Revising went smoothly today. Mostly, I was just gliding through and patting myself on the back. It feels good to finally be going through the writing that I really like. But it's probably sad that it's 90% through the book until you reach it.
I'm still considering whether or not I need a new title. Lost Lamb has been the working title, but I'm starting to worry that it's too cliché. See that? I know how to make one of those in Windows. The little E with the doohicky over it. Résumé. Ha. Anyway, I really want this book to stand out, and I know that I tend to sort them by title and decide whether or not I'll even bother with the first page. Here are some that I'd probably pass up.
Dragon Strippers
Vikings on Motorcycles
The New Tales of Merlin in San Fransisco
Chumbo And The Giant Fangaly Beast
You get the idea. We judge heavily based on the title. And, while I understand that my publisher can choose to change the title, I really want to come up with the right one. But shit, maybe I already have. Who knows? Maybe I've just been looking at it for over a year and am now hating it. Yeah, that's right, been working on this crazy thing for 12 full months. Think I've lost the exact date, but I've been doing serious work on it since early May of last year. I actually wrote the first chapter as an experiment back in February before that.
Anyway, thank god or whoever that its done. I'm really looking forward to working on something else. Anything else, really.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
The Attack Of The Mutant Alien Query Letter
And then, as he sat down to revise the last little bit of his novel, he realized that he still had to write his query letter. The one thing that every agent and editor would expect him to be able to do. Dammit. He bit his lip. That last little piece was still dangling and he still had no idea what to do with it.
Maybe he could include a sticky note. Something heartfelt that would assure agents that yes, he was a real person with a real novel and not some plagiarizing yahoo. Perhaps it would read, "Hey! I'm Steve and this is my novel. Hope you like it. P.S. I am a real person and not an alien from Xanthu 4. Please take me seriously." Yeah. That might not work. Even aliens have sticky notes.
His next idea was a photo of himself sitting at his keyboard. Cup of coffee in hand. Black-rimmed glasses and copy of War and Piece to look smart. Surely, that would prove to them...something. What were they even looking for anyway? And what would they do if he didn't have a query letter? Do the literary people employ a secret police force? Some Black Water-esque band of trigger-happy crazies? Maybe they hunt down other offenders, too. Make them put commas and hyphens in the right spot or else, dammit. Capitalize that sentence or I'll get angry. Now use proper grammar in your dialogue too, buddy.
He flinched away from the keyboard. Maybe this was his last chance to leave the country before the Literary Police caught on. He'd been a bad bad writer after all. Being all willy-nilly with commas and sentence structures. Leaving fragments dangling out in the open like that. Frequently using made up words like he was different from other writers. Sheesh.
It wasn't too late yet. He could still charter a boat and take his typewriter to some other country that didn't have query letters and agents, or all the long series of tiring, hair-ripping, nail-biting hoops he had to jump through to get meaningfully published. Maybe some place in the mountains between Spain and India. Come to think of it, he didn't think those countries were next to each other. He'd have to brush up on his geography. But there would plenty of time for that in the mountains of wherever. Yes, that was where he would go. The mountains. They'd never find him there.
Maybe he could include a sticky note. Something heartfelt that would assure agents that yes, he was a real person with a real novel and not some plagiarizing yahoo. Perhaps it would read, "Hey! I'm Steve and this is my novel. Hope you like it. P.S. I am a real person and not an alien from Xanthu 4. Please take me seriously." Yeah. That might not work. Even aliens have sticky notes.
His next idea was a photo of himself sitting at his keyboard. Cup of coffee in hand. Black-rimmed glasses and copy of War and Piece to look smart. Surely, that would prove to them...something. What were they even looking for anyway? And what would they do if he didn't have a query letter? Do the literary people employ a secret police force? Some Black Water-esque band of trigger-happy crazies? Maybe they hunt down other offenders, too. Make them put commas and hyphens in the right spot or else, dammit. Capitalize that sentence or I'll get angry. Now use proper grammar in your dialogue too, buddy.
He flinched away from the keyboard. Maybe this was his last chance to leave the country before the Literary Police caught on. He'd been a bad bad writer after all. Being all willy-nilly with commas and sentence structures. Leaving fragments dangling out in the open like that. Frequently using made up words like he was different from other writers. Sheesh.
