I'm trying to find my identity.
Normally, I'd throw in a joke there about how I know I had it here a minute ago, and it must have slipped under the desk chair, but I'm not kidding about this. A writer needs to establish an identity, a niche, a brand, for him/herself, and at the moment, I'm not 100% sure what mine is, or what I want it to be.
I started out in the publishing business--and it seems a long time ago, but it's less than ten years--knowing exactly what I wanted to be. I'd be the guy who made you laugh, the Groucho Marx of mystery publishing, but with heart. So the Aaron Tucker mysteries were all about wisecracks and attitude, but also about the trials and tribulations of trying to raise a family under what were always difficult circumstances.
When the Double Feature series sold to Berkley, the mission was roughly the same: Deliver mystery and laughs, but keep the characters real and have them struggle with their lives the way everyone else does. So Elliot Freed had an impossible business he'd chosen to run, an ex-wife for whom he still carried a torch, and the respect of pretty much nobody. But he'd prevail because he was a wisecracking New Jerseyan, and we ride to victory on waves of sarcasm here in the Garden State.
I was fond of all six books in those series, and still am, surprisingly enough. This week I had cause to look back on some of my old screenplays--the ones I thought I'd really nailed--and was horrified that they were not that much better than the ones my first-year screenwriting students turn in. It was, to say the least, an eye-opening experience, but more about that another time. The books I can read today and still be proud of each for something or another.
But the sad truth is, they didn't catch on with enough readers, and so both series came to an end (although there will also be Aaron Tucker news coming up shortly, but I can't say anything just yet, and no, there's no new book on the way). That's the way of the market, and you can't go door-to-door and tell people they're wrong for not buying your books. For one thing, you end up far from home, and for another, they still don't buy your books.
So that leaves me with a conundrum: If people don't want to buy the books from the identity I've established in the marketplace, and I want to keep being paid to write books, what are my options? To change my identity?
It's not as weird a notion as it might sound. While I do worship at the altar of comedy and believe it's a strength of mine, it's not all there is to me. I can write other kinds of stories. But I can't afford to build a new identity and have it end up with the fate of the first one. There are people who live with me who insist on going to college, not to mention the occasional bill to pay, and I'd make the world's worst mechanic, so on we go.
The trick is to identify the parts of my personality that could be tapped for a writing persona, then decide which ones might actually be marketable, and then figure out whether or not I have a story to tell (or hopefully more than one) in those voices.
So, who am I? It's an open question, and a bizarre existential one. Or is "bizarre existential" redundant?
I'll keep you up to date on who I am as soon as I figure it out.
LP-to-Digital update: Where were we? Oh yes. We'd gotten so far as Loggins and Messina. A career that could be easily assessed if one listens only to their first album, Sittin' In, and their Greatest Hits collection. Other than that, a lot of long, pointless jams in songs that don't deserve them (there is, on the live collection, I'm not kidding, a 20-minute version of "Vahevala" that does not in any way expand the original, which lasted about four or five). Some catchy stuff, some long slogs.
On to the Lovin' Spoonful, and underrated band as long as Sebastian and Zal were in charge. A unique sound, an unusual point of view. Nothing terribly deep and introspective, and that's perfectly fine with me.
Then came the equally overlooked Nick Lowe, who knows how to be revolutionary and please a crowd at the same time, no small feat. Nice stuff, perhaps not suited to playing an entire career in sequence, but once the albums are digitized, there is no need to do so. "Half A Boy And Half A Man" is a real stomper.
The Mamas and Papas were an interesting quartet that had some good songs and some not good songs, and sometimes sounded like they were all so interested in yelling at each other that it became uncomfortable to hear. Fleetwood Mac before there was Fleetwood Mac. Nicely crafted pop songs, and my god, Cass Elliot could sing.
A strange Greatest Hits/Documentary combination, "A Gathering Of Flowers," which I picked up for $1.99 sometime in the Seventies, includes interviews with John Phillips and Cass, as well as chatter from the studio and different versions of existing songs. Fascinating, weird and entertaining. Just like the band. Good luck finding it on CD or Mp3, by the way.
I'm pretty sure Melissa Manchester sounded like either Harold Melvin or the Blue Notes, but I can't be sure.
Then, there was the sublime AND the ridiculous together: The two-disc live set An Evening With Groucho. The Carnegie Hall show from the Seventies, when the legend was resurrected and turned out to be a little old man. Some fantastic stories, the occasional flash of the unmatched timing (like when Groucho, whose voice in his mid-eighties was admittedly weak, asks the audience whether they can hear him, is told they can't, and opines, "Well, you're not missing anything."), and some embarrassing moments, often when Groucho tries to sing, accompanied by a then-unknown Marvin Hamlisch. It's worth every awkward moment to hear the event itself, and to relish what was an unparalleled comic genius. It evokes every possible emotion.
Now, onto Sir Paul McCartney. This might take a while.
On the off chance that you comment and expect a reply: My daughter is undergoing surgery on her knee today, and I will be at the hospital. Not sure if the surgical waiting room has WiFi. It's not that I don't care about your comment. It's that I care more about my daughter.
