The weather in Boston has finally re-arrived at cold, a situation that always feels like it's right around the corner, even in July when I'm writing outside in my sports bra and cut off jean shorts summer bathrobe. As I type, I can almost see my breath, and I have no idea how to work the heating system in my apartment other than yelling at my roommate, who is not here. Perhaps I should rummage for firewood, like they (probably) do in Ansel Adams photos.  

Moving on, I get mediabistro.com's Revolving Door newsletter partially because I like to know the gossip about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism, and partially because I feel like I need to get mediabistro's newsletter, to stay "in the know" when other people ask me about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism.

Here is a semi-related convo I had this week with my friend Casey:
Me:You see the dude from Valleywag got canned, and is now just writing for Gawker?
Casey: No.
Me: Oh. But that sucks, right?
Casey: (long pause) Is this the reason you called me?

Anyway, more of my point is aimed at the fact that the traditional media world is a sad sight to behold right now. Every newsletter talks of tons and tons of cuts, and most of the quotes sound exactly like this example from the last letter, but with less religious holiday references:  "CondeNet, Conde Nast's Internet division, let go "dozens." The parent company also cancelled Christmas."

I had no idea companies could even give a thumbs up or down or holidayz! But in this sad climate, with traditional jobs being hacked and tightened and squeezed down into moderately difficult yoga poses, one has to look on the bright side or one could stay down in that position forever, and that can't be great for your back.

I, for one, realize I'm extremely lucky to have found a writing job with a company that utilizes the World Wide Netz and is actually growing, and also lucky enough to be able to complain about these things in my own blog, and complain about my own pieces in the dying art of the long form magazine. In fact, I probably shouldn't complain ever, but it would be boring if I was always so upbeat and cheerful and full of positive emoticons, and you wouldn't read my work, or my fake poems, or occasionally participate in Commenting Adventures;) And since you asked, my feeling on the changing world of writing and journalism is this: there are always going to be people who love reading, and there will always be people needed to put those words in front of them, and we just need to understand that--like any job-- adapting with the technology is part of the game, baby. More jobs are going to move to the 'Net. Big expensive magazines with big expensive ad buys to fill their pages just won't make sense, like purchasing a super-nice VCR to play your Blu-Ray discs. And the magazines that do stay afloat and remain financially viable will figure out ways to deliver info that people don't want to get on the web, like thoughtful step-back analysis and clever, semi-reported narratives about high school... 

And please, don't mistake my candor for some sort of gleeful repositioning. This sucks for me. I love magazines and newspapers and other paper-based readery. I have 14 subscriptions that I know about, and that doesn't count the Blender that gets shoved into my mailbox every so often, piggybacking onto my real mags like an annoying, spoiled preschooler. But just because I love something doesn't mean that I can't see it changing. And it'd be stupid and pointless to just wax on about the good ol' dayz... and not only because I'm 27.  I just think we're going through a painful correction, and it's going to get worse before it gets better, but in the end we're all clever, adaptable creatures, and we'll figure something out. And if we don't, we can probably just join Kim Kardashian over at Tom's place and start work on next years pumpkins. After all, I'm pretty sure he mentioned something about sodas and snacks.

Apologies for the elephantine ramble. Drop your name in the Comments to be entered into a drawing for the safe return of my ephemerality.

I find it hard,
to concentrate

Red Hot Chili Peppers

You, friends, know what time it is. It's time for the third installation of what critics have called, "kind of lazy, but definitely better than listening to you rattle on for 600 words about the HBO show True Blood," the CYCA3!

Directions: Read the graf pertaining to our protagonist Casey, and then take it in whatever way you deem necessary to extend the story, following along from the point where the person commenting above left it. And try not to spend too much time on your part or someone else may come sweeping in and post from the same place, leaving us with two Robert Frost-esque Roads to Travel Down, neither of which wants to end up less traveled.

