Chuck Palahniuk

What offends me? Waste offends me, or great ideas that never get developed. I want to steal from every writer I meet who shares a brilliant idea that he or she will never complete.

I'm not fond of Haggis, either. Sorry Irvine.

That's MISTER Welsh to you. The guy is a god. Beth should thank her lucky stars.

Argh! The Rant question comes back! I've written the second book, but I'm such a compulsive nut-job that I'm still looking for a non-fiction form to use as a structure. I know, I know, I'm stuck on structural gimicks, but experiments like that are important to me.

Thank you for asking abou Lori's store -- before that, LuAnne's store -- may they rest in peace. We're still casting around for a new method of inscribing books. Thank you for your patience!

Patricia O'Neal said that? I loved her in Hud, but I'm not sure what she meant. Sigh.

I loved that you preficed that with my name. See, I can't spell. Prefficed? SEE Phonix has ruined me for life.

And no, I can't swim a stroke and live in mortal fear of swimming pools.

THAT sounds like a good time. I did the same thing when I read 'The Lovely Bones.' Marky Mark can play ANY role.

I meant to write "Phonics"

She sounds fragile and high-maintenance. You most likely dodged a bullet. I used to force potential romances to watch "The Piano" or "Out of Africa" and if they enjoyed the movie I'd never contact them again.

Recently? Like, when I was 13. But God forbid I get moved to that ghetto called the "Gay and Lesbian Shelf."

Witness my great keyboarding skills. It's like a chicken is in my kitchen right now. Only a chicken could probably spell better. And a chicken would know when to use 'that' versus 'which.'

At this point, I'd take any job that offered health insurance and a retirement plan. Hello, colleges? Until I find gainful employment you may contribute roughly 25 cents to my well being by linking to Amazon -- here: http://byl.nr/XPW2Mj -- and reading the story Phoenix. ( did that sound whore-y? )

Fresh "inner" pants? At last, someone who speaks my language. And yes, I am. Why do you ask?

Not to lose anybody his job... but some very stoned guys came from Stanley Steamer and taught me the blood-cleaning stuff. And this was ten years before Sunshine Cleaning. Althought I laughed out foamy hurl when Emily Blunt fell face-down on the gore-soaked mattress.

Nothing, yet. But that does sound like a pick-up line. What are YOU drinking? (wink wink )

To be brutally honest, I can do a mean drag version of Amy Hemple or Monica Drake, but my version will never have their depth and thoughtfulness.

How sweet. I can never have enough pictures of my ass. 'Guess the Christmas card is settled for this year.

Hey, you wear me out! Are expecting college credit for this? Let's start with Question #2. There's an old saying: "No piece of writing is ever finished, it's just abandoned." But my own rule is: "No piece of work is done until you want to kill everyone involved in the publishing process, especially yourself." As far as regret, I think that's the sign of a well-lived life. If I grew old without having big regrets, I'd regret my caution.

My best writing advice? Write something that people might not "enjoy" but will never forget. ( i.e. "Guts" or "Phoenix" -- again, http://byl.nr/XPW2Mj ) Our tastes change with time, and something that persists has a chance of getting appreciated more in the future.

Hello Mr. Pirate,

My original goal, back when I had integrity, was to write all my books with two-word oxymoron titles -- Fight Club, Invisible Monsters, etc. 'Survivor' was first called 'Unnatural Disasters.' But I loved how monsters are usually defined by their appearance, so how could one be invisible and still be regarded as a monster? Think on THAT.

As Mr. Lockhart would tell you, I have no head for numbers. He's dead from cancer, and I never did well in Algebra, etc. because it was too painful to ask him for help. No one ever told the poor man but he reeked of tar and nicotine so horribly that we'd rather fail his class than have him lean close and breath by our desk.

Look him up in old Columbia High yearbooks. This post, alone, proves I'm the real chuck.

Sorry, I'm no fraud. Just an idiot. A monkey with a stick could type faster, and what looks like stylish, voicey, burnt tongue is actually just typos.

Sorry, that was my slip-up. I hit the wrong button and found myself far, far away. But the oxymoron thing-y I said was me, and I meant to post it here.

Classic Mr. F--k Up. That's me.

