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Cheryl Anne Gardner, one of the many talented authors I’m fortunate to call a friend, posted a link on Facebook to the movie “Vanilla Sky” and observed that despite her well-considered disdain for Tom Cruise, Penelope Cruz and Cameron Diaz, she finds the creepy surrealism of the film to be utterly enchanting.

I have different thoughts about “Vanilla Sky.”

I saw it in San Jose, Calif., where I used to live, with a woman I met online, as that was my predominant mode of dating back then. (You see, friends, I’m a swing-shift worker — 3 p.m. to midnight — and I daresay that the kind of woman you meet after midnight is not, in many cases, the kind with whom you want to share the other hours of the day.)

Anyway, I’ve written before about the follies of online dating, but this woman was a cut above. We had great fun, laughed, talked easily and widely and generally had a fine time, so much so that I wrote to her the next day and said I’d love to see her again.

While not word-perfect, this was the gist of her reply:

“Craig, I had such a good time last night. You’re a great guy, a real gentleman. In fact, I called my ex-boyfriend after I got home and told him I wished he were more like you. He said he would try, and so we’re getting back together. Thanks again!”

I resolved soon after to become an unrepentant bastard, a stance that continues to this day.

At my stage of life, it’s best not to wish for your days to slide by any more quickly than they will anyway. Still, I’d be lying if I denied that I’m eagerly awaiting September’s approach and my trip to the East of Eden Writers Conference in Salinas, California.

I’ll be presenting a workshop called “When to Self-Publish,” a subject I’m particularly interested in, as that’s how the original iteration of 600 Hours of Edward came into being. In the year since I set up my book with CreateSpace in a pique of naivete and started flogging it, the publishing landscape has shifted dramatically. Those who wish to go direct to market have more choices than ever, more access to distribution channels than ever and more competition than ever. Enterprising independent publishers are forming their own imprints, banding into collectives and, in impressive numbers, challenging the assumption that all self-published novels are irredeemable dreck. (Now, let’s be honest: Many are, for reasons that are easy enough to figure out. But what excuse do the big publishing houses have for their own trash?)

In other words, something is afoot. When established authors like J.A. Konrath realize that self-publishing their out-of-print backlist makes more financial sense (and cents) than some of their in-print titles, it’s hard to dismiss self-publishing as some passing affliction on the book world. When folks like Lisa Genova and Dan Suarez ride self-publishing to big-time deals with major publishers, it’s hard to dismiss it as a dead end.

My own experience with self-publishing will provide plenty of how-not-to fodder, which is valuable, too, in its own way. So, be warned, Cheryl Anne Gardner and Zoe Winters and Henry Baum and R.J. Keller: In the coming months, as I prepare my workshop, I’ll be knocking on your door for advice.

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So, about Salinas …

I lived there once, for 12 months in 2000-2001. I moved back to California after my crazy 10 months away, when I pingponged from San Jose to San Antonio to Olympia, and had the misfortune of trying to squeeze into the Bay Area when rental capacity was something like 99.7 percent and the only place I could find was a shithole in Hayward at $1,400 a month.

So I looked south to Steinbeck country. For a solid year, five days a week, I drove the 60 miles to San Jose for my night shift on the Mercury News sports desk. (In a stark display of just how battered all sectors of publishing have become, the Mercury News no longer has a dedicated sports desk.) At 1 a.m., I headed home down the 101, through the garlic haze of Gilroy, skirting San Juan Bautista (this is your hint to (re)acquaint yourself, right now, with Vertigo), along one of the most dangerous stretches of highway in the state (every day, on the way to San Jose, I’d pass a sign on private property warning motorists of “Blood Alley”).

I put a ton of miles on my Nissan Altima and ceded a ton of hours to my commute, but oddly enough, I didn’t mind. It’s such a gorgeous drive, for one thing, and for another, I always traveled during non-peak hours. I had a lot of time to think and to wear out my car’s CD player.

In my off-time, living in Salinas was, at best, a mixed bag. I grew up revering Steinbeck, and so I was enchanted with the opportunity to go to the National Steinbeck Center any time I wanted (Rocinante is there! Rocinante!), eat at Sangs Cafe, visit the Steinbeck house, sneak off to Monterey and Pacific Grove, where he spent so much time. The black earth and the vast fields of lettuce that are evoked so beautifully in Steinbeck’s writing are still there, and are every bit as awe-inspiring as you would imagine.

But …

But Salinas is not the town it was in Steinbeck’s time. And while it might be unfair to expect it, or any other place, to hold to such a standard decades after the fact, the truth is, I yearned for San Jose. So when the dotcom bubble burst and rentals tumbled in my direction in availability and affordability, I moved along. The subsequent few years were some of the most remarkable of my life, and though I’ve found my best home yet in Montana, I miss California something fierce some days.

It will be good to see it again.

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