B.E. Sanderson's Blog, page 15
August 17, 2020
Opinion Piece
A while back I saw something on Facebook that is worth mentioning. A bestselling author had posted a screen capture of a message she'd received from a reader and her reply to it. The reader said that because of the author's politicizing things in their stories, the reader would no longer be buying her books. The author's reply? Basically it amounted to 'tough shit, I don't write for readers'.
To be honest, I've let enough time go by on this that I don't remember the author's name. I only know that it was someone whose name was easily recognizable to anyone who hasn't lived in a cave for the past ten, twenty years.
Anyway, I suppose it's easy enough to say 'I don't care what readers think' when you're already a bestseller, a known name, who's made a boatload off the sales to readers you don't write for. :shrug: So what if a few people stop buying her books? Millions of others will keep her flush.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not disagreeing with her. I guess I don't write for readers either. If I sat here thinking about what stories were going to garner me the most sales, I probably wouldn't be writing what I'm writing. Or I'd be selling a hell of a lot more books than I am now. Of course, it would be easier if I had a Big Five (or is it Three now?) marketing department behind me, putting my name in front of millions of readers. But that'll never happen.
I guess I'm disagreeing with the way she went about addressing this. Making it public for one thing. Shaming the reader who disagreed with her politics in a format for the world to see. If I remember right, the reader's name was even on the post. Might've been just the first name as the author addressed her personally. Something along the lines of 'just so you know, B, I don't write for your approval'. Umm, not just no, but hell no. You don't DO that.
Like I said, I don't remember which author this was*. I remember thinking that I'd read something of hers and didn't like it, so I obviously wouldn't be inclined to read her again anyway, but this put a nail in the coffin. Publicly spitting in the face of a reader isn't good for sales, nor should it be.
Lord knows I've DNF'd enough books because the opinions and the philosophies woven into the stories rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, I would never contact the author. And I don't review those books. My opinions are not going to change theirs and one lost sale isn't going to either. Especially when the publishing industry is on-board with the ideas being espoused.
The person who shared what this author had posted thought the author's reply was most excellent. I don't remember who it was. Not a friend friend, not even an acquaintance really, but someone on my FB friend list who is no longer on my friend list. If she thought the author's response was a good thing, then what will her reactions be to someone like me? Buh-bye. Call it a preemptive strike. Removal of potential conflict. Whatever. I don't need that shit in my life right now.
Jus' sayin',
*If you've heard about this and know who the author is, don't say her name in comments or I won't let your comment through. I try to make this as anti 'personal attack' as possible. Which, I guess, is kinda what she should've done.
To be honest, I've let enough time go by on this that I don't remember the author's name. I only know that it was someone whose name was easily recognizable to anyone who hasn't lived in a cave for the past ten, twenty years.
Anyway, I suppose it's easy enough to say 'I don't care what readers think' when you're already a bestseller, a known name, who's made a boatload off the sales to readers you don't write for. :shrug: So what if a few people stop buying her books? Millions of others will keep her flush.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not disagreeing with her. I guess I don't write for readers either. If I sat here thinking about what stories were going to garner me the most sales, I probably wouldn't be writing what I'm writing. Or I'd be selling a hell of a lot more books than I am now. Of course, it would be easier if I had a Big Five (or is it Three now?) marketing department behind me, putting my name in front of millions of readers. But that'll never happen.
I guess I'm disagreeing with the way she went about addressing this. Making it public for one thing. Shaming the reader who disagreed with her politics in a format for the world to see. If I remember right, the reader's name was even on the post. Might've been just the first name as the author addressed her personally. Something along the lines of 'just so you know, B, I don't write for your approval'. Umm, not just no, but hell no. You don't DO that.
Like I said, I don't remember which author this was*. I remember thinking that I'd read something of hers and didn't like it, so I obviously wouldn't be inclined to read her again anyway, but this put a nail in the coffin. Publicly spitting in the face of a reader isn't good for sales, nor should it be.
Lord knows I've DNF'd enough books because the opinions and the philosophies woven into the stories rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, I would never contact the author. And I don't review those books. My opinions are not going to change theirs and one lost sale isn't going to either. Especially when the publishing industry is on-board with the ideas being espoused.
The person who shared what this author had posted thought the author's reply was most excellent. I don't remember who it was. Not a friend friend, not even an acquaintance really, but someone on my FB friend list who is no longer on my friend list. If she thought the author's response was a good thing, then what will her reactions be to someone like me? Buh-bye. Call it a preemptive strike. Removal of potential conflict. Whatever. I don't need that shit in my life right now.
Jus' sayin',
*If you've heard about this and know who the author is, don't say her name in comments or I won't let your comment through. I try to make this as anti 'personal attack' as possible. Which, I guess, is kinda what she should've done.
August 12, 2020
It Ain't Easy But It's Necessary
Writing every day ain't easy, lemme tell ya. There are days when the world has had its way with you. There are days when you're just tired. There are days when the words just won't come out. There are days when you spent 7 minutes kneading pizza dough earlier and now your hands/wrists/arms hurt too much to want to type. (Oh, wait, that last one is just me.)
Previously, when any of those types of days happened, I would give myself a pass and not write that day. I'm the CEO of this business. I can give myself a day off.
Except one day off leads to two days off and two days off leads to... You get the gist. And genuine reasons for taking a day off lead to excuses for taking a day off. 'My hands are killing me today' as a reason turns into 'I'm a little sore' as an excuse. And the next thing you know, you haven't written a damn word for weeks... err, months.
