My favorite part of the basking-in-my-brilliance period between writing 'The End' on a big manuscript (last Monday) and actually reading what I wrote (any time now) is pasting together a moodboard of motifs and aesthetics that fed the monster. It's been done before.
Does this have any positive effect on marketing, as teasers go? I don't care. But personally, two Keira Knightleys is one more than I need to be sold.
Cross your fingers for this one.
[Edited June 30 for new 8048 logo.]
Querida Evelyn,
Déjate de micromachismos y realidades trans, que mira que te gusta politizarlo todo, y hablemos de lo importante: MODA DE VERANO. ¿Dónde están esas tips? ¡Quiero saber!
Atentamente,
Aries apolítica
Querida Aries,
Cada año, con cada nueva estación, fans por doquier me consultan sobre las tendencias de turno, y mi respuesta es siempre la misma: lee el Vogue, W y Harper’s Bazaar; ojo a las big four (London, Milano, Paguí, Ñuyor), y sobre todo, sé tú misma. Y cada año noto que estos consejos no satisfacen a gente como tú, militantes hardcore de la moda que exigís reglas, no directrices. Entonces pienso si debería deciros que la moda es una farsa. Que los diseñadores son esclavos de sus juntas de accionistas; los costureros son esclavos, a secas; y los redactores, estilistas y fotógrafos son nepobabies o becarios de 36 años, todos los cuales viven de o con sus padres. Pienso si debería divulgar que las tendencias de verano, como cada año, fueron dictadas durante el plenilunio de mayo en un ritual secreto en la azotea del edificio de Condé Nast, por boca de las gurús supremas de la moda, trece mujeres que juntas suman tres mil años y llevan tantas vaginoplastias que sus coños ya son técnicamente palimpsestos, y que en un éxtasis de canapés y cocaína, entre espasmos y autolesiones, gritan conceptos aleatorios como “¡colores energy!”, “¡safari urbano!” o “¡bolsos con dientes!”, y unos amanuenses ciegos los escriben y envían a las revistas. Pero sé que no es lo que quieres oír, Aries. Porque tú no buscas iluminación: buscas un agarradero, un quitamiedos, una biblia, un autócrata, orden en el caos. Porque como todas las personas apolíticas, Aries, eres de derechas. Así que aquí va: Animal prints, lencería vista, transparencias, lentejuelas, grunge. De nada.
Atentamente,
Evelyn
Publicado en la revista El Jueves, Mayo 2023
Jo enllestint un manuscrit en català com si no portés sis anys picant portes a Jòlivut:
I don't particularly like xmas (this would've been "I hate xmas" ten years ago), but I do love what comes after it. The days between xmas and the end of the year do not count. They are the calendar's moral-free zone. You can do crimes. I think. Certainly you can ignore all emails, forgo all underwear, and just eat sweets and watch holiday movies till you fall asleep.
I see a lot of holiday movie lists around, but I think there are some underrepresented gems. I'm here to correct this. Also I'm here cause a 2023 wrap-up felt underwhelming. Not that I didn't write a lot. And signed some publishing contracts. Stay tuned.
Why it's xmassy: Same reason Die Hard is.
Though the premise foreshadows Bourne so accurately that Brian Cox plays the exact same role, I feel like this is an overlooked Die Hard-derivative: directed by John McTiernan (Die Harder) and with Samuel L. Jackson as the funniest out-of-depth sidekick since himself in Die Hard with a Vengeance. Geena Davis is amazing (in both roles) and she and Jackson make one of the best buddy couples to ever bicker in a car while blowing up very expensive movie sets. I love them more with every rewatch.
Why it's xmassy: Happens in the days that don't count.
Around 2005, and for several more years, I used to go to the movies every Wednesday, no matter what. And I'd watch whatever was on. This led me to see lots of movies I didn't care for, and others I've come to adore. This is one of the latter, and walking into the theater without having even glimpsed at a synopsis made it all the better. The first thirty-five minutes can be summed up as "weird shit happens to Adrien Brody". Around that 35-minute mark something happens, and you're like, "oh, so this is what this film is about". It's a feeling I try to recreate often in my work, without success, mostly cause every note-giver in this business is like, "if I don't know what i'm reading in the first five pages I'll die". Anyway. Great story with some fantastic lines, beautiful photography (I love all the random close-ups on body parts), Keira Knightley, and a loveable pre-007 Daniel Craig to boot.
