A REVIEW OF CHUCK PALANIUK'S CONSIDER THIS

 [I ordinarily don't repost my Goodreads reviews, but I think this one would interest a great deal of people. And so I'm not just doing this once today, I will do so again shortly. I have two more reviews to write this morning before I head out into the world for my meds and comic books. Here's the first one.]

I bought this expecting an autobiography. And it is, indeed, that. It is also an excellent book on writing for people who are just starting out. I'd put it right up there with Tom Piccirilli's Welcome to Hell. One problem: he's a minimalist, and his writing advice is mostly for writers who want to be minimalists. I believe less is better, and sometimes it's the things that are left unsaid during the process that turn out to be the most important. But I'm not a minimalist. Regardless, there is some great advice for beginners in here. "What's your gun?" is a great question for struggling writers to think about. "Did you put a clock in?" is another. Great stuff.

What I really enjoyed, though, are the parts that most authors who do books on writing, from Stephen King to Richard Laymon, don't tell you about the profession. Like, taking your author photo, for example. Because it is kind of important for readers to know what you look like. Personally, and I think Palahniuk would agree with me, the writer should be invisible. You should never know you're actually reading a book, contrary to all logical sense. The moment the author is discovered, suspension of disbelief is gone. But people care. They want to see the monster who wrote Diary and Lullaby. And Dong of Frankenstein, for that matter, I guess. (It should be noted that his author photo for this book shows him with a shaved head and a face covered in tattoos. I really hoped he'd gotten those tattoos for real. He's a weird dude, and I wouldn't put it past him. Alas, in the book he said they were temporary tats. Ah well.) My favorites are the postcards from the tour sections. The white mice story is flat out insane, and what the perpetrators said on their protest signs is absolutely mortifying. I would not have taken that as well as Palahniuk did. And I love his story about the guy who worked at the sex shop with the Polaroids.

Confession time. I've met Palahniuk twice. Once in Skokie as he was doing his Haunted tour. The second was in Naperville when he said he was on tour for his new collection of short stories, but he was really there to promote issue one of Fight Club 2. (Irvine Welsh was also there and did a reading.) That second experience was amazing. Palahniuk threw bags of candy into the crowd, and one of them nailed me in the stomach and nearly bowled me over. And the autographed limbs he discusses in this book? I got one of those, too. It bounced off the hand of a guy two rows in front of me, and I snatched it as it rebounded back to me. Incidentally, Palahniuk has one of the most elaborate autographs I've ever seen, right up there with Stephen King. As compared to, say, Brian Azzarello who signs with a legible A followed by a straight line that may end in an O. Possibly.

That was an amazing experience. I still have my beachball somewhere. But that first time bordered on profound. There, as he does in the book, he talks about how the last guy in line is a wild card. You never know what they're going to say. The Polaroid guy, for example, was the last guy in line. Palahniuk also told us that people see him as a confessor because if he could write a story like "Guts," then he's not going to judge you for anything.

I was the last guy in line for the Skokie event. I had time to read the entirety of Survivor, and I still had a lot of time before I got to meet the man himself. Knowing that I was the last guy in line, I decided I had to say something to him. Something he'd never heard before. But what? Nothing could beat the Polaroid guy, right? But I had that time, and I did remember something about a book signing I'd attended a couple of years previous.

So I got up to the man himself, who stood at a lectern where he signed books. I had all of them that were out at the time (except Choke, which I couldn't find in my collection for some reason). I introduced myself and as he started signing that first book (Fight Club, I think), I told him that I believed it was my solemn duty, as the last guy in line, to confess something to him.

I asked him, "Have you ever seen the Kevin Smith film, Mallrats?"

He said he hasn't.

"Have you at least heard of the concept of stinkpalming?"

I saw a change come over his face. While he still signed, he didn't look me in the eye. He kept looking down like he was getting ready to take mental notes.

"I once went to a signing at a Borders, and it was Oliver North promoting his new fictional war book. I don't like him. If he'd only rolled on Mr. I-Don't-Recall, I think our country would have been in a better place. So at first I had no interest in meeting him. But then I realized that I could stinkpalm him."

If you're unfamiliar, stinkpalming is when you put your right hand in your butt on a hot sweaty day and just let the smell bury itself into your flesh. Then you shake the hand of your enemy, and it will sink into his skin, too. And it doesn't wash off for days. For days, his hand will smell like your butt. Sure, yours will, too, but as Brody said, "It's a small price for the smiting of an enemy." So I told Palahniuk that's what I did to Ollie North.

