Author Archives: jcgeiger

Time to come clean.

I’ve spent a year and a half building an email list and have NO IDEA WHAT TO DO with it. Self-promotion? Professional insights? Cute check-ins heavy with emojis??? Cropped graphics, woozles & weazles, embedded streaming from my desk and it all made me narcoleptic face-first into keyboard ZZZZZZZzzzzzz.

Because — no fun. I don’t want to be cute and promotional all day. That sounds exhausting & awful. This has to be FUN. It has to be INTERESTING.

So while diligently building My Email List to Nowhere, MailChimp asked:

WILL SUBSCRIBERS RECEIVE MESSAGES IN PLAIN TEXT OR HTML??

WARNING!!! the MailChimp shrieked banana in hand, If you use Plain Text you CANNOT embed pictures nor monkey graphics! You cannot neither dazzle nor Truly Shine!!! No corkscrewing borders! No automated countdown clocks, tickers, widgets —  and I thought Well, HELL YES. That’s GREAT! With a sad, stripped-down format from the late 90s, I can’t really do ANYTHING but type letters and hope they’re worth reading.

The idea was born: PLAIN TEXT AND THE TRUTH.

Real process updates from a working writer, what I’m doing/thinking/reading. Thoughts on day jobs, getting published, having adventures. What matters and what’s worthless. Some emails will be epic poems of TLDR proportion. Others will be over-brief and highly disappointing. There will be gems.

Each message will be as honest as I can make it. In this way, I’ll connect with readers and The Writing Tribe without social media as a go-between. I don’t like social media. And I believe in the magic and power of words on a page — this wild alchemy that continues to bind us, fire us up, make us better understand one another.  A careful arrangement of characters can make you fall in love, start a protest, inspire banning & burning, make you move cross-country, quit your job, start over with a smile and there’s really something to it, this whole writing thing.

So this train is leaving the station. If you’d like to join, Welcome Aboard.

I hope this works. If it doesn’t, I’ll let you know. Honestly. In plain text.

Sincerely,
J.C. Geiger

 

 

 

Plain Text & The Truth, Uncategorized

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    Instagram, the instagram experiment, jc geiger, j.c. geiger, wildman, process instagram, I’ve decided to try something new

Instagram Experiment: Hereafter, I’ll share all glorious personal and professional triumphs on Facebook and the unimpressive, non-photogenic ruins of process on Instagram. That way, you can quickly toggle between two windows and get a flip-book style impression of what it actually feels like to be an artist. If your own dreams thrive on seeing glossy, unmitigated success, you can look at Facebook. And if, like me, you enjoy watching poor bastards struggling to make sense of it all – grasping for meaning beyond the borders of their selfies – then you can come to Instagram.
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This is my dryer.
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This picture was taken about two hours after I gave a keynote speech. I’ve always contended it’s impossible to use the word “keynote” as a verb without sounding like an asshole. I just keynoted. I’m keynoting tonight. Watch me keynote. I still feel this way, about “keynote.”
🔑🎶🔑🎶🔑🎶🔑🎶
After I keynoted –
Ah, damn it.
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After I spoke about the power of hope and importance of wonder, I came home to a dishes disaster in the kitchen. Papers, everywhere. Open dryer I’d maniacally rifled through for my Keynote Uniform.
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This dryer light. The scattered mess of life around the border of the speech. Like working in a professional kitchen. Only the plate matters. The whole world can burn around the rim of pink Himalayan salt and parsley garnish. You focus on the plate. You focus on the speech. You make it perfect.
💬 💭💬💭💬💭💬💭
But the speech lasts 10 minutes. All the while, life lurks outside that torchlit circle. The plate goes out, the food is eaten. The speech is consumed.
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The dryer awaits. The grind. It doesn’t go anywhere.
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David Foster Wallace said:
“The fact is that, in the day-to-day trenches of adult existence, obvious, ubiquitous, important realities are often the ones that are the hardest to see and talk about . . . That may just be a banal platitude, but the fact is that, in the day-to-day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have life-or-death importance. ”

