Reading is Good for You

I’m alone in an enclosed cubicle not much bigger than an old-fashioned phone booth, trying to simulate the sound of a giant hamster farting. This, after impersonating an eight-year old boy, a Midwestern phone operator, a military general, and an eccentric scientist responsible for said flatulating giant hamster. 

Volunteering doesn’t get much better than this. 

I’m at the Hollywood offices of Learning Ally, a national not-for-profit organization devoted to providing support and recorded texts for those with reading challenges. It was founded in 1948 under the name Recording for the Blind, where it originally made audio recordings of college textbooks for GI’s who had been blinded in the war. Years later it broadened its scope and became known as Recording for the Blind & Dyslexic, and then, as its clientele grew to include all those with reading challenges, RB&D ditched the ampersands and rechristened itself Learning Ally. If you have difficulties processing the printed word, you can sign up for membership and download books with accompanying audio. 

Does your text look like this when you read, even when you're not drunk? Then you might have a print disability. 

Jesse at Command Central

I’ve been volunteering there about once a week for the last few months. The space is not by any stretch glamorous, unless you consider Soviet-era office spaces glamorous. The narrow hallways, worn carpeting and gray walls have been made even more forlorn by recent cutbacks and the advent of home recording, which have decimated the staff and left behind clusters of abandoned conference rooms and offices. Of the two remaining staff members, the one I see most is Jesse: stalwart, vigilant, mellow Jesse, caretaker of all those empty rooms and recording booths. He reminds me of a park ranger posted at some remote wilderness way station, scanning for forest fires. It is Jesse who manages the different projects,  instructs the volunteers, and tinkers with the aging recording equipment.

I love this place. 

I don’t know what it is, but I can’t wait to come. Maybe it’s my inner librarian who loves to read aloud. Perhaps it’s the opportunity to stretch out my voiceover skills without any pressure. Or maybe it’s the chance to help out my fellow man without having to, you know, actually talk to anyone. Whatever the reason, for an introverted reader like myself this is the best possible volunteering situation possible. 

No they are not tanning beds. They are recording booths. 

When I arrive for my two-hour shift it’s usually me, Jesse, and the usual contingent of old-timers: graying, husky-voiced, exacting veterans, many of them with more than twenty years under their belts. I give a wave to Jesse, pass the plate of cookies  by the coffee machine, and make my solitary way downstairs to the booths, where I run my own sound equipment and direct myself. There are plenty of textbooks they need read, but because of my younger-sounding voice and experience I have so far been assigned fiction for kids. Believe me, I don’t mind missing out  on intermediate algebra or real estate law. And for a voiceover actor, it is a wonderful way to hone your studio work. 

There is a constant deadline— some of these books are meted out chapter by chapter, as soon as they are done, for students who need them in class. We need to be swift, but accurate. For those who aren’t into reading aloud, there are still plenty of volunteering opportunities: marking textbooks into“scripts,” checking files already recorded and editing any mistakes. Tasks perfect for you anal-attentive completists out there. It’s all really low key but very satisfying.

There are offices of Learning Ally across the country, if you’ve a mind to volunteer. And if there’s not one near you? Judging from the decor and cutbacks, I’m guessing the organization could use some bucks this holiday season. Why not drop them a few bones? 

And if you have a kid who could use this kind of service? Go to Learning Ally and sign up for their services. They have a huge catalogue of books with audio synchronized to the text. And if you're browsing their library, be sure to check out “Monstrous Stories #2: Attack of the Giant Hamster” by Paul Harrison. My little paw prints are all over that sucker. 

Have a happy holiday! See you in the New Year!

A Geekly Paradise

Had my first taste (a small one, admittedly) of geek celebrity-hood this past weekend— was part of a panel at Blizzcon, the gamer convention for Blizzard Entertainment. Those of you who play Diablo or Warcraft or StarCraft will be well familiar with this online multi-player company; everyone else will be completely in the dark. I spent my youth rolling twelve-sided dice and plotting magic dungeons on graph paper in my friends' living rooms: these are my people. 

