“There is only one corner of the universe that you can be certain of improving and that’s your own self.” –Aldous Huxley
At the end of May, 2010, I became a better writer.
It didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t even happen in a week. Well, it happened in about a week. I attended the first ever Bizarro Bootcamp in Portland, Oregon, hosted by my publishers, Eraserhead Press.
I’ve been to two bootcamps in my life. The first one was at the Marine Military Academy in 1986. I was fifteen, and it was called two weeks of “introduction” or something like that in the literature. It was bootcamp modeled after the Marine Corps’. But it was run by sadistic teenagers who’d been through it the same, if not worse, than they were giving it to us. It was a torturous, identity-stripping, robot-building experience that took many years to shake-off.
The second bootcamp was completely different. I’ll never want to let go of Bizarro Bootcamp. I’m going to let it keep sinking-in for the rest of my life. The Eraserhead Crew instilled me with not only a great sense of place in my writing career, but also with the knowledge and skills to make myself a true professional.
I was honored to be invited to attend the first ever Bizarro Bootcamp. I’d recently spent the past half of the year promoting my first book (Rotten Little Animals) released as part of Eraserhead’s New Bizarro Author Series. Eraserhead Press wanted to start a training program for their new writers, and I was happily their first trainee.
They sent me a handbook to prepare me for what was to come about two or three weeks before my time at camp began, and asked me to brainstorm new ideas for a book to write during my ten days there, along with titles and a brief synopsis of their storylines. I came up with twenty-one titles.
I arrived in Portland for Bizarro Bootcamp on May 27th, 2010.
From the moment I arrived, I went to work—Bizarro Style.
I walked through the back door of Bizarro Bunker 2.0 (where at one time three bizarro authors and two bizarro artists all lived together in a creation-pit) and was greeted by Jeff Burk. Cameron Pierce showed up within five minutes.
They let me say hello and then made me go upstairs to Cameron’s room and write a flash fiction story that would be submitted to a magazine as soon as I was done with it. I picked a person, place, and situation from crumpled pieces of paper in Cameron’s desk which gave me the plot to follow. I was to write about a hitman at a soccer game who had to kill his geriatric, bed-ridden father or something like that. I had an hour. So I did that. It was later rejected by the magazine.
Rose O’Keefe and Carlton Mellick III arrived at the Bunker while I was writing my flash piece. When I finished, Rose presented me with a gorgeous notebook for my time at bootcamp that she collaged with many wonderful and personal things for and about me. It’s something that’s a big deal to me. It showed me right away what I was in for. It made me feel welcome and expectant of adventure.
On the inside cover was a list of what to bring and not bring for bootcamp that Carlton had sent me in an email earlier.
Bring:
Laptop
Sleeping bag (not that you’ll be sleeping)
Food/Beer money
An open mind
Optional:
Extra book ideas
Toiletries
A vehicle
Rations
Clothes
Don’t Bring:
Your ego
Other stuff to do besides writing
The family
Below that Rose had written the quote at the top of this article.
Carlton and I went to lunch to talk about my future with Eraserhead and to go over parts of the Eraserhead Handbook.
After lunch, Carlton and I met the rest of the crew at Lucky Lab Brew Pub—the Eraserhead hangout. Many, MANY important decisions about many awesome books are made at the tables outside that pub over beer and pizza.
Over pizza and beer, I pitched my twenty-one story ideas to Rose, Carlton, Jeff, and Cameron. We settled on one that everyone liked and seemed doable for bootcamp. Later we determined that it was a fairly ambitious project for the time I had to write it. But it worked out brilliantly.
On my first day of bootcamp, I knew what my next book was going to be. The next day, the only day I had the time, energy, or awareness to write down what I’d done the day before, I wrote, “Invincible Island”. But that’s not the title we landed on later.
The second day of bootcamp I met with Cameron. He went over a story of mine that I’d had rejected and gave me reasons why. Two important mistakes I was making stood out. We talked about how to improve my work, and Cameron gave me books about the craft of writing that had helped him. It was a great meeting, and I came away with new understanding about the art in general as well as my expression of it.
The crew gathered at the Bunker to watch Star Wars so they could point out plot points in the Hero’s Journey, which I was learning about. But the DVD player hated the movie, and we had to abandon that.
