Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 261

The Seduction Of Self-Publishing

Maybe you're at a men's restroom. Or an old-school phone booth. Or wandering drunk and naked around the TARDIS again. And there, on the floor, you spy it — a little slip of paper folded in half, maybe it looks like a five dollar bill, maybe it looks like your grandmother's boozy fruitcake recipe or a folded-over Polaroid of a nude Herman Cain teabagging your pizza before it goes out to delivery.

But then you open it up, and it's a little cartoon.

A Chick tract, of sorts.

And inside would be this little shitfire-and-brimstone cartoon about some poor goob who uploads his unedited first novel to the Internet and it's a hideous turd-bomb of a book that garners a frothy chum-bucket of angry 1-star reviews. Crowds gather to mock him. They throw panties at his head, but not sexy panties, oh no — dirty panties, panties that look like they've been dragged through a muddy field by angry wolves. The author's name becomes synonymous with bad wordsmithy and someone devotes a Tumblr toward his ludicrous prose and then eventually two seraphim angels — fiery gatekeepers at the Edenic doorway to traditional publishing! — show up to chastise him about his giving in to the seductions of self-publishing. End of tract.

(Of course, you might one day find the tract's opposite, wherein a greedy author signs the contract of the Devil — aka the "publishing industry" — in baby's blood, but that's a post for another time.)

The tract is, like all such little propaganda machines, overwrought. It's mostly nonsense — nobody's going to vilify you for self-publishing your book, even a bad book.

I am, of course, a self-published author. I have six self-published books, all of which came out in the last year. Some are quite successful. Others, less so. None are total stinkers.

All of them increased my annual writer's take-home by — *does some quick math* — 15-20%.

So, I'm for self-publishing. I think it's a good idea.

…usually.

It is not universally a good idea, and while I'm happy I am at present self-publishing some of my work, I think back to when I started writing novels. I think about the six or so novels I wrote before BLACKBIRDS, and then I ask myself: do I really want those in the world? Eeesh. No, no I do not. And with easy self-pub options at my fingertips, that may very well have happened. Even the last novel I'd written before BLACKBIRDS, a book about, well, modern dogs with the souls of ancient warrior spirits — I thought it was the real deal. I sent it to agents, got a lot of "oh hell no's," got one "okay, show it to me, oh, now that I've seen it, oh hell no," and that was that.

At the time, I thought the book had promise.

I thought that about most of my books at different points.

I've since gone back to read them and –

Yeah, wow.

No.

Nooooo.

Nuh-uh, no way, nichts, yeesh.

But — but! — if I had the option to self-publish those books at the time, you know what? I might've done it. The best case scenario would've been that they left zero impression and earned me nothing, leaving not so much a black mark on my writerly record so much as just whispering across the earth and disappearing like a serpentine twist of dust or snow. The worst case scenario would've been that they sold well and that I would've succumbed to the echo chamber of the cheerleading rah-rah-rah go-you community where I get an A+ for effort even if my prose deserves a phlegm-gob of spit hawked into my open mouth. That would be the worst because you know why? I'd never have upped my game. My writing would've lain fallow like a barren field, never cultivated to quality. I would've been rewarded for being crappy, and such rewards are like a kid smoking cigarettes: it stunts your growth.

I would've given into the culture of resentment and revenge surrounding many self-published authors — the ones who have to keep asserting their reasons for doing DIY, the ones who have to turn every blog post into propaganda, the ones who have to make sure to get in their jabs at the Mean Ol' Sour-Faced Publishing Monopoly with its big stompy boot on the neck of the poor blubbery writer.

The option to self-publish is a compelling one. Seductive, in many ways. On the one hand — holy crap! New option! Totally awesome! On the other hand: is it the best option?

Time, then, for a little litmus test to see if you should self-publish.

If you're self-publishing because you're pissed off about traditional publishing: don't.

That's the wrong reason. Self-publishing is very much about taking risks and owning your work all the way down to the marrow. It should not be about a big ink-stained middle finger to the publishing industry at large. If you get your knickers in a pee-soaked twist anytime you say the word "gatekeeper," calm down, take a pill, and back away from the Kindle marketplace.

If you're self-publishing because you're tired of rejection: don't.

Rejection is not a great bellwether of quality. That's not to say those who rejected you are correct: they may very well not be. (And, admittedly, some rejections are good rejections — "This is a good book but I can't sell it" is a sign your book could survive and even excel in the self-pub marketplace.) Point is, don't use rejection as a reason. Resentment and revenge are not smart motives.

If you're self-publishing because you think it's easy: don't.

It isn't easy. It is, in many ways, harder than trad-pub. DIY is not an automated process. You don't drop your novel on the conveyor belt and let the publisher handle it. Because, er, you are the publisher. Self-promotion and getting your book "out there" is an epic challenge all its own. Besides, if you were looking for easy, then writing maybe isn't the career for you.

If you're self-publishing because this is your first novel and you think you're ready: don't.

Or, at least, take a long and serious look and get some very real, very honest feedback from others. Like I said, I had six novels under my belt and I'm thankful that not a single one of them has escaped its lead-lined box and harmed the world with its radioactive prose. Be smart enough to know when you're not ready.

If you're self-publishing because you want it fast and you want it now: don't.

Fast things are rarely good things: your work is not the equivalent of a goddamn Chicken McNugget. Treat it better than that. Give it — and by proxy, your future readers — the time and effort they deserve.

If you're self-publishing because you don't want to be a piglet sucking at the corporate teat: don't.

Whether we're talking Amazon, B&N or Paypal, you're still going to be giving capitalist hand-jobs to super-big companies, companies that are more than capable of pulling the rug out from under your DIY enterprise. (For the record, a publishing monopoly is a myth: no such monopoly exists.)

If you're self-publishing because you're so desperate to be published: don't.

Listen, desperation is par for the course when you're a writer — the miasma of flop-sweat surrounds me every day. But you need to transform that desperation from wanting to be published to writing a helluva story. The latter step should come before the former, but self-publishing only further helps to shortcut that.

If you're self-publishing because you think you're going to earn a fast and fat pay-day: don't.

I know of many tremendous novels that went self-pub and don't earn out — and many never will. Further, they won't come close to nabbing what a good advance would've netted them, much less a meager one. And many self-publishing books take a while to start generating real revenue (and often only do so when you have multiple books in the marketplace).

You have a whole host of reasons to self-publish: the control, the freedom, the relatively direct access to readers, the ability to take risks that you could not normally take with larger publishers. And, further, you have a host of reasons to not rush out and submit work to a publisher, too — though, again, that's a post for another time. The key is, publish smart. Gather data. Make your work the best it can be — concentrate first on storytelling, second on how you'll reach readers. Because you don't want to reach readers if all you're going to offer them is a hastily-scribbled slap-to-the-face.

Be wary of the seduction.

Don't let self-publishing stunt your growth.

Follow your gut.

And be smart.

(Related: Reasons Not To Publish, 2011-2012).

25 Financial Fuck-Ups Writers Make

Some writers have all the business sense of an oar-whacked snapping turtle — we become so focused on words and pages and the imaginary voodoo of made-up storyworlds that we forget that there's a whole other side to it, a side where if we're not careful we'll end up writing our next bestseller out of the back of a rust-bucket conversion van tucked beneath some god-fucked overpass. It's easy in the chase for story and the race for readers to accidentally sell our own best interests up the river.

