Novel Work

Finally sending my novel out. Let's see how onboard literary agents are with a 140,000+ word debut. I figure, best case scenario: "This is brilliant." Worst-case scenario: "I hate this so much that I say we put a price on his head and remove this uneducated dickhead from the world." See ya'll on the front page or in the grave.

My New Book Idea

You may have recently noticed that this thing is kind of popular...

...which is why I've started work on my book of these:

See you on the bestsellers' list, America!

I Wrote A Screenplay - "West Coast"

Well, I done did it. I wrote a screenplay.

I wrote almost all of it during lunch breaks at work and in between reading books before bed over the course of a year. I mostly just added conversations here and there and a few important scenes along the way before connecting the dots. Finally, they came together and told a cohesive story. Given the standard ratio that each page equals a minute, my movie should be a little over two hours long. Also, given the fact that there are no explosions or deaths in my screenplay, that's probably as long as it should be.

For now, it's called West Coast. It's about Tim, a twenty-something writer type from Southern California who is now just floating along in New York City. He has a roommate he hates and a job he doesn't mind. In most cases, he shows a devoted mix of apathy and excitement. After a few spring flings, he drives across the country with his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend to attend the wedding of an old college buddy in the outskirts of San Francisco. Along the way, Tim learns that his ex-girlfriend, the once great love of his life, will be in attendance with her boyfriend and it drives him to reconsider where he's at in life and what he wants out of it.

Also, I'm sure that anything with a main character described as above ("a twenty-something writer type from Southern California") can make this sound like a thinly veiled autobiography, but nobody in the story is really based off anybody. It's just easier to write what you know sometimes, and I know what it's like to be a twenty-something writer type from Southern California. However, some random aspects of my life make they're way into the narrative (Liz's lakeside wedding in Northern California, Chris and my plan to move to New York, the six-legged cow at the fabled Prairie Dog Town I visited with Grant in Kansas, et cetera). That kind of stuff made its way into the tale, but it's a kooky grab-bag of life experiences.

So...let's say it's a dramedy. And let's also say that "dramedy" is a stupid word. Anyway, it's got some jokes, some arguments and the following lines:

• "Eh. I have a New York state of mind and a California heart. And maybe a Washington, DC conscience."
• "In Soviet Russia, your body wants me."
• "I'm not Garrison Keillor, you dickhead. I don't have all these fucking anecdotes about my freewheeling youth."

See you at the theaters, everybody!

My Friends And I Filmed A Ransom Video

Our friend Blake loves the movie Drive. I mean, he loves the hell out of it. He also has the most impressive Blu-Ray collection I've ever seen. And he and I do some fun, goofy shit-talking on the basketball court on Sunday mornings. So, naturally, when he invited us all over for a party at his house, my first thought was, "I should steal his copy of Drive."

After informing Rex of my plan after basketball one Wednesday evening, the idea evolved. Rex suggested that we replace the movie with a Twilight Blu-Ray (which remains the only Blu-Ray that Rex owns for some reason). Later, this came to involve Scott and Lil' Chase, and it became a big, hilarious project. I showed up late to the party with Grant, and the movie had already been lifted and replaced by the time I even arrived.

So, the next day, on a wonderfully sunny afternoon, Scott, Rex, Grant and myself gathered at Lil' Chase's house to partake in drinking some whiskey and filming a ransom video.

Fast forward two weeks.

Last night, coming home from an evening out, Blake just wanted to watch Drive (oh, how he loves that movie)...only to discover the Twilight Blu-ray inside the Drive case instead. Needless to say, he was livid. Today is his day off and he still just wants to watch Drive. After sending us all a threatening Facebook message (as he somehow guessed it was us immediately), someone named "Blake" (same name, same birthday, same profile picture) asked to be his friend on Facebook. Blake accepted the friend request and then "Blake" posted the ransom video at the top.

This morning, I received this message from Blake: "I'm literally going to kill you. Enjoy your last 48 hours on earth."

So I shall.

What's that? Oh, yes, we're all in our mid-to-late 20s. But, hey, why ever stop having fun?

Steve Billion And His Wonderful Irony

I don't know when, I don't know what it'll be about, but, one day, I'll write a short story called "Steven Billion And His Wonderful Irony."

A Working Man

Well, after a month of horrifying debauchery and self-indulgence that only a fat stoned king would consider good fun, I'm a working man again! Thanks to my buddy Katy (who got me out of writing boring articles in college, who I then made join Automaton City, which ended up scoring her a book deal, so maybe we're almost even?) and her dedicated to charity work for local idiots, as well as the stellar words of Non, James, Chris and Nicole, I'm now a project manager at Column Five Media in Newport Beach. Woo!

I Wrote A Novel

Well...it's finally done.

I finished writing my novel last Friday afternoon. Two years and 600 pages later, I now feel slightly less full of shit.

This, of course, is a huge relief, because when I start something, there's always a good chance I'm not actually going to finish it. So I did and now I'm reading it from start to finish for the first time and I recognize a huge difference in tone and tempo between the first and last chapter.

I mean, it makes sense. I literally wrote this book all over the place.

I first started writing it on a cliff in Mexico, which turned out to be the prologue. Then I wrote the opening two chapters when we were moving out of our party house in Orange. That summer, I wrote about eight chapters while goofing off in Seattle. I wrote four or five chapters while trying to figure out my life in Austin. Then I wrote ten chapters as a working stiff in Irvine. Finally, I took an indefinite leave of absence and moved onto other projects when I hit writer's block, but I came back this spring to finish the last few chapters in Los Angeles on my corporate lunch breaks.