Dungeons & Dragons, writ large 

I went in expecting it to be like Comicon, but smaller; it is, in fact, nothing like Comicon at all, but in a good way. There's a lot less splashiness— no product placements, not a lot of costly, no flashy A-list celebrities and movie tie-in swag. There's no corporate synergy going on, because it's all about one company. The celebrities are the game artists and developers, who are for the most part uniformly Asian, uniformed in black t-shirts and jeans. The big draw are the banks of computers—three parking lots worth of them— where you can sit and play the "campaigns" with and against all of those people around you. It looks like a vast war room, but with mages and blood elves and clerics on the screens. There was pure and unadulterated geeky goodness going on at the Anaheim Convention Center.

I was invited to be part of their first voice talent panel, along with some of my World of Warcraft compadres, very esteemed voice actors all. 

I'm a pretty recent addition to WOW— I play a warrior Panda (no, not Po) named Taran Zhu in the Expansion Pack "Mist of Panderia." Here's an earful of what I do:

I'm the Panda Pandaren who comes in at about 1:00.

I think that most of the audience had a hard time reconciling that growly character with the reedy-voiced, bespectacled man on the stage, and, I have to admit, I'm always a bit surprised myself. 

That ugly ginormous brute with whom I fight? Here he is in the flesh;

Patrick Seitz, a kind and gentle man, who specializes in throat-shredding monster voices and doesn't even cough up blood afterwards!

The panel was fun. I got to sit next to the estimable Keone Young, fellow Pandaren and essential guest star on "True Blood" and "Deadwood."  

We talked, did a Q&A, and signed autographs. I picked up my autographed poster, bought a stuffed panda and made my way into the darkness of the gaming floor—once a geek, always a geek.

Adventures in Publishing: The Ecstasy and the Agony

"And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-end of my days and ways

And how should I presume?"

—T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

It is real, folks. I'm hitched. I've just signed my publishing contract with St. Martin's Press. Still Life Las Vegas in Spring 2015— book clubs forming now! Nothing thrills the soul more than thirty pages of legalese in which your name is referred to as "Author." Nothing like it. I read every paragraph and sub-paragraph, excluded territories and all. It was a real page-turner; looking forward to a sequel!

After such wonderful confirmation, is there anything that could possibly knock me from such a giddy height? Ah, enter the Knight of Mirrors, galloping in from an email attachment sent by my editor: the Author Questionnaire. Such an innocous title— the Author Questionnaire— how could it inspire so much pain? The Author Questionnaire sounds like it might be some lovely time filler, a whimsical series of questions that might grace the back of Parade Magazine, next to Marilyn Savant's Mensa quizzes.

Instead, it's a soul-flaying survey of your life. Ostensibly, the Author Questionnaire is a series of questions about you and your book that the publicity department will use to position you in an overcrowded literary marketplace. What about your life can they can use to sell you—er, me (see, I'm deflecting already) to a public who is not related to you me. Who do I know? What have I done? Who can review my book or say something glowing about me?

Oh, it's enough to make an inveterate introvert

"No, I have not yet updated my status… the winters, they are long."

burst into flame. My misanthropic tendencies have been laid bare. Is "Social Hermit who lives in Cave and Forages for Acorns" a helpful attribute? Apparently not. Moreover, the negative space surrounding my meagre answers make me keenly aware of all the things I meant to have done by now, but haven't. Conferences? Twitter Feeds? Uh…soon...

What the heck have I been doing? Important things! Here are some of my most recent crowning achievements:

• Reached level 36 on "Simpsons: Tapped Out" on my iPad (that's the HIGHEST level)

How could THIS be a waste of time? Look at the urban planning! 

• Received the prestigious Parent Ambassador Plaque at my son's 

elementary school, for OCD Library Reshelving above and beyond duty

• Completed the Friday NYT crossword puzzle in 14:10 minutes

• Gold Founders Circle Membership at Arclight Cinemas (hey, a free popcorn upgrade 

EVERY TIME and a complimentary birthday ticket!)

• Can recite half of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Animated by Christopher Scott. Read by the author himself. 
I know, it's an abridged version, don't get all hatin'...

• World Record for shortest recorded time attending a social function, in and out: 
23.5 minutes, INCLUDING drive time (Guinness confirmation pending)

• Three punches away from a free frozen yogurt at at Menchies 

• Have I mentioned that level 36 is the highest level in "Simpsons: Tapped Out"?

I await the Pulitzer Committee's call.