Then, pausing his pen over the last book in the pile, Haunted, he asked me, in the mildest possible voice I have ever heard, "You didn't stinkpalm me, did you?"

I assured him that I liked him a lot, and I would never do that to him. An almost imperceptible relief came over his face as he signed the last book and rubber stamped it. The stamp proclaimed that this was his Shit and Roses Tour.

I thanked him and left and years later read this book. I'm kinda disappointed I didn't make the cut. Ah well. This long and rambling review is just to advise you that if you were my student, I would have you read this book and consider this.

MEETING AUTHORS #3: A NIGHT WITH THE KING

[NOTE: THIS IS A HEAVILY EDITED VERSION OF A PIECE I WROTE ABOUT TWELVE YEARS AGO. ONCE UPON A TIME, I WAS A HUGE STEPHEN KING FAN. I STILL LIKE HIS WORK, BUT NOT NEARLY AS MUCH AS I USED TO. HE WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AUTHORS I’D EVER MET (BEFORE HIM, THERE HAD ONLY BEEN CLIVE BARKER AND JOHN SANDFORD), AND BACK THEN, I WAS STILL SUSCEPTIBLE TO GETTING STARSTRUCK WHEN MEETING FAMOUS PEOPLE. PLEASE FORGIVE THIS EARLY ATTEMPT, AS EDITING CANNOT SOLVE EVERYTHING. BUT IT IS AN INTERESTING LOOK AT THE PAST, AND IT IS ABOUT STEPHEN KING, AFTER ALL.]

From the Sept. 20, 1998 issue of the BOOKS section of the Chicago TRIBUNE:

“Tuesday, Sept. 29 at 5:00 p.m.

“Legendary best-selling author Stephen King will read from and sign his new book, Bag of Bones. Please note: Admission to this event is by ticket only. Tickets are free and will be available only on Tuesday, Sept. 29, starting at 9 a.m. at the Congress Pkwy. entrance of Harold Washington Library Center. Only books purchased at the event will be signed. No photos, please.”

Above this is a picture of Stephen King, clad in a leather jacket, a forefinger casually placed against the left side of his face, a child-like gleam in his eyes.

This was a once in a lifetime chance to meet the King. How could I pass it up? Well, I had to get classes and work out of the way, but as soon as that was done, I was free to head down to the city and get my ticket as early as possible.

I made it to Chicago at about eight-ish, an hour before the tickets would be released. I parked in a lot where I would be raped the least over price, and I rushed over to the Washington library, where a looooooooooong line of people were already waiting. There were tired people with sleeping bags and blankets, eating breakfasts consisting of beef sticks and Coca-Cola. But at least the line seemed to end at the corner . . . .

As soon as I reached the corner, I saw that the line continued for quite a ways. I found the end, whipped out a book (not Bag of Bones; by that time, I’d read it already), and started waiting. I guessed that there were about two hundred people ahead of me, which was fine considering how there were seven hundred tickets to go around. (As it turned out later, there were actually 640 tickets.)

A half-hour later, some library representatives came by looking for fan club members, who apparently got priority in line. I was tempted to lie and join their ranks, but I decided not to push my luck. After these folks were gone, more people came by, the press, and started taking pictures and shooting video.

Soon, the line started moving. I put my book away, eager to be in motion. There were a few pauses, but I finally made it in the door, where I was given a green ticket, a flyer, and a long strip of paper with a line of orange stars. This last was supposed to be a wrist band, and if I wasn’t wearing it, I wouldn’t get into the event. My ticket was 389, and I held onto it for dear life.

I then went back home and whiled away the hours, waiting until I could finally meet my favorite writer, my hero, Stephen King.

The last thing I did before I left was affix the wristband in place. It was a pain to get on because I have hairy arms; this thing was supposed to be taped on, which was not fun. But I got ready and rushed back downtown, only to get caught in a traffic jam. When the fun of wasting away on the Ike was done, I was raped again by the parking lot.

But at least I was ready to meet the King. I went to the library and saw a sign that said: SORRY—OUT OF TICKETS FOR STEPHEN KING.” I then went up about seven escalators before I reached the top floor, where I showed off my wristband to the guard and was granted entrance to the room where the King would give his performance.



I threaded my way through a legion of King fans to where I could buy the book. I already had it, but he wouldn’t sign anything that wasn’t purchased here. Book in hand, I tried to find the best possible seat, but this was too difficult. I got as close up as I could, and the waiting began.

