Rick Kleffel talks with Jeff VanderMeer.

Also, Gwenda offers a thumb’s up for Shriek.

After twenty-two years of hard labor, my 1,468-page experimental novel, Dan Buys a Sofa on the Installment Plan, has received a total of one review — a 300 word blurb written by Cletus Garfield in the Penny Saver, who declared “quite possibly the worst book to take a crap to.” I have since learned that a San Francisco writer may have ghosted this review, but thankfully another San Francisco writer — someone referred to as a “blogger,” who I presume is some kind of German dancer — has permitted me the space to express my grief, with the proviso that my byline includes the nickname “Sore,” which he tells me is Hungarian for “sublime.”

It’s petty and unreasonable for authors to dispute this kind of reception. But since Michael Laser has demonstrated that there is a market for sour grapes, I, Michael Loser, must also join the chorus. Besides, expending energies to whine is better than paying some quack three hundred dollars an hour and, if I play my cards right, I might just get Salon to buy this piece too.

I had high hopes that readers would see my clear homage to Celine, beginning with the way I used “installment plan” in the title and consistently referred to “installment plan” in my work. Consider this excerpt from Page 432:

Dan installed himself on the installed sofa and picked up his guitar, which he had also purchased on the installment plan. He strummed D minor and, five minutes later, he had penned a ballad: “Installment plan / I’m living on the installment plan / I’m breathing on the installment plan / Have you got an installment plan too?” Tunes came easily for Dan. He had a five-subject notebook filled with fresh ballads and had often bartered his ballads away for other home furnishings. A few burly furniture store owners had agreed to an installment plan deal, in which Dan would offer his ballads piecemeal for tables, armoires and chiffoniers — a grandstanding installment plan that would include installation. Could they not see his latent talent? Would he ever compose a masterpiece? Or was he leading up to it with these songs, all of them written on the installment plan?

If Mr. Garfield could not see the clear metaphors and imagery here about how we are all, in some sense, living on the “installment plan,” if he can’t supplicate upon my genius and if readers, in turn, cannot see the true valor of my words, then I may just have to slice my wrists.

Then again, if Salon accepts this piece (and given its history, I am certain they will), then I may just find life worth living after all. I might even be a Great American Writer. After all, writing is all about the roses they throw you at the dais.

I am now working on a second novel called The End of Dan’s Sofa, which was inspired by the great A.M. Homes book and deals with a sofa cruelly ejected from Dan’s apartment, taking up residence in a jail cell, where the sofa strikes up a correspondence with an abandoned Windsor chair.

If the reading public cannot understand the human condition through Installment Plan, then perhaps exploring the consciousness of furniture is the next best thing.

For the moment, I just want an intelligent review. I just want a sale. I just want a hug.

Love me. I’m fragile.

It’s been said several times already, but I feel the need to point out that I am not a spokesman, no matter how much beer, nickel bags, or underwear you send me.

I’m responding to the suggestion put forth by various folks in Josh Getlin’s article, which chronicles the often desperate ploys used by publishers to generate title awareness. Let’s get a few things straight:

1. If you send me a book, I am under no obligation to like it.
2. If you send me a book, I am under no obligation to read it.
3. If you send me a book, I am under no obligation to review it.
4. If you send me a link to some soiree, I am under no obligation to mention it or attend it.
5. If an author comes through town, I am under no obligation to interview her.

(I am, however, under the obligation to acknowledge thoughts and various sweet snacks from other journalists and, as I can, various readers. This is what is known as “breaking bread” in the real world, a concept lost upon poor Sammy Boy.)

Of course, ask nicely, tickle my fancy, and consult the secret “How to Communicate with Ed Champion” pamphlet now making the rounds in certain publishing circles and you may just find a way to twist my arm.

Likewise, I also understand that authors and publishers are under no obligation to accommodate me. But I do appreciate their position and try to respond to any and all pitches and/or queries that come my way.

What does that make me? A very strange media outlet? Perhaps. An opinionated one with esoteric references, a highly subjective approach, and bad puns. Sure!

But none of this makes me (or, for that matter, any of my blogging companions) a marketing tool. In fact, I regularly say no to very nice people and still feel bad for doing so. My time is limited. But this is not marketing. This is a form of opinion journalism.

I think it’s important to lay down a distinction between one who loves books and one who markets books. I love books. No question. I love books so much that I’m often a vocal skeptic about them. But if you want to ensure that your book gets a rave, send it to Harriet Klausner, not me. Of course, your guaranteed plaudit comes at a cost. After all, is there anyone who really takes Klausner’s reviews seriously?