Why it's xmassy: Scroogey vibes.
Ok, so this one doesn't happen on xmas. Bite me. It's a masterpiece. It's my favorite Michael Douglas, my favorite David Fincher, and it's A Christmas Carol on cocaine. Ebenezer Scrooge went through a lot that night, but he wasn't buried alive in Mexico. And at least for him it was ghosts, not a corporation that owns a skyscraper, which is truly frightening. Oh, the omens. Oh, the doom. Oh, the emotional journey.
Why it's xm--Oh.
Talk about corporations pulling the strings of magical redemption trips. Well, I like musicals. I'm that kind of person. And I've watched this one every year since it came out, so that must mean something. (It means I have a crush on Sunita Mani. Don't tell her.)
Why it's xmassy: Because of the xmas party they keep flashing back to.
Yeah, I do watch his one far more frequently than xmas happens. So what. It's a crown jewel. Back to my days of walking into movie theaters unprepared, I saw this and I felt like an idiot. It was slow, boring, I couldn't follow the plot and I understood nothing. Some time later I gave it another chance, watched it at home, pausing and going back every time I thought I'd missed something. And now it's one of my favorite films ever. Top 20. Maybe 10. Who cares. Movie good, Gary Oldman smart, Edgar like. By the time the scene above comes at the end of the film, underscored by Julio Iglesias' rendition of La Mer, I'm on my feet.
I may add a few more later, but this was already more work than I'm supposed to do on December 30th. Good afternoon. And Happy New Year.
He desfibrilado un blog que llevaba SIETE AÑOS muerto para hablar de Ibáñez. Porque el mundo estaba esperando mi opinión, creo yo.
Ibáñez y tal - soyunautorderelleno.blogspot.com
IN ENGLISH: Nah, this one really doesn't concern you.
Things are dire in Sillywriterland, but let not my everyday struggle distract me from key events. Sinéad O'Connor died today.
Enough people are glossing her legacy, so I'll speak from unfiltered subjectivity: she's in my top 3 musicians ever. I discovered her first two albums in my early 20s: literally found the LPs in the basement and waited till I was alone at my parents' to play them. They blew me away. To hell with the narrative of the one-hit-wonder; don't buy it. "Nothing compares 2 u" is an anecdote. The Lion and the Cobra is raw power; I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got is power with a flourish. The Year of the Horse (concert recorded in Amsterdam) is astounding. Those two LPs' sleeves went on to decorate my home of nine years (the European versions; Americans imposed a different photo for The Lion because the original scared them). On my first trip to NYC I listened to her the whole flight back (I was very sad to return). "It's All Good" is my fave song to play on repeat while hiking in the violet hours. I hear "John I love you" + "My Darling Child" in my head when I curl up and cry. I went to see her live in Barcelona in 2008 and sent her a book with a novella I'd written inspired by "Jackie" and translated to English for her alone. My longest comic (24 pages) is dedicated to her. If you liked The Supernatural Enhancements, know Niamh would not exist without Sinéad.
I wish to be capable of such anger and such tenderness as Sinéad O'Connor. May you rest in power. Is breá liom tú.
Yeah, sure, Benoit Blanc is awesome, but can Benoit Blanc fans do this?
@keyboardcliccks Not me remembering I had this hat only after recording every other video. #adriankimrean #zooeykimrean #ayzeekimrean #azkimrean #thisbodysnotbigenoughforbothofus #fyp ♬ original sound - hot Robbie
The Kimreanmania is alive and well. Only the chosen have it.
I finished my first original screenplay.
I may have not published any new material in years, but let this blog show I never stopped making up stuff. We die writing.
Happy Halloween! :)
SMALL PRINT: Format: PDF. Optimized for tablet or bigger. Phone's okay-ish. Free to print. *DO NOT READ ON TEXT EDITORS (WORD, G-DOCS) OR ANY APP THAT OCRs/REARRANGES TEXT; IT IS GUARANTEED TO RUIN IT.* I warned you. :)
I'm releasing a horror story this Halloween. All new. Teens and up. PDF. For free. Here.
Mètodes d'endevinació moderns, capítol n.
(Coses que vaig fer per a El Jueves, ara en català). #Ciència
I tried translating this to English, but failed: candy referents are too local. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
My last book was published four years ago today.
