Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 284

Point Me In The Direction Of Self-Published Awesomeness

Let's not beat around the bush.

I've got IRREGULAR CREATURES up at Amazon, and I've got it here and at Smashwords and a few other places. And I am, in some cases, amongst some damn good company. Anthony Neil Smith's CHOKE ON YOUR LIES? Chris Holm's 8 POUNDS? The TERMINAL DAMAGE collection?

Great stuff. And just the tip of the iceberg.

But c'mon. C'mon.

For every one piece of awesome "indie publishing," you get ten, twenty, maybe even a hundred pieces of nonsense floating around. For every satchel of diamonds you get ten poop-encrusted toilet seats. For every Geoffrey Chaucer you get a hundred brain-sick spider monkeys.

The ratio isn't yet what you'd find in traditional publishing.

Further, I'm learning more and more that the self-published author doesn't have the same vectors of promotion. It is, by and large, up to the author (and the author's incredibly generous audience) to get the word out about one's own work. The normal channels of marketing and visibility and promotion (read: whoring) just don't exist yet for the self-published dude.

Should we continue to call it self-publishing, by the way? Can we just lose the "self?" "Indie" works, I suppose, but for me, maybe "DIY publishing" has a bit more of a workmanlike ethos.

Or maybe "punk publishing." Pubpunk? Wordpunk? Inkpunk?

Eh, whatever. I'm stumbling off the path, here.

What I'm saying is, since those normal channels don't really exist for the self-indie-DIY-pubbed penmonkey, it helps if the penmonkey's audience spreads the word.

So, spread the word. Here, now. Tell me about some high quality indie fiction out there. Digital, if you please. Stuff that's on par with work that has come out through the traditional system.

And hell, if you are just such an author, and you think your work is of that quality, pimp away.

Give links where appropriate.

On The Subject Of Writing Advice

I see it from time to time: this sense of flipped-up middle-fingers, this iconoclastic anti-establishment vibe, this sentiment of, "Fuck writing advice, the only way to learn writing is to write, only those who can't do teach, blah blah blah, suck my butt-pucker, pen-puppet." I dig it. I get it. Once in a while I feel like gesturing at ideas and notions with my scrotum held firmly in my grip, too. "Grr! Look at my balls. My balls."

Except, obviously, I spend a lot of time here as the dispenser of dubious writing wisdom. You may find that this practice is some mixture of awe-inspiring, helpful, irritating, or so infuriating you crack your molars gritting your teeth. Regardless, whenever I see an attack on the practice of giving out writing advice, I can't help it: I find my hackles raised. I get a little twitchy. I taste this coppery taste on the back of my tongue, I hear this high-pitched whine, and next thing I know I wake up in the snow surrounded by 13 bodies. Always 13. No, I don't know why. I only know that it's getting troublesome digging all these goddamn graves.

Anywho, I figured I'd talk a little bit about writing advice from a personal perspective. Why do I do it? What does it mean to me? What do I think about it at the end of the day? Why do I keep gesturing at people with my testicles? And so on, and so forth.

I Like Writing Advice

I have long appreciated writing advice.

I don't like all of it. I've never responded much to the hippy-dippy memoir vibe you get from some advisors — I prefer a look at writing and the writer's life from on the ground. I like the pragmatic, reality-level approach (and presumably that shows in my own dispensed pseudo-wisdom).

However, there's often a complaint that writing advice is tantamount to masturbation: the giver of advice as well as its receivers are basically just diddling themselves, and accomplishing nothing for it.

I think this can be true. Like Eddy Webb talks about at his site ("My Advice? Stop Listening To Advice"), I know full well you have those writers out there who'd much rather spend time talking about writing than they would spend time actually writing. For them it's just a hollow intellectual exercise, or worse, a way to feel like a "real" writer without actually putting in the work.

Advice is worthless if you don't put it into practice.

Me, I always tried to put it into practice. I've read a number of writing books over my years as a Rare Bearded Penmonkey — advice from Lawrence Block, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury. Now I read a lot of books on screenwriting (Blake Snyder, Alex Epstein being two favorites).

All of it's useful. I don't believe you can just "write your way" into being a good writer. A lot of it is reading (or in terms of film, watching). But it helps to have that information framed by those who practice their craft. You can learn stuff from writing advice. I know I have.