Screw that, cats and kittens.

It's time to trepan some business sense, meager as it may be, into your brainpans.

Please stare into the whirring drill-bit.

Welcome to the month of no mercy.

1. Deadlines? What Deadlines?

Deadlines are invisible and intangible but no less real than a brick wall — if you're not paying attention you'll crash into one lickety-split. How is this a financial fuck-up? Well, beyond the fact that dicking up a deadline is just bad business, it's also problematic because some contracts stipulate lost revenue if you overshoot your timeline. "Hi, I'm turning in my work a year late." "Thanks! Here's your payment." "This is a jar of buttons." "Dirty buttons. You'd have a jar of clean buttons if you turned in the work weeks ago."

2. No Contract Can Contain The Power Of My Art!

The contract is the thing that says, "I give you work, you give me money." It is the paper-thin bulwark separating the lawful writer from the broke and broken anarchist — yes, a contract pins down a writer but it also pins down the entity to whom that writer is contracted. Without a contract, you've no recourse if things go south. Get a contract. Always get a contract. Just ask Ryan Macklin.

3. Hire A Sherpa To Guide You Up The Contractual Mountain

Seriously, I open up most new contracts and I zone out. My eyes cross, I pee a little, and I start dreaming of swaying meadow-grasses and frolicking ponies. Contracts are full of language the average human being cannot parse, cobbled together of Lovecraftian legalese that would drive most men mad. But you need to understand it. I've seen some squirrely contracts and heard tell of worse — contracts that if you sign them you'll catch a whiff of brimstone before you realize your advance for that 15-novel fantasy series is a burlap sack of venomous cottonmouth snakes. Get an agent. Or hire a lawyer. Figure out what you're signing.

4. Signing That Vicious Throat-Kick Of A Contract

Some writers are so eager to be read they'll sign a bad contract even after they know how bad it is. "Check out these royalties! For every book I sell, I get one stick of that powdery shit-ass bubble gum you used to get in packs of baseball cards! If I sell 10,000 books, then for every book I sell they send a donkey to my house to cave in my chest with his crap-caked hooves! OH MY GOD I'M A WRITER SQUEE." Stop bending over the nightstand, spreading your cheeks and asking someone to brandish a bramble-wound broomstick and jam it deep up your boot-hole. Don't sign your work over to the Devil just for a taste of publication.

5. Repeat After Me: "People Die From Exposure"

If you don't care about getting paid for your writing, ignore this. (And, in fact, ignore this whole list.) But if you do care about having a go at this writing thing as a proper career, do not write for exposure. Exposure cannot be measured, and you might as well write for any number of invisible things: the dreams of sleeping kittens, perhaps, or mystical unicorn turds. You should always be getting something measurable for your writing. Ideally, that "something" is money, but other rewards — tangible rewards! — do exist.

6. Cheap As Chips Of Lead Paint

"Cheap" isn't a good thing. "Cheap" is toys made in China that exude radon. "Cheap" is a hot dog whose primary component is rat testicles. "Cheap" is a baggy of black tar heroin that's been cut with pulverized possum bones and drain cleaner. Don't value you work as "cheap." You price yourself too low, you do harm to your future contracts and the contracts of other writers. You don't have to paint yourself as a Lexus, but for fuck's sake, you're not a 1991 Geo Tracker with 100,000 miles and a dead hooker in the boot, either.

7. Didn't I Just Say You Weren't A Lexus?

Pricing yourself too high from the outset damages your credibility, too. It's one thing if you've a proven track record and you've earned your pay rate, but if you slide an obscene number across the table, that person's going to politely decline, quietly laugh at you, and never call you again. As Gandalf once said to a young William Shatner: "Don't get cocky, kid."

8. Writer: Beware

Scams wait like landmines and pit traps everywhere the writer turns, many seeking to exploit a writer's desperate desire to be published. The Internet is a treasure trove of warning signs and signal flares, but you have to know where to look. (One place to start: Writer Beware.) If something smells like week-old cod in a dead man's jockstrap, backpedal and turn to Google or social media. A little suspicion is a lot healthy.

9. Vanity Is A Sin, After All

Vanity publishing is not a scam — but it's also not in a writer's financial best interests. First, on a practical level, it's largely outmoded and tends to be needlessly expensive. The Internet has democritized distribution and has opened many new channels for a writer to get material out there if that's the way the writer wants to go. Second, it reeks of desperation and violates a core tenet of a professional writing career…

10. Failing To Remember "Money In, Not Money Out"

The writer does not pay but, rather, gets paid. Now, I recognize that self-publishing has changed this old nugget of wisdom a bit — you might, say, pay for an editor or a cover designer. Beyond that, however, the flow of money is always to the writer and never away from the writer. You don't pay to get published. You don't let someone else capitalize on your hard work and walk away with a paycheck while you still lick dust from ramen noodle flavor packets in a storm drain.

11. Not Following The Trail Of Financial Breadcrumbs

You need to track income and expenses as robustly as your creative writer's brain can manage. I know, I know, every time you open up a spreadsheet it's like someone is shooting holes in your brain with a pellet rifle — OW NUMBERS NOT WORDS WRITER NEED ICE CREAM. I'm just saying, you're going to be a lot happier knowing where your money is coming in and going out.

12. Floating Lazily Along The Timestream

Track your time. Track your time. Let me say it again, in all caps: TRACK YOUR TIME. Knowing your time — and how much you earn for that time spent — helps a professional writer gain a clearer picture of his abilities as a writer and how those abilities can pay off in terms of hourly, monthly, and annual performance. After all, time is money. And money helps you buy liquor and e-books.

13. Spending Too Much On Liquor And E-Books

Hey, I get it. E-books are so light! So airy! So cheap! And liquor is so — well. It's liquor. Let's just go with so necessary and leave it at that? Prudent expenditure of penmonkey funds is essential!

14. Failing To Take Advantage Of Tax Deductions

As a paid writer, you can deduct a wealth of useful things — pens, software, computers. I deducted a goddamn coffee maker because, hey, it's an office expense. Money you spend in pursuit of your career is not only something to track, but something that should be seen through the "potential tax deduction" lens. For the record, that also means you may want to hire an accountant or tax prep person.

15. You Do Know You Have To Pay Taxes Quarterly, Right?

You do. You really do. Otherwise, you'll get nut-kicked and teat-slapped by penalties. True story.

16. Ditching The Day Job Before It's Time

There comes a point when many pro writers think that it's time to transition from "part-time penmonkey" to "full-time inkslinger," but do not be hasty. Have savings built up. Rock a budget. Get a cushion going. Stock up the liquor cabinet. Know when the air is clear and it's safe to step out of your rocketship into this brand new atmosphere. If you do start the ball rolling where you plan to ditch the day-job, consider segueing into a part time job first. Offers an adjustment period.

17. Staying In The Day Job Well Past Its Due

Staying too long at your day job can be just as toxic. Writers are surfers and must know how to take advantage of the right wave — miss it, and the wave passes you by and cascades toward shore. Working a dead-end day-job takes crucial time away from the writing life. You know it's time because you reach the conclusion, "If I didn't have this 40-hour-a-week job hanging like a colostomy bag around my hip, I could be earning out with my wordsmithy. And I'd also not have poop in a bag, which is pretty gross."