Oh, that I were so smart. You've confused me with the ghost of David Foster Wallace. ( he typed sadly )

I saw that, last week. Morgan Freeman would never lie, and you're a big racist if you say otherwise. If not for him I'd know nothing about penguins.

But there WAS the homo subtext between him and Tim Robbins, no?

He did. I'm like Jack Nickelson at the end of 'The Shining,' stumbling around inside that stupid hedge maze.

Yes, I hope he answers this one, too.

The rub is that if you change style people feel betrayed -- witness the huge schism between early and later fans of the Star Wars films and the Woody Allen films. That said, I flushed most of the past two years down the toilet, shedding my favorite tics and violating every writing rule taught to me by Tom Spanbauer. My style is becoming baroque, as is my spelling. I yearn now to be the dirty-minded Henry James. Stay tuned for "Beautiful You" the book that will put my master plan of "Gonzo Erotica" into effect.

No choruses. Lots of adverbs. Gordon Lish will put out a hit on me.

When I was your age, all we had was some waxed string stretched between tin cans. You had to read because movies were silent. Why, I remember Robert Frost telling me.... (snore, snore, snore)

Easy! Watch 'The Hunger' and study how the vampire, Marian, arranges her not-dead-yet lovers. That thing she does with David Bowie's hands... brilliant.

No thanks needed. Glad I could help. (please, cremate me)

Random stuff! Sometimes I takes me days to compile a box. Usually -- and I'm getting more careful about this -- I look for clever, useful, beautifully packaged things. My theory is that if I vary them it's more likely at least one thing will occur as a delight for you.

( secret? I try to send smells, sounds, flavors, and i avoid sending more words. gosh i hate to type. )

Ha! I hope your classmates envied you. Nothing -- in high school -- would feel sweeter than that kind of victory. People tell me that when my strange, almost-anonymous boxes arrive they generate fear ( a bomb? ) followed by confusion and ultimately joy. The resolution of anxiety feels like joy. "Joy Bombs" would be a good name for the packages, but that just sounds stooooopid.

This is what people ( gay people ) always say about Nick and Jay in 'The Great Gatsby.' Pleeze. It's so 1970's identity politics.

To settle this, please tell her or him that if he/she teaches my stuff he's/she's very brave ( remember Mr. V in the Bronx? ) so he may say whatever he or she likes.

Honestly? I stole a huge copy of "The Joy of Sex" from a Waldenbooks in 1975 ( 1976? ). I put it in my pants, no kidding. And if you stole a paperback then you only owe me about 25 cents. Go to http://byl.nr/XPW2Mj and read 'Phoenix' and we'll be even. You'll go to Heaven and be with the angels.

Bless you, my son, go in peace...

You should set your sights a little higher. Try to be the next Chelsea Cain. She should feel your hot breath on the back of her neck as she writes, knowing that you're gaining on her. ( hee hee )

Ah, my old stomping ( getting stomped on, I mean ) grounds. Me? I'm from the thriving sub-sub-suburb of Burbank, outside of Pasco. I only go back because I know people buried in the Tri-Cities.

( way to go, Palahniuk, bring the chat room down )

Yes, and for a long, long time Salman Rushdie's books were locked up with mine because people would stuff them in the toilets. True story.

Here's your awful proof... When I was in high school ( columbia high, fight 'til you die, go coyotes! ) the jocks used to stand in the hallways and yell, "Palahniuk, suck my dick!" See, it rhymes. The chorus of my teen years. And a handy nemonic device for pronouncing my surname. Yes, this is me.

The gift of a shitty teen-hood is that everything that comes afterward feels like gravy.

I hate you for your vastly superior spelling ability. Must you wield it like such a club?

See? This is why I hate doing this. You just broke my heart. You busted my heart and then just scooted off to work.

And to think that I broke a date with Daniel Tosh just to do this!

I hate you.

Mr. Reznor needs to keep a better grip on his address book. My worst ( okay, one of my worst ) stalker got my contact info from Trent's book and ( not lying, wish i were ) it was a long-term mess.

What? Molly Ringwald did one. She not GOOD enough for you? Why, when I was your age we used to worship her. I think somebody owes Ms. Ringwald an apology...