We settled for Avatar, since it had the same story arc.
I was not a fan of the movie, but it definitely illustrated the Hero’s Journey for me. At that point, Carlton changed my movie-watching experience forever by telling me to look for plot points, and observe the outline of the story, to see the arc and figure it out as I watch. Now I do it to every movie.
We began an intense group effort that evening. Something that I’d expected to come of my experience, but not something I fully appreciated until it was over. That evening we began brainstorming about my book.
Five of us together, sitting and thinking about the story, characters, plot, motivations, and other aspects. And I learned how to outline.
I’d never outlined a single thing I’d ever written.
Carlton Mellick taught me how. He also showed me the virtues of the process and how it makes the whole thing that much more fun. I’ll always outline now. (And I’ll most likely try a trick I learned from John Skipp when I told him about how Carlton showed me the light the next time I outline a book.)
So we outlined.
I learned how Eraserhead works. A great creative collective, who shift to let each other shine. They are a supportive family of artists who work toward bringing the best out of each other. And I was suddenly a part of it.
Thankfully, it was something I love. We took my ideas and expounded upon them, like a bunch of people talking over some crazy idea over coffee at 3AM. Only this was directed creative babble. This had purpose, and plot, and from it we built an outline. Each part of the crew had input. We bent and shifted to allow expertise to take control. We debated, admired, encouraged, and relented. Brilliant lines were chucked, and tiny passages were encouraged into full-blown battle scenes. From the moment I pitched the idea, it became a living discussion between all of us, with my writing at the helm, supported by the mighty imaginings of the artists around me.
We outlined the first three chapters together on the second day.
I started work on the first few chapters on the third day of bootcamp, after lunch with Jeremy Robert Johnson.
Jeremy is someone that I greatly admire, appreciate, and genuinely like to be around. He’s one of the most intelligent and witty people I’ve met, and he’s constantly hilarious, and I really can’t say enough about what a tremendously excellent person he is. I also happen to be a big fan of his writing. He and I went to lunch and discussed another short story of mine that I’d had trouble selling.
He amazed me by saying the same thing as Cameron had said to me the day before. They said the exact sentence about a fatal flaw in my technique. I love them both so much for it. I wanted to hug Jeremy across the booth. I think I did. He helped in other ways with ideas about technique, too, and really taught me a great deal about how to improve my writing over lunch. Then we went back to his place where he showed me the Swallowdown Press offices, and talked with me about really smart things like how to do my taxes as a fulltime writer. Because he’s brilliant!
I found a message to my wife that I wrote that day that said I’d learned more about writing in two days than I had in ten years of actively doing it. I stand by that.
I went back to the Eraserhead offices after lunch and got busy. I started writing what is now called, Island of the Super People.
When I was finished with the first three chapters, the others read them and discussed changes, improvements, and places the story could go. They presented those ideas to me and we discussed them. We then ate dinner, brainstormed, and went to bed.
On Sunday we outlined a few chapters together and I wrote two or three. But Sunday mostly belonged to Famous Author, Mykle Hansen. He arrived at the office to pick me up in the early evening. He said we were going out. I thought to dinner. I was wrong.
I knew some things about Mykle Hansen at that point, beyond his status as Famous Author. I’d been around Mykle, and I really like him. He’s got a love of life, and the planet, and he’s not a pushy jerk about it because he’s genuine. He’s one of the funniest people ever, too, and that ranks him high in my Book of Likes. But I figured that if I was going somewhere with him in Portland, that we’d walk, ride a train, or pedal bikes—because I knew that Mykle is very involved in the bicycle world and in helping the world grow in general.
Outside the office, chained to a post, was a tall bike and a banana bike (is that what you call ‘em?). Mykle built them both. Mine was a short, long one with a tiny front tire and a large tire in the back. It had a garland of flowers on the big, swooping handlebars. Mykle rode a huge tall bike, the kind with the biggest front tire ever—like those 1800s bikes you see in sketchings, ridden by men with mustaches that match the handlebars on my bike. Mykle couldn’t stop, because to do so meant he’d have to get off the thing. It was awesome.