Though I've been continually working on the book for two years (not consistently or constantly, however), I haven't really mentioned it on too many occasions. Sure, several of my close friends were aware that I was writing a book, but we never talked about it in great detail really (except for Chris, who is sort of my unpaid editor). And, sure, I discussed it with friends that have written or are writing books (Celeste, Non, Jason, Alex, etc) to compare experiences and encourage each other.

But, very earlier on, I felt the risk of becoming "the guy who's indefinitely writing a book" (just like the guy who has a great idea for a movie and will one day write the screenplay and the the guy who is always playing music but not making any). After enough times, someone is bound to say, "Hey, shouldn't you be done by now?" And, naturally, the writer would fly into a blind, murderous rage (even thought people should call you on your shit). So, now that it's done and I've told everyone, I've found myself in conversations about my book recently and it seems strange.

People want to read it, people want to know about it and people want to know what's next. My friends are very supportive, as this could all be one really crazy book of nonsense, like some epic saga about robot gigolos and the fembots who love them.

I've started at least five novels. Most of them didn't make it past the third chapter (though they may one day). Back then, I told people I was writing a book (oh, I was so proud). These days, though, I feel like the reaction should be more "oh my god, finally" instead "hey, congrats, man."

Hmmm.

I don't really know what the point of all this was. It's mostly just to say that I've been lying to you all since I was 16. I've written a lot over the past ten years. But I was in a high school classroom when I told my friends that I wanted to write books. I was in college when I told a friend that I just wanted to finish a book. And it was only a year ago when I told someone that I just wanted to finish this book.

Well, everyone, I'm telling you the truth now. I swear I'm a writer and I've got 600 pages to prove it.

Finally.

Jake Kilroy for Publication in 2011!

Do you know how sick I am of not bathing in champagne? Well, I'll tell you, I'm pretty effin' sick of it. I take showers in water and all the while I think, "Hey, what the hell is this? Water?" It is water. And fuck that. Fuck that forever. No more, I say!

I am hereby announcing my candidacy for publication.

Yes, people, I wasn't sure we'd get here either, but today is a day for you to mark on your calendars with the words "finally" and "fuck yeah."

Now, publication is a long way off, but I have faith in us. Well, I mostly have faith in you. My faith in me is touch-and-go. But, when I'm on, I am on, people. Why, just today, I looked up literary agents. Sure, there are naysayers out there who say, "Jake, that's not enough. In fact, just looking them up isn't nearly the same thing as sending it to them." To those people, I say, "Who are you and why are you reading my blog?"

The road will not be easy, but I've been down this road before. When I was 20, I spent the summer drunk on rum in swimming trunks wearing a sombrero and sending out book proposals. I haven't sent out a book proposal since and I don't often wear sombreros these days. I think my head is too fat. But I march on!

About a year and a half ago, I started a novel. In three months, I wrote ten chapters that I really liked. Then it took me a year to write another ten chapters that I loved. I returned to that novel last Saturday and, let me tell you...I wrote like some idiot savant. I reread what I wrote as an unemployed shit-for-brains and it was at least eight times better than what I was writing Saturday. Can I tell you something? It didn't feel good. Actually, it made me furious. So, at the public library, with the mutants and the dorks, I put away the story I once loved like an honor roll student and played Tetris online instead.

I once wanted a bumper sticker that said, "I'm the proud creator of a Faulker Awarded novel at Haper Collins." And now? Well, now, I'm angry at that son of a bitch novel. I'm close to being done, but it needs work and editing, and rewriting 120,000 words (with three chapters left to go) seems like a lot to do.

And I want to be rich now. Not a year from now. Now ten years from now. NOW. I want to spit in somebody's face and then give them a hundred dollars just to mellow the fuck out TODAY. Well, maybe tomorrow. I have things to do today.

Shit, I don't even really have things to do today. But I would if I were wealthy, I bet.

In December, I realized that I had writer's block. Maybe I still have it. Either way, my novel was being kind of a dickhead to me and I didn't want to put up with that shit. So I moved on, at least for a little while. In January, I wrote a television pilot. In February, I wrote a children's novel. In March...who knows? Maybe I'll start freelancing suicide notes. I don't know! I'm not trying to win the future here. I can barely even tell you what I'll be doing in a month (though, again, hopefully, it will be bathing in champagne...maybe with a few famous actresses, I don't know!).

I'll try these new projects out while also working on my new main focus: a collection of essays, poems, stories, etc. For now, as I don't have a title, so let's call it...Working Title. Its contents are already written on this blog. So, honestly, all I have to do now is just send out query letters and finally get mail that isn't bills. I'm going see where this takes me (Hollywood or the moon, nobody really knows).

All I know is that I want money. I want to move out of my parents' house so I can stop telling hot chicks at bars, "Hey, let's go to your place. My mansion is still being renovated."

I want to eat at Pho America all the time and be on an airplane at least once a month. I want to upgrade to the two-disc Netflix account and I want to people to understand what I do for a living. In fact, I'd like to understand what I do for a living. I want to own more than one belt too. I also want to people to say, "That guy, Jake...he's going places. Right now...I think it's to Club Awesome" (hopefully, that's a place by then). I'm no longer interested in sending out an essay to east coast literary magazines and waiting eight months to hear that I'm "uneducated" or "mentally disfigured." I want to send out the collection of my 50 best/better/pretty good/decent pieces (aka Working Title) to a shit-ton of literary agents that will get back to me within two or three months. I think I may have a shot at this. And, if I don't, then all it cost me was the price of postage and my dignity.

And both of those are pretty goddamn cheap.

Jake Kilroy for Publication in 2011!