Bibidi-bobidi-boo

I will keep this short, and it is oh, so sweet:

I'm living in some kind of Disney fairy tale right now, where dreams do come true.
My book, Still Life Las Vegas, has been picked up for publication.
It happened so quickly I'm still slightly delirious. Deliciously delirious. My most excellent agent Christopher Schelling sent my manuscript out after Labor Day and, after a brief flurry of activity, I met my Prince Charming, embodied by one Sara Goodman from St. Martin's Press. She made an offer, we accepted, and, voilà, I've crossed a threshold.

My book's going to be published! St. Martin's Press!

If this is a dream, please, do not wake me. Ever.

Morning Most Excellent and Fair

There was, oddly, no sleeping last night. I'd doze for a couple of hours, then gradually find myself awake again. In and out, in and out. It wasn't the heat, it wasn't caffeine, it wasn't a snoring husband (for a change). It felt like the sleeplessness that comes the night before the first day of a big shoot, or a new job. It was only upon awakening that I realized what was keeping me in a state of perpetual anticipation: Today was The Day.

My book, Still Life Las Vegas, is being sent out into the world. At last. 

Let me backtrack three months:

We had temporary custody of two boys, schoolmates of Ben, whose lives had been uprooted precipitously with the sudden (and continued) incarceration of their mother. For seven weeks we had been witnesses and agents of their dismantled lives. Every day we took up the tools of destruction: giving away a dog, packing up an evicted household, prison visits, custody hearings, DCFS visits, selling and disposing of their worldly possessions. All the while trying to give them some semblance of stability during their last days of school. Weeks of anxiety and grief visited upon these small boys. The devastation was complete; we had done the best we could to make the fall as gentle as possible, but given the height, it was impossible for it not to injure, and scar.

Our day-to-day lives got put on hold. Existing in constant crisis sweeps most of your to-do's out the window. I had the welcome respite of voiceover jobs, but there was very little meditation, almost no exercise, and creative writing? Except for the notes of the day, my output was almost non-existent. My last act on that front had been the day before the boys came into our house, when I submitted my manuscript to an agent whose name I came across on a gay news website. He had just married the author Augusten Burroughs, and on a whim, I cold-queried him. Then the maelstrom flew in, and I completely forgot about it. 

We moved the boys to their new foster home the Saturday after school ended. The next day, Benj and I traveled to Santa Fe for a long-planned visit with my sister and her family. It was a hard transition. We were both a little shell-shocked. The first night in the tranquil house I found it impossible to sleep, partly kept up by the pervasive heat and my flailing, teeth-grinding son next to me in bed, but mostly because of an all-encompassing desire for flight. I needed to get up, get going, Do Something. Living on survival mode, remaining in constant vigilance  for almost two months, I was so on edge that even the sound of the tinkling koi pond outside my room kept shifting into the murmur of boys' voices, threatening war.

"I'd be thrilled to take you on as a client and be given the chance to sell this."

My cellphone had spotty service up in the pristine mountains where my sister lives; the wifi, practically nonexistent—the price you pay for paradise, I guess. My phone finally kicked in during preparation for breakfast the next morning. And there it was, in my email inbox, a letter from that same agent I had queried weeks before:

"I'd be thrilled to take you on as a client and be given the chance to sell this."

He liked my book. A lot. He had some notes, none of them dire, and he had questions, but he definitely wanted to represent me. I had to read the email in parts; I was in such a frazzled state I didn't want to contaminate the letter. Never before had there been such a clear demarcation between phases of my life. Here, here, this has ended, and now, here you are, your new direction. Come along. Finding an agent is only one early part in a long, unsure journey, but it came at exactly the time I needed it most.

The agent and I have had a invigorating string of communications since. He's worked with me on some revisions of the book, all of them for the better. My illustrator Sungyoon Choi gracefully contributed more artwork to tie everything together, and it's ready to go. He's sending it out to publishers today. Fingers crossed, shall we?

The night after the good news in Santa Fe, we slept on the roof of the house to watch a predicted meteor shower. It was cold and cloudy, but I was awake at 2:30 in the morning when the clouds finally shredded and drifted away. What was left was night sky and a clear view of countless constellations. It was glorious. That night, I saw three shooting stars and Sagittarius, my birth sign, rearing up over the horizon.