It wasn't too late yet. He could still charter a boat and take his typewriter to some other country that didn't have query letters and agents, or all the long series of tiring, hair-ripping, nail-biting hoops he had to jump through to get meaningfully published. Maybe some place in the mountains between Spain and India. Come to think of it, he didn't think those countries were next to each other. He'd have to brush up on his geography. But there would plenty of time for that in the mountains of wherever. Yes, that was where he would go. The mountains. They'd never find him there.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Finish Line Redux
Now that I'm FINALLY reaching the end of revisions, I'm actually starting to feel pretty good about this novel. I'm really getting exciting about writing the next one, too. I hope people like these books. I guess that's what I worry about the most. I really felt like no one actually read my last story. Most of the people I know who bought it, did so because they thought they were helping me and never actually read the thing. Yeah. It sucked. So, my only goal for this book was to reach a larger audience and make a more accessible final piece.
My research indicated that, although ebook sales have been steadily rising, 75% of all book sales still happen in a bookstore. Most people prefer to read a book on paper, myself included. I also wrote this book in a more popular and successful genre that's continuing crank out new entries every year. Of course, that's not really the reason I chose to write this book. I started the idea because of my own frustration with finding a good Urban Fantasy series outside of the Dresden Files. Well, not just good, but also not drenched with hardcore love-making scenes and friendly, misunderstood monsters. So, with those rules and ideas wadded up in my hand, I thought I'd write a book.
That's where Lost Lamb came from.
In some ways, I think this story has nothing to do with me as a person. I've never shot at orcs or been friends with any cute, lady wizards. But, in another way, the story is me. I was thinking about it the other day. I went to great length to make Jason Ingram different from myself. I didn't want a more athletic, kick-ass version of myself. Looking at you, Laurel K. Hamilton (just teasing). I gave Jason a dark side and a weakness for rage. Not just passionate anger that makes you punch a hole in the wall. Jason's vice is that kind of rage that swells out of your gut like a ball of lava. That intelligent, honed hatred that you form into the keenest weapon you can until you can plunge it where it'll do the most damage. Wrath, you could call it.
As you may have guessed, this is based on firsthand experience. When I was younger, I had a lot of anger problems. Pretty bad ones, too. I went through all kinds of different support methods. Counseling. Prayer (back when I was religious). Meditation. Most of it didn't work for me. Finally, when I was fifteen, I took a karate class. That did it. Physical exertion put me in control of how I felt and gave me a positive outlet. I had to do something with my anger. Just like Jason.
If a thought is a jewel, no matter how much we work on it and add facets to make it special and different, each surface is a tiny mirror reflecting its maker.
My research indicated that, although ebook sales have been steadily rising, 75% of all book sales still happen in a bookstore. Most people prefer to read a book on paper, myself included. I also wrote this book in a more popular and successful genre that's continuing crank out new entries every year. Of course, that's not really the reason I chose to write this book. I started the idea because of my own frustration with finding a good Urban Fantasy series outside of the Dresden Files. Well, not just good, but also not drenched with hardcore love-making scenes and friendly, misunderstood monsters. So, with those rules and ideas wadded up in my hand, I thought I'd write a book.
That's where Lost Lamb came from.
In some ways, I think this story has nothing to do with me as a person. I've never shot at orcs or been friends with any cute, lady wizards. But, in another way, the story is me. I was thinking about it the other day. I went to great length to make Jason Ingram different from myself. I didn't want a more athletic, kick-ass version of myself. Looking at you, Laurel K. Hamilton (just teasing). I gave Jason a dark side and a weakness for rage. Not just passionate anger that makes you punch a hole in the wall. Jason's vice is that kind of rage that swells out of your gut like a ball of lava. That intelligent, honed hatred that you form into the keenest weapon you can until you can plunge it where it'll do the most damage. Wrath, you could call it.
As you may have guessed, this is based on firsthand experience. When I was younger, I had a lot of anger problems. Pretty bad ones, too. I went through all kinds of different support methods. Counseling. Prayer (back when I was religious). Meditation. Most of it didn't work for me. Finally, when I was fifteen, I took a karate class. That did it. Physical exertion put me in control of how I felt and gave me a positive outlet. I had to do something with my anger. Just like Jason.