At least that's how it works for me.
So, this month, no matter how I feel physically or mentally, I'm writing every day. Sure, it's not always a lot of words. That 300-something day, oddly enough, wasn't due to anything but that the story wasn't talking to me. I ended up forcing it to talk and got the 300+. Right now, I'm averaging just under 950 words a day. That seems about right, seeing as I was shooting for about 1K a day. And more than that in a session makes my hands hurt.
One day, I was totally not in a place where I wanted to write. Everything was coming at me in a perfect storm for not writing, so I decided to give myself a pass. Then, long about bedtime, the guilt hit me. I made it perfectly clear I was going to write every day. Not every day unless something made me not want to write. Lucky for me, the cat helped there. I ended up not going to bed because the cat decided she didn't want to pee at the time I wanted her to pee. And since I was up and the house was quiet, I sat my ass down at the keyboard and wrote. Not a lot of words and not great words, but I got words out.
Writing every day ain't easy. But it's necessary. For me. At this particular time and place. Get the words out and get them down. Finish the damn book that's been waiting to be finished for months now. And I will do it.
Previously, when any of those types of days happened, I would give myself a pass and not write that day. I'm the CEO of this business. I can give myself a day off.
Except one day off leads to two days off and two days off leads to... You get the gist. And genuine reasons for taking a day off lead to excuses for taking a day off. 'My hands are killing me today' as a reason turns into 'I'm a little sore' as an excuse. And the next thing you know, you haven't written a damn word for weeks... err, months.
At least that's how it works for me.
So, this month, no matter how I feel physically or mentally, I'm writing every day. Sure, it's not always a lot of words. That 300-something day, oddly enough, wasn't due to anything but that the story wasn't talking to me. I ended up forcing it to talk and got the 300+. Right now, I'm averaging just under 950 words a day. That seems about right, seeing as I was shooting for about 1K a day. And more than that in a session makes my hands hurt.
One day, I was totally not in a place where I wanted to write. Everything was coming at me in a perfect storm for not writing, so I decided to give myself a pass. Then, long about bedtime, the guilt hit me. I made it perfectly clear I was going to write every day. Not every day unless something made me not want to write. Lucky for me, the cat helped there. I ended up not going to bed because the cat decided she didn't want to pee at the time I wanted her to pee. And since I was up and the house was quiet, I sat my ass down at the keyboard and wrote. Not a lot of words and not great words, but I got words out.
Writing every day ain't easy. But it's necessary. For me. At this particular time and place. Get the words out and get them down. Finish the damn book that's been waiting to be finished for months now. And I will do it.
August 7, 2020
Random Writerly Stuffs
First off, anyone who has written and/or published a book during this crap has my admiration. All along this I've seen new releases. Don't know how they did it, but kudos to them. I've only just started getting back to writing and even now, some days are easier than others.
Second, and totally unrelated to first, if you're going to market your book and use comparisons to other authors, don't just throw out a laundry list of bestseller names. Do your damn research. Actually read the books of the authors you're comparing yourself to. I read an 'if you like... then you'll love me' list the other day that was obviously just someone who went down a list of bestselling urban fantasy authors and threw their names down. I don't remember all the names now, but I remember being all like 'wait, she doesn't write anything like he does.' Almost as bad as 'if you like Stephen King and Nora Roberts, you'll love me' kind of thing. Don't do it. Fans of the genre will know you're full of shit.
I have the cat to thank for last night's words. I seriously didn't feel like writing yesterday, so I skipped it entirely. (And felt guilty about it.) Then at bedtime, Kira decided she did NOT want to use the litterbox. (She's old, so we have to make sure she pees before we go to bed.) So, I sent Hubs off to bed and I stayed up to try again later. I used that time to write. When I got done with the scene I was working on, I put her in the litterbox again and she did her business. Yay.
Seven straight days of writing. 6723 words total for AuGoWriMo. Unfortunately, I have to do some serious thinking of where I'm headed to next because last night I finished the part I'd planned and have no idea what's next. There's a thick fog bank between here and the climax. I'll wade in later.
A writer acquaintance of mine is getting slammed with people spoofing her Facebook account. I notified her of one the other day wherein said spoofer attempted to friend me. She posted about another two within the past week. Not sure what the hell, but please, if you're on FB and you get a friend request from anyone you know or know of, please pay attention. Each of these instances were close to her name, but not quite. Easy enough to catch if you're paying attention. If you EVER get a friend request from me, contact me because it's probably not from me. I haven't sent a request out in ages. I usually wait until someone sends me a request.
And that's it for me. Got any random writerly stuffs to talk about?
Second, and totally unrelated to first, if you're going to market your book and use comparisons to other authors, don't just throw out a laundry list of bestseller names. Do your damn research. Actually read the books of the authors you're comparing yourself to. I read an 'if you like... then you'll love me' list the other day that was obviously just someone who went down a list of bestselling urban fantasy authors and threw their names down. I don't remember all the names now, but I remember being all like 'wait, she doesn't write anything like he does.' Almost as bad as 'if you like Stephen King and Nora Roberts, you'll love me' kind of thing. Don't do it. Fans of the genre will know you're full of shit.