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David Foster Wallace goes on to discuss how our perspective on the daily grind might keep us hungry for life. Keep us from wanting to die. About how, like a fish, we might slowly gain awareness of the water around us. We learn to acknowledge: “This is water.”
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And Rachel Carson wrote:
“It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence . . . I should ask the gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantment of later years.”
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Then she dropped the microphone, grabbed the audience by the ears, double-fisted and said:
“If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement, and mystery of the world we live in.”
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I mentioned this during the keynote.
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During that 10 minutes, there were a few hundred sparkling people in a room bathed in yellow light.
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The light was not unlike the glow coming from this open dryer. That’s where the similarities end.
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It haunts me, what Rachel Carson said about kids, and wonder. It haunts me that David Foster Wallace killed himself. I believe he’s right about the life-or-death importance of the banal.
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It’s about staying whole and true, isn’t it? Connecting on successes and failures. Being more alive, somehow, by transmitting our existence, finding receivers, feeling heard, hearing others. If that’s not the point, what is? Joy is all around: on pedestals, in gutters. I want both.
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So I gave a keynote speech. And this is the life all around it. I laughed, seeing the laundry. That lonely yellow light in the garage after all that clapping and wine. The laugh was real. There’s joy in that.
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“This is water. This is water.”
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧

The Instagram Experiment

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The Moth, Moth Grandslam, Moth Grand Slam, jc geiger, j.c. geiger, j.c. geiger moth, storytelling

Daaaaaamn.

I discovered The Moth Radio Hour on a long and lonely drive through the Utah desert about five years ago. It was the only thing that kept me awake and alive. Since then, I’ve dreamed of telling a story on The Moth. SO — a few months ago, some friends from No Shame Eugene and I trucked up to Portland for a StorySLAM at Holocene. There was a line. Big crowd. All four of us put our names in the fishbowl and during the first half of the set (5 stories) no one was picked. In the second set, two of my friends got drawn and it was down to the last story of the night. I’d just ordered a nice tall whisky when I heard “J.C. Geiger, please take the stage!” I went into a fugue state, got up, and miraculously won the slam with a story about how I learned to make a strange snapping sound with my finger. More here.

Winning a StorySLAM qualifies you for the GrandSLAM, and so, at the end of February, I was headed to the Aladdin Theatre in Portland to spin a story for a larger crowd than I have EVER told a story for. Sold out. Somewhere between six and seven hundred people.  I was excited, and a little sick. Luckily, The Moth sets you up with an Official Story Coach if you make it to the GrandSLAM. How cool is that? A story coach! In NEW YORK. Living in Eugene, it’s still a very big deal for me when I’m on a call with someone in NEW YORK CITY. I dress up. I call it “New York City” even though everyone in New York just calls it New York and I also call the time zone EST when they call it ET because I want to milk every delicious, New Yorky letter of it.

My story coach was Larry and he was incredible. Attentive, genuinely curious, authentic and refreshingly no-bullshit. Over Skype, he let me spin a nasty, unwieldy 24 minute tale to help me mine the gold from it. He told me to call him back once I’d made some cuts. The next time, the story was 12 minutes long. He told me I could do it. I believed him. Larry the Story Coach is very convincing.

My story was about how I did not vote in the 2000 election (ugh), and how the guilt of my abstention drove me to uproot my life in 2004 and volunteer for a miserable voter registration campaign in Jacksonville, Florida.

I had a week to get it right.

I told the story to my office walls until my walls got tired of the story. I told different walls. I  flew to Illinois for the Self Employment in the Arts Conference and told myself the story 15 times on the plane. I told my parents when they picked me up. I typed the story out, cut it. Recommitted the freshly-typed story to memory, and told myself another few dozen times on the plane ride home.

The day of the event, I rode up from Eugene to Portland in a bus. I brought along a cool little timer I usually use for making croutons. So they don’t burn. I am fucking awful about burning croutons.

The Moth, Story Slam, The moth grand slam, the moth storyslam

I talk to myself in public.

That day, I used it to time my story on the bus. I told it out aloud another few dozen times, then five more times at the Amtrak Union Station, then went to the event.

Packed venue. Bright lights. Sound check. Dressing rooms. The whole thing.

