speak to you.
Really, though, it’s only the latest manifestation of an old dilemma. There
have always been people who have treated books with reverence,
laminating their covers, turning their pages with care, and never
cracking their spines. And there have been people like me.
I don’t set out to destroy my favorite books. They just wind up that way. And
while I have no problem with people who take care of their books,
I have to admit I don’t quite get it. Sometimes people bring me a book
to be signed and they apologize because the book is dog-eared and
crumpled. I love seeing that. Those books have been loved. Hard.
P.S. The boy got his book. I saw him walking out with it.
I’m almost finished the final round of major rewrites on the new
book. That’s what I’ve been doing, if you’re wondering. It has been
more fun and less like pulling my brain out through my nostrils than
usual, so that’s good. I am feeling productive.
In a few weeks, I’ll be ready to start my next book! That’s exciting.
Except I have no ideas. None. I don’t even know which genre it’ll be.
By now it seems like I should have some sense of my own
place in the literary marketplace, but I don’t. Apparently
I do a kind of comedy-sci-fi-thriller-satire-romance thing.
But I don’t know where you shelve that.
I mention this because it occurred to me that I have this
web site, and you read it, so I should data-mine you for ideas.
There is possibly a less exploitative way for me to say that. But I mean,
if you’re on this site, I bet we have all kinds of things in common. Like
favorite authors. And being interested in what kind of book I’m writing
next. You’re basically me, with more perspective.
I don’t want story ideas, because those are personal.
You could have the best story idea in the world and
I wouldn’t like it because it wasn’t my idea. I’m very small
like that. Also, imagine the legal ramifications. Nightmare. But
I would like to know the very broad reasons you might pick up a book with
my name on it. Is it for yucks, is it for a page-turner, is it to snip out
the author photo for identity theft? You know. Broad strokes.
Then the next time I think, “Hey,
how awesome would it be to write a comedy about a sentient
toaster,” I might remember your comments and think, “Mmmm,
not that awesome.” This would be more efficient than
my usual process, which is going ahead and writing the book
and nine months later having my agent explain why it’s unpublishable.
In other news, I have been playing a computer game,
This is one of the few games I’ve put significant time into
since my first child was born seven years ago, just as an FYI for
anyone thinking of having kids. The game is pretty fun, but what’s
fascinating to me is how much video games have changed.
When I was a kid, they were coin-munching sadists
designed to ruthlessly punish anything less than autism-grade
concentration. But now they are colorful piñatas for the
easily bored who will rage on Twitter if anything is too hard.
If I finish this rewrite and don’t have an idea for my next book,
I’ll post a review.
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA: Mr. Jeremy Frost, proprietor of the area’s newly-formed Irony
Certification Agency, wears blue overalls. “People expect someone in a nice suit,”
he says. “But I want them to see that irony is just a facilities problem. Like
a leaky pipe.”
Mr. Frost’s business has been operating for eight months. In that time, he
claims to have rendered services to some of the state’s largest employers,
including a tech giant and two major insurers. But he’s unable to name
“People don’t like to admit they had an irony guy in,” he says. “They see
the results. But they don’t like to talk about it.”
That’s something Mr. Frost aims to change. “Getting that first meeting,
convincing them I can help them, it’s tough,” he admits. “But once I’m
in, I’ve never left a customer disappointed. I figure if I keep doing
what I’m doing, people will eventually get comfortable enough to share
their irony problems.”
“Irony problems,” according to Mr. Frost, occur when places or objects
build up irony over time, and then trigger ironic situations.
He explains: “Say there’s a grocery store and they give
me a call. I might find a guy to take in—Mike Slipper, for example, or
Amanda Fall. I’ll have them walk up and down the aisles. Now, if
Mike Slipper slips, or Amanda falls, that’s a pretty good sign we’ve
got a source of irony somewhere nearby.”
It’s not always that simple. “I ask myself: what’s
the most ironic thing that could happen? Because even a little
irony nearby can be enough to set something off, if it’s potentially
very ironic. One time an insurer had me visit this guy—he was
a little accident-prone, and on a big, big policy. At first, everything
checks out, but I’m just not comfortable with his car. It’s more
likely to lock with the keys inside when you’re running late, the battery
went flat when I tried to drive it to the store to buy batteries…
nothing outside normal tolerances, but still, on the high side. Well, then I find out the
guy has been writing letters to the paper saying we don’t need seat-belt
laws. I can’t tell you the details of how that turned out, but let me
just say that insurer saved a ton of money.”
Once Mr. Frost identifies a source of irony, what does he do?
“Well, bear in mind, I do Irony Certification, not Irony Disposal.
If you’ve got a restaurant on Ebola Avenue, I can check the premises
over and tell you whether you’ve got a problem,
but I can’t relocate your business.”
This is particularly the case when the source of irony turns out to be
a person. “It is awkward, yeah,” he admits. “You have someone who’s been
a long-time model employee, she owns a dog named Buster, and suddenly you’re telling
her she can’t work in the accounting department any more. It’s not her
fault. We still don’t know how the build-up of irony happens. We just
know it’s there.”
Mr. Frost is straightforward about the skepticism he receives on the
job. “Everyone has an opinion about irony,” he says, a touch wearily.
“I do get people coming up to me, saying this isn’t really ironic, or that other thing is.
Sometimes, a guy comes up, and three words in, I can
tell from his accent where we’re going.” He shrugs. “But it
doesn’t bother me. When you’re an Irony Certification Officer working
on an irony-laden site, people telling you you’ve got the definition
of irony wrong is just part of the job.”