• Historian Frederic Wakeman has passed away.
• Prognostication has begun for the next round of Nobels.
• The Cleveland Plain Dealer‘s Karen R. Long talks with Alison Bechdel.
• Maud Newton reviews Aminatta Forna’s Ancestor Stones.
• Scott wonders if giving Murakami the Frank O’Connor Prize was a way to build up the award’s reputation.
• David Orr returns to the NYTBR‘s pages and takes on Stephen Fry’s poetry.
• Peter Lurie’s “The Rush to Judgment” (via wood s lot)
• Matt Cheney, Jeff VanderMeer and Ann VanderMeer seek your recommendations for The Best American Fantasy.
• The Telegraph has printed excerpts from Michael Palin’s 1976 diaries. Lots of inside dirt, including a surprise revelation that Graham Chapman was into ichthyophilia, but no fish slapping dance.
• Roald Dahl’s 5 Books to Take to a New Planet. (via So Many Books)
• Colin Burrow has an interesting article on John Donne and literary biography.
• The difficulties of food critics photographing meals. Given low light conditions and the need for a flash, there is nothing surreptitious in taking out a camera and snapping your red snapper. These critics may as well paint their faces, wear a neon polyster suit, and scream, “I am a food critic and I can write this off!” just after being served the meal.
• Publisher L. Gordon Crovitz on the new WSJ: “The product span of this Journal is not going to be 50 years. It´s not going to be 10 years. It’ll be closer to 5, or maybe closer to 2 or 3.”
• Also from Editor & Publisher: It looks like the Gray Lady underreported the “Gettysburgh” Address. The Times regrets the error.
• Gnarls Barkley, “Gone Daddy Gone.” Crazed animated fleas and more.
• CultureSpace on Olivier Assayas.
• Miss Manners meets casual sex?
• Publishers target bloggers, in part because they publish too many books and can get more of a guarantee from them. Then again, if you’re getting an inarticulate response from a MySpace page, is this really a good way to go about publicizing? (via Bookninja)
• Pictures from The Golden Encyclopedia. (via The Beat)
• Terry Teachout on YouTube.
• An interesting inner-city London reading campaign.

New York Post: “Thomas Pynchon, the legendarily reclusive author of such celebrated novels as ‘V,’ ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ and ‘The Crying of Lot 49,’ has a XXX-rated skeleton in the family closet – his brainy niece stars in and directs hard-core porn flicks.” (via Maud)

I am having fun in Wisconsin. Or am I? You make the call.

One would think that flying out 2,000 miles would have been good for at least a little more than hello. However, having a Y chormosome and somehow being in attendance at Laura Lippman‘s bachelorette party (along with other men), I’m sure there were extenuating circumstances. Upon entering the party, several ellipitical layers of people were seated and standing around a circle of couches. I was, I suppose, an unexpected mosquito planting himself on the outer epidermis, with Ms. Lippman herself protected by a group of loyal queen bees quaffing swank beverages.

Undaunted, I wrote a note to Ms. Lippman, expressing my congratulations, with at least one adept witticism and the hope that I might engage in a brief chit-chat of no more than two minutes. The note was conveyed from one hand to another to another, and eventually Ms. Lippman read the note and cocked her head left and right for this mysterious “Ed Champion.” I offered a broad smile and an inaccurate though heartfelt form of semaphore. But this, however, was not enough. Ms. Lippman soon became deeply embroiled in a conversation that caused her to raise her forehad in excitement. And very soon, I was contriving a strategy with a few mystery authors on how to deliver ourselves into the inner circle.

I gave up rather quickly on this exercise. I was not, after all, at a cotillion dance. And the mystery writers abandoned me without notice. And not long after, the snappy dirty martini I had imbibed had reached the micturition phase. I fled to the restroom and, while waiting in line, the one and only Laura Lippman and friend had reached a similar stage. And I was able to throw myself forward and make Ms. Lippman’s acquaintance, while considering the vagaries of her bladder. Upon our respective descents from the bathroom, there then began a rather fey descant and pretty soon I was being steered into the inner circle, where I was being urged to meet everybody, heaven knows why.

I am not a person to boast, but I could not let this fast-track delivery into the inner circle go unobserved by the mystery authors who had abandoned me without notice. But I decided instead to take the high road that evening, thinking of the disreputable long-term path I could follow in the morning by mentioning all this on my blog.

But let this tale serve as a parable. The public restroom cannot be underestimated. Indeed, one might declare it the great social equalizer.

Sarah Weinman stars in a Miller Lite commercial.

There was a needless post here that has since been removed.