Regarding characters... consider that all of my characters are introduced as fully formed. They've each established a way of being that includes a lie -- usually a scam that makes people "like" them without the risk of the character having to be emotionally vulnerable. My personal theory is: Childhood is those years when people tell you to be Less Sensitive, and adulthood begins when people begin telling you to be More Sensitive. My characters are at that cusp. They need to break out of their childhood shell and risk being known by at least one other person. That, to me, is romance. That needs to happen for the child to become an adult.

I'm safe in saying this because David Foster Wallace said that eventually your writing is masturbation. Regardless of how much readers enjoy it, you're really writing because it gets you off.

And I do mean it, but Tyler meant it more. The pleasures of writing include acting like exaggerations of your most-extreme self. A word to the wise? You should probably check the potty talk in class. Dude.

Good question! I was in a similar boat, as part of the generation who watched "All the President's Men" and decided to become journalists. ( stupid, stoopid, stoopid ) We glutted the field. Likewise, my friend and fellow writer, Chelsea Cain, was a journalism major ( and got her post-grad degree ). The good news is that journalism trains you to be observant and to communicate clearly ( if not spell accurately ). Those are the skills that will save you. Say hello to Tim Gleason for me, and enjoy the dazzling new Allen Hall.

Me, again. Your question has been weighing on me all weekend. Through school I worked various newspaper internships; most paid minimum wage or nothing, but they put me in the company of other writers. Late at night, at little newspapers like The Cottage Grove Sentinel, we'd sit around ( drinking beer ) writing headlines on press deadline. Each headline had to summarize a story, be clever and appealing, and fit within an exact physical space ( not be too long or too short ). That seems like an exercise very specific to journalism, but it's still the skill I use when trying to write fiction.

If I can still offer you some advice... please identify the aspect of journalism that attracts you the most. Then, look for that experience in a wider variety of careers.

Thank you! I have a monstrous story called "Cannibal" in Playboy right now. Bless them for not shying away from my subject matter. Cannibal is artsy ( so much for Minimalism ) but it's more gruesome than "Guts." Next week, I'll be in Bellingham, Washington, doing an event for Village Books. A new story ( my best story, ever, with a happy ending, too boot ), this year's tour story, and an evening of experimenting with the face of book events.

The shit never gets old. But I got old.

Please let me address a misperception. 'Fight Club' was a huge failure. Most of the hardcovers were going to be pulped. They were unsold when the movie opened... and then the movie was a flop. It has taken years ( decades ) for the story to build an audience. What's amazing is that it still resonates for young readers; it's never become dated. ( he shakes his head in disbelief )

For further comfort, please read "And So It Goes," a biography about Kurt Vonnegut. It feels great to see how his first books were lackluster non-successes.

Because ( like the great Brontosaurus ) I have a brain the size of a pea.

No, but I is counting the minutes until I can glug-glug. These interactions assume a kind-of looking good posing, and I wanted to avoid that. My hope is that I might actually say something valid, but by accident. You know?

Do I detect the sweet smell of gossip? When you're a writer ( one who comes from non-writing, trailer-living ancestors ) you seek out other writers and try to copy how they behave. I watch carefully to see which fork Ms. Cain uses to eat her fish. Still, she is a sphinx.

To ogle the mysterious Ms. Cain for yourself, contact Village Books in Bellingham, WA. She and I will be there next Wednesday, the 24th, for an evening of shenanigans.

Dear Nolk,

Don't mask your disappointment with denial. This is the true, dull me. I hit some darned link, earlier, and I'm routed through some web-thing I can't begin to fathom.

You should get something from Lidia Yuknavitch inked on you. I will if you will.

Amy Hemple makes my life worth living. If you do nothing else with your life, find a copy of her essay "A Full-Service Shelter" and love it.

Oh, thank you. ( but really, this is Morgan Molly Freeman Ringwald )

And for the moment I'm on-line in an internet cafe, trying to patch some holes in this chaos. Wednesday night I spent the first hour of the Reddit lying on my back on the kitchen floor, plugging-in and unplugging my modem and router. By the time I was online there were already 3000 posts. It's hard to fix connectivity issues while dogs are licking your face.

Get ready to hate me. To Really hate me. When I have to do painful revisions I shave my head. It's like dying, and it makes me feel better about killing passages I've written and still love.

