​Ah, how I envy romance authors. And sci-fi authors. And horror authors. And fantasy authors. Authors of any genre, really.
 
I can’t even imagine what it must be like to upload your book to amazon and have amazon ask you “What genre is this?” and be able to click the drop-down menu and say definitively, “This one!”
 
When authors first start out, the first piece of advice that’s almost universally proffered is “Pick a winning genre and stick with it.” And that makes perfect sense. It’s the best way to make money as an author. You can join all sorts of writing support groups that focus on that genre. And it helps you stay in your lane.
 
Unfortunately for me, when I started out, nobody said diddly to me about genre. I knew the novel I wanted to write. It was Typo Squad. I was going to write it and that was that.
 
When I finished Typo Squad, I was really happy with it. It was good. It was unique. It said exactly what I’d wanted it to say. So I said, “Here you go, amazon. Sell this for me, would you? There’s a nice unfeeling billon-dollar corporation.”
 
And, of course, amazon said to me, “What genre is this?”
 
And I had no idea.
 
The overarching theme of it was humor. So was humor the genre? No, not exactly. I mean, it wasn’t Totally Tasteless Jokes Volume III or a Dilbert collection. So then I thought, “Well, in addition to being funny, there’s also action and adventure in it.” But then, wouldn’t you know it? Action and Adventure are two different genres.
 
So I started digging deeper. Typo Squad is set in a world where typos are lethal to 98% of the population. Therefore, it’s set in a different reality. Would that make it fantasy then? No, because then it would be lumped in with swords and dragons and whatnot. Would it technically be sci-fi? A parallel universe? No, I think the sci-fi fans would reject it outright.
 
What was my poor little book?
 
Ultimately, with “alternate reality typo adventure” not being a genre – yet – I categorized it under humor. Is that hurting the book? Helping it? I have no idea.
 
But to all you authors just starting out on your journey, I will say this – look at the genre options on amazon and pick one before you start. You will thank me.

​

So as most of you know, I attended the Star Trek Convention in Las Vegas last week. If you're one of the few who did not know, I attended the Star Trek Convention in Las Vegas last week.

The convention is held at the Rio Hotel, for better or worse, and the layout of the Rio goes a little something like this: casino/hotel, long hallway, convention. So if you're in your hotel room or you're in the casino and you need to get to the convention (or vice versa), really your only way of getting there is that long hallway. I mean, you could go outside, but it was around 107 degrees while we were there, so you'd be an idiot to do so.

Because the long hallway is the easiest and sanest method of conveyance, you will often see a mix of Star Trek fans and Star Trek celebrities both coming and going.

As you can well imagine, this results in people frequently snapping their heads around and whispering excitedly, "Oh my God, that was (fill in Star Trek celebrity name here)!" And it puts fans on the lookout, since really, anybody could be somebody, if you take my meaning.

So I decided to perform a sociological experiment in the long hallway. On the way from the casino to the convention, passing hundreds of hawk-eyed fans, I was just my regular self. Just a guy in street clothes, walking along, another face in the crowd.

Then, just before I headed back to the casino from the convention, I stopped in the men's room and put on my sunglasses. My cool, super-dark, round sunglasses that I believe cost me $15 on amazon.

I made my way into the long hallway, and the effect was immediate. People's heads were snapping toward me and I heard some of them whisper "Who's that?" to one another. Just because of the sunglasses.

Now to be fair, and in the interest of full disclosure, I did strut just a little bit and instead of looking around at costumes, I looked straight ahead and treated those I passed with complete disinterest. But other than that, it was the same me who had walked down to the convention.

Only now there was the possibility I was somebody. And evidently, that was irresistible.

I don't know precisely what that says about people, or about our celebrity-obsessed culture, or about society in general, but I can tell you this:

I wore those glasses a lot.

So. I decided I wanted to get myself a nice Bluetooth speaker. Something with a little bass in it. Something better than the awful, tinny speaker on my iPhone.