I have the cat to thank for last night's words. I seriously didn't feel like writing yesterday, so I skipped it entirely. (And felt guilty about it.) Then at bedtime, Kira decided she did NOT want to use the litterbox. (She's old, so we have to make sure she pees before we go to bed.) So, I sent Hubs off to bed and I stayed up to try again later. I used that time to write. When I got done with the scene I was working on, I put her in the litterbox again and she did her business. Yay.
Seven straight days of writing. 6723 words total for AuGoWriMo. Unfortunately, I have to do some serious thinking of where I'm headed to next because last night I finished the part I'd planned and have no idea what's next. There's a thick fog bank between here and the climax. I'll wade in later.
A writer acquaintance of mine is getting slammed with people spoofing her Facebook account. I notified her of one the other day wherein said spoofer attempted to friend me. She posted about another two within the past week. Not sure what the hell, but please, if you're on FB and you get a friend request from anyone you know or know of, please pay attention. Each of these instances were close to her name, but not quite. Easy enough to catch if you're paying attention. If you EVER get a friend request from me, contact me because it's probably not from me. I haven't sent a request out in ages. I usually wait until someone sends me a request.
And that's it for me. Got any random writerly stuffs to talk about?
August 5, 2020
Progress Report 8/5/20
Hello and good morning to you all.
It's the fifth of the month and I've already done 5 days of what I had originally called AugNoWriMo, but I like Silver's suggestion better, so it's now AuGoWriMo - August Go Write Month.
Here's how it's played out so far:
7/31 - 1347
8/1 - 1471
8/2 - 818
8/3 - 887
8/4 - 642
For a total of 5165 words added to Cinder Ugly. Yay. Remember, no judging here. Words every day. That's it.
And I'm not sure if what I'm laying down is any good. Also, no judging there. They're words assembled in some cogent form and editable later. Not 5165 instances of VERY. LOL The story is moving forward toward the climax. That's all that's important right now. Whether they're in any shape for other humans to read can't be a consideration.
As an aside, I've heard critics of this style of fast writing (or dirty drafting, if you prefer) question the quality of the writing. Quality sacrificed in favor of quantity. Well, duh. This is NOT good writing and I wouldn't want anyone to see it - not even my BWFs*. It's supposed to be dirty and gross and messy. That's what editing is for, silly pants people. You can't write a book this fast and hope it will be of publication quality when you're finished. Derp. Books written the long, slow way still need editing, too. Perhaps not as much, but the first draft of anything isn't perfect for anyone.
Anyway, progress is being made. When I don't feel like writing, which has been the last three days, I do it anyway. Those days I don't make a huge amount of progress, but I make progress.
How are things going for you?
*Best Writing Friends
It's the fifth of the month and I've already done 5 days of what I had originally called AugNoWriMo, but I like Silver's suggestion better, so it's now AuGoWriMo - August Go Write Month.
Here's how it's played out so far:
7/31 - 1347
8/1 - 1471
8/2 - 818
8/3 - 887
8/4 - 642
For a total of 5165 words added to Cinder Ugly. Yay. Remember, no judging here. Words every day. That's it.
And I'm not sure if what I'm laying down is any good. Also, no judging there. They're words assembled in some cogent form and editable later. Not 5165 instances of VERY. LOL The story is moving forward toward the climax. That's all that's important right now. Whether they're in any shape for other humans to read can't be a consideration.
As an aside, I've heard critics of this style of fast writing (or dirty drafting, if you prefer) question the quality of the writing. Quality sacrificed in favor of quantity. Well, duh. This is NOT good writing and I wouldn't want anyone to see it - not even my BWFs*. It's supposed to be dirty and gross and messy. That's what editing is for, silly pants people. You can't write a book this fast and hope it will be of publication quality when you're finished. Derp. Books written the long, slow way still need editing, too. Perhaps not as much, but the first draft of anything isn't perfect for anyone.
Anyway, progress is being made. When I don't feel like writing, which has been the last three days, I do it anyway. Those days I don't make a huge amount of progress, but I make progress.
How are things going for you?
*Best Writing Friends
August 3, 2020
August Novel Writing Month
AugNoWriMo... it's a thing. Okay, it's not a thing for pretty much anyone but me. But hey, any month can be a novel writing month if you make it one. I did a HoHoWriMo in December once, because my November was busy and I still wanted to do the whole 'write 50K words in a month' thing.
So, anyway, AugNoWriMo. It's a thing for me. The plan is to write every day. That's it. No set word counts. Just write as much as I can every day this month. The hope is to write at least 1000 words a day, but if I don't, I'm not kicking myself.
If I can do this, I should have Cinder Ugly done all the way to THE END well before the month slides into September. Once I get that written, I will pick something else to work on writing. Or I'll switch to editing every day so I can get CU in reader's hands. We'll see how I feel about things when CU has a whole first draft.
Gah, I had hoped to have CU first drafted by the end of May. I hoped it have it in your hands by now. But enough about that. What wasn't done, wasn't done. Wallowing in that won't help me move forward.
To the end of moving forward, I've added 3636 words to CU since Friday night.
Yeah, I started early. AugNoWriMo doesn't judge. And there's no such thing as cheating. I write every day, I win. Only get 10 words out one day, cool. As long as I move forward.
And no editing. I'm not asking myself to make sure they're good words. I know I wrote some crap in there. I'll have some major work to do in editing. At least they're words to edit. As some famous writer - I think it was Nora Roberts - said, 'you can't edit a blank page'. Write crap. Crap is fixable. Blank is fixable, too - fill the blank up with words.