We rode around downtown and the Famous Author made me describe the places he took me—parks and fountains and such. He’d point and shout, “Describe!” Sometimes he’d limit my responses. “Describe! No adjectives!” (Yeah, try that shit riding around on a trick bike in downtown Portland in the rain with your laptop slung over your back.) I loved it.
He took me for martinis. He didn’t even know how much I love martinis at the time.
And that is when the mystery began.
After explaining to me why he’d been asking me to describe things, we left the hotel bar and headed for the train. Mykle had a flat on the way. He thought he’d fixed it, but by the time we got off the train, it was obvious that it was more damaged than he’d thought.
But before the train pulled into the station, Mykle told me, “We might see some friends of mine at this next stop.” It was the stop after that, when we arrived at our destination, that we saw them.
Getting off the train, pushing my bike along, having no idea where we were or why we were there, I was met by a pack of very interesting bike riders—smiling, Beyond Thunderdome bike riders. People with crazy bikes, friendly faces, and a dangerous quality in their auras.
There were guys with mini-dirt bikes wearing motocross body armor and motorcycle helmets. There was a girl on a BMX bike that had been created from six or ten other bikes. Some people had bigger rides. Nearly everyone wore knee-boots with metal all over them, spiked arm bands and wrist guards, or mohawked, full-face headgear and leathers with fire shooting out of their tires and lasers mounted on their handlebars (not really, but that’s what it seemed like). I started wondering what the fuck at that point. Mykle looked at me and smiled, hoisting his bike and leading me to the elevators. He said hi to the pack and we all crammed in.
They all smiled, nodded, and said hello.
I thought at this point that fucking Mykle Hansen was taking me to a bike-polo game and had given me a crappy little helmet and a trick bike with slick tires to go after Mad Max and his Post-Apocalyptic Two Men Enter One Man Leaves Gang. It’s a good thing I’m a badass, because he just smiled and nodded, and told those guys, “See you at the top,” when he stopped to fix his tire again. Otherwise, I’d have probably been worried for my safety. And thought about my brand new laptop strapped across my back.
The pack said, “See you at the top.” And they rode off into the dark, rainy night, somewhere off to my right.
It was then that Mykle learned that his tire was more damaged than he’d thought. After a few more loads of bikers came out of elevators and talked briefly to the Famous Author in a dialect of Portlandese with which I was unfamiliar about the mysterious, “top”, and about “last week”, and “the turnout” and such, he decided it was going to take a miracle to get his bike back in action.
Mykle explained where he was trying to take me, while we stood under the eaves of the train station and the rain grew heavy, fearing his plan was ruined.
Zoo Bomb. You most likely know what that word combination means if you live in Portland and have any idea about what goes on in the night time. If you are not one of those people, I’ll explain it as I remember Mr. Hansen explaining it to me (I’ll be sure and edit out all the atrocious swears and slurs about the presidents of several countries. And I won’t remember the details correctly, or the name of the hill or if it even has a name. This will be a reasonable facsimile of the truth of the explanation). [note—I wrote to Mykle to get the details.]:
There’s a big hill in Portland. At the top is the zoo. The elevator from the station opens in front of the World Forestry Center Building, which is made entirely of old growth timber. Not far up the hill, at the very top is the Hoyt Arboretum.
Mykle explained to me that every Sunday night, a group of wild and interesting characters get together at the top of that hill with their crazy assortment of two-wheeled, pedal-powered vehicles. They gather under the trees—hidden away from non-Bombers—and drink beer and those horrible beverages to which I was introduced that night, Four Locos. Terrible, terrible invention. Do not drink them.
At the perfect moment, or there may actually be a given time, the bedecked bike riders come out from under the shelter of the trees, ride down to the street, and gather again at the starting point of a high-speed jam down the long, tall hill in the dark.
There are several routes, and there are determining factors as to which route is chosen as the Bomb each particular night. The veteran Bombers call the shots, speak the rules before the start, and make sure those of us who have no idea what the fuck we’re doing, do what we should.
But Mykle was fairly certain his plan to throw me into that race through the night had been dashed by a ruined tire.
I said, “Well, let’s just make it happen.”
Within five minutes, Mykle’s Brazilian friend Tiago got off the elevator and happened to have the right tube to fit Mr. Hansen’s big ol’ bike. We were in business.