Shortly after my arrival, a woman dressed as a corpse started walking around, calling out her love for Stephen King. “Stephen!” she shouted. “Stephen! Where are you? I love you!” This went on for about a half-hour. I don’t know if it was set up by Scribners, or the library, or if she was just a fan, but it was pretty cool, regardless.

After that, a representative from the library came up to the lectern and broke the bad news: due to the number of people, King would not be personalizing the books he signs. I felt a stab of disappointment, but then again, I simply felt lucky that I was actually going to meet the man I had idolized for more than half my life.

A few minutes later, some people from Sam’s Club gave a speech about the library, but I really didn’t pay much attention to that, to be honest. I clapped in all the right places, impatient to get to the King.

And finally, he was there. Stephen King was on stage. I stood, hands clapping wildly. The others clapped even harder, for not only was he before our very eyes, he was also wearing a Cubs jersey, and it had Sosa’s name on it to boot. But he’s a Red Sox fan, so I knew something was up. Sure enough, I was right: “I’m an official Cubs fan until October 17,” he said. He then unbuttoned the jersey to reveal a Red Sox shirt underneath. There were a few surprised looks in the room, but not many.

He then went on to offer his theory as to what would happen if the Cubs and the Red Sox made it to the World Series (which was looking possible, at the time): it would be tied after six games, and on the day of the last game, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, tied game, World War III would begin.



King continued talking, but now it was about why he’d chosen the Harold Washington Library as a point on his book tour. He chose a library because he owed them so much, considering his poor upbringing. Again, no surprise to me or anyone else in the room.

Then came the shocker: rather than read from Bag of Bones, as we were all expecting, he read a full short story from Six Stories (an extremely rare collection of his shorter fiction), “L.T.’s Theory of Pets.” [NOTE: SINCE THEN, THIS STORY HAS SEEN A WIDER PUBLICATION IN EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL] It was a very funny story, but, well, you know Stephen King. He said about it, “I started writing this piece as a humorous story, and as you know, when I start out to write something fun, it goes someplace else.”

I not only listened to the story, I watched him tell it. It was one of the most magical experiences of my life, watching my idol walk around the stage with the mic in one hand and the book in the other, giving us a tale I’d never read before without making so much as a mistake. No stutters or um’s, nothing. There were some points in the story where I wondered if I was really dreaming up this whole scenario. [NOTE: SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT STARSTRUCK? SORRY, FOLKS. IF IT’S ANY CONSOLATION TO YOU, I DON’T GET THIS WAY ANYMORE. I HAVEN’T SINCE . . . WELL, SINCE I MET STEPHEN KING AND REALIZED HE WAS JUST A GUY. A GUY WHO WRITES EXCELLENT STORIES, OF COURSE, BUT JUST A GUY.]



When the story was over and the clapping was done, the book signing started. They lined people up by the numbers on their tickets. They went in increments of 50. I knew it would be a long time, considering I was 389, but I relaxed and waited. I was in a perfect position to watch him sign books, so I did, still not believing the reality of this ordeal.

After an hour, the number bracket I fell into was called, and I got in line. As I drew closer to the King, I felt butterflies colliding in my belly. This was my hero! How many people got to meet their hero? What would I say? What COULD I say?

Well, a friend of mine, Rob Tannahill [NOTE: KNOWN AS R.M. TANNAHILL TO THOSE OF YOU WHO READ TABARD INN], had written and drawn three Stephen King parodies (for fun, not publication) starring Beavis and Butt-Head. I'd convinced him to let me send copies to the King, and we got a letter back saying that both King and his wife, Tabitha, enjoyed "The Dork Half," "The Stupid Death of Beavis Verrill," and "The Scam" immensely. So now I had an ice breaker. And at some point, I knew I had to ask him a question for the paper I was writing for one of my classes.

Finally, I reached the place where they put the ticket into the book where King would sign it, so everything would go quicker. I was one person away from him! I switched the book from one hand to the other so my right wouldn't be sweaty. My legs were still sturdy, even though I knew they'd turn to jelly soon.

Then, it was my turn. To my surprise, I was still in control of my legs, my right hand was dry, and I was entirely calm. He took my book and shook my hand.

"Good to see you here," he said amiably, although I could hear about 388 signings worth of tiredness in his voice.