Yesterday, it was hard. I realized sometime mid-afternoon that my two favorite shows were going to be on during my usual writing time. So, I sat my ass down right then and I wrote. It wasn't good, but it was writing and just over 800 words worth of it, so I win. This month, I also have Owl's birthday and her departure back to Michigan to work around. I will set aside time each day to write, even on those days when my brain has to work on other stuff. I may have pay job stuff to do. And there's still 'rona stuff to contend with. Excuses, excuses... and I won't let any of that stop me. Write. Every day.
Speaking of pay job stuff, I just realized I have a spreadsheet to do, so I'd better get doing.
If you're inclined to join me for AugNoWriMo, go for it. Feel free to drop a line in comments and then drop several more throughout the month to let me know how you're progressing.
So, anyway, AugNoWriMo. It's a thing for me. The plan is to write every day. That's it. No set word counts. Just write as much as I can every day this month. The hope is to write at least 1000 words a day, but if I don't, I'm not kicking myself.
If I can do this, I should have Cinder Ugly done all the way to THE END well before the month slides into September. Once I get that written, I will pick something else to work on writing. Or I'll switch to editing every day so I can get CU in reader's hands. We'll see how I feel about things when CU has a whole first draft.
Gah, I had hoped to have CU first drafted by the end of May. I hoped it have it in your hands by now. But enough about that. What wasn't done, wasn't done. Wallowing in that won't help me move forward.
To the end of moving forward, I've added 3636 words to CU since Friday night.
Yeah, I started early. AugNoWriMo doesn't judge. And there's no such thing as cheating. I write every day, I win. Only get 10 words out one day, cool. As long as I move forward.
And no editing. I'm not asking myself to make sure they're good words. I know I wrote some crap in there. I'll have some major work to do in editing. At least they're words to edit. As some famous writer - I think it was Nora Roberts - said, 'you can't edit a blank page'. Write crap. Crap is fixable. Blank is fixable, too - fill the blank up with words.
Yesterday, it was hard. I realized sometime mid-afternoon that my two favorite shows were going to be on during my usual writing time. So, I sat my ass down right then and I wrote. It wasn't good, but it was writing and just over 800 words worth of it, so I win. This month, I also have Owl's birthday and her departure back to Michigan to work around. I will set aside time each day to write, even on those days when my brain has to work on other stuff. I may have pay job stuff to do. And there's still 'rona stuff to contend with. Excuses, excuses... and I won't let any of that stop me. Write. Every day.
Speaking of pay job stuff, I just realized I have a spreadsheet to do, so I'd better get doing.
If you're inclined to join me for AugNoWriMo, go for it. Feel free to drop a line in comments and then drop several more throughout the month to let me know how you're progressing.
July 3, 2020
Surprise! Freebie Alert!
Umm, yeah, it was unexpected by everyone, including me, but PROJECT HERMES is on sale now through the 7th worldwide.
PROJECT HERMES is free worldwide 7/3-7/7. (Always free with Kindle Unlimited.) The highest levels of government believe Project Hermes is the best solution to the immigration problem. Except their simple plan to microchip people might be deadly. Now, Agent Miranda Kruz has to figure out why Project Hermes is killing people and who’s behind it. Finding the madmen will be hard enough. Stopping them might be impossible. US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B017Y6G0EWUK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B... https://www.amazon.ca/Project-Hermes-... https://www.amazon.com.au/Project-Her... #suspense #political #medical #thriller #conspiracytheory #free #ebook
PROJECT HERMES is free worldwide 7/3-7/7. (Always free with Kindle Unlimited.) The highest levels of government believe Project Hermes is the best solution to the immigration problem. Except their simple plan to microchip people might be deadly. Now, Agent Miranda Kruz has to figure out why Project Hermes is killing people and who’s behind it. Finding the madmen will be hard enough. Stopping them might be impossible. US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B017Y6G0EWUK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B... https://www.amazon.ca/Project-Hermes-... https://www.amazon.com.au/Project-Her... #suspense #political #medical #thriller #conspiracytheory #free #ebookJuly 1, 2020
The Best Laid Plans of Mousy Writers
Well, it's officially been more than two months since I sold a book and nearly two months since anyone read any of my books in the KU program. (Not counting the 30-something pages someone read last week because it wasn't a whole book.)
True, I haven't really done much to sell books. And lord knows, I haven't been writing any books. I did release a book in May, hence the sales two months ago. (I didn't sell anything in April.) I sold two copies of that book. One of which was to myself. Someone read the book in KU. I marketed that book a little to the sound of crickets. Book Two in a three book series when the third book hasn't been written yet is always a dud sale.
I'm not whining. I'm just stating facts. It is what it is.
I'd blame the virus, but bhis was not looking like a banner year for sales even before the 'rona arrived. Last year, I released zero books, and while I did do a lot of marketing last year, I cleared very little above what I paid for advertising. I have, perhaps, reached saturation with the current buying pool for newsletters I put ads in with the books I already have published.
Oh, I had plans to make this year better. If I had stuck to my goals, I would already have two books published and be well on my way to completing another book. If I hadn't been derailed, I might've been marketing. Like I said, I got one book finished earlier in the year and published in early May - thanks to my friends who helped there and to those who bought and/or reviewed.