Anyway, let's get to the real thing:
Casey is at the bar and it's packed. He moves past a crowd of girls in skinny jeans and high boots sipping 64 calorie MGD 64 or vodka sodas or both, and runs right into a pack of dudes eyeing the chicks. The guys are also wearing skinny jeans.
"Oh man," Case says, looking down at his straight leg denim, "why did she have to pick an Allston bar?"
He spots her in the corner. Aron is just under five feet tall and pretty, with green eyes and dark hair that Case describes in his diary as "raven." He starts to walk up to her, with a smile on his face, but her eyes are telling him that something is up. Then, as he gets close, her mouth does the thing that her eyes were trying to do, but better: "He's here," she says, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "And I'm pretty sure he knows."
....
AHHHHH??!! OMG! Knows what? Who is he? And why are they at a bar in Allston surrounded by people in skinny jeanz?? That, friends, is up to you... Unleash the writing hounds. 

See my,
vest

Mr. Burns

Little known fact: I was a political science major in college, friends. I had a very real interest in the science of politics, an interest that almost pushed me into the work-heavy grasp of law school, an interest that kept me from taking more than two writing classes in college, an interest that was also made more palatable by the less rigorous routes to sweet grades. Point being: I like politics. I'm interested in them. I read about them. For me, they represent a very real sociology entwined in our lives that harks back to my days of student government.

A lot of this has to do with my own pragmatic realist sense of the political arena: I love knowing specific reasons why people have strong or muted like or dislike for certain candidates, why they'll vote outside their economic interests, what actually drives them to the polls, etc, because so often these things have very little to do with cold hard factual data. And trust me, I am not judging others and claiming myself immune-- my love of words, and sweetly worded speeches often pushes me to a point of irrational exuberance, not unlike discovering a pot of gold, or a well-groomed and potentially rideable unicorn. Crafting speeches is another obsession. I have several books featuring the great speeches of all time, and nothing gets me more fired up and immersed in goosebumps than sitting down in my nightgown and cap, opening one of those heavy books, and reading some crazy rhetorical geniusocity.

Anyway, my aim is not to render some last minute crazy political speech. It is simply to say vote. Cynics tend to claim that, in reality, certain states have pre-determined outcomes bc of heavy pockets of liberal or conservative votes, and that aside from say, 8 states, what you do doesn't really matter-- but that is missing the point. There is something intensely illuminating and powerful about walking into a booth and checking a box, or coloring in an arrow or hanging a chad, and it fills me with a kind of knowing power and quiet satisfaction of being a part of the political process, however small it may be. We the people decide who run (and potentially wreck havoc on) our country, just as we the writers decide who run (and hopefully wrecks havoc) on our books, and my hope is that--no matter who you choose for either-- the resulting narrative is crazy, sexy, and undeniably cool.

Thank you for allowing me to go off like that. As a reward for your understanding, next week we'll engage in a fantastical new choose your own commenting adventure. Promise. Thoughts on what make you irrationally exuberant should be taken out of your carry on, placed on the Commenting conveyor belt in a clear plastic bag, and contain individual clauses not exceeding 2.5 oz. Happy Election Day.

Vote or,  
Die

Diddy

This week is, of course, Halloween-- our tribute to the old Celtic festival Samhain, and the appropriate time for the professions of nurse/doctor/army chick/hobbit to suddenly become intensely "sexy." A lot of you may be asking, "Kev, what particularly hilarious costume have you come up with for the festivities on ol' Hallow's Eve?" and I would reply, "Oh God, I still have no idea, why do you keep bringing this up at such inappropriate times?" Then I would Facebook message you later bc I felt guilty about the way I spoke to you.

Writing is important, friendz, and indeed the lifeline that separates this blog from, say, a blog dedicated to LOLCATZ, but the book re-writes are moving in slow and mysterious ways. Would you believe I still haven't printed out a copy of my book to read through for the re-writes? Would you consider that I thought about saying that I had, because I felt so guilty that I was letting you down? Do you see what our relationship is doing to me?