So I hopped on amazon, read a few reviews, and plopped down 40 bucks on a company I'd never heard of, but had four and a half stars with almost a thousand reviews. Good enough.

A few days passed, and my Bluetooth speaker arrived. The box was shiny and professional-looking, so I was pleased.

I went ahead and opened the box, and what should greet me first but a ... Christmas card?

So, okay, it's JULY, but they included a Christmas card. And also, they're a company that manufactures Bluetooth speakers and they included a Christmas card. Curious. Let's see what the back of the envelope says ...

Hm. AOMAIS (the company) wish you a merry Christmas. Okay, so normally when you refer to a company as a single entity, you'd say "AOMAIS wishes ..." Also, the "merry" in "merry Christmas" should be initial capped. Also, there's a lot of wishing in just two sentences. I wonder what the card holds for me ...

Huh. Well, here's Santa wishing me a Happy Merry Christmas. I guess that covers all the bases. And I guess to keep the mystery alive, they didn't write who the Happy Merry Christmas wishes are from. The suspense is killing me. Open the card!

No one! No one at all! Damn you, AOMAIS! I suppose I can re-use the card when the holidays roll around, but anyone who knows me well would never accept a Happy Merry Christmas card from me.

​Okay, what's next?

Ah, here's a card telling me that I can call them tool free. That's good to know. I hate using tools to call someone. Also, they're available nonstop 24 hours. They never stop!

Well, here's the Quick Start guide for my AOMAIS Sprot. Funny, the box said it was the AOMAIS Sport, but I'm in no position to argue with the Quick Start guide. I suppose I could call for clarification. They are available nonstop 24 hours.

Ah, nice. Here's a list of everything that's in the package. The speaker, good. An audio cable, that's handy. A charging cable, the Quick Start guide, a feedback card, and a ... what in the hell ...?

A speaker swimming raft? The fuck ...?

Son of a bitch. There it is, in all its glory. An inflatable raft so that the speaker can go swimming. Of all the accessories I could have dreamed up for my speaker, this has to be in the bottom five.

Ah yes, of course. The speaker is waterproof. This warm note reminds me that I have to seal up the flap before I set the speaker on its little blue life raft, otherwise it will be damage the device. And it will be. Oh yes, it will be.

Look at that. I can play the music. All these years I lacked the confidence in my musical abilities, but here's my AOMAIS Sprot telling me that, yes, I can play the music! Thank you, AOMAIS Sprot!

HELLO! HELLO?! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LET ME TURN UP THE VOLUME ON MY ​AOMAIS SPROT!

The great irony in all this? It's actually a solid little Bluetooth speaker. Five stars for product quality. (And heck, five stars for an entertaining unboxing!)

So yeah, I released my second novel a couple of weeks ago. You may have heard. It was kind of a big deal.

So far, the general consensus is, "I like the first Typo Squad, but I like Typo Squad II even more!" That's a fine consensus. I'm certainly happy with it. It means I've gotten better as a writer, and that if I follow this particular trajectory, people will be absolutely head over heels for Typo Squad VII: Shameless Cash Grab when it's released.

But I suppose part of me feels a little twinge of sadness for the first Typo Squad book. I guess it's like having that second child and everyone is ooh-ing and ahh-ing over it, while the first child sits ignored in the corner and wonders What did I do wrong?

Still, the first book will always represent the start of my career as an indie author (no offense to you, Stargazer Lilies or Nothing at All). It's where I created the Typo Squad world. It's where everyone first met Dick and Thea and Big and the rest of the gang. It's where it all began.

George Lucas is famous for saying that he much preferred The Empire Strikes Back to A New Hope, because A New Hope required him to build an entire universe from scratch, but Empire allowed him to actually play in it. I get what he means. I hear him chirpin'.

I suppose next year when Typo Squad III is released, I'll feel the same way about the second book. But that's okay. I suppose it's just a matter of me learning to love all my kids equally. I can do that.