"Great to meet you," I said. Then, as he signed my book, I said, "I wasn't the guy who wrote them, but I sent you the Stephen King--" (OHMYGOD, DID I JUST SAY THAT? I WAS TALKING TO THE KING AS IF HE WEREN'T THERE!) "--slash Beavis and Butt-Head parodies."

"Those were great," he said. "I love those two." He then went on to do his impression of Beavis saying, "Fire! Fire! Heh-heh." You have not truly lived until you've heard Stephen King imitate Beavis.



"Can I ask a question?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, blue eyes piercing into mine. I could tell I had his full attention.

"Why do you think Nathaniel Hawthorne's works are done to death in the classroom, but your work is ignored?"

He gave a very simple answer (even if he's wrong--Toni Morrison and Amy Tan are both taught in class--I've had to study both at least twice), but I loved it. "Because he's dead," he told me, a smile on his face. We laughed, and I still wondered if this was a dream. I had to move on, though, so I took the book and shook his hand once again. It was as I walked away that my nervousness returned. My legs went rubbery, and I could barely control them, even as someone took my ticket and replaced it with a limited edition collectors magazine for BAG OF BONES. I waited there, looking back at Stephen King as he signed another book, and I still wondered if I was dreaming.

But I wasn't. I looked at the King's signature, written in blue, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It was proof that this was all real.

The next day (Sept. 30, 1998), both the TRIBUNE and the SUN-TIMES had a story on the King's visit to Chicago. In the TRIB, I learned that people had been lined up in front of the library since two in the morning, and they had come from "as far away as Texas and Arizona."

The SUN-TIMES, on the other hand, actually had a picture of Stephen King in the Cubs jersey. On page 45, I found a longer article, where I learned that the tickets disappeared within 42 minutes, and there were about 2000 people hoping to get in. And there, in a picture of the audience from that night, further proof that I was there: my picture. Granted, you need a magnifying glass to tell who I am, but I'm near the back, wearing a black denim jacket.

I was lucky to get in, but I was, indeed, there, and I got to spend a night with the King.

MEETING AUTHORS #2: CHUCK PALAHNIUK, CONFESSOR

It takes a lot for me to call in to work pretending to be sick in order to meet an author, but when I found out a few years ago that Chuck Palahniuk was going to be signing at the Barnes and Noble up in Skokie, I had no choice. I called in to the library, told my boss I was bedridden, and I started making my way out to Skokie with every one of Palahniuk’s books that I could find (except I wasn’t able to find my copy of CHOKE) in addition to the issue of PLAYBOY in which his short story, “Guts,” appeared.

When I entered the store, I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it: 269. Not bad at all, or so I thought at the time. This is not an uncommon practice, and considering how popular Palahniuk is, 269 did not sound too outrageous.

I was directed to where the signing was to take place, and I was slightly amused to find that he’d been situated near the kids section. What really surprised me, however, was that Palahniuk was already there. I glanced at my watch to make sure it hadn’t stopped, but sure enough, the author was early.

For those who have never been to a signing, the author is NEVER early. In fact, very few of them are on time. The signing had not started, of course, but there was Palahniuk, meeting his fans, letting them take pictures and everything.

I had heard many wonderful stories about Palahniuk’s signings—-anyone who has ever been to one says it’s like a show—-and I would not be disappointed. He started out by answering questions, mostly about what was going to be filmed next. At the time, CHOKE had just finished photography, and he told us that all of his other work had been optioned. He also talked about his next book, RANT, and that is when the gift giving began. He literally showered the audience with presents, starting with giant rubber rats followed by gelatinous eyeballs and hearts. I tried desperately to catch something, but my arms simply weren’t long enough, and I was too far back.



Then, it was story-time. He told us he planned on reading “Guts”—-to which my heart thrilled, as I had heard that at many such readings, people became so nauseous that they fainted—-but he changed his mind and read to us a then-unpublished story, straight from the manuscript. It has since seen print (I believe in ESQUIRE), but it was a real treat for his fans. Just before he started reading the story, he passed out scented roses, enough so that everyone—-including me—-received one. He did this so “it will smell just like your grandmother’s bathroom in here,” he said. Never let it be said that Palahniuk isn’t a giving, caring writer when it comes to his fans.