If a thought is a jewel, no matter how much we work on it and add facets to make it special and different, each surface is a tiny mirror reflecting its maker.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Mostly, This One Is About Me Bitching About Stuff
Lately, I've been feeling some hesitance about revising my novel. I'm not really sure where it's coming from, but I'm noticing the tendency to open the word document and stare blankly at it whilst smacking myself with the keyboard. Regardless, coming here and blabbing into the infinite space of the internet has been helping me get the crazies out of my head before I get to work.
I had been envisioning some perfect world where I didn't have to continue this therapy, but such a world only exists in fantasy. My head is crazy. That's just something I have to accept, and even five, six years done the road, my head will still be crazy.
At least I can keep most of it stoppered in there, right? I don't go around chanting or rapping to myself. I saw a guy last week walking down the same road as me and he reading aloud from the dictionary. Well, shouting aloud from it anyway. When I was walking by he was only on the Ds and was going on about government terms. Democracy, I think. Dude needs a blog.
Ha. Let's see if my blog gets flagged now for political speech. Wouldn't mind the extra traffic.
I had been envisioning some perfect world where I didn't have to continue this therapy, but such a world only exists in fantasy. My head is crazy. That's just something I have to accept, and even five, six years done the road, my head will still be crazy.
At least I can keep most of it stoppered in there, right? I don't go around chanting or rapping to myself. I saw a guy last week walking down the same road as me and he reading aloud from the dictionary. Well, shouting aloud from it anyway. When I was walking by he was only on the Ds and was going on about government terms. Democracy, I think. Dude needs a blog.
Ha. Let's see if my blog gets flagged now for political speech. Wouldn't mind the extra traffic.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Fiction Writers Mantra
For some reason, our first attempts to do something don't turn out as well as they could have. Why is that? When shooting, the first shot on the range is a cold shot that will most likely not hit its target. When you cook a crepe on a heated pan, the first one turns a little too hard and rubbery to serve. The first novels of a series tend to be the weakest of the bunch. Of course, there's always the reverse tendency. The first movie is always the best one, but maybe that's the exception that proves the rule.
It's funny that I just wrote that. I've always hated that saying. It suggests that rules can be proven. They can't. There are no rules or measurements or standards other than the ones of our own making. Do you think time cares how many seconds are passing? The universe is 13.8 billion years old. No. Time don't give a crap.
Not the point. The first doohickey is usually the crappier of the group. Much of my life (at least what I spent in school) I tried my damnedest to do things right the first time. Solve the math problem without checking my work. Write the final draft of the paper without the rough draft. Most of the time it worked out, too. But that doesn't always cut the mustard (what does that even mean?). Sometimes you really need the cold shot. The dry run. The test that tells you if everything you've painstakingly put together is going to hold up to what you're going to do with it.
Doesn't it seem more efficient to do it like one of my school papers? My teachers were always impressed. But ultimately, I guess now I just really want to make the best possible thing I can. Especially when it's something you care about. You don't just wake up one day and knock it out before coffee and toast. But all that takes work, don't it? And god, we hate work! I think that 9 out of 10 people probably have wonderful ideas for novels but won't write them because it's too much work. I know it for a fact, actually.
If you are one of those people, I have an excellent piece of advice for you. I've been working on it. Where's the caps lock...THERE. JUST FUCKING DO IT ALREADY. Yes. Writing is work. So is breathing, so is thinking, so is blinking. You're not going to stop doing those things are you? Didn't think so. Whatever it takes to get you started, just refer to that mantra in all caps. Print it on a shirt or something.
 |
| Were the other ones really as good? |
It's funny that I just wrote that. I've always hated that saying. It suggests that rules can be proven. They can't. There are no rules or measurements or standards other than the ones of our own making. Do you think time cares how many seconds are passing? The universe is 13.8 billion years old. No. Time don't give a crap.
 |
| How miles you think that is? |
Doesn't it seem more efficient to do it like one of my school papers? My teachers were always impressed. But ultimately, I guess now I just really want to make the best possible thing I can. Especially when it's something you care about. You don't just wake up one day and knock it out before coffee and toast. But all that takes work, don't it? And god, we hate work! I think that 9 out of 10 people probably have wonderful ideas for novels but won't write them because it's too much work. I know it for a fact, actually.