But that's just my method.

A secret truth? Those bottles on that tour... they were filled with Lipton's tea. I wanted a sight gag that would look cool.

Dear McSealClubber --

Prove your love. Go to http://byl.nr/13aKPCY and make me a quarter.

xoxxxox ( big kiss )

Oh, thank God that Dennis made his goal. I was holding my breath. For now I'm focused on signing and inscribing the books and CDs that will go out to contributors. I've held off asking to read the screenplay because I'd like to be surprised by the finished film.

You wanna know a secret? I f-ck'n love catchy "hooks." Like you'd see on inspirational posters or hear in songs. Those brain worms. And I live to re-hear the Bill Withers song "Ain't No Sunshine" because of the extended "I know, I know, I know, I know..." section. It's like a mantra, this repetition where language begins to break down and sound like music, like a bird's repeating song/call. Near the end of the story "Romance" I tried the same trick by repeating "And life goes around and life goes around and life goes around..." chanting as many cycles of that sentence as possible. It feels like being a human prayer wheel atop a mountain in Nepal.

That's why "Fight Club" is so "sticky." The repetition "the first rule, the second rule, etc." If your reader comes away from the story remembering even one line, you've succeeded. Why CAN'T stories be more like songs?

Damn, I suck at this. Could I be more slow? How about one answer? I wasn't always a public person, but I've been with someone ( Mike ) for decades. Early on, we talked about the growing attention, and he wanted to avoid the spotlight. I have to admire his resolve to remain private. I've talked to too many celebrated people who lost their true loves because of this issue.

For transgressive fiction, I always go back and re-read "The Informers" and "Rules of Attraction" by Bret Ellis. And Irvine Welsh's "Trainspotting."

If you're looking for something more current, check out "Dora" by Lidia Yuknavitch.

If I told you the "lying down in the street story" it was the truth.

But wait... it gets even MORE maudlin. The above episode happened a few days after my father's murder, when I was swamped with depression and needed some assurance that life would continue. In a way this sort of "scam" echoes the parts in "Fight Club" where the narrator attends support groups because they allow him to express his anxiety and grief about his own life. You should also know that I didn't ACTUALLY lie in the road. I was wearing my best clothes ( a necktie! ) and didn't want to risk wrecking them. My emotional needs are always secondary to my wardrobe. Thanks for coming to the event in San Francisco!

No, if anything, drugs kept me from writing for years. They are a false source of inspiration. For me, at least.

You, my dear, may wear see-thru anything. And it was wonderful to see you walking down the street, yesturday. My lovely shill.

Bedtime Stories for Adults will be in Bellingham, WA next week, please phone 1-800-392-BOOK. It will be life changing.

Angels weep when they look at Sam's butt. Even in pants.

To clarify, days later, I meant this as a complement. Angels weep at the sight of beautiful things.

The boxes! I'm always looking for clever, novel things to send but my favorites are boxes of chocolates. They seem like such a luxury. The oddest thing ( thing? ) was some of the cremated remains of the writer Shirley Jackson, who wrote "The Haunting of Hill House." Her daughter sent me the ashes, and I sent them ( in a carved antique box ) to my editor, Gerry Howard. I wish I had more of the same to send my editor at Byliner, Amy Grace Lloyd. She deserves some baked writer ashes. Shout out to Amy.

Someday I'll explain the necklaces more fully. They are a strange nostalgic ritual. My father was a rock collector ( i'm sorry if i've explained this to you already ) and my earliest memories are of hunting for agates with him. Making the necklaces keeps his memory fresh in my mind, but it also exercises my brains in a way that words don't. Most writers seem to have a "visual arts" hobby. Capote made his collages, Mailer drew pictures, Vonnegut did his famous doodles. Tennessee Williams painted. For me, the act of collecting stones and assembling them in a series fulfills this same function. It uses ageless, immortal things ( like words ), and the act ( like writing ) demonstrates patience and time. Blah, blah blah.

I am so sorry. Unhappiness comes out of nowhere... and that's why we need to make the effort to make happiness occur. If disaster can be random then my goal is to create as much joy as I can. 'Nuff said.

