Cage Dunn's Blog, page 97

Looking for Readers

As a writer, I often see online articles about how to sell your writing, how to make money writing – but I want to know how to find readers who are looking for a good read. Where are the readers who want a good read? People like me.

What do readers do when looking? Go straight to one of the major e-book sites and scroll through the hundreds of thousands of titles? Pick a particular genre (keep in mind, both writers and readers, that on Amazon the publication can attach only one genre and one subgenre, so you may be missing something you would really enjoy)?

Do readers prefer something they can hold in their hand? Bend the page? Throw when it gets too scary, or too horrible? Or do readers like being able to manipulate the screen reader to enlarge fonts, create more readable backgrounds, carry dozens (if not hundreds) of titles with them?

What do I like as a reader? (Yes, all writers should be avid readers, or how can they know how it works?) I like the library: the smell, the people, the collections. I like being able to wander around and touch, pull them down, read a bit in the middle, move through all the titles for one author, and I even enjoy listening to the other people in the library when they talk about books and stories and how much they enjoyed them, were intrigued by them, or even how they worked out the puzzle before it was solved by the characters.

I like to see a story told with intelligence, a good story with great characters; something that intrigues, provokes, pushes the boundaries. What I don’t like: bad spelling, grammar that makes it hard to understand what’s happening, a story that’s been told too many times, one author telling many stories in exactly the same style and voice (come on, new book with new character = new voice), and stories that purport to be ‘based on a real event’ (if it’s a real event, put the facts in there somewhere as evidence, otherwise it’s just a marketing gimmick).

I like a story that keeps me turning the pages because I am part of the character, part of the journey, and I want to get to a resolution regardless of how much I have to go through to get there. My heart may pound, I may get up to turn on all the lights, I may miss a meal or two – but the story is too compelling.

That’s what I want for a good read – what do you want?

Scheduling Begins

Please bear with me as I undergo this journey into the new world (for me) of blogging and speaking with a community that encompasses an element of imagination.

An intro: I am a storyteller, inside out and upside down. Stories short and long, poems, excerpts, ideas, musings on what makes a good story – these are the things that will arrive here.

Keep in mind, I am not a poet, even though I enjoy the process of creating feelings through the style of words as poetry. In a way, poetry is like music – it can express feelings that don’t quite fledge properly in prose or dialogue.

I’m not a musician, though I use music to induce a particular mood so I can write while in that mood. The purpose: to ‘feel’ every nuance of that character at that moment; to ‘live’ that moment through the eyes, the nose, the heart of that character; and to become one with the story.

That’s what I do. That’s my job – to write stories.

I have heard people talk about the ‘idea’ of what a writer is and what they do (apparently, it’s all easy), but let me tell you what it really is:

A writer has a job – every day. That job is to create words that compel a story from start to finish, a story the reader must continue with because they are so completely enmeshed with the character/s within.

The completed creation is a product, either a book, an e-book, a story (short of long), another form of prose, a poem (and now a blog). The product must then have a presentation: covers, blurbs, etc., all the pretty things that will bring it to the attention of the people who want to read it.

And the final piece, the business of writing – that’s when you bring your product to market, just like a farmer. It is the worst part of writing as a profession because in the not-too-distant past, it was a publisher who undertook this role. Not any more. Very few writers are picked up by traditional publishers, even fewer new writers, and the contracts can suck the life (and the product) so far from the author they never write again, or they never publish again, or they go the self-publishing route. Me, I’m going the e-book road.

That long bit of intro is telling you why I’m here. Once upon a time, I wanted to find a publisher for my stories. Now, I am my own publisher through e-books. Please enjoy my stories, as I put up the blogs each Friday (or Thursday night) and Sunday.

Thank you for listening.

The First Time

A short story, by CS Dunn ©2016

Senna clearly remembered her first death. She had known, even at eight years old, she was here because . . .

The summer sun scorched everything, even the shade crackled when people moved through it. Voices were soft, vacuous movement in the still of radiant heat from the hard ground, the concrete. Sweat dried on the skin, leaving white salt tracks clearly visible. Shirts and clothing were useless, stiff and scratchy, confining.

Even the big gum trees didn’t offer much protection; wilted leaves dropped to the ground, flattened out, dried to a crisp. Branches cracked, groaned.

It seemed everyone who lived in the region had come to the town pool. Adults sat on rugs or towels in the shade of the only big sail, set up near the snack shop to protect the products: ice-creams that melted so quickly only the quickest mouths got the lot; chocolates that drooled from their packaging; packets of chips that exploded when opened.

Teenagers took up their place at the opposite end of the fenced in pool area, well away from the prying eyes of adults. The normally squealing and screaming little kids sat quietly in the baby pool, tended by mothers who sat in the warm water next to them, not moving, not talking, just breathing slowly, slowly, waiting for the twilight.

With no one to take any notice of their antics, the tweenies tried out the big pool. The deep one.

That’s where Senna was: afraid to get out because hand-me-down bathers were saggy, and besides, the edge of the pool was too hot. Afraid of the water if she couldn’t touch the bottom. Afraid of the other kids who made fun of her for not being able to swim because everyone could swim – they learned in the farm dams, or in the classes with school, or down at the fishing shacks at Green Head. Senna didn’t. They didn’t have a dam, they didn’t travel to the coast, and they had no money for the lessons.

And she was afraid of her sister, charged with her care but who detested Senna. Well, Senna hated her, too.

Very afraid to let go of the edge of the pool.

But she did; she let go when it got too hot to hold on to, when she needed to cool down more than the hot water at the edge let her; she let herself drift out a bit, into the cooler, deeper water, and then lunged forward to grab the edge.