If you are one of those people, I have an excellent piece of advice for you. I've been working on it. Where's the caps lock...THERE. JUST FUCKING DO IT ALREADY. Yes. Writing is work. So is breathing, so is thinking, so is blinking. You're not going to stop doing those things are you? Didn't think so. Whatever it takes to get you started, just refer to that mantra in all caps. Print it on a shirt or something.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Brain Out Of Fuel. Powering Down.
I think I can feel the gears in my head grinding to a halt. I did my editing today, which has been going well for the last few days and I'm crossing the 3/4 mark, and then I got the notion that I should write a new Jason Ingram short story and post it on my blog. Hurray, right?
I haven't been able to think of anything since then. It feels like dipping a bucket into a well and then pulling up a cat, a toy train, and a sculpture of a meatball sandwich. You don't know how they fit together or what they're for. And the more you dunk the bucket, the more of it you get. You can imagine my irritation, I'm sure. I keep thinking about how there are exercises for muscles and things, and that there must exercises for the brain. Maybe I could just do a few mental jumping jacks to get the ball rolling. But what those would be, I'm not sure.
Sometimes in these sorts of situations they tell you to freewrite about anything, which is what I'm doing now, I guess. I think I need a tall glass of wine and a cheesy sci-fi movie to make fun of. On that subject, one of my favorites is the Mario Bros. movie from 19...93? Google it. Booya, internet says it was 93 (I can remember that, but I don't know what to write about).
Anyway, this turd-shaped bucket of manure had John Leguizamo as Luigi and...uh, some dude that actually won awards as Mario (not googling him). 80% of this movie is screaming, grumbling, muttering and shouting from one set piece to another. It is not only laughably incomparable to the source material, it's also absolutely nonsensical in its structure. Over Christmas break, my friend (nephew-in-law?) Josh came over and we watched it together. It was amazing to watch someone totally new react to it for the first time. Beautiful.
I remember him screaming at me, "Why, Steve? Why would they do this? Is that supposed to be Yoshi?" Things like that every five minutes or so. There's even a scene where they put the characters in brightly colored suits and they put the WRONG guy in red. Just sad.
I'm feeling like I just need to turn my brain off for a while and let it power up again tomorrow. Then we'll see how things go.
I haven't been able to think of anything since then. It feels like dipping a bucket into a well and then pulling up a cat, a toy train, and a sculpture of a meatball sandwich. You don't know how they fit together or what they're for. And the more you dunk the bucket, the more of it you get. You can imagine my irritation, I'm sure. I keep thinking about how there are exercises for muscles and things, and that there must exercises for the brain. Maybe I could just do a few mental jumping jacks to get the ball rolling. But what those would be, I'm not sure.
Sometimes in these sorts of situations they tell you to freewrite about anything, which is what I'm doing now, I guess. I think I need a tall glass of wine and a cheesy sci-fi movie to make fun of. On that subject, one of my favorites is the Mario Bros. movie from 19...93? Google it. Booya, internet says it was 93 (I can remember that, but I don't know what to write about).
 |
| Dennis Hopper was in this sack of crap, too. Seriously, why? |
Anyway, this turd-shaped bucket of manure had John Leguizamo as Luigi and...uh, some dude that actually won awards as Mario (not googling him). 80% of this movie is screaming, grumbling, muttering and shouting from one set piece to another. It is not only laughably incomparable to the source material, it's also absolutely nonsensical in its structure. Over Christmas break, my friend (nephew-in-law?) Josh came over and we watched it together. It was amazing to watch someone totally new react to it for the first time. Beautiful.
I remember him screaming at me, "Why, Steve? Why would they do this? Is that supposed to be Yoshi?" Things like that every five minutes or so. There's even a scene where they put the characters in brightly colored suits and they put the WRONG guy in red. Just sad.
I'm feeling like I just need to turn my brain off for a while and let it power up again tomorrow. Then we'll see how things go.
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