Spoiler Alert: Jesus was Killed, but then Resurrected

Wrapping up my Having Touched the Face of God Tour, I had a few days to kill before embarking on my Manifest Destiny Tour.  In the brief interim, I attended the Wisconsin Book Festival, and was left with a lasting impression concerning the matter of spoilers.

Spoiler Alert: I love spoilers.  Does the Old Man get the fish?  Does Luke kill Vader?  Does Juliet get Romeo? Does Seabiscuit win?  Oh, do tell.

J'accuse

Under the shadow of a "milwaukee blogger's" accusation that she had a tendency to give too much away, author Daphne Beal expressed nervousness about reading an excerpt from the latter half of her novel.  Was this an effort to connect with the audience?  Did she suffer from outsized self-importance?  Did she think this little nervous act cute?

No to all.  Unlike me, she had faced that loose confederacy roaming reading festivals, their hatred over the spoliation of novels equaled only by their desire for the opportunity to be indignant.  I only had to wait another day.

Disclosure

I am a book festival virgin.  Being touched for the very first time, I felt something thaw out that had been scared and cold.

Interesting side comment

The Wisconsin Book Festival concocts a theme for each panel of readers, attempting to link what a sane person would identify as disparate novels: loving and leaving the Tri-State Area; railroads and sexual mores in the 19th century; when predator becomes prey, and vice-versa. These themes proved to be as arbitrary as they were useless.

It was a clear Sunday afternoon . . . 

. . . when I biked over to the Orpheum Theatre to see CJ Hribal.  I expected a tribal-like gathering.  I had yet to see a turnout that would rival that of a Rocky Horror Picture Show matinee.  The auditorium, however, was packed and pungent - reminiscent of Longs Drugs on Senior Tuesday.  Folk smoldered over my not being there a half-hour early.

The "theme" was How Ya Gonna Keep 'em Down on the Farm?  I am not from real America. But authors CJ Gribal and Michael Perry seemed cut from the Jeffersonian mold: they sought an undistracted inner life and found answers sprout from cultivating the land.  A commanding presence, CJ Hribal offered up an affecting piece on the inevitability of injuring those we love. Michael Perry's account of farming life was like drinking hot cocoa on a wet day.

If the third author had lived on a farm, he had left and never looked back.  I looked down at my packet.  David Wroblewski.  My eyes widened.  "Oprah's latest author."

To hushed intensity, Mr. Wroblewski began reading a chapter written from the point of view of a dog.  I liked Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, and even The Trouble with Tuck - where a dog was a dog and loved for being a dog.  But something was wrong.  This dog, was, well, politically correct.

One cannot write for Oprah and expect to be chosen.  But one can write for Oprah.  It is no secret Oprah loves dogs.  And because of Oprah, dogs are better off.  And because of Oprah, so was Mr. Wroblewski.  Well, I thought, woof, woof, woof.

Calling Mr. Wroblewski

All questions in the swollen auditorium were for Mr. Wroblewski.  He had made the trip into a dog's consciousness.  He had been to the mountaintop.  Speak, diviner of dog thoughts!

He talked of inspiration.  His parents had purchased a farm, failed at farming, and turned to kennels.  "So," he says, "I grew up around dogs [insert thoughtful pause] dogs that, well, weren't necessarily obedient."  Oooohs, uhhhs, and mmms of deeply felt satisfaction followed this profundity.

Where was Werner Herzog?

I wished for Werner Herzog to emerge, like a dark angel: "you give much to zees dog of yours, no?  When I look into zee eyes of a dog, I see ze love for meat.  Appetite, Mr. Wroblewski, appetite, defines nature.  And zees dog of yours iz no exception.  Your dog, it wants meat."

"But!" someone would scream.  "My dog cares for me!"

"No!" would boom Mr. Herzog.  "You are nothing but a purveyor of meat!"

But Herzog did not show, and, as the insightful CJ Hribal and Michael Perry shrunk into the shadows, the dogs ran wild.  What, you might be asking, does this have to do with spoilers?  Relax.  I don't want to spoil the surprise.

Torches and pitchforks

Mr. Wroblewski was a master of the demographic.  "After years of being away, I finally, wherever I go, proudly identify myself as a Midwesterner."  Subdued hysteria particular to the Midwest ensued.  Most did not hear his whispered caveat, "where appropriate."

Mr. Wroblewski was flying as high as Icarus when a woman raised her hand.

"What," she asked, "happens to the dog?"  A tsunami of grumbles suggesting impending violence rose up around the woman.  I looked for an exit.

"Who," he asked, playing with fire, "doesn't want me to answer that?"  The arms of the agitated reached for the sky, some holding up two hands to over-represent the crushing majority.

"Don't answer that question!" commanded a lady, serious as the plague.

"I," he said courageously, "have never been a fan of spoilers."  People clapped and hooted as Molotov cocktails were returned to Farmers' Market satchels.

What I would say if I wanted to die by way of mob

If, I wanted to ask audience members, I told you that you were going to die, would that make your life not worth living?  One doesn't go to church and say, I know Jesus died . . . can we hear something else?  If knowing the cliff notes of a book really ruins the book, I suggest the book isn't worth reading.  And if you attend a reading, then it should be at your own risk.  And if that doesn't make you feel better . . . just remember, old books are like old friends.