Hello? Testing, testing... thank you. My web connection is getting sketchy, and I can't seem to get beyond the first 1500 questions. My apologies for that. In the future I'll do this in town, where I'll have real service. Here, it's the woods. I'm very beholding to John at Byliner and Dennis at The Cult for walking me through this process. I am a Luddite, but their patience and help has made me a Reddit convert. Thank you -- even you Anne Marie in Las Vegas! Say hello to your look-alike aunt, Maureen. I must go drink something alcoholic and re-read Monica Drake's new novel, "The Stud Book." I look forward to disappointing you all at a future date. If I overlooked your question it's not your fault. It's me. I'm a dick. I'll Shut Up Now.

Those poor dolls. In Denver I gave out hundreds and later lurked in a friend's car, peeking through tinted windows as people carried fake sex dolls all over the downtown core. Such a glorious sight! If I could keep time in a bottle...

Not to sound preachy, but it's so important to keep creating good, bold memories. Once I realized -- post-college -- that all of my best anecdotes began with the words "This one time in school..." That's when I realized I was in a rut... so I joined Cacophony Society.

A glow-in-the-dark cover. Forgive me for bragging, but neither Hemingway or Fitzgerald ever got such a great cover. Now I'm pushing for a scratch-and-sniff cover. Fingers crossed.

Hi Blowjobs4everyone --

It seems like I can't keep dodging the movie question. Truth is, I'm not paying very much attention. Putting a movie project together is so complicated. The details change from hour to hour, and whatever I pass along seems to become obsolete misinformation the moment it leaves my mouth ( fingers? ). Good news is that "Haunted" is financed and ready to start production this summer. Once the director is ready to announce his cast and locations, I'll pass along more information.

Flattered. Except... that mustache, ugh.

Oh, you are so young. I'd actually asked for a Donna Summer song, but David Fincher looked at me like I was crazy.

Epic and perfect? Yeah, until I went to Italy and was duped into standing at the bottom of a huge movie screen -- post 9-11 -- as the CG buildings toppled around me. That, that felt icky. But it's still a good song.

Dear nolimitz4me --

I couldn't have said it better, myself. But, please, let's remember that my adorable 15-year-old niece is in the house. "In the house" is 80's speak for online.

A secret: Fight Club is "The Great Gatsby" but with more punching and insomnia. A triangle. A 30-year-old boy in crisis ( nick carraway? ) A gunshot resolution. Voila.

See! I love how simple, memorable lines can cue elaborate, shared memories. It's beautiful. Old friends will telephone and just cackle one line ( "I'd kill for those ruby slippers!" ) then hang up, and I'll know who it was, and the reference, and be laughing.

Is this what song writers call a "hook"? I like to think so. And I always feel giddy when I hear some newsmaker say, "The first rule of Fight Club is..." How many writers get that thrill?

My favorite quote is from Amy Hemple: "What dogs want is for no one to ever leave." Isn't that lovely?

Argh! Why does 20th Century Fox get the merchandising money? Here I am, selling my blood for enough money to buy caviar. Life sucks ass.

Did You Know... I remember that. Your friend was with several people ( five? ) and they were driving to get pizza on the night they were hit. Some died ( two? ). He had long Trent Reznor hair. His mother wept at the hospital, and I will never forget that night ( actually, morning, because it was long past midnight ). That was eight, nine years ago? I will never, ever forget it. You were good friends to drag me there, and the local publicist ( hurray Michelle, you are the hottest MILF! ) was a hero for taking me to and from the hospital.

That wasn't me. I have an evil twin. Several.

How's this? Every twenty or thirty minutes, take a break and do something mindless. Wash some dishes. Fold some laundry. Pull some weeds. A physical task seems to refresh my imagination. It's like those moments in conversation when you say the wrong thing... then, when it's too late and you're halfway to your car, you imagine the perfect thing that you Should've said. By taking a little break from writing, you relax and reflect. Then inspiration hits. Then you'll be excited to write for another 2-30 minutes.

Try it.

You're not an asshole. I have first dibs on that title.

There are parts of "Fight Club" and "Choke" that make me shudder with regret. ( why was the hypnosis stuff in there near the end? ) While "Pygmy" makes me hugely happy. I got to really screw with language! And "Tell-All" let me say something important about how people accrue authority by usurping the life stories of other people. Every book is an experiment, some more successful than others, and I regret none of them. My least favorite was "Stranger Than Fiction" ( especially that title ), but some people tell me that it's their favorite among my books.

