The Stall

Or, When Not to Panic While Smoking Brisket

• You’re smoking your brisket. It’s going well. You’ve got it low and slow. The temp on the meat is rising. It smells amazing. And then…it stops. The temp just will not go any higher than 150, 160. If you’re new to smoking brisket, you might panic. You might think “There’s no fucking way this is going to be done in time for the dinner party I invited my neighbors to so I could shove Steve’s face into how my brisket skills just as good as his, the arrogant prick.” You might think you need to raise the heat in your smoker (no, don’t) or take the thing inside and finish it in the oven (I mean, if you really want to have something for Steve to eat and mock, sure), but the best thing to do is ABSOLUTELY JACKSHIT NOTHING and in a few hours the meat will start to warm up and the temp gauge will rise. If that throws off your dinner party, meh. Get Steve and his snooty wife (Carol) drunk first and they’ll forget that the food is three hours later than you said.

• It’s THE STALL, people. It’s the time when the meat goes into some sort of cryogenic stasis where it does something scientific/black magicish and stays the same damned temperature for hours. It’s all part of the process. It must be anticipated and endured. This is why brisket takes a day and a half to cook if you want a good one. It must be allowed to do its thing, get over it, and then power ahead to the finish line.

• But you say, “Smith, I did not come here for your cooking tips. I’m here because you are a badass writer, one of the most underappreciated noir voices of his generation who will only be celebrated by the mainstream long after you are dead and gone, and the money will flow to God Knows Who because you don’t have any children. So what does any of this have to do with writing?”

• First, Steve, I agree about the cooking tips. For those, go follow Stephanie Hansen. And thanks for your kind words, but I am a humble pulp hack who does not think about my legacy, only about making my current few readers happy. Thirdly, OF COURSE IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH WRITING, JACKASS.

• Jesus, it’s all I’ve got, this writing thing! I mean, professionally. I love bikes and guitars and travel and obviously food, but nobody wants any of that jazz from me.

• Here’s what I’m trying to say: all writers experience THE STALL multiple times in their careers (i.e. glorified hobbies), sometimes multiple times during the writing of a novel, or even multiple times a week. It seems nothing is going anywhere in your writing or your business. You’re stuck, simmering in your own juices. Maybe it’s a lack of inspiration, lack of time, lack of enthusiasm, lack of energy. It’s just a big fucking lack of some shit. It will freak you the fuck out, too. You’ll think “Why am I writing this? I can’t finish it. It’s a stupid book.” Or “This is not what agents in NYC are looking for. I should shelve it now and save myself six months of snooty ‘I don’t know how to sell this. It didn’t win me over.’ responses.” Or “Why won’t anyone buy my small press/self-pubbed books? What’s the point in going to this conference or book fair if I have to spend more money on that then I will ever make back from the even itself?”

• I hear ya.

• Oh, believe me, I’m having an early summer Stall myself.

• I got back from my trip down to New Orleans (Jesus, that food was amazing) ready to bike and write! However, this past week I’ve done neither. I dunno. Exhausted from a crazy road trip? Sure. Summer class to deal with? Done. Feeling fat after all that food I ate and very much looking forward to biking but pooping out instead? Check.

• I know what I want to write on this Lafitte book (and even on the Slow Bear thing I started), but can’t be bothered to sit my ass down and DO IT at the moment. I’m even thinking about the book after these two. But I’m a bit paralyzed, and I think “Why am I putting myself through this? Who gives a shit if I do another Lafitte?”

• Before you jump in and swear your blood oath to me as certified Lafitte fans, please realize I feel the same way about him and will finish this book hell or high water or blizzard or wasp attack or whatever the fuck. But this week, I’m feeling, as my wife says, “small.”

• I’m also thinking about the first book fair I’m doing in July in Minneapolis. Part of me is excited, while the other part thinks “I’ve already spent hundreds, sort of, to do this - registering for the table, buying my own books to sell, buying a rack to put them in, hiring Steven Fain to make some awesome art for the booth - and there’s no chance in Capital-H Hell of me selling enough to make up for it. “

• (However, I think we get free beer and food from the trucks, so that’s a bit of comfort.)

• THE STALL, folks. Nothing’s moving forward. At least, that’s how it feels to me.

• But no worries. I’ve been here before. I once had a six month stall, a deep depression, where I came home from work, curled up on the couch, and watched FAIL ARMY on Pluto for hours at a time. Unmoving. But I got out of that funk by writing The Butcher’s Prayer. It was a story based on a real life killer I knew at my old Pentecostal church, and I’d wanted to write a novel about it for years. Doing it got me past The Stall. And I would not mind at all if you clicked the link and bought some copies.

• I stall all the time.

• And I’m considered “prolific” but it doesn’t feel that way to me.

• Yet I do have two books coming out in the next year, so okay, I’ll take it.

• The thing is, writers who don’t stall are fascinating. They either have a crazy work ethic or they have so much money coming in from NYC or Hollywood (I almost wrote “Hollyweird” but realized that’s some sort of stupid MAGA thing…but I still think dealing with Hollywood sucks ass) that it’s their goddamned JOB to write fiction, and holy fuck I’m jealous.

• I’m stalling on Lafitte because (top secret: shhhhh) I’m about 12K into the story and Lafitte hasn’t shown up yet. That’s a bit like The Baddest Ass, but I think the story has to unfold this way in order to make sense. He will show up. He will show up and kick a ton of ass. I swear to GOD he will. But the will to sit and write it has left me these past two weeks, and next week is another trip away where I probably won’t write either.

• But I will wait out THE STALL as I always do. I will wait it out and push forward when the meat is ready. When my meat is ready. Oh shit, let’s not make it one of those types of posts.

• I’ll be honest (I’m drinking tequila right now, so I’m going to type and post this even though I’ll regret it later), but I resent the fact that I’ve been writing all these years and publishing all these novels and I can’t get a break in NYC or with agents or with Hollywood. I so fucking resent it. I’m writing my ass off, and the silence is deafening sometimes. I’ve written off NYC, really. My last rejection from Soho is probably my last attempt at ever trying to get on with a larger press (My friend there, a brilliant writer and editor herself, said, “One of these days, Neil.” But I realized I can’t keep doing this, every couple of years, as I get to the point in my life where I’m thinking about retirement within the next decade. I can’t do it. I need to write, publish, and move on).

• I realized that what I want to write doesn’t match up to what they want. I’m too good at what I do to go begging at their stoops after all these years.

• FUCK that’s some strong tequila, ain’t it?

• But I have persevered for over twenty years, publishing the books I want with small presses who love what I’m doing, even if hardly anyone notices. No reviews, no bookstores (oh, fuck bookstores, but that’s another post I’ll never write), no hype, no advertising. I just publish the book and then do my damnedest to find new readers.

• THE STALL comes for us all. It’s a natural part of being a writer. If it causes some people to stop writing, that’s a sign they weren’t meant to cook up a writing career. Sorry, but true. We all stall. We all fight through it. We all keep at it when the rewards are small and the cost is high. We still do it. We tells stories because WE CAN’T NOT TELL STORIES.

• Period.

• So, yeah, that’s about it. Here’s a pic of me at home, hinting at where we’ll be next week, along with this empty tequila bottle. See, I made a deal with my wife: I won’t buy another expensive bottle of artisanal no-additive tequila until I’ve finished one I have, and this one is DONE people. And I’ve got another one very close to being done. So now I get to shop around for a fucking awesome bottle of tequila, maybe two.

  

• Maybe I’ll do some writing over the next few days, get past THE STALL, or maybe not. Maybe I’ll get inspired by our next trip and write some shit while I’m there. Or maybe I’ll stall out for longer. But I don’t think so. I think the meat is ready to push past THE STALL and keep cooking until it’s perfect.