Right now, I can't seem to muster the will to do anything toward my publishing goals. Looking ahead, things don't seem in a position to improve. I keep telling myself this has to get better, but without anything to back that up, I'm just blowing smoke up my own ass. I have to work to make it better and I'm just not in the mindset to do the work.
Whatever's happening in the world, that's on me.
True, I haven't really done much to sell books. And lord knows, I haven't been writing any books. I did release a book in May, hence the sales two months ago. (I didn't sell anything in April.) I sold two copies of that book. One of which was to myself. Someone read the book in KU. I marketed that book a little to the sound of crickets. Book Two in a three book series when the third book hasn't been written yet is always a dud sale.
I'm not whining. I'm just stating facts. It is what it is.
I'd blame the virus, but bhis was not looking like a banner year for sales even before the 'rona arrived. Last year, I released zero books, and while I did do a lot of marketing last year, I cleared very little above what I paid for advertising. I have, perhaps, reached saturation with the current buying pool for newsletters I put ads in with the books I already have published.
Oh, I had plans to make this year better. If I had stuck to my goals, I would already have two books published and be well on my way to completing another book. If I hadn't been derailed, I might've been marketing. Like I said, I got one book finished earlier in the year and published in early May - thanks to my friends who helped there and to those who bought and/or reviewed.
Right now, I can't seem to muster the will to do anything toward my publishing goals. Looking ahead, things don't seem in a position to improve. I keep telling myself this has to get better, but without anything to back that up, I'm just blowing smoke up my own ass. I have to work to make it better and I'm just not in the mindset to do the work.
Whatever's happening in the world, that's on me.
June 24, 2020
I'm Trying
I've been trying to work, really I have. I sat down yesterday and opened Cinder Ugly. I ended up editing a little bit of it and then staring at the screen, wondering where the hell the story was going now. Something I've been wondering since the last spurt of ideas ran out over a month ago.
When I didn't make any progress with CU, I opened that new thing I started last week. I ended up editing a little bit of it and then staring at the screen, trying to rebuild some ideas I'd had while I was falling asleep the night before. Unfortunately, everything I thought of was lost. (Yes, I know. I should've gotten up and written it down, but I was so tired all I wanted was a little sleep.)
Since I couldn't make anything work here at the computer, I got up and went to my recliner. There I took up my notebook and red pen. Usually, I can get things flowing by asking myself some simple questions on paper. Nope. Not a damn thing flowed. Not even a little spritz of inspiration. Not a droplet of insight.
Dry.
I thought about making a pot of coffee last night and forcing myself to write after Hubs went to bed. Then it occurred to me that oftentimes Owl will use the office for her gaming after we've gone to bed. (Her room is next to our room, so she moves out of there to lessen the noise drifting through our shared wall.) Forcing oneself to create worlds is impossible while someone is gleefully (and noisily) killing things with her friends behind you.
Excuses, excuses. I will find a way around all this.
When I think of all the plans I had for this year and how they've all pretty-much been dashed on the rocks of the Kung Flu, it pisses me off. Maybe getting good and mad will help the words flow. Can't be any worse than where I am now, eh?
When I didn't make any progress with CU, I opened that new thing I started last week. I ended up editing a little bit of it and then staring at the screen, trying to rebuild some ideas I'd had while I was falling asleep the night before. Unfortunately, everything I thought of was lost. (Yes, I know. I should've gotten up and written it down, but I was so tired all I wanted was a little sleep.)
Since I couldn't make anything work here at the computer, I got up and went to my recliner. There I took up my notebook and red pen. Usually, I can get things flowing by asking myself some simple questions on paper. Nope. Not a damn thing flowed. Not even a little spritz of inspiration. Not a droplet of insight.
Dry.
I thought about making a pot of coffee last night and forcing myself to write after Hubs went to bed. Then it occurred to me that oftentimes Owl will use the office for her gaming after we've gone to bed. (Her room is next to our room, so she moves out of there to lessen the noise drifting through our shared wall.) Forcing oneself to create worlds is impossible while someone is gleefully (and noisily) killing things with her friends behind you.
Excuses, excuses. I will find a way around all this.
When I think of all the plans I had for this year and how they've all pretty-much been dashed on the rocks of the Kung Flu, it pisses me off. Maybe getting good and mad will help the words flow. Can't be any worse than where I am now, eh?
June 16, 2020
Just Get Up and Write The Damn Thing
Now I lay me down to sleep
When into my head the stories creep
If I don't get up and write them down
I'll wake up with a serious frown.
So, there I was Sunday night, trying to sleep, when this scene popped into my head. The beginning scene for a new mystery laid itself out beautifully. So I made myself get up and write some of it down. That usually makes the scene stop playing so I can get some sleep, and it's also usually enough to get me going on writing the next day.
1) It didn't stop playing in my head.
2) I didn't write enough of it down to really get back in the groove with it.
I told myself I should just get up, turn the damn computer back on, and write the whole damn scene. Did I? Nope. And the next day, as I was sitting at my keyboard looking at the few notes I had written, I cursed myself for a fool. It's been so hard to write these past few months I should've recognized the story was more precious than the sleep. But I didn't.
Still, I sat my ass down and wrote. Oh my god, what came out was so lame. Definitely not the glowing words I'd thought of the night before. I wanted to chuck it all in the trash and go back to sitting on my ass. But I couldn't just give up. The story was shrieking to be written. I tried again last night. Whole new file, blank page, sit your ass down and write.