I want to say it's not my fault, but that's obviously not true-- it's quite obviously my fault, but I caught a particularly busy week at work last week, my boss was in to-- blah, blah, excuses, excuses, etc. That is the issue. It is so easy to make excuses. See? I just did it earlier, but the issue is, nobody but yourself cares, or notices... the only thing that'll change when I don't get my own writing in is my likely my mood, which'll go from light and fantastically high-spirited to dark, and close-mindedly eager to consume six packets of Swiss Miss hot chocolate (w marshmallows!) using milk instead of water. This will have to improve if I have any hope of being able to make one sided small talk with Jodi Picoult (when I inevitably run into her in the dried fruit section of Trader Joes) beyond:

"Remember when we had a column next to each other for six months or so? Crazy right??"
"Ummm... you don't by any chance want to purchase four million copies of my book? Ha! No, I mean, of course I was kidding..."
"Oh, well, that depends on what you mean by 'published'..."
"Yeah, that does make it kind of difficult. I mean, I could send it to you in PDF..."
"Oh, no, totally, I know, this has been quite an economic downturn. Maybe we should just exchange emails and I'll shoot it over to you..."
"Ok... so you're saying I just send it to: jodip@TheInternet? No dot com or dot org or anything? And that synchs up with your iPhone?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't even realize my body was blocking the exit! Anyway, it was so good to see you again! And not to be annoying but can you get it published and sold before Friday-- I've got to go to this Halloween thing, and I want to casually slip that into conversation..."
"No, Jodi. I have no idea what I'm dressing up as."

Wow. That really went much longer than expected. Jodi is quite the talker. Comments should include costume ideaz, deep thoughtz, and your honest opinion of Seven Layer "Magic" Barz. Feel free to make me feel tiny if it makes you feel tall.

There's Always Someone,
Cooler Than You

Ben Folds

Friends--a little ways back I made reference to how impossible it was to jump back into something after you've been away from it for so long, and I made a sweepingly clever reference to starting to run, and then eventually training for a marathon. That all seemed well and good when I was just writing about the idea of getting back into something, but in actual practice, I kind of hate it.

Who are these characters I wrote about? Jumping back into this was like having lived in Denmark for eight years, leaving for twenty, and trying to come back and enter a Danish spelling bee... things sounded vaguely familiar and I could remember what the main point of whatever I was trying to do was, but sub-points were lost on me, and small, less influential characters bounced off my brain like small, inexpensive Superballs. So I guess what I'm trying to say is: I can't write right now. I need to go back and read the entire book-- a briefly daunting task, but probably necessary seeing how I did write it-- and then make notes of where things need to change. And I need to print the book out, another daunting task in the age of interweb, and something I will inevitably do at my father's house.

So the best way that I can rationalize things in the age of rationalization is by saying that at least I know where I need to start, and I know what I need to do, and my fresh eyes will probably wreak editing havoc on the weakest links within my book, destroying them, and making them flee their homes where they have complacently sat in rent-controlled comfort due to my lazy managing of the space.

Please tell me you fared better or at least fared in an exactly parallel manner, giving us something to talk about waiting in line for drinkz during the Comments reception.

Scenic,
World

Beirut 

Friends--I've spent much of the last week in the girlish splendor of NorCal, out at Stanford's homecoming-- a school I didn't attend--  appropriating much more than my standard allotment of Vitamin D and feeling insanely jealous of the people that managed to trick, steal, or academically impress their way onto this campus. Moving aside the fact that I would've never been able to get in, I am 86% sure I should've gone here.

Which reminds me of a conversation I had with my dad while visiting my friend Frank at UVA Law School.
Me: Dad, UVA is ridiculously gorgeous! The senior quad has all these singles and they've each got their own firewood and Thomas Jefferson built the whole school by himself with, like, three oxen, George Washington's cherry tree axe, and--
Dad: Yes, Kevin, it is a nice school. What's your point?
Me: My point is that I probably should've gone here.
Dad: Well... if it makes you feel any better, you probably couldn't have gotten into any programs there, undergrad or grad!
Me: That...that doesn't make me feel any better. Actually that makes me fe--
Dad: I love you too son.
(Hangs up)

The good news is, I don't think about these things at all. Pushing past my inferior academic achievements, I want to talk about my book. Do you remember my book? I called it my thesis, and complained about it incessantly? It was, like, 300 pages, 220 of which weren't that bad? No?  Well, start paying attention, bc it's time to bring that sucker back out and finish up the last re-writes that my pseudo-agent-friend bugged me about twice before mentally writing me off as someone who'll never actually finish anything, which is ridiculous... Because I did finish! I defended it as my thesis! And got critiqued! And felt really overwhelmed with the work I had to do! And then I got a steady job, took on several mag stories, and pushed it to the back quadrant of my mind, the place where I keep the Red Sox starting lineup from RBI Baseball (Don Baylor!) and an alarmingly staggering amount of knowledge re: Marvel Comics from 1990-1993.

