Jacob Bryce's Blog, page 4

Not Quite A Real Interview or, You May Ask Me Anything

I answered a few questions for Goodreads' Ask The Author service. It was entertaining but I wouldn't mind a few questions that aren't so typical. So feel free to head over and drop me a question or two.

How do you deal with writer’s block? Bryce David Salazar I read or find something on Netflix and binge. There's always some kind of clause in writer advice articles that mentions reading, but it never gets the full credit it deserves. Just as the chef needs to eat, a writer needs to read (or watch something, television and film both require writers). When I'm struggling to write, I don't think of it as writer's block so much as an intellectual malnutrition. Sooner or later, I start struggling to read or watch and I go back to writing.flagLike   CommentWhat’s the best thing about being a writer? Bryce David Salazar As an introvert, I have the ultimate get out social events free card.flagLike   CommentWhat’s your advice for aspiring writers? Bryce David Salazar Finish something. Too many writers are working on this or that and while they have a commendable amount of words written, they don't have a complete story. No publisher ever takes half a novel and puts it on shelves (unless you're Capote or Fitzgerald, and subsequently dead). Get the story finished. Then finish the rewrite. Even if you have your doubts about it, that's why we have editors and proof readers. So finish the damn thing.flagLike   CommentWhere did you get the idea for your most recent book? Bryce David Salazar It started as a writing exercise in my diary. I was still working on She Sees Metaphors at the time and I wanted to take a break from physical descriptions, if only to cleanse my pallet. Shortly after I put it aside with no intentions of ever coming back, I started rewriting it.

Publication, You Lovely Minx

Well golly gee wiz, summer 2015 is off to one hell of a start and there's much to say. But before I get into any of that, let's take a moment and talk about that one thing...


It's here!!!



She Sees Metaphors arrived on bookshelves, both digital and not on June 17th. Currently it's only available on Amazon and CreateSpace, but in the coming months I plan to do all that I can to expand on that.

For being only two weeks old, my little debut is doing quite well. I'm honored by all of the well wishes and notifications of purchase that all of my friends and family have been giving me. It's a crazy thing, achieving your childhood dream. I think I'd like to repeat it again and again and again.

June 8th or, "June 8th"

Remember when I said that I'd have She Sees Metaphors out on June 8th? Well, June 8th has become "June 8th," a concept more so than date. Kind of like Community season 4 airing on October 19th.






"So why is this?" all five of you ask. Well, it's simple really. The proof copies of She Sees Metaphors have been ordered, but when do they arrive? 

Estimated delivery date: June 8th.

It would be silly as fuck of me to assume that once the proof copies arrive that I'll be able to read them, fix them and publish them all on that day, especially since I am probably going to be working that morning. (How else am I going to pay my bills? Writing? Bahaha!) 

But there is still a wonderful possibility that June 8th will still happen in June. There's a solid no man's land between the proof arrival date and Electric Forest, and I will spend every moment outside of work going through the proof and making sure that it's pretty as fuck. Because I like pretty as fuck.

So in the mean time, here's a sneak peak of the cover art.


Jon's top knot isn't real. It's just a metaphor.

And here's a picture of the hippy's cat, Uno.


As in, "I am Satan's numero..."

As always, more details to come. While I wait, I'll be working semi-diligently on my sophomore release while also picking at my third. Thanks for the support and see you folks soon!

An Elegant "Fuck You, I Quit"

Day jobs come, and day jobs go. With the coming of a new day job, one I quite enjoy and find myself recalling the same pleasure my protagonist experiences in her day job, the time to exit the former has arrived. The timing of such could not be better, as our abusive and downright awful assistant manager is returning from sick leave. And with that I have decided the best course of action is to send one great big, "Fuck you, I quit this bitch!" letter. But not just any "Fuck you, I quit this bitch!" letter. A "Fuck you, I quit this bitch!" letter with class. One that packs a punch so professional and so deep, that the middle finger hanging out between the lines is unmistakable. And with that, dear readers, comes this little gem:

Management,
I’m writing this letter to inform you of my resignation from [This Hellhole], effective immediately. It has come to my attention that a manager who has been had multiple complaints for verbal abuse and sexual harassment is being allowed to return to [This Hellhole], and it is for this reason that I am choosing the resign.
Under normal circumstances I would prefer to give a minimum of two weeks notice before leaving, however since it is clear that this is a company that willingly employs unethical and abusive management, I see no need to do so. I will not support and offer convenience to a workplace that clearly does not care for its staff and would rather allow they face scrutiny and abuse than to go through the effort of hiring and training a replacement manager.
I will return my keys and uniform within the week.
Sincerely,
[Author's Name, Not BDS]



Ahhh.... Freedom. 

A Fish Out Water: A Prologue

Summer is upon us, children of the lord, and with that brief window of sun and capital city construction work comes the looming music festival dates like a woman slowly undressing in front of a sex addict in a sleazy motel just off the interstate. If you listen close, you can hear the sounds of rising erections and pulsing panties in drug dealers as they wait for their excess of summer cash.

Or maybe that's just me being a judgmental asshole. Who knows? Who cares? Not I, said the scribe. 

Last year I experienced my first music festival at Electric Forest, something I did because the hippy absolutely loves it and I wanted to experience something she cares so deeply about with her. It would be a learning experience and an opportunity to grow closer to each other. I expected to hate every single single second of it.


Look at that bald, miserable piece of shit. Look at that gorgeous hippy.

(Photo courtesy of the official Electric Forest Photographers or whatever.)

People. Crowds. People. More people. It sounded awful, like a trip to the doctor to find out what that weird growth on your penis is, praying its something benign and soon to be forgotten. Naturally, my extreme pessimism was unfounded and the entire trip turned out to be some of the most fun I've had on overpriced vodka.

And so, to carry on the tradition of new experience, the hippy and I will be going to both Summer Camp and Electric Forest this year, a feat that's guaranteed to stomp the life out of my bank account like an ant wandering through a military march. And since I will still be quite the fish out of water, I shall document my experiences and record them here, for all of you to see just how awkward and judgmental I really am. 



***
In other news, the cover art to She Sees Metaphors is nearly complete!!! The final proof reading is well underway and my hopeful date of June 8th may not be a pipe dream so much as a general time frame for something that will most certainly happen. Details, pictures, and all that jazz will come as soon as I have something to offer. 
Stay tuned, stay safe, and stay out of cheap brothels.
-BDS

No Time For Showers

I’m supposed to be getting ready for work, but I don’t feel like it. If motivation were currency, my bank account would reflect that of a man so far behind and so deep that suicide would be the most appealing and (seemingly) logical of conclusions for how to get out of his current plight. It’s ugly. I’ll go to work today, unshowered and at the mercy of whatever body odor I produce in the 3.2 miles from my apartment to the job. Best not to think about the odor that’ll come from standing by the oven all night.
But fuck it, it’s not the real job, is it? Not the one I care about. It’s just the gig that pays the bills and puts food on my table, Books on my shelves and liquor in my gut. The real job, writing, is what matters. And I’m in a rut with that job, the rut being that I simply don’t want to right now. I’m on vacation, which many literary types would consider to be sacrilege, possibly even an act of domestic terrorism on literature itself. But who cares what they think? Literary is just another word for boring and elitist. You can’t trust anyone who uses that word and means it. Just smile, nod, and step back slowly towards the door, where freedom and a lack of dull idiocy await.
I’m done with the book, and right now it’s in the hands of others. One final proof reading is underway by a trusted source, and the cover art is in progress with this lovely married couple I begged to give me something that wouldn’t embarrass me. What did I say on Facebook? Oh, right:
I don't feel like writing. This happens now and again, and most days I tell myself to shut the fuck up, quit being a whiny little shit, and fill up the god damn page. But not today. Or yesterday. Or even the days before. I've been giving myself a break since the publication date is so close. I feel like an expecting father, just waiting for the word that it's time to rush to the hospital. I don't want to focus on anything that will distract me. I'm playing the waiting game for the final pieces. So for now, no work. Only patience
It’s true though. I’m just patiently waiting on others and so I’d rather take the time to give the brain a chance to relax. Why force myself to work on something right now? I could be called to work on the book any moment now. So screw it, a vacation it is. Maybe all writers need a vacation from the work. Many will disagree, as there are so many twats out there who preach writing daily as though it’s the dogma of the Church of Literary Practices, a religion to which I am a militant atheist. Maybe more on that to come. The clock is ticking, and sooner or later I really will have to get out the door. I’ve already sacrificed time to shower. If I keep this nonsense up I’ll be sacrificing time to eat. And then where will I be?
So here you go. Have a nice day, full of peace, love and the macabre. But no edits. There’s no time. I need to get ready for the day job to help pay for the art. Cover art and proofreading cost money, you know. So adieu to you and you, but not you. You can piss off.
-BDS