While working on something tonight, some synaptic associative charge kicked in and I recalled a commentator named Wayne Shannon. The name probably means nothing to you if you didn’t grow up in the Bay Area twenty some odd years ago, but Shannon was a smug, wry, and roly-poly guy in his late forties with a graying moptop who appeared frequently on KRON Evening News in the 1980s, offering commentaries at the tail end of the program laced with acid barbs that questioned everything and everybody. Shannon was one of those bear-like guys that local television stations tended to employ. A guy who employed common sense arguments to mock the many things in life. Including, as I recall, Jim and Tammy Bakker.

I don’t know if Shannon was all that witty of a commentator, but his exuberance had, for whatever reason, made an impression upon my brain. And I tried Googling him to see if he was still around, only to find almost no traces of his existence. Not a single person had cobbled together old videotapes. Not a single person remembered him. It was as if he had never existed.

I had hoped that Google would permit me to corroborate my memories. Here was a guy who, even if he was a minor television personality, likely entertained millions of people not more than twenty years ago and not a single one of these people thought to memorialize him. For all I know, I might be the first person to remark upon his existence.

And it occurred to me that the Internet is not all that great of a resource after all. Perhaps there really is a need for us to chronicle our cultural minutiae. After all, if the newspapers are giong to hide behind paywalls, allowing articles to disappear within weeks, then it might just be up to us to recall what they had to say. But is our commentary really a reliable record? Is our subjective viewpoint really presenting the situation well? Should we not be writing up more objective reports?

Another thing that’s troubling me: Why should I be using Google to confirm my memories? Why should I believe it to be the ultimate oracle when I could call KRON up and see if I could obtain some videotapes or ask what became of Shannon? When I can go back and search through old microfilms?

(Aside: Wayne Shannon did exist. I did not hallucinate him. He left KRON in 1988 when news director Herb Dudnick became tired of his essays and he tried to negotiate a new deal unsuccessfully. Perhaps he pissed too many people off. He resurfaced on CNBC, but how long he lasted, who can say?)

And here again, I find myself needing to confirm my memory against something. Even a few fleeting facts that still don’t tell the whole story.

A few years ago, I had a short-lived blog called Raising Caen, in which I read Herb Caen’s old columns, starting from 1938, and tried to see if there was any trace of any of the people or places he referenced online. No surprise. Most of them had disappeared. Major stores such as the Martha Washington Candy Shop chain, remembered fondly for its vanilla butter cream coated with dark chocolate, were unmemorialized. (More references can be found here.)

The point of all this is that, if you run a blog, you have a duty to remain curious about all sorts of things. You have a duty to present some element or representation of the truth that others might be able to jump off from or that, at least, permits them to read between the lines. A subject like Wayne Shannon may have seemed banal twenty years ago, but today, as I ponder if the man’s alive or dead and contemplate whether my own favorable response to him might have influenced me in some way, I would have been grateful for some online mention. Now it appears I’ll have to do some considerable footwork.

Is this journalism? Not exactly. But bloggers are, in their own strange way, keeping historical records. While I might go to the library to look up Wayne Shannon, I’m guessing that the general public would remain lazy about this. Perhaps, more than we realize, it’s up to us to do a better job.

[2008 UPDATE: You can now listen to a podcast interview with Wayne Shannon.]

[2012 UPDATE: Wayne Shannon has passed away. Here are my memories of befriending him, and here is a 21 clip video salute.]

Words to consider.

USA Today: “A rare copy of Danish philosopher Soeren Kierkegaard’s famed book, Either/Or, will be sold at auction later this year, a Copenhagen auction house said Tuesday.”

New York Times: “When filming of ‘Tennessee’ was pushed back indefinitely, she began a regimen of exercise and healthy diet to loose the weight. ‘People think it’s impossible to lose this much weight, but it’s not,’ she said. ‘Everyone can do it; you just have to be really disciplined and want it.’ She’s now working on a weight loss book and DVD.”

Tricia Sullivan, the author of the fascinating and underrated novel Maul (which I read a year and a half ago in its UK edition and which Night Shade Books, bless its heart, picked up for American release), has a LiveJournal.

Well, if this is the kind of goodness that inspires people, then I’m supremely honored and astonished to be your muse, Patricia. (Thanks for the tip, Lauren!)

While we’re on the subject of blog importance, however inflated, I agree in the main with Lauren Beckham Falcone’s article. Blogs provide fresh and original voices online, but it takes something truly special and distinguished to connect a blogger-turned-author with a broader readership. I think Ana Marie Cox’s book tanked because there simply wasn’t a market for Animal House-style political satire. It was the book, stupid.

But I also believe Cox’s hype kinda killed it. Nobody cared about how cute or charismatic Cox was (just as they didn’t when Jay McInerney was thrown all the publicity money for The Good Life, which also tanked). And the book didn’t sell, despite Cox receiving something in the range of five New York Times articles (along with ancillary media attention that most authors would kill for) during the week the book was released.