It's For Me More Than It Is You

I am a selfish jerk.

I write things on this site that interest me. Things I think are funny, or interesting, or most of all, topics that challenge me. I think, "Okay, I want to take a look at this idea or problem and kick its ass." I only talk about things that have affected me in one way or another. I try to be honest. I try to be forthright.

And I am always selfish. The advice is for me before it's for you.

This site is a lovely sounding board.

Tools For Your Toolbox

This is how I view writing advice:

Each piece is a tool for your toolbox. You pick each tool up. You hold it in your hand. You implement it or at least imagine its implementation — whanging it against a spaceplane propeller, ratcheting up a unicorn's horn, neutering a slumbering god — and then you either put it into your toolbox to use again or you discard it with the understanding of, "I will never need a Victorian-era cervical dilator."

When I sit down read advice from other writers, that's how I take it. I don't take every piece of advice and immediately think "I've found the answer!" I use some. I throw away the rest. And I become better just by thinking about and tweaking my craft.

No Inviolable "One True Way"

Anybody who tells you they have The One True Oh My God Answer To Writing is full of shit. Not just regular shit, either, but some bizarre equine-cattle hybrid of bullhorseshit or horseybullshit.

Nothing I tell you here at terribleminds will be the One True Way. Hell, I won't even suggest that it's the One True Way for me. I change up my game from time to time. I never outlined before — I am a "pantser" at heart (which also translates to: I do not like to be constrained by pants). But, once I incorporated outlining (because I had to, not because I wanted to), it became a change-up in the way I do things.

Now, I outline. It made my job easier, and my output stronger.

Still — you don't outline? You don't write queries like I do? You make sweet public love to adverbs? Awesome. That's your business. Plenty of very successful writers violate supposedly inviolable rules.

So, no, there exists no One True Way.

Ahhh, but here's the caveat: that's a two-way street, hombre. Many of those who loudly exclaim that there is no One True Way then cling white-knuckled to their own personal One True Way. And to that, I say: loosen your grip. Let go! Just a little. Just as the guy giving advice doesn't have The Divine Answer, accept that you don't have it, either. Accept that your way could always be improved. Always. Always! Nobody has a perfect process. Nobody is the best writer on the block. You can always up your game.

You don't up your game by doing more of the same.

I don't have the One True Way.

But that also means: nobody else does, either.

Writing Advice Is Neither Good Nor Bad

You'll often see comments — "This is good advice," or, "This advice sucks."

No. Nope, nuh-uh, nichts, nah, nooooo. Well, okay, fine, you'll probably find some truly terrible advice ("When submitting to an agent, don't forget to prematurely insult her for rejecting your glorious manuscript. Also, use lots of misplaced commas. It's considered 'arty' and will ensure that they know you are a serious auteur"). But for the most part, writing doesn't break down into "good" or "bad."

It breaks down to: "works for me" and "doesn't work for me."

Like I said earlier: every tool has its purpose. You may just not find that a given tool suits you. And that's okay. But it may suit someone else. And that's not only okay: that's pretty awesome.

Duh, It's All Bullshit

Of course it's all bullshit. Writing advice is always YMMV. Writing advice is just like writing itself: it's speculative, it's fictional, it's made-up, it's squawking into the void. Hell, I look back at advice I gave last year and some of it sounds great. Other parts? Not so much. Opinions change. Styles change. Advice shifts. The more we know, the more we change, and the more we change, the less we know.

Which makes no sense. Shut up. No, you're stupidfaced! What?

Writing advice is all just made-up.

But that doesn't mean it's useless. And it doesn't mean you should take a dump on the practice, either — don't like it? No problem. Don't read it. Avoid it. Nobody would be upset with you for that. I don't find much value in reading yarn blogs, so I don't go and visit yarn blogs or even think twice about them. It doesn't mean I'm going to write an angry froth-mouthed fecal screed titled, "Fuck Yarn."

…but now I just might.

Yeah. Fuck Yarn. Right in its Yarn Hole!

*middle fingers*

*gestures with scrotum*

*urine everywhere*

Whatever, Screw That Jerk, You Totally Want To Be A Writer

Man, last week? I read this post written by some guy? And it was all like, "Blah blah blah, seriously, you don't want to be a writer because it sucks and I whine a lot."