18. Self-Publishing When You Should've Gone Traditional

Self-publishing is not a magical panacea, nor is it a treasure chest of gold doubloons automagically dumped over your head. Self-publishing strategically and intelligently can provide a significant portion of your writerly gold hoard, yes. To DIY smartly, you need to understand more than just how to upload your book to the Lords of Kindle and have those robots distribute it to the Kindlemaschine masses. Self-publish poorly or choose that path when a better path is available and you give up opportunity. And by "opportunity" I mean, "hard cash, motherfucker." Kapow, kaching, coo-coo-ka-choo. I dunno. Shut up.

19. Going Traditional When You Should've Self-Published

A pro-writer's life is a tightrope walk and on that side are lions and on that side are bears and you tippy-toe your way between them best as you can. So here the opposite is true of that last thing I just said: choosing to traditionally publish when you've got a great possibility for a successful self-published book may indeed be throwing your time and energy into a dank, dark hole — like, say, a golem's vagina. Yes, all golems have vaginas. And yes, my next self-published book will be either a Dan Brown homage or an epic fantasy novel, but either way, that sonofabitch will be titled, THE GOLEM'S VAGINA. Get on board or get out of the way, because that train is leaving the station. What were we talking about? Ah. Right. Some books suit the self-publishing realm — they fit like a hand in a soft glove. Which books? That's a post for another time.

20. Negotiation Tactics Of A Sleepy Koala

Sometimes, you have to negotiate. Royalties, advances, rock star riders ("I need seven Junior Mints in a porcelain dish and those Junior Mints must first be suckled gently by Nicholas Sparks and — and — if the chocolate is in any way melted, I get to Taser the aforementioned Mister Sparks in his smiling, choco-smeared mouth"), whatever. And there you are, clinging to your tree, snoozing against the hard bark. If you don't want to negotiate, once again: find an agent. This is what they do and what they're good at.

21. Repeat After Me: "Budget. Surplus. Budget. Surplus."

Unless you're part of a pre-existing corporate ecosystem, writers are not paid in a steady, measured financial stream. You don't get a check every week. Your money comes erratically, like random unexpected orgasms separated by long and listless lulls of joyless wondering. That means two things: first, you need to budget. You can't get your money and blow it all on donkey porn and video games. You're going to need food at some point. Second, you need to build up a surplus. Line your coffers with pillowy money just in case you need to take a fall. Life is not kind. You'll be following along your budget with blissful ignorance, and then a jet engine will fall out of the sky onto your car. UH OH SPAGHETTIOS.

22. Do You Really Need That Helper Monkey?

You don't need a whole lot as a writer. You need a computer (yes, as a professional writer, you do; you can wing it with a notebook and a pen all you like but there will come a time when someone will be like, "Oh, e-mail that to me, motherfucker," and the best you can do is wad up the paper and throw it at them), you need some kind of word processing software, you need Internet access, whatever. But some writers spend into a big and needless toolbox — expensive computer, huge monitor, a costly software suite, an 8-ball of coke, a robot built around Hemingway's brain, fingerless typing gloves lined with dodo feathers, and so forth. I'm not saying you can't buy these things at some point; but you damn sure don't start out your writing career by tossing yourself into a financial oubliette. Fuck debt.

23. Your Body Needn't Be A Temple, But Don't Treat It Like The Bathroom Floor At A New Jersey Arby's, Am I Right?

Keep healthy, and even better, get health insurance. No, no, I know, health insurance is expensive. And many healthcare providers will work so hard to wriggle out of covering certain things you'd think they have collapsible bones and slime-slick skin that sloughs off any time you grab for them. Do your research. Budget for the cost. What's expensive now pales in comparison to what you'll pay without it. "Oh, I have a cold? And to procure this one bottle of Amoxycillin I have to bring you the still-screaming head of the Medusa?"

24. Letting Financial Stress Get A Choke Hold On Your Wordsmithy

Stress — and I don't mean that good clean motivational stress, I mean the "I can smell my hair burning" stress — does not do a writer well. Sometimes, so-called "writer's block" is just stress getting to a writer. And one of the greatest sources of stress for the average everyday penmonkey is financial stress. From this, you must insulate yourself. Sometimes protecting yourself means being smart and not fucking up — sometimes it's just a Zen thing and it means shutting the noise out and forming a plan and realizing that as long as it's not going to kill you then you just need to breathe and move past it. If stress stops you from writing and you need writing to get past the stress — well. You see how that's a sticky wicket, don't you? What the fuck is a sticky wicket, anyway? I picture some kind of giant insect exuding something that looks like strawberry jam from all its exoskeletonic joints. It hugs you and it just won't let go. Then it injects an ovipositor into your colon and plants its larvae and a healthy dose of toxoplasmosis!

25. Writing And Publishing With Zero Strategy

You need a strategy. Not just a budget, but a full-bore plan for your penmonkey future. You know that bullshit question they ask at interviews, "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" It's not bullshit. You should have an idea, a real idea, of what you're planning on doing year-after-year. It'll help you do more than tread water, which is what many professional writers end up doing (or worse, they end up sinking down, their screams lost in a flurry of bubbles). Perhaps the best present a writer can get himself is a strategy for her career going forward. Well, that and a pony. Because ponies make everybody happy.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Your Hangovers, Described

Right now, I have the barest little sparrow of a hangover fluttering its wings against the inside of my forehead, against the backs of my eyes. Went out last night, had a trio of drinks at Bolete in Bethlehem — a bourbon cocktail called "The Remedy," a "Not-Your-Grandmother's Greyhound," and two fingers of Laphroaig 10-year. I never really had much of a buzz, which made this hangover — manifesting itself around 2AM last night — all the more disappointing and undeserved. (Though the drinking remained delicious. Bolete creates impeccable cocktails, and anybody in the area would be a wool-headed window-licker not go to partake of their alcoholic and culinary delights.)

This hangover will be easy to defeat. Water and Advil — with some early morning bacon — form a powerful hammer to beat back even the snarkiest of hangovers, and this one just can't compete.

But, I remember the worst hangover I've ever had.

Friend showed up at college with a bottle of Yukon Jack. We drank less of the bottle than you'd think, but got bombed just the same. Ended up laying outside the dorm babbling at people.

Come morning, the hangover I suffered was as such where I felt like a room full of balloons with a floor made of nails — I dared not move for fear of expiring right then and there. Every ounce of my body hurt. My brain felt like a caged rat gnawing through rusty hinges in order to escape. I knew if I did anything but sit on my bed and stare at the wall I would cry out, vomit, pee myself, and possibly explode inside my skin.

Seriously. I felt like hammered dogshit.

To this day if I catch a whiff of Yukon Jack, it all comes charging back, a freight train of bodily memory.

Thing is, I know even that hangover just isn't that impressive.

I know you can do better.

So, reader-types, share:

Give us a story.

Tell me about your worst hangover.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "An Affliction Of Alliteration"

First and foremost, I still have to award my favorite 100-word story from the last challenge ("Frog Powder Seagull Tower Scissors").

I've chosen three, actually, because I had too many good ones from which to choose!

