I had t-shirts with iron-on Federation insignia, I once wore pointed ears to school, and (even though my father told me it was unmanly) I had a poster of Spock on my wall. I made Star Trek models, I went to the Air and Space Museum to see the Enterprise, and I could raise my eyebrow at age 5. My mom blamed him for the nerd I became, and she was right. Thank you for shaping my life, Leonard Nimoy, and for making me feel less alone in my weirdness. Every time the sky is blue I will think of you.
In high school my friends had a punk band called Prep H. They mostly played for fun, but I was easily persuaded to host a punk party where they could perform publicly one Saturday night. For the show they placed a round poster board sign in the opening of the bass drum, with their name hastily drawn in crude colored marker. It wasn’t much of a sign, but no matter. They were a band, and bands put signs in their bass drums.
I have easy digital tools so my signage was cleaner, but I am no more a web designer than my friends were drum painters. No matter. I am a writer so of course I have a website.
And a feed and a blog and, if I am smart, a presence. (I’m getting smarter.)
Writing today is a performing art. I don’t mean in the sense of Harlan Ellison’s instructive gimmicks, writing full stories in bookstore windows over an eight-hour day, but an ongoing habitual performance. I’m not just talking about a good voice for readings and trimming those eyebrows for a photo. We need to write the copy for our stories and books, not just the text inside them; we need to think about cover art and head shots; we need to blog and tweet and post and make ourselves present as more than reviews in newspapers and spines on shelves. We need to get out there. We need to be public.
It is a reality that most of us are unprepared for. Continue reading