(But I'll still always love you best, Typo Squad.)

If memory serves, and it often doesn't, I got my first pair of glasses when I was in fifth grade. I hated them then and I hate them now.

They pinch my nose, when they're not sliding down it. They get fogged up and rain-covered. They fall off the nightstand. They break. They get lost. They set off the metal detectors at the airport. They're a royal pain in the ass. All things being equal, I'd rather just have eyes that worked properly.

But you know where glasses really play the spoiler? Cosplay. I worked Plastic City Comic-Con this past weekend, and couldn't help but notice how many truly badass costumes had their badassery almost entirely negated because the cosplayer was forced to add glasses.

Now look, I know it's not anyone's fault. You love to cosplay and you have bad eyesight, I get it. But what about switching to contacts? Even just for the cons.

Or what about cosplaying as a character who WEARS glasses? You might not think there are a lot to choose from, but there are. Harry Potter. Velma from Scooby-Doo. Dr. Hugo Strange. The Baroness from GI Joe. Professor Farnsworth from Futurama. Peter Griffin. Daria. Dexter. Urkel. Doc of the Seven Dwarfs. The Minions. The list goes on.

Or don't listen to me and keep wearing your glasses and cosplaying as characters who don't wear glasses. But trust me — your bespectacled Wolverine isn't nearly as intimidating as you think it is.

For those who have been wondering, yes, the rumors are true—very soon I'm going to be starting my own YouTube show. And I'm very excited, because as I understand it, I'm the last person left on earth who doesn't have his or her own YouTube show. So . . . huzzah!

The show is titled "Tell Me About Your Damn Book™" and I'm going to be interviewing local authors about their work. It's gonna be the monkey's eyebrows, baby. The eel's hips. The elephant's instep.

Anyhoo, before I even entertained the notion of having actual authors arrive on my set, I had to acquire certain skills and equipment.

Learning about aspect ratios and video framing? Check. Setting up clear and properly leveled audio? No sweat. Getting up to speed on the coolest video editing software? Eh, that was frustrating and took a while, but I got there.

But then there were the lights. Oh my God. The lights.

I got myself some softbox lights and looked up where to place them and placed them where they were supposed to go. Then I lit them and it was like the set was on the surface of the sun. So I swapped out the bulbs they sent me with softer ones and lit the set, and it looked like the dark side of the moon.

I moved those goddamned lights here, there, and everywhere in every configuration imaginable. One setup cast too much shadow on the background. Another setup had the lights bleeding into the camera shot. Yet another made me look on camera like I was eighty years old. (I'm only seventy-eight.) The lights were too high. The lights were too low. Hours and hours spent researching, rejiggering, re-configuring, resetting, rejecting, and restarting. Take my word for it when I tell you that lighting a set is not for the weak.

But finally—finally!—I got the lighting just the way I want it. Now I just have to caution my interview guests not to trip over the lights, nudge the lights, breathe on the lights, or engage the lights in any way.

Because I am not going through that again.

I've struggled with my weight my entire life. I hate when I get fat, but I have these awful cycles where I'll just regard the treadmill as a piece of modern art in a museum — to be looked at and admired, but never touched — and plop down on the couch with a bag of Reese's whatevers.

So I know the entire spectrum of waist sizes of the pants you'll find in a store like Target or Kohl's. They start at 30 (as in 30 inches around your waist, you skinny prick) and go up to either 40 or 42, depending on how far they're willing to go to satisfy customers.

But 42 is the absolute upper limit, baby. If you need 44 or above, Wal-Mart can't help you. You're off to Jerry's Big & Tall shop.

Now, knock wood, I've always been able to get a handle on my weight before needing to go beyond 42s. I've had a couple of close calls, but I never crossed over.

Here's the thing, though: Imagine going into Jerry's Big & Tall and telling them you need size 44 pants? You'd be the skinniest guy in the joint! All the size 56 guys would be looking at you with genuine envy.