Goodness, and the guts it took to read "Guts" in public... what's the point of writing a story if it doesn't force me to be a braver person? God forbid I sit at home wondering, "Will people like this?"

Yes, I remember you! But I can't recall if you were the "Moby Dick-ish" whale movie guy. I have the screening copy of your movie on my desk right now.

Hey Lizzie --

My gut reaction was my guide. Maybe he'd mellowed since you knew him -- don't we all, over time? But my impression was that he was a polite kid from the Midwest who'd identified the worst parts of himself, and he'd developed the skills to express those parts on demand. Like every performer I know he's a crazed idiot on stage, but a pussy cat backstage. Just to watch him interact with Rose McGowan's dogs, that made me like him.

Do you still live in Florida? You are so lucky.

The carrot? I shudder to think. I still wonder if the mother ( yes, the real mother of a former-friend of mine ) discarded the paring knife that was used... If household utensils could only talk.

Why the Remix? The publisher, W.W.Norton ( shout out to Amy Cherry ), approached me with the proposal. There had been an on-line petition for a special hardcover version, and Norton wanted to fill the demand. Initially they'd asked me to write an introduction for the new edition. I counter-proposed re-structuring the book and trying to make it the jumpy, twitchy, non-linear mess that I'd first conceived. The publisher agreed. That's it.

Please, let me address the "shock value" stuff. A million years ago, when the earth was cooling, I dreamed of being a Catholic priest. The idea that someone got paid to listen to everyone's darkest secrets, wow, that sounded like a good career. Fast forward to now, and people see me as un-shockable and nonjudgmental so they confession to me their worst selves. It's wonderful and tragic and hilarious, but I need to turn that stuff into fiction so it doesn't become my burden. Also, other people flat-out ask me to make a specific, terrible situation seem funny. They relate some awful scene from their own life and ask me to disarm its drama with humor. In therapy, I think the process is called "recontexturalizing." Shifting the context of an event to make it bearable. I invent very little of my "shocking" material; I'm mostly just collecting true-life horror stories.

Undescended testicle.

No duh! Of course the movie showcased Mr. Durden. Brad Pitt made that project bankable. He was the little engine that pulled that whole train.

No human being or fictional character can survive the slash-slam destruction of the Pounding Peccary maneuver.

Strictly as a legal formality, but my attorney advises me to obtain full frontal nude photos of everyone with whom I drink coffee. Unless, of course, you're a minor. 'Just saying. Be sure to catch my cameo on next season's "To Catch a Predator."

Traumas? I wouldn't know where to start. Aber ich bin echt nur ein Tranentier.

Dear Woyaboy --

Do you remember when you were little and someone could terrify you with a campfire story? Every once in a long while I find a story with the same power. Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" or Mark Richard's "Strays" are such stories. When I read "Guts" and see people listening raptly, I feel great. It's wonderful to see that short stories can still carry such power.

This past week, in Bellingham, I read a new story called "Zombies" ( title likely to change ) and it had a similar strong effect. It's slated for the Nov. Playboy, and it's my tour story for "Doomed" this fall. Writers in my workshop -- my thanks to Lidia Yuknavitch for her considerable heroic editting help -- have been shocked by the sweetness of the "Zombies" ending. No, it's not like me at all. But it will still piss off many people.

The essay collection... Ideally, I'd like to add more essays. Every time some writer teaches me a new trick, or I recognize one, I'd like to document it and pass it along. Doing so forces me to examine my own methods. At the same time I want to provide Dennis with exclusive content so I don't feel I can dictate how he posts the essays. It's a slippery patch of ice: I'm depicting methods and distinctions taught to me by Tom Spanbauer, and Tom's teaching things he's learned from big-name editors/writers like Gordon Lish. I'm not comfortable putting my name on such accumulated wisdom. So I defer to Dennis on this.

And "Doomed"... makes "Rant" look easy and breezy. Never have I twisted a plot into such a tight knot. Madison returns to Earth and finds that her parents have taken all the advice she gave them over the phone, from Hell, and they've launched a new world religion with the ultimate goal of destroying the planet. Oh, and there's an unacceptable amount of sexual violence, but it will make you laugh.