Mykle forced me to ride up this giant-ass hill from the elevators to the top. I told him, as I struggled and wheezed, that this was the first time I’d been on a bike in twenty years and that I’d only just quit my 20-year habit of cigarette smoking a year before, and to slow the fuck down and let me get off the damned bike, but he just told me how smart I was to quit smoking and pedaled on. I love him.
Up at the top, I met some Zoo Bombers, drank Four Loco (one sip—it was all I needed to know I didn’t ever want more), mingled under the umbrellas of the trees, and then climbed onto my banana seat, and rode down to the starting line.
I listened to the rules. I learned that there were usually a lot more people out for the ride, but that only the hardcore had shown up because of the rain. I was the only newb.
After a count-down from ten, we took off down the hill. Bombing it.
Right from the start, I loved it.
Wind, rain, people on bikes whizzing by, and Mykle as my leader—checking back on me to make sure I was still behind him. It was awesome.
We took Route 3.0—Mykle tells me—through quiet, dark neighborhoods. I was at the end of the pack, with the people who look out for everyone bringing up the rear. And I was flying. It was one of the freer moments of my life. There was rushing in my ears, and the ticking of bike gears and wheels. My slicks hummed on the wet asphalt. Red lights blinked from the bikes ahead of me, people whooped now and then. The rain just made it all seem more like I was six years old and didn’t know how bad it would hurt to tumble face-first down the road.
Soon enough, on a hard right turn, I went down.
It was fast and wet and I remember worrying about my new laptop strapped to my back for half-a-second, and then I was on my side, picking gravel out of my hand. Totally six years old. It was amazing.
Mykle came back and circled around me as I got up, shook it off (rubbed some dirt on it as my friend James likes to say), and got back on to the Bomb. I awoke early the next morning with a tremendous pain in my knee that didn’t really go away for the next three days, but at the time, thanks to adrenaline and that sip of Four Loco, shit was cool and I was ready to go. I didn’t even flinch and I probably even went faster, knowing that even without motorcycle armor and lasers, I could take it.
We regrouped at Washington Park proper shortly after that and the leaders picked the rest of the route. We took a route called Switchbacks down, a dark switchback that led to a neighborhood called Goose Hollow, where everyone met at the Goose Hollow MAX station. Most of the pack got on the train to take the ride again. Mykle took pity on wet, injured me, and we rode back downtown to Mykle’s waiting car. He drove me to the Bunker.
I’m pretty sure I’ve thanked him for such an amazing, thrilling, different, surprising night, but I’d like to do it again. Thank you, Mykle. Zoo Bomb is like nothing else in the world, and something I definitely want to do again. But this time, on one of those little mini dirt bikes, with full gear and no rain. Well, maybe rain.
I told the people at the Bunker about my amazing evening, and went to bed shortly after arriving. After the pain-awakening, I managed a couple more hours of sleep, getting the most sleep I’d get in one night from that point on. Because after that, things got serious.
The next morning we went to work. I sat and banged out a few more chapters while everyone read what I’d written the day before. We brainstormed and outlined. Everyone gave suggestions, told me what wasn’t working for them, and the parts and ideas they really loved. I wrote. They read and took notes. I averaged a thousand words an hour, handing over three chapters or so at a time to the rest of the crew.
I never once read what I’d written previously. Not until over a month later, when I went back to write the second draft. So I did funny things, like change characters names midway through the story and forget where I’d left people. But mostly it was an easy flow. For the next few days I wrote, ate, and slept. And that’s how it went.
The bulk of my novel was written in four or five days. It was amazing. I sat in Carlton Mellick’s office, with Rose’s iPod because I couldn’t get online, with THE Baby Jesus Buttplug in front of me as inspiration, and typed away on my super laptop which survived the Zoo Bomb wipeout without an injury. Yay, Toshiba!
On Friday I went to lunch with Rose and Jeff. We ate tacos (tacos!!) and talked about my future career with Eraserhead. I finished the novel that night, just before 11PM, while Carlton worked beside me and everyone else packed up to meet us at Lucky Lab for our celebration of me completing my book. We drank beer and talked about what an amazing experience the process had been. I felt accomplished and tired. I’m pretty sure I was not alone in those feelings.