You don’t know the storytelling order until you get there, standing on stage during sound check with the other storytellers. They all looked varying degrees of friendly and nervous. We pulled our numbers from a plastic orange Halloween pumpkin. I picked number 9.  I went outside, walked in the rain, and told myself the story one more time. I got a phone call from a congressional representative who wanted to know if I could count on her vote and asked her to please call back. I did take that as a good sign, given my story’s topic.

I got some espresso. I got beer. Sips, sips.

The sign on the ticket desk now said SOLD OUT. I went inside and it felt like go time. Lights dimmed. Crowd quieted. Soothing, beautiful music by Megan Diana.

The music and darkness worked a minor miracle. I relaxed — ready to enjoy the stories of my fellow Moth(ers). And they were GREAT. Stories of a campout gone wrong. Becoming a Viking for an afternoon. Seeing the humanity of others at the Values Voter Summit. Intermission brought my nerves back. Stories six, seven, eight went whipping past and my stream of consciousness turned to a long, crackling hiss — my heart pounding, hammering, doing every bad metaphor and wondering, almost aloud: Should I just shut down now? Just do a full cardiac arrest? One of the storytellers is an EMT. He’ll help you. 

When they called my name, I didn’t know if I’d walk up to the microphone and unleash this story or stand in the spotlight dumbstruck and gobbing like a fish.

But it was magic.

Spotlight magic and the warmth of an attentive audience and HOURS AND HOURS AND HOURS of preparation paying off. And hot damn — I love every minute of telling that story. Attention is one of the greatest gifts a person can give. To have the attention of a full house at The Aladdin for a story I’d lived through and replayed, curated and prepared turned the stage into a runway, I was airborne.

Then I won the Moth GrandSLAM.

Unexpected, shocking. Admittedly, luck involved — the order of the speakers, mood of the judges, the broader context of the story.

But here’s what matters about the win: It’s incredibly validating for the artistic process. I’ve never worked harder on a story, and it paid off. It was strange for my office walls and maybe the people on the plane and bus while I mouthed words and played with a crouton timer in my lap. Right?  But the work of an artist is often this way. The being alone, the public wrestling with process, the attention to almost imperceptible detail. Everything so strange-seeming and eccentric until the moment of delivery, when it works.

I called Larry the Story Coach one last time. Smiled and jumped up and down on Skype so he could witness the pure, unmitigated excitement. I’m so appreciative of The Moth providing a venue for people’s stories. I’m grateful to be part of something I’ve loved for so long.

On the drive back to Eugene, I imagined another traveler late at night, searching for a signal. This traveler suddenly wakes up. Sits up straight. Something new on the radio: A story about a guy who failed to vote, who drove down to Jacksonville, who did his best to make a difference.

the moth, Aladdin theater, jc geiger, jeff geiger, moth grandslam

View from the stage. Photo courtesy of Dave Williams.

 

 

 

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I'm not cool enough.

This kind of truck, is what I’m talking about. This kind of gas station.

Friends. I cannot believe it. Somehow I have made it to a Moth Grandslam Championship in Portland, Oregon. How?? I qualified at a Moth Story Slam in September by telling a story about how I can make a strange snapping sound with my index finger. It’s that thing people do when they say booyakasha! or pack tobacco while sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck in the town I grew up in. I was not one of those guys on the truck. They would not let me hang out with them because — at the time — I couldn’t do things like drive stick shift or pack tobacco with a “limpy.”

But now I get to speak at The Moth, which is even better than the tobacco and the pickup. The theme is FIRED UP. And I am. You can get tickets for $25 here or just kindly leave me a comment to bolster my courage. Woohooo!!!

Events, Uncategorized
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A bit of background on this insanity:

To promote WILDMAN’s release, I attempted to drive from Eugene, Oregon to New York City in a ‘93 Buick Century – the same car that broke down, stranded me in rural Washington, and inspired me to write the book in the first place. I drove 5 miles for every copy of Wildman sold, and 1 mile for every $5 donation to the American Library Association.

The entire 10-day, 4300-mile journey was live-streamed using two phones and a Chromebook.

All day. All night.

It’s amazing the trip worked at all. But here’s what surprised me even more:

1) A ‘93 Buick Century makes an amazing concert venue.

Sometimes you get lucky and one of your musical idols (David Wimbish of the Collection) happens to be in a town you’re passing through. You somehow convince him to climb into your ’93 Buick. With his guitar. And that’s when the magic happens.