But, more simply put, this was not a book that interested people outside of Washington and New York wonks.

What matters most of all is voice, and whether a voice can connect to a significant readership.
I find it curious that Pamela Ribon’s success was unnoted (and, as she told me recently, is generally unobserved). Her first novel, Why Girls Are Weird, sold because she was able to communicate topics to people in a fresh and interesting way. Her blog helped, but ultimately it was about the book connecting with an audience.

This doesn’t suggest that writing books should be entirely about connecting with mainstream audiences and, of course, all this is idle conjecture on a Sunday afternoon. I’m certainly no marketing expert. But I should point out that, for publishers who believe that quirky voices don’t sell or connect with an audience, Mark Z. Danielewski’s Only Revolutions hit #13 this week on the New York Times bestselling list — observed yesterday by John Freeman.

It all boils down to this:

1) Write book that connects with audience
2) ?
3) PROFIT!

[Video.] [Summary.] Sad.

Milwaukee Journal Sentinel: “Jim Schinneller did not request to run a photo of the back of his head with his death notice in Sunday’s paper. But he was asking for it, his son said, after a lifetime of making people laugh and challenging them to rethink what’s normal.”

Media Dates: “You’ve stumbled across the right place if you want to meet someone special. Someone sparky and interesting, with shared interests and an insatiable craving for industry gossip; with an intimate understanding of impossible deadlines and a more than occasional need to work unsocial hours. In short, a Media Mate! So, don’t waste time: the sooner you create your personal profile, the sooner you’ll meet interesting new people – it’s absolutely free to register and browse.”

Hi, I’m Maureen! I’m 54, have red hair, and I don’t believe men are necessary these days. However, I’m willing to give them a second chance!

Likes: Shopping with Michi & Alessandra!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (They’re single and looking TOO!!!!) Michi: BEST FRIEND FOREVER!

Pet peeves: George Bush, nuanced political arguments, Judy Miller, and those pesky copy editors who want to change my brilliant words. How dare they!

Seeking like-minded columnist for long walks on the beach, bitter polemics, and new nicknames for White House figures. Your pic gets mine!

(via Books Inq.)

The Artist Only Known as Condalmo takes a cue from the Grossman interview. There are earth-shattering revelations! Earth-shattering!

In an effort to bridge the gap between print and online media, I’ve decided to put together a lengthy white paper. I’ll be presenting this at a forthcoming journalism conference that shall, for the moment, remain unnamed. I’ve assembled the following preliminary sources for my work. If anyone has any additional sources that might prove useful, I would greatly appreciate it!

Aikman, Troy. Once a Cowboy, Always a Cowboy. New York: Viking, 2005.

Bitchslapping Society of America. Current U.S. Bitchslapping Trends: 1990-2000. Peoria, IL: BSA Press, 2001.

—. A Guide to Bitchslapping: Being Humiliated While Keeping Your Dignity. Peoria, IL: BSA Press, 1994.

Brooks, David. Something Liberal to Bitch About: The Complete New York Times Columns Volume 1. New York: Random House, 2006.

Champion, Edward. “The Columnist Who Loathed Me.” Harper’s, November 2006, p. 32.

Freeman, John. “I’ve Had Enough of These Damn Bloggers,” Cleveland Plain-Dealer, October 4, 2006, B2.

Miller, Laura. Not Just a Salon Book Reviewer. Brooklyn: Soft Skull Press, 2006.

Terrier, Jack. Pardon Me, Would You Happen to Have a Grey Soupcon? Communicating with the Opposition. New York: Henry Holt & Company, 2003.

Wigglebottom, Patricia, Room for More Cream, San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1994.

Stephen Elliott: “This is an erotica reading, in a sex shop. You can buy books and lubes and things you may or may not want to admit to using. Everybody is planning on reading something very graphic. This may or may not be your cup of tea. I hope that doesn’t scare you off. It’s going to be fun. In addition to erotic stories there’ll be beer and cookies.”

So let me get this straight. One should be tantalized by attending an erotica reading and buying lubes, only to be intimidated by people “reading something very graphic” (in my experience, and I’ve attended a lot of shows and a lot of readings, 95% of all shock art usually amounts to loutish and soulless performance art). One should be thrown off guard, but not scared off. Oh, and there’s beer and cookies for potential converts.

This sounds like an event organized by a man incapable of making up his mind. Either an event along these lines is intended to be brash and/or unapologetically sex-positive or it’s toned down a bit to invite a curious mainstream crowd.

[NOTE: Since there has apparently been some misunderstanding, the post title is a deliberate misspelling, a reference to a grammatical flub uttered by Bush in the first Bush-Kerry 2004 presidential debate.]