What a jerk, am I right? And by "jerk," I really mean, "cock-waffle."

You can borrow that, if you like. "Cock-waffle." It's all yours. I just made that up. I just wrote that. You know why? Because I'm a writer. And you know what? Being a writer is awesome. Hell, it's not just awesome. It's the tits. That's what all the cool kids are saying, right? "The tits?" Like, "Dang, this McRib sandwich is the tits," or, "Hoo boy, those Castilian Band poets — in particular, Patrick Hume of Polwarth — were the tits!" I dunno. Sounds right to me.

See, you're over there thinking that being a writer is one big giant sack of squirming misery. That you'd be better off sticking your pink parts in a rat-trap. That the only way to be a writer is to be a starving, broke, syphilitic lunatic whose flesh is branded with the countless rejections he hath received.

No. Bzzt. Hell no. That guy who wrote that post? He's just trying to rub out the competition. As someone said, he's hoping to thin the herd. But don't you listen to him. Let me invite you into the warm, nougaty embrace of the writer's life. We will dance on mushroom tops. We will ride giant butterflies across rivers formed of spilling ink. We'll tickle dragons until they vomit up words of encouragement and wisdom!

Here is why you should really be a writer. Sit back as I fill your head with dreams.

Because You Make Shit Up, And Then People Give You Money

You know what I did today? I wrote about a vampire. And that vampire was being chased by zombies. And someone is going to give me money for it. That is totally absurd. In the world? People are out there doing real work. They're fitting pipes and jiggering transmissions and manipulating the stock market from secret underwater bunkers. But me? I sit here. I make up insane bullshit. And then someone sends me a check. It'd like getting paid to eat ice cream or invent Rube Goldberg machines. This should be illegal.

Because My House Is My Motherfucking Office

You work in a cubicle farm where they grow gray fuzzy walls. Did you know the fuzz on those walls is not only a sound-dampener, but also a soul-dampener? Pieces of your fleeing soul catch on the fuzzy bits — like clothing caught on rose-thorn — never to return. True scientific fact, that.

I do not work amongst cubicle walls. I have an office where I look out a pair of windows and I see deer frolicking, foxes hunting, and titmice eating. That's right. I said titmice. Which is not, despite the name, a mouse with human breasts. (But just you wait. Now that Obama loosed stem cells upon the world, we'll see titted-up mice overrunning our homes and schools before you know it. He's like Hitler, that Obama.) When I take a break, I don't go down to the break room. I don't have to leave the house to eat a shitty fast food lunch. I go into my kitchen. I make eggs. Or get a salad. I play with the dogs. I take an hour to do some exercise. I drink some almond milk (which is so delicious and given half a chance I would have sex with it and hope to have its little milk-babies). I'm a free agent in my own life.

You get "casual day" at work. Where you get to "dress down."

I get "pantsless day" at work. Which is all day, every day, baby.

Beat that.

Because You're In Amazing Company

Becoming a writer — like, a hot-dang-I-got-something-published-writer — is joining a club full of kick-ass dudes and ladies. Everywhere you turn, you're like, "Wow, I met Favorite Writer X," and "By the milky sweat of Athena's butt-dimples, is that Favorite Writer Y?" And nine times out of ten, they're just crazy nice folks. They'll buy you a drink. You can share a meal. Or some horse tranquilizers.

The small corner of my real-life and social-media world is filled with people that slacken my jaw at every moment. And I am mysteriously allowed in their company.

Like this guy! Or this lady! Or this dude! Or what about him? And what about her? Don't forget this fella. Or this lass. And that's just a tiny fraction of the awesome that surrounds me any given day. Sweet Crispy Christ on a Combination Lunch Platter, how is that not exciting?

Because, Did I Mention They'll Give You Money? And It Doesn't Suck?

Get this:

If you can write 1000 words an hour, and you can make five cents per word (a relatively low amount), you make — drum roll please as I quick do some math in my head (carry the one, calculate Pi to the thirty-seventh decimal, get out the Enigma machine) –

Fifty bucks an hour.

Not a lot of jobs:

a) Let you make shit up

b) Let you work without pants

c) Pay you fifty bucks an hour.

I'm sorry, why wouldn't you want to be a writer again?