You're 23? That should be enough. Oh, to be 23...!

MCKaney, you will never have as much energy and daring as you do now. Over the next ten years, gather everything. Hoard experiences, writing tricks, ideas. Once you're 31 you'll begin to slow down, then get serious about novel writing. By that point you'll have a pile of material you can draw from for the rest of your career.

Go, be a language and lifestory vampire. Go to parties and bars and suck non-writers dry.

Dear Hometodd ( if that IS your real name ) --

Every time I sign a book I wish my name was "Amy Tan." Six letters!

Oh, and it's h-n-i-u-k. You illiterate Dickinsonian Fan Boy.

You're welcome. It's taken me two weeks, but I'm responding to your post.

In both the movies you cite, I wish the story had included the eventual unmasking and humiliation of the narrators. "Jack" is shamed in front of the support groups he's deceived, and Victor is rejected by all the people who think they've saved him. That "loss of face" is the worst situation that most young people can imagine. Especially young men see a loss of status or social standing as more threatening than physical pain. To show a reader his worst fear, and show a character surviving that disaster, that's my goal. Movies almost never ( maybe never ) depict a character being humiliated on that deepest level, and I wonder if it's because actors dread that possibility more than anyone else.

That's easy, start by reading Lidia Yuknavitch's new novel, "Dora." Then read Monica Drake's "The Stud Book."

Then, read all of Amy Hemple and Denis Johnson. Then, read my novel "Lullaby," but don't get thrown by the flash-forwards. 'kay?

Most first-timers like "Lullaby" -- but do me a favor, please? Skip the first chapter. Why did I stick that prologue-y thing on the front? Was I high? Everything after that is better. 'Promise.

Ask David Fincher! It was his idea to explode the banking system. Golly, Proudcanadianeh, you're such a kill-joy!

As my best friend in college used to sing: "Every party needs a pooper, that's why we invited you..."

My pet theory is that a writer needs his/her 20's in order to gather material that she/he will write about for the rest of a sedentary life. It's fine to take notes, but no writer should spend his ( oh, to hell with the gender of pronouns ) youth in the big chunks of solitude that writing requires. First, lead an interesting life -- know interesting people and develop an ear for how good anecdotes work. Second, become a writer.

Did I judge you? When the writer Jim Goad told me how much writing he did while in jail I kind-of envied him. And if you've never chewed tar... well, you've never been a poor, bored child in a dismal rural setting. The arid, hot desert around Burbank, WA is perfect for tar chewing. Our neighbor, Beth Glass, showed everyone how to find clean tar leaking through broken asphalt. We chewed it instead of gum, all summer. Gum cost money. Tar is free. Plus tar stained our teeth black, a very sexy look. Then we discovered Skol.

A biggest fear? Bridges. I will drive hours to avoid a high bridge. I'll pay to take a taxi over one instead of walking. Now, don't YOU judge me.

You mean "Submerging the I" and God bless the writer Peter Christopher for teaching it to me. RIP, Peter, we miss you.

Some other writing tips to keep in mind:

Use attribution and gesture to pace your dialogue more effectively.

Always use description as a chance to describe the person doing the describing. For example, how would a plumber describe a room versus how a painter would describe the same room. Use description to show the reader the specific way a character perceives the world.

Avoid abstracts. No 100-degree temperatures. No six-foot-tall men. No 100-pound weaklings.

Read your work aloud, and listen for when you get bored.

I'll come back and add to this list as more things occur to me. I could write an entire textbook about generating and sustaining energy and momentum in plot. The most common flaw I see in fiction is a writer's inability to create and escalate tension and conflict. Don't get me started!

"Literally"

In college, I knew a couple who posed as young newlyweds and went around adopting pets from the classified ads. They'd dress sweetly and croon over the nice cats and dogs that people needed to find new homes for. Once they'd gotten the animal this boy and girl would sell it, instantly, to animal testing laboratories. It was dispicable. Sickening. But it's how they paid for college. From what I hear, they're still assholes.

I started to write a story about them, one time, but my editor -- Gerry Howard -- told me to drop it. He was right. The whole scenario was disgusting.