My favorites:

yojimbojapan

Paul Tevis

Albert Berg

I loved all three because they took me places I did not expect to go, and did so with great brevity, weirdness, and feeling. Kudos, you three. Contact me at terribleminds at gmail dot com. I'll get you your e-books!

Now, onto today's challenge –

And, let's put this upfront, you're playing for a signed copy of DOUBLE DEAD in paperback, by yours truly. I will pay for shipping if you're in the United States. If not, you'll either have to pay for shipping or be happy instead with an e-book version gifted from Amazon. Diggit? Diggit.

Here's what I want:

I don't want stories about vampires. That'd be too easy.

I instead want to play off the title — Double Dead — and have some fun with alliteration.

Alliteration is, of course, the repetition of a singular sound at the beginning of two or more connected words: "Tiny Trees," or "Ten Tin Typewriters" or "Fez-Fuckers From Fort Frances."

I want you to come up with a title that uses alliteration. Two or more words.

Then write a story — no more than 1,000 words — to go along with that title.

Seriously, now: no stories about vampires. None. Bzzt. Don't do it. Otherwise: any genre is a-okay.

Write your stories online somewhere — your own blog, perhaps, or Tumblr, or G+ — and link back here so we can all see it. Feel free to link back to here from that post, too.

You have one week.

December 10th.

Noon EST.

Get writing. One of you gets the tales of Coburn the vampire.

The Chosen Cartography Of Blackbloom

(Need to catch up with Blackbloom? Follow all the Blackbloom posts here.)

I asked you to describe for me one aspect of Blackbloom's geography.

And boy howdy, you answered.

I chose ten.

I could've chosen them all, honestly — and maybe should've, but I felt inclined to narrow down instead of painting with too wide a brush? Another fascinating experiment, a glimpse into the weirdness of worldbuilding.

Two things are becoming abundantly clear:

First, we're eventually going to need to track all this stuff. A Wiki, maybe. I have zero experience with that and, further, zero time to deal with it, so that's maybe wishful thinking.

Second, we may eventually need a map. Same problem: I am no cartographer, and my time is zilch-o.

My fear — and it's a good fear, in a way — is that eventually this thing will get too big and cumbersome to even continue building, but for now, we'll just keep on trekking forward.

(Which reminds me, this week's worldbuilding challenge — "Tell Us Three Things About Blackbloom" — is looking light. Go over there and fix that, will you?)

Anyway –

The Geographical Selections

The Ghost Marshes stretch for 500 miles in the south of the foggy island of Iertu. It is a fertile land of hidden swamps, where every step can mean an eternity trapped in sludge. The lucky ones are absorbed, turned into peat; the unlucky ones find their bodies everlastingly preserved while their souls wander the black-green morass. The tribes of Iertu avoid the marshes if possible, using ancient roadways visible only to those whose eyes are blessed by Tallyr if necessary. Rumors say the rare Blackbloom grows at the center of the marshes, guarded by the spirits of the Bog-sleepers. — Daniel Perez

The End Of The World – the name given to the southern hemisphere saltpan 75 miles long. Frequent but light rains maintain a surface of water around 8 inches deep; high salinity means there isn't much more than insect life. Old roads once bisected the lakebed, now flooded; between the roads that disappear into the lake's mirrored surface and the salt winds, the pan's given name is understandable. Folklore suggests that the lake was formed by Torrda's tears as she wept for daughter, Diome, and her fate; given that very little that we know of grows here, this is suspect. — Liam K

The Exomorphic Archipelago (more commonly called the Kinnis Maw) is a series of 60 or so geographic formations stretching off the western coast of Blackbloom. The formations are composed of brittle rock that stretch hundreds–even thousands–of feet in the air but are only a dozen or more feet wide. The brittleness of the rock makes them essentially unclimbable. Moreover, periodically a tower will snap and fall back into the ocean. Scholars hypothesize that they are the result of a burst of volcanic activity many ages ago. Common folk have more … colorful … explanations. — Justin Jacobson

Ringing the equator of Blackbloom are towering volcanoes called the Inferno Tors. Rivers of lava paint their slopes, exuding noxious gases and blistering heat. Creatures of fire live here, known by different names as they age: newborn Sparks; young Flames; adult Blazes; and enormous ancient Infernos, for whom the crags are named. In the dark season, frost falls constantly from the air and unseen entities roam the world, feeding on hope and thoughts. The fire creatures, which dispel these dangers, entice hunters known as Firechasers to travel to the Tors in hopes of snaring a valuable Spark or Flame. — Angela Perry

At the top of the world, if it still exists, you'll find Pure. The air is clean and grass still grows knee-tall. They say this is where the sky is sewn to the earth, where the rivers pour down from the great mountain, and where you'll find the caves that descend into the underworld. — Josin

The Chasmlands comprise a 1,000 mile stretch of land punctuated by hundreds of deep sinkholes. Some of these pits are only a dozen feet in diameter; the largest is almost half a mile across. All are thousands of feet deep; the larger holes contain their own unique microclimates – and ecosystems – that change as one goes deeper. The Chasmlands extend through a range of geographies and climes. The sinkholes are joined at the bottom by the deep, slow river that runs beneath them all. Many cities sit along the edge of these pits, and more than one has disappeared into them. — Kraig

The Delves of A'kaar are vast caverns that riddle the world of Blackbloom. No human has ever come close to accurately mapping these immense passages. Even were it not for the insane, twisted monstrocities that dwell there, there is a single facet which keeps peoples of all cultures from the Delves. Those who travel within, return… changed. There is something within the caverns which slowly and subtly, twists, depraves and pollutes the minds and bodies of all who have traveled within. Most believe that the inhabitants of the caverns were once humans, who simply journeyed too deeply. — JM Guillen

Glanworn Isle, once the abode of Osren, God of the golden breath: this small island, (362 miles in length, 60 miles across at its widest point) lies midway between Tears and the Feral forest. A citadel island, crumbling barricades rise and fall along the slopes and cliffs of its 1,766 miles of coastline. Magnificent groves of orange and blue Pocker trees touch the heavens on its mountainous north coast. Glanworn loses its island status—and much of its soil—twice yearly during the great Bidal Tides. An endangered herd of silk furred tri-horned flacs survive on its eastern shores. — EC Sheedy

During the three months of Dark, the Shining Hills become either a pilgrimage site or a tourist attraction. Comprising quartz-shot granite and covered in a phosphorescent lichen that may be distantly related to Maritae's algae, the Hills are dank and forbidding in the Wet season, and dusty and drab in the Dry. But in the Dark, the quartz collects and magnifies the lichen-glow, green or pink or purple or blue, until the Hills shine with a shifting kaleidoscope of color and light. The lichen is poisonous to touch. The pilgrims know this. The tourists don't. — ChiaLynn

Few features on Blackbloom baffle thaumatologists and technoscientists alike more than the Wandering Bayou, a large patch of creeks, marshy lowlands, riparian forests and mangroves that seem to permanently evade the dry season. The Bayou moves around the globe in no predictable manner, disappearing from one place and gradually reappearing at another locale, where it stays for the duration of the wet/dark season. There's no record that the Bayou has ever settled itself down either on Blackbloom Ridge or the sentient cities. Its flora and fauna are well known, and the screeching water-puppy is sought for as a weapon component. — MC Zanini

December Is The Month Of No Mercy (And Other News!)

