...And Another Thing!

The Wright Brothers Never Invented the Airplane--Part II

2011-09-23T05:02:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know I owe you an update from last week, but my homework started to get the best of me so I needed to put this on hold temporarily, so I'll combine two weeks' class updates into one post.

I've always joked my end would be death by homework. Now it's not so funny. Well, okay, maybe it's just a little funny.

But not to me. Okay, so I've laughed about it.

Can we move on?

Did you know the Wright Brothers never really invented the airplane? They get all the credit for doing so because they were savvy enough to get to the patent office first. The actual inventor of the airplane was Glenn Curtis (unless you're a die-hard Brazilian and then it's Dumont).

Curtis was commissioned by Alexander Graham Bell to create an engine for a "heavier-than-air" machine, thanks to his stupendous reputation for inventing and working with machinery. When the private pilots' licenses were issued, he received his first. Orville Wright received license number five, because at that time, the licenses were issued in alphabetical order. And then there was that whole Patent Office snafu that any idiot with a finger can Google.

I eagerly awaited last week's class. I'd often wondered just how a ground school flight instructor would begin explaining such a complex machine. How did one begin explaining how to navigate and manoeuvre an aircraft through three-dimensional space? Thankfully, our cars operate on two axes in the Cartesian plane (that diagram you've seen of two lines that intersect): x and y. But now we suddenly have z with which to contend. It almost seems like God gave the morons who can't drive an extra dimension in which to screw up.

So we started the meat of the lecture with a basic diagram of a plane. Seemed a likely place to start. Then we immediately began discussing the aerodynamics.

There are four forces that act upon the aircraft: Gravity (weight), Lift, Drag and Thrust. Weight is pretty self-explanatory, especially to a woman. Lift is the interesting one because it's created out of a combination of airfoil surfaces, thrust, and low/high-pressure spots on the wing. Actually, lift is created out of a difference in pressure between these forces. Drag is a difficult one to explain because why it occurs is very tricky (aside from the fact that there are many varying types of drag a pilot needs to know), and thrust is comprised of juicy things like the slipstream (the phenomenon of air created by a propeller that wraps around the body of the plane causing it to yaw), torque, another natural phenomenon that pushes the airplane to the left to counteract the yaw, load factors and finally the gyroscopic effect (the phenomenon that causes the plane to respond to a command 90% later than it's given).

NOW we were talking. This was the physics' portion and I was in heaven. Although my Russian flight instructor (who also happens to be my math advisor) goes so fast I'm certain there will be a lot of out-of-class study in order to grasp all of it.

Avro Vulcan Bomber

The angle of attack (AOA) is very important in flying because it affects the amount of lift that acts on the aircraft. Most standard airfoils (wings) on modern planes have a general AOA of about fifteen percent to the relative wind. This means the wings are angled at fifteen-degrees to the ground. (Model airplanes, however, don't have camber wings, they have delta wings, much like most fighter jets, thus, they don't operate under the same laws of general aerodynamics).

Flaps and ailerons are two control surfaces that deflect air flow and change the camber of the wing (camber, being the general curvature on top of the wing). The only thing you use a flap for is to steepen your approach on landing. Remember, I said from last week that a landing is a controlled crash (stall)? This is why. Reduce the amount of air flowing over the wing, and your airplane will be heading for a swift landing while you're still trying to see Sarah Palin's house in Russia.

And you've all heard of Bernoulli's Theorem where flight is concerned. It's not magical or mystical, or even difficult. It just states, in a nutshell, that the faster an object moves through a liquid (air), the lower the pressure it creates. The Theorem was created for fluid dynamics, but one can think of air as a type of fluid which carries similar characteristics, thus the theorem can be applied to aerodynamics.

Fast forward to this week.

After learning the external forces that act on the aircraft, we then turned our attentions inward to the instruments.

Compass: this points to magnetic north but the north on aviation charts is true north. This produces a phenomenon known as the Turning Error, where the centre of gravity tilts south of the compass heading during a turn. So you must compensate for it before the turn. (Briefly, while we're on turning, it isn't the rudder that turns the plane. The rudder simply tilts the plane, and the natural forces turn the plane. Try this on your bicycle--you don't first turn your wheel to turn, you first lean into the turn. It's the same idea.)

The compass suffers from something called Magnetic Deviation, meaning, other metallic objects in the cockpit affect its reading.

Air France Airbus A330

Does anyone remember that horrible Air France flight 447 jumbo jet accident in June 2009? For the longest time, the BEA (the French version of our NTSB) was unable to determine what caused this Airbus A330 to simply fall out of the sky and crash, killing all 228 people on board. In fact, the investigation is still on-going. And it's now labeled as the worst aviation accident to occur since the American Airlines Flight 587 accident in 2001, and it was the first deadly accident to happen to an Airbus A330 while in passenger service.

Why?

The most apparent and largest cause was due to this next instrument: the Pitot Tube. In layman's terms, it's an airspeed indicator. It's a small blade-like tube mounted on the outside of the aircraft. The Altimeter and the Airspeed Indicator take their input from the Pitot Tube. On this particular Air France Airbus, the Pitot Tubes had become iced over from lack of a working heating apparatus, thus giving inexact readings on the instruments in the cockpit. The Pitot Tubes measure constant fluctuations in air-pressure readings, because that is what the instruments measure. An altimeter is the best example of this, because it doesn't measure height off the ground, it measures the difference in air pressure from one altitude to another as compared to the air pressure on the ground; one reason a pilot must check the daily atmospheric pressure before take-off.

So, that was the gist of the lectures. But I have a delicious surprise for you. Next Saturday, October 1, I will be in the cockpit for my first flight lesson, and I will try to get live photos and maybe even some video for you. This won't be my first flight lesson or first time flying a plane, but it will be for this excursion into my pilot's license.

And now, please place your seats in their upright position, grab your gear and deplane. We'll see you next week, from the cockpit.

The Penguin Finally Earns Her Wings

2011-09-07T20:18:00.000-05:00

TTU Plane at Sparta Airport, TN

"Stall an airplane at the wrong time, and it's a crash. Stall it at the right time, and it's a safe landing."

This is how my FAA ground school instructor opened today's inaugural ground school class. One of the perks of TTU Aviation membership is free ground school instruction, so two minutes later I was reaching for my credit card (Membership also included the 2012 FAA manual for ground school, my first empty log book, and a really snazzy cool yellow membership card without lamination with my name in red marker).

I already had hours from flying years ago, but since I was grounded due to an inner-ear problem and then ran out of funds, and regulations have changed so quickly along with the planes themselves, I decided to start from the beginning again, and one of the perks of being one of my Twits is that you get to read about every hair-raising, joy-inducing and mind-numbingly-boring moment as they happen.


Space Shuttle Atlantis in its final rollout to launch pad at Kennedy Space Center, July 2011

I guess my love of flying came from my dad and his side of the family. Our cousin Gary was an air-traffic controller for the Navy and then the private sector for twenty years (he refers to the both of us as "a couple of fixed-wing nuts" since he has his private pilot certification, too), eventually becoming a supervisor. My great Uncle Elmer (now deceased) was head mechanic for San Francisco Int'l airport, and his son retired from the same position. Then I've bored everyone with tales of my great Uncle Keith (also deceased) who worked at McDonnell-Douglas in Saint Louis, on the team of aerospace engineers who designed the original Space Shuttle.

Then there's my dad. Poor eyesight precluded his fulfilling his dream of flying rotary-wing aircraft (helicopters), but an insatiable love of them didn't preclude his talking about them incessantly, and I think it sort of rubbed off. (Psst: Don't tell him, but I plan to surprise him next October 4 on his birthday by chartering a plane, landing on the hill of a nearby farm and then taking him up and letting him fly again. That's been another little bucket list item of mine and I can't wait. I'll post later where to send flowers.)

If you've never been at the controls of a fixed-wing aircraft, flying is like a secret no one else knows. Feeling the G-forces as you manoeuver, knowing the risks of flying beyond the specifications and limitations of the craft (just because you've always wanted to know what it's like to fly through a Cumulus cloud and feel alive when that lightning strikes your head), being fully prepared for what to do if you lose an engine on your twin-engine Cessna, while losing attitude control, while you're low on fuel, and all while discovering that you've suddenly run out of Twinkies.

It's. a. rush. Well, not the Twinkie part, but follow along.

I was under the impression that there were five classificatons of pilot licenses: Private without instruments (single-engine), private with instruments (single-engine), private double-engine land, private double-engine water, and commercial (where you could fly for a major carrier like American Airlines).

Man, I hate to be wrong. Classes are:

Grade - determines the kinds of flying a pilot can do
- Student Pilot - local solo training flights without passengers (I will have this as soon as next week)
- Recreational Pilot - local uncontrolled day flights 1 passenger
- Private Pilot - flights worldwide with passengers, non-profit (I will have this after my first solo flight in eight-ten hours from now of in-plane time with my instructor)
- Commercial Pilot - paid flying allowed, can be airline copilot (Think bush pilots of Alaska)
- Airline Transport Pilot - paid flights, can be airline captain
Ratings - what aircraft a pilot can fly and how - VFR or IFR
- Category - Airplane, Glider, Rotorcraft, Lighter Than Air...
- Class - eg Airplane Single or Multi Engine Land/Sea
- Type - needed for each turbojet or heavier than 12,500 lbs
- Instrument - separate for each Class and Type Rating

VFR stands for Visual Flight Rules (Flying only by visual ground cues; something you can't use, for instance, while your city suffers the effects of hurricane Lee [!]), and IFR stands for Instrument Flight Rules (You need to know how to fly by instruments if you wish to fly at night, solo, or even get your water certificate; if you wish to fly into Nashville Airport, you don't need IFR because it's a Class-A airport, but if you wish to fly into Atlanta, then you need to have your instrument rating or else they will deny you permission to land, because they're a Class-B airport.)

Over the next three or four months, follow my weekly account as I relate to you the struggles of juggling a busy Astrophysics/Applied Mathematics schedule with additional book training for passing my Private Pilot certificate, while dealing with Systemic Lupus and Fibromyalgia and debilitating fatigue sometimes so severe I can't hold a fork.

And don't forget the Twinkies. Will keep you fully updated on the supply.

This has been my dream since I was a kid--to hold a Commercial and eventual ATP Certificate. So what's an Astrophysicist who also holds advanced degrees in Applied Mathematics want with a license to fly idiot people on jumbo jets cross-country?

It's all about the flight, baby.

And I'll end with my favourite DaVinci quote about flying:

"When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return."

Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does

2011-05-14T18:56:00.001-05:00

It isn’t every day you wake up to suddenly realize you’re related to a cartoon. Every time I see Dale Gribble on King of the Hill, I swear Mike Judge had actually crawled inside my head and put my uncle Bob in his show.

Bob is my mother’s oldest sibling and only brother. And now that I’m an adult, I understand this was a smart move on God’s part, since I’m convinced that if Bob had been forced to share the testosterone with his brothers, he would’ve eaten them alive in order to preserve the stupidity of the species. You see, Uncle Bob was a shining example of just what a high-functioning degree of stupidity could do for a man.

My first memory of Bob is one evening at the house, watching him load his dogs into their wire cages to haul us all off to the local 4-H camp. That’s right, folks: Bob had twelve Coon hounds. The truly amazing part wasn’t that he had so many dogs, but that they actually had a Coon hounds club that met once a month (and that they could read a calendar). Aside from a secret handshake that involved the licking of the palms, to this day I still don’t know what they did at these meetings. But he loved it so much they eventually promoted him to President. He’d sit there, just presiding over the meetings in his mirrored sunglasses and green John Deere cap with his Marlboro clenched between his teeth, which he refused to remove even while chugging his beer. And if the man had been a church-goer, that’s the way he would’ve attended church, which was probably why my Aunt stopped inviting him in this manner:

“Bob, if you’re not going to change out of that get-up for a quick brunch with the Lord Jesus, then I’ll just have to pray you go to hell, because I’m not explaining that mess to God almighty when it’s your time to go.”

Bob was a walking contradiction. On one hand, he was very political--a devout Democrat for as long as I can remember. He believed in organized government (which was a surprise since he never once balanced his checkbook or carried a calendar to organize his time), and yet he never missed a vote at the polls, or the opportunity to rub my family’s very strict Republican noses in it.

On the other hand, his conspiracy theories and nut job ideologies tended to force him to lean so far to the left that he could wrap around himself twice and kiss his own right ass-cheek. “Clean air is nothing but a government plot,” he’d say, while coughing up another piece of his lung. It was twenty-three-years later that he finally stopped smoking. “Just seemed like it was time,” was his answer when asked why. Sure. And that six-month long round of radiation therapy was just another extended-stay opportunity to enjoy the Jell-O.

Since he was a seasoned hypochondriac, for a long while after they finally diagnosed the lung cancer and told him his time was limited, the rest of us could’ve sworn he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. I think it had something to do with the constant Xs he’d mark on the floor, while dramatically stating, “THIS is where I’m going to die. Mark it down on your calendars. The second I hit forty, you can come back to this spot and find me as cold as mom’s gravy.” We got to the point where we were just plain tired of him constantly getting our hopes up. As of right now, he’s seventy-three, has had part of his stomach removed due to cancer, and still draws those Xs on the kitchen floor. I think it was finally some time back in the mid-Eighties that my Aunt switched out the red crayon for a piece of chalk: Just easier for her to clean up when the deadline had passed with yet another disappointment. Much like the Rapture.

Still, I always liked Bob. Although, the only time he was ever funny was when he told really bad jokes and then laughed his own ass off all by himself, which is really what made him funny. At least he was smart enough to bring his own audience.

I remember one summer in particular where my sister and I, along with our cousins--Bob’s two sons--decided rather than go outside and play in the heat, we’d stay in to watch TV. Now, I’m not exactly sure who found it first, or why we felt the need to go searching through the couch cushions, but suddenly one of us pulled out a Penthouse from the armchair. At first, no one said much--we just kinda stared in fascination. None of us were older than twelve, so while we knew what we were looking at, we just weren’t sure what we were looking at. I think the bigger question for me was, when do you get it to look and act like that? As we slowly leafed through the pages the one consistent question we kept asking on another was, “This is Bob’s magazine?” It was too weird for any of us to think that Bob owned such a piece of high-brow literature, since none of us had ever seen him read, or even kiss his wife for that matter--which had to be to her relief. There were times you could just tell if given the chance, she’d run him over with her car and then hide the body. To this day, even her sons are convinced Bob could not be their father.

But, back to the book.

Everything we saw up to that point was pretty tame. While we liked to think we were experts already, we could only guess. However, as soon as Roger turned the page to the centerfold, he nearly dropped the book, my sister screamed and hid her eyes, Roger’s younger brother passed out and I just couldn’t help myself: I laughed out loud. For there, in all his stapled and glossy glory, was none other than THE Ron Jeremy. While it’s true there isn’t much need for a sixth-grade junior high-school lady to have any working knowledge of who Ron Jeremy is, apparently the rules for boys were very different, for both Bob’s sons yelled, “Hey! It’s Jeremy!” And I just couldn’t stop looking at...his...um.... His nose was just so BIG for his face. It made you wonder how he was ever able to wrap a tissue round that thing when he sneezed. Luckily, though, he had lots of women hovering over him in the photos to help with that.

Ten-minutes after we had discovered the magazine and its centerfold, Bob came bursting through the living room, searching for something chaste like a flashlight or fan belt, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us with the book.

“Um...er...where’d you get that?”

Roger said, “’Neath the chair cushion. What’s it doing there, dad?”

After watching his face turn eighty-shades of red, he coughed, took a breath, and smoothly replied, “It’s your mother’s. Put it back.”

I was fairly certain I didn’t buy it, for two reasons. One, wasn’t it usually men who looked at the women? And two, I was pretty sure you didn’t "need" such a magazine in your living room to supplement your nightly television-viewing.

It’s been probably thirty-years since we first found the book, and I still can’t get the image of that day out of my mind. Bob never mentioned the incident again, and a few weeks later on a return visit to the living room, the book went missing.

Bob’s mellowed over the years, keeping his NRA rants and trips to the Baptist Gun Show to a minimum, and I can tell you right now, that one day when the Red X finally hits the kitchen floor, the world will mourn one of its most unique characters, who was worthy of his own TV cartoon show.

Thanks, Mike Judge.

Howard and Mona

2011-05-07T18:15:00.002-05:00

All couples have problems. Live day-in and day-out with a Neanderthal that hasn’t learned after twenty-years of being told to put his knickers in a basket just inches away from where they eventually land on the floor, and you’re either looking for another social circle, or new and creative ways to commit suicide.

This idea of couples dating has always fascinated me. When I was married, my husband and I did it. It seems that anytime we find someone we want to share our life with, the first thing we do is find people we can ignore them for.

My parents did the same thing. When I was four and my sister a year-old, I remember this one couple that used to visit my parents regularly. Howard and Mona. Why I remember this from age four, I’ll never know. Perhaps it’s the peculiar way my parents began to behave once they had all become good friends and had a standing weekly “date”. I don’t know--maybe my parents were afraid of commitment.

Howard had dark hair and wore Buddy Holly glasses and checkered pants--a fashionista apparently light-years ahead of his time. Even at four, I knew that man was just one science experiment away from re-discovering gravity. He worked with my dad in the local machine shop, so it was a natural progression that they would begin to socialise with their wives. And at first, my mother liked Mona.

She was different. She had masses of dark hair piled on top her head in these neat little adobe mounds. She, too, wore glasses and liked to wear bright red lipstick. I won’t comment on her wardrobe, because...well, this was the sixties. Everyone was always so busy getting cancer, developing a life-long gambling addiction and doing the Twist that they had no time for important social issues like Politics, becoming obscenely wealthy, or how to properly dress themselves.

My mother loved playing the hostess, because that’s what you did in the sixties, and why not? Dad didn’t want her working. Little did she know this would prepare her for marathon sessions of Oprah thirty-years later. She turned out to be a natural. She’d always start fussing early Monday afternoon about the house. Each time I’d question her on this ritual, she’d say something wise like, “If the Pope were visiting, you wouldn’t want him to see your naked Barbie Doll on the floor, now, would you?” Which was stupid since I was pretty sure we weren’t Catholic. Then after the toys were put away, she’d scurry from the refrigerator to the stove, worrying over what hors d'oeuvres to serve, but not before she’d had my dad’s dinner planned down to the last Brussels sprout. And everyone thinks Martha Stewart invented domestic science. As I look back on it, I thought that’s how all women behaved. But years later, it would again be my mother who would prove me wrong. In the sixties she cooked dinner, vacuumed the house in heels, and obeyed my dad. In the seventies, she found women’s lib, discovered the joys of TV dinners and you were lucky if she ever put on her pants to answer the door.

But back to Howard and Mona. They loved to come over each Monday night and play Rook and Canasta--games I would later learn were the favourites of people who were generally just one day from death. I guess it’s some unwritten requisite of God’s: If you’re over sixty, then you must learn Canasta. Saint Peter mans the Pearly-Gates with a list of our running scores, according to my grandmother.

My parents gladly invited them each week. I guess it gave dad something to look forward to other than my mother’s bitching about diapers and laundry, and it gave her something to look forward to other than dad’s belching and scratching.

Howard would tell really stupid jokes in between trying to sell my dad Amway, and Mona had a very theatrical laugh--the one that reaches the back balcony even when you’re in a closet. It took the hair off a couple of my sweaters. For the most part, these two twenty-somethings were pretty cool.

But in all this bliss, Howard and Mona had a dark side. After months of dating, my parents began acting strange when Howard dropped hints for their weekly cards invitation.

I remember one time in particular, my parents had decided they didn’t want to see them anymore. When I asked them why, I was met with stutters, grunts and whistles to the effect of, “Well, it has to do with the mean, not average, vis-a-vis the vagaries and political curves of the gross national product and what time it was yesterday over the international dateline, but not what time yesterday’s time was, what it will be during tomorrow’s yesterday.” I was four. I just sucked my thumb and made a mental note to short-sheet God’s bed for dumping me into this family. And to seal the deal that we wouldn’t “be home” that night, dad pulled our Dodge Dart (yes, I’m serious) to the back of the house and parked it in the garage, which at four, I thought absolutely genius. However, in all my dad’s dazzling spy-brilliance, he forgot this particular garage door had a row of square windows--anyone could see in.

My parents's feelings must have had something to do with the fact that every time she was in my mother’s living room, Mona would sit and rip up tissues, then toss them on the floor. They weren’t used tissue--all the time--just tissue. She never apologised for this peculiar habit, and as far as I can remember, she never once offered to help my mother clean them up before they left. At the end of the night that living room floor rivaled DC’s cherry blossoms in spring.

Everything came to a ridiculous head one night at six-thirty. Thinking we wouldn’t be dealing with Howard and Mona that week, we were sitting at the kitchen table finishing dinner, when suddenly dad slammed down his fork and said, “Oh my God, they’re here.”

My mother said, “What are you talking about?”

“They’re here! Howard and Mona just pulled into the driveway.”

“WHAT?” I’d never heard my mother quack like a duck before. “What are we going to do?”

“Well, let’s just sit here and let them knock. When they don’t see the car in the driveway, they’ll realise we’re not at home and leave.”

I’ll say one thing: Howard and Mona were tenacious little buggers. He knocked on that front door like he had a hammer and a license to mine for diamonds. Finally after five-minutes of pounding, we collectively breathed a sigh of relief when their car door slammed.

“Great. They’re leaving,” dad said.

Oh, but life is cruel. Instead of leaving, they got into the car and pulled it round back. Dad was peeking out the kitchen window, overlooking the back driveway and saw Howard walk to the garage door where he then saw the car. I remember feeling like Jason Bourne, because dad had shushed the lot of us so Howard wouldn’t hear us from the garage door.

This time Howard got into his car to leave, but with my dad being a sharp one, anticipated Howard’s next move. Since Howard knew we were home, dad ordered us into the bathroom down the hall. It was a good thing, too, because just a few minutes later, I developed a good case of the trots (my Gerber, you see) and needed to avail myself of my training chair. As my parents were cursing the broken condom that had created me--their little bundle of...joy, Howard AND Mona were on the back porch, peeking into the kitchen window. We could hear them from our stake-out post in the bathroom.

Why is it you go by for months, then suddenly get the urge to laugh at the most inopportune time? Like during a gynecological exam? Once I started to giggle, it spread like a virus and soon both my parents were cackling like idiots, but in hushed tones. Suddenly we were a room full of Muttleys.

The next morning, my dad, never a dancer before, was tap-dancing like he was Savion Glover's understudy in Bring In ‘Da Noise when he told Howard I had become ill and needed the hospital, and instead of driving he called one of our friends to drive us over. Yeah, Howard bought it. Desperation will do strange things to your mind when you’re being dumped.

Howard and Mona never wanted to play cards much again after that, and my parents did eventually get back into another relationship, but it was years later before they were ready to open up their hearts again.

Just about the time my dad started selling Amway.

Johnny and Roy

2011-03-25T16:55:00.001-05:00

"51, start an IV with D5W, ringers lactate and transport as soon as possible."

"10-4."

"What did he say?" asked my six-year-old sister, who wasn’t half paying attention. That annoyed the heck out of me.

"You annoy the heck out of me," I’d say with as much indignity as a brainy geek with glasses and Cherokee/German nose could muster, then go back to my living fantasy, watching two unknown men save lives, and dreaming of the day (hopefully soon) when I would fall mysteriously ill and be so close to death that no one would be able to figure out my ailment, and they’d have to call in these mysterious new breed of men, these paramedics. "Paramedics." I would say it over and over, and feel a pre-pubescent thrill attack my spine each time. It just sounded so...official, and bigger than anything I’d experienced in my little life so far.

Emergency! was our family’s way of pretending we liked each other and wanted to spend quality time together, and soon it was the show's TV stars to which I'd become addicted.

Randolph Mantooth played Firefighter/Paramedic John Gage. He was dark-haired, dark-skinned and had a deliciously crooked smile. Where had he been my entire nine-year-old life?? Now that I look back on it, he was a chauvinistic pig of the highest magnitude; making fun of "fatties" and always referring to women as some sort of sex object ("Mom? What’s a sex object?" "Er, erm, nothing--be quiet and eat your cake."), but not then; you couldn’t convince me this man could ever do anything wrong.

Then there was his gorgeous and slightly-shy red-headed partner, Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto, played skillfully by actor Kevin Tighe. Roy DeSoto was married, and while we as an audience never got to see "JoAnn," I was jealous of her.

"I’ll bet she’s fat," I said one afternoon during mine and my sister’s make-shift fan club meeting, beneath the little tree in our front yard. My sister and I were always coming up with hair-brained schemes to figure out how to get accepted into the fake paramedics’ fan club. If only we’d figured out all we had to do was send in the form, it would’ve saved us a lot of torment and bitching during club meetings. There were never any other fans except the two of us. But that was okay, because we didn’t need the competition.

I remember our little worlds opening up, however, on a Saturday night trip for ice-cream, after Emergency!. As we walked into The Dairy Mart, I noticed a magazine stand on the right wall--the one where my dad always found the newest Popular Mechanics and where my mother always got herself a new crossword puzzle book. As soon as I started browsing the selections, I saw it. There, standing upright on the shelf with the glossy paper shining back at me, was the Holy Grail of teenage angst everywhere:

Tiger Beat.

And guess whose faces were gracing the cover? Yup--the object of my very first stalking case, Johnny and Roy. While inside I was thanking the Heavens that they had blessed me and my lust, outside I wasn’t stupid. I knew the least sudden movement would signal to my dad, standing just feet away, that something was askew in the universe. I moved slowly toward the book, not wanting to draw attention to myself (I needn’t have worried. My red-checkered pants were doing that enough), and casually picked it up.

"Hunh. Wonder what this is?" I was one, cool cucumber. I figured by deliberately stressing the word this, I would appear unconcerned, as if merely possessing a healthy curiosity.

Again, I needn’t have worried. Dad was so engrossed in his article on the advances of hot locations for refrigeration repair schematics, that he scarcely noticed his nine-year-old daughter licking the pages of Tiger Beat and moaning.

Soon I was rolling in paramedic. I had collected every article with both Randolph and Kevin. I would read headlines like, "10 Ways to Capture Randolph’s Heart," and immediately tear into it as if it were a sandwich. And each time there was an interview and article about Randolph, there was usually one about Kevin, so I’d devour it, too. "What Kind of Girl Does Kevin Want to Date?" was always a big attention-grabber for me. It would also give my sister and I something of import to discuss at the next club meeting.

In fact, that’s when my mother began to suspect my addiction was interfering with my life. Each night before I’d go to bed, I’d kneel down to say my prayers that God, in his infinite wisdom, would allow me to meet these two men so we could all get married. Then before turning out my light, I would pucker up and kiss both Johnny and Roy’s posters. Oh, and sometimes before dinner I’d sneak a peck, just to brighten an otherwise tedious day. Then I’d go downstairs and enter the kitchen very nonchalantly, knowing exactly how to work that room. Yup--no one was going to discover my secret--I was too slick.

"You’ve been kissing your posters again, haven’t you?"

I wheeled around as if I’d been shot in the back. How did she know?

"Because I’m psychic."

Man, sometimes she just freaked me out.

"And you have paper cuts all over your lips."

Crap. Note to self: buy more Chapstick during next visit to The Dairy Mart.

Years later when I finally took the posters down, I noticed the lips had been worn off Randolph’s photo. He looked like one of those comic sketches from SNL where the guy cuts the lips out and uses his own through the hole to mock the country’s current presidency.

I'm still addicted to Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe--who's with me?

Will Work For Unemployment

2011-03-16T12:34:00.001-05:00

We've all seen them: Beggars along the side of a highway at a popular intersection holding signs that say something stupidly profound like, "Will work for food," or my favourite, "Will work for cable." And when I lived in DC, it was "Will work for you if your windscreen is dirty." They loved to stand at the corner while you were waiting to merge onto the Beltway at Crystal City. They never allowed you to decide if your windscreen was dirty, they simply started to clean it, and then subjected you to a verbal onslaught if you didn't want to pay them for their unwarranted service. Bureaucrats.

After losing both my jobs in December of 2008 due to illness, I was forced to resort to applying for unemployment. Thankfully, this ritual isn't as complicated as it once was the last time I needed to apply back in 1985. Then, you were forced to stand in long and tiring lines with the dregs of humanity that you usually only bumped into at the DMV, in which case it wasn't so much a waiting game as a reunion.

Now, they've removed the human element by allowing us to apply online. For which I was thankful. But it's not all roses and tea parties. Having to wait constantly for that next cheque to come in is hard. In fact, I'm the reason my mailman carries a gun.

The really stupid thing about being on unemployment (besides the mind-numbing 1/4 of your original salary they expect you to live on), is you spend more time fighting for your benefits than you ever did on a real job. If there's ever a problem (and there usually is), then you must haul your angry ass down to an office that doesn't even have GPS coordinates and can only be entered with a password found on the inside of a cereal box and a decoder ring worn by the kid from A Christmas Story.

I spent three hours one day waiting to see an unemployment agent. Dealing with these kinds of issues are hard because you're always at the mercy of someone else. Just once, don't you wish things were different?

Man's voice: "Number 51."
You: "Oh, that's me! But can you call my number again in about an hour? That's when I get back from lunch."

At least being unemployed allows me to have an imaginary day job. However, with the state of this economy, I've now given myself an imaginary raise. But then my imaginary boss called me into his imaginary office one day and complained that I was now breaking the imaginary budget, and that there may be an imaginary company-wide layoff, and that now my imaginary day job may be in imaginary jeopardy.

Is nothing safe in this economy?

So, after two years of fighting to keep benefits I earned and paid for, I'm not ashamed (okay, maybe just a little) to say that I've learned how the game is to be played. I've now been forced to resort to the same exercise in futility. Except my sign reads a little differently:

Pardon me, Miss, but are those your knickers in the sink?

2011-03-09T08:11:00.000-06:00

I don’t know if most of you realise this or not, but I was once homeless. And it wasn’t at all like I expected.

On Monday morning, January 9, 2009, I officially moved from my quaint little apartment with the neat washer and dryer in my closet that smelled of cheeze, into my very spacious Volvo, that also smelled of cheeze. I never thought I’d be in such a situation, but then again, I always thought Charlie Sheen would stay sane forever, too.

But follow along.

I got to thinking about how we view this phenomenon of being without a home. It’s SUCH a social club. It’s real estate snobbery in its purest form. If you have no home, then you’re suddenly asked to leave the imaginary clique, and that hurts. People begin treating you differently. If you have no money and nowhere to be for the day, it’s called being homeless. But if you have money and nowhere to be, it’s called Society. The only difference between myself and someone from Beverly Hills is where we wash out our underwear.

I was at least lucky enough to have had my car. There are some advantages to it: First, it’s private. Second, you have a kick-ass stereo system, and third, you’re not expected to clean up after yourself.
The worst part about it, though, was not having cable. You thought I was going to say stinky clothes or not being able to brush my teeth. Well, think again. It was not being able to keep up with new episodes of Burn Notice. At first it’s fun, but soon the novelty wears off and then it’s just like any other life: Begging for food, begging for change, begging for televisions....

The hard part was in knowing my cats didn’t have a home. I would’ve much rather they had a place to sleep than myself. And I hated having to run down to the local fast food place to pee. I had their litter box on the front passenger floorboard, and I tell ya by day two I was eye-balling that litterbox in a whole new way.

Everyone gets so serious when you tell them you’re now homeless. These same people that, before, couldn’t get their considerable asses blown off sofas with C-4, suddenly turn into mini-Houdinis and make one hell of an exit. They want you to know they seem sympathetic to your plight, but any more expended energy on your situation would remove the attention from theirs, and God knows when you’re busy spending money you need all the concentration you can muster. Empathy is as far as it goes, too. That exit usually comes long before you’ve had the chance to ask if you can use one of their twelve spare bedrooms in their guesthouse on the back 40-acres over in the next county. However, that doesn’t matter. You could be deaf, dumb and have lost your fingerprints in a horrible Sudoku accident, and no one wants to be troubled.

Fact is, people can be selfish, fully satisfied in the knowledge that giving that one last old can of last year’s leftover Cranberry Sauce when the post office leaves that Second Harvest food bag on your mailbox is a good enough act of charity, without being bothered with someone having to dodge bullets in between dreams while snoozing under the nearest interstate overpass.

I even found myself doing things I would never do, like begging strangers for cat food. I once got thrown out of a Dollar General. Dollar General! It’s a toilet with a place to swipe a credit card. Macy’s I can understand. Dillard’s? Oh, hell yeah, any day of the week. And on days when I’ve done too many Benadryl shooters and need to cash my economic stimulus cheque of $12.50, K-Mart.

But Dollar General? That’s like getting thrown out of a soup kitchen for not busing your own table.

Since mine was a forced eviction, I also had the privilege of watching the Sheriff toss my crap out into the yard, which is humiliating, because anyone can just walk up and take it. But, I learned something valuable from that experience, and walked away with a bit of street-smart savvy: Forget going to yard sales. Just go to evictions. There, you don’t have to haggle. I learned that there were so many forced evictions happening in our neighbourhood, that eventually I went to enough and was able to get every bit of my crap back.

So. The next time we bump into each other on the street and you begin asking me how many square feet my car has and if I have room in my spare backseat, don’t be surprised if I have to make a hasty exit because I need to be at an “appointment” at the nearest shopping mall.

I Shouldn't Be Alive. (Finally, something on which we agree.)

2011-02-27T03:12:00.000-06:00

Lately, I've been interested in a show on Animal Planet called, "I Shouldn't Be Alive." And oddly enough, it has absolutely nothing to do with animals.

The premise is simple: Pay the producers boucoup bucks to scour the Earth (read=Google) to find people who, due to their bravery and penchant for adrenaline, have found themselves in inexplicable situations in which all the odds point to the fact that they simply will not live through the event long enough to be rescued. And once they have clearly established just how dire the situation is, they proceed to weave snippets of interviews with the actual victims into reenactments of the event, and all so they can lead up to the triumphant conclusion that yes, you may be a loser of a human being with advanced hypothermia and a peg leg, but if you have the will power, you WILL be able to climb down that mountain and be reunited with your mail-order bride and adopted children from the Ukraine.

And, I will admit that I’ve caught myself crying with joy near the end of one or two episodes.

However, I’ve recently learned something of value that they don't tell you: In nearly every instance, the reason this person found themselves to be a victim of circumstance was due to nothing but their own bad judgment; it was all their own fault. Which made me quickly relinquish those tears of joy in favour of a blistering fax to The Discovery Channel.

Now. I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly unsympathetic sort of person. I mean, I do my part each Christmas by crying when I see those commercials that beg you to send in money to support the local Mission. I nearly reach for my checkbook each time that Father Christmas guy comes on begging for money to feed the children; the same children who are obviously slackasses and too self-absorbed to get jobs. Seriously. What ever happened to setting up roadside stands and selling lemonade? Or, if you’re in Africa, rocks? It was good enough for me and my sister, and we did quite well in our Bel Air neighbourhood.

And please...I’m no hero, so don’t flood me with e-mail asking for interviews. I'm just an average girl, happy to do my part to make life on Earth better for everyone.

But after about ten episodes, I realised there was a disturbing pattern began to develop as each one drew to a close. When they showed the clip from the final interview with the victim who was relating his story in his own words, each person said the same thing. “I’m so grateful to be alive and would do it all again if given the chance.”

What the hell? Don’t these idiots ever learn a lesson from 48-hour exposure and dehydration-induced delirium from being stranded in the Amazon jungle because they were much too stupid to stay on the public trail? You mean if given the chance, you’d get lost at sea in the Atlantic ocean and sit adrift for 73-days without food or a way to poop? Apparently the lobe of the brain that controls even-tempered judgment was chewed off by some rabid wild dog. Are they really so determined to prove they’re not stupid that they put the snow mobile in the ravine and break a pelvis 65-miles from nowhere?

Have you heard of the mid-point principle? For pilots, it means that if we’re having engine trouble and we’ve not yet passed the point midway between take-off and landing, we must turn around and fly back to the original airport. It’s there for our protection, and removes the temptation for pilots to fly further than they can safely travel.

Just once I’d like to see someone realise they went further than was safe. Just once, I’d like to hear someone say, “Y’know, I learned my lesson; it was entirely my fault. I am too much of a moron to ever leave my house, and if I ever mention climbing Everest again at the age of 72 with no shins, I’ve instructed my wife to bust out the .38 in the nightstand and blow my brains all over the kitchen ceiling.”

But no. Instead, we’re treated to idiotic statements from the guy doing the voice over, like, “Tim was hospitalised for 8-weeks and suffered exposure so severe that he had to have all his limbs and colon amputated. But, he’s not let this stop him from living his life.”

And then you see Tim respond: “I love mountain climbing too much to give it up. Yep--my wife and I talked it over, and she’s supporting my decision to climb again. I may not have a torso, but I’m not going to let that keep me from doing what I love!”

Oh really. Well then don’t let me keep you. I’m sure there’s a German POW camp left over from WWII that needs a pizza delivered somewhere. Why don’t you volunteer? Maybe they’ll create a reality show about it.

5-Hour Cocaine, more like it

2011-02-04T19:41:00.007-06:00

Yesterday I decided to be brave, jump on the sheep bandwagon, and try 5-Hour Energy. Normally I resist the mob mentality when hearing super-hyped products such as this, but, seeing as how I sometimes suffer with debilitating fatigue from my Fibromyalgia and Systemic Lupus, I tossed caution and five bucks to the wind, and leapt.

I had no idea what to expect, but was not heartened merely by reading the myriad of warnings printed on the label. These are meant to be an enticement? Is this really a successful marketing ploy?

Let's break them down, shall we?

The first disclaimer is this:

Contains caffeine comparable to the leading premium coffee.

Hmmn. The first acerbic witticism that comes to mind is, then why hasn't Starbucks jumped on this bit of street-smart savvy promotion and pegged their morning cup for what it really is: Jet fuel?

Moving on.

Limit caffeine products to avoid nervousness, sleeplessness, and occasional rapid heartbeat.

And? I think the American buying public has been more than aware of these side-effects since we began drinking coffee in our sipper cups as an aperitif for the strained peas and smooshed apricots.

You may experience a Niacin flush (hot feeling, skin redness), that lasts a few minutes. This is caused by increased blood flow near the skin.

Oh really. Trust me when I say females in their mid-forties to late-fifties have been experiencing this feeling since women first blew a Saint Bernard out their ass and deigned call it childbirth: It's called MEN-O-PAUSE, and trust me when I say we will go to ANY lengths available, including some that are illegal, to avoid the modern, less clinical term for this: Hot flashes. Why the Living Essentials Company decided this would be the best possible way to market their product is beyond me, and every other peri- and menopausal woman I know. Perhaps a better idea would've been if they had decided to include a personal fan within the packaging.

Or some estrogen on a stick.

But, be that as it may, I was so completely exhausted from merely getting out of bed and needing some focus to write, that I decided with much trepidation and cursing, to down the entire bottle (another small statement says you can take only half the bottle if needed).

Now. I've always considered myself to be a pretty trusting person, so when the label is marketed as being "GRAPE FLAVOURED", then hell: Call me old-fashioned, but that's what I think the product should taste like.

But instead of a scrumptious hint of berry, I became nostalgic for the time when I had the flu for three days and kept tasting the bile from my fourteen-hour ordeal of projectile vomiting. I think I've tasted piss that had me gagging less.

But, after getting past the bitter taste, I'm very glad to say that I didn't notice when the product finally kicked in. Nor did I suffer the onslaught of a "Niacin Flush", and believe you me I was ready: I had the air-conditioner cranked down to 52 (we're currently enjoying 23-degree winter weather), two fans, and I'd just shaved my armpits so as to clear the way.

But, nothing.

Twenty-minutes later after I'd gotten dressed and was sitting at the computer, already involved in paragraph one of whatever I was penning, I noticed that I had more energy, wasn't feeling jittery, and was able to concentrate for at least another paragraph. The product's effects were very non-intrusive, and hopefully I wasn't the anomaly in not experiencing those heinous list of symptoms.

Two days later and I'm still cheery. Was feeling so good last night that I saw absolutely no need to even sleep, so I sat up all night and made gum-wrapper necklaces, while cleaning the garage and doing a re-write on my entire thirty-five chapters of my new novel in one sitting.

So, honestly, I have no idea just what they were on about with their "scary" symptoms.

But I can't wait to buy more.

Holiday Rehab

2011-01-12T19:54:00.000-06:00

What is it about spending that "can't ever get it back again" quality time with family during Holiday that always makes us feel the need to bathe when it's over?

Don't you so wish it were a reality show on VH-1 where Dr. Drew offers free counseling and copious amounts of alcohol for those who survive it?

I can see it now: HOLIDAY REHAB WITH DR. DREW (Viewer discretion from your children is advised)

If it were a single, isolated incident that occurred once within a ten-year period, then I could understand it: A good shot of Jack Daniels and it would be done.

But, that's never the case. Nope. By the time you pile the 4.7 children and the dog and the goat and the nanny and the hamster into your '67 AMC Pacer with the break-away read-end, and peel away from your parents, the first thought that crosses your mind is how quickly you can file an order of emancipation to keep this from ever happening again.

When you weigh the sleepless nights, the arguing, the crying, the excessive drinking...and then the pain your wife must be feeling, is it all worth it?

I posit it is not.

And yet, countless millions across the world repeat this form of measured masochism every year. In fact, one of last year's biggest tabloid headlines was how families of third-world countries handle traveling cross-country in their Hummers just to visit the in-laws for Thanksgiving in their mountaintop chalets. I'd wager a guess that if it were up to these unsuspecting adult children of insane, even less-mature parents, they'd sooner put out a hit on them than have to go through this unnecessary and humiliating ritual year-after-year.

I will say it: Going home for Holiday is not for the squeamish. Or for those with pacemakers. Visiting and spending time with "loved ones" is nothing but an exercise in fortitude; a way to separate the men from the women, the women from the children and the children from the clutches of the grandparents. It is the quickest way for you to gain the title, "Camp Self-Abusement Director" with all the rights and bequeathments included therein.

I am happy to announce that I've found a cure for the on-going madness.

I don't go.

Sure, I get so lonely I could chew off my own foot without removing my shoe, and yeah, maybe I cry a little too much at cat food commercials because I don't have Christmas presents or anything to eat for my celebratory dinner but the "I-can't-believe-I'm-eating-packing-materials" Rice Cakes, but at least the cats don't fight me for complete control of my remote, I don't come away from an argument with my mum wondering just what the hell the colour of the sky really is, and if I had strong views on politics and religion, then they certainly would remain intact.

So. Now that it's over, do you feel better? Or has the combination of Excedrin and Crack worn off yet?

A Little Merry for You

2010-12-23T01:47:00.001-06:00

I LOVE CHRISTMAS!

And to celebrate, I've changed things up a little for you. Below are two very different short-stories that I've written with a Christmas theme. I hope you enjoy them.

I've also included just a few of the digital snapshots I took of the tree I designed and decorated for my friend this past Saturday. The full array will be posted to Facebook.

Blessings from the insane one,
Carla

You Have a Thumb On Your Nose

The day after Thanksgiving

“Trust me, it’ll be great. What have you got to lose?”

As Regina remembered these words spoken by her husband, she was finding it hard to control the urge to shove the remote control up his ass, thus forcing him to change channels only when he had cramps.

Jim had brilliantly talked her into hosting Christmas at their house rather than pile the kids, the dog, and the Iguana into the car and subject everyone to ten straight hours of “Who-Gives-A-Damn How Many Beers’re on the Wall?” Had the law recognised drinking and driving as a viable form of family therapy, the song would’ve gone down much smoother.

But, being a modern-day woman, wife and mother, she loved a challenge.

The first thing she did was organise the celebration, from the time the out-laws arrived, to the heavy drinking that would ensue once they left. With Christmas being on a Saturday, she would invite them to drive in on Thursday. Very wise: By the time they arrived, half the day would be gone, and then bed early.

Friday, they’d all be busy with preparing last-minute packages, leaving little time for curses and reminders of what happened during the great religious debate of 1967.

Which left Christmas day, breakfast, the main 2 p.m. dinner, and mandatory caroling.

Sunday they would voluntarily leave, as Jim’s father needed to be at work the next morning at 7. She’d always found it funny that while he’d been retired for years, that had never stopped him from showing up at his old job anyway.

Next, it was on to sleeping arrangements. They had 4 bedrooms and 5 children, and as she had finalised a plan, she said, “Crap!” She’d just remembered that the last time his parents had visited, Jim’s mother ended up looped like a gymnast on muscle relaxers because of the back spasms.

Onto plan B. If they moved Christina, their teenager into the baby’s room and put her on a cot, then Jim’s folks could move into her room, but that would mean Lizzy would end up having to sleep on the sofa. Yes, that might work.

God, if I could only get them arrested, then I wouldn’t need to worry where they slept.

She then realised it was time to pick up the kids, so grabbed her keys and headed out the door, putting her West Point manoeuvrers on hold.

During her drive to the school, she began running over a possible menu, and by the time the last child was strapped into the backseat, she had chosen full menus for two meals.

Why was I worried?

The day before Christmas Eve

With the children dressed in the hideous matching orange sweaters Jim’s parents had given them for Christmas last year, and promissory notes signed by the children vowing never to disclose what they thought of them except by penalty of a fiery death that would keep them from ever seeing middle school, the grandparents were welcomed into the home with hugs, giggles and much cheek-pinching (this action alone, forced an addendum that promised no artificial or live reptile would be placed between anyone’s sheets without their express written permission).

Jim’s mother spoke first. “Regina! Your home...well, you’ve almost got it. Thank goodness I’ve arrived,” she said, while kissing Regina’s cheek.

Just as Regina moved both hands toward Ruby’s neck in order to choke her, Jim saw it and grabbed his mother away. “C’mere, you sexy thing, I haven’t hugged you all year.”

Regina knew she’d be having sex that night as a thank-you, but it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the evening was fairly civil, with the next day’s itinerary going surprisingly according to schedule, although Ruby couldn’t help but criticise every little thing Regina’d done.

That evening, as Regina sipped her GF International Coffee and celebrated the moments of her life, she felt uneasy, wondering when it would happen, how, and *who* would end up being responsible for screwing up her perfect Christmas. Well, besides Jim. He was always a contender.

Christmas Day

At 5 the next morning, she arose and stuffed the turkey, and put it in the oven for 6 hours. Then concentrated on breakfast, as no doubt, the children would be up at any moment to see Santa’s offerings.

Not more than ten minutes later, she heard excited screams coming from the living room. God, how she loved her family.

At 11, after presents and breakfast dishes, she butter-basted the turkey, now beginning to turn golden brown. However, when she returned for a final baste at 1, she noticed the oven had no heat. Beginning to panic, she checked the burners, but the stove was ice-cold. “JIM!” she shrieked.

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Why is my stove as dead as your mother’s eyes?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, fix it!”

“I’m an attorney, not a caveman. Call someone.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Ruby entered. “What’s wrong?”

“Dinner’s ruined! And I blame you, Jim, just as I did at the birth of our children.”

He merely shrugged.

“That’s it. Everyone in the car.”

“Honey, calm down.”

“Nope. This was the stupidest idea you’ve had, and I went along when you decided to quit law school and sell fake vomit.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“SCREW CHRISTMAS!” She picked up a butcher knife, and said, “MOVE!”

4 minutes later, they were on their way to Denny’s. Ruby leaned up to Jim in the front and said, “Is she okay?”

Jim shushed her. “I don’t think we’re allowed to talk until the festivities begin.”

After a dinner of Rootie-Tootie Fresh ‘n Fruity, and a solemn ride home, Regina was in such a state that Jim put her to bed.

While telling his parents good-bye, he said, “Well, I had fun. Let’s have you here again next year!”

Suddenly from behind, Regina charged at him with an uncooked turkey.

A Sleep to Startle Us

"Do go on, mama!" said Monica, clapping her hands. "You never finish your stories."

"Very well," said Mrs. Dickens. She tucked the blanket tighter around her daughter's rosy cheeks, for their old chambers, while the envy of many, carried winter's drafts in its cracks and sills. "Do you remember where I left off?"

"You were about to tell me the manner in which grandfather happened upon the idea for his now famous story."

"Ah yes, and here we go. Mind! This is the way it was relayed to me by my father, and you, should you have need, shall, hand it down by rote with much the same façon de parler.

"By the year of our Lord,1843, your grandfather's fame had spread throughout Europe and the Americas, his articles and essays appearing weekly in London's periodicals. He was never in want of a story idea, for he loved to take long walks through the city streets, and one would never need ask what it was his eyes saw during those walks, for the details would appear in print in his next work.

"However, just before putting his pen to paper to write his now famous story, a period of time in which no ideas came almost finished him. Nothing flowed; nothing sparked inspiration; no muse touched his shoulder lightly in honour of a fresh scheme. For many months this artistic vaccuum continued, nearly sending your poor grandmother to take spirits, which, she could never do since the Dickens family had long been people of temperance . . . ."

"Mama! Please! Do not torture me further by prolonging the tale!"

"Alright, done. It began on an unusually frigid night in November . . . ."

Charles Dickens sat alone in his drawing room, staring transfixed into the flames, as if, by sheer force of his gaze, maintaining eye contact could draw the warmth from the grate. So caught up in his own thoughts, was he, that his wife's entry behind him went unnoticed.

"Will you spend yet another evening in thought," she asked, "deserting your one true passion, which is to write?"

He said nothing, but continued to stare.

"It happens to everyone, I am sure," she continued.

"Never to me," he said, with much melancholy. "I have made a decision: I will never put pen to paper again for as long as my days on this Earth remain."

Catherine had never heard such lecture from him before, and this news, while possibly nothing more than a plea for sympathy--even though her husband was not prone to it--rattled each sense to her marrow, and she decided it serious.

"I am sure you do not mean this, Charles. It will pass. You must give yourself time."

"Time? One word I have written not these past eight months. I feel as if the well of my very soul has been emptied, for I have nothing left. I have stood idly by, helpless as a newborn, watching the hearts of the thousands of homeless children, wanting for shelter as well as mercy, while many of them remain disabled from ordinary life, who seem to drift across the landscape of the nineteenth century, discarded and forgotten."

"That visit to Field Lane ragged school in Saffron Hill in September really rent your heart," Catherine said, almost in a whisper.

"And did it not yours as well? Pray tell me, why, in God's infinite wisdom, does He allow such rapacity--at the cost of such undeserved suffering? I tell you, I cannot bear it further." He returned his gaze to the fire once more.

"Are you unwilling to allow your pen to feel what your heart is incapable of articulating at the moment? The Charles I married was a radical to the marrow, and oh, my, what power that pen, which you are unwilling to wield, doth possess."

He sat in silence.

Catherine kissed his cheek, and said, "Dearest, retire. Rest will relieve your suffering's severity in the light of morning."

He merely patted her hand and let his eyes stray back to the fire.

Now it is to be said, as you have probably well guessed by now, that Charles did not have fitful repose that night, as he drifted off in that very armchair, and who of us can rest easy in a chair?

He had been asleep not one hour and twenty, when a loud thud startled him to an upright position. He looked around, but finding the drawing room empty of inhabitants other than himself, drifted off again, when a second thud interrupted. Again, a cursory examination of the room yielded nothing but Porkchop, the family tabby, who appeared unaffected by the sound, as cats have never been a worthy barometer for much, other than an empty food pan. Convincing himself that the wind had blown a shutter from the chambres loose, he again stared into the fire. A full five minutes passed before the thud sounded again, and this time, as it did, the flames of the fire rose to a height of three feet and their volume increased two-fold. Charles was unsure if he should run for water, but just as he decided to do so, a strange, ghostlike and grotesque face appeared among the roaring flames, freezing Charles in his seat. As he stared at the face, which was now staring back at him, he realised that perhaps he was still in his dream.

But spirits, being as they are, heard his thoughts and said, "No, Charles, you are not dreaming."

"H-h-how did you know my name?"

The spirit beckoned him with a boney finger. "Come."

Returning to his senses, he replied, "No. Whoever you are, I will not come with you, not for your whim or mine." But as he finished, his body was pulled toward the flames and he could do nothing to stop it. He could feel the heat enveloping him and finding his voice, began to scream, which seemed to amuse Porkchop, as she had never liked her master.

Just as Charles was certain that he would be cremated alive, he heard a whooshing sound, and felt himself falling; falling down a cold dark tunnel, with the spirit flying at breakneck speed in front of him. After what seemed like several minutes, he landed on a pile of straw in a strange field. Pulling straw from his hair, he rose to his feet and said, "And now that I resemble the family ox, I demand that you tell me where you have taken me."

"I am the Spirit of Regret."

"And I am Charles Dickens. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now what in the name of Victoria are we doing here in the dead of this wintry night?"

"You have a heavy heart.

Startled by this oblique response, Charles said, "Why, yes, I suppose I do. But did you really have to remind me of it in a deserted field? Surely my armchair would have sufficed."

Without another word, the spirit pointed directly ahead of them, and a barn suddenly appeared where there was none before. Intrigued, Charles walked through its open door and espied the scene. A young family--mother, father, and two small girls--were huddled in the corner of a cow's stall. They had no heat, no food, and wore only thread-bare coats.

"Spirit, what is the meaning of this?"

"Listen further," the spirit commanded.

"But daddy, how will St. Nick find us here? We do not have a chimney like we did at our house."
The father looked into his daughter's sweet face. "Do not worry, dearest, he will surely find us. He always does."

This seemed to content his daughter, and she curled her head on his shoulder, shutting her eyes and the cold of the world out with them.

The father looked at this wife imploringly.

She said in a whisper, loud enough for Charles and the spirit to hear, "Dear, you know how the Church feels about Christmas. Why must you continue to placate her fantasies?"

"The Church?" said Charles. "What does the Church have to do with it?"

"You have a deep heart for people in this most dead, most uncomfortable time of year, when they would suffer greatly from their poverty and the cold, yes?"

"Rightly so. If they have not hope, good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas Gambols to support them, they have lost the race entirely. Now, pray tell, what part does the Church play in this poor family's welfare?"

"All in good time," said the spirit. He waved the scene away with his hand.

Next, the spirit showed him a crowded street in downtown London, and this warmed Charles's heart, for he would never live anywhere else. But this London looked vastly different from the one he knew; there were no holly sprigs, no chestnut vendors, no shoppers crowding stores in hopes of finding the perfect gift, no fires for the homeless by which to warm themselves. In fact, it was a desolate and depressing place; the people in the scene appeared to carry nothing but contempt for their neighbor.

"Again, spirit, I implore you: what is the meaning of this?"

The spirit said nothing, but washed the image away, immediately replacing it with a new one. This was of his own drawing room. In the corner was a coffin, and standing over it, a much older Catherine.

"Spirit? Who is she mourning?" said Charles, his breath catching in his throat. A strangled cry escaped him as he realised who lay in the coffin.

The spirit pushed him toward the coffin, and the corpse that awaited him was more horrific than anything he could have dreamed to write about. For inside, staring back at him, was himself!

He let out a startled yelp and stepped back. "That cannot be me, spirit. Oh please tell me it is not. Importune and torture me no more. What have I done to set this course?"

"It is what you have not done that seals your fate."

"Then reveal to me what I have yet to do--and I will but do it, posthaste."

"It was your destiny from birth that you should be a great writer, but more than your amusing anecdotes and stories, that you should champion the less fortunate and indigent against the tyranny of avarice that runs so rampant in society today."

Charles steeled his eyes and refused to be swayed. "Did Catherine pay you to do this? I am not sure how you achieved it, but I know you must be one of her friends. Reveal yourself. I demand it."

"Numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment.... How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies does Christmas time awaken!"

"I still fail to see what I have neglected to do that would cause this to pass."

"You revealed to your wife, only hours ago, that you would never pen another story so long as you lived. I am here to show you, that the very next story you write, shall be the greatest champion for the cause you hold so dear to your heart."

"Nonesense. I am only a writer. What can my pen surely do that my radicalism has not?"

"Your pen can do exactly what your radicalism cannot, and that is bind the two together. Remember when your first manuscript was dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter box, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street?"

"I do."

"That young master Dickens wrote with zeal and passion. It was that passion that got your book into the hands of a publisher. And now that same passion shall be a voice for the voiceless; a bludgeon against the rich man's hobby, greed. The first scene you saw this eve was of a typical English family whose Christmas had been removed by the dogma of the Church. Without your story fueling men's holiday hearts, there was nothing to stop it from happening.

"The second scene was of the future streets of London, again--abiding in desolation because no story gave them hope.

"Now listen once more to the scene in your own drawing room."

A young girl approached Catherine, and with tears streaming down her face, she said, "Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die, too?"

The spirit wiped the scene away and stood silent.

After a long moment, Charles said, "Spirit, will my work have that large an affect on the people of London?"

"Sir, Dickens, your work will have that large an affect on the people of the world. Happy, Happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveler, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home! But it will never happen, unless you write the story that has been stewing in your breast since September."

At that, the spirit transported Charles back through the tunnel, depositing him in the armchair from whence he had come. Charles opened his eyes. The hands on the clock showed him to be gone a mere five minutes.

"Catherine!" he bellowed. "Do you know not to where my quill and ink have retreated?"

"No, sir, and I assure you that waking the dead will have no more effect," she said, exiting her bedchambres.

"Come here, you saucy wench," Charles said as he hooked an arm around his wife's waist, pulling her to his lap. Catherine shreiked and they both dissolved into peals of laughter.

"What has you in such good spirits, pray?" she asked.

"The world, my sweet; mankind, Christmastide, my ability to write. All of it. For a fire is burning in my belly, and I must needs quench it with ink. I must fulfill my destiny with paper. Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, I will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in my Christmas heart, and by my Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, I will shut out nothing."

"Know you what you shall call it, yet?" Catherine said.

"Aye. It will be A Christmas Carol to those with no song in their hearts."

*****

"And that, dear Monica, is how your grandfather wrote his famous story. Now, time for sleep."

"Mama? Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"

"What is that, dearest?"

"A writer, just like grandfather, for it was he who kept the spirit of Christmas alive for all of us."

NaNoWriMo--Day Twenty-Seven, and I'm a Winner, along with first chapter free

2010-11-27T21:24:00.000-06:00

Just about one hour ago, I crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line with a validated 51,625 words.

This has been an incredibly weird journey, to say the least. But one that I'm very pleased I took. I've learned a lot about myself as a writer, as well as writing a novel and the approach to that process that works best for me. I've also learned that if I participate next year, then I will have a better detailed outline from which to work instead of merely a detailed plot.

By working so fast and forcing myself to keep pace, I've realised that with my last novel (The Gaslight Journal--what? You don't own it yet? Stop reading and go buy it: NOW!) there were some passages that needed more thought in order to make them better, and that was something I did not allow myself to do on this one, and for good reason: I am too much of a perfectionist, and spend far too much money on lavish luncheons with my nasty bitch-ass critic.

I must say, that writing a novel in this fashion was very different. I know in my head it works as well for approaching comedy, with everything I know about comedy, but in my heart I SO wanted to go back and edit/pick/re-write, and that's not necessarily a good thing.

Thanks to all who told me I could do this, and encouraged me without abandon. And special thanks to my word-war buddy, Kevin, who assured me he would continue to stay on my ass until all of Father Jack's story was told (I have another 20,000 words to finish the book). He beat me to 50,000 words, but in a very sweet letter, he credited me as the reason.

And now, for your amusement, chapter one.

A Most Devout Coward

Carla René

Copyright (c) 2010.

Chapter One

Jack Ryan O’Donnell had sat down to a nice, quiet lunch of steamed organic broccoli and distilled hot water; his usual. As he was about to send the broccoli back a third time, a bullet went whizzing by his right ear. Not hearing the actual shot and thinking it was just a fly, he swatted it away when another came very close to shaving his sideburns. This time he looked up from his meal.

Directly across from him at the farthest table with his back to Jack, sat a burly-looking man who was now slumped over his sweet potato pie, and a second who faced the sweet potato-man; leaning back against the wall with his chest contents now being used as a garnish for the pie.

Without registering what had just occurred, Jack noticed a waitress hovering beneath the edge of the lunch counter. “Excuse me, miss!” What an odd time for this woman to be on break.

She yelled back, not daring to leave her spot. “What is it, sir? Kinda busy here.”

“I believe that gentleman over there has spilled all over the table. Would you kindly clean it?”

She could hardly believe what she’d heard. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Miss, I don’t have to tell you how quickly a health inspector will shut you down for this sort of code violation.”

As the waitress was about to rip him a new one, a third shot sent her diving behind the counter. The shooter had turned toward Carlos, the chef, now hiding behind the counter, and put the third slug into his head.

This time, Jack noticed the shooter.

As he turned to make his getaway, he saw Jack staring at him and froze as if contemplating whether to put a .9mm round into him.

Jack noticed every detail of his face: ugly red scar on his left cheek, bulbous blue fish eyes, and black hair with that ugly David Schwimmer haircut from the first season of Friends. I always hated that haircut. Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut.

Little did Jack realize, these details would come in very handy in the near future.

But before the gunman could eliminate Jack as a witness, a voice in the crowd screamed for someone to call 9-1-1, thus jarring the shooter back into reality and out the door.

Suddenly, the events registered with Jack, and he stood at his table and screamed like a pre-pubescent cheerleader, “Oh my God, we’ve been hit!” Certainly not one of his more attractive qualities.

Slowly, everyone retreated from their positions on the floor, from behind chairs, and lunch counters. As the diner staff made their rounds to see if everyone was okay, the waitress came straight to Jack.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

Jack continued to scream.

This time she shook him. “SIR! Are you hurt? Your screaming is annoying the children.”

Jack calmed himself and shook his head. “I’m all right. What just happened?”

“Well, I’m no forensics expert, but I’d say we just had a gunman blow away two of our patrons.”

“But why? If you’re that unhappy with the food, you don’t blow away the person sitting next to you eating it, you kill the chef.”

“They got Carlos, too. Is that really what you want to complain about right now? We’ve had two men shot to death and you’re still bitching about your broccoli?”

“I...”

But she had already turned to attend to customers who needed serious attention.

*****

Twenty minutes later, Jack was sitting in the back door of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket, a paramedic taking his vital signs.

“So, Mr. O’Donnell, let me get this straight. You were just getting ready to return your organic broccoli for a third time, when you noticed bullets flying past your right ear? A person eating in public has a reasonable expectation of peace and quiet. That’s disgraceful.”

“I know. I never have to send my broccoli back more than twice.”

The paramedic rolled his eyes, and said, “Okay. You’re fine. I think that detective has some questions for you.”

Jack walked over to the tall man with the brown tweed jacket and green tie, his gold shield displayed prominently on his lapel. “You wanted to see me?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. O’Donnell. Let’s walk over here so we can have some privacy.”

They strolled over to the other side of the street and sat on the steps to a three-story walk-up.

After Jack described the events again, the detective questioned him on the man’s physical details.

“He had this huge, ugly red scar on this face.”

“Right cheek or left?”

“Oh, I never saw his butt.”

After killing his urge to laugh out loud, the detective said, “I mean was it his right cheek or his left on his face?”

Jack blushed. “Sorry. I’m still in shock.”

The detective was unconvinced, but played it straight.

“It was on his left cheek, going down from his cheekbone to his jawbone. About two-inches wide. Looked like somebody got in there with a spoon and...”

“...that’s fine, Mr. O’Donnell, I think I get the picture. What else?”

“His eyes. They were ice-blue. Looked like that fellow from that old frankenstein movie.”

“You mean Marty Feldman?”

“No, I mean Young Frankenstein. You never saw the movie?”

Again, the detective had to stifle the urge to laugh. “So you mean he had prominent eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Anything else you can remember?”

Jack crinkled his nose in disgust. “Yeah. His hair.”

“You mean he had some?” The detective now chuckled at his own joke.

“It looked like Ross from the first season of Friends. Black, combed straight down and very short.”

“Yeah, I hated that haircut, too. Now Matthew Perry--that guy, had a haircut.”

“Exactly."

“Can you think of anything else that may help?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay. Well, since you seem to be the material witness to this crime, I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”

“You mean I’m under arrest? All I wanted to do was send the broccoli back! I mean, I wanted to kill Carlos, but I certainly didn’t shoot him!”

“Calm down, Mr. O’Donnell. You’re not under arrest. I just need you to meet with my Lieutenant. Apparently, no one else but you noticed this man until he had fired 3 shots and was out the door. You’re the only one to get a good look at this hump, and we need you to make a formal statement.”

Jack thought about this for a second, then said, “Um, no way. Ain’t no way I’m going into that dirty station. Nunh-uh.”

“Dirty? What are you talking about?”

“With all due respect, Captain...”

“...it’s detective.”

“With all due respect, Captain detective, I’d rather just have an officer come to my house. There are very few places I go in public, and a police station with filthy criminals is not one of them.”

“Mr. O’Donnell, you’ll be protected--those felons will be behind bars.”

“No, I mean they’re filthy. All that gun powder residue on their hands, bare feet on their bunks, hookers with who knows what. No sir.”

“Oh, I get it: germophobe.”

“And claustrophobe and OCD. What’s your point? Why do you think I drink distilled water? It’s certainly not because it rivals the taste of new Coke.”

“Well, I do understand, but unfortunately, that’s the place where we keep all the pens and paper.”

Jack sighed, clueless that he was being mocked. “Oh, alright. But tell me you’ve cleaned that interrogation room within the last six weeks.”

The detective chuckled. “Not even within the last six months. But I’m certain you’ll survive.”

After forcing the detective to wipe down the back seat of his car with a stack of wet naps, Jack slowly slid onto the lemon-scented seat, but certainly wasn’t happy about it.

“I’m certainly not happy about this,” he said to the detective.

“I’ll make a note of it in your permanent record.”

“Oh dear Lord,” said Jack, “If this goes on my permanent record, I’ll never be able to show my face at that diner again.”

Up in the front seat, the detective could only laugh to himself. Was this rube for real?

*****

Boston’s 12th Precinct was everything the detective made it out to be: loud, noisy, and with a smell that rivaled that of a New York cab. He led Jack through the main lobby and down the hall toward a free interrogation room.

And as Jack had feared, there were no shortage of hookers awaiting their turn for booking. As soon as Jack and the detective walked by, the girls let out cat calls and whistles, with promises of ‘It’s so hot you’ll never go back to your wife.’

As Jack slowed to eye one shapely blond in particular, the detective pushed him forward. “Forget it: that ones a tranny.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tranny. Y’know, a transvestite.”

“Oh, dear Lord. You mean a...”

“That’s right, cupcake. She’s a he.”

“Is that even legal?”

This time, the detective laughed out loud. “Dorothy, where did you grow up, Kansas?”

They reached the empty interrogation room, and again, after forcing the detective to clean the table and chair, Jack took a seat, but refused to rest his hands on the table.

“Would you like something to drink? I’m afraid we don’t have any of that fancy distilled stuff you drink, but I do have some day-old coffee and a doughnut.”

“No thank-you. I’m fine. But I would like to get on with this, if that’s okay. I have things I need to do this afternoon.”

“Oh, sure. Wouldn’t want her highness to be late for tea with the Queen.”

“I’m beginning to think you may be having a laugh at my expense.”

“Naw, that was just sarcasm for no good reason. Of course I’m having a laugh at your expense. We don’t get too many of you “dainty-men” down here.”

“I believe I take offense at that. OCD is not something one chooses, like being gay.”

The detective chuckled. “Well, your sexual proclivities aside, we need to get a formal statement from you about exactly what you saw. I need you to begin writing down everything on this legal pad, and I’ll be back with my Lieutenant and a sketch artist.”

As the detective was ready to exit, Jack stopped him. “Excuse me, Captain detective. But I need some gloves.”

The detective turned to face him. “You need what?”

“Sterile gloves. I’m afraid I just can’t do this without them.”

The detective let out a low whistle. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Funny. That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”

“Go figure. Look. This is a police station. We don’t have sterile gloves. Just fill out the paper and I’ll be back,” he said while closing the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Jack, now done recounting his story to paper, used the last of his wet naps to do so.

The detective entered with a tall, skinny man and the sketch artist.

“Mr. O’Donnell, I’m Lieutenant Marcus Grey. How do you do?” he said, while holding out his hand.

“I don’t shake.”

This caught the Lieutenant off-guard. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t shake. More germs are transmitted through someone’s handshake, than if you were to lick the sidewalk.”

The Lieutenant glanced over at the detective, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright then, we’ll forgo the handshake. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Captain detective mentioned something about being a material witness.”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know what that is?”

“I was the witness to a crime?”

“Yes, that’s partly true, but there’s more. In this case, not only did you witness a crime, but the perpetrator saw you, plain as day.”

“That’s how I was able to describe him in such detail. He turned to directly face me, and that’s when I noticed his features.”

“And that’s very good work. A lot of witnesses are too scared to be able to remember their attacker. But, I don’t think you’re really getting the implications here, and I need to make absolutely sure you know what’s happened.”

Jack felt tired. “Lieutenant Grey, I am very tired. When can I go home? This place is beginning to make me itch.”

“Well, Mr. O’Donnell, that’s what we need to discuss. You were clearly able to identify this perp. Do you know what that means?”

“I’ll have an easy time of it in court?”

The Lieutenant was incredulous at this man’s dimwittedness. “Well, yeeeeeeeeeees, but it also means that while you saw the perp, the perp also got a very good look at you.” He paused to allow ample time for the truth to sink in.

It didn’t take long until Jack’s mind had wrapped around the truth of the matter. He felt sick to his stomach, but didn’t want to vomit, because the thoughts of having to clean it up would make him even sicker. “Do you mean...”

“...that’s right, Mr. O’Donnell.”

Jack was now screaming again. “THAT GUY KNOWS WHAT I LOOK LIKE!”

As dim-witted as this guy was, Lieutenant Grey felt a bit of pity for him. He’d always felt genuine pity for witnesses whose lives got turned upside-down by perps.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Would you like a glass of water?” said Lieutenant Grey.

“I'm not going to vomit into a glass of water! But distilled if you've got it, thanks.”

Again, the Lieutenant looked at the detective for confirmation, and only received a shrug.

After Jack took a minute to calm down, he said, “So, Lieutenant, what’s going to happen to me? I can’t get killed; I’d die of fright from all the germs before I’d ever die of the wound.”

“I want you to meet someone.” He tapped on the glass, and sixty-seconds later, another tall, dark-haired body-builder man entered the interrogation room. He stood at attention with his hands folded in front of him, and waited.

“Mr. O’Donnell, I want you to meet Special Agent Sharks Avery of the WITSEC program.”

Jack said, “WITSEC? I don’t understand.”

Avery spoke. “Witness Security. Most vulgarly refer to it as Witness Relocation. But, the good news is, you’re now my new bitch.”

Jack could feel the room spinning, and was certain he might pass out, so he made sure to slump his body over the table to keep from falling to the filthy floor. He didn’t need that flesh-eating bacteria in addition to being what most referred to in the hit man business as “next.”

The detective was at his side in a flash, and offered him one of the station’s wet naps to wipe his forehead. “You alright there, dainty-man?”

Jack was certain he was dying. He began mumbling.

“What is it? What’s he saying?” asked the Lieutenant.

The detective bent closer to Jack, then raised his head in anger. “Oh crap. He’s still bitching about the broccoli.”

“Mr. O’Donnell, I don’t know anything about broccoli, but I do know that Avery here is an excellent agent and will do everything in his power to make certain you are safe while you await trial.”

Jack raised his head. “But I didn’t kill that chef! I wanted to, but I didn't! Why am I going to trial?”

Now, all four men looked at each other. Finally, it was the Lieutenant who spoke. “This is going to be one helluva long case.”

A Politically-Correct Thanksgiving Wish

2010-11-25T17:11:00.000-06:00

I've decided to wish everyone a Politically Correct Thanksgiving, in only a style unique to me. So here goes.

I hope your germ-free table is filled this year with the following (you mean besides antibacterial hand sanitiser?):

A nice, juicy turkey alternative that once assembled clearly resembles a turkey. (And on a bad day, so does my sister.)

Grandma's "Hearty Stuffing" made with sage, thyme, rosemary, sausage-style meat alternative, egg substitute, greased with the "I NEVER believed this was butter" vegan-appropriate butter-imposter, and bread that contains the following which may or may not be derived from animals: mono and diglycerides, exthoxylated mono and diglycerides, glycerides, sodium stearoyl lactylate, emulsifiers and DATEM (Di-Acetyl Tartrate Ester of Monoglyceride). (WOW. Whose mouth is watering over those diglycerides?? Can't you smell it in the oven NOW?)

Cranberry salad with oranges, apples and pecans, but jello-free. (Okay, so this one isn't so bad.)

Top it off with a flourless, eggless, milkless pumpkin pie. (And gutless. Don't forget gutless.)

Hmmn. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, no matter what you eat.

NaNoWriMo--Day Twenty, and...Cyanide, Anyone?

2010-11-20T06:33:00.000-06:00

As you will notice, I now have a spiff new NaNoWriMo word war widget in the upper left corner of my screen. WrytingBear is my writing buddy who threw down the gauntlet earlier this week when he realised I was suddenly beginning to catch up to his word count. He may have thrown it down, I simply chose to write about it. "It's ON baby, like mascara on Prince." That's what I told him.

About an hour ago, as you can see from the real time widget, I hit my 40,000 word mark. My original plan was to push through to 70,000 words. I'd still like to see that happen, but I've been so tired lately, that I'm afraid my first instinct will be to just stop when I hit 50,000 and leave it at that. I can't do that--I've already got folks waiting on the mss.

During this week when I was churning out word after word, and thus, kicking WrytingBear's arse (and it was gravy, really), I began to realise something about this process: In my zeal to metaphorically give him a beat down as we were running neck and neck in word counts, I ended up writing 15,000 words in 4 days. That's more than twice my regular pace, and besides churning out crap I won't be able to use, I completely fried my brain and I was SO completely worn out yesterday that I refused to write and took the day off.

But no more marathon sessions for me. There comes a point when it's good to be writing, and then another point when you're doing it for the sake of a word count that won't mean anything if you churn out nothing but a piece of crap. I'm sticking to my normal chapter length of 2,300 words and pushing through even after it's over for my 70,000 words. That way I'll have a rough first draft, AND I won't fry my circuits in the process.

Today's Featured Author at The Indie Spotlight

2010-11-19T14:16:00.002-06:00

http://www.theindiespotlight.com/?p=3475

I did a great and funny interview, discussing my short-story collection, Zen In The Art of Absurdity.

The Indie Spotlight was begun by Edward C. Patterson and Gregory Banks as a completely free way to highlight and showcase independent authors, so please do stop by and drop a comment in thanks for their wonderful efforts. As a thanks, you get treated to one of the collection's stories for FREE!

And then, get thy butt over to the widget at the right of this screen and purchase the book, already! Momma needs some new cat litter.

On an unrelated note, today is day 18 of NaNoWriMo, and after doing nearly 15,000 words in under 5 days, I sort of burned out my brain, and yesterday could only get out 2,500. So I took last night off. I caught myself beginning to wonder if I've veered too far off my outline and if my plot is developing right and at the right pace. I wonder if I've been lingering on interesting passages for too long, and skipping over other crucial, yet less interesting ones that are more difficult to develop. I guess time will tell.

NaNoWriMo--Day Eighteen: cruisin', featured author, and GASLIGHT RELEASE!

2010-11-18T05:53:00.002-06:00

Just a few minutes ago, I reached 37,178 words. EPIC, BABY! Is all of it going to be usable? I doubt it, but at least I've got the basic framework for some great comedy, and that was my only purpose in participating.

I've also made some fantastic friends--one guy in CA who is a writing buddy, somehow threw down the gauntlet, and now instead of being involved in a race to finish our own novels, we're now in a race to see who finishes their own novels first. Which is spurring me on to write even during the days I'm tired and really wished I could write Father Jack as being electrocuted because I'm simply tired of him.

On Friday, November 19, I will be the featured author at TheIndieSpotlight.com site. Edward C. Patterson and Gregory Banks have devoted their precious time to help the independent author. They feature a different author each day of the week, so please stop by and support their tireless efforts. And read my interview--funniest thing since M*A*S*H.

As of yesterday, my short-story collection, ZEN IN THE ART OF ABSURDITY (link available to the right of your screen in the Amazon widget) hit #76 in the books > humour > essays category for TOP PAID KINDLE DOWNLOADS, and just a little while ago I, out of curiosity, checked the status of GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE...MY UNCLE DOES, and it is now sitting pretty at #66 in the books > entertainment > humor > crime&mystery category. That is the second time that particular book has cracked the TOP PAID KINDLE DOWNLOADS for that category.

And finally, exactly one week from today on US Thanksgiving Day, my historical fiction novel, THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL, makes its Amazon Kindle debut, and I couldn't be happier! Again, if you're a beta reader and need a place to slap up your review, simply go to the top of this page, and click on the GASLIGHT link. It will take you to a dedicated GASLIGHT page that I've set up specifically for your reviews.

That should do it for now. Keep at it, and remember you CAN do this!

NaNoWriMo--Day Sixteen, and STILL having to defend it??

2010-11-16T15:40:00.000-06:00

Just because I'm in the Xmas mood

As we walk along Planet Earth, we do a lot of stupid crap from which obviously no one is exempt. We run out on dates at the last minute because we didn't realise the long line across his forehead was one, big eyebrow, and not the shadow from a ball cap. We measure our entire lives in dress sizes: "I'm losing ten to fit into my prom dress." Then, "I'm losing ten to fit into my wedding dress." Me? I'm losing ten to fit into my burial dress. And finally, and this is my favourite, we buy a snack of a Snickers bar and a Diet Coke.

But the one thing I'm seeing a lot of, and am beginning to get a wee bit hot under my collar about, is that those of us who are participants of this year's NaNoWriMo, are now getting burned for such participation by "real" writers. I've spent two days of this week alone addressing half-considered comments on another forum in which I'm a contributing author, from writers too proud to admit they don't know everything there is to know under the sun about writing. Or, about Nano.

"Mandatory word counts? Ah--that would then explain the myriad sub-par material lining bookstore shelves." This paraphrased comment from one writer.

Then another, less-snarky author who genuinely questioned the process said this paraphrased comment: "Seems the only goal of this event is to get 50,000 words in any order saved to a file. Big deal."

In short, I am a comedy writer. I love writing comedy--it makes me happy. So when I sit down to tackle yet another brilliant comedic essay, or my comedic novel (of which I'm currently writing for Nano), for someone like me who deals with the negative effects of a high-IQ to be able to simply sit and write with the express intent of only getting the story out onto the page is extremely liberating! Comedy writers often employ something I've spoken about before, called a burn draft. You sit and write your story as quickly as you can with no thought for content, or even quality. Then you go back and really work it into something of brilliance when the draft is done. Do you know how often I deal with that bitch editor of mine? Too often to count. So when the chance came to sign up for this event, sure, I had my own questions at first, but decided for once in my life not to over think anything and just jump in with both feet and let 'er rip.

And I'm SO glad I did! This morning before heading to bed at 4 a.m., I hit the 30,000 word mark. And looking back on it, while there is one scene of dialogue interaction between the two main characters that I've never been so happy with, most of it will remain after the final draft is done, only to be shaped, molded and worked like fine clay into something of brilliance that my readers/fans have come to expect from me (I'm so full of it I sicken myself sometimes).

So let the LA Times columnists of the world roar, I say. Let those who consider themselves to be NOVELists of LITerature piss all over your efforts. We both know that those who are participating will only take away from the event only what they were meant to: If you're not a serious writer, then come December 1 you'll end up trashing what you've written, and if you are a serious writer, as I am, then come December 1 you'll put the work away, have a cookie, and then a month later let the revisions begin.

But in the meantime, the next time someone snarks at you for writing a novel that chances are will never see one of those bookstore shelves, just remember this: with your metabolism, YOU will still be able to enjoy that Snickers bar and Diet Coke, and that snarker? In about five years when they're too old to remember their name, they'll be gumming their food.

Life's good, innit?

NaNoWriMo--Day Fifteen and Kicking It Up The Arse

2010-11-15T07:15:00.003-06:00

Father Ted kicks Bishop Brennan up the Arse

That's right fans and Twits: I'm kicking bishops and taking names.

I just LOVE the Britcom Father Ted, and since one of my chapters from this evening introduced my own Bishop Ted Macguire, a MAJOR antagonist to my Father Jack, well, I thought this photo rather fitting.

By the way, did I tell you I have procured special permission from the Graham Linehan to not only reference Father Ted in my novel, but to also quote parts of the series? I never, ever get starry-eyed over famous people. Mostly because to some I am still famous from my television and stage work, but also because the friends I've worked with and are colleagues of, are, to me, simply brilliant and talented friends, but to the rest of the world, they're Kip Wingers, Brett Cullens, James Strausses, and yes...Graham Linehans.

However, I was so honoured that Graham not only gave me permission, but SPOKE to me, that I nearly fainted when he replied to my Tweet. I felt like I'd just met the Pope himself.

Days fourteen and fifteen have blissfully blended together, because yesterday at 9:30 p.m., I went on a marathon writing session with the sole purpose of getting caught up.

As of thirty minutes ago, I had not only accomplished that goal (our cumulative word count up to today was supposed to be 25,000 if we were writing according to their schedule), but surpassed it by 1,063 words (ending up writing a total of 7,605). Well, one of my writing buddies had topped out at 25,139 and I simply could not be outdone.

So then, what's in store for today?

More writing, of course. I may now be caught back up with the Nano guidelines, but I'm still sorely behind on my own. For a 70,000 word comedic novel to be written in 30-days, I need to be writing a solid 2,333 each day, which is about the average length of one of my chapters.

And like the last time the words and story idea simply poured out of me, today's writing was no different because these chapters had little to no research required. And I've realised that since my Father Jack has severe OCD, I need to incorporate some of those details to make him authentic, as well as make the comedy spark.

However, I've decided to hold off on doing this, until time for the rewrites. In fact, there's a lot of detail that I'm purposely leaving out until the rewrites. I think for a novel to be written at his pace, it's the only way to accomplish that and stay sane at the same time.

On a related Nano note, one of my writing buddies that I whined to early on during my dark days of not being able to find my way, sent me a sweet, oh-so-sweet note yesterday saying he'd been watching my word count progress, and was proud of me, and wanted to encourage me to keep going. Now THAT, is what I call a writing buddy who knows how to encourage you, even when you didn't ask for it!

Off to bed. Talk tomorrow. Have a great day, everyone, and keep at it; you can do it!

NaNoWriMo--Day Thirteen and in Labour

2010-11-13T15:07:00.001-06:00

What do I constantly preach here, other than a story should begin at the story, and there is never enough conflict? That's right--that you should shut up your internal editor until after you've completed your first draft. Engage that sucker too soon and you're setting yourself up for nothing more than a hefty dose of writer's block.

So, will someone kindly tell me what the hell my problem is, then? Every time I sit down to write another chapter, all I can hear is my mum snarking away at me from my right shoulder: "This is crap. It isn't funny, and you write comedy. What the hell were you thinking? Macy's is hiring; get a real job. You do know, you're a fecking mad eejit, don't you?"

Well, okay. Mum never used the word fecking and she wasn't Irish, but follow along.

Usually when I sit down to write comedic essays or short-stories, I make them funny as I go. And they come very easy to me. I don't think I've ever had to go into labour for a joke with such pains it feels as if I'm blowing a Saint Bernard out my ass. Can't remember ever writing a piece in which I needed an epidural.

But with this novel, I'm trying to just create a good, solid story--get that out of me first, and then go back and add the funny--like John Vorhaus and any good comedy writer will tell you to do.

So then, why am I not being able to mentally get past the fact that so far, this is nothing but a right piece of shite? I wrote at least 2,600 words every day back in July and August when I finished GASLIGHT, and it pretty much came out close to the way I wanted it.

But on this, my dialogue sounds forced, the writing seems quite stilted in some places, and there are damned uninvited characters popping up all over the place, wrecking havoc by creating scenes that I haven't even authorised! It's nothing but anarchy in Father Jack's world, and frankly, he's making mine a living hell.

HELP! Tell me how to shut up this urge to want everything to be absolutely perfect before it's time.

The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure

2010-11-10T19:37:00.000-06:00

I have decided to forgo my usual update on my Nanowrimo writing experience, for something of more import.

I will make this short and sweet:

http://www.amazon.com/Pedophiles-Guide-Love-Pleasure-ebook/dp/B0049U4CF6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1289435393&sr=1-1

Amazon, when I called them on it during a phone call about an hour ago, refused to take down the book, citing censorship. Shouldn’t there be a line between common censorship, which rests only on the opinion of the public based on subjective taste, and in disseminating information that can be used in the commission of a crime? What the HELL is Jeff Bezos thinking?

You can damn-well bet that if any one of us types “The Anarchist’s Cookbook” into Google, the FBI and about a dozen other government agencies, including INTERPOL will flag our account and we’ll get a nice little visit.

But let a pedophile do a sneaky search for criteria that will bring up this book, and watch how they get by with it. Frosts my weenie, it does.

MSNBC has now picked up the story. And I’ve watched the reviews grow from 880 when I first pulled up the book at 5:00, to 1,323 just 90-minutes later. And now, as I post this, the count is at a staggering 1,418.

Where do we draw the line?

NaNoWriMo--Day Nine, and getting tired

2010-11-09T18:45:00.001-06:00

When I finally put the manuscript away last night at 4 a.m., I'd written a total of 6,734 words, thus completing chapters three, four and five. My total word count thus far: 11,807. In one week. ONE.

I'm beginning to get tired (I'm a very light sleeper and hear the least little noise in the house), but have 2,500 words to complete before bed this evening, and I intend to keep the pace.

It seems that switching my writing location has really made this much easier. And I'm also now hitting parts of the story that do not require quite as much research--I'm simply free to play with the characters and let them run into scenes and burning buildings where they may.

I will say, that it's not funny yet, but that's completely normal. When you're writing comedy, you don't shoot for funny first--you shoot for a plausible story. Then you spend your re-writes making passes that concentrate on adding more jokes into the mix. In the meantime, I have what's called "placeholder jokes;" an unfunny line that merely marks the place where a real joke will go when it's time.

I do, however, have a few places of brilliance, and that keeps me going.

And if you'll excuse me, now that our hero has settled in and had incredible luck so far, I'm about to make his life a living hell, and laugh all the time I'm doing it. >:D

Honeybump begs the salmon from my Sashimi

NaNoWriMo--Day Eight, and finally hitting my stride

2010-11-08T19:11:00.001-06:00

Word count totals so far: 8,326. I'm still behind the average, but have now knocked out 3,355 today alone, with another thousand to come later tonight, thus finishing chapter four.

Now that I've changed my normal writing place from the sofa with a cat and a laptop to my desktop where I have readily-available research at my fingertips, the writing is going much more smoothly with less hiccups than before.

Research always trips me up, and it's never one of those things I can do before-hand, since I never know until I actually sit down to write just how I might need certain information or how I might incorporate that into the writing. So I usually avoid it until it's needed.

Anyway, pushing forward, and should be caught up again by tomorrow. Have a nice evening, peeps.

And for your viewing pleasure, yet another photo of my Honeybump (next week, Playdoh).

NaNoWriMo--Day Seven, and too sick to write

2010-11-08T01:59:00.009-06:00

Feels like I've been trying to get the flu all day, as I'm achy with a stuffed up nose and fever. So, I availed myself of a day off on the couch, curled up with Honeybump, and watched the SVU marathon.

Later today, will resume. (This really isn't going as well as I'd hoped, is it?)

NaNoWriMo--Day Six, just skipped right over day five

2010-11-06T18:14:00.000-05:00

Nothing happened yesterday, anyway. OH, except I put up some new Christmas lights around my desk. I usually save decorating till my birthday on November 11 (make note: I like Snickers and Broccoli), but just got hit with the festive mood early.

Anyway, so yes, I spent yesterday goofing off again, and trying to amp myself back up for writing.

And today, I did it. I finished chapter two, thus writing another 2,400 words, and am now pushing ahead through chapter three, with an attempt to finish by tonight so I'm not too far behind on my NaNo word count. Instead of NaNo's requisite 50,000 in 30-days, I'm shooting for a complete novel at 80,000.

I've often wondered during the last few days the point of pushing ahead with a novel that obviously isn't very good when you first hork it up. And then I remembered all the trouble I had with continuity on The Gaslight Journal (Making its Kindle debut on Thanksgiving Day!), and found myself grieving because I hadn't written that in close to one sitting and just kept pushing through with it.

Which is, I guess, the reason the experts tell you to write your essays and spec scripts for sitcoms in what they call the "burn draft" style. Meaning, you park your ass in the chair, and just write--you "burn" through it. Then once you're done with your literary projectile vomiting, you go back and employ all the techniques you've learned for revisions and edits--thus, shaping it into a thing of beauty that will obviously be ready for human consumption.

I never knew if that technique worked for novels, but for me, at least on this one, it sorta does. I'm finding that I'm having much less trouble with details of specifics in previous chapters, thus, less re-reading involved, because I've got Frank Caravechi's younger brother Vinnie already locked in my short-term memory. I already know when I delve into chapter three in about ten minutes that Sharks Avery is the US Marshal that will help Jack set up his temporary home in South (And not Southwest) Boston. I automatically know that if Jack takes a tour of his new city, that his severe OCD and claustrophobia will preclude him from riding in a dirty, smelly cab. Although, if I want to be a real bastard about it, that might create a nice piece of comedic tension. We'll see what kind of mood I'm in once I finish my Snickers.

So, yeah--it's got definite advantages.

And now my break is over. Will check in tomorrow. And thanks for following this sordid saga. We'll call it, "As The Colon Churns."

NaNoWriMo--Day Four, and Past the Crisis

2010-11-04T19:49:00.000-05:00

I've had some time to calm down, think incessantly about everything, analyse it to death, bring in experts to interpret everything written between the lines, read advice from friends, and have arrived at this sole conclusion: I'm an idiot.

That was a joke.

Actually, I'm tired and sleep-deprived. But, thanks to the advice of some caring friends, have decided that even if I have nothing but a piece of shite on November 30, at least I'll have something I can revise and re-work.

Thanks all. Later tonight, I play catch-up and will comment on progress tomorrow.

NaNoWriMo--Day Three, and the End

2010-11-03T22:46:00.000-05:00

Well, I gave it my best shot.

Today was even worse than yesterday. After I made my blog post, I at least was able to write another 1,200 words, but for what? The comments came in this morning on the first chapter for critique that I'd posted yesterday, and the consensus? Bin it, nothing worth saving. One guy said there was absolutely no grace to my sentence structure. In other words, can't string together two words.

I am now giving up writing, period.

Thank-you for reading.

NaNoWriMo--Day Two of the Village Idiot-a-thon

2010-11-02T21:00:00.000-05:00

You probably can't tell I'm now sleep-deprived. I know--I'm a rock and hide my feelings well.

Well kiddies, day two hasn't been quite as stellar an experience as day one. Last night after posting my blog, I went right to work and cranked out a 2,200 word short-story that I have some waiting for, and posted it this morning at my normal bed-time of 6 a.m. for critique.

At 7 this evening, the reviews were in: bin it, it sucks with no redeemable qualities.

Now. I'm not ashamed to say, this stung me just a wee bit. I may be an idiot with delusions that she can make it as a writer, and I may have smelled my socks a time or two before I put them on, but I have my pride.

Needless to say, now I'm completely doubting everything I put into chapter one last night, and as of this minute, I've written all of one sentence in chapter two, with no immediate plans of continuing. Why should I? If I can't even get a teeny 2,200 word short-story right, what chance do I have with an 80,000 word novel?

I'm currently so aggravated that if given the chance, I'd put my computer through its appropriate "Windows," and bite the head off nails. Eh, why not. I don't get enough iron in my diet.

Until tomorrow. Hopefully you won't have to peel me from the keyboard shrieking, "Why me, God, WHY ME?"

Rumours of my death are greatly celebrated....

2010-11-01T21:03:00.001-05:00

Well, mostly by close friends and family, but follow along.

Today was official kick-off day for NaNoWriMo. Well, actually, it was last night at local midnight time. And if you're not a writer, or you are and living under an inkwell, then you might not know that this oddly-difficult to type acronym stands for National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to get you to park your ass in a chair, wipe the potato chip grease from your fingers, place them over the keys and PUSH. You write 50,000 words (and to my credit, the rules didn't really say they had to be in any specific order) in 30 days, which roughly comes up to be 1,666 words each day.

Steve Warburton as Jack Ryan O'Hanlan
Original design copyright (c) Carla René.
2010. All rights reserved.

About 30-minutes ago, I finished chapter one of my NaNoWriMo novel, entitled, A Most Devout Coward. I always push for about 2,500 average words for each chapter, give or take 2-300 in either direction.

On a side note, comedy-writing legend John Vorhaus, loved my comedic premise when I ran it by him two weeks ago, and has enthusiastically agreed to read the finished MS and offer me a blurb. I'm so excited. Might try and snake a forward out of him while I'm taking advantage of his talents.

I had taken great pains to plot this novel over the last month (while getting my advanced readers' copies of The Gaslight Journal out to my beta readers) and to outline it in great detail.

And yet at 5 p.m. when I sat down to actually write, aside from the opening scene of my protagonist in a diner, I had no clue how I would arrive at the only other scene I knew--the last, with him in the interrogation room at the 12th Precinct.

So. Day one down, and twenty-nine more to go. But I think I'll be fine. I cranked out 2,600 pages every day of Gaslight and had it finished in 6 weeks, so I'm not worried about meeting my quota.

But come back tomorrow. I may be drooling into my keyboard, screaming for coffee that I don't have, and certain I've seen D.B. Cooper at the local Piggy Wiggly in my sleep-deprivation.

(But I'm having a fantastic ride!)

P.S.--if you or anyone you know is interested in bettering your comedy-writing skills, and you're a member of either Goodreads.com or Shelfari.com, then do a group search my newly-formed comedy writing group, called Writing With My Colored Pencil. Group name is the same for both.

I started both of these groups, because lately I've been hearing a lot of beginning and seasoned writers say things like, "I wish I were funnier," or, "I wish I knew how to write comedy." We will be discussing all sorts of comedy writing tools that will make you funnier, even if you don't think you are. And let's face it: humour is one thing we all have in common, and apart from sex, it's the one thing that is proven to sell.

Last Call for Beta Readers (and other surprises!)

2010-10-31T02:10:00.001-05:00

No, I'm not dead.

Although with my porcelain skin and blue lipstick, I think the kid in Walgreens last week got the wrong impression--must've scared him. I can't think of another reason he'd go racing from the store screaming, "Mommy! It's gonna eat meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Everyone's a critic.

I've just been busy and hard-at-work with in getting The Gaslight Journal manuscript ready for its Thanksgiving Day release, and I still need your help.

Would you like a free advanced reader's copy of The Gaslight Journal?

Here's what you do:

Click on the "Contact" link in the upper right of this blog, and then send me your e-mail address to that e-mail listed, with the subject heading, "I want to be a beta reader." I will then send you an e-mail with the links to the appropriate downloads with further instructions on what I need you to do once you have your review ready, and where to put it.

Currently, Amazon is working with me on setting up a pre-order page for the Kindle release on Thanksgiving Day. I received an e-mail from them earlier this week. And up till now, they've only accomplished this for two other authors:

Stephen King and J.A. Konrath. Seems I'm in pretty good company.

You'll also receive a free press release.

The e-mail I will send you goes into more detail, but my goal is to hype the book, and treat it like an published release, rather than an indie release. I just saw my friend J.A. Konrath do this, and I'm certain with your help, I can do it, too!

And now for the goodies.

I have two interviews in store for you, just in time for Halloween. I'm sorry they are a few days late.

And without further ado, here we go!

Chester Campbell has written five Greg McKenzie mysteries featuring a retired Air Force OSI agent and his wife. A Sporting Murder, the latest, came out in September. The first book in his Sid Chance mystery series, The Surest Poison, was published in 2009. The books are set mostly in the Nashville, TN area. Chester has pursued (meaning chased all over the map) writing in various fields for more than 60 years, including newspaper and magazine journalism, advertising, public relations, and political speech writing. An Air Force intelligence officer in the Korean War, he retired from the Air Force Reserve as a lieutenant colonel. Currently secretary of the Southeast Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and president of the Middle Tennessee Chapter of Sisters in Crime (the only male chapter president in the international organization), he lives in Madison, TN with his wife, Sarah, and an 11-year-old grandson.

Me: What’s you current book?

Chester: It’s A SPORTING MURDER, which answers the question: “Can sports lead to murder?” Nashville Predators hockey fans think “this town ain’t big enough for three of us (pro sports teams),” and somebody is willing to commit murder over the prospect of bringing an NBA team to Nashville. It’s the fifth in my Greg McKenzie mystery series, featuring senior PI’s Greg and Jill McKenzie. Along the way, a bomb explodes under Greg’s Jeep, with the two of them inside. Lots of skulduggery afoot.

Me: I know a few of those Predators' games I went to sure looked like they could lead to murder. Made me afraid to go in the parking lot. Why did you become a writer, when you could’ve been a garbage man or President?

Chester: Some folks probably think I’m a creator of garbage. I’ve certainly got more sense than to want to be President. Actually, my Mom probably got it right when she said, “I’m not surprised he became a writer since he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

Me: What sort of odd jobs did you do before becoming a writer, and how many of them were you fabulously fired from?

Chester: All my “odd” jobs took place while I was a teenager. The first was bicycle delivery boy for a drugstore. Got quite a shock when a female customer answered the doorbell sans clothing. Another was clerk in a women’s shoe store. You should have seen the feet I tried to cram into a size 9 narrow. The one I got fired from was my second writing job, for writing too much. I loved newspaper reporting, especially feature writing, but the higher-ups discovered I knew grammar and how to spell. They put me on the copy desk. In lull times after an edition went to press, I turned to my typewriter and worked on freelance articles for magazines. The managing editor took offense at the practice and showed me the door.

Me: With the explosion of Amazon Kindle and other eBook readers, what are your thoughts on the whole thing? Do you have any predictions about it?

Chester: I’m a lousy prognosticator, but I’m taking advantage of the eBook explosion while it lasts. All my books are in the Kindle Store at $2.99, and I’m gradually getting them on Smashwords. Who knows what the next electronic marvel will be? I’ll try to be ready for it.

Me: What is the most scathing, hateful and hurtful rejection letter you ever received (I’m sure you remembered a few)? How many have you gotten? Do you keep them?

Chester: Fortunately, I’ve never received a snarky letter from an agent. I have tons of form letters that tell how my novel “does not fit our list…isn’t what we’re looking for…doesn’t meet our needs” and every other excuse you can imagine. Just as deadly are the occasional letter about how they enjoyed the story and liked my writing “but it isn’t for us.”

Me: Heh; received one of those myself just last week. You live in the heart of the Bible Belt, and yet you write crime fiction/mystery. Have you suffered any grief over this?

Chester: Au contraire, some of my most ardent fans are members of my church. I’ve had several signings at the church and launched my first Sid Chance mystery there last year. One staunch member says his mother told him he should never buy anything at church, but he buys them outside.

Me: What is your process for a book? From where you get the ideas, to how often you write, if you use outlines, to publication?

Chester: Ideas can pop up anywhere. My first published novel came from reading an in-flight magazine on the way home from a Holy Land trip. Another resulted from watching high-rise condos go up on the beach at Perdido Key, Florida. A neighbor contributed one when she told about visiting the old Marathon Motor Works buildings just outside downtown Nashville. A PI friend told me about a case she handled around Jackson, Tennessee. It became THE SUREST POISON, re-located closer to Nashville. How often I write is a sore spot…not often enough. With all the on-line and area promotion I do, I find it more difficult to settle down to writing the next book. I’ll get started soon, though, and it’ll take off. I’m a “pantser,” no outlining. Give the characters a nudge and let ‘em go. I’m with a small press that gives me lots of freedom to pursue the publication process, from titles to covers to whatever.

Me: How many novels had you written before you found an agent? How many queries had you sent?

Chester: I have a penchant for doing things in reverse. I started writing full time when I retired. I got an agent with the first book. No sale. Ditto with the second book, different agent, who died on me. The third landed with a major New York agency that took the next three books and, for reasons too involved to go into here, sold none. My eighth book brought a three-book contract from a small press run by the husband of the agent I had sent it to. I have now published six books agentless.

Me: What do you tell others (hot new authors like myself) just beginning that they won’t learn anyplace else?

Chester: Surprise, there ain’t any new advice around. It’s a tough business, but it’s doable if you prepare yourself and stick with it. In the mystery field, you’ll have no trouble finding successful authors willing to help. If you can take criticism (and you’d better be able to) find a critique group of knowledgeable writers and let them offer suggestions. You won’t agree with everything they say, but you’ll come away with lots of helpful ideas to improve your writing. And finally, write, write, write. Hopefully you’ll be published before you’re seventy-six, like I was.

Me: What did you have for breakfast?

Chester: What I have most every morning. That way you don’t waste a lot of time figuring out what to eat. For me it’s a bowl of oatmeal (maple and brown sugar) and coffee. Sometimes my wife will throw in a muffin or cinnamon bun. The important part comes after breakfast. When she gets back from taking the grandson to school, we have a tall travel cup of cappuccino. Just like my characters Greg and Jill McKenzie (I taught ‘em to love it).

Me: What other profession do you still regret never having pursued?

Chester: I would have made a great secret agent. I can sit behind a table at a bookstore and never be seen.

Just kidding, I may not be a standup comic, but I’m a standup book signer. I never sit behind the table, even to sign a book. That I don’t regret.

For places you can purchase Chester's books, visit his home on the web at: http://www.chesterdcampbell.com/

-------------------------------------------------------------------

And now for part II of our journey.

Simon Wood is an ex-race car driver, a licensed pilot and an occasional private investigator. Originally from the UK, he lives in the US with his American wife and way too many pets. He's had over 150 stories and articles published. He's an Anthony Award winner and a Crime Writers Association Dagger Award Finalist. He's the author of numerous thrillers. His upcoming titles are the Lowlifes and Asking for Trouble. Writing under his horror identity, Simon Janus, he’s the author of The Scrubs and Road Rash. Curious people can learn more at http://www.simonwood.net/ .

Simon Wood

TERMINATED (In bookstores now)

www.facebook.com/simonwoodwrites

Scaredy Cat

People ask me what scares me, what my deepest fears are, and what sends me into a panic. Austin Powers says he fears only two things: nuclear weapons and carnies. I’m different. Pretty much everything frightens me. I think people are usually looking for a man-of-steel kind of an answer. But I have to disappoint. I’m scared of my own shadow. Literally. It’s always there, behind me, creeping up on me. There it is. Arrrrhh!!

I’ll go into a cold sweat at a Starbucks. The choice dazzles me and I can’t make up my mind what I want. Suddenly that long line looks real short. Now the choice isn’t the scary thing, but what happens when the green aproned personage asks for what I want and my answer is “Er, I need some more time.” I know the people behind me are going to start gnashing their teeth and all because I don’t know what fancy coffee I want. Eek!

Everyday things scare me. I lived in an apartment where the shower curtain had a habit of clinging to me when I got within a foot of it. The material had an odd texture that felt like skin when wet, which was a distinctly unpleasant sensation. I got to fear that damn shower curtain and avoided using it (and my wife got to hate that I didn’t shower). But that was enough to spur a story about a haunted shower curtain. Incidentally, that story spooked a reader sufficiently that they are afraid of their shower curtain now. That’s the power of our fears, I guess.

A few months back, my Sisters in Crime chapter volunteered to man (or woman) the phones during the local PBS pledge drive. I feared my phone would ring, because I might get someone with a weird name I couldn’t spell. I thought, if I screw up the donation, PBS won’t get their money and Yanni won’t get his funding and he’ll hunt me down like a dog.

So yes, I can make anything scary. It’s a talent. Don’t applaud me all at once. You can’t all be like me.

I made author fears a topic at a World Horror Convention panel a few years ago. It proved to be a really interesting panel. A number of the authors discussed their darkest fears. Some were parents were frightened by the potential loss of their children. Several had had incidents that led them to write stories.

Fear makes for great storytelling. It’s a fossil fuel with an inexhaustible supply. It drives stories. It forces the reader, the writer and the characters to face what frightens them full on. Stories thrive on conflict and facing your fears is the greatest conflict. No one is fearless, so everyone can relate.

The best scary writing explores our archetypal “core” fears. People fear the unknown, the loss of a loved one, loss of liberty, loss of control, their position in the world. The point is that to write scary stories, you have to be fearful. The adage goes you write what you know and fears are very real and accessible. Horror stories just don’t explore someone’s fear of vampires, werewolves and Freddy Krueger. They explore a power stronger than the individual and that overwhelming power has the ability to rob you of what you hold most dear or thrust you into an environment you desire least. No one fears Freddy Krueger. Everyone fears what someone like that can do to them.

So my myriad of fears are good for my writing. They keep it real (scary). It’s easy to see what I, the writer, you, the reader, and they, the characters have to fear. For me it’s easy to slip into a fictional situation. My collection of supernatural short stories, Dragged Into Darkness, deals with my various neurosis that everyone can relate to from flying to public embarrassment. If I examine all my work, fear stains it all in some shape or another. Life is scary and scarier the better when it comes to fiction.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m next in line at Starbucks and I don’t know what I want.

Yours cowering under the bedclothes,

Simon Wood
--------------------------------------------------------

Thanks, guys!

Join me beginning on Monday, when I begin my new novel, A Most Devout Coward for NaNoWriMo, and I blog about my progress. Can't wait!

Interview with Horror Author, Robert W. Walker

2010-10-23T19:33:00.001-05:00

Hey gang!

The Eleven Questions to Fame Blog Tour continues with five-and-a-half questions from Bram-Stoker-nominated horror author, Robert W. Walker--a man who has described himself as Stephen King's illegitimate son. I met Rob when he hired me to design his first web-site, and it's thanks to him passing along some information about an anthology being put together that I ended up 24-hours later with my first publication credit. So we go way back.

But I try not to let anyone know.

And here we go!

Wednesday, October 27, will see book release #50, Titanic 2012: Curse of RMS Titanic, from prolific, and slightly-twisted horror author, Robert W. Walker. Being released exclusively on Kindle, Rob has some specific thoughts about the way the publishing market is going.

Join me now for this probing interview.

Me: Titanic 2012: The curse of RMS Titanic is your 50th novel--congratulations. Why another book about the Titanic?

Rob: There have been a great deal of books and films made about the Titanic and its fate, as it is one of those archetypal tales that people do not want to see end. In fact, like Elvis and Marilyn, Titanic will never fully be in its grave and gone. The allure is there and a ready-made audience, yes, but for me it was a chance to turn so many of the myths grown up around the ship and its shit luck that I couldn’t resist placing one of my patented disease-spreading monster aboard for the fateful night when the X factor aboard leads to a Cabal bent on bringing the ship down. It was no accident in my scheme of things.

Me: You write horror fiction. Did you always want to be a horror author? Why horror? Why not become president, or a garbage man?

Rob: I soooo respect what garbage collectors, now environmental engineers I think they are called, DO. I couldn’t do that in the heat and the cold world…hanging onto the back of a truck. I went into horror for good reason, early in my writing career, after failing to sell any of my young adult historical novels. After making the Underground Railroad as scary as it gets but getting nowhere with it, and knowing all editors were seeking a Stephen King mirror image to love and promote, I got into horror in a big way, but you know working with monsters is a great deal easier on one’s psyche than with serial killers. The creatures tale direction and stagecraft a good deal more seriously.

Me: Do you generally use detailed outlines when plotting your books?

Rob: No not ever have I used detailed outlines, and I struggle with outlines as it is an art in itself—how to recast the story in brief. However, that said, I enjoy allowing the story to dictate itself to me and grow exponentially as it comes to me and as I convey it to the reader here and now. Doing an outline kills my energy, strangleholds my imagination. I like to “write where no man or woman has gone before” so I never know where I am going until I arrive. I don’t know what I think until I see what I say – a line I stole from someone somewhere but it sums it up for me, my reckless abandon and reckless method. It takes patience of Job and a willingness to go on a wrong turn or binge and having to write oneself out of that problem. BESIDES “once a story has been told” even in outline, “it can’t help but get old.” I like the way I work, not knowing what will happen around the next page until I write it. I suspect I am not the only author who likes the idea that a novel is episodic and as such should be organized episodically by its creator.

Me: Who are your favourite authors and who have inspired you the most?

Rob: Mark Twain, my spiritual mentor, James Herriot, Robert Bloch, Shakespeare, Dickens, Doyle, Dumas, Martin Cruz Smith, Katherine Anne Porter, the Bronte Sisters, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Increase Mather if you can believe it, as well as Thomas Thompson, Charles Grant, Harper Lee, Margarite Mitchell, James Clavall and many more. Too many to count, I fear.

Me: What are you wearing?

Rob: Jeans and T-shirt, all rather drab in blue as we are moving down the street and am beginning to feel a shower in order!

Me: Please. Do us a favour and opt for the shower. Your wife is an author, too. Does she help or inspire you in your stories?

Rob: Miranda writes under Miranda Phillips Walker (no hyphens), and she has her own stories to deal with; she is working on a sequel to the ebook Absolution which was formerly....

It was at this point in the interview, Rob literally fell asleep and didn't answer the other questions.

Nothing surprises me from this man.

So. You in for the best story about Titanic ever written?

Check Rob's web-site for news of the official release, and the first fourteen teaser-chapters, free!

Thanks for the time, Rob, and good-luck with the book release!

Coming up on Wednesday, we have a double-whammy for you: a fellow Nashvillian who writes crime and mystery, Chester Campbell, and a former Brit who now publishes humour and horror in the US, Simon Wood, so don't forget to join me for that!

Interview with DRACULAS authors, Blake Crouch and Jeff Strand

2010-10-15T18:57:00.005-05:00

Today, Tuesday, October 19, is the long-awaited release of a new horror novel entitled, DRACULAS (A Novel Of Terror), as well as the end of a unique marketing experiment that, according to Blake Crouch, has never been attempted before.

Please join Mr. Crouch and Mr. Strand, two of the novel's four well-known and well-respected authors, now in this very probing, very serious and apparently very full-of-shite interview that I concocted for them last week, otherwise known as The Eleven Questions to Fame Blog Tour. (Why not ten? Because I'm long-winded: so sue me.)

Me: *Ack* Are you serious?? Another vampire story? How do you respond when you hear this? By now, it's a hack topic. How is your story any better or different than the seas of vampiric vomit currently on the market?

Blake: This is actually the first time I’ve heard that :). The short answer is, we wouldn’t have written another vampire book if we all didn’t feel we had something new to bring to the party. Our story is different from what’s out there right now in this sense. For the first time in a while, vampires are being treated and portrayed like what they are…absolute addicts who crave blood beyond all else.

Jeff: “Vampiric vomit” is how we pitched it. We were going to use that as the original title, but then we decided that Vampiric Vomit would make a great name for a punk band, so we changed it to DRACULAS, but then we realized that being in a punk band would involve Joe getting all sweaty, and nobody wanted that, but by then it was too late to change the title back.

Me: I agree. Joe and sweat? It wouldn't even be compelling fiction.

Vampires was a collaborative effort. Collaborations are difficult. How were you guys able to pull this together? What did you do when someone disagreed over how to handle a certain section? Did you get into any fist fights? Do you think you will work together again?

Blake: I am certain we’ll all work together again when schedules allow. This was simply too amazing of an experience not to repeat. And actually, this collaboration wasn’t difficult. Egos were set aside. Sure disagreements occurred, but we handled them like professionals, and the final product is better for it. No fist fights! We had a major disagreement about the end, and it’s all chronicled in excruciating detail in the bonus features, where our emails back and forth to each other are collected.

Jeff: Fortunately, the fact that we all live in separate states kept the physical violence to a minimum. Most of the disagreements were resolved very quickly, because it was never a case of somebody saying “This sucks!!!” but rather “Here’s what I think you should do differently.” There was no instance where we had to go “Majority rules” or anything like that, because nobody was protective of their work. Everybody at some point had the other authors saying “Here’s where you went wrong,” and except for a debate at the very end about the fate of one of the main characters, we never got stuck on a disagreement.

Me: How did you decide who would be included in your project?

Blake: We chose writers Joe had worked with before, who we loved as writers, and who we also thought would be able to successfully take on the massively challenging feat of writing an 80,000-word novel with three other people in eight weeks.

Jeff: Joe invited people, and most of them said “Yes.” We’d all worked with him before on two-author projects, so there were no huge surprises in the lineup.

Me: Would you recommend that everyone try a collaboration at least once in their fiction career? Why?

Blake: Not unless they can shove their ego in the closet, because there is no place for it in a project such as this.

Jeff: Not really...I mean, it’s not something people should try just to have tried it. You really do have to put your ego aside, because you’re going to lose some arguments, and you may never get credit for writing that one brilliant piece of dialogue. I have no idea what the success/failure ratio is, but I’d guess that most collaborations don’t end well. But if you have the same vision for a project, and the collaborators can each bring something special to the project, you can end up with a book that’s much more interesting than what you might have done on your own.

Me: What is the most scathing, hateful and hurtful rejection letter you ever received? How many have you received? Do you keep them?

Blake: A publisher, in response to a sample chapter I sent, once wrote to me, “Too fucking long. Might want to vary your expletives a tad.” Yes, I’ve kept all my rejections from the early days.

Jeff: “This reads like something Joe Konrath would write!” This is a difficult question to answer while keeping up the charade that the four of us are answering together. I assume that Paul has never been rejected, and I have no idea how many Blake has received, but Joe and I have gotta be topping four figures between the two of us. I kept them back in the days of snail mail, but I never got in the habit of printing out e-mails.

Me: What are you wearing?

Blake: Wife-beater tank top and snowflake pajama bottoms. No shit.

Jeff: Leg warmers...and nothing else. Yes, the four of us are sharing them.

Me: Dear God, now I'll be kicking myself for a month for delving into my own brand of horror.

Why crime/horror fiction? How long did it take to finish and whose original idea was it to work together, and choose a topic?

Blake: That’s the fiction we love. Joe came up with the initial title and bare bones premise. He and I developed it a little more and created the cast of characters. Then we approached Paul and Jeff and got them on board and also gave them first choice on the characters they would write.

Jeff: The majority of the actual writing occurred over five very intense weeks. There was a lot of plotting and brainstorming for a few months before that. The actual premise and idea to work together came from Mr. Joseph Konrath.

Me: What piece of advice--not previously given in interviews--would you give to hot, new authors like myself who are just beginning?

Blake: I’ll repeat what I said on Joe’s blog last Monday: “Get a great agent, and try to sell it for a lot of money. Publish short fiction in solid magazines. There’s a lot of bad-mouthing lately about the “gatekeepers” but I think a publishing track record is important, and it should matter to readers. I’m a reader, and it matters to me. Put your short fiction and your novellas and collaborations up on Amazon. Keep your irons in several different fires. The truth is no one knows how this is all going to shake out, so in light of that, there’s really only one smart play…diversify.”

Jeff: NOT previously given in interviews? Does that mean Joe can’t say “SELF-PUBLISH E-BOOKS! SELF-PUBLISH E-BOOKS! FOR THE SWEET LOVE OF GOD, SELF-PUBLISH E-BOOKS! MONEY MONEY MONEYMONEYMONEY!!! [Begins foaming at mouth; is dragged away]”? I don’t even have good stock answers to this question, much less something new and innovative.

Me: And, I see it's time for someone's medication! Did you collaborate on your testimony being given today?

Blake: Nope, this is all Blake.

Jeff: No. It’s a solo effort by Jeff. I didn’t really contribute much to the novel itself, so they’re making me do this interview.

Me: What did you have for breakfast?

Blake: Black coffee.

Jeff: I had a Pop-Tart. I suspect that Blake is a pancakes kind of guy, extra syrup. Paul had an egg with a thin coating of gold, and Joe had beer.

Me: Pop-Tart: man after my own heart. What other profession do you still regret never having pursued?

Blake: No regrets here, Carla!

Jeff: Munchkin.

Me: Thank-you so much, guys. It's been very...um...interesting. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go slip into a hot bath and pop open a vein.

About the Authors:

Jack Kilborn, a.k.a., J.A. Konrath, has written six Jack Daniels thrillers. The seventh, SHAKEN, will be available this October. Kilborn is the author of AFRAID, ENDURANCE, TRAPPED, and SERIAL UNCUT, (written with Blake Crouch) which has been downloaded more than 250,000 times.

Jeff Strand is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of such novels as PRESSURE, DWELLER, GRAVEROBBERS WANTED (NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY), BENJAMIN'S PARASITE, and THE SINISTER MR. CORPSE. His secret shame is SUCKERS, co-written with J.A. Konrath.

Blake Crouch is the author of four thrillers, DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, ABANDON, and SNOWBOUND, all published by St. Martin’s Press. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen, THRILLER 2, and other anthologies.

F. Paul Wilson is an award-winning, NY Times bestselling novelist whose work spans horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction, young adult, and virtually everything between. He is best known as the author of THE KEEP and creator of the urban mercenary Repairman Jack.

More book info and how to order your copy today:

Available for Pre-Order as a Kindle Exclusive for $2.99 (But what if I don’t have a Kindle? Yes, Virginia, you can still read DRACULAS... here's how)

Join Me This Saturday For An Exclusive Interview!

2010-10-10T00:05:00.001-05:00

Draculas (A Novel of Terror) -- Review

Please join me on my blog this coming Saturday, October 16 for an exclusive interview with these 4 authors, as they tackle The Eleven Questions to Fame Blog Tour. Very funny, hopefully insightful.

Joe asked me last week to look over his new release, and when I agreed, I was given the full copy to peruse. He and I met years ago in an online writing group, and I designed Joe's first web-site. With the horror genre not being my particular favourite in which to write (although I have two published short-stories in the genre), I wasn't sure what to expect. But knowing Joe's writing, I also knew I wouldn't be disappointed.

And I wasn't. The book certainly delivered on its promise to supply the reader with fresh meat, blood and lots of mangled bodies.

At first, I was taken aback by the inclusion of a Prologue. Editors generally cut these, as they hardly ever lend anything of interest to the story. But this one was done in a cleverly-deceptive way, so as to make you forget you were reading the prologue, and therefore I put my blistering fax away, without needing to give Joe a good piece of my mind (I need all of the pieces I can keep).

The book doesn't have the average chapter headings--it's merely written from various POVs from the different characters involved, and I found myself loving that device the longer I read.

The action starts almost immediately and is just relentless, so for a while, I caught myself thinking, 'How in hell are they going to sustain this momentum for another 300 pages?' And then I realised the story itself isn't that long. So in retrospect, it was just long enough to be satisfying.

I'm a professional stand-up comedienne, tv/stage comic actress and I've been published in the comedy genre, so it's VERY difficult to make me laugh. I think all comics are that way. But I must admit, I laughed out loud in SEVERAL places. And it wasn't cheap one-line humour that kept me laughing--it was comedy, sparking across the gap of the character's reality and their comic premise, which is where you mine for true comedy gold. When Randall corrected himself and said, "Motherhugger," in front of the kids, I just about coughed up a lung.

I was surprised, however, at the scenes with Stacie and Adam, awaiting the birth of their daughter. Sorry guys, but I'm always amazed when I see a man writing prose so tender it makes a woman cry, and I was sitting there with huge tears streaming down my face. I won't give away what happens, but let's just say, Joe, you done good, kid. And while they worked hard to make the writing seamless from everyone, I knew of two separate times when it was Joe's writing that I was reading. Maybe from spending all that time in our writing group.

The story's ending was perfect and ambiguous enough to make room for a sequel, which I think is planned. And it shocked me to learn that the total page length of the book, in .pdf form, was 411 pages, yet the story itself was far short of that. I'm just now getting into the extras of the book, and think it's great that they threw these in there. Makes you feel as if you're getting more for your money.

But, aside from some stray typos and minor repeated words, I gave this book a hearty 5-stars, because when everything is said and done, it did everything that a good story is supposed to do:

engage the reader
make the reader care about the characters
don't infodump or use exposition to the detriment of your story
tell the story in such a way as to make your reader want to keep turning those pages
make your characters fully human, with exposed goals and flaws
don't throw in extraneous humour just for the sake of a cheap laugh
leave your reader with a sense of needing to read about this story and the characters even further.

My thanks to Joe, Blake, Paul and Jeff, who allowed me to be a part of this.

Happy October!

2010-10-02T04:15:00.000-05:00

I've been doing a little decorating. Don't you just love the lady on the broom? She looks so snarky, donshe?

Since I'm convinced no one is reading this thing, I will do a test:

Is anyone reading this thing? Please chime in if you are.

Kisses, and Happy Halloween!

Just how much weight should we give a critique?

2010-09-30T03:37:00.000-05:00

I got knocked on my ass again just a few moments ago. Seems to be a regular occurrence lately, and I have the ass-scars to prove it.

While involved in a heavy discussion for the last few days--wait, more like a knock-down-drag-out-here, hold my beer conversation--the guy who was gladly engaging me began taking things to a personal level and attacking my character. Mind you, the conversation began as a discussion about what to say to a writer who gets his feelings hurt with a less-than-glowing critique. Bitterly, I say, "how appropos."

But follow along. It wasn't until after I dragged this person back on topic to writing, that he suddenly threw in a critique of The Gaslight Journal. Now, understand, he obviously couldn't be bothered to actually make his suggested edits in the comments section beneath the book. Nope. He had to drag them out into the open in a thread that was already 23 pages long, and then do it in such a way as to make me look like the idiot I probably am, but deny ever being, as I'm fully human.

The image came to mind of that of an Alpha male chimpanzee. Part of his job as the Alpha, is to literally smack down the females in a bid to make them become submissive. And while I am endeared to both apes and chimpanzees, I don't really like the being smacked-down part, especially by a guy who freely admits he's been unable to land a publishing deal with a DTB publisher, and so he's resorted to selling eBooks on Amazon. While my accomplishments have been small, compared to many of my author friends, I at least can claim publication in both DTB and DTP.

But, back to my story. As this critique progressed, it was evident that he was digging for things; things that hadn't been pointed out in the 89 other previous comments the book had received. My first impulse, was to say that the only reason he introduced the comments in the manner in which he did, was so he, being the good Alpha male chimp, could feel the strong urge to smack me down and make me submissive. It was the only conclusion I could draw, because things he was saying were things like:

You say in this line that she hit the ground, and yet in the next sentence you've got her brushing snow from her skirts. Which is it, DIRT or SNOW?

Now, I would've thought that anyone in their right mind would've been able to read the line, "Her bustle hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her," as nothing but a woman's butt hitting the ground. I didn't say anything about dirt. I thought it was a widely-accepted colloquial part of our vernacular to say ground when you mean you're outdoors. Is that not right?? And yet, he seemed to think this was such a passion-killer, that, how did he phrase it? " in and of itself is a rejection-worthy problem."

Oh, but kiddies, wait--the fun doesn't stop there. He then proceeds to continue the Carla-bashing by adding such noteworthy gems as, if I had submitted this chapter for editing at a professional editing service, not only would my cheque have been returned, but I would also never see publication. The man said that not only could I not write, but that I clearly sucked. He actually used the term sucked, that no amount of editing or changing would be able to save it, "because the plot is contrived, the character’s behavior is pop psychology, not human behavior. People emote for the watching audience rather than behaving as people living the event."

I gotta say, this was all news to me.

But here is my question: I'm thinking that had he presented this to me, first, in the proper comments section where it belong, and second, in a rational, less-angry state-of-mind, perhaps I might've entertained his notion a little more seriously. But, since he chose to use this critique, and that of another one of my manuscripts, as a clear way to humiliate me and beat me down, am I expected to listen to it? Are any of us?

Please give me your thoughts on this.

Do You Think Johnny Depp Would Live In My Living Room?

2010-09-15T02:47:00.004-05:00

I sat down to talk about writing non-fiction comedic essays, but was so uninspired to do so (how easy is it to bore yourself?), that I've decided to forgo that lecture and discuss what's been brewing in my mind now for about a week:

Halloween. What inspires you to creativity?

Pirates of the Caribbean Ride at DisneyWorld, Orlando, FL

If I had the chance, I would literally move into the Pirates of The Caribbean set at DisneyWorld in Orlando, FL. In fact, it was this very setting, seeing how all of the front pieces were back lit; how they were on a make-shift river; how there were working street lights next to them--that fascinated me and made me want to repeat the ride over and over again. (I can't believe I actually found this photo!) I've been a theatre fag and professional actor since college, and once I stepped onto those boards and got a taste of the beauty of the imaginary world, I think someone finally had to call the cops to pull me out of it.

I've always loved the imaginary aspect of being on and interacting with a set. I mean, think about it: you can decorate it any way you want to, hardly ever have to clean up after yourself, and you don't have to worry about heating costs in the winter.

And there is something about the masque idea of Halloween that puts me in the mood each autumn to turn my living space into something on such a grand scale that I would need to charge admission if people were to visit. In fact, I'm sitting here with purple twinkle lights strung all across my desk. They've been up for the last five days.

And I can clearly envision it, too.

My living room walls would consist of the exterior face of a house. I wouldn't paint them to look that way, I would actually nail boards up to the walls, complete with curtains on the inside of the glass windows, and a small candle in the sill on some, or a dim light behind the curtain in others, to make it look like someone was inside. And then of course, I would have to hang a partial roof to overhang the wall, so it would look authentic.

If I really had the money and time and resources, then I would add a small creek through the living room, right next to my newly-developed house, attached to a water feature. I've visited homes of super rich and bored people before who had a small creek running through their living rooms, and decided I wanted that one day.

I guess part of the reason I loved getting hired to perform at Haunted Nashville this year, was because the attraction had three separate attractions inside, and all of them played into my warped Halloween fantasy. One is of a full-scale Victorian house, the second where I'll be working, is the house of inventor Tesla, and the third is a real bat cave, not to mention the full-scale, two-story graveyard, with grass, lighting, fog and trees. These are housed inside an abandoned shopping center, so there is plenty of room left over for expanding the attractions in the coming years.

Plus, I think there's something magical and mystical (not in the spiritual sense) about having a lit set in your living room. In fact, I get the same sensation when I decorate a doll's house. Just being able to move things around without throwing out your back is appealing. I've wanted a doll house now for about the last ten years, and know I can't afford the one I want. I'd like to be able to purchase a blank shell, and then do ALL of the work on it myself, from wall-papering, to hanging the roofing shingles, one at a time. Then, I dream about doing all the landscaping, adding a working water feature, and streetlamps, natch. Mine will be special, however, in that it will have a working dungeon in the basement (I've never seen a doll house with a basement, so mine will be the first) that I can then really decorate for Halloween. I want my own little cauldron of dry ice, flickering candle-less flame lights and skeletons.

Upstairs in the Victorian parlour, will be the special room saved for the elaborate Christmas decorating, but we'll save that post for a time closer to Christmas.

Have you ever let your imagination run away with you like this? As writers, you should, on a regular basis. Don't ever sensor yourself or stop yourself from daydreaming, because that's eventually what leads to the generation of unique ideas, and answering that age-old question, "What if?"

I've recognised that there are three specific times each and every year, like clockwork, when I allow my mind to begin daydreaming. They are:

August: As the air begins to hint of drops in temperatures, I begin fantasising of living in a Medieval Castle, complete with torchieres, candelabras and flowing fabrics

September: With the average temperature now 10-15-degrees less than summer and the sun riding lower in the sky, the temptation of falling leaves and warm blankets send me into daydreaming of haunted houses, sets in living rooms, and other imaginary worlds

November: Now that the frost is here and the left-over turkey gone, I turn my whirring mind to high-Victorian parlours and drawing rooms, furnished with expansive trees, spicy smells, and log fires.

I've noticed that this free-wheeling daydreaming also help to inspire my art. I usually end up creating 3D digital worlds based on my hunger for parlours, dungeons and castles. I'll share those with you soon.

Here are some cool photos I snapped three years ago while in WV visiting my farm family. I had just decorated the old, expansive porch for Halloween and started playing around with my crappy digital camera.

This is actually a photo of one of those ceramic houses that you buy (like those Christmas village pieces), that was lit only with the orange twinkle lights. I just thought it added something really spooky.

Here is a far-away view of the porch, lit only by the twinkle lights that I strung down the stairs and the black-lite twinkle lights I hung in clumps from the wooden ceiling. The house was a mess and nearly unlivable, but oh, how I LOVED that spooky-looking porch! So much fun to decorate.

In this one, you can see the candle lanterns hanging overhead! I didn't realise, until going through all these old photos, that I actually had a nice juicy close-up of the two lanterns. And while I certainly didn't plan it, somehow, thanks to the crap quality of that digital camera (no worries--I have a nice one in which I invested to take digital jewelery photos), I ended up with some innocuous purple halos that are spook-a-licious!

This photo, again crap quality, is of my sliding-glass doors. In the doors, you can see my 4' wrought-iron candelabra with five purple candles burning, and I added some pumpkin twinkle lights. Hey--when I get into a holiday, I really get INto it.

These last two were me, sitting on my porch one night in the light of the twinkles, and realising that simply by moving my head up or down by a mere few inches, it drastically changed my profile.

Thank-you for allowing me to share this with you. When I began this article, I was so uninspired and now, I'm excited again--that adrenaline rush at being able to create is very high.

So, now. What about YOU? What makes you inspired to daydream?

I'd bitch about health care, but I'm too sick.

2010-09-08T20:48:00.000-05:00

My apologies, peeps: I've been rogue lately.

Was knocked on my butt last week with chest pains and shortness of breath. When I got home from picking up a few groceries on Wednesday evening at 7:30, I sat down to check my mail like I usually do, when I suddenly felt sharp pain in bands across my back and I was having noticeable trouble breathing. My breath was coming in short gasps. My roommate gave me a couple of muscle relaxers, as I thought it might be from my Fibromyalgia, but after thirty minutes I had no relief, and so she decided to take me to hospital.

I HATE going to hospitals. If you're not clearly dying or decapitated, then they make you sit in the ER forever; although, I've known a few who lost limbs and still weren't considered "trauma". My minimum that night was 2 hours before being seen by a doctor, and another 2 once I had been seen to await my test results.

The highlight of the evening had to come when they needed to do a CT scan for blood clots or tears in the aorta, but they couldn't get a vein for the IV. Finally, after yet another chest x-ray and blood work, they sent me home.

Fast-forward to the next night, and I'm still having pain and trouble breathing. The very handsome doctor whom I saw that night said the only choice left, was to get the IV and do the CT scan. I think I've had gynecological exams that were more pleasant. My veins run deep and they roll, so it's nearly impossible to get a good IV on me at anytime. Tonight was no exception. I think I stopped counting at twelve times for how many times they had to poke me, and they still ended up doing an EJ (external jugular), and that one they had to try for three different times. They were tenacious, I'll give 'em that.

But, as soon as they got the pain meds in, I didn't give a flip what they wanted to do after that.

A few hours later, and the handsome doctor returned with the verdict that I had a good case of pleurisy, which is an inflammation of the lining of the lungs. He sent me home with Percocet and orders to follow-up with an off-site doctor.

Here I am a week later, and having just as much pain and breathing trouble, but with no insurance, there is not going to be a doctor on the planet who will see me. So, it's either make another coma-inducing trip to the ER, or sit in agony, as I've done now for the last two days since running out of my medication. It burns me up when people begin bitching about health care, who truly have no real need for it. However, my Systemic Lupus precludes me from the requisite bitching about socialised health care.

Just sorta ootzy that way.

And now after a nice, long break from writing, I'm back, working through the pain. Think I'll take a break--my back is starting to hurt.

The Mistress of Mince (A Play in One Act)

2010-08-29T04:47:00.000-05:00

This little ditty won a writing challenge a few years ago, and I wanted to share it as a special treat for my blog and Facebook fans/friends. It was my first attempt at writing in Iambic Pentameter or mimicking Shakespeare's style. I do hope you like it. Please--comments welcome. If you know of a place I can submit it for publication, let me know that, too.

The Mistress of Mince

A Play in One, Short Act

ACT I. Marcus and Efennama are sitting on the stone steps of his
castle, enjoying the sunny afternoon. He is posing for her, reciting

poetry of his own creation. She is a married lady, very unhappy in her union.

Marcus:      Come to Albion, thou weedy, rough-hewn lout!

Efennama:   Thou hast spoken well, my Lord. Pray, say on.

Marcus:      For, the morrow's light doth break soon softly,
                  So blench thou not at wisdom's sufferance.

Efennama:   'Tis true, for England's land is luminance;
                  And low brow's babble makes for fool's fodder.

Marcus:      Tell, dear Efennama, what malapert
                   reason brings thee to this palace of rheum?

Efennama:   "But I, who never knew how to entreat,
                  Nor never needed that I should entreat,
                  Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,
                  With oath kept waking and with brawling fed:
                  And that which spites me more than all these
                  wants, He does it under name of perfect love;
                  As who should say, if I should sleep or eat,
                  'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.
                  I prithee go and get me some repast;
                  I care not what, so it be wholesome food."1

Marcus:      The prescribed remedy for thine hunger
                  sits in my hand, so glad am I to give't.
                  For pie's r's squaring is n'ere enough to
                  satisfy, but those whose minds rest upon
                  Descartes' durst vision make mirth like "Honey Pie".

Efennama: Relieve my suffering, and lay upon
                  me thy level-headed verbage's score.
                  Dear Lord, I can go no further: O,
                  I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure
                  out my grave. Farewell, kind Lord.

Marcus:     Nothing attends a picnic more than mince,
                 so shall we fillest our bellies thus hence.
                 Combine 1/2 lb beef suet, chopped fine
                 4 cups seedless raisins are so divine;
                 2 cups dried currants will add needed zest,
                 1 cup coarsely chopped almonds to go next.
                 1/2 cup coarsely chopped candied citron
                 Something to hang our 1/2 cup figs upon;
                 1/2 cup chopped orange peel to soon follow,
                 And 1/4 cup chopped lemon peel on the morrow;
                 4 cups chopped apples will add the fibre,
                 Nothing's sweeter than 1 & 1/4 sugar
                 Spices notwithstanding, 1 tsp nutmeg
                 1 tsp allspice, 1 tsp cinnamon
                 1/2 tsp cloves, 2 & 1/2 cups brandy
                 And in finale,1 cup dry sherry.
                 To be mixed together in thy largest bowl,
                 And sauteed in brandy, with sherry for soul.
                 In weeks of three we shall attend the mix,
                 In the lag, my eyes upon you transfix.

Effennama: My Lord, regail me with your riddles, pray.

Marcus:     In battle I rage against wave and wind,
                 Strive against storm, dive down seeking
                 A strange homeland, shrouded by the sea.
                 In the grip of war, I am strong when still;
                 In battle-rush, rolled and ripped
                 In flight. Conspiring wind and wave
                 Would steal my treasure, strip my hold,
                 But I seize glory with a guardian tail
                 As the clutch of stones stands hard
                 Against my strength. Can you guess my name?

Effennama: Thy wisdom would preclude my meagre guess,
                 And you wouldst not be answered with reason.

Marcus:     Do try, dear beauty.

Effennama: A flag.

Marcus:     Merry, thy meed is meet to be named, and
                 so now give name to the very battle.

Effennama: Kind Sir, it was the Battle of Naseby
                  that set aright a nation's yearning for
                  fruition.

Marcus:     Thou ist my Bohemian Girl, forsooth.
                 Do me the honour of kissing my lips.

Effennama: Haply, you wouldst have me make of thee a
                 Cuckold for certain? For thou surely foins
                  a ballow for my occassion, dear heart.
                 Were it not for my own weakness of mind,
                  I wouldst surely lay no place of nonce for
                  thine meaty and lusty palter.

Marcus:     You mistake the eager air of my Speech;
                 For it is indeed liberal with ruth.

Effennama: Perhaps Bermuda has kept this meaning
                  For its triangle hidden, from cogging
                  Greeks who wouldst as quickly make of it a
                  sport whose determinate manner would
                  surely daff every honourable woman
                  within its region. For love comprised of
                  a set of three vertices whose woof is
                  hardened, can only vouchsafe a vizard
                  of scathful deceipt.

Marcus:      Is it your intention to shent me my
                  liberality of compassion? Thy
                  gaoler is a heavy mistress, indeed.
                  Can your eyes not look upon love's visage,
                  for the sake of love's true first kiss, and not
                  for the thorn hidden on the rose's branches?

Effennama: My Lord, thou hast worn me down in this game,
                  So I must surrender the match point to
                  thee, and prithee protect my foolish heart.
                  Life's meaning changes with each morrow,
                  and this day I must needs redeem its
                  implying. Our bendbradnes hast been much,
                  so now I bid thee good'night my kind Love.

CURTAIN.

1 Kate, in The Taming of the Shrew, IV, 3

Man, Being a Slackass Just Doesn't Pay What it Used To

2010-08-27T21:07:00.000-05:00

This week I let my hair down.

Knowing that this week I was not to peek prematurely at my novel for its impending edits, I've been slacking off. Well, not really, but for me, who's used to 16-hour days pounding out stories and promotion, yeah, it's been slacking.

I did sell a story on Monday to a local magazine with national distribution. I'll post a link to it here when it's finally ready. The story is called Freaks and Geeks, and was penned a few years ago when I visited my family in West Virginia, and my nieces begged me to attend the opening night of our county fair. I pulled it out Sunday night, did a good deal of what's called punch-up, or making it funnier, and sent it off on a whim at 12:30 a.m. She bought it at 8:05 a.m. the next morning, as soon as she got into the office. Sometimes, it feels good to not have a whim lead off into left-field somewhere.

I've spent a good deal of time this week catching up on my television, although with the summer in re-runs, there's not much I enjoy except for CBS's Friday evening Flashpoint.

I went to my costume-fitting last night for my upcoming gig of playing a spook in the HauntedNashville.com 's haunted house. It's a paying gig, so I'm thankful for that.

I sent out my first query letter to PenguinUK on Monday evening for Gaslight. They sent me an automated response saying they couldn't be bothered with a true response, unless their editors thought my manuscript worthy of "entering in to e-mail communications." Otherwise, I won't hear anything, period. But I've heard that's completely normal, so no worries.

So with all this new-found freedom, to last another whole two days before I can't stand it any longer and get back to writing full-time, I'm going inSANE. I thought I would appreciate not having the self-imposed deadline. But instead, I'm hating it with everything in me. I've learned something very valuable through this experience: I don't feel like myself unless I'm writing. I need the daily grind of getting those passengers out of my head and onto the paper where they can behave themselves the way I tell them to. I need to feel as if I'm creating something special, that will touch others in the way my story, A Sleep To Startle Us has touched so many others who have read it. And since we're on that subject, what is YOUR excuse that you haven't read it yet??

In other news, my cat box needs cleaning. And I'm putting it off till tomorrow.

So anyway, that's been my week. Productive, in a different sort of way.

And now if you will excuse me, it's time for my show.

The Gaslight Journal is finally DONE!

2010-08-23T03:36:00.001-05:00

Approximately 23 minutes ago, I officially finished my first, full-length novel, The Gaslight Journal.

Begun back sometime in 2001, this book was originally a fluke of an idea. Because I've said previously that I had no confidence in my writing, I did not work seriously at the thoughts of ever finishing this book, let alone trying to shop it around for either a publisher, or to make available as a Kindle title, which I plan to do. I am shooting for an early to mid-November release date, hyping the publicity for Christmas.

It was around this time that I also joined an online writing group on Usenet. That group of people that I met there, taught me a lot about life, growing up, the value of friendships of people you've never met, and how with just a little relentless encouragement and a whole lot of craft, I was the only one holding me back from doing this. Some of those people--Steve W., Barry A., Joe K., Alaric M., Bob W., and Amanda P., are still close friends and confidants to this day. To be honest, I have no idea where I would be in all this, if it hadn't been for their kind hearts, and taskmaster discipline.

I highly encourage you to find a good, active online or face-to-face writing group. The benefits of an online group, are that it's easy to post excerpts or short stories for critique, and many, many people have the benefit of making comment, so you get many varying POVs. Plus, my favourite, being able to post stories, comment and commiserate, all without leaving your chair or changing from your peejays.

The downside of a group of this nature, is that you generally have to wade through several timezones before you get an answer, sometimes waiting for days or even weeks in some cases, as people are extremely busy and the level of posting is in high volume. The other drawback is that because each poster is in equal probability an amateur as well as a published, experienced author, you never know, without trial and error, if the advice you receive will truly work for you.

The pros of seeking out a face-to-face writing group, inherently, are the same as an online group: you learn how to give--by mere repetition and discussion--effective constructive critiques, and you get them in return, which, since true writing is only in the RE-writing, will only make you a better writer. You also have that immediacy of advice, because once you read your excerpt, you then have the luxury of hearing its immediate affect on those listening, and they can offer comment while the work is still fresh in their mind, and they haven't had an ample amount of time to think about it, which often happens in online groups--people have lives to live between the time they read your story, and the time they have to comment, so opinions are sometimes in jeopardy of changing in that time, and you just don't have the access to those visceral, gut-wrenching opinions.

The downside of this sort of group, is that you have to get dressed before you leave the house. Oh, and you have a specified time to meet each and every week, rain or shine. You can't just sit back in your cozy armchair if the snow is too deep and you don't feel like reading Shteeve's latest tome until in the morning.

As you can see, both groups have benefits and both have their drawbacks. As to which one will work better in your situation is entirely up to you, but the important and only thing is, that you find one and become an active part of it. Those who offer critiques and read our stories are an integral part of the writing process. Even if your average reader does not know how to place into words why your story sucks, if it's not polished and snazzed up, is rife with misspellings, grammatical errors and typos, he will simply know it does, and that will be more than enough to kill your sales, because avid bibliophiles TALK.

Now that my own group disbanned about a year ago, I am also, in want of a new, constructive and active group, because I'm not nearly done writing--I'm just getting started!

I Seel So Dirty

2010-08-20T18:11:00.001-05:00

At first, my motives were very pure and even altruistic: just post your book so you can get honest critiques and suggestions for improvement.

So, that's what I did. And I felt good. No, I was proud of myself. I could see it now: Mother Theresa would be having her agent get in touch with me, just so we could take a meeting, and all so she could find out how I do it; how I keep up this constant and tireless persona of humility and selflessness. I know, I know--you're wondering the same thing. It isn't easy being a martyr. Every time some assbag author would write to me privately, begging a backing for their book in return for them backing mine, I would, with quite a swelled head, and righteous indignation in my fingertips, would write them back a blistering e-mail (it was so hot, I eventually had to have it lanced), chastising them for being so shallow, and how could they, and my favourite, "I don't resort to extortion."

Yep. That oughtta do it.

The few days my book was there, I got compliments and suggestions that poured in by the screenful. People who never read historical fiction were now telling me they were fans, and all because I had a brilliant pitch (something we'll discuss in later blogs and how you can do it, too), gorgeous cover and incredible flow to my writing. Aw, you're so sweet, but really, it was nothing. People who loved and wrote historical fiction all the time were telling me that I had nailed the dialogue of the period, I'd set up the scene and time period perfectly, and my characters, while feisty and fighting against class standing, were still likable and you wanted to root for them.

Then on Monday night, purely by accident, I hit the wrong menu button that ended up taking me to the home page and not my menu page. Right there, on the front page of the HarperCollins web-site, was my book, The Gaslight Journal, sitting at Number 1 for the week's listings! That's right, number 1. I was stunned. So stunned was I, that I did the Bugs Bunny rubbing of my eyes just to make sure I wasn't seeing things. (why he thought that always worked, I'll never know) I was so excited, that I did a screen capture of it, cropped it, resized it and sent it in an e-mail to my folks for proof. NOW let dad call me an idiot. Well, he still called me an idiot, but now he's at least proud of my idiotic accomplishments.

Then last night, I went there again, just to sneak another peek, to make sure it was real, and there, shining in the number 1 spot again, was my little book. Oh, the joy my heart felt, swelling it to nearly 1 1/2 times its size.

Today, I got greedy, and went back for more. Oh, the feeling of sneaking into my browser at 5 a.m. when no one else's up and looking. Knowing the rest of the world is asleep and you're sitting there, in your footie pajamas, alone and all sneaky. I had to have one more peek.

I'm not ashamed to say, that fame is a fleeting, bitch of a person who rips out your egotistical heart and stomps on it with both gold, spiked heels. Not only was my book no longer there, it wasn't even in the top five anymore. I did the Bugs Bunny thing with my eyes again, but this time, it didn't help. It did not materialise my book from thin air.

Now. The next part is crucial to the denouement of the story, so pay attention. Suddenly, and without forethought or warning, I began to care that my book wasn't in the listings anymore! What was happening to me? I felt this sinking in my heart, this feeling of, "Oh, crap, how do I get it back," and all the while trying to be altruistic and feel the right thing: many people before me have said to never get caught up in your own press; never allow the accolades be the reason you write; never try and make fame happen. Just do it for the sake of the work.

But...but...isn't it okay to care, even a little?? Shouldn't your book be a thing of beauty that makes you proud and makes you want to show it off to others? I mean, if we look at it closer, isn't that the reason we write a flawless, good-grammar, right-punctuation, no-plot-holes book to begin with? So people will like it and we can be proud of what we do?

Sure. And my feelings were normal--I realise that. And they were harmless. I got excited that my book was up there, because it surprised me completely, and I got sad when it wasn't anymore. The trouble comes in caring so much that you allow it to make you quit writing completely.

Now, I will admit, that for the last hour, I've been over there, backing every book I could find, in the hopes that someone might return the favour. Suddenly, I'd abandoned my stringent principles of altruism, for the cheap thrill of another rise to #1. I don't know if it will work, but as I said in the beginning of this ride, I'm willing to share my experience--both good and bad--with you guys and see what comes of it. I know that I might still have been over there backing, "Dolly's Secret Diet to Bigger Boobs" if my browser hadn't crashed. Thank God for crappy Windoze.

Does anyone know how to get a watering can out of a vagina?

2010-08-19T21:27:00.001-05:00

We'll answer that question in a moment.

Today I've been skulking around some of the Amazon discussion boards (when I clearly should've been writing), and I've been noticing a trend in those annoying-but-oh-so-necessary threads that allow you to self-promote:

Most writers have NO CLUE how to title their own book.

Mark it down, you heard it here, first.

While I see ad nauseum articles about how to design a very high-end book cover or have it done professionally, I have not seen ONE article pertaining to how an author should title their upcoming short story, essay or novel.

You might be asking why this is so important. And I'll tell ya.

Usually, when you've got a lazy Saturday afternoon with nothing better to do, you'll brave the snow to head down to your local Barnes & Noble and start perusing the books available. And while you don't consciously recognise what's happening, there are sinister and silent forces at work--they're called Psychology. As you walk through the stacks of books, your eye is subconsciously heading toward the cover with the most appealing colours, interesting character depictions, and artist's composition. You are unaware of it, but your senses are being assaulted by the psychology behind the marketing. Once you see something interesting that "catches your eye," then you look at the title. If your book passes the first two Turing tests, then you automatically turn it to the back cover and begin reading the synopsis, trying to find what it's about. If you have then passed all tests, you decide you can pass the wallet test and head to the counter to purchase the book. Then on Sunday, you spend your winter afternoon huddled in a sweet leather armchair, covered with your favourite woobie, and a cup of steaming tea, and you devour your book, getting lost in those interesting characters who first beckoned to you from that cover.

But what about in this digital world? Well, we don't necessarily have the luxury of browsing tons of listings of books. Sometimes, books are only listed by their titles. I'm not discounting the continued need for a decent cover. If you hang out at the Amazon discussion boards for any length of time, then you'll see that when an author is promoting his book, he has the option of inserting a hyperlink into his post that will then reference his book for sale on Amazon or on Amazon Kindle.

But there IS no picture. Only a link. And a title. What then?

I've seen authors over there dance in their descriptions, sort of like a monkey-grinder in a really bad circus. And all the while you know, that they really have NO clue about how to do a decent and catching description, either.

But, one lousy problem at a time.

One thing I've learned in writing comedy, both stand-up and fiction, is that the more descriptive you can be, the better your joke or anecdote. Comedy is in the details. So why then, are there all these books that begin with "How to Catch a Killer, or How to ________?" Or, "The ________, Book One?" Maybe because no one has ever told these new authors that a good title is just as effective in acting as the hook for selling your book, as a good back cover description on a hardcover edition.

Let's do an anatomy of this for a moment. Last week when I was posting my first downloads to the Kindle boards, I noticed something quite interesting: The post simply entitled, "Bitch," got twice as many viewers as the post entitled, "Blood Alley." And again yesterday with my two new releases: an old friend from my writing group congratulated me on my writing, and when I told him about my collection of short-stories geared for men, he said, "Hey, love the cover, love the title. Will check it out." Six hours later, he had it downloaded. Last night while posting my new collection of comedic short-stories and essays to Kindle, my roommate happened to walk by my computer and said, "Hey, I LOVE that title." Zen In the Art of Absurdity (Comedic short-stories and essays that will make you want to shove forks through your eyes)

Tell me which of the following covers is more appealing, sans titles, and which you might be inclined to purchase:

Take a good look at this cover--and it is an actual cover from one of my recent books. By most industry standards, it would be considered a crappy cover, and I would agree. There's nothing but a gradient on it. No composition, no characters, no hint of what the book might even be about.

Now take a look at this cover:

Again, not much composition, although with this one, I took the concept of the story to which the cover was attached, and at least added some composition. So, by all accounts, this is a much better cover than the last one, wouldn't you agree?

Would you believe the first one has sold more copies than this one? The one above belongs to my flash-fiction story Bitch, and this one to my short-story, Blood Alley. (all of my books are available in the widget along the right-side of your monitor)

Why? Because the cover design was sheer genius? Sure, I'll take it, but follow along. I contend, it's because in the digital medium, where one is not afforded the chance to peruse stacks and stacks of books at one's leisure, at least on discussion boards where people go to search out new digital releases and aren't always shown the cover first, it takes a darn good title to pique one's interest.

And sadly, I think that's an important topic being dropped from author's minds and blogs. With the markets now being oversaturated with new releases, it's constantly assaulting a potential reader's senses, and we, as authors and writers, need to up the stakes and get serious. We need to stand out amongst all others if we want to sell books and articles, and the best way, I've seen so far, in doing that, is to have a title that grabs your reader by the throat, chokes the life out of them, and forces them to cry uncle by saying, "Okay, already! I'll read your book!"

So, congratulate me, I'm obviously the first to discover it. Mark it down.

I would love to hear people's opinions on this, because, and it's been known to happen--rarely, but still--I could be completely full of shite. Weirder things have happened.

So. Why the strange title to this post? You're at the bottom of this thing, done reading now, aren't you?

I'd like to thank the academy...

2010-08-18T16:33:00.000-05:00

Are we so used to rejection and the sky falling that anytime something wonderful happens, it shocks the living doo right out of us?

My response: a vehement 'maybe.'

I preached a few weeks ago about this business being nothing but farming: with each new contact we make, with each new eBook submission, with each new shiny dollar we use to bribe friends for their support, we...are...planting...seeds. And like real plants, they take a while to grow. Some may even forget where they planted, or what seed it was. But when they finally come to fruition, it makes us feel all warm inside, like we've finally really accomplished something.

But why does that continually surprise us? Why are we so geared toward failure, and accepting that as the norm?

Yesterday, I learned, quite by accident, that my upcoming novel, The Gaslight Journal, is now sitting in the number one spot at the HarperCollins web-site for the week's listings. (I'd like to thank the academy...) I've worked very hard at my writing--especially that book, because it was a genre that I love to read--am a huge Jane Austen, Edith Wharton and Henry James fan--but was wholly unfamiliar with as a genre in which to write. In fact, I'll give you guys a little secret--the entire book hinged off one comment; the first comment that popped into my head one snowy, Christmas evening.

"Her bustle hit the ground, hard."

Don't ask me why bustle was in there, but it was, and I suddenly could actually see the story unfolding before me. It was as if a movie was playing in my mind. There were the snow-covered small-town streets, her black boots with the buttons, getting knocked over by a group of handsome, but moronic college men (who, we eventually learn, actually know her), and walking home from the train station to her childhood home. I could see it all so clearly, that I had to immediately begin dictation.

And now, here we are, too many years later, and up to chapter twenty-six. Why too many years? Why didn't I just get it out when it began? Because I had no confidence in my abilities. Oh, I'd plunk away at it as the mood hit me, but never really took it seriously as a discipline until recently.

Which brings me to my essay thesis. I think the reason we become so surprised when something wonderful happens for us, isn't because we didn't plant the seed, but because we did, and we weren't convinced that anything would come from it.

What is the first sensation we are faced with just a few seconds after birth? That's right--the doctor kicking our ass--he slaps it. And we cry. I know, it's a wholly physiological response to getting the phlegm out of the lungs as quickly as possible, but I like its metaphorical purposes as an allegory. It's this harsh introduction to reality that kind of sets the tone for the rest of our lives. Judeo-Christianity tells us that we are born morally bankrupt, into a world of sin thanks to Adam and Eve's being an apple short of a baker's dozen. There are a rare few who believe that people are born decent, but that's a load of crap. I don't believe that. I believe we're born with the odds stacked incredibly against us, and from the word 'go,' we spend most of our time fighting for what we truly want out of this life, which, if when analysed, make us dig deep into that dark, survival-centred place. We fight ourselves, in the hopes of making peace with who we are. We fight our parents for the car, for freedom, for adulthood. We fight the world for peace, for fairness and for respect.

We fight our entire lives. And we see failure. Statistically, the odds of us succeeding are also stacked against us from the outset. So we learn to fight the odds, too. And we get knocked on our asses--plenty. And we get our hopes dashed--plenty. We see our dreams broken into tiny pieces, and if we can't recover, then we take pieces of that dream and slash our wrists with it. (Hey! This is pretty good stuff.)

All of this to say, we're groomed pretty much from the beginning to expect failure for most of our lives. It's even in our vernacular:

"Don't get your hopes up."
"No one expects you to work miracles."
"Aw, better luck next time."
"Without bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."
"Why can't you do anything, you idiot? Do you think you're too good to stay here on the farm and milk the cows......." Okay, so I threw one in from my parents, but follow along.

And my favourite, by comedian Steven Wright:

"People always tell you that practice makes perfect. And then they fake you out and tell you nobody's perfect."

This society as a whole is completely obsessed with failure! And your "supportive" friends only reinforce it, with their condescension. "Aw, you'll do better next time," while at the same time they're jumping up and down, happy that you failed and they still have a shot. And maybe that's why I screech so loudly when something good finally happens.

People, we are not jockeying for position, here, we're all in this moronic soup together!

Where was I?

Oh, yes: Why, oh why do we pay taxes??

And, scene.

What happens if it works?

My friend Lelia has that in her sig file, and I love it. It is so antipodal to the normal way we view life, always trying to prepare for the contingency if it breaks. In fact, we're so focused on that, that we never prepare ourselves for what to do when it finally works. Maybe that's the reason some self-sabotage themselves before ever becoming successful. They never prepared themselves mentally for handling the situation when they finally hit it big.

And mental preparation is needed for success. Just ask those folks who are busy being successful. But they probably won't have time to return your call.

How about, for the next week, I challenge you to begin planting seeds, preparing for the time when you are successful? At the end of the week, come back here and post your experiences with it. I'm curious to see how it goes.

Now, and I'm not just saying this:

HAVE A GREAT WEEK!

That'll Be Seven Lipsticks, Please

2010-08-17T19:34:00.000-05:00

Book Cover

In honour of my new collection of short stories coming out day after tomorrow on Amazon Kindle, I'm giving y'all a freebie...story, that is. Hey...why have Canadian friends if you can't make fun of them?

Hope you love it, and any praise and comments are welcome.

"Oh, for god's sake, just pay her," said Sam's wife, as she felt the urge to sneeze.

Sam pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the woman, who merely stared at him, and Sam made the "take this or I'll shove it down your throat" gesture. Again, she only stared.

"Skect toords implu zurk bans?" she said.

"Um, excuse me?"

She repeated the phrase.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. No speaka Canglisch." He laughed at his own joke.

"Look. Illll precipitation fork to strotches, stomples and snofrels. Dude to snowfall, stouth, and then northern manges, okay?"

"Honey, DO something," said his wife. "I gotta go to the bathroom."

Slowly, he said, "We no speak Canglisch." Again, he chuckled at his brilliance.

This seemed to register recognition with the woman as she inserted a device into her mouth and began again.

"The proper term is Englanadian, by the way. You're not from here, eh?"

"No, we're not. We ran out of gas right outside your lovely hockey arena so could you please take the money and allow us to go on our way?"

"Ironical, isn't it? After twenty years of marriage, suddenly he's out of gas," Sam's wife chimed in.

The woman continued to stare.

"Can you please take my money?" he said.

"FINE!" the cashier said, loudly. "See that machine over there?"

Sam nodded.

The woman's speech began dripping condescension and slowed as if Sam were needing his eye chart translated from Japanese, or Canadian, for those of you still following. "Take your little twenty, put it into the slot and wait for it to make the conversion. 's that simple."

"OH!" Sam said. "Currency conversion, of course. Why didn't you say so? I didn't realise we were that far over the border. Be right back."

As Sam walked away, the cashier chuckled to herself. "Oh, just you wait."

The machine looked much like an ordinary ATM, but larger. Sam was clearly impressed.

"Gosh, honey, I remember the day when you had to take your money to a bank, fill out forms, stand in line, deal with some embittered teller who would rather be at home with a good crochet hook...look at this! It's got everything."

"Oh, for god's sake, just put the money in, I gotta PEEEEEEEEE!"

"Right. How hard can it be?"

Spoken like a true man.

Sam placed the twenty dollar bill into the slot, the tv screen blinked a bright yellow. "WELCOME TO THE CCC. CANADA CONVERSION CONTROL. PRESS ONE FOR ENGLISH, TWO FOR SPANISH, OR THREE FOR ENGLANADIAN."

"What? No Canglisch?" Sam pressed one as he chuckled.

"THANK YOU, DUMB 'MURKIN. WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR CURRENCY CONVERTED? PRESS ONE FOR YES, TWO FOR NO."

"Am I standing here?" Sam pressed one.

"THANK YOU. IS YOUR CURRENCY REAL OR COUNTERFEIT? PRESS ONE FOR REAL, TWO FOR COUNTERFEIT."

Sam snorted. "Wha? Only in Canada. All right, one."

"THANK YOU," said Stephen Hawking.

Another screen blinked out a menu:

GET THIS FINAL QUESTION RIGHT, AND YOU COULD WIN YOUR OWN MONEY.

"FILL IN THE BLANK:

"IN THE LATE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, WHAT OBJECTS WERE USED AS LEGAL CANADIAN TENDER DURING A SHORTAGE OF SUCH IN NEW FRANCE:

A) SWEATY SOCKS

B) A FINGERNAIL

C) PLAYING CARDS

Sam thought carefully. "Wait, this is a trick question. Canadians don't have fingernails, and Americans have the market cornered on sweaty socks." He hit the letter C.

Hawking's voice sounded pleased, or, as much as he can. "TAKE YOUR CURRENCY, AND THANK YOU FOR VISITING CANADA. CLOSE THE DOOR ON YOUR WAY OUT."

Five tubes of lipstick dropped down the chute.

The couple stared incredulously.

"What is this? Did I hit the Cover Girl machine instead of the Currency Converter? If I put in a token, will a concealer pop out? What happens if I get three blue eye shadows in a row? Will I win a date with Tammy Faye Bak...."

"Honey! Just ask her."

"Oh, miss . . . ." Sam strode over with all five lipsticks held high in the air. To the untrained eye, he looked like a transvestite terrorist about to rob the place, armed only with a lipstick and not a half bad pair of legs, but that's just this narrator's opinion.

"Your stupid machine gave me cosmetics instead of cash. I want my money back."

The girl only shoved an English to Canadian dictionary in his face.

Oh. Did I mention his dialect was atrocious?

Frustrated at Sam's atrocious dialect, the woman inserted her device.

"Look. There was no mistake. You put in a twenty dollar bill, yes?"

Sam shook his head.

"And you got five lipsticks, yes?"

Dejected, Sam shook his head.

"Then what are you complaining for? Are you ready to pay or not?"

Sam shoved the pack of gum onto the counter and waited for a total.

"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."

"WHAT?? I put the pack of gum on the counter, tried to pay for it with a twenty, you told me to go convert myself and now you're telling me I'm short? That would make the gum cost over . . . .

"Twenty-seven fifty." Even at critical bladder mass, his wife's thinking was clearer than his own.

"Our conversion rate isn't based on the current rate of conversion, it's based on the current rate of conversion that it was yesterday, but not yesterday's conversion rate, rather, what yesterday's current rate of conversion would be at tomorrow's rate of current conversion, which would make it today's current converstion rate."

The vein on Sam's temple bulged.

"All I have on me is a twenty . . . .er, five lipsticks. Where can I get more cash? Do you have a regular ATM?"

Now, there comes a time in every man's life when he unleashes hideous phonemes and wishes immediately he could suck them back in like fishing line up a Weedwacker. Fine examples of this would be, "I do," or, "I didn't know she was your sister..."

Sam soon realised the stupidity of the comment when the girl let out a huge laugh. Before she could say it herself, Sam cut her off.

"Yes, I KNOW. This is Canada, you don't HAVE real money. How stupid of me."

"Just get back in your car, drive until you get to the Big Chicken, then make a left. There's an ATM across from the plastic Stanley Cup."

"Honey, hurry back. Miss? May I please use your bathroom?"

"Sorry, hockey game patrons only."

"I'm desperate. How much for a ticket?"

"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."

John Candy--may he rest in peace--could have heard Sam's wife's torrential scream of agony. The cashier took pity and sold Sam's wife a ticket for just five lipsticks, although she was miffed that there was no Tahitian Rose among the tubes.

She began her journey and noticed a television showing David Letterman.

As she turned she could hear David's voice trailing in the background:

"Let me tell you the top ten reasons you won't find an American trying to light a Canadian fart...."

Just through the next set of doors lay the hockey arena, and she guided herself into the seats. The little boy next to her was holding a pennant with one of the team's names.

"So who's your favourite team?"

The little boy held up the pennant so she could see the name.

"The Canadian Weather Channels."

"So who's the other team playing?"

"The Fig Newtonians," said the little boy.

ANNOUNCER IN BACKGROUND:
"And heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's the concession guy!"

"What are you doing here, little boy?" said Sam's wife.

"My dad is Ed McMahon, and he's announcing. What are you doing here?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh," and he went back to munching on his box of green onions.

ANNOUNCER IN BACKGROUND:
"Good news, Figs, you may have alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllready won!"

At that moment, Sam yelled into the arena. "Has anyone seen my wife?"

"Honey! Right here. Did you get the cash?"

"No. Why are you sitting in a hockey game with two teams who can't even come up with decent names?"

"Because the only bathroom they had was for patrons and I had to buy a ticket."

"Let me guess: it cost you seven lipsticks."

"Five. She took pity."

"So why aren't you in the bathroom?"

"Oh GOD!" She sped off toward the restroom.

Five minutes later, Sam's wife emerged with a satisfied look on her face he had only seen on their wedding night when she was too drunk to make love.

"So, Mr. Hotshot. Why didn't you get any money?"

And back to reality.

"Yes, I've been wanting to talk to you about that ever since the Big Chicken. Why does our account say we're overdrawn?"

"How should I know? You've had the ATM card. How much does it say we're over?"

"According to this slip, seventy-three lipsticks."

"Let me see that," and she snatched it from his hand. "How can that be? We had real MONEY in there when we entered this land of inflated nod. What did you do?"

Just then, a scream shot through the hallway. A teenage boy was standing just a few feet away with his arms waving wildly. He was mumbling something about driving directions.

"Mister, someone, anyone! Please help."

Sam stepped up. "What's the problem, son?"

"It's my dad, he's lost. My mother was yelling at him to pull over and figure out where we were, but he refused, thinking we could make it anyway. Does anyone in here know how to give directions?"

Sam's wife looked at her husband with a huge smile. "Go ahead, honey. Show em your stuff."

Sam's chest puffed up as he walked forward. "Son, don't worry, I can help, and you won't need directions."

The boy led Sam over to a bench where his mother and father sat arguing. He introduced himself.

"Do you have a map?"

All three tourists looked horrified and the boy spoke up. "Yes, sir, but we've never opened it. Do you know how hard they are to fold back up? In fact, no one's ever seen one folded after use. Oh, there are urban legends about it, but no one knows for sure if it's true. It's like Osama Bin Laden--people talk about him and suspect he exists, but no one's ever seen him."

"Son, hand me that map."

The entire arena hushed as the boy handed him the map. Within mere mortal minutes, Sam had shown them the way to their mother-in-law's home and began folding. The teen wasn't convinced as Sam grabbed the map. "Mister, are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, you could get hurt."

Before the teen could continue, Sam bent over to tye his shoe, and when he raised back up, he was wearing a cape that had the letters "MF" emblazoned across his chest.

Everyone in the hallway gasped.

"It's MAP FOLDER!"

"Look at that!"

"You sure that stands for map folder?"

"Wow..."

By the time the crowd's excitement had died down, Sam had folded the map exactly as it had been, crease upon crease, fold upon fold. The crowd was so in awe, they broke out in spontaneous applause, and Sam's wife continued to smile.

After the tourists thanked him and the crowd died down, Sam and his wife began making their way towards the front of the arena, arm in arm.

"Honey, I never get tired of seeing you use your powers for good. I love you."

He kissed her nose and said, "Why don't we get out of here?"

They approached the exiting turnstile.

The cashier once again was manning the gate. She smiled and inserted her device. "That was a nice thing you did for that family back there."

"Thank you, kindly. We're going home now. You have a good evening."

"Uh, sir, just a minute. You need a ticket to get out."

"Oh, okay then. How much?"

"That'll be seven lipsticks, please."

You've completely lost yer mind!

2010-08-15T16:27:00.003-05:00

Charles Dickens

We should be proud of our books and writing that we produce. Otherwise, why put in the time?

I'm finding it amazing how defensive these authors on Amazon can be if they have only dreams of becoming a big-time, NYC-published author with one of the big-6 publishing houses. With any mention of the actual numbers involved, they suddenly get Tourette's-Syndrome and start squawking that you forgot this expense, or that one, and eventually end up making my original arguments for me.

My most recent discussion on Amazon, started because yet another author, who isn't published, decided her only recourse was to seek out big-house publication. When I questioned her on this, and began using real math to demonstrate my point, she replied that no independent author had very big chances of producing a best-seller, and then went on to say a great book sells itself. I don't think she was even listening to what she was saying. So according to her faulty logic, no indie author is EVER capable of producing a great book, and that's just BS, pure and simple. There are plenty of great authors who can consistently produce great books and then some idiot comes along and decides that simply because they were self-published, well, then they must be rubbish.

THAT is rubbish.

This conversation began because she was upset that some editor hacked up her work and made changes that she missed, so in order--in her mind--to keep this from happening, she was going with a big publisher in the future. Wha?? You don't think an editor, paid big bucks, has ever hacked a MS to death and worsened its potential? My god, they're not robots, they're human and very adept and capable of making mistakes.
It is just as easy now to learn to edit your own work as it is to sign a contract with someone (If you've already found an agent, but that won't happen on a first book unless you get published with a smaller firm first.), as it is to join either an online or face-to-face writing group and really open yourself up to LEARN from the critiques you'll receive, and then give. Once on a short story, my friend, author Barry Aitchison from Melbourne had me cut my 1,500 word story in HALF--well, less than half--down to 700 words. I quietly cursed him every time I hit "delete," but you know what? That taught me a LOT about engaging my critical eye when it was time, and what kinds of editing things to search for. Also improved the story 100%. I learned how to make one pass for tense; how to make one pass for active voice; how to make one pass for clichés; how to make another pass for superfluous verbiage; another for plot holes. I've often heard it said your work needs to go through at least 17 read-thrus before it's near enough ready for submission. By becoming involved in active writing groups where serious constructive critiques are given, you WILL learn how to do a proper, line-by-line critique, which doesn't necessarily benefit the author as much as it will benefit you.

I just think all of this tendency to almost "hero-worship" these publishing houses and their staff is very dangerous, not to mention myopic.

Here's the math I did:

Some things that aren't being considered when an author gets it in his head to go the big 6 route, is this eBook thing now on the table. A publisher, no matter how good a negotiation your agent does, does not usually go over 4% royalties on the eBook portion of a contract. Yep! There is no guarantee that they're going to have a good enough distribution team to push enough to sell, because with Amazon's 70% royalty rate, you don't lose most of your eBook sales, and with the market not nearly ready to reach its tipping point, eBooks are still on the rise of the explosion. Kindle has just added games and wi-fi, another huge appeal to some.

But, let's do some math for a minute.

If you publish with a major publisher (And let's take into account the rising popularity of eBooks), for an average +80,000 word MS, in hardcover, they'll probably price it around $25. But eBooks can't go for that much--people would lynch you. So, they price it at $9.99--still too high, but you can't tell them this because they're big-shot publishers and they think you're some po-dunk writer who doesn't know anything because you use y'all as a verb, so that's what it will go for on Amazon. 4% of that, will be $3.99. If you place your book on Amazon Kindle for $9.99, then you keep $6.99, realising that it won't sell for this price.

However, here's what most people miss in this hastily-drawn discussion: The initial math seems to point in favour of a major publisher. Looks like you're keeping more money, right? Wrong. Look harder. Because your eBook is priced out of the stratosphere, and your publisher is hard-headed and you can't tell him he's shooting his own foot at that price to spite his leg, your book won't sell as many copies. If we break it down into the same time frame, and re-do the math, let's see what happens:

In one month, J.A. Konrath has sold, on his own, 10,000 eBook units. He never prices a MS over $2.99. He keeps 70%. He has just made, in his pocket, $20,900. If he had kept his MS with a publisher, the eBook at the higher price won't sell as many, because people don't want to pay for digital, as well they shouldn't. So let's say the book sold half as many, which, at that price, is very ambitious. That would be 5,000 units, at $9.99 for 4%. He would've made $19,000. Or rather, he would've lost $900.

Now. All this to say, consider the math when shopping for a major publisher. Yes, they would do your book cover; yes, they would do some marketing and distribution; yes, they would use their editor. But is losing money worth that? Because what they don't tell you, is you don't get full-time distribution or publicity. What they don't tell you, is, like a record company advance, all of your printing/publishing/design costs go against your advance and you begin in the hole. Joe had been with Hyperion for 4 book releases, when on the fifth, they stopped promoting him, stopped setting up his book tours, stopped pushing distribution, and this is as his sales were rising exponentially! From what I'm hearing, most large publishing houses will NOT push a new release for longer than 2 months. That's about the shelf-life of a new release now, because with all the independent releases, it's flooding the market. Sad, but true. So the publishers, like men, are happy with you until they find something better to come along. So even while he was under contract with Hyperion, he was the one who had to set up book/blog tours; he had to do his own advertising; he had to do his own edits and line up a book-designer (I design my own since I do graphics and web-design, so if anyone needs help....) [Joe and I met in my online writing group so he learned in the same arena that I did how to do his own editing. Of course, Strunk & White's Elements of Style never goes out of style, and the full version is now online.], he had to write 7,000 letters to libraries asking for signing/reading dates and letting them know of his release. HE had to do the leg-work, and that seems to still be a huge misconception with large publishing houses. New authors think they'll have it made once they sign a contract. Not so.
The truth is, these large places don't do as much for authors as they used to, because the market is moving too fast and they're trying to stay ahead of the curve. So they shift the responsibility for TRUE promotion onto the author while they're out there looking for something better.

Which brings me back to my original point. If you're needing to do most of the legwork anyway, why not at least make your 70% back on return?

Needless to say, this woman painted me to be the idiot, and so to keep the peace, I ended the conversation by saying I'd see her book next to mine on the best-seller list.

Guys, confidence is great when approaching your work. Like I said in the beginning, if you don't believe in it, why bother? What becomes dangerous and the thing I find myself railing against, is when a new author still believes these publishing houses are going to cure all their problems; are going to save them from themselves and their dingy lives; are going to magically make it all better.

If that's what you think, you're in for a delusional ride.

Tales from the CriBt.

2010-08-13T23:56:00.000-05:00

I had a killer audition today.

At 11:00 a.m., I called Nathan and told him I wasn't there yet--that I would be a little late. He assured me it would be okay. But I felt like crap about it.

I met him at a huge warehouse that used to be a local department store, with its windows blackened. His was the only vehicle in the parking lot, which made me a little nervous, but never-the-less, I went in anyway.

I began by filling out some paperwork, and then we talked for probably an hour. He was happy to share his concept with me.

It's a sub-genre of science fiction and speculative fiction called, "Steampunk." But in 1980 and 1990, it came to prominence as an entirely self-contained sub-culture. It's fiction set in Victorian-era England during the time when steam power was still being used. Remember the movie "Wild, Wild West?" Steampunk. There's also one called Dieselpunk.

Inside were 3 huge sets. Well, 4 actually, if you count the graveyard. (Gosh, I love Halloween.) The one to my right was some famous Victorian person's home. The back story being fed to me as we toured the home, was that the owner of the home, back in 1920, found her 10-month-old baby dead in its crib. I learned this as we stopped by the first scene, that of a Victorian living room. Nathan had certainly done a fantastic job of set-dressing, for there were roaring fake logs in the fireplace, illuminated candles both in sconces and candelabras, as well as a huge hole in the middle of the ceiling. I had meant to question him about that, but he was talking so fast and with so much knowledge, that I knew he would eventually arrive at an explanation.

He caught me off-guard with his next question: "Do you see this portrait? It's called a sleeping portrait."

I'd heard the term only from "The Others," that creepy-good M. Night Shayamalan film with Nicole Kidman. And before I could comment on it, Nathan informed me that the portrait was real. Of a real baby. Of a real, dead baby. A sleeping portrait. Apparently, that part of his story was true--these people had found their daughter dead in her crib.

Over the fireplace, was another "sleeping portrait." Of an adult female. Again, I waited for him to arrive at the explanation, and when he told me the portrait was of the real mother of that baby, it all made sense. She apparently had found the child in her crib one night, and when she found it dead, she removed it from the crib, sat down in her rocking chair and held the baby. She wouldn't let it go. For the doctors. For the police. Not even for her husband.

Finally, two weeks later, she is exhausted, overcome with grief, and stinky--let's not forget stinky--from holding that dead, decaying baby in her arms for two full weeks. Finally, her husband steps in, forcing her to relinquish their daughter, and the woman suddenly snaps. She hangs herself in the living room, and the ceiling caves in after her.

Interesting point that I never knew: in Victorian homes, when a family member would die, they used to dress the drawing room up in honour of the dead. They would put the coffin on display so the mourners could view the body. But sometime after the turn-of-the-century, the practice was stopped, when some smart-ass at a party decided the practice was too macabre, removed all traces of the dead, and decided to dub it the "living room," in honour of those still with living to do. Hey, when you've got that much living to do, well darnit, you need your own room.

In the second set, another extremely creative back story was fed to me. Many years ago during the World's Fair that was held here in Nashville at the turn-of-the-century, there were tons of booths in front of the wooden Parthenon structure, where people could sell food, trinkets and memorabilia.

One electronic apprentice also had a booth in front of the Parthenon. But because the guy he worked for wasn't entirely altruistic in his motives, he blocked traffic to this other guy's booth, and thus, no one even knew he was back there. This really pissed the guy off.

Skip ahead to after the fair when the apprentice and his assbag boss have a major falling-out. The apprentice decides to set up his booth again, only this time in a store front where he can gain investors in his newest electronic invention. Because the apprentice was nearly bankrupted by his boss, he decided to store all of this equipment in one of Tennesse's many hidden caves. Little did he know, that each time he had hooked the machinery up, a portal opened and the equipment would steal the soul of any person in that room at the time. He died before he could ever return to unearth the machines.

In 1990, this man's son found the equipment, and without knowing its horrific history, hooked up the machines, which again opened the portal and sucked out the souls of anyone near it.

In the third attraction, a bio-hazard has occurred and those infected are unable to leave the laboratory. Infected by an organism of unknown origin, its unique qualities attack the life of its host, but while ravaging their bodies, the side-effect is that it then prolongs their life. For every minute infected, their life is lengthened by one minute.

Nathan had me then enter the second attraction with the mannequins and machines, where I was to develop an improvised character that would hopefully scare him. I've never worked in a haunted house before, but knew this was not your typical slasher/blood/gore/high-school-girls-screaming-in-your-face haunted house, so I relied on my extensive improvisation training to create something completely unique.

It worked. On his first pass through, Nathan jumped back like a pubescent school-girl and yelled when I lunged at him. He said out of all the times he's auditioned actors, only one other person was able to scare him, and that was not easy to do. He had me do one more character, then I had to prove I could scream without hurting my voice (Hey mum! That vocal major sure paid off, finally!), and then it was over. Whop, bam, boom.

He's notifying us next week by e-mail, but I'm fairly sure I have a great shot at it, as it seemed to go wonderfully, and we got along as people.

Did I mention it pays?

The Sky is Falling, The Sky is Falling!

2010-08-12T19:05:00.000-05:00

Well, not really. Just the Perseids meteor shower at its perigee tonight at 10 p.m. your time. And what is even cooler, is that along with the meteor shower, the planets of Saturn, Mercury, Mars and Venus will be putting on a showing as well. This doesn't happen too often. Seen in more detail with a scope, you can still locate them with the nekkid eye.

I absolutely love star-gazing.

"Now, Carla. You hooked us into reading your blog about writing and comedy, and now you're talking about the stars?"

Well, don't writers need to be knowledgeable on a whole variety of topics? I think so. Years ago, when a fellow beginning actor asked me if I recommended that they attend college, I gave a quick and hearty, "You betcha!" So many times the lure of quick fame and fortune precludes any real reasoning where career choices are concerned, and it burns me. Why would one assume that simply because you've chosen a field in the arts, that no formal training or even working knowledge of life will be required?? Who set this ridiculous precedent? Who decided it was okay for any aspiring artist to embrace their moron-ism (Read it carefully. It doesn't say Mormonism. Just so we're clear, but just to be safe, I welcome your hate mail.), and then head full-force into their chosen artistic endeavour? No one that gave me advice when I was just beginning.

Katherine Mayfield has a fabulous little book that I highly recommend, entitled, "Smart Actors, Foolish Choices." I used to know Ms. Mayfield, and I think for anyone starting out, whether it be acting, singing, magic, writing, etc., this is a fantastic book and I can't recommend it highly enough. She has so brilliantly captured the lethargy, laziness and sense of entitlement that a beginning artist feels, and how to stop being that way. Many things impressed me about her book, but I think the biggest thing I took away from it was her insight at how, if we're not on-stage, writing a book or performing a concert, then we tend to slip into depressions, drink too much, take too many drugs--anything to not feel the low that comes from not having that performing or creative high.

See, so many who are just beginning have this idea that if they become an actor and be famous, then it will automatically fix all the problems in their lives. Or, if they become a writer and begin work on their book, then that will fix their problems. The problem with that logic, is that no one realises going into it that they aren't on-stage every hour of the day, or on camera every minute they're on set, or writing on a project every minute of the day. You'd become a cranky old witch if that were the case. And self-medicating isn't the way to handle that.

Learn to become comfortable with your down-time. Get a hobby; make new friends; join a book club. Just don't box yourself in by needing to be involved in your profession so much.

Remember, there is life after the last chapter, and life after the final, "CUT!" So do all you can to learn about it and enjoy it.

It was a Stroke

2010-08-11T20:13:00.001-05:00

Just 20 hours after I swore off writing, here I am: back again. And most of you show-offs predicted this would happen. Why? Probably because you've been there before. Someone gives you a bad review, or they yell at your cat, or whiz on your car tire, and suddenly, you've given up the ghost; decided it wasn't worth it. Those were expensive tires!

I often watched my mother behave in this way--and am sometimes convinced that this is where I honestly learned it (you know: nature vs. nurture)--when something didn't go as she expected or someone didn't like what she did. She was also an artist. She was an amazing writer, and had wonderful potential, but her abilities were cut short too soon from a stroke in December, 2002. Before that, she was a wood-carver. She made beautiful wooden sculptures that she sold at fairs and craft bazaars. And all during that time, she sang. She had dreams of becoming a country-western singer since the time her mother flatly told her she was too ugly to become a dancer--a Rockette, specifically. I guess it's true what they say: families are good at handing down the love. I've never heard the family say, but I suppose my own great-grandmother had a hand in creating the monster that resided in my grandmother. She probably squashed her dreams, too.

All while growing up, well, from the time they discovered I was a musical and artistic prodigy, I've been at odds with my mother. At age 10 when I learned this truth about myself, is roughly when the trouble began. She never supported anything I did. In fact, it was always her first instinct to simply force me to live in the real world. "I'm only doing this for your own good. Get in there, put the oil paints down, change your clothes, and meet me back in the yard so we can weed the garden. You can't live inside your head all the time."

Oh yeah? Trust me: my passengers in here like me better than anyone out there. And it's easier to make friends.

But I digress.

I spent a lot of time growing up fighting for, and defending my desire to work as an artist. And another portion of my time fighting with my mother. It wasn't until I was out of the house and on my own for many years that I began to understand the nature of her behaviour. In a word? The big green monster. In four words? The big green monster. Jealousy. Allow me to put on my armchair psychologist hat for a moment. When children are denied the basics of survival while growing up, they tend to become very competitive adults, and unfortunately, daughters are not out-of-bounds. She just didn't know how to support me like I needed. Once I realised this, I let her off the hook, after being angry at her for so long. I finally let it go, and began to feel empathy for her. I began to understand that it wasn't an inherent hatred of me that caused her to become threatened. It was an automatic response that she neither understood, nor could control.

About six-months before her stroke, however, there was one day when I sat down with her to talk. I saw that she was a very changed person, but I couldn't understand the change. She explained to me that she suddenly awoke one morning and realised she had been blaming the entire world for her bad choices; she had been angry that she had left too many regrets in her life, and she was now on a new path: she vowed to never again live her life of middle-age with any regrets. When I pressed her for details about what this meant, she informed me that her one, golden dream had been to become a singer, so she had already formed a rehearsal band and had set a gig date for early December. I was amazed! I couldn't believe this was the same, whiny, self-deprecating woman that had raised me. She was so full of confidence and joy. I'd never seen a look of real joy on my mother's face like that except the day when Luke and Laura got married from General Hospital.

So then what happened, Carla? Well hang on, I'm getting to it.

On December 4, 2002, my sister woke me at 4:30 on a Monday morning to tell me mum had suffered a stroke. It wasn't until weeks later upon questioning my dad, that I found out that on Friday night of the previous weekend, she was sitting at her computer in the afternoon, and was complaining of numbness on her right side and a slight headache, but she didn't worry about it. She was only 58, why should she? She went to band rehearsal that night as usual, with the headache. By Saturday night, she still had the headache, but was stoked enough to play the show, and she was so high from it that she barely noticed the headache, continuing numbness and now the slight drag to her right foot. Then on Sunday after her adrenaline levels returned to normal and the pain of the headache really set in, she had my dad take her to hospital, where they wanted to do an MRI, but my mother, having the sensibility of a cow, told them no, just give her the usual shot of Demerol to calm the migraine.

That was at 10:00. At 11, she kissed my dad good-night, went to bed, and when he went to bed at 1, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to speak and looking through him. He called my sister, a registered nurse, who called the ambulance for him. When they got her back to hospital, they began administering the blood-thinners, but you only have a 2-hour window from the time of the first symptoms to administer them for any hope of reversal. She'd been suffering with the first signs of the blockage for 3 days.

When I spoke to the doctor that morning, he told me 75% of her left brain lobe was fried. She was in for a long road of therapy.

So. Long story short, how is she today? Still not great. She can speak a little, but can she still sing? Like nobody's business. In fact, since the stroke hit her primary language center, it affected her speech. But somehow, she can sing on beat and in pitch, better than she can string together two words to form a sentence. That's my mum--always doing it her way. And visiting that farm is a regular sitcom, what, with my dad's grunts and whistles and mum's clicks and hand-gestures. They seem to have found a creative way to communicate.

And who's now my biggest fan? Yup. My mum. But not just a fan, a supporter, too, which is what I never had before.

So now that my crisis has passed and I've learned something from it, I can move on. One of the two manuscripts on which I've been working, is a dark comedy about the relationship with my mum, both pre- and post-stroke. Hey--might as well put this crap in my head to good use somewhere, right?

I Think this is one of those Hideously Disfiguring Disappointments I Warned you About

2010-08-11T00:35:00.000-05:00

Some have it, and some don't.

Ever get sick of hearing this? Sure, because it rings true--I know you.

But how does one really gauge if they "have" it or not? We grow up listening to the nice encouragement of our families, friends and sick strangers who don't know better. And for a time that's all we need, really; just to know that the people who love us, love what we do as well.

But what about when we're older? I got a nice, hot slap in the face today when I read my first review on Amazon. As you can guess, it wasn't promising. Lessee, how did it go? Oh, right:

"...$.50 would've been too much to have paid."

That shrank every piece of confidence in me. Why? Because this person put his hard-earned dollar into purchasing something from me that he ended up hating. That bothers me a LOT. My parents raised me to be a perfectionist (And then belittled me for it, but follow along.), and so I use that as my barometer for a lot of things. Realistically, if what you produce is not perfect, then it doesn't stand a good chance of competing with the best out there. And in this world of self-publishing, well, you have to step up your game: no two ways about it; you have to stand out in order to get a good following. This entire niche has opened the door for excellent writers who couldn't get a deal with idiot publishers too stupid to know they had gold on their hands before, to now begin self-publication, getting their wares out there, and the competition just got even higher. The entire market is going to reach a tipping point sooner or later, but right now in this jungle here, close to the ground where new authors like me are fighting for survival, well, a bad review can kill a career before it gets going.

I'm sad for the person who believed in and trusted me to give him a good product that he would enjoy, and well, I failed.

But, it's okay. It's not like I had tons of crap up on Amazon for download anyway. Or it's not like I put a whole huge amount of my life into this.

Is it the review making me this way? No. It was merely the review that confirmed what I've always suspected. (I guess you could say this is one of those hideously disfiguring disappointments I mentioned.) Even though I've never had confidence that I could write, I always wanted to. Always wanted to support myself through my art, no matter what it was. And, it stings a bit when you find that adoring public you had in your mind during the writing of that massive tome, wasn't all that impressed with said tome when the time came.

So, this will probably be my last post here. Thank-you to the few of you who decided to follow this dreck from my fingers. I hope I haven't disappointed you, either.

I'm going to have some chocolate and pretend I'm invisible.

Mother of God--You call That Writring?

2010-08-09T20:18:00.000-05:00

Now. Before most of you come after me with a lynch-mob and a chain-gang and any other hyphenated nouns, hear me out.

With all of this self-promotion going on lately, it's afforded me the chance to read a lot of blogs, announcements, excerpts and simple posts to many, many, *sigh* many boards, and one of my predictions seems to be coming true:

While self-promotion has opened the door to many reputable writers now being able to publish backlists of titles that they couldn't sell for a song and a pizza coupon to most publishers, it's also created a backlash of schlock now available for human consumption on the market. And two things jump out at me from this:

Those who seek to publish with a DTB publisher for the prestige, will get, to borrow a phrase from a fellow writer, not shagged, but shanked. You simply cannot dip your toe into the water of DTP while looking down your nose at it. And if the only reason you're doing it is because you already have that prestige from a large publishing house, then...why...do...it? It's not some accessory a serious writer can put on or remove on a whim. It's a serious, hard way of life if you wish to be successful. And here's what doesn't make sense to me: why bother giving away your eBook royalties at 4-10% if you can skip the middleman and simply publish it yourself for 70%? Why go through all that bother with a major publisher, if your intent is simply to garner a name for yourself? Hey--ask JA Konrath about that. I knew him before he was anybody from our online writing group, and every now and then when he had time to pop in, he'd gladly share his experiences as a freshly-minted author, and trust me--it wasn't all roses and bank accounts. So what if he had book tours, advertising and press releases backed by Hyperion? Guess what? And he'll be the first to tell you--HE was the one that still had to write over 700 letters to libraries notifying them of his books and seeking reading day privileges. HE was the one who had to constantly stay in touch with his agent and make sure his titles weren't sitting on shelves collecting dirt. My point, is that while he may have seemed to be the golden child with the backing of a large publishing house with a lot of reach, still HE was the one responsible for a lot of what he accomplished, so don't think eBooks are just an afterthought for the writer who happened to kill another tree before they came along. Because they're quickly accounting for a large part of North American book sales, and now with Amazon UK, sales in Europe. Mr. Konrath may be making not only his mortgage and the rest of his bills now with his eBook sales, but he worked incredibly hard to make the system work for himself, which is another thing that's got publishers hopping mad at him. I say go for it, Joe!
With the onslaught of schlock, comes the onslaught of schlock writers. Hey--that crap has to come from somewhere. Already today, just this afternoon, I've seen a horrible, horrible book description that ranted more on Kindle vs. NASA (??) than it ever did with what the book was actually about, and an excerpt from a novel series that looked as if it could've been written by a very crazy-smart fifth-grader. I realise we need to keep books on a general reading level, but my point is that this sweet, well-meaning man could've taken his writing a little more seriously and hired either a professional editor--which most ego-driven writers will not shell out money for--or at least located either an online or real-face writing group where he could've work shopped this thing and gotten it in working order. But, you could tell he edited the thing himself, and it made me sad. This guy had probably ten other titles to his credit, mostly all fantasy, which I just don't read, but you know he and his sweet wife from the deep south had big dreams of him becoming a novelist.

In addition to that retina-singeing circus, I've endured posts from people wanting to be serious writers who have no clue how to spell, use a comma correctly, or even simple grammar, and this was just in their discussion posts! Listen up:

If you waste your precious time in posting to boards and blog comments so as to get you noticed as a writer, then for cheeze's sake, take pride in yourself by learning how to spell-check (If you're so learning-disabled you can't spell. Dictionaries are a marvelous invention.), use correct spelling and grammar (It's called online Strunk & White--never goes out of style), and stop, OH MY GOD stop, using texting in your messages.

Yep. That's been my day. An amalgam of bad spelling, lousy grammar, and writers interchanging "their with there with they're" and not knowing the difference! And me, with a type-A personality and an activist spirit, well, it's been a hard day of decisions as to whether (Not weather) I should kindly approach them and correct them, or, be passive and lethargic, and simply bitch about the problem and not lift a finger to help make it better, all so I won't hurt their feelings.

So. What do you think?

How to market your talent if you cross-pollinate (Some practical guidelines)

2010-08-08T23:49:00.001-05:00

The publishing world (I promise, this ties into acting and other arts.) has changed very quickly with wi-fi books; i.e., Nook, Kindle, app readers for smart phones, and so now not only is an author faced with writing on his next upcoming release, but he's also shouldered the responsibility for the marketing, publicity, the advertising, and it takes a lot...of...work. My days with Lupus and Fibromyalgia, are at least 16-hours, all of it writing: my upcoming novel release in the fall, my blog, and I was notified last week that I've not only been accepted at AuthorCentral on Amazon, where I can contribute, but I'm also now contributing author at other sites, have a guest column coming out on one on October 4, and am a featured author at two more.

If you create it, they will come.

At first, I just had my web-site. So then, big deal? Now what? Most all of my previous web-design clients have been artists: actors; directors; musicians; and authors. Most authors. Word-of-mouth. I haven't spent one dime on advertising. I've never had to. And the biggest thing that I, as a webbed-mistress have harped to my clients, is that they need to exploit themselves as much as possible. We spend all this money on professionally-photographed headshots, acting classes and clothes for auditions, but we think we can get by without a web-site? Or if we don't, then we design our own web-site and business cards?? Uh, no.

Here's a quick run-down of the first things I tell my clients once we get their site live:

Get business cards, and if your web-designer hasn't designed them to look like your web-site, then at least find a company who will, or who will get the design close. Your web-site should be your first portal to new "fans" on the web, and it represents you in EVERY way, so make sure your business card, which is the first portal to new fans in real life, matches the rest of your promotion materials. I always try and design a business card template for my new clients, unless I find they already have them, then don't waste money making new ones. Use up what you have.
If you wish to incorporate your identity, then hire a professional logo designer. This person will be able to design a professional logo that will A. stand out in the mind of anyone who sees it, and B. will make it look good either on the side of a bus, or the side of a pencil.
I encourage anyone like an actor, director, voice-over, musician or comic--anyone who needs a promo pack--to have it professionally done. Part of my job as a web-designer (Which put my skills as a comic and writer to work.), is knowing how to present my client's company or my client in the best possible light, and that means knowing how to BS the hell out of the process. I don't mean make things up--I mean, to know how to put advertising spin on the product that's being advertised. There is a heirarchy of information that newspaper editors consider all the time when involved in layout for the next edition. It's a skill that comes from years of working in design, watching the trends change on a dime and keeping up with the technology to do it. Also, unless you're Mr. Serious, have this designer incorporate a little levity into your copy, be it web or promotional materials. Now, I will acknowledge there are some pretty nice site templates available now like Joomla and WordPress. But, however pretty the template may be, you are still responsible for its content, and isn't it better having someone who knows what they're doing, so you can concentrate on what you should, and that's learning new monologues?
GET THEE TO A FACEBOOKERY. Ok, so it's not Shakespeare, but you get my meaning. Let's admit it: you're *going* to waste time on it anyway, so why not use it to your advantage? I have not only my personal page, but also now have a "fanpage," where I advertise upcoming stand-up gigs as well as books I have available for download. And I can interact with anyone there, which, if they're a fan of your work, makes the people very happy. There are new social networking sites cropping up all the time, but when you're just starting out, in order to save yourself some time and sanity, stick to the big ones: Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, GoogleConnect and LinkedIn. Most require profiles, so either give your web-designer one piece of copy of what you want written so that they can do it for you, or you will spend much time filling out profiles and preferences.
Get a blog. I resisted this like the plague for a long time, then suddenly last week when my career exploded, I realised its value. People WANT the personal touch when it comes to you, their public figure. If you're a director, then blog about your current production, or the time when you directed "Titanic." If you're an actor, blog about your current production, or the time you acted in "Titanic." People are nosey--it's in our nature--so play your strengths to this human weakness. There are ways you can link a blog into your web-site, or, some people even have just a blog, which its capabilities and power are being expanded all the time, for photos, videos, even audio. Some buy just their domain name and then host it on the Blog servers.
Pretend you are already a star. Wha?? I do it all the time when no one's looking, so make it work for you. I don't mean go out and buy expensive crap you can't pay for, I mean advertise yourself and get your name out there as if you were already a big-name. "But Carla, I'm not in this for fame." Right--and I look like Christie Brinkley instead of David Brinkley. Fine. Your motives are your motives, but remember this: your "fans" who purchase your product or see your show will treat you like you're famous, so give them what they want. I learned this week on one of my sites where I contribute. This one lady, an author with a novel already under her belt and a new one due to be released soon, had a mentor. A publisher, I think. And the first piece of advice she was given, was to do just this very thing. Now she has a huge fan-base, and is primed and ready for sales as soon as the novel hits Kindle this fall. See, people LOVE confidence. Not hubris, but sheer confidence. And to put yourself out there and have yourself marketed as if you're John Malkovich instead of John Doe, well, people, even if their reaction is negative (Who IS this guy, and who does he think he is?), will be forced to sit up and take notice. Write your promo copy as if people have been living under a rock because they don't know who you are! Make them feel stupid for not knowing you. (Hmmn. Says he's got a movie coming out. Guess I'll see how good he really is. Once that happens, you've got them hooked. Hey--it's how it happens.)
WRITE A GREAT NOVEL; BE A TREMENDOUS ACTOR; DIRECT SO WELL YOU ARE INDISPENSABLE. In wrapping up, all of this fluster in advertising and hard work, well, it won't mean a hill of beans if you neglect the basics, and that is to learn all you can about your craft and make it better. This works no matter in what area of art you are. Why take the time to get Joe Blow located in your line-of-site and get him enticed into watching your upcoming movie, if your acting skills are no better than Heather Graham?? You've wasted all that time and energy and for what?
Do not give up. This business is fickle, so when you put on your advertising hat, be thicker-skinned than when you are wearing your artist hat. Think of it this way: every time you fill out another profile, orpost to another discussion thread, you are planting seeds, and seeds take time to root and come to monetary fruition.
Specifically for actors: Do NOT stop living your life. You're on-stage or in front of the camera maybe 4 full hours out of an 18-hour day, so go back to school, take a floral design class, learn basketweaving. Stop falling into depressions because you're not in a job. I love and highly recommend the book by Katherine Mayfield, called, "Good Actors, Bad Choices." She discusses this in-depth. Get it.

So. How is this working for me? Well, let me just say, that in one day, yesterday, I not only sold my first 3 downloads on Kindle, but I also landed a paying comedy job. 2 download units were from Facebook, as well as the audition notice.

All this to say, do not dismiss out-of-hand the power of social networking until you've been "unfriended" by it. :D

I should've been the one to paint the Sistine Chapel

2010-08-07T05:13:00.006-05:00

I've decided to get today's article out here early--I've had a lot on my mind and was excited to discuss it.

But this sure has been a strange week.

I've spent a lot of time getting familiar with this e-publishing craze and realising just how green about it I am--and green is not my colour. I have friends who are mid-list authors who once were the darlings of the hardcover and paperback novel world, but who are now realising the value of self-publication, and they're making a lot of money in addition.

Now. I'm intelligent enough to know that once you start something such as self-publishing, what you're doing, in essence, is planting seeds that common sense tells you will take time to root and grow into monetary fruition. I've been writing for over ten years, but it's taken me this long to get up the courage, and self-confidence in my writing to try and get it marketed. It takes getting known by other authors, getting recognition from those who read the other authors and happened to stumble upon you in the process. It takes web-sites, blogs, contributing articles and lots of potato chips and Starbucks. I'm slowly realising that there is a finesse to it.

But I want to make money now! I've had my titles up on Kindle for all of a full week. And have seen not one sale from it. (Hey--I promised to share my joys of good news and unexpected blurbs, along with my hideously disfiguring disappointments.) I'll be honest--this is one of those hideously disfiguring disappointments for me. I've been the kind of person who has always succeeded at anything I've tried, so since it's taken me some time and hard work (My muscles are killing me from all this computer work and writing.), I guess I expected a return on my investment a little sooner than now.

Now. I know what you're gonna say, and you're right. I shouldn't be so impatient. But let's analyse this for a moment. Is there a better feeling in the entire world than seeing your name in print? Yes, and it's called selling your work. When someone takes their hard-earned money and decides to invest it in something only you had to say, well, it's a feeling that I imagine is like no other. I guess it's akin to an unwritten trust; it sets up a symbiosis between the reader/buyer and the author/seller that only another artist would know and understand. As a fine artist, I had that exact feeling for my first time when I was 17 years old, and was asked by a class-mate of mine to paint her portrait. I painted it from a photo of her, and I think it took me all of a week. But when I was finished and showed it to her for the first time, her reaction was something that made me feel significant--like the talent that I had mattered somehow.

But when she paid me the eight whole dollars I asked in return, just to cover the cost of my canvas and oils, well, you'd've thought I had won a beauty pageant, and if you've ever seen me, then you'd understand what a leap that would be. But follow along.

Mary didn't have to pay me anything for the painting, because she was a fellow classmate. But she wanted to, especially after she saw it. Apparently, this girl saw something in my previous artwork that spoke to her very soul. Or, maybe I was just convenient and she didn't have to drive far to find me. I'd like to think it was because at that moment in time, she didn't see little old me from the dairy farm with no money--she saw Carla René, the brilliant, undiscovered painter who should've been the one to paint the Sistine Chapel instead of that deadbeat, Michelangelo.

And that was a feeling that I hope to experience soon with my writing.

It's also bruising my delicate ego. Oh, c'mon! You didn't think I was perfect did you? Well, no, you probably did. I know I give that impression because of my inherent perfectionness, but trust me, it's a brave, brave front.

But back to my ego. If you're a fellow writer reading this, then you cannot tell me in all honesty that the thought hadn't crossed your mind during those wee hours of the dark morning while pounding out your latest tome, that once it reached public consumption, the world would be a different place. (I'm doing it right now!) I know you--sitting there, licking your fingers from the chocolate that your wife doesn't know you have--fingers sore and bloody from all the key-pounding, and in between paragraphs, taking just a short respite to unleash this powerful masterpiece onto the mass market. In fact, you don't see how the world could actually think it could get by without your great American leaflet. Here you are, covincing yourself that once it hits eBooks and print, then people will soon forget who Michael Crichton and that idiot Kakfa were, and will be doing cool stuff for you like giving you the key to the city and naming unknown streets after you. Yep! Soon you'll have it made and won't be able to shop for groceries without getting mugged for an autograph.

Hey. We're all adults here, so let's stop pretending we are that critically-acclaimed idiot Kafka and let's do something unique: let's pretend we are simply us for a change. I think it's a natural progression to go from timid, unsure writers to ego-ridden daydreamers. But it's also something John Vorhaus warned us about. Writing your novel with an eye toward getting Tom Cruise (Ewww.) cast in the lead role might be fun while you're doing it--if you're into Cruise--but it will be doing a disservice to your book once it's finished. In fact, that's one of the things Vorhaus says will kill a career--dreaming of fame before you've done the work. But, that's another conversation best saved for when I'm drunk.

I've learned that blog tours are especially helpful in getting your name out there to other authors, so I intend to host a few of my friends if they're willing, and hopefully, they will reciprocate. So, in preparation, I've been reading a lot of blogs, and learning a lot of information along the way, and each time I learn something completely new that I never know before, it makes me excited to think that everything I'm doing now, is producing seed that I will soon reap in the benefits of Kindle sales, and when that happens, you'll hear me shouting from the rooftops, because it's a feeling I want everyone to know.

And as artists, I believe we all deserve to know that feeling at least once in our short careers.

Discipline is a Bitch

2010-08-06T18:54:00.001-05:00

I guess I keep writing here--knowing I have no followers: which means I'm now technically talking to myself, in the hopes that my Field of Dreams experiment will come true:

If you write it, they will come.

To be candid--and let's be honest: when did you ever know me to not be--I'm slowly realising that it's not the writing a novel that is the hard part; it's not coming up with something fresh and enjoyable for two separate columns every single day; it's not even the self-promotion and feeling dirty when you're done--it's the discipline that eventually knocks you on your bum. Discipline will very quickly divide the wheat from the chaff. It will weed out those who only play at becoming writers, and those who are too demented to do anything else. It will quickly kill any chance you ever had at a social life, and stomp on those who dare knock on your door for dates. It will keep you from enjoying your family, be they feline or human, and make you sit at the computer when enjoying a rare movie so you can check your blog comments rather than sit in a chair like someone normal.

Simply put: Discipline is a bitch.

I was introduced to this unique bitch while in college. Even though I had a natural gift for music and playing the trumpet, piano and singing, I quickly realised that if I wanted to reap any benefits from those pursuits, then I would need to be disciplined. Discipline quickly became my best friend. On days when I was too sick to get out of bed, Discipline would yank me by the hair of my head, throw on my clothes, and have me planted at my eight-o'clock German class. Discipline would keep me at school, some days, until well after midnight, only to get up and do it again the next day. Then while preparing for my recitals in my junior and senior years, Discipline would promptly plant my butt in the college gym and poolside in order to build up my lung capacity, for junior recitals are just you and a spotlight and accompanist, playing straight for 30-minutes, and senior recitals are the same, but with you playing for an hour. That, my friends, takes Discipline. And now that I'm writing full-time and publishing books and short-stories, I've reacquainted myself with Discipline.

But, just like real bitches, if you can stand the pain, then you'll see real truth from it. Discipline will show you where your weaknesses lie as a writer, and your inherent desire for perfection will push you to fix them. Discipline will make you voracious about protecting your writing time. It will keep you from turning on the television for days at a time, which literally means you have more hours available to you in the day.

Of course, once or twice this week I was able to sneak under Discipline's radar. I got a lot done! I rent a room in my landlady's home, so while she's been on vacation this week, I have been keeper-of-the-canine, and with him being a German Shepard/Husky mix, he's required a lot of my attention. I've also cooked a few good meals for myself, and came up with "DJ Squeak," her cat's new rap name. So you see, it wasn't all fun and games.

But, discipline always finds me and drags me back. Because I've learned that discipline's rewards are many. It means more prolific writing. It means becoming better at your craft. It means increased chops. Which then means more book sales, which leads to more money for cat food. And trust me: that can never be a bad thing.

And now it's time for me to sign off so I can sit down to work on my novel, before my one weekly indulgence that Discipline allows me: FlashPoint.

So. Have you made friends with Discipline yet?

Conflict! I need more conflict!

2010-08-05T16:02:00.001-05:00

It's amazing how topics can just hit ya without expecting it, y'know? Like now. I was responding to another writer who replied to yesterday's article, and in that response, I found myself soon delving deep into the topic of adding more conflict to one's writing, when I realised, I'd probably be better off to expound upon that and put it here for public consumption. Not that it will actually give you consumption, but follow along.

How are you with conflict? My friend, mid-list author J. A. Konrath (who just got published for an interview this week in Newsweek about this whole self-pub craze), was a member of my online writing group before he was anyone with his six-figure advance from Hyperion Press for Whiskey Sour, and when he had time to contribute, he would always hammer one thing: If you're having trouble with your piece, go back to conflict. And he was right. Conflict is inherent in everything we touch, see and do. So why do we avoid it in story-telling? Maybe because we're afraid of it. How often do we avoid it in real life? I know in private, when I get behind the wheel of a car, suddenly I'm possessed with Turret's Syndrome, but when I'm sober? Look out!

Actually, if I'm then unexpectedly faced with the person causing my road rage--and I'm not talking safely ensconsed behind my windshield--then I'm a little more of a kitten than an angry tiger. We are told from birth, I think, that conflict isn't healthy.

But is it? Let's think about it in writing for a moment. Imagine you're sitting behind your laptop, and it's now been 2 hours since you've been able to write. Are you blocked? Probably not. Being blocked is a whole 'nother neurosis, but since I'm the resident expert on all things neuroses and village idiot-dom, I'll address that in another article.

But I digress. (Man, trying to follow my logic is probably akin for you to hopping from one city bus to the next, in hopes of getting where you would've gotten had you stayed on the first bus!) And a partridge in a pear tree....

Now. What was I saying? Oh, right. You've been sitting there for two hours, deep in chapter 21, and suddenly the story isn't writing itself anymore. It's not as if you can't get the word "suck" out of your mind, it's just that you're not sure which bus to take (We'll stay with one analogy for the good of your mental health) to get you where you know you need to be next. This is where a healthy dose of conflict is needed. As a tv/film/stage actor, if you read Michael Shurtleff's Audition, in those 12 tips in the beginning of the book, he tells the actor what things to concentrate on for their audition that will give them the best chance of landing the call-back. One of those glaring ones is to seek out the conflict in the scene.

See, people fight all the time for what they want, even if it's gentile Southern women who do it behind gloved hands. Living in the south has taught me that soft smile doesn't necessarily mean they like ya! If you're having a difficult time with your scene, then maybe you don't have enough conflict in it. What is your protagonist fighting for, and how can you keep him from getting it? Yep--that's the question you ask. Let me say it again: What is my charcacter fighting for and how can I keep him from getting it? Why? Because if you analyse how you're feeling when watching a blockbuster movie, you want to root for the main character. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the movie Dante's Peak. From the very first few seconds of that movie, Pierce Brosnan and Linda what's-her-face were fighting. Not each other, but against circumstances. 30 minutes into the movie, the tension had built and they were now fighting with higher stakes. At the half-way point, you're convinced that they're never going to outrun that stupid lava and I remember thinking, "This has got to be the worst movie I've seen!" But at the end when they survive and defeat the thing? I was cheering in my own living room. I tend to be ebullient about things.

One of my favourite movies is Armageddon, and it was the same way with the conflict in that movie. The tension kept growing in the form of those screenwriters constantly throwing conflict into the path of the lead characters.

Now. What does all this conflict do? It increases the stakes. It keeps you wanting more. Think about that the next time you find yourself staring at your screen, avoiding your next chapter by doing laundry, or stuck on what to do next, so you throw yourself into Facebook. That's the reason we want it--to keep our readers rooting for that lead character. It's not because we hate our protagonists. It's because we want you, the reader, to love them!

I don't think more writing can be healthy for a writer.

2010-08-04T22:25:00.001-05:00

I hate it when I have weeks like this. The last two days have certainly been busy, and hectic, but the truth of the matter is, I've been a real slackass and haven't gotten much done. How is this physiologically possible? I mean, I've applied for some acting jobs out of it, and that's good because it's a paid gig for Halloween--one of my favourite times--but what else do I have to show for it? Uh, a novel that didn't get worked on yesterday because I could feel my mind beginning to implode, and as of right now I still need to sit down with it, and two columns I am just now getting to, and here it is, 10:00 at night. (Which really sounds more dramatic than it is, because I end up turning in usually no earlier than 5 A.M. But follow along.)

*sigh* Doesn't speak too well of my social life, does it? I mean, it's not like I even had one up until now, but now it seems the small one I was beginning to cultivate has gone to hell in a big old doily-covered basket. That doesn't make me happy.

But let's not gloss over this head-implosion thing. Today I was considering all of this swirling eddy around me, and was wondering just how healthy all of this writing can really be. On one hand, I can understand how it helps a writer to...um...actually...well...write. It's perfect for cultivating a talent for becoming better, and even, *gasp* garnering a healthy career. But how healthy can it be for one's psyche? Mine is pretty unstable at best anyway; add to it the stress of non-stop writing and contributing and where does it get me? I'll put it this way: last night, I was ready to get in a tower, and hurt some people. Me, with a loaded gun? It ain't pretty.

How do others do it? I'm learning that with all the writing involved in this self-promotion roller coaster, there comes a healthy dose of stress, and writers are pretty unstable people anyway; we'll be the first to admit it. Are they just better with managing their time, maybe? Oh, wait. I know. They have a staff of ghost-writers who pull columns together for their contributing articles, and they hire grade-school kids to work on their blogs, while they soak up all the glory by continuing to publish novels non-stop; novels that make Grisham and King go, "Wha? How'd you do that?" This has to be the way it happens, and I'm too much of a moron to notice, so here I am, plugging along, actually trying to write what it is that has my name on it. *slaps forehead*

Ow!

I don't know. I just know that sometimes when I sit down to do this, I end up not having any clue as to what I'm going to say, until I just start typing.

Maybe that's the answer. I just have to get out of my head, and let my fingers do the talking, no matter how much I need to publish in one day. I know that the feeling once I get rolling and really into what I'm saying, is one I love--very freeing--almost like flying: a secret no one else knows. I guess that's what really keeps writers coming back for more. A writer's high. Knowing you've said something and done a great job at it as well. A friend once said to me in my online writing group years ago, that he was certain I had the talent to become a writer: he just wasn't certain I had the discipline.

I'm beginning to wonder if he was right.

...and another thing! (A welcome message from Honeybump)

2010-08-03T22:09:00.000-05:00

If you're reading this, then you're busy wasting time doing crap that you should be wasting on other things.

My pet, Carla, has now set up shop on Blogger, although she has other places that she writes, where you are welcome to follow her.

She is contributing author at 1st Turning Point and also at Speak Without Interruption. Just search for her name there and you'll find her regular columns. She'll also be a featured artist at 1st Turning Point, and have a guest column coming out there as well on October 4. I'll post links here so you can find it.

She'll also be a featured artist at Texty Ladies and will let you know when that happens as well.

She's also now listed at Author Central for Amazon.com, and this link also displays her works currently for sale. Don't worry if there aren't many yet--she's just now trying to get them converted over to Kindle for everyone's convenience. Yup. Jumping on that wagon.

So, there you have it. My first blog. Oh, I feel all warm inside.

Got fish??