2) Traveling with a mannequin is a good conversation starter. And probable cause for a police stop.

As a joke, my friends from Eugene put a mannequin in the Buick to keep me company. Viewers quickly dubbed her “Silent Barb,” and she became considerably more popular than me. After I noticed the second police car tailing me in Texas, I took off her wig and shoved Silent Barb farther down in the back seat. Which was somehow even creepier. In this clip, the mannequin has locked me out of the car after keeping watch on the Buick in Boise all night.

3) There’s a whole lot of nothing out there.

j.c. geiger, jc geiger, wildman, #wildmanroadtrip, wildman the book

Eastern Oregon, West Texas, and a big chunk of New Mexico offered up little more than tumbleweed, armadillos, road kill, and abandoned vehicles.  A good incentive that it was important to JUST. KEEP. DRIVING.

4) During a live stream, an empty seat is more compelling than me. 

After a few days live-streaming on the road, I noticed a pattern. If I put my camera on the empty seat of my Buick, I’d attract YouTube viewers. The longer I recorded the seat, the more people showed up. As soon as I climbed in the frame, I’d lose up to 50% of my audience. A user later explained: “The empty seat just gave us this great sense of anticipation.” I understand there is a movie deal in the works for “Empty Seat.” I have yet to be contacted.

5) Friends and family will ambush you with kindness and light sabers.   

I expected people to like my Facebook posts. Maybe retweet some pictures. I did not expect friends to arrange places for me to stay, make me a road trip mixtape on Spotify, keep me awake on midnight drives through West Texas, print flyers for their schools and neighborhoods, and – at one point – ambush me in North Carolina with light sabers, costumes, and beer. The Wildman Road Trip reminded me I know some AMAZING people. There was a lot of love out there, folks. A lot of love.

6)  I would be convinced to appear on a children’s show.

It turns out Danny Joe’s Treehouse is filmed in Baltimore, MD. And Danny Joe, himself, invited me to be a guest on his show. He planned to broadcast to his loyal audience of children and families with some puppeteering and a classic road trip song. Until he got a surprise of his own.

7) The finish line will be mind-blowing.

I wasn’t 100% sure what the team at Disney thought of this trip — or if they expected me to make it. So when they greeted me with a checkered flag, road snacks, and a trophy, I thought maybe I’d died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike and ended up in Debut Author Heaven. This video, like all of them, was recorded and broadcast live.

A final surprise? The trip itself netted around $4,000 dollars for libraries from over 100 new donors. And support continued to pour in after the journey ended. To date, around 400 book lovers have contributed to the Wildman Road Trip!

The ’93 Buick is currently parked in a secluded garage in the Midwest, resting up for its return trip in July. It’s 2,000 long miles back to Eugene, Oregon — and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

(Special thanks to the American Booksellers Association for this tremendous shout-out during the trip, and the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association for greeting me in NYC!!!)

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BookmobileSunset

My mission is to climb the hill, but the Bookmobile dies half a block from the home of the original owner. To be fair: I killed it. I’m tilted backward on a slope, foot on the brake. I’ve been told this is the worst possible situation when driving a stick. I can only assume this is true, since I don’t really know how to drive stick.

I remove my foot from the brake and the vehicle lurches backward – 15,000 pounds of books and steel. I’m back on the brake. Leg shaking. I’m trying to avoid destroying this legendary vehicle. I’m also remembering what my letter says, waiting for me at home. I contemplate the term “learning curve.”

I turn the key, rev the engine, and slide backward. I stomp the gas, release the clutch, and the engine dies. Rolling back, faster — I’m back on the brake. Literally, standing on the brake.

Okay.

One hand on the wheel, I slip my phone out of my pocket and call the original owner.

“Hey, Ezra.”

“Hey, Jeff.”

“I’m a little stuck here.”

“I know. I can still see you from my house.”

In the side mirror, Ezra waves. He walks uphill. He’s breathing hard, looking up at me.

“Use the emergency brake,” he says.

“I’m trying,” I say. The handle jiggles in its housing.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Stand on the brake. Don’t move until I say so. Then, I’m going to need you to jump.”

“Where?”