After this, he started talking about how signings are always interesting to him because his readers tend to look upon him as a confessor, especially after “Guts” was published. He thought this might be because if he had written something so grotesque, then whatever his fans had to say would not be judged by him. He told a number of such confessions to us, but my favorite was when he told the story of the man who came in with a Hefty bag full of Polaroid photos. This gentleman started flipping these pictures out on the table as if he were dealing a hand of poker, and as Palahniuk looked at them, he realized they were a bunch of old people . . . naked and apparently sleeping.

No, according to the fan, these people were dead. This fellow worked at a porn shop, in which a customer could sample the wares before purchasing them by going into a private booth to view them. Part of this man’s job was to check the booths at the end of each shift, and every once in a while, he would find that an elderly customer had died while masturbating.

Before calling for an ambulance, he would grab the Polaroid camera they used to take pictures of banned customers, and he would pose the bodies and take a few “candid” shots.

Palahniuk went on to mention that as a promotion for one of his previous books, he went around the country throwing out plastic severed hands to the audience. He bought them in bulk and shipped them out to the bookstores he was going to be at the following week. It turned out that his agent also represented another writer who was following the same route. What had this other writer written about? His experience in the wilderness, when a boulder had fallen on his arm and the only way he survived was by cutting off his own hand and hiking back to civilization. The managers at the bookstores receiving the severed hands thought it was a horribly sick joke, but as it turns out, the writer in question thought it was kind of funny.

Now, it was finally time for the signing to begin. They asked for numbers 1-50 to line up in order, and the waiting began. I found a comfortable corner and started reading one of his books that I hadn’t yet read: SURVIVOR. Let me tell you, by the time I walked out of that Barnes and Noble, I was finished with the whole thing. It’s not a long read, but the fact that it took so long for the signing was a bit crazy. (It is also now my favorite of his work. If you haven’t read it, you should. You’ll learn a lot about the world, and maybe, if you’re lucky, even yourself.)



An hour passed before they called the next group, so I decided to investigate. I looked down into the kids section to see that he was spending quite a bit of time with each fan, signing everything in sight and taking a variety of pictures. Some of the fans had the severed hands from previous signings, and he was autographing those and using them to pose with fans in compromising positions. The whole time, he was grinning, and it was very clear that he was actually happy to be there. Most writers get tired and take breaks, but he seemed to be full of energy, and he kept going.



He spent so much time with his fans that it was obvious that Barnes and Noble employees were getting tired of it. By the time they called 200-250, they were telling people to be fast, and that he was only going to sign books from here on out. However, I was at a good vantage point by then, and I hadn’t seen ANYONE from B&N approach Palahniuk. This was an executive decision.

I kind of wished I could have gotten that PLAYBOY signed, but oh well.

Soon, my number range was called, and I got in line. As I slowly approached, I decided that I was going to be one of those memorable confessions, but I didn’t know what the hell I was going to tell him. I engaged in conversation with a few other fans around me as we waited, but it seemed that they were just interested in meeting him . . . again. That’s right, it seemed like I was the only one around there who was meeting him for the first time.

Finally, it was my turn, and I stepped forward with my stack of books balanced in one hand and my other hand extended in greeting. He was very polite, and he looked me in the eye when he asked for my name. His handshake wasn’t strong, but it was firm and excited.

And then, it hit me. “You know,” I said to him, “I have a confession to make.”

His eyes lit up. “What’s that, John?”

“Have you ever seen Kevin Smith’s movie, MALLRATS?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh.” I deflated a little, but not too much. “Are you familiar with the term, ‘stink-palming’?”

“No,” he said as he signed.

“It’s when you stick your hand in your ass and clench tight until the stink latches on to your hand, and you then shake hands with your enemy. The stink transfers to him, and he’ll spend the rest of the day trying to figure out where the smell is coming from. It won’t wash off for at least that long, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow, and then smelled his own hand.

I laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t do it to you.”

“That’s a relief,” he said.

“But I did do it to Oliver North.”

He broke out into laughter. “You met Oliver North?”

“At a book signing,” I said.

“And you, what is it, stink-palmed him?”

“Yep.”

“I have to give you kudos for that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve heard a confession like that before.” He handed over the final signed book, LULLABY. “It was nice to meet you.”



I reached out to shake his hand again, and he glanced sidelong at me. “I promise, I didn’t do it to you.”

“Okay,” he said, and he shook my hand.

When I got back to the car and looked at the signed pages, I noticed that he’d signed LULLABY in an interesting way: “To John—-I wash my hands! Chuck Palahniuk.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. If you ever get the chance to meet him, I suggest you do. He really is the nicest writer you can ever meet.