That was one amazing summer. This Body's first edition and the Meddling Kids
paperback came out in the same month. The photographic evidence of that
period on my phone is a stream of hotel rooms, bookstores, comic cons,
and Kimrean cosplayers. I had the time of my life.
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And then.
There is a pervasive habit of discussing a writer's success, or any artist's, by saying that they "made it". I always bridle at questions using that phrasing. First, because "making it" conveys that there is some sort of bar to be cleared separating hopefuls from achievers. That's false: like most things once believed to be binaries, success is a spectrum. And second, "making it" seems to imply that it can't be unmade. But it can. One underperforming book, a couple bad decisions, a sprinkle of bad luck, and a recession to top, and you're all the way back to struggling artist. Juggling jobs, rent, and scrambling for people's attention. In four years, I've gone back to my 25. Eat my ass, Estée Lauder.
We talk about art like it's a race. We encourage each other to never give up, never relent, until we reach some goal, but there is no goal. Summer 2018 was not my goal; it was just an extraordinarily good thing that happened to me, all the better because I got it by doing something that I would've done anyway. I still do it: I write what I like.
Forget about "making it": art is the purpose, not the means. If your purpose is to get rich, just eat richer people.
Heaven Park, the work previously known as the Disaster in Progress that was my endeavor for over four years, is not happening.
But Heaven Park is personal. Its real counterpart, the place the novel is based on, has become my perfect vacation spot much faster than Los Angeles is becoming a nice place to live in. Heaven is square one, but it's a very comfortable square one. Crawling back to die in it is not that bad a deal.
What I regret most is not being able to share it with you guys yet. But I will. It belongs to Heavenparkers already.
More images at @heaven_park_snaps
Here's a stat I've been watching for a while now: Meddling Kids just reached five thousand five-star ratings on Goodreads.
That's...amazing. I get sales reports too, but those numbers only say, "What you do works." These say, "What you do, 5,000 people love."
For context: my debut novel sold less than 1,000 copies. My second, less than 500. Put together, I doubt 5,000 people ever read them, let alone liked them. Of course I'm not comparing markets or perfomances; that would be unfair to both my country and my former self. But still: *knowing* that at least 5,000 people loved one book of mine? My heart bursts. :DAnd suddenly the video and audio smash back in. There is a jumble of flashes and cries just slow enough to follow, each scene shown from infinite angles, the echo of each voice overlapping the next. There is no coherent narrative, no story, no time sequence. There is only an illusion of time. There is a city on fire. There is a boat in the storm. There are protesters lying prone, and cops stomping their heads. There are airborne gas canisters and a masked girl with a baseball bat. There are families on the dinghy and a man at the tiller. She whacks the tear gas back over the lines and it falls through a tank’s hatch. She whacks a cop’s skull and the bloodied teeth hail on a riot shield. He steers the dinghy over a twelve-feet wave, and they don’t capsize. There’s a hobo in a public library. There are children in a stage play. The hobo’s reading Aristotle. The kids are not in school. They’re dressed as princesses and knights and laughing their asses off along with the audience. There is an old lady planting flowers in a pot; her house stands on stilts in the river. There is a girl masturbating in her bed, to nothing in particular. There is a flannel blanket; a golden toad on the window sill. There is a Chinese man in a raincoat letting go of the bicycle his son is riding. There are two blonde girls in shorts shooting photos of each other. There are daisies brushing their waists. There is a lighthouse in the background. There is a girl in hijab sitting in lotus, chatting on her phone, her smile lighting up the room. There’s a parrot saying hola in an empty lobby with celeste wallpaper. There’s a two-hundred-fifty-pound man in a locker room, astraddle a bench. There’s blood on his boxing gloves and his eyebrow. He’s sobbing. There are three corpses sitting in barber chairs. The interrogator is washing his hands. He turns from the basin to fold up his knife roll; there is a blade missing. He turns again, and now there’s a corpse missing (but not for long). There’s somebody in goggles and scarf, not an inch of skin exposed, walking through brutalist ruins to the cheers of citizens in the windows. There is a white-haired Black man slamming a domino on the table, and the onlookers go insane. There is a maid in a golden palace. There is a slob writing code in a hazy basement. There is a battle in a desert village. There is a toddler reaching for the stars above their crib. There is a Taliban firing an RPG from a minaret. There is a tear on the eye of a mannequin. There is a white woman catching the missile in midair. There is a short-haired girl in dungarees drinking beer. The white woman hurls the missile back at the assailants; bodies torn apart, bone shrapnel flies into Foxtrot’s face.