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, writer-types.

It's the month of December and as a gift I'm going to give you:

My boot in your ass and my fist in your trachea.

It's time to wipe the bullshit from our faces and squeeze all our little excuses so hard their heads pop off one by one. We will exterminate our worst writerly habits with a Dalek-like enthusiasm.

And by "our" bullshit, excuses and bad habits, I also mean my bullshit, excuses, and bad habits.

So! Consider this the annual "cleaning of the pipes," the yearly "let's get shut of nonsense," the month of "fuck you, get to work" before we sashay our holiday-swollen hips into the shining light of the New Year.

If there's anything you want me in particular to talk — er, yell — about, let me know now.

Now: onto other news!

December E-Book Promo

500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER is, quite honestly, doing very well for itself. And the "lists of 25″ continue to draw in readers, so I'm assuming people like them and don't find them overbearing. (Or, if they do, they're at least amusingly overbearing?) (I originally mistyped that as "overbearding," which is not possible — you can go overboard, but you cannot go overbeard. True story!)

So, I'd like to keep that momentum going.

If you procure 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER during the entire month of December, I'll throw in 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING as a free PDF.

If you buy 500 WAYS as a PDF, this freebie will be automagic — I'll email it to you accordingly.

If you buy 500 WAYS via Amazon or B&N, then you'll need to email me proof-of-purchase at terribleminds at gmail dot com. Because, despite my deepest efforts, I am not yet psychic.

(Also, 500 WAYS could totally use more reviews at Amazon, B&N or GoodReads, if anybody is so kind and inclined? No pressure or anything. Ignore the gun at the small of your back. Shhhh.)

To procure 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER:

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Blackblurbs

We have hot new tasty blurbage for BLACKBIRDS (which is, as you know, available for pre-order, right?) from some incredible people which I am eager and excited to share –

"Trailer-park tension, horrified hilarity, and sheer terror mixed with deft characterization and razor plotting. I literally could not put it down."

– Lilith Saintcrow, author of Night Shift and Working for the Devil

"Blackbirds is a horror story, a traveling story, a story of loss and what it takes to make things right. It's a story about fate and how sometimes, if we wrestle with it hard enough, maybe we can change it. Blackbirds is the kind of book that doesn't let go even after you've put it down and nobody else could have made it shine like Chuck Wendig."

– Stephen Blackmoore, author, City of the Lost and Dead Things

"Mean, moody and mysterious, Blackbirds is a noir joyride peppered with black humour, wry observation, and visceral action. Fans of Chuck Wendig will not be disappointed."

– Adam Christopher, author of Empire State

"Balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners storytelling at its best."

– Bill Cameron, author of County Line.

"[Blackbirds is] A gleefully dark, twisted road trip for everyone who thought Fight Club was too warm and fuzzy. If you enjoy this book, you're probably deeply wrong in the head. I loved it, and will be seeking professional help as soon as Chuck lets me out of his basement."

— James Moran, Severance, Doctor Who and Torchwood screenwriter

"Enchanting and drowned in blood, BLACKBIRDS is a meaty piece of fiction, a non-stop mind-job where the first hit hurts and you keep going back for more. It's the kind of gritty, unapologetic story that grips you long after the book's done; dark, intense, utterly without mercy. Chuck Wendig spins one hell of a tale."

– Karina Cooper, author of the Dark Mission series

Other Workity-Jerkity

The first draft of MOCKINGBIRD is complete, and the second draft is actually almost in the can. It takes Miriam on a deeper journey into the heart of her gift-slash-curse. Of course, most of you haven't even read BLACKBIRDS yet, but when you do, I think you'll eat up the horror with a silver spoon. Oh! It looks like the second book's release date is moved up, actually — now Aug/Sept 2012 rather than "sometime in 2013."

I'm told that DOUBLE DEAD is doing well for Abaddon, which is nice! I've heard tell that some folks would like the story of Coburn the vampire to continue, and between you, me, and the starving raccoon in the corner, I'm hoping that such a thing will soon become a reality. Feel free to tell Abaddon — "Hey, that Chuck guy? We sure do like him a bunch. Here, have some candy. Get in the van. GET IN THE GODDAMN VAN."

I'm receiving some killer stories from the assigned authors of the DON'T REST YOUR HEAD anthology. So far, my editorial job will be a very light one, indeed.

I'm revising the opening chapters of DINOCALYPSE NOW, my Spirit of the Century novel — I found a way to better connect to the characters and give them a stronger emotional throughline.

I've got a second round of notes on POPCORN back from uber-agent Stacia Decker, and I'm excited to push them forward — think it'll really become the book I envisioned it becoming. (Never underestimate the awesome power of editorial criticism to refine a story and highlight paths you wish were obvious all along.)

Next week I speak to the Writer's Guilt in NYC, joining Lance Weiler for a day-long talk on transmedia.

Further opportunities continue to line up for 2012, all of which are filled with nougat and custard and other delightful flavors.  Novels and a new film idea and some cool transmedia endeavors.

And 2012 will surely see new e-books. Hopefully one of those will be the follow-up to SHOTGUN GRAVY — but if you want that, then I need you to spread the word and help get the book to readers.

Finally, thinking on doing a Kickstarter to keep terribleminds running in 2012.

And that's all she wrote, kids.

How are you doing?

The NaNoWriMo Epilogue: "Miles To Go Before You Sleep"

(Related: "25 Things You Should Know About Your Completed Novel.")

Maybe you finished — er, excuse me, "won" — your NaNoWriMo novel.

That's good. You should be beaming. Chest puffed out. Fists on cocked hips. Cheeks ruddy from neighbors and parents pinching them. Your pride is well-earned. Bask in it its triumphant musk.

On the other hand, maybe you didn't finish — er, excuse me, "you lost" — NaNoWriMo this year.

That's good, too. I see you there, blustery and stammering — "Buh-buh-buh but how is it good that I didn't finish what I started? What's happening? Why is my face numb? Who took my shirt off?"

My message to both of you is the same.

You're not done.

I know. You want to be done. If you finished, you want to slam it down, freeze-frame high-five yourself, and then go have an egg cream. If you didn't finish, you want to delete the file, close the drawer, and pretend that none of this shame spiral ever happened. To both of you: bzzt. Wrongo, word-nerds.

You're not done.

Writing a book is a war. What you just did was experience only one of the many battles in fighting that war: muddy in the trenches, crawling through the ejected blood of your cohorts, the stink of burning ink slithering up your nose like so many grave-worms. Maybe you won this battle. Maybe you lost. But the war goes on, friend-o. The typewriter keeps chattering. The story keeps struggling to be born. The screams of forgotten characters echo (echo echo) across the battlefield.

If you finished, well — ahem, be advised that the definition of "finished" is as loose as a blown-out butthole. One draft doth not a novel make, my friend. You may have many drafts minor and major ahead of you, some featuring subtle tweaks, others offering full-bore double-barrel rewrites. You've got beta readers and editors and reading the book aloud and putting it through its cruel and measured paces.

If you didn't finish, c'mon. C'mon. Did you really think that November was the only month you're allowed to write a novel? Do you believe that come November, all us novelists are let out of our hermetically-sealed mountain cottages and we bound down the snowy expanse, our fingers eager to taste keyboards and Bic pens for the 30 days we're allowed to tell proper stories? November is but one month out of 12, and if you're a true-blue writer you'll wish you had 13 of those motherfuckers in which to keep boot-stomping your novels into the clay. On December 1st, you know what you can do? Keep writing.

For the sweet sake of Saint Fuck, keep on writing.

NaNoWriMo? Just a costume. And now the costume has come off and it's time to decide if this thing is real or if this thing was just a scarecrow with all his stuffing gone soft. If you didn't get a taste for the bug, that's okay. Hell, that's actually a good thing — our lives are best lived when we take things into our corner and try them out to see if we like them. If you never tried spinach, goat cheese, snowboarding, ear-candling or bondage, how would you know if you liked it? If it was truly for you? You wouldn't. So, you brought novel-writing into your world and maybe it didn't pan out. No harm, no foul. High-five for trying.

But maybe the bug bit you. Maybe this isn't just a costume at all, but rather, it's your real flesh, your true face. That means it's all up in you. You can't rip the face off. You won't find any vaccine.

You're a writer now.

Which means you gotta keep on writing. You're like the bus from Speed: you either write or you explode.

Now you've got a malformed lump of story in front of you. A novel, fully-formed or missing parts. It's a beautiful thing, a weird little word-baby that needs your love. He's squirming and squalling and if you don't help him out he'll wither away and disappear — and then all your work, your NaNoWriMo gestational period, will have gone to waste.

Keep writing. Start editing. Raise your word-baby until it's a proper story.

And keep coming back to terribleminds as we talk about hammering your work on the anvil, forging your tale into a blade that will chop the audience's boredom in twain.

So — I want to ask those of you who did NaNoWriMo this year:

How'd it go?

Finish? Not finish?

Will you keep on working on it?

How well did NaNo fit your writing style (or vice versa)?

Final thoughts on the National Novel Writing Month?

25 Things You Should Know About Your Completed Novel

So. You wrote a book. There it sits before you, whether on the screen or printed out: a city sculpted from the face of a raw and ragged cliff. Epic, I know. Dizzying, even. It's okay if you want to throw up. Go ahead. Nobody's watching. HA HA HA HA WE ALL JUST SAW YOU THROW UP HA HA HA — ha, er, oh, sorry.

That was cruel.

You've got a book and it's time you ask: "Now what?"

Consult this list of 25 and maybe you'll find the answer.

1. You Have Gone Where Other "Writers" Have Failed To Go

Failed writers — "failure" being only an indication of never having finished a fucking thing — are everywhere. Kick over a log, rip off a panel of drywall, open the trunk of a long-forgotten car and there they are. Like swarming roaches or starving raccoons. Already you've separated yourself from them just by the dint of having completed a novel-length work. You're not done, of course: this is just the beginning. But find comfort in the fact that you just leveled up. Ding!

2. Welcome To Novel Club

If this is your first night at novel club, you have to write. …no, wait, that's not it. If this is your first novel, as in, you've never ever written a novel before, it helps to have your expectations in check. One's first novel threatens to be a "trunk novel" — as in, a novel best kept in the dark and not dragged out into the light for all to see. Realism is unpopular, and cheerleading is easy, but trust me: not every book one writes demands a place on the stage. I say this as a guy who has six completed novels (and an infinity of unfinished ones) shelved away in some dark murky corner of my hard drive where all the creatures have gone blind and pale. I sometimes hear the sentiment that self-publishing obviates the existence of the trunk novels, that we can all barf up our half-digested literary meals into the marketplace, but that's a level of insane I cannot quite parse. Just because I can sell any jizz-caked gym-sock on eBay doesn't mean I should.

3. Trunk Novels Need Extra Love

That said, trunk novels don't need to be relegated to the burn pile — but, in my experience, they need a lot of extra attention and TLC. No, not the pop trio starring T-Boz, Left-Eye, and The Other One. They cannot help you with your novel. Point is, a first novel is no different from the first time you do anything: build a chair, bake a cake, go to an orgy. Unless you're some kind of prodigy, you're not going to nail it the first time out of the gate — you used the wrong hammer, the wrong cake flour, the wrong industrial-grade sexual lubricant. If you really believe in a trunk novel, then just know you're likely to pump a lot of extra work into it. Don't worry: the next novels will be easier. Probably. Shut up.

4. It Ain't A Batch Of Brownies, Pal

The mindset you have about your novel matters. It's best to view every novel (or script, or any story) as a work-in-progress. This isn't a batch of brownies: you make those brownies and they come out of the oven, you're done. Game over. You can't keep working on them. Best you can do is cover them in extra icing and hope that stops them from tasting like asbestos shingles. A novel, however, is always at only one stage of its evolution — you the author are as a god, helping urge forth the little trilobite to grow fins and then lungs and then legs and then learn how to use iPhones and make funny cat videos. The novel is always able to change, always able to grow new limbs and see its organs spontaneously rearrange.

5. Cool Those Heels, Flash

A writer who is impatient is a writer who probably has health issues, which explains why I've had seven blood-squirting aneurysms since beginning this career. Just the same, embrace patience. Novels, like wine, need time. It's easy and understandable to finish a novel and want to see it Out There somehow — but you need to chillax. Do people still say that? Chillax? Maybe they should say "rechill" instead. Just rechill, homeslice. Anyway. Resist the urge to close the book on your book and consider it done. Don't send it to agents, publishers, or into the marketplace. Let the bottle breathe.

6. If You Love Something, Set It Free

Also: if you hate something, set it free. You need distance from this novel. You need to remove yourself from its presence long enough to discard your love of certain part and your distaste for others until you can approach the book as if… well, as if someone else entirely wrote the damn thing. You need to reach that time when you can look at the book and say, "I forgot I even wrote this part." That may be a week. That may be two months. For me it's like, four hours, because I have a brain like a colander.

7. Discover Why It's Your Book

You wrote this book. So it needs to feel like you wrote it. That's what a lot of revision is secretly about — yes, yes, of course it's about confirming quality and creating sense out of nonsense but it's also about discovering why this is a book no one else but you could've written. This is the time where the clay is soft and your hands make deep prints. This is when you own the book. Because if someone else could've written it, then what's the fucking point?

8. The Answer: "As Many As It Takes, Motherfucker"

The question: "How many rewrites do I need to do?"

9. Written By The Shaman, Adopted By The Tribe

The writer is the shaman. He's the whackadude goofed up on funny jungle mushrooms who steps behind the curtain that separates worlds and there he does battle with ghosts and ideas and returns to our world with the story of what happened in that secret space. That's what you've got now: the result of your battle with invisible entities. But now the tribe must adopt your story, and it's the tribe that improves your work: beta-readers and buddies, agents and editors. A novel that exists all on its own is not as strong as it could be: your novel should be the product of many eyes and many thoughts. It takes a village, not a village idiot.

10. Criticism Is A Conversation

Criticism is good for your book. Tumbled rocks are polished by agitation, and so too will your tale be sharpened and shined by the rough stone and hard grit of criticism. Criticism is a necessary conversation to have. No criticism is absolute, and many pieces of criticism combat one another. But that's why this is a conversation and not writ law: you the author must consider and respond. One thing I can say about criticism is, even when you don't agree with the solution, often you should look for core problems. The true power of criticism is not when it gives you answers but rather when it helps you understand the questions.

11. Spare Change

Writers who are afraid of change are writers who will trip over their own ego and fall into a mud-walled pit where they are eaten by muskrats. Once again, this is a mindset issue: be ready to take what you have and smash it apart. As it runs the gauntlet, it is beaten by batons and whipped with willow branches and drubbed by double dildos. Each step the book takes a beating and with each beating its flesh and bones change. That's a good thing. That's a proper thing. You must be willing to embrace change from behind. You must give change a gentle and eager reacharound.

12. Novel, Thy Name Is Legion

When going into the "edit cycle" of your novel, it may be easier to view the story not as a single entity but rather a series of moving parts. A house is not just a house: it's hinges and pipes and floorboards and water heaters and restless ghosts and sex swings and fiberglass insulation and hungry mice. You don't edit a giant hunk of word-meat called a novel: you butcher it in pieces and parts.

13. A Tail So Long You Might Trip Over It

A novel is also not a short-lived creature — the very act of creating a novel is way more than the month or the year it took to write that first draft. Time invested now equates to, ideally, readers earned later.

14. How To Edit Your Shit

I won't bludgeon you with the reiterated details, but I'll just point you to this: Edit Your Shit Part One, Part Two, and Part Three. Make with the clicky-clicky and whip out the hatchet and the scalpel.

15. Interface With Your Intestinal Flora

When is your book done? You've no test. No way to objectively say, "Ahh, here we are, this bird is fully-cooked and heated to an internal temperature of 666 degrees." You can certainly listen to others, but at the end of the day the one voice you have to listen to is your own: check your gut. Use your instincts.

16. As A Human Person With A Book, You Have Options

It's easy to see the doom in the publishing realm: lowered advances and no more bookstores and the fact that they now take writers out to pasture and shoot them for their meat (so I hear). But you merely need to peel back the pessimistic subdermis and see that things are changing fast. Often for the author, not against the author. Self-publishing is only one small part of that equation. What I'm saying is, that book you just finished? It has options now that did not exist for it five years ago. That is a feature, not a bug.

17. The Value Of An Agent

An agent is, ideally, a shepherd for book and writer. The agent helps the manuscript cross the deadly savage territory of our ruined earth and, at the end of its journey, helps it get the best seat on the rocketship to Mars. An agent does more than just sell the book — the agent helps identify opportunity, maximize one's earning, and help push the book into other realms by pimping the book's rights. Do you need an agent? No. Will an agent help? A good one will, mos def.

18. A Meh Agent Reps The Book, A Good Agent Reps The Writer

Some agents are, simply put, feculent turd-heads. They don't respond, they jerk around authors, they mock writers and act every bit the vile gatekeeper. But that doesn't mean agents are bad. No group is without its malefactors: whether we're talking hotel maids or astronauts, some amongst them are shitbirds. That doesn't mean it's time to disavow all hotel maids or astronauts. Here's, for me, the line between a good agent and a ennnhh-one: the *poop noise* agent wears blinders and cares only about a single book, but the good agent sees a single book as one part of a writer's overall value. The good agent cultivates the writer.

19. The Value Of A Publisher

A publisher will do all the things for your book that will get it ready for the marketplace — and, to be clear, the marketplace puts commerce above art, for better or for worse. Somebody needs to handle cover design and marketing and all those critical book-whore duties. Don't want to do those yourself? Don't feel equipped for such tasks? Then your book needs a proper publisher.

20. Stop Punching Yourself In The Face For Our Entertainment

Some writers are so eager to have their book Out There that they will do anything — and that means signing raw deal contracts, contracts that might as well be rolled up into a baton and used to smack the writer across the bridge of his bad-doggy nose. I've heard horror stories of unscrupulous publishing entities playing havoc with a writer's rights and even that writer's career. Eff that in the ay, emmer-effer. Protect yourself. Don't sign away your book without knowing what you're getting out of the situation. Oh, and by the way: once again the value of an agent is made irrevocably clear.

21. The Value Of A Smaller Publisher

A smaller publisher does what a bigger publisher does, though often with a shorter reach — but also with a more personal and less corporate touch. Bigger publishers are cruise-ships: big behemoths that have great power but are slow to turn. Smaller publishers are smaller boats: less power, yes, but can turn on a dime and respond to changes far more swiftly.

22. Any Good Partner Helps You Cultivate Your Vision, Not Theirs

Whoever you choose to partner with, from agent to editor to publishers big and small, know that the value of that partnership is best expressed by how much they want to help bring your vision to life rather than bringing to bear some external vision. They are on your team: you are not on theirs. Also, they should give you candy. Because candy is awesome. In other news: I'm kind of hungry.

23. The Value Of Self-Publishing

Relative freedom, that's the value. The gate is open. You're a free range creature who has the pick of the pasture. Of course, you're out there potentially all by your lonesome, too — a fox wants to come up and turn you into a pile of blood and feathers, that's his right, because hey, no fences, no gates. But it's your life, little chicken. The cover, the content, the quality — it's all up to you and nobody can tell you otherwise.

24. Self-Publishing Is Not Your Own Personal Flea Market

Just the same, the freedom of self-publishing should not be interpreted as a wide open marketplace where you can just march into Target and start selling your crummy ill-cobbled wares next to brand name items ("I MADE AN ANTLER LAMP YOU SHOULD BUY IT"). Self-publishing is about competing and surpassing, not about confirming everybody's worst inclinations and ensuring that self-publishing is just another word for "a very public slush pile." Your book isn't second-hand goods. Treat it with respect and give it the time and effort it needs no matter what form of publishing you choose to embrace.

25. For Now, Take A Moment, Bask In Your Awesomeness

Hey, fuck all this waffling white noise, forget all this badgering buzz — you just wrote a book. Holy shit. No, wait, let's do that in all caps: HOLY SHIT. You just took a great big unformed hunk of intellectual rock and carved it into shape, into form, into the very face of story. That's incredible. The fact you can create a whole new world and brand new people inside it — and you can create them out of, uhhh, ohh, I dunno, NOTHING — is no small ordeal. That's epic business and you should pat yourself on the back and have a cookie and drop acid and do the Snoopy dance until you pass out. For now: celebrate. Come back to this list later. It'll be here when you need it.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Transmissions From Baby-Town: "Feeding Time At The Baby Paddock"

Somebody — and I won't name names, but he's the tiny dude over there in the high chair, ahem — is now eating solid food. And by "solid" I of course mean "pureed into a largely non-solid state." It's not like he's eating turkey legs or shelling pistachios. Though, given the way this kid eats, it would not surprise me.

Just the same, I thought, it's time to talk about feeding the baby.

Those of you with weak constitutions, troubled hearts or a fear of adorable small people…

TURN AWAY NOW.

* * *

I didn't teach him this.

In fact, unless Santa Claus or some other fairy being is secretly involved, I don't think anybody taught him this — but somehow he knows. He's been studying us eating and from the first time I scooped a blob of pureed pears onto his baby-sized purple pastel spoon, he's been ready. He opened his ravenous maw wide and blinked at me with those big blue eyes (the same eyes that are cute enough to prevent us from dropping him off at the local recycling center) and was ready to eat. No coaxing needed. No dabbing a little on his lips to be like, "Mmm, see? No, no, I know, it features none of the pillowy comfort of a boob, but hey! Apples!" None of that. He just opened his mouth and was ready to go and no training was necessary.