This try was not lame. And it flowed pretty much the way it had when I thought of it the night before. 1300 words. Woohoo.
I have only a slight clue where I'm going with this. I don't know the MC in the slightest. It doesn't dovetail with any of my current stories. The MC is a whole new person. It's kind of noir. It's gritty. More like Accidental Death than anything else I've written. But more so.
We'll see if I can keep it going and not second guess myself (which has already begun by the way) and write the whole damn thing. It's not the book I need to finish right now, but it's the book I need to finish. Maybe writing this will jumpstart my lead ass so I can finish Cinder Ugly. Fingers crossed.
When into my head the stories creep
If I don't get up and write them down
I'll wake up with a serious frown.
So, there I was Sunday night, trying to sleep, when this scene popped into my head. The beginning scene for a new mystery laid itself out beautifully. So I made myself get up and write some of it down. That usually makes the scene stop playing so I can get some sleep, and it's also usually enough to get me going on writing the next day.
1) It didn't stop playing in my head.
2) I didn't write enough of it down to really get back in the groove with it.
I told myself I should just get up, turn the damn computer back on, and write the whole damn scene. Did I? Nope. And the next day, as I was sitting at my keyboard looking at the few notes I had written, I cursed myself for a fool. It's been so hard to write these past few months I should've recognized the story was more precious than the sleep. But I didn't.
Still, I sat my ass down and wrote. Oh my god, what came out was so lame. Definitely not the glowing words I'd thought of the night before. I wanted to chuck it all in the trash and go back to sitting on my ass. But I couldn't just give up. The story was shrieking to be written. I tried again last night. Whole new file, blank page, sit your ass down and write.
This try was not lame. And it flowed pretty much the way it had when I thought of it the night before. 1300 words. Woohoo.
I have only a slight clue where I'm going with this. I don't know the MC in the slightest. It doesn't dovetail with any of my current stories. The MC is a whole new person. It's kind of noir. It's gritty. More like Accidental Death than anything else I've written. But more so.
We'll see if I can keep it going and not second guess myself (which has already begun by the way) and write the whole damn thing. It's not the book I need to finish right now, but it's the book I need to finish. Maybe writing this will jumpstart my lead ass so I can finish Cinder Ugly. Fingers crossed.
June 3, 2020
A Snipped Snippet
I sometimes post snippets of my stories to Silver James' blog. This morning, the prompt she presented led me to the original beginning of Accidental Death (when I still wasn't sure where I was going with it all).
Since it was way more than I wanted to post in her comment section, I thought I'd share it with you here:
She stood alone by his grave, as he would have wished. No other mourners bore witness to the box being slowly lowered into the ground. No flowers proclaimed his passing.St. Anne’s was holding a memorial service on the other side of town, presumably so the good citizens of Serenity could say their last farewell to the city’s now-deceased manager. They’d begged her to come, but he wouldn’t have wanted them to gather in remembrance. Out of respect for his wishes, she’d politely refused their impolite insistence. When she drove by the church, large signs announced their service for him, the way the corner grocery store announced a sale on toilet paper. The only difference was: the store was at least sincere in their sentiment, and toilet paper at least served a purpose. There was no purpose in a memorial service given by the upstanding citizens of a town that had driven her husband to an early grave.Long after his coffin was covered with freshly turned earth, she remained staring at the place where her heart lay buried, feeling like she could only leave the place if she consented to leave the best parts of her behind. It wasn’t something she was willing to do. She wasn’t sure if it was ever something she’d be willing to do.They’d only been married a year when the call came. Scott collapsed during a city council meeting. The heart that beat so loudly against her ear as she lay drowsing against his chest had betrayed them both. As he stood fighting for his principles, the traitorous organ had given up the fight. All around him stood men who should’ve been able to help—four councilmen alone on the volunteer fire department—but try as they might, they couldn’t bring him back. They worked on her husband all the way to the tiny hospital, but Scott was already gone. She was gone seconds later. Alive but not. Driven immediately into a state of such utter despondence, she barely registered when the city’s ambulance director offered to ease her pain with something from his kit. For an instant, she considered slipping into the unfeeling sleep he offered, but in the end, she refused. She never believed in better living through pharmaceuticals, especially not when it came to clouding her mind or her emotions. In the end, she didn’t need their elixirs anyway. Her whole being did an excellent job of numbing itself.She wandered through the coming days doing exactly what needed to be done. Arrangements made, family contacted, her husband laid to rest in the tiny plot she picked out for him. Everything was finished.Still she couldn’t move.The wind whipped up out of the north, splaying her long brown hair across her face. Despite the heat of mid-summer, chill claws ripped through her light blouse. In her mind, she could see the first few flitters of snow drift to land on his grave and disappear against the warm earth. Still she didn’t move.When a hand gently touched her shoulder, she shifted only slightly, turning her head to look into a face worn by the wrinkles of time. One of the few faces in Serenity she could consider a friend, and the only one who came to honor her husband in the manner she chose. She acknowledged him with a nod and turned her eyes back to where Scott lay.