Sean Ferrell

I hate Project Glass.

2012-04-05T00:31:54Z

:11 Of course this is a guy who wears flip flops around his apartment.

:12 And wakes up at 9 AM. The only time I get to wake up at 9AM is if I set my clocks to London time.

:12 And his itinerary pops up! Between 9 AM and 6:30 PM he has nothing in his itinerary. I can see why he needed a set of expensive computer eyewear with a full and complicated life filled with the tensions of waking up and seeing "Jess Tonight." I hope he remembers to take his afternoon nap, even though it's not on his schedule.

:17 Yeah, he's got a lovely view of the city. What could make it better than having pop up images showing the time and temperature? And I'm sure the weather info on that is much more helpful than, oh, I don't know, looking out the window and seeing how people are dressed. People are stupid. They're not computers.

:20 You know what I love more than moaning while I eat an egg sandwich? Having a maniacal picture of my maniacal friend pop up in front of me unexpectedly. I look forward to seeing people in public ducking for no reason, or accidentally stepping into traffic. Wonder what the time and tempera-oh a car!

:30 Setting up appointments the way God intended: without any actual conversation.

:44 So not only was he going to take a subway to travel a total of 11 blocks, but he needs a map to tell him to basically "walk West." If his batteries die en route he'll drown in the Hudson.

:59 "Remind me to buy tickets for Monsieur Gayno tonight... because I've got such a full day, what with waking up and meeting Jess in nine-and-half hours that I can't call about tickets on my phone RIGHT NOW."

:59 I'm not halfway through this thing and I want to get appendicitis.

1:06 He just asked for directions to a section of a bookstore.

1:07 He just asked for directions to a section of a bookstore!

1:08 He needed a map and a computer to find a section of a bookstore.

1:13 The ukulele players I know are far too smart to buy into Project Glass.

1:18 No more wondering "Where is that person I'm stalking." With Project Glass you can have your ~~victim~~ friends ~~in your sights~~ on hand at all times.

1:23 Maniacal friend arrives.

1:31 "Hey just a second, I know we agreed to meet so we could ostensibly socialize, but I'd rather become awkwardly silent and look like I'm staring at a food truck's tire while I "check in" with a social networking app."

1:39 Maniacal friend leaves. Why only 16 seconds of interaction? I'm betting Maniacal Friend didn't want to be seen in public with Project Flip Flops.

1:41 His glasses never told him to shower, so I'm betting he's filthy.

1:54 "Oh, I'm running late." For... for Jess? He had nothing to do for 570 minutes and he's late.

2:20 And his "meeting" with Jess is a video chat. The video ends, sadly, before Project Glass turns into Project Homemade Sextape. Whatever happened to ignoring someone you care about in person?

A game of sevens.

2012-03-30T13:43:31Z

So the lovely and talented Bill Cameron tagged me. I am duty-bound to do the following:

Word is, there's a writer's meme going around the blogosphere. It's called The Lucky 7 Game, and it's basically a game of writerly tag. If you're tagged, you have to do the following:

1) Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript
2) Go to line 7
3) Copy down the next seven lines/sentences as they are - no cheating
4) Tag 7 other authors

As I said, I am duty-bound. However, I'm also tired and cranky and hungry, so while I'm happy to share my work here, I'm going to have to come back for my own tagging. I hope I'm forgiven as I crawl under my kitchen table and gnaw on a bone or four. In the meantime, I invite anyone who wishes to join in this game to consider themselves tagged and put a link to their site in the comments. I'll gladly update this post to include your link in the main body later on.

From my current work...

This stack he carried to the window overlooking the front yard. This was the telescope's window. A stool sat nearby. He laid the books on the floor, took the topmost book and climbed the stool. From this seat he could see the valley below the house, the trees and hedges, the roads and path. Through the telescope he could see the city and port, the buildings and ships, the comings and goings. From the books he could see all and everything else.

If great classics had been written today.

2012-03-28T16:52:12Z

@ me Ishmael. ~ Moby Dick

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in advertising. ~ Pride and Prejudice

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father friended him on Facebook. ~ 100 Years of Solitude

Bella, light of my life, fire of my shimmery loins. ~ Lolita

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is eventually on reality television. ~ Anna Karenina

[Redacted by editor] ~ Finnegan's Wake

Dollar Shave Club.

2012-03-07T18:57:11Z

I've waited my entire life for an ad like this.

(And according to the LA Times, this is real.)

So true.

2012-02-16T20:48:47Z

Sean Ferrell http://www.byseanferrell.com

The internet is now complete.

2012-02-16T17:50:14Z

Go ahead and shut it down.

stereo skifcha from xgabberx on Vimeo.

The Inaccurate Hall of Presidents

2012-02-09T01:50:37Z

Sean Ferrell http://www.byseanferrell.com

Two Men Have Words: Continuity Errors

2012-02-02T14:53:03Z

Sean Ferrell http://www.byseanferrell.com

Jeff Somers probably doesn't remember doing any of this.

2012-01-23T14:04:44Z

http://youtu.be/yEw_JspovZM

"The Writer Never Arrives" at Nova Ren Suma's Distraction No. 99

2012-01-13T14:04:30Z

I was very honored when Nova Ren Suma invited me to be a guest-blogger at her brilliant Distraction No. 99 website. Go there to read my post, "The Writer Never Arrives."

Homer Simpson's The Illiad.

2012-01-04T15:42:41Z

The opening stanza...

Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus' son... what's his name. You know who I'm talking about. The weird kid with the bum ankle. Achy...something. Achy-us. Close enough... So, sing about Achy's anger and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians... That can't be right, can it? Achy and Achaians. Weren't they a doo-wop band? Hee Hee Hee. Doo-wop. So, anywho , those guys were hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting of dogs, of all birds, and... mmmm, feasting of dogs... where was I? Oh, right and the will of Zeus, though he wasn't Christian, was accomplished since that time when first there stood in long-division of conflict Atreus's son, but lo what is the deal with these names, they can't be right can they?

(Inspired by a tweet by @deadwhiteguys.)

Do something. Do anything.

2011-12-15T16:55:40Z

Sean Ferrell http://www.byseanferrell.com

"Pathetic email."

2011-12-10T01:54:35Z

That was the subject line on an email I received this afternoon from a wonderfully talented writer friend. The writing hasn't been going well, she wrote, and there are great big question marks made of doubts settling around her, and she's feeling small. I've been mulling over her email since I received it. She wrote looking for encouragement and I hope that this post is that encouragement, but more than that I hope this post is encouragement for me as well and any other writers who are feeling small because we all take our turns at it.

Strangely, or maybe not, my first thought after reading the email was of Piglet in "The House At Pooh Corner." It's a book that leaves me in a puddle, especially the chapter "In Which Eeyore Finds the Wolery and Owl Moves Into It." Owl's tree house has blown down in a storm, and everyone is looking for a new home for him. Eeyore thinks that he has found just the spot, but it turns out to be Piglet's house. Piglet, still on a high from having had a song written about his heroism during the storm's aftermath, stands before his home, the smallest of all Christopher Robin's friends, and becomes the biggest.

And then Piglet did a Noble Thing, and he did it in a sort of dream, while he was thinking of all the wonderful words Pooh had hummed about him.
"Yes, it's just the house for Owl," he said grandly. "And I hope he'll be very happy in it." And then he gulped twice, because he had been very happy in it himself.

He does this thing because it is the thing to do and he is the one to do it. He does it because no one else can. And in that moment he overcomes every trembling fearful thing he's ever done. If only for that moment he steps out of his past, and even out of the heroic saga Pooh has written about him, and he moves into a space of his own making.

That is what I think of this writer, and anyone who tries to hollow out a part of themselves so that they can give a home to people who don't exist in a physical sense but exist in a very hard and uncomfortable emotional sense. It's not easy giving them a home, a safe place to be themselves, and it will often destroy us in the process. I think it's supposed to. After completing a book you won't be the person you were before trying to write it, not if you've done it right. There's real fear in that, and we're all small before that task, to clear out enough of yourself so they can move in, and to do it not with accolades or rewards but for the honest truth that it has to be done and who else will do it. You're supposed to be scared. The fact you are feeling small means you're in the right place: it means you care. If you didn't care it would have no power over you. Pay a bill, do you care what color the ink on the check is? Write a story, and you need the right journal, or the perfect seat in the coffee shop, or your special pen, or, or, or... Caring gives the work power over you, and it's not afraid to use it. Let it. Get off your outline, you'll find your way back. Repeat yourself, write in circles, let your characters lack depth. That's what revisions are for. I'm neck deep in rewrites for Man in the Empty Suit, and my editor has the audacity, the temerity, to point out that I have repeatedly had characters walk up and down stairs thousands of times. They've climbed an empire of Empire State buildings. She dares (dares!) point out that the verb "push" appears to be the only verb I know. Thank God I have her, my editor. Thank God I have everyone who has ever looked at this book, because without them the repeated phrases, half-baked ideas, over-used descriptions, misguided plot points, and inconsistent characterizations (and names) would haunt the work and drag it under. I held my nose and wrote the damn thing. Now I get to rewrite it with their help, and you, Small Writer, will find that if you hold your little nose for a while and revel in being pathetic that you'll finish too, and then you can take a deep breath and realize that you've stepped out of every fearful moment a writer endures and stepped into the knowledge that you did that Noble Thing.

Go ahead and be small. I hope you feel small and comforted.

It's about time... Reading on Sunday 11/13.

2011-11-10T16:22:33Z

I'm very excited to be reading with Evan Mandery (Q: A Novel, First Contact, Dreaming of Gwen Stefani) and Jeff Somers (The Avery Cates series from Orbit Books) this Sunday at The Cell Theater. The theme is time travel, and I will be reading from my new book (coming from Soho Press in Fall 2012). Entry demands either submitting a short story or $5 donation.

The event starts at 5PM, at The Cell Theater (338 W. 23rd Street (btwn 8th & 9th) New York, NY 10011).

I have it on good authority that there will be potato chips and wine.

Two realizations.

2011-11-01T01:23:06Z

A few notes from the trough:

If TMZ is to be believed (and if we can't trust TMZ then who can we trust) the reason for the Kardashian/Beefcake split is, "Kris wanted Kim to move to Minnesota but she wouldn't go." So, essentially, they are breaking up to avoid this fate:

Second, the Occupy Wall Street movement began as a movement of diverse groups all upset at Wall Street's secretive, self-serving practices that reward stealing people's nest eggs. The protester's method of expression was to place themselves in the physical space of the institutions, a metaphorical knock on the door meant to draw attention to the piggish behavior of the rich. While not unified in their background or ultimate "goal" they share a current single intent.

In other words: