It's always a surprise to get up in the morning and see a big change in the sales reports. After putting Among Women on sale this week, I expected a little bump in sales, but a big bump was just a dream. Good thing I like to dream -- a lot -- although it would be better if I had read Joe Konrath's blog before I put the book on sale because I could have included a short synopsis and a bibliography as part of the author bio in the ebook version. I have rectified that oversight and the new version should be up and running today or tomorrow, depending on how quickly Amazon does their part. I heard it helps with sales.
The hardest part of writing isn't the writing, yet that is sometimes difficult because I procrastinate at times, it's waiting. Waiting for people I know who've mentioned they bought the book. I'd have been better off not knowing they had it and were planning to read it, or were actually reading it, because then I wouldn't wonder how long it takes to read a 250-page book and when I can expect to hear (or read) their review. It's better knowing that hundreds of people are buying the book and just aren't reviewing them. I don't have their phone numbers and don't know how to get to their houses so I can pin them down and ask what they thought. Better to live in ignorance and hope they're not like me and seldom write Amazon, B&N, or whatever bookstore they frequent reviews.
I did get a big surprise a few weeks ago with a totally unsolicited review from someone I've never met who read Among Women and really loved it. They said so. In print. Well, virtual print. Online. At Amazon. And gave it five stars. It was like a late birthday present or early Christmas gift. I enjoyed reading such good things and blushed a little at the kudos. I blush easily when someone compliments me, even if it's a compliment on my book.
But then there are friends and relatives who tell me they're reading my book and haven't said anything good, bad or indifferent about what they thought. I vacillate between wanting to ask and demanding to know what they thought. I'd send Guido and Vito out to have a conversation with them, but want to have someone who will send me a birthday card and remember me at holidays, so I don't. Instead, I suffer in silence -- well, silence in the sense that they don't know I'm fussing about it here in the silence of my room. If they don't know I'm fussing, am I fussing? Okay, so it's not as good as, if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to hear about it, does it make a sound? Or what is the sound of one hand clapping? Depends what the one hand is clapping against. A meaty thigh works really well and so does a hard surface like a desk or someone's attitude.
I'm not a patient person when it comes to wanting answers. I am patient otherwise since I haven't cornered anyone and demanded answers. I would love to ask, but don't want to damage the person or scare them into not buying my next book, the one I'm currently finishing up as soon as I finish this post.
Life would be so much easier if I could find a way to get people to add clickable links to the opinion center of their brain, preferably when they have gotten up on the right side of the bed and aren't having a rousing fight with their spouse, lover, mother, father, children, boss, or whoever is on their hit list this week. But then we'd be in a world where people were more like machines and less like softly fleshed readers who might be cajoled or interested in putting an author out of their misery with enough time and attention, before going off to read the next book, to type a hasty "good job" in response.
Well, as long as the readers keep buying and reading, it will have to be enough.
That is all. Disperse.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
The Entitlement Perspective
Lately, I've been reading, and commenting, on posts about paid reviews. This seems to be a sore spot with most amateur writers, and maybe even some professional writers. Writers will gratefully and happily, albeit with a wince, depending on their financial situation, pay for editing, critiquing, publishing, book tour travel accommodations and charges, meals with their agent and even publishing, but they don't want to pay for reviews, believing it somehow makes the review suspect. The idea being that, if a review is paid for, it must be a ringer and the reviewer is paid to lie -- or at least fudge the review -- making the book sound better than it is. Not so.
I've been a professional (read: paid) reviewer for nearly eight years, not that I can make my rent payments on what I earn, but it comes close some months when I churn out a dozen reviews. I do not know the arrangement Authorlink has with authors requesting reviews, but I do get paid, and I get more than twice what I made starting out eight years ago. Do I give the authors unqualified rave reviews? Not on your tin type. I write balanced and honest reviews -- from my perspective -- and I don't play nice. I play fair and I'm civil, although with a rare snark with major typos and grammatical errors in a traditionally published book that do tend to rub me the wrong way. I mention them in one sentence without enumerating all the wrongs they have done to the printed word, but I'll write about my favorites (the worst examples) in another post. This post is about payment for services rendered, to whit: one book review.
Because there are so many free sites on the Internet, and because many writers starting out, and quite a few who are wealthy best sellers, are basically frugal (I did not say 'cheap'), they see reviews as a sideline that has nothing to do with the dollars and cents (and sense) necessary to get a professional writing career off the ground and keep it flying high. Reviews are important, but who buys a book based on reviews when there are so many other criteria for choosing (writer is a jerk, great advertising campaign, personal friend, relative, employee of writer, and, sometimes, if the author writes the kind of books you enjoy). There are always the bad boys and girls of publishing whose books sell because of the vicarious thrill of buying a bad boy or girl's books, and the burning curiosity to find out if they wrote about their misadventures and nefarious exploits.
Not true.
Okay, some of that is true, mostly about writers being cheap and thinking reviews are not nearly as important as a good editor or professional critique. And there is the rub, the one word that sets a reviewer apart from a reader, the word "professional." And that, my constant reader, is why reviewers shoud be paid. They have mouths to feed and bills to pay and they like to go out to dinner, the theater, or on the occasional vacation once a year.
Book reviewing is a business and businesses run on income, that income, in the reviewer's case, derived from the business of reading and reviewing books. It is an exchange of services. The author writes a book and contracts a professional reviewer to read and write their opinion on said book. This is called a contract and, like most contracts, is sealed with a handshake (often virtual) and an agreement for payment. You wouldn't buy a house and expect the banker to give you the house on your handshake, free and clear, without expecting some money in return. Neither should a reviewer.
"But," say authors, "the reviewer gets a free book worth money. Isn't that payment enough?"
If you've had to unload as many books as I have, you wouldn't see that as payment. I give them away and often donate them to libraries and Goodwill or the Volunteers of America. As far as I am concerned, most of the books I read and review are all right in the main, but not the kind of books I usually keep in my library. I reserve that limited shelf space for authors I follow and collect, although admittedly some authors I've found by having to review their work. That does not mean I don't expect my boss to forget to pay me. I expect payment as part of my contract with Authorlink as an employee.
Does that mean I give everyone a rave review? Not at all. In fact, I lost a friend over one of my reviews when I pointed out some of the problems, repetitions and mistakes in her book. I wasn't being vindictive, just writing what I thought of a book that was all right, but could have been much better. It's how I work.
Take a look at some of my reviews on The Celebrity Cafe or on Authorlink and you will see what I mean. I don't do nice. I don't do dressed up reviews. I don't smile when I have had to read utter crap and I do not ever sandbag my reviews. What I write is what I think and how I feel about the book. The author doesn't come into it at all, unless the book is one of a series I have followed and reviewed in the past, in which case I compare the character and writing to previous books. I am not above telling a writer, who may also be a good friend, that their book needs work and then go on to list the reasons why. Does that make my reviews suspect?
How about the reviews of Michiko Kakutani of the New York TImes or any of the professional reviewers in The New York Review of Books or Kirkus Reviews? Are their reviews suddenly suspect because you now know they are paid? What did you think they did up in their ivory towers, knit? The New York Times, NYRB, and Kirkus pay their employees to write reviews. That is their job. Like editors, book doctors, agents, publishers, and everyone else in the publishing business, or self-publishing business, book reviewers are professionals and should be paid for their services. They may do a book review as a favor for a friend, but you are taking up their time and expecting to make use of their expertise, so it is just business to pay them. Just because a reviewer doesn't work for a newspaper or a recognized review source doesn't mean they don't deserve your respect -- and your money. People work and people get paid. That is just business.
Good reviewers, like any good professional, are worth their weight in gold -- even when they say your book needs work or doesn't quite hit the mark. Not everyone will like every book you write, or even every book they read, but that is to be expected. Paying for a review is like paying someone to critique your work and put it in shape for publication. You may get a kudos and a pat on the back or you may get slammed. You pays for yo' ticket and you takes yo' chances. Nothing in life is guaranteed, as any published author will tell you. Don't ignore the contribution a professional makes to your success -- and that goes for reviewers, too.
You can get free reviews from several web sites, Goodreads, and Amazon, or from any reader at a hundred different book stores, but a professional review is far above what you get with the average reader. It is worth more in terms of proof that you did a good job and in terms of cost. If you want the best, you will have to pay the best. It's that simple.
While the readers count -- and they count a lot towards popularity of an author's work -- it is the professional review that lets you know you have arrived and all your hard work has paid off. A professional reviewer will also tell you where you went wrong and what could have been done better. So will some educated and opinionated readers. A professional review is in essence a mini-critique of your work. Don't get on the bad side of karma. If you want professional, pay for professional. If you want just anyone's opinion of your book, save your money and hope you can entice, cajole and motivate the average reader to write a review of your work that makes sense and highlights your book's good points.
You're entitled to the best; pay for it. Everything else is a crap shoot.
Friday, June 17, 2011
No, Not That!
There are times when an author's life is not interesting, usually when editing and rewriting endlessly to make a book just right. I think of Goldilocks and what having everything just right did for her and I cringe. It's hard for a perfectionist to get past the need to keep tweaking a book. An error might have gotten through numerous edits, even from someone else's eyes, and when they pop up later, usually after the book has gone to print, the groan and gnashing of teeth can be heard at least half a continent away, if not all the way to the next continent and beyond. At least with ebooks it's easier to change things and upload the new version, and somewhat easier with print versions as long as you self-published and have already gotten through the first print run, which usually isn't all that big a deal. There is, of course, the issue of cost because printers tend to charge you when you make too many changes and approve the proof. Into every life and all that.
I suppose the worst thing to deal with is bad reviews. I expect them. One reviewer actually emailed me to tell me she couldn't get into the book and therefore would not publish a review. I heaved a hearty sigh of relief since any review she would have written would have been horrible. I can handle bad reviews if someone actually bought the book, but I am ready to ignore pointedly any bad reviews from people who got a book for free. After all, I review books and there are times when I have to write bad reviews, always doing my best to point out something positive, even if it's a nice font. It's something nice, so give me a break. I don't do cleaned up reviews. You pays yo' money and takes yo' chances. I expect to get what I give so frequently.
However, when a bad review seems to have been written about your book that in no way resembles your book, it's hard to forgive and forget. Mostly, it's hard to forget. It haunts you in the night and creeps up on you unawares at the worst possible moments, like in bed with your husband/boyfriend/lover/whatever. You sit up and scream (mostly just scream), "What book did s/he read?" It takes all of one's might and discipline not to hunt the person down and demand an explanation and a diagram with colored markers and bullet points.
Too many authors have gone head-to-head with reviewers in wanting to know why and where and how dare they. It's a bad idea that ends in tears and public ridicule the likes of which one can only imagine given the Internet and the speed at which ugly gossip flies. It's best to take a no comment stance as though walking up the stairs to jail or to the courthouse where you're being arraigned for heinous acts against humanity -- and wearing fur. This is a wired world where everything is connected. Even if you make a snide comment in Outer Mongolia below your breath, someone will hear you, snap a picture on their phone and record the video to show on You Tube where someone will mention it to someone else and in a matter of nanoseconds you have gone viral with a big red sign painted on your forehead that reads "IDIOT." There is such a thing as bad press when there are too many cameras, phones, video recorders, and other devices to foil any attempts at denial, and the nonchalant (not that it's too late) shrug of the shoulders or a saucy wink will not make the situation better.
You have become a joke. An obsessive author with delusions of adequacy. And your books will be avoided -- by most people who don't want to be associated with someone who can't keep their professional cool. Not a good idea at all. Avoid at all costs.
I look at reviews, all reviews, and smile when they're good, frown a little (makes wrinkles) when they are marginal, and hide all sharp objects and projectile firing instruments just in case the reviewer crosses my path at a convention or at the grocery store where I've tracked him (or her) to have a quiet word.
When it happens to you -- and it will happen eventually -- smile and find something else to do, like write another book and give more people more chances to sling mud and fire pot shots at yourchildren books. Keeping busy is a good thing. I think that's where the old adage, Idle hands are the devil's workshop, came from. It must have been an author out to scalp, torture and dismember someone who gave a bad review.
I suppose the worst thing to deal with is bad reviews. I expect them. One reviewer actually emailed me to tell me she couldn't get into the book and therefore would not publish a review. I heaved a hearty sigh of relief since any review she would have written would have been horrible. I can handle bad reviews if someone actually bought the book, but I am ready to ignore pointedly any bad reviews from people who got a book for free. After all, I review books and there are times when I have to write bad reviews, always doing my best to point out something positive, even if it's a nice font. It's something nice, so give me a break. I don't do cleaned up reviews. You pays yo' money and takes yo' chances. I expect to get what I give so frequently.
However, when a bad review seems to have been written about your book that in no way resembles your book, it's hard to forgive and forget. Mostly, it's hard to forget. It haunts you in the night and creeps up on you unawares at the worst possible moments, like in bed with your husband/boyfriend/lover/whatever. You sit up and scream (mostly just scream), "What book did s/he read?" It takes all of one's might and discipline not to hunt the person down and demand an explanation and a diagram with colored markers and bullet points.
Too many authors have gone head-to-head with reviewers in wanting to know why and where and how dare they. It's a bad idea that ends in tears and public ridicule the likes of which one can only imagine given the Internet and the speed at which ugly gossip flies. It's best to take a no comment stance as though walking up the stairs to jail or to the courthouse where you're being arraigned for heinous acts against humanity -- and wearing fur. This is a wired world where everything is connected. Even if you make a snide comment in Outer Mongolia below your breath, someone will hear you, snap a picture on their phone and record the video to show on You Tube where someone will mention it to someone else and in a matter of nanoseconds you have gone viral with a big red sign painted on your forehead that reads "IDIOT." There is such a thing as bad press when there are too many cameras, phones, video recorders, and other devices to foil any attempts at denial, and the nonchalant (not that it's too late) shrug of the shoulders or a saucy wink will not make the situation better.
You have become a joke. An obsessive author with delusions of adequacy. And your books will be avoided -- by most people who don't want to be associated with someone who can't keep their professional cool. Not a good idea at all. Avoid at all costs.
I look at reviews, all reviews, and smile when they're good, frown a little (makes wrinkles) when they are marginal, and hide all sharp objects and projectile firing instruments just in case the reviewer crosses my path at a convention or at the grocery store where I've tracked him (or her) to have a quiet word.
When it happens to you -- and it will happen eventually -- smile and find something else to do, like write another book and give more people more chances to sling mud and fire pot shots at your
Book Giveaway
Goodreads Book Giveaway
Among Women
by J. M. Cornwell
Giveaway begins June 21, 2011 and ends September 21, 2011. Winners will be chosen from UK, Australia, Canada and the United States. Eight autographed copies will be awarded.
See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.
Enter to win
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Procrastination or Plan?
There are problems with creating, mostly procrastination. With editing. With rewriting. With being bombarded by great ideas when I'm supposed to be focused on another book that needs to be finished. So, is it procrastination or avoidance or just good sense to come up with an idea for a series of books, especially when series seem to garner the most attention -- and sales?
I'm going to go with great idea.
Looking at Piers Anthony, who my brother and youngest sister have raved about for years and I have avoided, brought me to a description for the first novel. He wrote hard and slick science fiction and then he hit upon fantasy and made his fortune and enshrined his name in Franklin Mint history with figurines from his best selling series.
I'm having trouble getting people to notice my serious books. He had problems getting noticed, although not as much as I have had. He decided to write fantasy and changed his fortune. I could write a series, other than the Memory series currently waiting in the wings to be typed up and published, and use the tarot cards. It's not a big deal. I wrote several articles, with examples, on using the tarot cards to spark that creative fire and create stories.
Why not, my brain insisted while I struggled through the usual dictations, use the fool's journey, which is the heart and origin of the tarot cards, to write a series of books, calling each series by the designations of the cards? Major Arcana, Minor Arcana, and four series to go with the wands, swords, cups and coins? I'll bet that would sell, and I might find the beginning for the fairy novel set in the event horizon of a black hole (time dilation which explains the whole few hours in faery and years lost on earth) I've been contemplating for a while. Anything is possible, and it makes good sense physics-wise. I think strange thoughts when I'm deep into sleep debt, and my dreams are very vivid. This is no dream. I was awake at the time and I think it would actually work.
The problem is not to think it to death. I have a problem with that, too. I plan out everything and then still end up writing by the seat of my pants. I'm a pantser. I admit it. I do, however, have dreams of being more disciplined, but I'm not. I work best when I wing it.
Anyway, it's an idea, one that may not last beyond this post, but an idea all the same that might propel me from the ranks of the obscure into a cabin in the high Rockies with a guest house, a jeep and the time to write while giving up wage slavery forever.
I kind of like that idea. Now I have to wait and see if it passes the next day test, sort of like dyeing your hair or getting it cut. If it still looks good the next day and I don't regret it and want to shave my head, then it's a good.
There. I've made a plan. On to the procrastination portion of this program.
I'm going to go with great idea.
Looking at Piers Anthony, who my brother and youngest sister have raved about for years and I have avoided, brought me to a description for the first novel. He wrote hard and slick science fiction and then he hit upon fantasy and made his fortune and enshrined his name in Franklin Mint history with figurines from his best selling series.
I'm having trouble getting people to notice my serious books. He had problems getting noticed, although not as much as I have had. He decided to write fantasy and changed his fortune. I could write a series, other than the Memory series currently waiting in the wings to be typed up and published, and use the tarot cards. It's not a big deal. I wrote several articles, with examples, on using the tarot cards to spark that creative fire and create stories.
Why not, my brain insisted while I struggled through the usual dictations, use the fool's journey, which is the heart and origin of the tarot cards, to write a series of books, calling each series by the designations of the cards? Major Arcana, Minor Arcana, and four series to go with the wands, swords, cups and coins? I'll bet that would sell, and I might find the beginning for the fairy novel set in the event horizon of a black hole (time dilation which explains the whole few hours in faery and years lost on earth) I've been contemplating for a while. Anything is possible, and it makes good sense physics-wise. I think strange thoughts when I'm deep into sleep debt, and my dreams are very vivid. This is no dream. I was awake at the time and I think it would actually work.
The problem is not to think it to death. I have a problem with that, too. I plan out everything and then still end up writing by the seat of my pants. I'm a pantser. I admit it. I do, however, have dreams of being more disciplined, but I'm not. I work best when I wing it.
Anyway, it's an idea, one that may not last beyond this post, but an idea all the same that might propel me from the ranks of the obscure into a cabin in the high Rockies with a guest house, a jeep and the time to write while giving up wage slavery forever.
I kind of like that idea. Now I have to wait and see if it passes the next day test, sort of like dyeing your hair or getting it cut. If it still looks good the next day and I don't regret it and want to shave my head, then it's a good.
There. I've made a plan. On to the procrastination portion of this program.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
I'm So Confused
Everyone is talking about books, reading books, mentioning books, advertising books and yet it's nearly impossible through social networking, hobnobbing, commenting, posting and talking about my own book to get anyone's attention. Must be information overload or I just don't know the right people.
It seems like the publishing industry is finally taking notes. Agents aren't as reluctant to sign a self-published author, although I suspect trying to tune up the work, get better cover art and guide the writer through the morass of punctuation, grammar and spelling (Spell Check doesn't get everything, especially when writing in the vernacular and what looks like vernacular but is just bad spelling). According to one publishing insider, publishers are willing to admit (after the flogging they endured at BEA in New York) that they don't know what sells and what people are reading. That came as no surprise to me as I have watched publishers put out dog after dog with huge advances and very little return. In fact, according that the publishing insider, 80-90% of all books published by the big guys fail to earn out advances or make them any money, and that's with 52.5% of the profit pie. I guess when there's nothing left but crumbs, 52.5% does not amount to much.
My task as been to maximize my income by choosing (and paying for) the best advertising. I had a brief and noticeable surge in sales when I advertised my novel in Kindle Nation for a day. It was not enough. The sales continue on a trickling basis, but I need a major gush that turns into a sustained and continuing spring runoff the likes of which will sweep away the southwestern part of the U.S., at least figuratively. Add in sales from the UK and Denmark (Amazon added those two venues to my ebook market) and I could just about make enough to pay for the advertising I need. Yes, it still takes advertising. After all, how am I going to find out the names and addresses and information on thousands of librarians, booksellers and book clubs without advertising?
It's all so confusing. It seems as though no one wants to buy and read a book about a young woman who is taken in by a con man, cast homeless onto the streets of New Orleans without friends and, just when things are looking up, is arrested and forced into close contact with (gasp!) criminals. What is a girl to do? She can hide in her cell, except that is not allowed. She can find a corner she can defend with a plastic fork that will likely break at a crucial moment. Or she can listen to the criminals and find out what really brought them to this low pass -- and then write about it. Well, I thought it was a good idea when Ilived wrote about it. Now, I'm not so sure.
How does a writer get noticed without someone trumpeting from the rooftops? Read this book. It will expose the dark underbelly of New Orleans. Where is a town cryer for the thousands of towns all across the nation when I need one?
On a limited budget, the only thing is left is Twitter and Facebook, and I'm not good at the whole being a sparkling wit while dropping bits of wisdom, wry commentary and magnetizing the iron filings that are people to hover around my personal space panting for my next words. I write. I don't do socializing. I have no time. I have to earn the money to pay for the advertising.
AuthorBuzz costs between $1250 and $1850 for the cream of the advertising campaigns offered. Kirkus wanted my book three months before it was to debut in stores, except I decided to self-publish about two weeks before I actually self-published, having worked on the novel, refining, polishing, and tarting it up for two years. Every avenue I explore has a caveat and each caveat says, not here and not now. We needed your information six months ago. The gatekeepers are still keeping the gates shut, no matter what that publishing insider says.
So, until the gatekeepers review and change their policies to include intrepid authors jumping the queue and self-publishing, and until I can afford the kind of advertising campaign that will get my novel noticed, I'll have to wallow in the Horse Latitudes of self-publishing, commenting on well known blogs, writing posts like this, and saving up the money for advertising campaigns to promote my book.
In the meantime, I am writing another book. Anyone interested in a story about the woman who Dr. Jekyll tried to erase from his life through chemical ingestion onto create Edward Hyde and begin the most famous (and infamous) murder spree in Victorian English history?
It seems like the publishing industry is finally taking notes. Agents aren't as reluctant to sign a self-published author, although I suspect trying to tune up the work, get better cover art and guide the writer through the morass of punctuation, grammar and spelling (Spell Check doesn't get everything, especially when writing in the vernacular and what looks like vernacular but is just bad spelling). According to one publishing insider, publishers are willing to admit (after the flogging they endured at BEA in New York) that they don't know what sells and what people are reading. That came as no surprise to me as I have watched publishers put out dog after dog with huge advances and very little return. In fact, according that the publishing insider, 80-90% of all books published by the big guys fail to earn out advances or make them any money, and that's with 52.5% of the profit pie. I guess when there's nothing left but crumbs, 52.5% does not amount to much.
My task as been to maximize my income by choosing (and paying for) the best advertising. I had a brief and noticeable surge in sales when I advertised my novel in Kindle Nation for a day. It was not enough. The sales continue on a trickling basis, but I need a major gush that turns into a sustained and continuing spring runoff the likes of which will sweep away the southwestern part of the U.S., at least figuratively. Add in sales from the UK and Denmark (Amazon added those two venues to my ebook market) and I could just about make enough to pay for the advertising I need. Yes, it still takes advertising. After all, how am I going to find out the names and addresses and information on thousands of librarians, booksellers and book clubs without advertising?
It's all so confusing. It seems as though no one wants to buy and read a book about a young woman who is taken in by a con man, cast homeless onto the streets of New Orleans without friends and, just when things are looking up, is arrested and forced into close contact with (gasp!) criminals. What is a girl to do? She can hide in her cell, except that is not allowed. She can find a corner she can defend with a plastic fork that will likely break at a crucial moment. Or she can listen to the criminals and find out what really brought them to this low pass -- and then write about it. Well, I thought it was a good idea when I
How does a writer get noticed without someone trumpeting from the rooftops? Read this book. It will expose the dark underbelly of New Orleans. Where is a town cryer for the thousands of towns all across the nation when I need one?
On a limited budget, the only thing is left is Twitter and Facebook, and I'm not good at the whole being a sparkling wit while dropping bits of wisdom, wry commentary and magnetizing the iron filings that are people to hover around my personal space panting for my next words. I write. I don't do socializing. I have no time. I have to earn the money to pay for the advertising.
AuthorBuzz costs between $1250 and $1850 for the cream of the advertising campaigns offered. Kirkus wanted my book three months before it was to debut in stores, except I decided to self-publish about two weeks before I actually self-published, having worked on the novel, refining, polishing, and tarting it up for two years. Every avenue I explore has a caveat and each caveat says, not here and not now. We needed your information six months ago. The gatekeepers are still keeping the gates shut, no matter what that publishing insider says.
So, until the gatekeepers review and change their policies to include intrepid authors jumping the queue and self-publishing, and until I can afford the kind of advertising campaign that will get my novel noticed, I'll have to wallow in the Horse Latitudes of self-publishing, commenting on well known blogs, writing posts like this, and saving up the money for advertising campaigns to promote my book.
In the meantime, I am writing another book. Anyone interested in a story about the woman who Dr. Jekyll tried to erase from his life through chemical ingestion onto create Edward Hyde and begin the most famous (and infamous) murder spree in Victorian English history?
Monday, June 06, 2011
Technology: Making Life More . . .
Technology has its uses, but there are times the old fashioned way is easier -- and better.
I've been preparing a package for mailing that needs to be out by June 15. Unfortunately, my laptop did not recognize my printer and every time I deleted a job it hung the computer up for about 24-48 hours. I had to delete the printer and re-install, something I've had to do three times with regard to this particular package. I won't even go into printing the proper postage so I can send the package. It would have been easier to type out a label and take the package to the post office to be mailed, except that since I pay for being able to print my own postage and labels with my laptop it seemed such a waste of money. It was also a waste of time.
So much is made easier by technology and so much has been made more complicated by relying on technology. Heaven forbid we should have to go back to the old days when manuscripts were handwritten and posted to publishers in brown paper tied up in string. There are far too many wannabe and actual authors to have to go through each handwritten manuscript one at a time. The luck of the leprechauns was with you if you received a typewritten manuscript since so few people owned typewriters and knew how to use them. Reminds me of the dark days when the average person couldn't read, and then the printing press made printed books available and then everyone had a better chance to learn to read and decide things for themselves.
Now that I have that last task completed, I think I can move on, but technology may get in the way again. This time the technology is my job, which I do from home and which requires the bulk of my time, leaving little time for reading books to review, or for entertainment, and writing, not if I plan to bathe, do laundry, cook meals, wash dishes, clean house, run errands, buy food, vacuum and garden. No wonder people feel they need servants. There aren't enough hours in the day.
Technology helps with the usual household tasks, like washing dishes and clothing, vacuuming, etc., but the tasks still take time. Machines have to be set up, primed with the right kinds of liquids and powders, loaded and unloaded only to load and unload another machine. Then there's the folding, putting away and hanging up of clothing, and the putting away of dishes to take up more time. And then it's time for shopping for food to prepare for cooking, actually cooking and then eating, creating more dirty dishes, and often dirty clothes when food is spilled, and we're back to the laundry and dish washing again. There are some items that have to be hand washed (dishes and clothing) and that requires more time. I need a housekeeper, and I'll hire one as soon as I can afford it, which I cannot do on the salary I earn with my day job, and there's not enough time to write so I can get another book published and begin earning money on it. It is a vicious circle.
Virginia Woolf was half right. A woman needs a room of her own and sufficient monies to support the writing, but she also needs servants and money to pay for them and technology that doesn't require too much time and energy to work and keep working. I don't want much, just a cabin high up in the Rocky Mountains with a good bit of land, no neighbors, a town that is not too far away nor too close, a guest house and a sturdy lock on the door to keep people out when I'm creating. I also need a housekeeper. Now all I need to do is write more books, publish them and begin to build a recognizable name so people will buy lots of my books and help me afford my decadent lifestyle. I won't even go into the social and business online networking time that needs to come out of the writing, chore, and day job time because it's the reason I am deep into sleep deficit already.
I've been preparing a package for mailing that needs to be out by June 15. Unfortunately, my laptop did not recognize my printer and every time I deleted a job it hung the computer up for about 24-48 hours. I had to delete the printer and re-install, something I've had to do three times with regard to this particular package. I won't even go into printing the proper postage so I can send the package. It would have been easier to type out a label and take the package to the post office to be mailed, except that since I pay for being able to print my own postage and labels with my laptop it seemed such a waste of money. It was also a waste of time.
So much is made easier by technology and so much has been made more complicated by relying on technology. Heaven forbid we should have to go back to the old days when manuscripts were handwritten and posted to publishers in brown paper tied up in string. There are far too many wannabe and actual authors to have to go through each handwritten manuscript one at a time. The luck of the leprechauns was with you if you received a typewritten manuscript since so few people owned typewriters and knew how to use them. Reminds me of the dark days when the average person couldn't read, and then the printing press made printed books available and then everyone had a better chance to learn to read and decide things for themselves.
Now that I have that last task completed, I think I can move on, but technology may get in the way again. This time the technology is my job, which I do from home and which requires the bulk of my time, leaving little time for reading books to review, or for entertainment, and writing, not if I plan to bathe, do laundry, cook meals, wash dishes, clean house, run errands, buy food, vacuum and garden. No wonder people feel they need servants. There aren't enough hours in the day.
Technology helps with the usual household tasks, like washing dishes and clothing, vacuuming, etc., but the tasks still take time. Machines have to be set up, primed with the right kinds of liquids and powders, loaded and unloaded only to load and unload another machine. Then there's the folding, putting away and hanging up of clothing, and the putting away of dishes to take up more time. And then it's time for shopping for food to prepare for cooking, actually cooking and then eating, creating more dirty dishes, and often dirty clothes when food is spilled, and we're back to the laundry and dish washing again. There are some items that have to be hand washed (dishes and clothing) and that requires more time. I need a housekeeper, and I'll hire one as soon as I can afford it, which I cannot do on the salary I earn with my day job, and there's not enough time to write so I can get another book published and begin earning money on it. It is a vicious circle.
Virginia Woolf was half right. A woman needs a room of her own and sufficient monies to support the writing, but she also needs servants and money to pay for them and technology that doesn't require too much time and energy to work and keep working. I don't want much, just a cabin high up in the Rocky Mountains with a good bit of land, no neighbors, a town that is not too far away nor too close, a guest house and a sturdy lock on the door to keep people out when I'm creating. I also need a housekeeper. Now all I need to do is write more books, publish them and begin to build a recognizable name so people will buy lots of my books and help me afford my decadent lifestyle. I won't even go into the social and business online networking time that needs to come out of the writing, chore, and day job time because it's the reason I am deep into sleep deficit already.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
The Jig is Up
There is a conspiracy going on in publishing and has to do with the reluctance, nay, the determination not to embrace digital technology.
Publishers price ebooks nearly as high as hard cover books. The thinking would appear to be publishers are determined to get more money for the writer. That is not the case. I figured out what is really going on when I looked at Kindle versions of authors I was interested in reading. The cost of the ebook was $14.99, an outrageous cost in my estimation, and the hard cover was $18.99. There is no way I am going to shell out $14.99 for ones and zeros sent at the speed of light (or whatever approaches light on wireless) when I can get the hard cover for four dollars more. I can even buy the hard cover for less than $10 if I buy new or used from secondary sellers.
I hit the button to purchase a brand new hard cover copy delivered free for $7.49. That's when it hit me what was happening. It's the publishing version of the protection game.
Consumers, especially in the current economic climate, do not want to waste money. They want value for their dollars and $14.99 is not value for what is in essence a copied digital file. It's cheaper to get the printed version of the book, even if delivery takes longer. That's the whole point. By pricing ebooks at or near the hard copy version of a book, consumers will opt for the print version instead of the ebook, unless they have lots of money and don't care how much an ebook costs. It's the siren call of doing business the old way.
Forget about the claims of rampant book piracy and how ebooks endanger author royalties and the publishing industry. It's all about forcing someone to take what you want them to have rather than giving the consumer what he wants and prefers.
Ebooks will not be the death of the printed book. They are an alternative to print, not replacement for print. It's like buying the paperback copy of a novel and liking it so much you're willing to buy the hard cover so it will last longer. Paperbacks did not ruin hard cover sales and ebooks will not ruin paperback or hard cover sales. That's a myth, a myth propagated by publishers to maintain control of consumers. It's wrong thinking and completely self serving.
In the old days of gangsters and neighborhood crime, a shop owner was approached by gang members, or their representatives, and offered insurance. When the shop owner refused, a demonstration of the insurance's value was staged. Windows were broken. Locks were smashed. Goods were stolen. When the representatives returned in a day or so, shaking their heads and commiserating with the shop owner, they offered the insurance once again. Recalitrant shop owners held out -- as long as their stock and ability to replace the property held out, or until they were killed -- while less well heeled shop owners gave in and bought the insurance -- from the people who would have robbed and destroyed their property without it. Publishing is now in the same business.
Instead of embracing ebooks and offering them at prices in line with the product, publishers offer insurance to consumers by pricing ebooks out of range of their actual value and worth. Publishers don't trust consumers to be intelligent enough or willing enough to buy hard cover or paperback books when ebooks are available, thus alienating and angering a segment of the population that prefer ebooks to print, just as there is a larger segment of the population that prefers print to ebooks. For those bottom line thinking MBAs, that's just bad business.
Good businessmen know that by offering several formats across a wide range of formats will net the most return in sales. Bad businessmen (read: publishers) try to force consumers into the slaughtering chute by hook, crook and the old protection game. It will not work. Consumers will catch on and avoid buying your books, turning instead to secondhand bookstores, piracy and remainder stores where they can get what they want. Profits will fall and you will be out of business when authors jump ship for self-publishing or an indie publisher that will offer better terms, larger royalties and the same (lack of) services. Take heed. The writing is on the wall and the news is all bad.
Short-sighted publishers will soon be a vanishing breed, and good riddance to them all. Piracy will continue when prices remain high, especially in a difficult economy like this. More authors, like Barry Eysler, Joe Konrath, and others, will continue to jump ship for indie publishing, or for the new kid on the block, Amazon, or they will dive into self-publishing with a vengeance. Those publishers who will survive the coming storm will buy a clue and get smart. They will price ebooks at competitive rates while continuing to sell hard cover and paperback at the usual prices. Smart publishers will give value for the product and revise author contracts and royalty percentages. The rest will end up where Al Capone ended up: broke, insane and eventually dead. When some archaeologist or tabloid journalist decides to enter the sealed room where they once purportedly kept their hauls, it will, as Al Capone's vault, be empty and silent.
Read the writing on the wall or find someone who speaks the language. The old methods do not work. Move with the times or be buried. The jig is up.
Publishers price ebooks nearly as high as hard cover books. The thinking would appear to be publishers are determined to get more money for the writer. That is not the case. I figured out what is really going on when I looked at Kindle versions of authors I was interested in reading. The cost of the ebook was $14.99, an outrageous cost in my estimation, and the hard cover was $18.99. There is no way I am going to shell out $14.99 for ones and zeros sent at the speed of light (or whatever approaches light on wireless) when I can get the hard cover for four dollars more. I can even buy the hard cover for less than $10 if I buy new or used from secondary sellers.
I hit the button to purchase a brand new hard cover copy delivered free for $7.49. That's when it hit me what was happening. It's the publishing version of the protection game.
Consumers, especially in the current economic climate, do not want to waste money. They want value for their dollars and $14.99 is not value for what is in essence a copied digital file. It's cheaper to get the printed version of the book, even if delivery takes longer. That's the whole point. By pricing ebooks at or near the hard copy version of a book, consumers will opt for the print version instead of the ebook, unless they have lots of money and don't care how much an ebook costs. It's the siren call of doing business the old way.
Forget about the claims of rampant book piracy and how ebooks endanger author royalties and the publishing industry. It's all about forcing someone to take what you want them to have rather than giving the consumer what he wants and prefers.
Ebooks will not be the death of the printed book. They are an alternative to print, not replacement for print. It's like buying the paperback copy of a novel and liking it so much you're willing to buy the hard cover so it will last longer. Paperbacks did not ruin hard cover sales and ebooks will not ruin paperback or hard cover sales. That's a myth, a myth propagated by publishers to maintain control of consumers. It's wrong thinking and completely self serving.
In the old days of gangsters and neighborhood crime, a shop owner was approached by gang members, or their representatives, and offered insurance. When the shop owner refused, a demonstration of the insurance's value was staged. Windows were broken. Locks were smashed. Goods were stolen. When the representatives returned in a day or so, shaking their heads and commiserating with the shop owner, they offered the insurance once again. Recalitrant shop owners held out -- as long as their stock and ability to replace the property held out, or until they were killed -- while less well heeled shop owners gave in and bought the insurance -- from the people who would have robbed and destroyed their property without it. Publishing is now in the same business.
Instead of embracing ebooks and offering them at prices in line with the product, publishers offer insurance to consumers by pricing ebooks out of range of their actual value and worth. Publishers don't trust consumers to be intelligent enough or willing enough to buy hard cover or paperback books when ebooks are available, thus alienating and angering a segment of the population that prefer ebooks to print, just as there is a larger segment of the population that prefers print to ebooks. For those bottom line thinking MBAs, that's just bad business.
Good businessmen know that by offering several formats across a wide range of formats will net the most return in sales. Bad businessmen (read: publishers) try to force consumers into the slaughtering chute by hook, crook and the old protection game. It will not work. Consumers will catch on and avoid buying your books, turning instead to secondhand bookstores, piracy and remainder stores where they can get what they want. Profits will fall and you will be out of business when authors jump ship for self-publishing or an indie publisher that will offer better terms, larger royalties and the same (lack of) services. Take heed. The writing is on the wall and the news is all bad.
Short-sighted publishers will soon be a vanishing breed, and good riddance to them all. Piracy will continue when prices remain high, especially in a difficult economy like this. More authors, like Barry Eysler, Joe Konrath, and others, will continue to jump ship for indie publishing, or for the new kid on the block, Amazon, or they will dive into self-publishing with a vengeance. Those publishers who will survive the coming storm will buy a clue and get smart. They will price ebooks at competitive rates while continuing to sell hard cover and paperback at the usual prices. Smart publishers will give value for the product and revise author contracts and royalty percentages. The rest will end up where Al Capone ended up: broke, insane and eventually dead. When some archaeologist or tabloid journalist decides to enter the sealed room where they once purportedly kept their hauls, it will, as Al Capone's vault, be empty and silent.
Read the writing on the wall or find someone who speaks the language. The old methods do not work. Move with the times or be buried. The jig is up.
AUTHOR BIO:
At the foot of Pikes Peak, in the shadow of its usually snow-covered shoulders visible from the bedroom window, J. M. Cornwell writes while looking out over the abandoned-appearing back yard on the other side of a weather beaten, snaggle-toothed fence. She transcribes dreams into words and calls them novels.
Ms. Cornwell is the author of fourteen books, contributing stories to several Chicken Soup, Cup of Comfort and various anthologies and writes book reviews for Authorlink. Ms. Cornwell's first novel, Past Imperfect, was published by L&L Dreamspell July 2009. Among Women is the latest novel, the first in a two-part series on New Orleans in 1984.
At the foot of Pikes Peak, in the shadow of its usually snow-covered shoulders visible from the bedroom window, J. M. Cornwell writes while looking out over the abandoned-appearing back yard on the other side of a weather beaten, snaggle-toothed fence. She transcribes dreams into words and calls them novels.
Ms. Cornwell is the author of fourteen books, contributing stories to several Chicken Soup, Cup of Comfort and various anthologies and writes book reviews for Authorlink. Ms. Cornwell's first novel, Past Imperfect, was published by L&L Dreamspell July 2009. Among Women is the latest novel, the first in a two-part series on New Orleans in 1984.
Friday, June 03, 2011
Say It in Writing
One of the hardest tasks an author faces is sitting down in a chair to face the blank page. There is no doubt that after yesterday's announcement that V. S. Naipaul said that no woman could equal him as a writer because of sentimentality and female tosh, the task of facing the blank page got a bit easier. Naipaul seems to find inspiration in controversy and feuds. Since his 15-year feud with Paul Theroux has ended, he needs something new to boost his ego and his writing, thus his attack on women.
While controversy makes for interesting news and provides ample fuel for bonfires of some writer's vanities, it is not enough to rely on when it comes to sitting down and facing the blank page of work on a novel, short story or article. There is no substitute for hard work and discipline, even though many writers have dived into bottles and drugs to support their creativity. Having seen some of the resultant work, I cannot agree that drugs or alcohol, or whatever chore or tasks takes the writer away from the central task of writing, ever works -- or works for very long. Physical deterioration detracts from work, it does not enhance it.
Some writers have no problems with ending one project and beginning immediately on the next, while other writers find themselves in the midst of a blue funk with completion of one novel and unable to dive in and begin the next. Everyone is different and no one rule applies to all writers, except the one unbreakable rule that in order to have a book one must write it first.
My biggest problem is getting back up on the horse -- or in the chair and writing the next book. Once a project is completed, I must also see it through to publication since I am self-publishing, manage the marketing, do interviews and handle all the myriad details of getting attention for my work. There is no point in writing, unless it is for personal use only, if no one knows what has been written. With tens of thousands of books published every year in one for or another, getting noticed is more important and requires a substantial amount of work.
It would be easier to dive right into the next book, and preferable in most circumstances. It's not that easy to manage with all the work required of the author in promotion and advertising. Time is finite. Promotion it seems is eternal. The downtime between projects makes it that much more difficult to sit in the chair, put fingers to the keys and begin typing. Distance and time are not a writer's friends, at least not where output is concerned. The days of taking a year or two, or even five, to write the next book and still be in the public eye, are gone. The world moves too quickly and writers are quickly forgotten before they ever find an audience.
It all comes down to numbers: pages written, words written, books written, etc. The numbers either are or are not in favor, which adds yet one more burden to the already over burdened author. One can only handle so much before crumbling beneath the sheer weight of expectation.
All of this comes from my own personal fight with the post book blues, my name for the funk that surrounds me when I am finished with the bulk of marketing and promotion and know that I must now sit down and write another book. My current project has me stymied. All the research and incorporating it into a fictional novel, coupled with the ongoing promotion of my last book and the inevitable fears that I may not be up to the task come crashing down like the contents of Fibber and Molly McGee's closet, battering me to the floor.
And then I read Naipaul's condescending and egotistical comment that women are sentimental and what they write is not equal to his own work. After all I have read about Naipaul since I happened across his comments, I can see how he would think that, since he does not believe that anyone, male or female, is equal to him. Suddenly, I have a reason to sit down in the chair and face the blank page so I can fill it with proof that female writers are not just sentimental and that some female writers know exactly what it means to be master, or rather mistress, of a home and shoulder all the burdens normally handled by a big, strong male. I've been doing it for decades and am none the worse for it, although I think my sentimentality has been relegated to cards and pictures from my children and grandchildren.
One might think my sudden returning writing fervor is because I have something to prove, and maybe I do, but not to V. S. Naipaul or any fan. I must prove to myself that I have the strength and determination to continue in the face of incredible odds. My book is selling well and I need something to back it up to show I'm not a one, or in this case fourteen, book wonder. I have something to say that is not sentimental or female tosh. I have truths to impart and miles to go before I sleep. I have purpose. I am a writer.
Whatever it takes to get your bottom into the chair and your fingers whizzing over the keys, find it and don't stop until you do find whatever makes you mad enough, excited enough, or determined enough to get back into the saddle and write. Sometimes it's discipline and sometimes it is a bigoted, misogynistic, egotistical gas bag with a penchant for creating controversy. It's one way to stay in the public eye and make people remember who you are, even if they cannot manage to get through one of your books. This may be a man's world, but this woman still has a lot to say and will continue to say it in writing.
While controversy makes for interesting news and provides ample fuel for bonfires of some writer's vanities, it is not enough to rely on when it comes to sitting down and facing the blank page of work on a novel, short story or article. There is no substitute for hard work and discipline, even though many writers have dived into bottles and drugs to support their creativity. Having seen some of the resultant work, I cannot agree that drugs or alcohol, or whatever chore or tasks takes the writer away from the central task of writing, ever works -- or works for very long. Physical deterioration detracts from work, it does not enhance it.
Some writers have no problems with ending one project and beginning immediately on the next, while other writers find themselves in the midst of a blue funk with completion of one novel and unable to dive in and begin the next. Everyone is different and no one rule applies to all writers, except the one unbreakable rule that in order to have a book one must write it first.
My biggest problem is getting back up on the horse -- or in the chair and writing the next book. Once a project is completed, I must also see it through to publication since I am self-publishing, manage the marketing, do interviews and handle all the myriad details of getting attention for my work. There is no point in writing, unless it is for personal use only, if no one knows what has been written. With tens of thousands of books published every year in one for or another, getting noticed is more important and requires a substantial amount of work.
It would be easier to dive right into the next book, and preferable in most circumstances. It's not that easy to manage with all the work required of the author in promotion and advertising. Time is finite. Promotion it seems is eternal. The downtime between projects makes it that much more difficult to sit in the chair, put fingers to the keys and begin typing. Distance and time are not a writer's friends, at least not where output is concerned. The days of taking a year or two, or even five, to write the next book and still be in the public eye, are gone. The world moves too quickly and writers are quickly forgotten before they ever find an audience.
It all comes down to numbers: pages written, words written, books written, etc. The numbers either are or are not in favor, which adds yet one more burden to the already over burdened author. One can only handle so much before crumbling beneath the sheer weight of expectation.
All of this comes from my own personal fight with the post book blues, my name for the funk that surrounds me when I am finished with the bulk of marketing and promotion and know that I must now sit down and write another book. My current project has me stymied. All the research and incorporating it into a fictional novel, coupled with the ongoing promotion of my last book and the inevitable fears that I may not be up to the task come crashing down like the contents of Fibber and Molly McGee's closet, battering me to the floor.
And then I read Naipaul's condescending and egotistical comment that women are sentimental and what they write is not equal to his own work. After all I have read about Naipaul since I happened across his comments, I can see how he would think that, since he does not believe that anyone, male or female, is equal to him. Suddenly, I have a reason to sit down in the chair and face the blank page so I can fill it with proof that female writers are not just sentimental and that some female writers know exactly what it means to be master, or rather mistress, of a home and shoulder all the burdens normally handled by a big, strong male. I've been doing it for decades and am none the worse for it, although I think my sentimentality has been relegated to cards and pictures from my children and grandchildren.
One might think my sudden returning writing fervor is because I have something to prove, and maybe I do, but not to V. S. Naipaul or any fan. I must prove to myself that I have the strength and determination to continue in the face of incredible odds. My book is selling well and I need something to back it up to show I'm not a one, or in this case fourteen, book wonder. I have something to say that is not sentimental or female tosh. I have truths to impart and miles to go before I sleep. I have purpose. I am a writer.
Whatever it takes to get your bottom into the chair and your fingers whizzing over the keys, find it and don't stop until you do find whatever makes you mad enough, excited enough, or determined enough to get back into the saddle and write. Sometimes it's discipline and sometimes it is a bigoted, misogynistic, egotistical gas bag with a penchant for creating controversy. It's one way to stay in the public eye and make people remember who you are, even if they cannot manage to get through one of your books. This may be a man's world, but this woman still has a lot to say and will continue to say it in writing.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Kindle book of the week
It takes time to get a good marketing roll going, and this is the next step. Don't be fooled. It also takes money to get a marketing roll going. In the end, though, it is up to the author and the book to keep the readers' interest. Here's hoping the interest continues for Among Women. It's not your average novel, but something more akin to Scheherazade's tales in the 1001 Arabian nights tales, except with women inmates in a New Orleans jail. Get it while it's hot.
That is all. Disperse.
That is all. Disperse.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Into Every Life a Little Rain
The controversy and discussion, heated at times, continues over the cost of ebooks in terms of price and of sustainability, sustainability being the watchword of the beginning of the 21st century. Some pundits decry the death of the print book, as if print will ever go out of style, and blame ebooks on the substandard quality of books currently printed. Printed books already had planned obsolescence built into them a long time before ebooks came on the scene, a very long time. Some of the complaints about eReaders include the cost of breaking them down and returning them to their components parts for disposal, many components of which are toxic to the environment (notably battery acids and the need for power to run them). No innovation is every cheap or doesn't have an impact on the previous technology and, yes, print books are technology of a different sort. The one thing forgotten in this equation is the positive impact on readers.
Technology changes quickly and it is doubtful many people still have their first computers, except a few packrats who save everything they've ever owned. Although trees that are used in the creation of paper for books are specially grown, harvested and used in the manufacture of books, the content of the paper has changed drastically in a very short time. Cloth is no longer a part of the mix and has not been since the middle of the 20th century, thus relegating books to a very short shelf life. Books with durable cloth and wood pulp paper cost money to make and leaving out the cloth ensures books will deteriorate and begin to crumble within five years so that new books must be purchased. This does presuppose a use rate that hastens the decline of the paper, necessitating purchase of another book.
Books are not made to last. Is anything these days? While it was de rigueur to keep a book for the life of a private library, or pass it on to a secondhand shop or libary to be sold adn resold, most books, usually brand new books that have been fingered and not purchased, usually end up in landfills by the tons. That won't happen to ebooks. Digitized files made of ones and zeroes and transmitted at the speed of light (depending on analog or non-analog technology) cost very little to make and will last as long as the technology lasts to support it. Current eReaders could soon go the way of the 5.75" floppy or the smaller floppy disk and not last for ten or twenty years (more like 2-5 years), but the files will remain. Some vendors have a loan feature so that ebooks can be shared between friends. The birth of the virtual lending library.
Public libraries, and some bookstores, lend ebooks over and over to readers who download the copy to their device for a specified period when the book reverts back to the library. A lot of publishers are doing the same thing with Advance Reading Copies of new publications so that the time available for reviewers to read and review is limited. At least the IRS won't need to count those books as income since they disappear within 55 days. Sad, but true. One of the perks of being a book reviewer has just bitten the dust.
Paperback books were created to provide a cheaper copy of the hardback book, which is made of better stuff (still no cloth), and lasts a bit longer. Many readers prefer hardbacks for that purpose, but the cost is usually 3-4x the cost of a paperback, which is made to last about five years, less with more handling. Part of the complaint of the physical book cadre is that print copies cannot stand up to the low cost of ebooks. The low cost of ebooks is a myth, except in self-published circles, because publishers are charging nearly as much for the ebook as for the hard cover book, a business move that will doubtless cost publishers in the end. With ebooks priced at between 99 cents and $5.99, NYT best selling authors' books priced at $12.99 to $16.99 will not fare well and people will either buy the paperback or the hard cover version, which is what publishers want anyway. They make more money on physical books than on ebooks, a point that is not lost on readers since piracy of digital files is on the rise. Price a book too high and the invitation to piracy is engraved and hand delivered.
It is harder to pirate a print book, but not unheard of. It's not more difficult that copying a Van Gogh or da Vinci and selling it as authentic. Happens all the time in every trade from antiques made yesterday and carefully aged to bring a higher price from collectors to now include publishing. It was inevitable. Runway show for designer fashions this week and next month the haute couture is on sale at bargain basement prices in retail outlets everywhere next month. It is the price of doing business when business prices are too high. Everyone wants haute couture but at a more reasonable price. It's why businesses like the Price Club and Wal-Mart do so well -- lower prices.
The glass, plastic, metal and chemicals that go into the manufacture of an eReaderdo indeed cause an impact on the environment, but so do cars, planes and batteries, to name a few, all over the world. Junk yards came into business to dispose of the component parts of cars, planes, batteries, and all sorts of toxic and nontoxic component parts and no doubt eReaders will go there when they die and become part of the wonderful world of breakdown and redistribution. Today an eReader and tomorrow a car in Nagasaki or a cooking pot in Australia. The possibilities are endless. With print books, the only place to go is back into the earth to provide land upon which to build houses and businesses or provide nutrients to grow more trees to make into paper to print more books. It's the cycle of business life.
One of the points that no one seems to be making is that ebooks provide an alternative to readers with arthritis or other debilitating diseases that make holding print books more and more difficult since the size of books has increased with the cost. A friend told me last night that she had to quit reading Stephen King's The Dome because it was too difficult to hold with her arthritic hands. She still doesn't know how the books ends and won't find out until she breaks down and gets the ebook version.
With the move to smaller homes with less space for living, let alone having shelves for private libraries, an eReader can hold more than a thousand books available at all times, and some come with lighting that is actually useful in the dark. Some people have streamlined their homes to less than 300 square feet, which is smaller than my first apartment, or my tenth apartment for that matter. The idea seems to be taking up as little space as possible, something that seems lost on cemeteries since the smallest receptacle is a box to hold ashes, while funeral directors are still selling plots that must be lined with a cement casing to hold the coffin to keep the fluids from leaching into the soil as the body decomposes. No more will people have to worry about decomposing bodies in the soil, not with airtight cement liners and coffins built to last longer than the pyramids. The silk lining will decompose, but not the coffin.
No matter which end of the print book versus ebook controversy you choose, there are pros and cons to both sides. The only reliable and unassailable fact of life is that everything changes. Print books are not going out of style; they never will as long as there are people who cannot afford to buy a single book, let alone a shelf full of paperbacks quietly and quickly aging into pulp. Print books are here to stay. They don't last as long as the hand illuminated manuscripts carefully lined and limned on papyrus or parchment (made of animal skin) and ebooks will last as long as the technology remains available to read them. Someone will find a way to make the devices cheaper and smaller with more functions, but the word remains. Books are here to stay in one form or another, and that makes my job a little easier since I write so people can read.
Pick a side, any side, and hang on for the ride. Everything is changing -- eventually.
Technology changes quickly and it is doubtful many people still have their first computers, except a few packrats who save everything they've ever owned. Although trees that are used in the creation of paper for books are specially grown, harvested and used in the manufacture of books, the content of the paper has changed drastically in a very short time. Cloth is no longer a part of the mix and has not been since the middle of the 20th century, thus relegating books to a very short shelf life. Books with durable cloth and wood pulp paper cost money to make and leaving out the cloth ensures books will deteriorate and begin to crumble within five years so that new books must be purchased. This does presuppose a use rate that hastens the decline of the paper, necessitating purchase of another book.
Books are not made to last. Is anything these days? While it was de rigueur to keep a book for the life of a private library, or pass it on to a secondhand shop or libary to be sold adn resold, most books, usually brand new books that have been fingered and not purchased, usually end up in landfills by the tons. That won't happen to ebooks. Digitized files made of ones and zeroes and transmitted at the speed of light (depending on analog or non-analog technology) cost very little to make and will last as long as the technology lasts to support it. Current eReaders could soon go the way of the 5.75" floppy or the smaller floppy disk and not last for ten or twenty years (more like 2-5 years), but the files will remain. Some vendors have a loan feature so that ebooks can be shared between friends. The birth of the virtual lending library.
Public libraries, and some bookstores, lend ebooks over and over to readers who download the copy to their device for a specified period when the book reverts back to the library. A lot of publishers are doing the same thing with Advance Reading Copies of new publications so that the time available for reviewers to read and review is limited. At least the IRS won't need to count those books as income since they disappear within 55 days. Sad, but true. One of the perks of being a book reviewer has just bitten the dust.
Paperback books were created to provide a cheaper copy of the hardback book, which is made of better stuff (still no cloth), and lasts a bit longer. Many readers prefer hardbacks for that purpose, but the cost is usually 3-4x the cost of a paperback, which is made to last about five years, less with more handling. Part of the complaint of the physical book cadre is that print copies cannot stand up to the low cost of ebooks. The low cost of ebooks is a myth, except in self-published circles, because publishers are charging nearly as much for the ebook as for the hard cover book, a business move that will doubtless cost publishers in the end. With ebooks priced at between 99 cents and $5.99, NYT best selling authors' books priced at $12.99 to $16.99 will not fare well and people will either buy the paperback or the hard cover version, which is what publishers want anyway. They make more money on physical books than on ebooks, a point that is not lost on readers since piracy of digital files is on the rise. Price a book too high and the invitation to piracy is engraved and hand delivered.
It is harder to pirate a print book, but not unheard of. It's not more difficult that copying a Van Gogh or da Vinci and selling it as authentic. Happens all the time in every trade from antiques made yesterday and carefully aged to bring a higher price from collectors to now include publishing. It was inevitable. Runway show for designer fashions this week and next month the haute couture is on sale at bargain basement prices in retail outlets everywhere next month. It is the price of doing business when business prices are too high. Everyone wants haute couture but at a more reasonable price. It's why businesses like the Price Club and Wal-Mart do so well -- lower prices.
The glass, plastic, metal and chemicals that go into the manufacture of an eReaderdo indeed cause an impact on the environment, but so do cars, planes and batteries, to name a few, all over the world. Junk yards came into business to dispose of the component parts of cars, planes, batteries, and all sorts of toxic and nontoxic component parts and no doubt eReaders will go there when they die and become part of the wonderful world of breakdown and redistribution. Today an eReader and tomorrow a car in Nagasaki or a cooking pot in Australia. The possibilities are endless. With print books, the only place to go is back into the earth to provide land upon which to build houses and businesses or provide nutrients to grow more trees to make into paper to print more books. It's the cycle of business life.
One of the points that no one seems to be making is that ebooks provide an alternative to readers with arthritis or other debilitating diseases that make holding print books more and more difficult since the size of books has increased with the cost. A friend told me last night that she had to quit reading Stephen King's The Dome because it was too difficult to hold with her arthritic hands. She still doesn't know how the books ends and won't find out until she breaks down and gets the ebook version.
With the move to smaller homes with less space for living, let alone having shelves for private libraries, an eReader can hold more than a thousand books available at all times, and some come with lighting that is actually useful in the dark. Some people have streamlined their homes to less than 300 square feet, which is smaller than my first apartment, or my tenth apartment for that matter. The idea seems to be taking up as little space as possible, something that seems lost on cemeteries since the smallest receptacle is a box to hold ashes, while funeral directors are still selling plots that must be lined with a cement casing to hold the coffin to keep the fluids from leaching into the soil as the body decomposes. No more will people have to worry about decomposing bodies in the soil, not with airtight cement liners and coffins built to last longer than the pyramids. The silk lining will decompose, but not the coffin.
No matter which end of the print book versus ebook controversy you choose, there are pros and cons to both sides. The only reliable and unassailable fact of life is that everything changes. Print books are not going out of style; they never will as long as there are people who cannot afford to buy a single book, let alone a shelf full of paperbacks quietly and quickly aging into pulp. Print books are here to stay. They don't last as long as the hand illuminated manuscripts carefully lined and limned on papyrus or parchment (made of animal skin) and ebooks will last as long as the technology remains available to read them. Someone will find a way to make the devices cheaper and smaller with more functions, but the word remains. Books are here to stay in one form or another, and that makes my job a little easier since I write so people can read.
Pick a side, any side, and hang on for the ride. Everything is changing -- eventually.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Book Trailer: Among Women
After much worrying and a bit of nail biting (I used clippers), I finally got the link for the new book trailer for Among Women and it's pretty good. Check it out.
If you'd like to read the book, it's available on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble and Amazon as an ebook, so far, and available at your favorite bookstore in paperback, including Amazon, of course. Feel free to read and review. I'd like to know what you think of the first part of the New Orleans story. Yes, there is a second book.
If you'd like to read the book, it's available on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble and Amazon as an ebook, so far, and available at your favorite bookstore in paperback, including Amazon, of course. Feel free to read and review. I'd like to know what you think of the first part of the New Orleans story. Yes, there is a second book.
Magic at The Majestic
When I read a bad review I want to go directly to the source and read or watch what caused so much trouble -- usually. There are some writers and actors that get an immediate down turned thumb from me. Jim Carrey is at the top of the listu. Yes, he's a great comedian with his rubber face, flat feet and seemingly elastic joints, but he gives me a pain ever since Dumb and Dumber and his performance in Batman as the Joker. I much preferred Cesar Romero.
I decided to take another chance on Carrey and watched The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and I prefer the animated version with Boris Karloff reading the story. It was much closer to Dr. Seuss's tone and message. The multi-car pile-up that was the Carrey version was simply sappy and I didn't even finish watching it, although the little girl who played the little Who girl was quite charming. I avoid Jim Carrey at all costs -- until a couple weeks ago when I decided to give The Majestic a chance. At least it was drama and not comedy, or Carrey's brand of comedy, and he has done fairly well in other dramatic parts before he started believing his press. I was amazed.
The Majestic is nominally about the red scare during the 1950s when Joe McCarthy got a bug up his bottom about communism and communists. This time it was Jim Carrey as a screenwriter post World War II who gets it in the neck by the studio, his fiancee' and his government because he signed a membership roster of what turned out to be a communist group. The screenwriter was in search of the loose morales of a certain young lady of his acquaintance and did not have the hots for socialism or communism.
Carrey decides to run away, or at least put some distance between himsef and Hollywood and the witch hunt, and ends up in a wreck that sends him flying down the river and onto a secluded beach near a small town in northern California where he is mistaken for one of the hometown boys, now missing for nine years. Since he's lost his memory, he reluctantly goes along with the people in hopes of recovering what he's lost. Instead, he finds something he never knew he needed.
The Majestic is about the 1950s, but it could not have been written or produced or shown during that time. Joe McCarthy and his Red vigilante group wouldn't have killed it in its infancy. There is a nostalgic feel that fits post war America through the beginning of the movie that then descends to a bit of camp and thumbing noses at the senate inverstigative committee in front of which Carrey eventually appears. However, the movie still works with all the schmalz and good feelings that characterize this kind of drama. Carrey gives an -- for him -- understated performance that sparkles for the most part. He is real where he needs to be real and honest and eats the scenery a bit in front of the senate committee, for which I think this time he can be forgiven.
Despite the flaws in this movie, I did enjoy it and heartily recommend it for the underlying message of hope and hometown values espoused. It might remind you -- if you're old enough -- that there was a time when going to the movies was a big occasion. People called babysitters and dressed up in their best finery and went to the air conditioned confines of the magic factory where the seats were plush and the surroundings opulent and full of magic. That's the kind of entertainment I remember, the kind that is far from spectacular chase scenes, over done pyrotechnics, special effects that didn't need computers and acting that was dark and gritty and mostly well done. There were stinkers back in the 1950s, too, but it was also the time of Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments, and movies that touched the heart like The Boy With the Green Hair. It was magic.
I miss dressing up and going out on the town and so much about the times of my youth, and movies like The Majestic go a long way towards bringing them back. If Jim Carrey continues in this less flamboyant style I may go back to watching his movies. This is the actor who tempted me closer with his short-lived comedy The Duck Factory and didn't completely ruin my belief in his abilities with The Truman Show. Of course, that was before he became famous and lauded for his comedic turns. Give me more of movies like The Majestic no matter who stars, like David Ogden Stiers and Martin Landau, among others, and I will get dressed up and go to the movies once again because that will be entertainment.
I decided to take another chance on Carrey and watched The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and I prefer the animated version with Boris Karloff reading the story. It was much closer to Dr. Seuss's tone and message. The multi-car pile-up that was the Carrey version was simply sappy and I didn't even finish watching it, although the little girl who played the little Who girl was quite charming. I avoid Jim Carrey at all costs -- until a couple weeks ago when I decided to give The Majestic a chance. At least it was drama and not comedy, or Carrey's brand of comedy, and he has done fairly well in other dramatic parts before he started believing his press. I was amazed.
The Majestic is nominally about the red scare during the 1950s when Joe McCarthy got a bug up his bottom about communism and communists. This time it was Jim Carrey as a screenwriter post World War II who gets it in the neck by the studio, his fiancee' and his government because he signed a membership roster of what turned out to be a communist group. The screenwriter was in search of the loose morales of a certain young lady of his acquaintance and did not have the hots for socialism or communism.
Carrey decides to run away, or at least put some distance between himsef and Hollywood and the witch hunt, and ends up in a wreck that sends him flying down the river and onto a secluded beach near a small town in northern California where he is mistaken for one of the hometown boys, now missing for nine years. Since he's lost his memory, he reluctantly goes along with the people in hopes of recovering what he's lost. Instead, he finds something he never knew he needed.
The Majestic is about the 1950s, but it could not have been written or produced or shown during that time. Joe McCarthy and his Red vigilante group wouldn't have killed it in its infancy. There is a nostalgic feel that fits post war America through the beginning of the movie that then descends to a bit of camp and thumbing noses at the senate inverstigative committee in front of which Carrey eventually appears. However, the movie still works with all the schmalz and good feelings that characterize this kind of drama. Carrey gives an -- for him -- understated performance that sparkles for the most part. He is real where he needs to be real and honest and eats the scenery a bit in front of the senate committee, for which I think this time he can be forgiven.
Despite the flaws in this movie, I did enjoy it and heartily recommend it for the underlying message of hope and hometown values espoused. It might remind you -- if you're old enough -- that there was a time when going to the movies was a big occasion. People called babysitters and dressed up in their best finery and went to the air conditioned confines of the magic factory where the seats were plush and the surroundings opulent and full of magic. That's the kind of entertainment I remember, the kind that is far from spectacular chase scenes, over done pyrotechnics, special effects that didn't need computers and acting that was dark and gritty and mostly well done. There were stinkers back in the 1950s, too, but it was also the time of Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments, and movies that touched the heart like The Boy With the Green Hair. It was magic.
I miss dressing up and going out on the town and so much about the times of my youth, and movies like The Majestic go a long way towards bringing them back. If Jim Carrey continues in this less flamboyant style I may go back to watching his movies. This is the actor who tempted me closer with his short-lived comedy The Duck Factory and didn't completely ruin my belief in his abilities with The Truman Show. Of course, that was before he became famous and lauded for his comedic turns. Give me more of movies like The Majestic no matter who stars, like David Ogden Stiers and Martin Landau, among others, and I will get dressed up and go to the movies once again because that will be entertainment.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Tyranny of Series Novels
Since George R. R. Martin blogged about how some of his fans were actually angry at his slow pace on putting out the fifth book in the Fire & Ice series, many authors have been asking who is in charge, the author or the fan. It's seems like a simple answer. The author is in charge. The answer is not so simple. The author is in charge of writing, but publishers, editors and fans have more control than you would think.
When Stephen King posed this question, he came up with a novel length answer: Misery. King put the author in danger and in the hands of a psychotic fan enraged that he had killed off her favorite serial character, Misery Chastain, and changed both their lives. Seeing that as one dangerous extreme of the author-fan spectrum, what is the other end?
Writing a series of novels around a character or group of characters can be fun -- for a while. It's a great way to build up readership and a loyal fan base, but it's also hard work that often ends in tears and flat writing.
Traditional publishers are all about the series because it brands an author and that leads to pseudonyms, writing on a tight schedule and often repetition. The publisher cracks the whip. What next? The author complies with an outline of the next book in the series and the work begins again . . . and again . . . and again, and so on until the author is played out or on the verge of a major snit fit. Too often the publisher's demands exceed the muse's well of creativity and newness and the books suffer. The writing is flat and bordering on repetitious, if not downright repetitious, and rabbits must be pulled from an assortment of hats. I've seen it happen to too many series that started out wonderful and ended up boring.
Anne Rice's famous vampires were fresh and interesting once upon a time, but they became boring and irritating and no longer any good. That happened about the time that Memnoch, the Devil came out and the series didn't survive very long after that. Anne even took a powder and decided to write something else, turning her back on her vampires for religious writing.
Katie McAllister's books were fun and innovative with her vampires looking for their one true soul mate to save them from their wicked, wicked ways and make them whole. I read several and noticed that the same situations cropped up in almost the same point in the next story as in previous tales and there was little variation in the characters or their dialogue and demeanor. I have not read her dragon series or her steampunk novel, but I'd be willing to say there is a similar issue with those as well.
Charlaine Harris has fallen down the rabbit hole with her latest addition to the Sookie-verse and several other authors have fallen down the same hole, albeit with a different landing zone.
It's nearly impossible to sustain the enthusiasm for a single character or group of characters unless you're either very committed or have an endless range of stories that fits that particular universe. Boredom sets in for reader as well as most discerning fans, although the die hard fans will drive the author nuts demanding the next book in the series -- or else. Fans can be so possessive of what they consider to be their books and their characters, hence King's premise in Misery.
Many authors of genre fiction choose to write the same style of books without following a single character, like David Baldacci, although David does branch out a lot and remains firmly entrenched in the thriller genre. It's the one he knows and knows how to write very well.
A few decades ago, I picked up a novel, Children of the Lion, by Peter Danielson and was introduced to writing that mingled fact and fiction with what were purported to be the children of Cain. You know Cain, the first murderer who killed his brother Abel so his god would love him more. I enjoyed the books thoroughly and couldn't wait for the next book in the series, until I hit The Golden Pharoah. I had a big problem with the short reign of the Shepherd Kings in Egypt during the schism and the fifty-year bondage of the Israelites. That much disbelief I was not willing to suspend. I was done and didn't go back. I had the same problem with Anne Rice's Mayfair witches series that took off from the Vampire Chronicles to follow the line of Mayfair witches and who had the power in the next generation. The first book was wonderful, the second a bit bizarre and, with brief forays into more interesting territory, the books and writing descended into bland territory and I was done.
Maybe I don't have an obsessive gene that allows me to overlook banal writing, predictable plots and endless repetition or maybe I just don't have the stamina for an endless stream of books built around the same characters or situation. Whatever it is, I fail to understand the need for a fan to dictate to an author what should and shouldn't be written and on what schedule.
It could also be that I'm an author with lots of stories to write and I know how hard it is to be fresh and original with the same character or group of characters. I have never loved any character that much, even though I will be returning to New Orleans to tell the rest of Pearl Caldwell's story and write what happens when Pearl and J. D. Bath meet again, and they will meet again. It's only one more book and not a real series. Series aren't really series until they get past trilogy. So far, there is no plan for me to venture into that particular territory. Two books are okay. I can even envision a trilogy, but I doubt I'll head into series territory any time soon, or within my lifetime.
George R. R. Martin is writing the fifth book in his series and it looks like there will be another one after that one. How many more he plans is up to him. His fans have been rude and demanding and refuse to understand that some authors just don't do deadlines well. A book takes as long as it takes and fans need to understand that or Stephen King's fantasy may well become real.
My advice to readers and fans is to accept what is given in the time that it is given and be glad when you get it. Treat it like a Faberge egg: priceless, enjoyable and one of a kind. I felt that way about Frank Herbert's Dune series. His was the one series of books that never got old, wasn't repetitious and was always fresh and new. He was a rare author and I followed his stories whenever I could find them. I have also read his son Brian's continuation of the series and have enjoyed them so far, but there are only so many hours in a day and I must write my own books -- and book reviews. They are my Faberge eggs -- so far. I hope they stay that way.
As for publishers demanding additions to the brand names they feel that they have created (chain gangs authors are being tied to), buy a clue. An author is a rare and precious thing able to create wondrous worlds and memorable characters. Treat them gently or they will find someone who will. Series work on television because writing is done by committee.
When Stephen King posed this question, he came up with a novel length answer: Misery. King put the author in danger and in the hands of a psychotic fan enraged that he had killed off her favorite serial character, Misery Chastain, and changed both their lives. Seeing that as one dangerous extreme of the author-fan spectrum, what is the other end?
Writing a series of novels around a character or group of characters can be fun -- for a while. It's a great way to build up readership and a loyal fan base, but it's also hard work that often ends in tears and flat writing.
Traditional publishers are all about the series because it brands an author and that leads to pseudonyms, writing on a tight schedule and often repetition. The publisher cracks the whip. What next? The author complies with an outline of the next book in the series and the work begins again . . . and again . . . and again, and so on until the author is played out or on the verge of a major snit fit. Too often the publisher's demands exceed the muse's well of creativity and newness and the books suffer. The writing is flat and bordering on repetitious, if not downright repetitious, and rabbits must be pulled from an assortment of hats. I've seen it happen to too many series that started out wonderful and ended up boring.
Anne Rice's famous vampires were fresh and interesting once upon a time, but they became boring and irritating and no longer any good. That happened about the time that Memnoch, the Devil came out and the series didn't survive very long after that. Anne even took a powder and decided to write something else, turning her back on her vampires for religious writing.
Katie McAllister's books were fun and innovative with her vampires looking for their one true soul mate to save them from their wicked, wicked ways and make them whole. I read several and noticed that the same situations cropped up in almost the same point in the next story as in previous tales and there was little variation in the characters or their dialogue and demeanor. I have not read her dragon series or her steampunk novel, but I'd be willing to say there is a similar issue with those as well.
Charlaine Harris has fallen down the rabbit hole with her latest addition to the Sookie-verse and several other authors have fallen down the same hole, albeit with a different landing zone.
It's nearly impossible to sustain the enthusiasm for a single character or group of characters unless you're either very committed or have an endless range of stories that fits that particular universe. Boredom sets in for reader as well as most discerning fans, although the die hard fans will drive the author nuts demanding the next book in the series -- or else. Fans can be so possessive of what they consider to be their books and their characters, hence King's premise in Misery.
Many authors of genre fiction choose to write the same style of books without following a single character, like David Baldacci, although David does branch out a lot and remains firmly entrenched in the thriller genre. It's the one he knows and knows how to write very well.
A few decades ago, I picked up a novel, Children of the Lion, by Peter Danielson and was introduced to writing that mingled fact and fiction with what were purported to be the children of Cain. You know Cain, the first murderer who killed his brother Abel so his god would love him more. I enjoyed the books thoroughly and couldn't wait for the next book in the series, until I hit The Golden Pharoah. I had a big problem with the short reign of the Shepherd Kings in Egypt during the schism and the fifty-year bondage of the Israelites. That much disbelief I was not willing to suspend. I was done and didn't go back. I had the same problem with Anne Rice's Mayfair witches series that took off from the Vampire Chronicles to follow the line of Mayfair witches and who had the power in the next generation. The first book was wonderful, the second a bit bizarre and, with brief forays into more interesting territory, the books and writing descended into bland territory and I was done.
Maybe I don't have an obsessive gene that allows me to overlook banal writing, predictable plots and endless repetition or maybe I just don't have the stamina for an endless stream of books built around the same characters or situation. Whatever it is, I fail to understand the need for a fan to dictate to an author what should and shouldn't be written and on what schedule.
It could also be that I'm an author with lots of stories to write and I know how hard it is to be fresh and original with the same character or group of characters. I have never loved any character that much, even though I will be returning to New Orleans to tell the rest of Pearl Caldwell's story and write what happens when Pearl and J. D. Bath meet again, and they will meet again. It's only one more book and not a real series. Series aren't really series until they get past trilogy. So far, there is no plan for me to venture into that particular territory. Two books are okay. I can even envision a trilogy, but I doubt I'll head into series territory any time soon, or within my lifetime.
George R. R. Martin is writing the fifth book in his series and it looks like there will be another one after that one. How many more he plans is up to him. His fans have been rude and demanding and refuse to understand that some authors just don't do deadlines well. A book takes as long as it takes and fans need to understand that or Stephen King's fantasy may well become real.
My advice to readers and fans is to accept what is given in the time that it is given and be glad when you get it. Treat it like a Faberge egg: priceless, enjoyable and one of a kind. I felt that way about Frank Herbert's Dune series. His was the one series of books that never got old, wasn't repetitious and was always fresh and new. He was a rare author and I followed his stories whenever I could find them. I have also read his son Brian's continuation of the series and have enjoyed them so far, but there are only so many hours in a day and I must write my own books -- and book reviews. They are my Faberge eggs -- so far. I hope they stay that way.
As for publishers demanding additions to the brand names they feel that they have created (chain gangs authors are being tied to), buy a clue. An author is a rare and precious thing able to create wondrous worlds and memorable characters. Treat them gently or they will find someone who will. Series work on television because writing is done by committee.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Mythos of Frank Herbert
When my cousin by marriage, Michael Vanderboegh, told me I should read Dune by Frank Herbert, I wasn't interested. There was nothing wrong with what he told me, but I could not get interested. There were too many other things going on in my life, like adjusting to being divorced with three small boys, only one of whom was in school (first grade) and working two jobs to make ends meet. I didn't have time for books, even for the science fiction I enjoyed so much.
Books had not been a part of my life for a few years, at least since getting pregnant and having children. Babies tend to suck up all available time and energy until there is nothing left for the good stuff, like reading. Dune was off the list of available things to do. There were not enough hours in the day for reading. The only time I had to myself was in the shower, if I got it before the boys were up or after they went to sleep, and falling into a dead faint at the end of the day.
I had much more time a few years later and picked up the book at a secondhand store while trying to add to my Andre Norton collection. I happened across the book and took a glance at the back cover and first few pages. I got lucky. The book was available in hard cover, and so I bought it, took it home and found a few minutes to begin reading. I was reluctant to put the book down to cook dinner, do laundry or go to bed. I was mesmerized -- and hooked but good.
The sweep of plot, characters and worlds took my breath away and the story was a real page turner, despite its deceptive size. I recognized many of the so-called ancient words drawn from Greek, Italian and Muslim origins, but that wasn't the real draw for me. It was the scope of the plots and stories that intertwined, leaving me hungry for more without ever feeling lost. That was artistry. That was good writing and I couldn't wait for the next book and the ones after that.
I did read some of Herbert's short story collections, and they were good, but it was with Dune that he reached his true calling as a storyteller. I go back and read Dune and the rest of the books from time to time, and I have read several of Herbert's son Brian's additions to the mythology and history of the worlds and people, answering questions about their origins and the beginnings of feuds, how the navigators evolved and where the whole thing was going in terms of religion and history. One thing I learned from Herbert, even though I knew it already, was that everything dies. Every religion, every system and every civilization reaches a pinnacle and is replaced by something new, something born from seeds planted long ago. About the only thing that lasted in Herbert's vision was Judaism.
Catholocism had evolved and become a breeding and martial arts program that, in concert with melange, the spice that extends and enhances life, created super beings, like Paul Muadib Atreides, Leto III the God Emperor and eventually an entire race of Atreides spawned humans who were no longer visible in the minds of those that could track every being in the universe. Islam became an entrenched society of people devoted to the violence of war and the protection of every drop of water on Arrakis (Dune) so that the planet would one day be carved up between rivers, lakes and seas between which ran grassy plains where cities and towns careless of water would spring up. Leto III made that possible with his breeding program and his reign of over three thousand years.
In one small part of the universe there were hidden pockets of Jews still practicing the ancient rites of their religion waiting for God as the chosen people. That did not change, and there is still the question of what Frank Herbert believed and saw for the future of mankind.
The stories and layers that came after Dune were the icing on a very rich cake that lingers still on the mind and in the heart. Few stories like that come along. It's no wonder the book has been made into a movie and a mini-series, each done by different directors that add more pieces to the puzzle. From the elegant and regal Dune of David Lynch's vision to the Sci-Fi TV mini-series directed by John Harrison, which is closer to what Herbert envisioned, except with the navigators, Frank Herbert's dreams live and continue to evolve. The scope is awe inspiring and the story a small tale of what happens when religion and ambition take precedence in government and commerce.
Some books remain long after the last page is read and call to the reader to return and look a little deeper, find a little more. It is all there between the pages, waiting for a new perspective and new eyes fresh from the cauldron of time and experience. Dune is still one of my favorite books and doubtless always will be.
Books had not been a part of my life for a few years, at least since getting pregnant and having children. Babies tend to suck up all available time and energy until there is nothing left for the good stuff, like reading. Dune was off the list of available things to do. There were not enough hours in the day for reading. The only time I had to myself was in the shower, if I got it before the boys were up or after they went to sleep, and falling into a dead faint at the end of the day.
I had much more time a few years later and picked up the book at a secondhand store while trying to add to my Andre Norton collection. I happened across the book and took a glance at the back cover and first few pages. I got lucky. The book was available in hard cover, and so I bought it, took it home and found a few minutes to begin reading. I was reluctant to put the book down to cook dinner, do laundry or go to bed. I was mesmerized -- and hooked but good.
The sweep of plot, characters and worlds took my breath away and the story was a real page turner, despite its deceptive size. I recognized many of the so-called ancient words drawn from Greek, Italian and Muslim origins, but that wasn't the real draw for me. It was the scope of the plots and stories that intertwined, leaving me hungry for more without ever feeling lost. That was artistry. That was good writing and I couldn't wait for the next book and the ones after that.
I did read some of Herbert's short story collections, and they were good, but it was with Dune that he reached his true calling as a storyteller. I go back and read Dune and the rest of the books from time to time, and I have read several of Herbert's son Brian's additions to the mythology and history of the worlds and people, answering questions about their origins and the beginnings of feuds, how the navigators evolved and where the whole thing was going in terms of religion and history. One thing I learned from Herbert, even though I knew it already, was that everything dies. Every religion, every system and every civilization reaches a pinnacle and is replaced by something new, something born from seeds planted long ago. About the only thing that lasted in Herbert's vision was Judaism.
Catholocism had evolved and become a breeding and martial arts program that, in concert with melange, the spice that extends and enhances life, created super beings, like Paul Muadib Atreides, Leto III the God Emperor and eventually an entire race of Atreides spawned humans who were no longer visible in the minds of those that could track every being in the universe. Islam became an entrenched society of people devoted to the violence of war and the protection of every drop of water on Arrakis (Dune) so that the planet would one day be carved up between rivers, lakes and seas between which ran grassy plains where cities and towns careless of water would spring up. Leto III made that possible with his breeding program and his reign of over three thousand years.
In one small part of the universe there were hidden pockets of Jews still practicing the ancient rites of their religion waiting for God as the chosen people. That did not change, and there is still the question of what Frank Herbert believed and saw for the future of mankind.
The stories and layers that came after Dune were the icing on a very rich cake that lingers still on the mind and in the heart. Few stories like that come along. It's no wonder the book has been made into a movie and a mini-series, each done by different directors that add more pieces to the puzzle. From the elegant and regal Dune of David Lynch's vision to the Sci-Fi TV mini-series directed by John Harrison, which is closer to what Herbert envisioned, except with the navigators, Frank Herbert's dreams live and continue to evolve. The scope is awe inspiring and the story a small tale of what happens when religion and ambition take precedence in government and commerce.
Some books remain long after the last page is read and call to the reader to return and look a little deeper, find a little more. It is all there between the pages, waiting for a new perspective and new eyes fresh from the cauldron of time and experience. Dune is still one of my favorite books and doubtless always will be.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
In Death as in Writing
Tough week and it's only Tuesday. That's what happens when the week begins with death. In this case, the death included Osama Bin Laden and my half-brother Timmy. I'm glad Osama is gone (talk about your anti-climax) and have mixed feelings about Timmy. He's been ill for a year and in the hospital for the past three months, most of which I have spent on the phone with our mother. Well, actually she's his mother and my biological mother and aunt. Figure that one out.
Death takes the wind out of my writing sails. They've been as flat as though I was becalmed in the great Sargasso Sea. It's not like I don't know where I'm going in the latest book, I do. I'm having trouble summoning up the requisite literary energy and discipline to dive back into the book, which I put off because I was launching the print version of my latest self-published work. Here it is May already and I'm stalled when I should be finishing up the first draft of my Victorian gothic tale. April showers are supposed to bring May flowers not May stalls and I am definitely stalled.
Now comes the urge to rant about all the things that are keeping me from writing and none of them are valid. It's as transparent as Cuddy's mom's lawsuit and need for a probate lawyer to change her will because Cuddy and House conspired to heal her. It's never about what you think a fight is about and always about the subtext. Another stall. Maybe I should consider a horse or two with all these stalls and, if I were flying a plane, I'd be right about to hit the hard deck really hard.
I can't concentrate. I have too much to do. I have to work and read review books and write the reviews and keep up my blogs and talk to family and pay the bills and all the little excuses I have always had that didn't stop me when I was writing my last novel or the one before. Then I could focus; now, not so much. I think there is something inherently wrong when a fully realized story with great characters, lots of history and a killer plot can't get written -- by me -- at all. I've been stalling on this one for a while and it's not making me feel any less incompetent or like a fraud and more like a failure every day. Isn't that the way, though? As if I needed an excuse to feel like a fraud. I wonder if other writers feel that way?
Letting out the insecurity without a leash is a bad idea, so scratch everything that came before, except for missing Timmy. He was only forty-eight years old and now he is gone. Finally and completely and no take backs gone. He had such a rotten time of it the past few years. No one should have to feel that way, and yet so many people do, and we're back to fraud again.
I can't seem to shake the excuses, and feeling like a fraud is one of those excuses. I should just shut up and write. It's what I did in the past, churning out mediocre stories with faint glimmers of literary goodness. It shouldn't take this long. It shouldn't be this hard. Writing isn't easy. It's hard work and balancing all the demands of the usually full and busy lifestyle and I no longer have the excuse of children taking up my time. At least then I could write. Things are too quiet. The room's too cold. The wind is coming out of the wrong direction. Anything just so I don't have to sit down and face the blank screen, cursing blink-blink-blinking at me, waiting patiently and mechanically for the next word and the one after that and the one after that . . . . That's how it goes. Some days are up and some days are down and most days the writing gets done, not great writing, but words on the page that will eventually morph into something good. At least that is how I hope it will go and hope blinks eternally in that blasted cursor.
I guess you could say I have nothing to write about, at least not here, and I should just buckle down, get up early, put my fingers on the keys and type. It's what I've always done, turning life into art and pain into tragedy and comedy and everything in between. Getting through the hard days is the trick and I'm all out of tricks, so it's back to the keyboard for something real and tangible. The next word and the next sentence and the next paragraph that leads from half-finished to ready for editing and rewriting. That's how the work gets done.
So, for Timmy, who kept telling me how proud he was that his sister was a writer, this one's for you.
Death takes the wind out of my writing sails. They've been as flat as though I was becalmed in the great Sargasso Sea. It's not like I don't know where I'm going in the latest book, I do. I'm having trouble summoning up the requisite literary energy and discipline to dive back into the book, which I put off because I was launching the print version of my latest self-published work. Here it is May already and I'm stalled when I should be finishing up the first draft of my Victorian gothic tale. April showers are supposed to bring May flowers not May stalls and I am definitely stalled.
Now comes the urge to rant about all the things that are keeping me from writing and none of them are valid. It's as transparent as Cuddy's mom's lawsuit and need for a probate lawyer to change her will because Cuddy and House conspired to heal her. It's never about what you think a fight is about and always about the subtext. Another stall. Maybe I should consider a horse or two with all these stalls and, if I were flying a plane, I'd be right about to hit the hard deck really hard.
I can't concentrate. I have too much to do. I have to work and read review books and write the reviews and keep up my blogs and talk to family and pay the bills and all the little excuses I have always had that didn't stop me when I was writing my last novel or the one before. Then I could focus; now, not so much. I think there is something inherently wrong when a fully realized story with great characters, lots of history and a killer plot can't get written -- by me -- at all. I've been stalling on this one for a while and it's not making me feel any less incompetent or like a fraud and more like a failure every day. Isn't that the way, though? As if I needed an excuse to feel like a fraud. I wonder if other writers feel that way?
Letting out the insecurity without a leash is a bad idea, so scratch everything that came before, except for missing Timmy. He was only forty-eight years old and now he is gone. Finally and completely and no take backs gone. He had such a rotten time of it the past few years. No one should have to feel that way, and yet so many people do, and we're back to fraud again.
I can't seem to shake the excuses, and feeling like a fraud is one of those excuses. I should just shut up and write. It's what I did in the past, churning out mediocre stories with faint glimmers of literary goodness. It shouldn't take this long. It shouldn't be this hard. Writing isn't easy. It's hard work and balancing all the demands of the usually full and busy lifestyle and I no longer have the excuse of children taking up my time. At least then I could write. Things are too quiet. The room's too cold. The wind is coming out of the wrong direction. Anything just so I don't have to sit down and face the blank screen, cursing blink-blink-blinking at me, waiting patiently and mechanically for the next word and the one after that and the one after that . . . . That's how it goes. Some days are up and some days are down and most days the writing gets done, not great writing, but words on the page that will eventually morph into something good. At least that is how I hope it will go and hope blinks eternally in that blasted cursor.
I guess you could say I have nothing to write about, at least not here, and I should just buckle down, get up early, put my fingers on the keys and type. It's what I've always done, turning life into art and pain into tragedy and comedy and everything in between. Getting through the hard days is the trick and I'm all out of tricks, so it's back to the keyboard for something real and tangible. The next word and the next sentence and the next paragraph that leads from half-finished to ready for editing and rewriting. That's how the work gets done.
So, for Timmy, who kept telling me how proud he was that his sister was a writer, this one's for you.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Being Transported
There are always surprises when I least expect them and yesterday I needed a surprise. I've needed one for a long time.
A writer friend emailed that her husband died Monday evening. She was sad, but all right with his death. It's hard watching someone you love slide slowly into the abyss bit by bit. I sent her my condolences, not because I knew her husband Fred but because I know her and have watched his decline from the sidelines all these years.
Yesterday, she sent me a message thanking me. She thanked me for my kindness and for my book, Among Women, because it captured her and took her somewhere else when Fred was in such pain and she could do nothing to help him. That's a pretty big compliment. What else could I say but you're welcome? I am still sad for her loss, but also glad that Fred is no longer in pain and his family can now grieve, something they have been doing in fits and starts for years.
I remember what it was like to lose my great Aunt Ann when she had Alzheimer's, which is what Fred had. She stood six-foot-two in her stocking feet and was from solid peasant stock. She was creative and fashionable and had made a huge success in her life. She never had children, although her husband had a child by his previous wife; he was a widower when Ann married him.
When we found out about her, Aunt Ann had been living in her big brick house all alone and the neighbors were stealing her blind, which is probably why she kept so much of her cash in her vast book collection. Having Alzheimer's made it difficult for her to remember, except in brief and fleeting flashes, where it was, but it made her feel safer. She had lost so much weight she was a shadow of her former glorious peasant self. She smelled and was dirty and her beautiful home was a dump. That's what living alone for several years while she was ill did to her and her surroundings, as it eventually does to the people who love her.
My parents took her home and my father cared for her until she eventually died. They sold off her possessions, cleaned up and sold her house and took care of her during her few remaining years. My dad cared for her as if she were a child, and that is what she had regressed to in the end, a child with easy smiles and wide wondering eyes unfamiliar with the world around her or the people she once knew so well and had towered over.
I know how my friend felt because I've been there. There is relief followed quickly by regret when someone you love dies of Alzheimer's, and yet there is also peace; someone you have loved and who loved you is now resting in the arms of the universe, has moved past his body and away from his mortal coil to be a part of the universe once more, having been given a glimpse of the eternal while they were still alive, and silenced by the disease so they cannot tell those left behind the wonders they have glimpsed that brought them to their knees emotionally and spiritually. At least, that is how I see it.
The rest of the day was the usual battle with a pernicious computer program that had a stranglehold on my OS and I spent a good part of the morning trying to get rid of it. When I finally figured it out (turn off the antivirus program) it was late and I was hungry, so I ordered in. The delivery driver is one I have come to know well over the past three years and he had news for me. After a year, he has finally finished chapter ten of Past Imperfect (gotta change the name the next time around) and he was excited about the twist on the story the characters had engineered. I was just along for the ride, and to take notes. He has two more chapters to go and he's anxious to see which guy will get the girl, or which guy the girl will choose. Depends on your point of view. What he said next surprised me.
"I really should read more. If you only knew how big a deal it is that I am reading this book . . . ." He faltered there. "I'll get my mother to write you a note." I explained that wasn't necessary and showed him my latest book. "Are you giving this to me?"
Actually, no, but since your eyes lit up and you seem interested . . . . "I'll sign."
"Yeah, and I'll bring back the other one so you can sign it, too."
Surprise. He not only likes the book it has taken him a year to read, getting to it whenever he remembers there is a book to read, the only book he owns besides a telephone book (or so he told me), but he is anxious to read more and to read my latest book. Big surprise.
Two surprises in a row, each of a different origin, but both equally wonderful. People are reading.
If there is anything that would make me happier it would be that more people read, not just for work or because they must, but because they want to, because the story or the author engaged them and made them feel like reading, because they actually were transported and could forget the mundane details of every day life. What better purpose is there for authors and their books. Yes, it's for us, for the authors, but it's also to share a bit of how we see the universe and each other, and just because it's fun to pretend to be someone or somewhere else. Not every book has to have social significance, but it does help if the book -- no matter how badly it is written -- takes us away from what is to what could be or will be or just might be. That is the magic of books and the surprises found between its pages -- virtual or real. What better job could there be?
Yeah, I know. It doesn't always earn a lot of money, but whatever happens to my books, at least I know that at least two people who are not related to me enjoyed the books and were transported. That's enough for now.
A writer friend emailed that her husband died Monday evening. She was sad, but all right with his death. It's hard watching someone you love slide slowly into the abyss bit by bit. I sent her my condolences, not because I knew her husband Fred but because I know her and have watched his decline from the sidelines all these years.
Yesterday, she sent me a message thanking me. She thanked me for my kindness and for my book, Among Women, because it captured her and took her somewhere else when Fred was in such pain and she could do nothing to help him. That's a pretty big compliment. What else could I say but you're welcome? I am still sad for her loss, but also glad that Fred is no longer in pain and his family can now grieve, something they have been doing in fits and starts for years.
I remember what it was like to lose my great Aunt Ann when she had Alzheimer's, which is what Fred had. She stood six-foot-two in her stocking feet and was from solid peasant stock. She was creative and fashionable and had made a huge success in her life. She never had children, although her husband had a child by his previous wife; he was a widower when Ann married him.
When we found out about her, Aunt Ann had been living in her big brick house all alone and the neighbors were stealing her blind, which is probably why she kept so much of her cash in her vast book collection. Having Alzheimer's made it difficult for her to remember, except in brief and fleeting flashes, where it was, but it made her feel safer. She had lost so much weight she was a shadow of her former glorious peasant self. She smelled and was dirty and her beautiful home was a dump. That's what living alone for several years while she was ill did to her and her surroundings, as it eventually does to the people who love her.
My parents took her home and my father cared for her until she eventually died. They sold off her possessions, cleaned up and sold her house and took care of her during her few remaining years. My dad cared for her as if she were a child, and that is what she had regressed to in the end, a child with easy smiles and wide wondering eyes unfamiliar with the world around her or the people she once knew so well and had towered over.
I know how my friend felt because I've been there. There is relief followed quickly by regret when someone you love dies of Alzheimer's, and yet there is also peace; someone you have loved and who loved you is now resting in the arms of the universe, has moved past his body and away from his mortal coil to be a part of the universe once more, having been given a glimpse of the eternal while they were still alive, and silenced by the disease so they cannot tell those left behind the wonders they have glimpsed that brought them to their knees emotionally and spiritually. At least, that is how I see it.
The rest of the day was the usual battle with a pernicious computer program that had a stranglehold on my OS and I spent a good part of the morning trying to get rid of it. When I finally figured it out (turn off the antivirus program) it was late and I was hungry, so I ordered in. The delivery driver is one I have come to know well over the past three years and he had news for me. After a year, he has finally finished chapter ten of Past Imperfect (gotta change the name the next time around) and he was excited about the twist on the story the characters had engineered. I was just along for the ride, and to take notes. He has two more chapters to go and he's anxious to see which guy will get the girl, or which guy the girl will choose. Depends on your point of view. What he said next surprised me.
"I really should read more. If you only knew how big a deal it is that I am reading this book . . . ." He faltered there. "I'll get my mother to write you a note." I explained that wasn't necessary and showed him my latest book. "Are you giving this to me?"
Actually, no, but since your eyes lit up and you seem interested . . . . "I'll sign."
"Yeah, and I'll bring back the other one so you can sign it, too."
Surprise. He not only likes the book it has taken him a year to read, getting to it whenever he remembers there is a book to read, the only book he owns besides a telephone book (or so he told me), but he is anxious to read more and to read my latest book. Big surprise.
Two surprises in a row, each of a different origin, but both equally wonderful. People are reading.
If there is anything that would make me happier it would be that more people read, not just for work or because they must, but because they want to, because the story or the author engaged them and made them feel like reading, because they actually were transported and could forget the mundane details of every day life. What better purpose is there for authors and their books. Yes, it's for us, for the authors, but it's also to share a bit of how we see the universe and each other, and just because it's fun to pretend to be someone or somewhere else. Not every book has to have social significance, but it does help if the book -- no matter how badly it is written -- takes us away from what is to what could be or will be or just might be. That is the magic of books and the surprises found between its pages -- virtual or real. What better job could there be?
Yeah, I know. It doesn't always earn a lot of money, but whatever happens to my books, at least I know that at least two people who are not related to me enjoyed the books and were transported. That's enough for now.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
A Bright New Day -- of Rambling
You know those days when you plan to write and everything gets in the way? I had one of those days yesterday. I started out sneezing (my usual morning ritual to open and drain my sinuses) and things went downhill from there. I usually sneeze in the morning and my eyes water, both of which are the effect of drying out during the night when I sleep; the sneezing and watering get things moving in the morning. I seldom itch, get nauseous or have a fever first thing in the morning. In a word: miserable. I hate Monday mornings that start out feeling miserable, even more miserable than the usual Monday morning. The sound of birds chattering before the sun comes up is perniciously vile after a start like that. I just wanted to pull the covers over my head and take another run at the morning, but that was not to be.
I did manage to write and finish a review I've been working on in my head, and was a bit trepidatious about how the author was going to feel. After all, he did ask if I'd be interested in reviewing his upcoming book, and I've mostly liked the previous books, so I shouldn't have worried, but there it is -- that feeling of impending inadequacy. I've always had it and it doesn't get less as time goes on.
At any rate, I wrote the review, posted it and checked it for errors and bad wording and sent it along. I refused to think about it once I hit send and I didn't until he response came last night. He loved it and said I was dead solid perfect in my estimation. He must be a golfer. I've not heard anyone but golfers use those words together: dead solid perfect. One job done, checked off and on to the next, working on the new novel.
Well, actually, it's a novel I've been writing on and off for a while, but lost the thread and put it aside to work on another book. That was two-and-a-half years ago. It's time to get this one off the hard drive and into print. I know how it's supposed to go. I know the characters inside and out. I know the historical setting and facts, but then the sneezing started again, and the watering eyes, and the nausea and all the rest of the misery that I thought had run its course. I was down for the count. Could it be an allergy to the novel?
I did have an allergy to my first husband. Every time he touched me I broke out in hives and furious itching that didn't go away until I took a hot bath. I got over it. I got a divorce. Haven't had a problem since, but it is a bit difficult for him to touch me when he lives on the other side of the country. I doubt it's an allergy to the book, probably just a passing bug that decided to stick around for a day or so. I hope it's only a day or so. I can't afford to take the time off right now. I have a plan and it doesn't include being ill.
Isn't that just the way? Just when I think I have everything under control, something happens and I end up having to scramble again. It's as if the universe like to see me scramble. It's the only exercise I get most days. Drama, drama, drama. And I hate drama.
Monday is past and it's now Tuesday. The birds are chattering in the trees and the sky is that bleak misty grey that means more rain today. If it's like yesterday, the afternoon will suddenly brighten after a long drizzle and the sun will shine in a clear blue Colorado sky until it sinks into the dark purple of evening. Every day is a surprise -- mostly -- and each day another chance to do what was left undone the day before. The trash is out. The boxes are broken down, the packing deflated and put out for recycling. I have a few pages left to read so I can review another book and then there's the usual work to do that comes with each Tuesday. The sneezing has run its course and my eyes are finished watering and I do not feel miserable this morning, a little drippy, but not miserable.
On top of all this, a gift for a friend is going to be ready a whole week ahead of time and the waiting is over. I can't wait for her to open the box and see what her friends bought her. It's not a birthday or any special day. It's an un-birthday present to brighten someone's day, and it looks like that day will be Friday. Something to look forward to, and something I no longer have to keep secret after Friday. I hate keeping secrets, even the good ones. I like to give the gift and get the smile. Today I will give myself a gift of writing and I already know the smile awaits me. The waiting is over. Time to move on.
I did manage to write and finish a review I've been working on in my head, and was a bit trepidatious about how the author was going to feel. After all, he did ask if I'd be interested in reviewing his upcoming book, and I've mostly liked the previous books, so I shouldn't have worried, but there it is -- that feeling of impending inadequacy. I've always had it and it doesn't get less as time goes on.
At any rate, I wrote the review, posted it and checked it for errors and bad wording and sent it along. I refused to think about it once I hit send and I didn't until he response came last night. He loved it and said I was dead solid perfect in my estimation. He must be a golfer. I've not heard anyone but golfers use those words together: dead solid perfect. One job done, checked off and on to the next, working on the new novel.
Well, actually, it's a novel I've been writing on and off for a while, but lost the thread and put it aside to work on another book. That was two-and-a-half years ago. It's time to get this one off the hard drive and into print. I know how it's supposed to go. I know the characters inside and out. I know the historical setting and facts, but then the sneezing started again, and the watering eyes, and the nausea and all the rest of the misery that I thought had run its course. I was down for the count. Could it be an allergy to the novel?
I did have an allergy to my first husband. Every time he touched me I broke out in hives and furious itching that didn't go away until I took a hot bath. I got over it. I got a divorce. Haven't had a problem since, but it is a bit difficult for him to touch me when he lives on the other side of the country. I doubt it's an allergy to the book, probably just a passing bug that decided to stick around for a day or so. I hope it's only a day or so. I can't afford to take the time off right now. I have a plan and it doesn't include being ill.
Isn't that just the way? Just when I think I have everything under control, something happens and I end up having to scramble again. It's as if the universe like to see me scramble. It's the only exercise I get most days. Drama, drama, drama. And I hate drama.
Monday is past and it's now Tuesday. The birds are chattering in the trees and the sky is that bleak misty grey that means more rain today. If it's like yesterday, the afternoon will suddenly brighten after a long drizzle and the sun will shine in a clear blue Colorado sky until it sinks into the dark purple of evening. Every day is a surprise -- mostly -- and each day another chance to do what was left undone the day before. The trash is out. The boxes are broken down, the packing deflated and put out for recycling. I have a few pages left to read so I can review another book and then there's the usual work to do that comes with each Tuesday. The sneezing has run its course and my eyes are finished watering and I do not feel miserable this morning, a little drippy, but not miserable.
On top of all this, a gift for a friend is going to be ready a whole week ahead of time and the waiting is over. I can't wait for her to open the box and see what her friends bought her. It's not a birthday or any special day. It's an un-birthday present to brighten someone's day, and it looks like that day will be Friday. Something to look forward to, and something I no longer have to keep secret after Friday. I hate keeping secrets, even the good ones. I like to give the gift and get the smile. Today I will give myself a gift of writing and I already know the smile awaits me. The waiting is over. Time to move on.
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