Because You Have More Options Now Than You've Ever Had

The Internet has changed everything.

I mean, more than just making sure that we have access to the freakiest porn available to any member of history across any civilization ever.

Information is truly democratized. It takes nothing to get your story into the hands of an agent or an editor. Or, if you want, skip 'em. You can cut to the chase and get right to an audience with blogs, with Twitter, with Amazon, with Smashwords, etc.etc.

Your writing will reach the gatekeepers faster, or if you so choose, it can kick the gatekeepers in the snacks and run right into the warm embrace of your readership. Your work doesn't even have to be all that good anymore. It can just — poof! — exist in the world with nary a thought on your part!

Fly free, crappy words! Fly free!

Hell, if you're a genuinely good writer, you can get out there easy-breezy lemon-squeezy.

Because "Cock-Waffle"

Seriously. "Cock-waffle."

Cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle, cock-waffle.

Because The Fucking Snooki Book, That's Why

Listen. Snooki got a book deal.

And Snooki is, what, some kind of subterranean homunculus that crawled up out of a burbling sewer grate somewhere? Ye gods, if that nuclear CHUD can manage to get a book deal, I'd say you have a pretty good shot. It's clear they let any mule-kicked chimp write a book, so all you have to do is meet that barest of requirements. I'd put money that you're a better writer than that big-haired donkey.

Irregular Creatures: The Contest

See that cat? The one with the wings? C'mon. You can't miss it.

You can win that cat.

That's right. I'm giving away that winged cat figurine. My wife pointed it out the other day. I nabbed it. And I said, "Someone will have this cat. I will foist it upon them whether they like it or not."

I mean, c'mon. How apropos. Irregular Creatures is home to… well, at a rough guess, hundreds of flying cats. And some cats that don't fly, to boot. And one pussy, but we won't talk about that.

So, here's your chance to win that very flying cat figurine (value, $15.00) and a $10.00 Amazon gift certificate (value: $10.00, duh). Wanna know how?

You need to do two things:

a) Buy IRREGULAR CREATURES and give me some proof that you bought it. If you procure a PDF or ePub from me directly, that's easy. Because, hey, I've got the proof right there. If you buy from Amazon, then ideally you'll show me a glimpse of a receipt or you'll snap a photo of you reading the e-book on your das crazy Kindlemaschine. Proof of purchase goes to: chuckwendig [at] terribleminds [dot] com.

Then:

b) You'll leave an IRREGULAR CREATURES review up at Amazon.com. It doesn't have to be a positive review. Hey, you hated it the book, you hated it. I won't make you give it a kick-ass review (though I'd certainly appreciate it). Obviously, I also want you to have read the collection before leaving a review.

That's it.

You have one week to do this. This contest ends next Monday, January 31st, at 7:00AM.

I'll pick one of you crazy cats and kittens at random. That person will receive the flying cat and the Amazon gift certificate (I'll pay for shipping). I'll ship the cat to you and probably just email you the certificate (unless you'd rather that be printed out and sent along).

This contest is only open to citizens of the United States. Not that I don't love you fine feathered international peeps, but I can't afford the $786.23 necessary to ship the little cat to, say, Shanghai.

If you have already procured the book and left a review, great. Just make sure I know you're in the running by emailing me at the above address and flashing a little proof.

If I don't get an email, I won't know you're in the contest. So: be sure to email me.

That's it, kids. It's that easy.

Buy the book.

Leave an Amazon.com review for it.

Then tell me that you did so I don't have to use my psychic powers to discern your involvement.

Good luck.

You can buy IRREGULAR CREATURES…

Here (PDF, ePub).

Amazon (Kindle).

Smashwords (ePub, PDF, etc.).

If you require a final sales pitch, well, here it is.

Join The Story, Save The Infected: Pandemic at Sundance

Did you hear the news? There's a new flu bug going around.

It's probably nothing to worry about.

Or is it?

People aren't feeling well. Coughing, sneezing, stuffy noses, low-grade fevers.

They want to sleep. During the day, at least.

At night, the sickness changes form.

Those in its thrall might be seen sleep-walking. Or sleep-eating. Some hoard objects. Others wander the streets unaware. And this is only the beginning.