I'm not suggesting you try this — that is to say, bulking up to the point where you need 44s just so you can oddly feel skinny again — but keep in mind that no matter how big you get, there's always someone bigger who would give almost anything to be the size you are.

And Jerry, of Jerry's Big & Tall shop, will never, ever judge you.

Back in November of last year, I attended Rhode Island Comic-Con for the first time. I knew beforehand that it was going to be a madhouse, a much bigger con than I was used to, but there was one name on the list of celebrities that had seduced me: Weird Al Yankovic.

I had been a huge fan of Al's since the early '80s, and I had seen him plenty of times in concert, but this was going to be my first opportunity to actually MEET the man. I was beside myself with anticipation in the weeks leading up to the con.

My wife and I came up with a highly convoluted plan that would get me the maximum amount of time with Al: we would get in line for his booth and get him to sign one of his 8x10s, then we would have a photo op with him, and then we would bring the photo op photo to him to sign. Nothing stalkerish about that, right?

So we lined up for Phase 1 of the plan, and I can't recall ever being so nervous about meeting a celebrity in my life. We finally had our moment with him, and it was ... okay. He wasn't rude or mean or anything, but he also wasn't particularly warm or friendly. I tried to engage him in conversation, but he didn't seem interested. So I told him that we had a photo op with him later and we'd see him then.

The photo op setup was, not to put too fine a point on it, a shit show. We waited about 40 minutes in a monstrous, increasingly agitated crowd, and when we had our moment with Al, it was literally just that. A moment. It was hard to tell if he recognized us from before. He probably didn't.

So then back to his table to get him to sign the photo we'd just taken together. By this point I felt like we had paid the equivalent of a VIP pass so we'd get a little more out of the man, but no. He was just signing pictures and shaking hands. Nothing more.

It might not have been so noticeable if his booth hadn't been set up next to Thomas F. Wilson's (Back to the Future's Biff). Thomas was striking up conversations with everybody, whether they were paying him or not, and really took the time to make everybody feel special. Not Al. He just did what he was brought there to do. No more, no less.

I realize it's not fair of me to impose Biff's gregariousness onto Al, but honestly, if I had fans who really wanted to meet me, I would be tripping over myself to make them feel welcome. But not Al.

The worst part about this entire experience is that I've soured on Al's music. I used to really, genuinely enjoy it, but now when I hear a song of his, all I can think about is his weak handshake, his lack of enthusiasm, and his shrugging demeanor. So yeah, take this lesson from me, kids. Don't meet your heroes. They'll only break your heart.
​

I don't know if I actually have fans of my books.

Well, that's not entirely true. I know quite a few people who are fans of my books. But those are all people I know. They have to be fans. Can you imagine having dinner with friends and over appetizers they say, "Not really digging your books, there, Lomer. Sorry."

I'm talking about people who only know me because of my books, people I've never met before. My wife works with someone whose daughter claims to be the biggest fan of Typo Squad, but I've never met the girl, so I can neither confirm nor deny her existence.

I know a lot of writers who excitedly share when a fan reaches out to them on Facebook. I know writers who have fan pages that other people (y'know, fans) have set up. And there's this one writer who is forever yammering on about how popular her books are and how much money she makes in book sales, so I assume she probably has a huge fan following. (I'm actually surprised she doesn't go on and on about that. Maybe she really only cares about the fame and the money.)

But I haven't had any of those experiences. If I have fans beyond my circle of family and friends, they're very quiet and don't communicate much. Maybe my stuff appeals to the introvert crowd.

Whatever the reason, if you are a fan of my work and you and this blog somehow cross paths, I just want to say thank you. And to tell you that you can say hello if you want to, I don't bite.

As a counterpoint to all of the above, to my knowledge, I don't really have haters either. Just as I've never received an email from a stranger saying, "Hey, loved the book," I've also never received one that said, "I've read your books. Kill yourself." So maybe no news is good news after all.