Humans are impressive machines.

If only potty-training will be this easy.

* * *

The kid, he hungers.

You know Jabba the Hutt? How his slug tongue licks the lips and he gleefully pops that screaming squirming tadpole thing into the foul slit that monster calls a mouth?

Yeah, that's my son.

* * *

NO STOP GRABBING THE SPOON

Okay, fine, grab the spoon.

Now his hands are sticky. And they'll be sticky all day because somehow, perfectly cleaning an infant's fingers is impossible. Later I'll wonder, "How did this clump of food end up behind my ear? Was I sleep-eating again? Did someone slip me some Ambien? What the hell is it?" *taste* "Mmm. Peas."

* * *

I cannot feed him fast enough.

They say his stomach is as big as his fist and he's not exactly a huge kid — he's lean, lanky, but not heavy.

So, when he wolfs down two full containers of food and then another two or three servings of rice cereal, I worry. This can't be natural, I think. Kid's got a tapeworm. Hell, he might have a stomach full of screeching baby falcons. But the doctor and all the baby books say, "Keep feeding him when he's hungry," but his hunger knows no bounds. I half expect to look under his high chair and see that it's all just fallen through him, dropped through some empty space and onto the floor.

If I don't feed him fast enough, he makes… impatient noises.

MMM. NNNNGH. AHHHH.

* * *

OKAY OKAY I'M HURRYING

If he had teeth he'd bite at the air — clack clack clack.

* * *

Peas, though. He doesn't like peas. He eats peas, he gets this face like, "Did you just spit in my mouth? What is this? Rubber cement? Pencil shavings? Goose poop? Fuck is wrong with you people?"

A genetic component, perhaps. I hated peas as a kid, too. From pureed peas onward. My mother says I could eat a glob of food and if there were peas in it I'd eat the rest of the food and then spit out the individual peas as if I was just cleaning them, making them shiny for someone else. Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.

* * *

JESUS CHRIST STOP LOOKING AT THE DOG SHE'S NOT FEEDING YOU I AM

* * *

Baby food is delicious.

I squeezed out some mango puree and tasted it and immediately wanted to stir in some rum, toss it in a fruity glass with a swirly straw and guzzle that bad-boy down. No wonder the kid loves this stuff.

I mean, this strawberry-apple puree? I'd kill a dude for a second taste.

Though, yesterday I saw some of the meat-based baby foods at Target.

The "ham" puree has a color exactly that of Caucasian flesh.

As if it's a jar of ground-up pink-cheeked street urchin.

I think we're going to hold off on giving him meats for as long as we can.

* * *

OH MY GOD KID YOU LOOK LIKE A GLAZED DONUT

* * *

The poop changes once you start feeding them.

It comes more often, for one thing.

Really, though, it starts looking like proper poop. No longer a mysterious mud-glop in a soft white shell — now it's human waste. It's what you or I do, just on a smaller scale. The glory days are over.

Oh, I know, here I am another parent talking about baby poop but suck it, that's what we have to deal with. People talk about their experiences and new parents experience a whole lotta poop. You grow eerily and wearily comfortable with human effluence. You ever have someone pee in your face?

Have a baby. You'll see.

* * *

HOLY CRAP HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET FOOD ON YOUR EYELID

* * *

His one hand grabs for the spoon. The other hand floats in the air like he's conducting some kind of baby-food symphony. And his head bobs and weaves like he's a drunken Stevie Wonder.

* * *

Soon, I think we'll start making food for him. Get a rocking blender, something like a Vita-Mix, and just go to town. A lot of the store-bought food comes in crazy combos: for Thanksgiving, we gave him sweet potatoes + pumpkin + apple + blueberries, all in one squeezable food-tube. I'm oddly excited for the ability to mix up batches of whatever combos I choose. Spinach! Apples! Papaya! Wood grubs! Alpo! Caramel sauce! Bacon! NOM NOM NOM.

And yes, he really does like spinach.

* * *

All my years of video game training have led me to this.

Sure, there's a technique — food on the end of the spoon, go in high, use his upper lip to kind of shear the food into his mouth, let him suck off the rest, then use the spoon to scrape the remaining goo off his lips.

But he keeps it interesting. He'll open up reaaaaal biiiiig and just as you get close — BOOM — the hangar doors slam shut and the airplane crashes and the food is a casualty crammed against his face.

Or he'll pivot to look at the dog.

Or he'll try to be an active eater and lunge for the food.

You can't fall asleep on this job. No automatic behaviors will do.

The kid, he's squirrelly.

* * *

OH THE HUMANITY IT'S IN YOUR NOSE

* * *

He keeps eating

and eating

and eating.

I'm half-tempted to shoot a goat and throw it on the tray.

Just to see.

Just to see.

* * *

The doctor tells us it's time to start feeding him more than once a day. Three times. Meal times. Brekkie, lunch, dinner. It strikes you at times like this: oh shit, he's like a real person.

This isn't a dream. He's not a puppy.

Deep breath.

* * *

I bet he'd eat that goat.

* * *

OH GOD THE GOAT BLOOD IS IN YOUR HAIR

* * *

When we're done eating, I approach his face as if the washcloth is a shark — I even make the JAWS music, dun-dun, duunnn-duuun — though it would be far easier if I could just drop him in the driveway and hose him off with the power-washer. Then I clean the tray and plant toys before him. He loves toys, now. It's amazing how fast the changes occur with these wee little humans. Now he can drag himself toward things half-a-room away. Now he shoots out an arm and grabs things like some kind of snake-trained ninja. Now he studies objects and does more than just bang them into his head or shove them into his mouth.

Now he eats solid food.

Now he's six months old.

* * *

Why I love feeding the boy:

Because it's my time with him. I mean, I have a lot of time with him but it's a time I can plop him down and his eyes are eerily focused on me and my Magical Spoon and I get to play the role of nurturing food-dude — after all, it's not like I can breastfeed him or anything. (And no, I have not tried, weirdo.)

I like that time. Even when he shellacs his own eye shut with smashed carrots or gnaws on the food tray or turns his head at the last second thus ensuring I jam a dollop of prunes into his ear. I like the fundamental connection of parent-and-child, the uncomplicated rigors of I have food and you want this food and we are father and son and let's laugh as you accidentally snort mashed banana into your brain.

It's a sweet time and a highlight of my day and I cherish it.

I mean, don't tell him that.

Tell Us Three Things About Blackbloom

I'll be picking the choices from the Geography of Blackbloom later today — but for now, let's get started on the next challenge, shall we? This time, an easy one –

Tell me three things about Blackbloom.

Three status quo things.

Can be about anything at all: religion, commerce, society, creatures, history, diplomacy, culture, geography, climate, whatever. Can be very broad or very specific. Feel free to incorporate what we already know.

Certainly don't countermand what we know, if you can help it.

You must give three things — not one, not two, but three. One entry of three only, if you please.

Deadline is December 9th, by noon.

Put all of your "things" in the comments below.

Then, in two weeks, I'll pick — well, as many as needed!

Go forth and build worlds, you architects of the divine.