Rumor: Is it true that the flu only affects adults? What is it that makes an adult, anyway?

Park City is the nexus of the outbreak, but it's happening everywhere.

And it's only the second day.

You have 120 hours to become part of the story.

Tweet with the hashtag #pandemic11. Whether from your own account or another of your creation.

Follow the stories of our characters — characters like Anna, like Billy, like Bree. Or like the others. Look for the Twitter accounts with the yellow backgrounds and black numbers.

Tell your tale. Whether it's one tweet or 100, maybe what you tell the world can save it from the spreading sickness. Or maybe it'll be a record left behind by the next generation.

If they're still alive. And if they're still sane.

What do you see? Are you sick? Are your parents sick? Follow the story. Then tell your own.

Don't forget to check the Hope Is Missing YouTube channel.

Or the Facebook page (check out the faces of the 50).

And if you're on the ground at Park City: head to Mission Control at Sundance: New Frontier to see how you can make a difference. Maybe you even want to request a scare…

Minecraft: The Collapse

During the day, I explore. At night, I dig.

And in all hours, I build.

I build a boat so that I can cross the ocean without having to hop and splash through the waters like a drunken moose. I build a miles-long underground tunnel connecting my spawn point and my rat's warren canyon. Upon my spawn point I build a glass house so that I may watch the sun set and the moon rise. At the top of my glass house I build an air bridge traveling to the peak of the nearest mountain.

And it is near to this peak that I find my first dungeon.

It's already pre-carved out of the side of the hill. I descend into the deep, placing torches along the way so I can find my way back. Down there in the dark I hear the first rheumy growls: zombies.

Sure enough, there they are: a trio of the blockheaded assholes, playing a game of clumsy grab-ass. Ah. But a waterfall and stream separate us. It's easy for me to wade into the water, hack at them with my diamond-edged sword, and cut them into little puffs of pixillated smoke.

But somehow, more of them show.

They're coming from somewhere back there. In the dark. Spawning endlessly.

I cross the water. I quick throw torches on the wall just as a zombie tries to paw my face with his rotten box-hands. Then another, then another. I back to the wall, I cut 'em down with my blade, and then I see more of this room: mossy stone, two chests, and a burning cage in the center with a little zombie effigy doll in the center, endlessly spinning.

I kill the zombies.

I flood the room with torchlight.

I end the spawning.

I open the chests and claim my booty: gold and iron and arrows.

I am the hero, triumphant.

The Hero, Descendant (Or, "The Hero Shits His Pants Multiple Times And Falls Down Into The Deep Dark Where He Must Contend With Lava And Evil")

I continue to dig, build, and explore.

Fact is, I want to find another dungeon. The dungeon made me feel like an intrepid hero-architect, a builder of great things but also a slayer of demons, a gatherer of treasure.

I find my second cavern opening not far from the first: just a quarter-day's walk. I see the deep dark grotto. I gather torches. And I wade into the mouth of shadow.

This one goes deep. Much deeper than the last. Every step is a step down, a step around a corner, a step around a stream of falling water or past tunnel mouths where I hear spiders hissing or the rattle of a skeleton archer's bones. I'm getting worried.

But I'm also getting pretty fucking geeked.

I travel for a long time — sometimes falling a few blocks without certainty of how I'll get out (I can always build steps, I tell myself), until finally I reach the bottom.

I know it's the bottom because, ye gods, it's full of lava.

In the center of this canyon tumbles a massive column of lava, a lavafall coming from way, way up there. Up there in shadow. Up there where monsters roam.

It's easy to see that this is a special place. The walls are lined with precious kit: gold and diamonds and redstone and so much iron, so much coal. I even see some lapis lazuli and some obsidian.

I hear water. I fling up torches. I step into the heavy current.

And — b-d-d-d-ing.

The sound of a bowstring drawn and loosed. A skeleton archer's arrow pierces my heart. Then another. Then another. I die there in the water, my inventory exploded around me.

I respawn upon my glass house, I hurry to my stash of goods in the house, I snatch up a blade. I'm going back. Fuck that archer. Fuck him up his bony ass with his own damn femur.

Once again I descend into the void — this time, with only an iron blade. I follow the trail of light. I fall again into darkness. I wander aimlessly on the shores of scorching lava.