I am planning on making the proper re-writes starting next week. I am allotting two hours every morning from 8:30-10:30 to be my "finish your damn book" time. I figure I can use this time because I normally spend it riding through the Internetz on a quest to find old, hilarious That's So Raven episodes and music videos involving C&C Music Factory. I mean, I still plan on doing those things, but I'll just do them later. Anyway, consider yourself warned. Kevin is back on the novel train, pumped up to complain about it, and even more pumped up to speak about himself in third person! I will now spend the entire rest of this week thinking of clever things to title this new blog path, and utilizing the hilarious complexity involved in replacing "s's" with "z's". That, friendz, is just how Kevin rollz.

Baby Baby,
Baby

TLC

As most of you may know by now, our venerable editor-in-chief Maria Schneider is leaving the magazine to pursue other options, and I just wanted to take this opportunity to say a few words about her. Maria was the one who--as an assistant editor-- originally "discovered" me, reading my pathetic query for submission for "Writing a Literary Masterpiece" and inviting me to submit work. For years she worked as my editor, prodding and poking things in an appropriate direction and using her skills to help turn the somewhat pathetic into acceptably average, and the acceptably average into good.

As we both grew--she moving up the editorial ladder, and I in several directions at once-- our relationship became strained, mostly because the burden of dealing with me became too much to bear, as I can be arrogant, lazy, and unabashedly random, and she could be (to me, at least) infuriatingly stubborn, and the combination boiled over like a pot of water you originally wanted to make Annie's Shells in, but forgot to take off an extremely hot stove, because you passed out watching Reno 911. We moved apart as she reached the top editorial rung, taking over the editor position from our dear friend Kristin Godsey, and she smartly passed me off, which cooled our temperamental relationship and allowed us to work in a more fruitful and productive manner for the rest of our time. 

Despite our own head-butting, Maria will (and should) be missed by everyone involved with WD. She brought a deliciously wry sense of humor, a passion for books, a blunt, honest approach, and the open, intelligent mind to be welcoming to any and all new writers. She helped make and shape my writing career, and she ushered a fresher, newer, less self serious tone into the pages of the magazine. These are the pillars she has left behind, and she should feel good about them. Or--at the very least-- she should bring them up alot.

And while we're doing the farewell thing, this feels like a good time to also announce that this month's WD contains my final column within the magazine, ending my streak of columns somewhere on the sunny side of 3 years. Now don't pretend to freak out-- I will still have the weekly blog, and will occasionally contribute to the magazine-- but it just felt like a good time for us to wrap that part and for me to move on and pursue my first love-- amateur back-up Hip Hop Dancing.

So we've got a lot of semi-goodbyes. Maria, you will truly be missed, and Kevin's column, you will also be missed-- but mostly in hindsight. Now don't you all start leaving your jobs-- it looks like I'm going to need a Sugar Mama:)

Comments will be judged by accuracy, landing, and overall performance during the high bar routine.  

See Me and Julio Down,
By the Schoolyard

Paul Simon

The Fall is my prime writing time, friends. It is my favorite time of year-- you get to drink apple cider, and eat apple-based pies, and the temperature is that perfect 60ish (which is just about the only temp I don't sweat in), there is football on the TV on Sundays, the leaves start to change color, TV shows pick up their pace, movies start worrying about winning awards, publishing houses bring out their big guns, or at least their larger small guns, and my productivity goes up (unscientifically) around 67%.

I have a thing about seasons in writing. Summer is my most unproductive time, mostly because it is hot out, and people are drinking outside. I hate being holed up during the Summer and yearn to break free from the shackles of my desk/coffee shop, run around and politely ask someone to show me how kites work. Plus, because of said hot weather, the hippies tend to smell even less great.