Saturday, June 5th began with Carlton and I going to 3-D Glow-In-The-Dark Mini Golf. Yes. You should do that. If you ever get a chance to go with Carlton Mellick III, you should do that especially. We had a great time. It was pirate, skeleton, and alien themed. With 3-D glasses, everything was crazy and confusing. Adding children running around screaming made it borderline chaotic. We enjoyed ourselves.
Then we tried to avoid crazy parade traffic downtown and ate some lunch.
While this was happening, the rest of the crew was preparing for a graduation ceremony. I was unawares.
Carlton and I met up with everyone at the Lucky Lab. Soon enough, Jeremy—who is our go-to emcee for all occasions—led us from our table, past the parking lot, and out to the street next to another parking lot. He was carrying some paper bags filled with stuff, like he does.
They had Chrissy take me away from the group and keep me company while some sort of preparations happened behind us on the sidewalk.
And the ceremony began.
Everyone had a funky hat. Jeremy put one of those graduation caps that you’re all going to know the name of but I don’t on my head. Everyone else had a musical instrument, and they walked around me in a circle, playing them. I’m pretty sure Jeremy chanted things about me, or at me, or maybe he rapped—damn this memory of mine! There were fireworks and a speech by Rose that made me cry. I graduated from Bizarro Bootcamp.
They gave me things, too. I was presented with a graduation certificate, signed by everyone who’d had a part in my experience. They gave me a print by Alan M. Clarke called I Hope You Enjoyed Your Stay, signed by him and the Eraserhead crew. Rose gave me a superhero action figure that she’d painted to look like one of the characters from my book. And I finally got an Eraserhead Press t-shirt—the last one left. That made me cry, too.
It was the perfect graduation ceremony.
Then we ate pizza and drank beer until very late at night. I had a fabulous time.
The next morning Rose took me to a place she’d heard about where people met up to dance. It was an adventure for both of us. We discovered ecstatic dance. It was the best way I can think of to end my bootcamp experience. Rose and I danced in a ballroom with twenty or thirty strangers, all moving however we wanted to two or more songs playing over one another for an hour or two. We released the previous ten days of frenetic, creative, shoulder-tightening energy with foot-stomping, hip-slinging, arm-raising, head-shaking, chest-thrumming dance. Perfect. Then we took a walk, talked, and ate breakfast at a sweet little spot Rose knew.
After that, I went back to the Bunker and gathered Cameron because I was giving him a ride to Olympia. I was finally able to return his CDs that had spent six months in my car and had seen at least three other chances to reunite with him. We spent the two hour drive decompressing and talking more about what we’d just been through.
Bizarro Bootcamp was one of the most enlightening, enjoyable times of my life. I learned more in two days there than I’d learned in two years. Ten days taught me that I’ve always more to learn, but that with the basics, I can go far while learning. It was also one of the most difficult times—physically, emotionally, and creatively. It stretched me. I am far better for it, but it was hard.
It was a great pleasure and honor to be taught the tricks of the trade by such masters of the craft. It was intense, powerful, and seriously put me on the path to success. The experience is something that is still settling with me. There are ideas about technique that I’m applying to my writing, and new skills that I’m trying out.
I wrote a novel while I was there. Something I’m quite proud of. I hope you all like it as much as I do. I just sent the second draft in to Eraserhead Press. I’ll see how the crew likes where I went with their notes and ideas, and what they think of the little surprises. And then I’ll finish it up. You can read it sometime at the beginning of next year, if you’re so inclined.
My continuing thanks to everyone involved with Bizarro Bootcamp. You’ve given me more than any of us can gauge at this point. You taught me, and opened my mind. The skills I learned will be fun and challenging to try and master. I feel welcomed, secure, and excited for the years to come. I will succeed because of you. We will succeed together.
If you want to be a bizarro writer, I’d suggest finding out how you can get yourself into Bizarro Bootcamp. I’m happier and more proud than I can put into words about being the first to graduate from such a worthwhile program. I hope I’ve explained it well enough so that you can glimpse what a life-altering, powerful experience it was. It changed me.
I feel ready for the future.
