Dear Readers of this Blog,

One of our own has struck again. Please give it up for Kyler James.

Here’s the first line of his new book, “I’ve always known, ever since I was a little boy, that one day I would kill someone.”  BAM. Please wish Kyler well, better yet buy his book. Happy thanksgiving y’all. Try not to kill anyone, especially a loved one.

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Tylenol PM, Advil PM, Benadryl, Melatonin, Tryptophan, Xanax, Ambien. Am I missing anything? It’s so hard to shut it down at night, but I’ve been working on my insomnia and trying to get seven hours of sleep. I feel so much better when I do and I’m less irritable. Though I think irritability is one of my better qualities. The worst thing about sleep aids (besides addiction and fuzzy head) is that I can never remember my dreams, though I often wake up screaming. The goal is shut it down and wake up at five, ready to write.

How do you sleep?

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I’m watching the world series and I’m thinking that we should all put war paint on our faces before we sit down at the keyboard. I’m thinking that we should cross ourselves and say a little prayer before writing. I’m thinking that chickens should be swung over our heads, sage burned, hair shaved, nails painted. The room should be pristine. The light slanted. Gregorian chants incanted in the distance. On the shelf and in this order: a monkey paw, three pink trolls, two blue pieces of sea glass, a framed four leaf clover, a lace doily stolen from Emily Dickinson’s house, a milky marble, a sand dollar, Robert Mapplethorpe’s rose pencil, a seashell from Colonsay, and a brass shoe.

Any writing superstitions?

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I went to a Broadway play today and the playbill had an interview with  a young actor who was quoted as saying that he chooses roles based on working with people he likes and parts that will help him grow. The fuck! I choose parts based on working with people who will hurt and humiliate me, and roles that will help me regress and fill my heart with self-loathing. I’d like to play a potato, Cordelia, or Carmella Soprano. I once read that Michael Caine would look at the first and last page of a script and if his name was on the first and last page, he would take the part.

How do you choose roles?

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In truth, sunny days get me down. I love the rain. The sound, feel, light of a rain filled sky. I love to stay inside. I love to stay in my sweats. I love endless cups of coffee and baby carrots. I read for a living; why would I like sun? I don’t like the beach (except on overcast days), I don’t sail, ride, make sun salutations. I’m strictly an indoor girl. Favorite activity: going to the mall, hunting for bargains, getting Mike and Ike’s from the candy dispenser and going to a movie. Not even a good movie. I will see almost anything. I love trailers, too. The more the merrier. I pretend I’m both Siskell and Ebert and give both my thumbs a chance to praise or pass on a trailer.

Inside or outside?

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I’m just going to say it: you have a to keep a journal or a diary if you call yourself a writer. You can’t count on memory. You can’t count on anyone to remember what kind of hat she wore or what you felt about Hart Crane. I know a writer who kept a day book during her thirties. On any given day, she can consult it and see if she had her period, if she had a crush, if she learned a new song, or found treasure in the form of a biker jacket with a paisley lining, You must take notes,on pads, placemats, notebooks, the inside of your palm. You must write and write and write and write. Your arms are branches, your lungs fill and empty, your eyeliner is flawless.

Do you feel me?

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Every now and then you have one of those days when BAM you have three new book ideas. Not saying they’re good ideas. Not even saying they’re actually ideas. In all likelihood, nothing more than a derivative half thought based on nothing more than a phrase or silent fart. Still, it’s better than walking around like the living dead, which is about as close an approximation of how I amble though my life. But today I had a whole flounder of ideas and we both know that I’m not going to write any of them, that come morning I won’t even remember them, but you can’t take away that popping feeling I had crossing Tower Parkway on the way to dinner.

What do you do with your brilliant ideas?

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Today, a client asked me why I like the Emmy’s. Get to know me. I live in a perpetual award show. Have you ever seen me in an elevator? I don’t just like award ceremonies, I am an award’s speech aficionado. I came of age during you like me you really like me era. I understand what it is to spend most of your life in therapy. To want love and greatness and appreciation and spotlight. Double-sided tape and jumbo shrimp. I want to congratulate all other nominees in the category. It is such an honor. 

Who are you going to thank?

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Where do you go for feedback? Who is your best reader? Is it the person who likes your work the most or the one who gets up in your grill? Are the comments you hate the ones that are the most important to heed? (Hint: YES) Why is that most writers I know feel like arsenic has been thrown in their face when met with criticism. It’s a little like telling a parent his or her child is ugly. Of course some comments are off base, but when someone doesn’t get what’s going on it’s incumbent on you to address it.

Or what?

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I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole. I’m a genius. I’m an asshole.

How was your day?

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