[Excerpt from Foxtrot/November — a sequel to The Supernatural Enhancements (unpublished).]
Y'all ask, I answer, this blog looks active despite the dearth of new published material.
I want to know if you’re working on any new books?
I swear I haven't stopped writing, despite what my Wikipedia page seems to imply! Sadly my upcoming novel Heaven Park has gotten stuck somewhere along the publisher's manuscript-to-book assembly line, and it's still far in the horizon. This is extra frustrating because the logjam is also preventing me from shopping around my new manuscripts, of which I have completed two since Heaven Park (one and two).
How old were you when you started learning English? And then writing in it?
I was 7-8 when I took my first lesson, and 17 when I took my last. The real learning came later, when I started reading books and watching movies and shows in the original English (in Spain all foreign media is dubbed, a practice I strongly oppose now). I started writing in English around 2004 (23 yo), but never for publication till The Supernatural Enhancements in 2011.
How do you come up with the expressions in your books? I swear I'd never heard 'borborygmic' until Meddling Kids. Is it just a process of reading more? Are there secret thesaurus tricks you know?
Thesauruses are awesome, but mostly I come across new words in books and movies. The crux of the matter is that many of those words wouldn't be exotic at all to you, but I make an effort to use them all, regardless of whether they're only new to me or merely obscure. If I only used words with which I am 100% familiar, my English vocabulary would be very limited.
Will we see the characters from Meddling Kids again?
In book form, no.
Do you see yourself writing a saga? About what? What main character / villain do you imagine for it?
I have considered (even written) loose sequels set in old universes, and I wish I could give A.Z. Kimrean a new case, but I've never envisioned a saga or a multi-part novel. My brain just can't operate at that scale. I am certain that Heaven Park is the longest story I had in me, and right now it's about 570 pages.
Bear with me, I promise it's coming.
"A spec script, also known as a speculative screenplay, is a non-commissioned and unsolicited screenplay. It is usually written by a screenwriter who hopes to have the script optioned and eventually purchased by a producer, production company, or studio."
Anyway. Today is the 10th anniversary of Vallvi—the craziest, longest, densest, most populous, and most personal book I ever wrote (pending the upcoming Heaven Park, which will beat it in all those areas).
Vallvi is also my least-read novel. And it hasn't aged well. I would never reissue it today without substantial changes to mitigate my ignorance, and still I fear it would go bad again in another ten years. In spite of that, I'm fonder of it than I am of later mistakes. That's because Vallvi was my first time addressing (albeit clumsily) questions that have haunted me for a long time: Gender. (My) masculinity. (My) sexuality. Emasculation. Self-destruction.
I was 29. I am 40 now, and I'm still figuring this shit out. I'm beginning to accept that there'll be no big epiphany at the end of the journey, so I might as well enjoy it.
Heaven Park, I'm afraid, won't contain any answers either. But it will hopefully touch more people, and provide bigger, better-aimed laughs.
And if you support anti-trans legislation or any such sort of reactionary bullshit, just know I will always save one queer kid over a thousand of you. Any day. Bring in the trolley.
Though I often scorn research, it is fun to engage in some laid-back worldbuilding and to fiddle with a few graphics before jumping into writing out an idea. Some project folders are created years before the actual text file, either cause the ideas need time to ripen, or you're too busy to get into it now, or you're just afraid of compromise. The good news is by the time you finally start writing, you already have elaborate, enigmatic puzzle pieces to show.
Para todos los que no paraban por este blog desde que está todo en inglés, un resumen rápido de lo ocurrido en "Edgar trabaja en Los Ángeles":
Found this picture in my hard drive. It was taken in New York, December 3, 2014. If you care to endure the bad image quality and my handwriting, you may recognize the passage.
These penciled bits of novels will become a thing of the past; since the pandemic began I haven't sat in a coffee shop or written anywhere but on my computer. I miss that. Miss a lot of things. New York too.
It's not often a table of contents tells so much about a work in progress, so please enjoy this one. And by the way, it's not called "Project X" anymore. Please refer to it by its chosen title.