“He’s gone, Jillian. It’s time to go home.”She nodded again, wanting to scream about her inability to leave, but unable to make words form in her raw throat. The old man took her hand, and gently pulled her away from her heart. Lost in her own pain, Jillian didn’t notice the old man gently help her into his car. She didn’t think to ask about her car, sitting cold and alone along the tiny cemetery road. She didn’t see the flowering gardens now gracing the homes they drove past, nor her own neglected lawn as the car pulled to a stop.The best part of her was still standing in the cemetery staring at the rectangle of brown where her heart now lay.The old man helped her into her house, no longer a home without Scott’s life within its walls. He turned on the lights, and fixed her a strong drink. Along the edges of her mind, she could hear him talking to her, and she could hear herself answering, but none of it seemed real. When he let himself out, she stood staring after him long into the night.Somehow she must have made herself to turn out the lights and get into bed. Somehow she must have gotten herself to sleep. As she lay unblinking in the glow of dawn, she unsuccessfully tried to remember doing either. The light shown brightly through the pretty drapes she’d picked out to cheer their daily awakening. She shuddered at the sight of those drapes, and longed to pull the covers over her head to hide them from her sight. Instead, she forced herself to look at them, and to remember they were part of the life she had lived before.Dragging herself from the bed she shared with Scott, she realized she still wore the same outfit—black except for where the cuffs of her pants were lightly dusted with earth. If she’d had an entire wardrobe of black, it wouldn’t have been enough to reflect the gaping hole she felt inside herself.In the back of her mind, she could hear her husband’s voice, “Life goes on.” If it had been anyone else’s voice, she would’ve spit in his face, but Scott could always get her to do things she’d rather not do. Their entire marriage had been a series of new adventures. His try-anything spirit gently coaxing her bookish self to stretch for the heights.For the first time since that horrible night, she smiled.After all, he had been the only one in the thirty-six years of her life to coax her on one of those damned motorcycles. She was afraid it would kill her, but she survived the experience. She’d been afraid it would kill Scott, but he survived riding on that hellish thing, too. If only he could’ve survived one stupid meeting.Scott was the strongest man she ever met. Never took a sick day; shrugged off injuries like they didn’t exist. Whether he was climbing Longs Peak or brushing a rattlesnake out of her the path with a stick, he did everything like he was going to live forever. Looking back, she realized he sincerely believed he would never die, and as foolish as it seemed now, she believed right along with him.He never saw death coming. Until it came and wrecked them both.For days after the funeral, she went through the routines of life, without actually living them. She got up every day, she dressed herself, she ate, and then she went to bed. Everything else was a useless blur. When the food ran low, she ventured out into the town. That was her first mistake.Walking through an aisle of the town’s only grocery store, she was reaching for a loaf of Scott’s favorite bread when voices drifted to her from the next row over.“I hear you’re having a devil of a time finding yourself a new city manager,” said a man she recognized only as one of the farmers from outside the city. “Too bad about Underwood...”“He was a pain in the ass,” said Jerry Powden, one of the city councilman who was present to witness her husband’s death. Scott never talked much about the meetings she was never encouraged to attend, but she knew enough about those monthly events to know about Powden and his drive to make her husband’s job harder with every vote. She gritted her teeth and tossed the now-crumpled loaf into her cart. Whatever the bastard said was no longer of any consequence. He couldn’t hurt Scott any more, and as soon as his affairs were in order, she would never see Serenity again. If the city council wanted to run the town into the ground, so be it. As she turned to push her groceries away from the offensive conversation, though, Powden’s next words stopped her cold.“It was the best thing for everyone when he keeled over like he did…”“That’s a sick thing to say…”“Screw it. It’s not like anyone gives a damn one way or the other what I say about him now. His dying like that saved us all a lot of trouble. Not that it matters anymore, but we were getting ready to fire him anyway. We had the votes. Live or dead, he wouldn’t have been around bothering us for much longer anyway. And if you ask me, I’m glad it was dead.” Powden chuckled and the sound dripped like acid along her nerves. “At least dead, he can’t whine about ‘wrongful termination’.” For the first time since that horrible night, Jillian felt. Suddenly, she felt far more than she ever wanted to feel again, and what she felt was hatred.
The book went in a different direction than I had intended when I wrote that. If you've read it, you know. If not, it's available from Amazon.
