Today's word: Generation

I had the dream about her. She was fine, happy, healthy. She was a filmmaker, making documentaries about her daughter, her community. I was watching her from the street corner as she set up her digital camera, an auteur for our age.

What's in a name

Tuesday night, Agent X said something which I kinda already knew about, but realize it was good to keep in the forebrain for a while.

Authors don't have all that much control on the title of the book. Sometimes, the kobolds in marketing will re-title a newbie novelist's first tome to make it more sexy or safe. Take, for example, how "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" was re-titled "Sorcerer's Stone" for the states because of concerns about readers being turned off by philosophy, poor dears. It extends into movies, too. "Evil Dead" was once titled "Book of the Dead," but was changed to ED because director Sam Raimi was warned that moviegoers might not come see a movie about a book. My favorite example is the one when William Gibson submitted his debut novel with the title "Jacking In," which was ix-nayed because the title sounded too much like male masturbation. The title became "Neuromancer" and the rest is history.

Which got me thinking, okay...let's say some marketing goon says "Babylon By Twilight" is too esoteric and I don't have the kung-fu to fight back, despite it being perfect. The best way to fight back is to keep submitting titles that are so bad that they have to stick with the original.

And, lo, "Rough Trade" was born. It's perfect. A title that a publisher won't touch, due to RT being associated with violence and male prostitution, which the novel has one but not the other. A provocative title is one thing, but a controversial one is another.

I'm still working on this, hoping to come up with at least two-dozen little minefields to make a publisher think, "you know, the original wasn't a bad idea. Let's go with that."

A dumb, private wish.

Dear Nintendo,

When you put out your new console next year, everyone knows you are going to have free downloadable titles from the old-school Nintendo library (with other second- and third-party games possible).

You and I know I'm going to buy your damn console, being the Nintendobsessed manchild I am, with disposable income and a wife who can kick my ass at Super Smash Bros.

So, since you know you will get my money, I'm asking for a little something in exchange. Please, please, please buy the rights to Elite. Revamp it for next-gen, online and everything. You want to rival GTA without the hookers and blood? This is your title. Multiple galaxies, humans and A.I. vying for cash and fame. Players can choose to be a bounty hunter, pirate, trader, cop, or dreaded Thargoid. Have a massive alien war approaching, with players picking sides. Let players form trading alliances, or go it alone in a cruel universe, visions of "Blake's 7" or "Firefly" playing in their heads. You have a sure-winner here, a diamond way to announce your online presence with authority.

A lot of gamers you are appealing to with all the retro titles you are making available remember Elite, since NES and Elite came out about the same time. Heck, it even was a title you had way back on the NES. When I found a playable version of it at the Museum of Science and Industry's "Game On" exhibit, I nearly wept. The memories of running illegal goods under the nose of the cops, the witchspace battles with Thargoids, the hazard jumps into anarchy worlds, tricking our my ship every cannon available. Those puny humans who want to use Xbox 360 to microtrade decals and rims don't remember their elders. Real-time space combat and commerce trading, that's where it's at. Come on, bring back Elite. In Widescreen. In HDTV. Show them how it's done.

Oh, and buy the rights to Rez, too.

Thanks.

Well, that coulda gone better

Last night was the final class for the pop fiction writing program. Anticlimactic, although I don't know what would have made a good climax. An agent in the room announcing that someone is getting a book contract. Eat live worms and walk through fire, Fear Factor-style, to winnow out competitors. Last one standing gets an on-the-spot advance and two-book deal. With movie options, bitches!

But sadly no, although I would have eaten the worms.

The first half of the last class was an infomercial for Pop Fiction Writing 2 (Thematic Boogaloo), where the teacher and two of her students came in to play carnie, seeking out marks to go this way to the great Egress. I've mentioned before that I'm not going on to the second level because I'm classed out. I'm going out into the wild to write the novel, to finish the damn thing, breaking only to haunt the new Tuesday night critique group only minutes from my house. I wish the ones going on to the next step some luck, but I wasn't sold on the next safari. Too much sounding like a retread of what this adventure was all about. So, I stand at the pier and wave bon voyage to the ones going on.

The second half, oy.

Agent X came to class. She's high-spirited, passionate, and possessed with that brick-fist gumption you would want in an agent fighting for you at the Publisher Thunderdome.

But that lasted about 30 minutes, when the floor was open to questions. She dodged one about how many clients she had, only nailed down by one of our thriller writers hitting back with a follow-up. She danced around what genre she represents, saying she represents "popular" fiction. Which means, what, exactly?

Then came her feedback on the query letters we sent. She read about eight of ours, and we learned at least four of us sent in samples (no feedback on that, will have to wait). Through my periscope, I remained quietly angry as she spent 10 minutes talking about each query only to take all of 60 seconds on mine. A couple minor blips on her radar, but nothing else. The rest of the class I spent reading between the lines of other query letters to gain tips, the same way Russians would dissect Pravda to really see what was going on. If a party official wasn't mentioned in the news, odds are he was dead. For me, that's how I learned. Watch what other people weren't doing. It was constructive criticism jazz, the notes you don't hear.

I know, I know. Wait a couple days and e-mail her. Ask her more questions. She was kind enough to read our stuff, kind enough to brave the metal bottleneck as known as the 520 floating bridge, happy to take questions. So, that's something. Usually, writers would have to fly out to New York on a red-eye Jet Blue ticket to meet with their agent. Last night? Cookies on our turf.

Any input I get I should value, but I can't help but feel a little ignored and downtrodden from waitingwaitingwaiting and getting trace elements of feedback. I woke up this morning with a depression hangover, which was better than last night's irrelevant. With the program behind me, I felt a little robbed, unfinished, unchallenged, empty. Looking back, I get that Sex Pistols vibe: "How does it feel to be cheated?" I know my teachers meant well, but I don't feel any sort of completion, or even a notion that I'm on my way. I'll have to churn this a little longer, because maybe I had too much expectation from the class all year and Agent X's arrival, and there's nothing they can do about that.

But no matter what verdict I rend from the writing program, I got something out of last night. Something clear and forthright when the agent last night said that "dystopia" was not a word.

And there was my moment of Zen. Thanks, but I'd rather not have you represent me.