Winter is my writing malaise season. It starts of wonderfully (snow! Christmas and/or other Winter Holidays! presents! (premium) hot chocolate!) but--at least in New England-- Winter usually decides that it might like to stay a bit longer, and so it holes up on your couch through the start of Spring, deleting the shows you TIVO'd and drinking all your (organic!) 1% milk until finally, sometime around May, you're like "Hey Winter, we need to talk."
And Winter, sitting there, eating your Barbara's Bakery Shredded Oats (organic!) cereal in its nightshirt watching reruns of Two and a Half Men, barely looks up, so you get pissed and grab it by the ear, and pull it out into the hall, and say, "Enough. You used to be cute and wonderlandy in December but now it's May. Go back to Northern Canada!" And you kind of feel bad for a sec, but I mean, give me a break.

Yeah, um, so Winter is not my fave.

Spring has its moments, of course, and it probably would exist on some similar level to Fall if WE ACTUALLY HAD A SPRING FOR MORE THAN SIX DAYS. Weather in NE goes from Winter to Summer without pausing for season station identification, and as such, doesn't truly give me the productive lengthy coolish change that I need.

But Fall, baby, that's where it's at.

Drop me your fave writing seasons in the section underfoot. After all, knowledge is power, friends.

Seasons of,
Love?

Rent

Something Kind of Suspicious (Maybe)

Welcome back to our 2nd edition of the Choose Your Own Commenting  
Adventure. As we stated with the first one, have fun with it, but also, try and  
keep your comments relatively quick, because the longer you sit  
deciding what to do, the more likely it is that someone else may come  
in and add their own amazing iambic pentameter digression from the  
same point you are. But,  honestly, just have fun. At our protagonist  
Casey's expense. Again.

Starting point:

    Casey walked into the office, pissed. This was the third time that  
it had happened this week. As he walked into the office, he noticed a  
blue car parked outside the building. The driver was wearing the same  
wraparound Oakley-style sunglasses that he'd seen on the guy sitting  
against the window at Anna's Taqueria. "Weird," Casey thought, "those  
are totally 90s." When he got back to his desk, he say a Hallmark  
card sitting open on his desk. The card had clouds on the front and a  
clever saying about puppies. The inside of the card was blank except  
for a cut out piece of computer text in Georgia 14 pt font that said,  
"We know."
    Suddenly a female voice called out from behind him, "...

WTF?!!?!?! Right? It's your move, friends. Off you go.

I hope your Labor Day weekend respite was relaxing and full of SPF 30  
lotion focused on your shoulders or higher. Before I move on to real  
time blogging  I just want to congratulate everyone on the fantastic  
outpouring for the Commenting Story Adventure. It is always a great  
sign when the number of comments is roughly equal to my score on the  
math section of the SAT. Seriously though, it was so much fun to  
read, participate and emoticize that I think we need to do a  
different type of story adventure at least once a month. Now everyone  
pause for a second and congratulate yourselves on performing so  
handsomely and go out and treat yourself to a Fribble. You earned it.

On my personal front, I have just vaguely completed a story for  
Boston Magazine that turned out to be one of the more difficult  
pieces I've ever written, and this comes from someone who once tried  
to theme an entire story around sitting in a Papa Ginos in the North  
Shore. The problem was that the piece had no natural narrative arc  
and only tangential characters who would agree to talk on the record.  
It was mostly an observation piece-- a piece about entering a world  
you haven't seen and observing the characters in it. I love these  
ideas--generally-- and this piece was ripe with observational fruit,  
but I just don't know about how it went. And I keep having dreams  
that go like this:

Me, answering the phone: Hello?
My editor: Your piece doesn't work.
Me: Why?
My editor: Because it's bad.
Enters Ms. Ash, my first grade teacher. She turns to me: What a  
letdown. Oh yeah-- and Pluto? It's not a planet. I'm retro-actively  
lowering your science grade.
Then Ms. Ash and my editor give each other fist bumps and leave on  
(separate!) motorcycles.

Regardless, I want more of you folks and less of myself. And today  
I'm interested in dreams. Like the kind you have when you're REMing.  
Does anyone else suffer from vaguely realistic dreams that either  
answer, alleviate, or make worsen real life problems when they go to  
sleep stressed? It always seems to happen to me, and then I wake  
having turned my entire body around in the bed, something that freaks  
out the general public.