Since it was way more than I wanted to post in her comment section, I thought I'd share it with you here:
She stood alone by his grave, as he would have wished. No other mourners bore witness to the box being slowly lowered into the ground. No flowers proclaimed his passing.St. Anne’s was holding a memorial service on the other side of town, presumably so the good citizens of Serenity could say their last farewell to the city’s now-deceased manager. They’d begged her to come, but he wouldn’t have wanted them to gather in remembrance. Out of respect for his wishes, she’d politely refused their impolite insistence. When she drove by the church, large signs announced their service for him, the way the corner grocery store announced a sale on toilet paper. The only difference was: the store was at least sincere in their sentiment, and toilet paper at least served a purpose. There was no purpose in a memorial service given by the upstanding citizens of a town that had driven her husband to an early grave.Long after his coffin was covered with freshly turned earth, she remained staring at the place where her heart lay buried, feeling like she could only leave the place if she consented to leave the best parts of her behind. It wasn’t something she was willing to do. She wasn’t sure if it was ever something she’d be willing to do.They’d only been married a year when the call came. Scott collapsed during a city council meeting. The heart that beat so loudly against her ear as she lay drowsing against his chest had betrayed them both. As he stood fighting for his principles, the traitorous organ had given up the fight. All around him stood men who should’ve been able to help—four councilmen alone on the volunteer fire department—but try as they might, they couldn’t bring him back. They worked on her husband all the way to the tiny hospital, but Scott was already gone. She was gone seconds later. Alive but not. Driven immediately into a state of such utter despondence, she barely registered when the city’s ambulance director offered to ease her pain with something from his kit. For an instant, she considered slipping into the unfeeling sleep he offered, but in the end, she refused. She never believed in better living through pharmaceuticals, especially not when it came to clouding her mind or her emotions. In the end, she didn’t need their elixirs anyway. Her whole being did an excellent job of numbing itself.She wandered through the coming days doing exactly what needed to be done. Arrangements made, family contacted, her husband laid to rest in the tiny plot she picked out for him. Everything was finished.Still she couldn’t move.The wind whipped up out of the north, splaying her long brown hair across her face. Despite the heat of mid-summer, chill claws ripped through her light blouse. In her mind, she could see the first few flitters of snow drift to land on his grave and disappear against the warm earth. Still she didn’t move.When a hand gently touched her shoulder, she shifted only slightly, turning her head to look into a face worn by the wrinkles of time. One of the few faces in Serenity she could consider a friend, and the only one who came to honor her husband in the manner she chose. She acknowledged him with a nod and turned her eyes back to where Scott lay.“He’s gone, Jillian. It’s time to go home.”She nodded again, wanting to scream about her inability to leave, but unable to make words form in her raw throat. The old man took her hand, and gently pulled her away from her heart. Lost in her own pain, Jillian didn’t notice the old man gently help her into his car. She didn’t think to ask about her car, sitting cold and alone along the tiny cemetery road. She didn’t see the flowering gardens now gracing the homes they drove past, nor her own neglected lawn as the car pulled to a stop.The best part of her was still standing in the cemetery staring at the rectangle of brown where her heart now lay.The old man helped her into her house, no longer a home without Scott’s life within its walls. He turned on the lights, and fixed her a strong drink. Along the edges of her mind, she could hear him talking to her, and she could hear herself answering, but none of it seemed real. When he let himself out, she stood staring after him long into the night.Somehow she must have made herself to turn out the lights and get into bed. Somehow she must have gotten herself to sleep. As she lay unblinking in the glow of dawn, she unsuccessfully tried to remember doing either. The light shown brightly through the pretty drapes she’d picked out to cheer their daily awakening. She shuddered at the sight of those drapes, and longed to pull the covers over her head to hide them from her sight. Instead, she forced herself to look at them, and to remember they were part of the life she had lived before.Dragging herself from the bed she shared with Scott, she realized she still wore the same outfit—black except for where the cuffs of her pants were lightly dusted with earth. If she’d had an entire wardrobe of black, it wouldn’t have been enough to reflect the gaping hole she felt inside herself.In the back of her mind, she could hear her husband’s voice, “Life goes on.” If it had been anyone else’s voice, she would’ve spit in his face, but Scott could always get her to do things she’d rather not do. Their entire marriage had been a series of new adventures. His try-anything spirit gently coaxing her bookish self to stretch for the heights.For the first time since that horrible night, she smiled.After all, he had been the only one in the thirty-six years of her life to coax her on one of those damned motorcycles. She was afraid it would kill her, but she survived the experience. She’d been afraid it would kill Scott, but he survived riding on that hellish thing, too. If only he could’ve survived one stupid meeting.Scott was the strongest man she ever met. Never took a sick day; shrugged off injuries like they didn’t exist. Whether he was climbing Longs Peak or brushing a rattlesnake out of her the path with a stick, he did everything like he was going to live forever. Looking back, she realized he sincerely believed he would never die, and as foolish as it seemed now, she believed right along with him.He never saw death coming. Until it came and wrecked them both.For days after the funeral, she went through the routines of life, without actually living them. She got up every day, she dressed herself, she ate, and then she went to bed. Everything else was a useless blur. When the food ran low, she ventured out into the town. That was her first mistake.Walking through an aisle of the town’s only grocery store, she was reaching for a loaf of Scott’s favorite bread when voices drifted to her from the next row over.“I hear you’re having a devil of a time finding yourself a new city manager,” said a man she recognized only as one of the farmers from outside the city. “Too bad about Underwood...”“He was a pain in the ass,” said Jerry Powden, one of the city councilman who was present to witness her husband’s death. Scott never talked much about the meetings she was never encouraged to attend, but she knew enough about those monthly events to know about Powden and his drive to make her husband’s job harder with every vote. She gritted her teeth and tossed the now-crumpled loaf into her cart. Whatever the bastard said was no longer of any consequence. He couldn’t hurt Scott any more, and as soon as his affairs were in order, she would never see Serenity again. If the city council wanted to run the town into the ground, so be it. As she turned to push her groceries away from the offensive conversation, though, Powden’s next words stopped her cold.“It was the best thing for everyone when he keeled over like he did…”“That’s a sick thing to say…”“Screw it. It’s not like anyone gives a damn one way or the other what I say about him now. His dying like that saved us all a lot of trouble. Not that it matters anymore, but we were getting ready to fire him anyway. We had the votes. Live or dead, he wouldn’t have been around bothering us for much longer anyway. And if you ask me, I’m glad it was dead.” Powden chuckled and the sound dripped like acid along her nerves. “At least dead, he can’t whine about ‘wrongful termination’.” For the first time since that horrible night, Jillian felt. Suddenly, she felt far more than she ever wanted to feel again, and what she felt was hatred.
The book went in a different direction than I had intended when I wrote that. If you've read it, you know. If not, it's available from Amazon.