“Passenger seat.” He leaves out where you belong, but I still hear it. Ezra lifts himself into the doorway and puts his foot beside mine. We’re splitting the small brake pedal between us. “One. Two. Go!”

I leap out of the driver’s seat and crash into the passenger seat. Ezra takes my place and grabs the wheel. We breathe for a moment. He turns the key, guns the engine and the Bookmobile lurches to life. He makes it work, engine roaring up to the stop sign where the vehicle idles like:

See? Not that hard, kid.

“I suppose I should give you a driving lesson,” Ezra says.

So we tool around the neighborhoods together. I get the hang of things – my turning radius training and stick-shift practice have paid off a little. The only truly embarrassing spectacle happens in front of my entire neighborhood, when everyone I know with kids has come out to see the Bookmobile. They don’t leave and go inside like they should. They stand on the sidewalk, waiting to see me off.

“There Jeff goes! Wave everyone!”

Starts – dies.

“Everyone wave again!”

Starts. Lurches. Convulses. DukadukdukaKA-CHUNK.

Finally, we make the corner and turn out of view. Now it’s time for Ezra to go home. There are two ways – one way is up a nice, back and forth switchback on the elegantly-named Story Road. The other is called Chambers Hill. As in torture Chambers. Or the Chamber pot you may need when you’re about to piss yourself trying to drive stick shift up this false-summited, sadistically-graded motherplucker of a hill.

“You want to go up Chambers,” Ezra says, staring at me.

“Oh yeah,” I say. I have to. When I wrote myself my risk letter at the BRAVA Breakfast, the question was Did you drive up the hill? not Did you drive up the road?

The stop light green and we’re climbing. Ezra gives orders: Gas! Stop! C’mon! Don’t kill it!

“What gear should I be in?!” I say. “What gear!”

“Figure it out!” he shouts back.

Another stop sign. We’re titled back. All that steel and paper. You come to realize books are made of wood, and you’re driving a glorified logging truck with a tricky braking system.

In with the clutch and I hammer the accelerator. Revving, roaring, and I’ve finally learned something. The Bookmobile climbs and glides and the power is there and Ezra is nodding. We’re going up and up an finally the hill smooths out.

We stop and my leg is jittering, hopping up and down by itself.

“Had to do Chambers Hill, didn’t you?” He shakes his head.

I backed in the Bookmobile without damaging people or property, then rode the ’93 Buick back down the hill and opened my letter.

 

And this adventure is just beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bookmobile
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I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it.
-Pablo Picasso


Here’s my first recorded outing with the bookmobile.

I knew the Bookmobile was a manual transmission when I bought it. I knew it was 15,000 pounds of books and steel, parked on a giant hill. The thought of climbing behind the wheel scared the hell out of me. The vehicle was older than me, the brakes had just been readjusted, and things could go badly.

I’m accustomed to making mistakes in writing. I’ve written dozens of the sappiest, shitty endings imaginable. Hundreds of wasted pages. Offensively flat characters, racial stereotypes, and sex scenes that would embarrass any literate person.

But when you mess up a scene, your computer doesn’t go DADUNK-DUNK-CACHUNK! It does not alert every other writer in the neighborhood that you’ve just written a terrible sex scene. Aborting a bad plot line doesn’t leave skid marks. No one dies as a result of a poorly-written cliffhanger.

Failing at driving is very obvious to everyone. It’s loud and jerky and produces smoke and sometimes fire and casualties.

But I wanted to learn. And, ultimately, there is only one way to learn. Whether you want to write a novel or drive the damn Bookmobile, you just have to get in, start the engine, and relentlessly fail your way across the finish line.

And I DID IT. I SURVIVED.

It was ugly. Embarrassing and and messy and scary as hell and most of all — a huge THRILL. Strange to think something as mechanical and straightforward as driving would make me break out in a cold sweat and stop breathing and flood my bloodstream with buckets of adrenaline, but it did.

It was a good personal reminder that the best thing I can do as a writer is fail repeatedly, lead the most interesting life possible, and pay attention.  Even so, this one was tough. I needed help to get it done, and that’s why I needed this letter:

harvester

More to follow on the letter. For now, enjoy the video. I, for one, am glad to be alive.

 

Bookmobile, Uncategorized

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