Her sister fluffed up for the boys, primped and preened while she chatted with her friends, the ones who passed cigarettes and towel-wrapped beer to each other, and watched the boys without obviously watching the boys. Eyelashes fluttered, cheeks reddened. The boys looked. Boys always looked.

Senna sneered at the antics; she let go again, let herself drift away, put her head backwards into the water to cool her burning head. Sunlight, heat – it would be sunburn tonight, blisters on her nose and then blisters on her bum for getting burned.

She lifted her head back up, looked. Too far – the edge was too far. Lunged forward – missed.

Her body sank, a slow descent into the cooler water as her legs and arms circled uselessly. Bobbed up until her nose was above the surface – she didn’t remember rising. Sank through the unresisting fluidity of stillness. Arms and legs stilled.

Her sister sat on the mound, clearly visible to Senna through the magnification of the clear water, but she faced the other way – drooling at the boys. A foot touched the bottom. pushed up, not hard enough. Didn’t get above the water. Sank down.

Sky through the ripples of water. Patterns. Colours. Sharp, bright.

Long wisps of white cloud washed in pale rainbow hues, in glows and pulses, a slow pounding rhythm that echoed the slap of water. Senna focused on the colours, the light that moved its way closer and closer. The edges of her sight faded until all she could see was the play of light at the end of a tunnel. Trees around her, big beautiful, dark, gently swaying, ancient trees. The trees had their own music, tinkling and flowing like water through the branches and leaves to land gently on the lower levels to make more music that joined and intertwined with more colours. Senna couldn’t see the trees, but she knew they were there, she felt them – their presence, their minds. She floated past them, or they flowed past her, but she moved through them like a whisper, didn’t touch the ground, floated gently, moved with the music and the colours, towards the light. Into the light.

Cool, comfortable. Calm, curious. She reached out to the light. It welcomed her, enfolded her in a feeling of love and smiles. Completeness. Home. Senna smiled, and reached for the sphere in the centre of light. There was nothing except the light, the brightest point at the centre. It was all around, but only in front. As solid as a ball, but moved like a laugh over a still lake. She reached again, touched the skin of the sphere, asked a question.

The answer was so simple she laughed “Of course,” she thought aloud. “How simple.” All the answers were here, and all the answers were one.

The gurgle of her laugh added to the music, and she leaned forward to put both hands on the sphere, into the sphere. It gave her comfort and courage. Love. It was all love.

Her head tilted backward as if pulled by the hair. “No,” she said. “No.” Her hands reached out to . . . the music stopped, movement stopped. A tight pull on her spine. She fought. No thoughts flicked into her mind.

“No. No. No. No. No.” The voice belonged to her, but not. It was hollow, discordant, distant.

Pain pulled her backwards. A tight pain between her shoulder blades, around her spine. A sharp knife pain in her head. A deep loss pain in her heart. Senna reached out to the light, asked to stay. The light answered. “This is not yet your time. There is a task.” A low hum reverberated through the air. “You will come to this portal twice more,” a low rumble, “if you complete the task to the proper conclusion. It is a requisite of the path that leads you to me.” A roar. “Only one path leads to here; the other paths lead to different,” a pause, “regions.”

Senna fought the pain, tried to push away whatever it was that pulled her backward, but she couldn’t turn around and her arms didn’t reach anything, didn’t touch anything. She kicked out, yelled and shouted and cried. “Let me go. I want to stay.” She slid into the now cold black tunnel. Tears poured from her eyes, hotter than the concrete, burned down her face; sobs racked her body. She was abandoned, alone, cold and broken. She let go. Screamed.

From one side, her sister leaned over her. One of the older teenage boys was leaning almost directly over her face. He rolled her onto her side and she felt hot water gush from her mouth. He was speaking to her, words were there, almost solid, but she couldn’t understand him. She didn’t want to. “Let me go.” She had wanted to stay.

“I hate you,” Senna said. She meant it. She wanted to go back. She would never forget what they had taken away from her. She struggled to her feet and walked away. Didn’t look back.

. . . She had something to do . . .The task was at hand. If she could achieve resolution, if she could complete the task to the requisite conclusion, it would kill her. She would die – again. Senna was ready – for her second death. Let it begin.

 

Shopping at Easter

Some people love shopping, and take no notice of the noise, the smell, the crush. The rudeness that seems to bounce off the walls, that pushes and pulls at everyone. In cars, in shops, in carparks, in queues – why do they (’cause I never do it, oh no) get so worked up? What is it about this closeness to a crowd of ‘others’ that drives us to the brink of destruction?

I hate shopping, and here is why:

Shopping (copyright CS Dunn)

The crashing noise buffeted

against her body as she tried to slip

through and past the swirling

mob of people surrounding her,

bumping, shoving, yelling

The noise flowed and crashed,

hitting the walls and high, high ceilings

before bouncing back into the maelstrom,

creating more turbulence

She pushed back

at the beat and pulse of the

bullies forcing their way into

her space, her body

Their noises pounded and bruised

as she swam through the obstacles

The hairs on her body lifted and fell

with her movement through their wind

The waves of humanity and suffocation

pushed and pulsed,

rose and fell,

bent and unbent

She was puffing with the effort of surviving,

fighting through the whirlpool,

fighting to find an eddy, a place of calm,

where she could see, hear, feel

As she turned the corner,

the double pram that had cut in front of her

came to an abrupt stop

She looked to see what had

stopped the flow of people,

shopping trollies,

prams

Two big burly brutes

with multiple packages

on large metal trollies

were shouting at each other

– they had delivered to the wrong shop

A third person yelling at them

use the delivery entrance

The crowd swelled,

in front and behind

The surges of movement and sound compounded,

lashing the combatants and their spectators

A fist flew across the space between them,

the crunch of bone on bone adding spice to the cacophony

All this for a birthday card.