A Career Cock Block

I always feel as though I'm one step behind the other managers I've worked with in the last year. One thing I've noticed that always separated me from them is their complete and utter dedication to The Job. The restaurant is their career. They wake up and go to work and their complete focus is on the job and making the place a success, not just to appease the higher ups, but because it's also what they want. The success of how they run the place is also how they measure their success. 

I can never get my head around it. 

I wake up and go to work and my primary goal, which is also the goal I have in most other walks of life, is to get things done in such a way that I won't get bitched at. I prefer to be left alone and ignored, completely and utterly invisible, which makes shift managing the one of most ironic occupations I could have. My employees make a mistake, I'm the one my bosses approach about it. In order to stay invisible, I have to focus my efforts on making sure that a group of kids (who don't get paid nearly enough for they shit they put up with) do their job as though it's the most fulfilling thing in the whole wide world. 

The difficult thing about working a career that isn't what I want to do and what I love (writing!) is that I'm never 100% in it. While labor costs and employee productivity haunt the minds of my colleagues and superiors, I'm often wondering about market strategy for She Sees Metaphors and Tales of Timeless Springs (my sophomore release). While the others are trying to figure out how food prep is done to best reduce waste cost, I'm rolling character dialogue over in  my head. It's something that's always going on in the back of mind, which from what I gather, is just how writers do. It's a constant haunting from a welcomed ghost.

I call this constant haunting a career cock block. No matter how much effort I put into whatever I'm doing to pay the bills, it's never going to compare and it's never going to wind up anywhere but in a later slot on my priorities list. And that's okay with me. It's the life I want. Even if I never find myself in the position to write full time, I will keep writing and keep polishing and keep publishing because at the end of the day, it'll take me to the grave in a much happier and fulfilled state.

There is a sense of defeat in this, because I know that I will never push myself into greater careers. I tried it for a year. I wrote almost nothing and I hated every second of it. I am much happier with my current lot in life. But the risk is quite frightening. The stress and fear of it all will sometimes keep me awake at night, because being poor is really, really, fucking lame. But what can you do, except drag your ass to the desk every day or night and pull out the manuscript and hope to heaven and hell that what you're putting on paper is something that just might allow you to live your dream one day?

Jesus, I think I've had too much coffee. I'm shaking here like a man sitting in the electric chair, waiting for the first tingle of the end of his life. And I've got some more words to put down on paper and a lunch that should probably be eaten before I slip out the door and make my way to the day job, for yet another evening of ensuring that the restaurant looks pretty and is in perfect working condition so that the people who live and breath its existence can rest easy and know that their personal legacy is safe and sound. Although, in truth, I'll probably watch Mad Men and read a bit. I could use some creative nourishment before I carry on with the story at hand.

Cheers.

East er... Something

No blog this week. Happy Easter.

Twelve Fucking Pounds 2: The Return of the Twelve

Holy God, I have been a lazy sack of shit this winter, doing virtually nothing that required standing outside of my day job. It's no wonder that I put on a little weight, although from what people tell me, they can't tell in the slightest (I associate with some wonderfully kind liars).