To conclude

Does the Old Man get the fish?  He gets respect.  Does Juliet get Romeo?  She did at first glance.  Does Luke kill Vader?  Vader killed Vader.  Does Seabiscuit win?  Wondering whether Seabisquit might lose is like wondering whether Bond gets the girl.

Photos: Werner Herzog (romiphoto)

Product Placement

Yesterday, it just teed me off when an audience member asked me if it was true that I permitted product placement in my novel.  I was in Portland, Oregon, where it's against the law, apparently, to make a buck and have fun doing it.

Okay, So What If I Did?

My marketing team and I in fact have negotiated the placement of product in my novel.  We believe that pursuing this revenue stream will provide critical financial support for literary novels, and at the same time permit the targeting of consumers, who, until now, were tragiclly insulated from advertisers.

For the record, I take offense when product interferes with entertainment.  I tired, for example, of Bond neurotically checking his Sony Ericsson in Casino Royale - and though we can all agree it is a superior phone* - his fidgeting dependence was not consistent with 007's character.

*Anyone purchasing a Sony Ericsson X-Fighter2000 who says, "I read save a wretch like me (Ion Meyn's upcoming novel)," will receive 200 weekend minutes, absolutely free.

We worked hard to seamlessly embed commercial messages into the story without compromising narrative.  In an effort to be transparent, to quiet skepticism, and to commemorate this momentous occasion, we have selected a few excerpts that highlight select sponsors.

Powerbar and Ford Motor Company.  Less fuel, more horsepower.

It was over in a second.  Harris heard something pop under the hood, the engine seized up, and he wrestled his car to the side of the road.  A moment later, the only sound was the cooling tick of the dead motor.

He scanned the life-hating horizon.  Mars had nothing on East Texas.  Who would help him?  This deathscape was made for a postal worker with dead hookers in the trunk.  He would be the next installment of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  He looked over at his Chevy and dropped his head.

Something was moving on the horizon.  Shielding his eyes, he watched a truck disappear and then emerge again, every time a bit closer.  As the truck closed in on Harris and slowed, he saw the silhouette of a ten-gallon hat.  Shit, thought Harris, I don't speak cowboy.

"Need a lift, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Git on in.  I reckon going any direction is better than settin' here."

"Yes, sir."  Harris shut the door.  The cabin hummed with the reassuring throb of a Ford engine, built tough.  Built to last. 

"Hungry?"

"I won't lie."

"I got a PowerBar in the glove compartment.  Don't worry about the Glock.  Safety's on."

Caramel Cookie never tasted so good.  He felt safe.  For now.

KB Homes.  We put the fab in prefab.

After moving from Los Angeles to Memphis, nothing looked or felt like home.  Nothing.

"You," said their real estate agent, Bram Pupkin, "are suffering from the Goldilocks syndrome."

Pupkin's words laid on her like a lead blanket.  She lost hope.  No we can't, she said.  Not now.  Not this time.  Not anytime.  Hope, she thought, was an empty word.  The arc of human history did not bend at all.  There was no fierce urgency of now.  There was only the way it was always going to be.

They waited for the gate to open.  Bluffside Development.  Pupkin had called the day before.  "A new listing, Goldilocks.  Two words," he said.  "KB Homes."

The cobblestone, aesthetically and physically jarred her out of her slumber.  The bungalow styling transported her back home, to Santa Monica.  She heard the ocean, thousands of miles away, crash against the shore.  Maybe, she thought, maybe this will work out after all.  On that sun-licked day, happy for the first time in a long time, she could not anticipate the tragedy stalking her.  A tragedy, of course, that had nothing to do with KB Home's great tradition of craftsmanship and quality.  They signed papers that evening.

StairMaster.  We bring the stairs to you.

"Can you meet me at the gym tonight?"

"If you wear that little half-shirt of yours."

"My little one-track Jack."

This was one of her tactics.  To infantilize him.  He rose to her expectations and goaded her further.  "So why do you hide that body of yours?"

"Our conceptions of public property differ."

"How about a private showing?"

"See you at 7:30."

He stared at the stacks of paper on his desk.  Life, he thought, is fucking hell.  He imagined the approaching gym session unfold:

Cathy begins her workout with a warm-up on the StairMaster.  Jack secures the neighboring machine.  He exaggerates his strides.  His wife ignores him.  This encourages him.  He races towards the finish line.  His machine starts to whine.  His magazine falls to the floor.  He draws stares.  At full sprint, he narrates the last seconds of their race to a place in Olympic history.  Taking a relaxed victory lap, he acknowledges the valiant effort by his worthy opponent.  Another chapter closed in the epic story of two living legends, trading victories, pushing each other further, leaving the rest of the world to watch in awe.  She tells him that his erratic pace only burns muscle, not fat.  Despite his Olympic win, he feels defeat.

After the worse-than-he-imagined gym session, he sped home.  Still, he was fortified; he knew, deep in his stronger heart, that his use of the StairMaster had given him the victory of health . . . and no one, not even Cathy, could take that away from him.