Ok. Have at me. Dreams, writing, writing about dreams, or really  
specific questions about the food choices offered at the US Open.  
It's your prerogative.

Sleeping,
In

The Postal Service

When I was a wee lad of middle school angst years, I enjoyed those  
Choose Your Own Adventure books, mostly because I felt like I had  
control of the pending situation, even if I could never figure out to  
keep from shaking the branch to retrieve Carlos's backpack whilst the  
Abominable Snowman lurked around.

With that said and because it is the week before the Day of Labor,  
which means this blog will be labor intensive, I am trying something  
new here, giving you a taste of a writing exercise that you may or  
may not choose to do, enjoy, or utilize. I will start off a story and  
then pass it along to the comment section. You can continue the story  
in the comments (writing up to 4 sentences or just a single line or  
whatever you want really) but always leaving the last sentence  
partially done, so that someone can come in and pick up where you  
left off... you'll see what I mean. Anyway, this just means that you  
have to look and see what was written by the person who commented  
previously. There is potential for this to be a disaster, or a  
masterpiece, or whatever, but I always liked doing these things in  
writing workshops, and if I like it, doesn't that mean that everyone  
else has to like it as well? Anyways, this is a beta version of  
something like this, so just have fun with it, be as ridiculous as  
you want to be, and--if it's good-- I will copy and paste this into a  
word doc, claim I wrote the whole thing and submit it to the Paris  
Review.

Here we go:

"Casey didn't see her coming. He'd just arrived at the Our House for  
his blind date with Melinda and was running over the check list of  
things he wanted to talk about  (her work, hobbies, whether or not  
she enjoyed scary movies or better yet Scary Movie, and anything that  
would lead back to him talking about bench pressing) when he felt  
someone sneak up behind him and squeeze his sides. He turned around  
and..."

Yeah, so the first person to comment start by finishing this stellar  
sentence and then go on for a few, and leave it hanging for the next  
person... and we'll keep going until we figure out just what got real  
with Casey's blind date adventure.

I'm literally nervous (for Case). Songs of 1996 ensue.

Give me one,
reason

Tracy Chapman

Lake Tahoe, friends. That's the spot that hep people call the bee's knees. The place looks like Lake George on steroids--all muscular mountain peaks, blue-green lakes, and people seemingly unaffected by my acquisition of a (white!) iPhone. There is something about beautiful spaces, about nature really stepping up its game, that makes me want to write in a philosophic and pseudo-moralistic way, even if I only stayed there for 26 hours. I have no doubt that--if I lived in Tahoe-- I would exclusively write fuzzy, confusing short(ish) poems about the need to recycle cars. Something to this effect:

Judgment will rain Down from
The green heavens on
Your SUV, especially
Because It only Takes Premium
Gas.
No, I know I'm in
an Audi  
(but it's a sedan)

Can you believe I just came up with that poem right here, sitting in a car, driving through a city I want to call Sacramento? But honestly, the more I think about this, the more I think I'm onto something. Do you think that your writing style is reflective of your habitat? For example, do you think that I write in a pseudo-snarked, semi-cynical sarcastic tone because I live in a city that has no spring and lots of people wearing skinny jeans? Or do you think I write like that because I am just afraid that earnestness will make me vulnerable to well-timed verbal snipes via my Facebook wall? My opinion is that everyone has a certain style that they feel most comfortable in, but that the place where you express that style influences your tone in subtle ways. Let me put it another way: if the same writer, same talent, same style, same ideas, etc, lived in San Diego and Fargo, ND, would he/she write differently? And how do you think things would change?

... Is this too general to be applied in any relevant manner? Maybe. But that is why you are here, friends. You take my questions, turn them into answers, and we then, in turn, make those into writing world laws. That is why the Internets are so powerful.

Anyway, the world awaits your dropping of knowledge, friends. I will check in as a move all over the Pacific NW, and fill you in on all the hip fads those Near-Canadians utilize.

Life is,
A Highway

Tom Cochrane