I attempted a bike ride, and seriously people, that shit wore me out. I was breathless and hacking and gasping for air like a drowning man, although instead of water I was suffocating on Cottage Inn pizza and bread sticks, with a soda to wash it down. I can barely stand to look at myself when I think about that. I'm in the process of getting myself back into proper shape, with no belly and plenty of stamina for a bike ride to and from work. It's a refreshing little reminder about actions and consequences and all of that jazz. 

So as stated in a recent bloggy blog, She Sees Metaphors is nearly complete. At this point all that I have to do is give it one more read through for stragglers, purchase the ISBN and bar code, and apply the cover art once it's done. I'm coming upon the end of a rather long and educating chapter of my life with the conclusion of She Sees Metaphors. I won't lie, it's rather emotional.

She Sees Metaphors is not my first manuscript. Before that, was a small little autobiographical thing I called Summer Gypsy, which was a blast to write. Being a memoir/novel type thing, I wrote the first draft in about three months, and wanting to give myself some time before the rewrites that never happened, I remembered a short story I wrote called Sometimes I Miss The Lies a year or two earlier. Since Summer Gypsy was so much fun, I decided that I wanted to do it again and so Sometimes I Miss The Lies was chosen to become my next novel.

I learned quickly that writing a novel purely from my imagination and writing one that was essentially just recording things that happened with some embellishments are two completely different animals. Between work and school, it took me an entire year to finish the first draft, which was, putting it nicely, fucking garbage. I was ready to toss the whole thing out. It didn't work. There were so many problems with it that I didn't think I could salvage anything. I was ready to move on.

Thankfully, a dear friend of mine told me that I definitely had something, it just needed to be reworked. Since she's much smarter than I am with all things literature, I decided not to toss my baby into a dumpster. This coincided with me talking to Chris Galford at a party one night, and buzzed off our respected whiskey choices, we talked about starting a writer's workshop. At the time, Chris was finishing up his debut, The Hollow March, and entertaining himself working on some short stories, so it was the perfect opportunity. We assembled some writer colleagues from around town and from that point on, Sundays were the day for our Writers Group (something so much fun that it deserves a blog of its own, so stay tuned for that). 

Unsure of my current draft for She Sees Metaphors, I decided that I should start over, and with that I was cast into my second lesson of writing a novel: the rewrites.

I don't think "rewriting" is a fair term for phase two of crafting a novel. I think that "deleting" is a much more applicable word to describe the process. Of the entire first draft, almost all of it was removed from the novel I will be publishing this year. I say "almost all" because I kept a few concepts, but even those are different from what they were when I first started. With these few ideas, I began another year long trek into crafting a novel, one that was a little better, a little tighter, but still kind of sort of shit. I knew that it was going to need work, which is why most of it was crafted on a typewriter which, along with longhand, I will always and forever argue being the two best methods of crafting early drafts. There's no internet, no word counts, no formatting. It's just you and the story.

Then came along draft three and I was sure as fucking hell that this would be it. The big finale. The last one before I moved on to the next.

Ha.

So that's it. That's how She Sees Metaphors came to be. (We can discuss the publishing process another time, because I definitely have some words on that.) I think this book, which isn't a very long book, took me so long to craft because I was also learning how to write and developing my style in the process. I will also blame full time academia and work, but the learning played a massive role. It was a fantastic education and I'm glad to have experienced it, as it was far more valuable than college ever was. I am immensely proud of my novel, flaws and all. I can't wait to share with the three or four readers who are not my mother.

Almost Done!!!

Grammar checking has secured itself as the one part of the writing process that I abso-fucking-lutely fucking hate. 

But it's done!

The penultimate round of grammar checks was finished just moments ago! All that's left is one more read through, formatting the manuscript to look like a novel, and wait for the cover artist to do her thing. 

Now to go celebrate. Duces, mutha fuckas. 


I'm so pretty when I write.