Finally, I see it: all my shit laid bare, floating there in the water like flotsam (or jetsam, whatever). This time it's no skeleton archer but rather a creeper. But he can't get to me on this ledge. He's easy to dispatch. A swipey-swipe of the blade and he's down, the dumb geek. Another jumps in: hack-slash, nighty-night.

I jump into the water.

I grab all my shit. My compass, my watch, my diamond sword.

And then a zombie appears out of nowhere and bashes my block-head in with one of his block-fists.

Fuckity-fuck.

Okay. Fine. My stuff's still down there. I'll just go back again. Except this time, I think, I'll run back to my other stash and grab another sword, because I can't go down there unarmed. This takes me a little time, but I manage. And — you know the story: again I stumble blindly into the booty hole.

Uhh. Rephrase that at your leisure.

This time, it's different. I go down. I wander the trails. I follow the torches. I jog along lava.

No monsters this time.

And also: no stuff.

My shit is all gone. My compass, my watch, my diamond sword.

Little do I know: loose materials degrade to nothing after five minutes. Poof. Gone. It's not here because I took too long fetching a sword. And ironically, the canyon has no more monsters for me to fight.

Frustrated, I still recognize that this is a bountiful canyon. I can easily make up what I lost just by spending some time down here, cutting away the precious metals and mystical materials.

So, I do that. I begin to mine.

I mine until my pockets are bulging with goodness. So many diamonds. So much iron. I'm filled to the tits with redstone dust and lapis lazuli. And the gold! I'm rich! I'm a king! Eeeee! Thing is, this place is even bigger than I thought. It goes on, and on, and on. I keep wandering. I keep digging.

I see a little more iron, so I cross a little stream to get it.

The stream has a current. I am pulled not two squares to my right, and I slip under a ledge because the water is deeper than anticipated.

And then I tumble into a pit of lava.

I struggle in the well, burning alive. Cooking. Hissing. Screaming.

I perish.

All my items explode out of my body. And then they hit the lava.

When they do, they go Sssss! and are gone. Burned up into the void.

I am once more a pauper. No longer the hero-architect, I am just a burned-up chump, a scarred buckethead fumbling around the dark, pawing at my junk with my impossible, fingerless hands.

And so it is that I think I must back away from Minecraft for a time. I achieved a lot in a short time, but I jumped for the brass ring…

…and fell into a hole filled with fire and death.

I retreat, beaten.

Let My Dulcet Voice Hypnotize You

Yesterday, I received a phone call.

It was Dan O'Shea (pictured above).

Dan said, "Are you ready to do this?"

And I glanced down at the pants pooling around my ankles and the bowl of tapioca pudding sitting there at my desk looking at me all lasciviously (you naughty pudding, you nasty, naughty pudding), and I was like, "Can he see me? Does he have a spyglass on me from somewhere on the woods?"

Then I remembered: Oh. Ohhhh. Right. Right! The interview.

I told him he'd have to call me back in five minutes, at which point I did my business with the pudding.

Finally, when I finally toweled off, Dan did indeed call me back and we had a fantastic chat that took, what, 45 minutes? An hour? Who can say? By the time the Rufies wore off, I was bathed in fond remembrance.

So, what the hell did we talk about? Well. We talked about Irregular Creatures. We talked about self-publishing. About blogging. About pantsers versus planners. It was a thoughtful conversation, largely devoid of heavy profanity and any mention of cake and/or whores.

Shit, that probably sounds boring.

What I mean is, we spent an hour talking about pudding-fucking. Which is not a metaphor. I mean we actually talked about fornicating with various puddings. His favorite? Figgy pudding. He's old school. That's just how Dan O'Shea rolls, ladies. When it comes to Ye Olde Danimal, it's always Christmas.

Anyway, if you'd like to listen to a thoughtful conversation about the craft of writing long treatise on the merits of banging a big ol' glob of pudding, then Dan and I got you covered.

Dan's review of Irregular Creatures is here: REVIEW.

And the interview (*.wav format) is here: PUDDING.

Please to enjoy.

Painting With Shotguns #64

Quicky update today (because I've got to go snowblow our surprisingly long-ass driveway), and for that I drag the ol' Painting With Shotguns blog-mode out of the drawer. Forgive me, I suspect it smells a little like mothballs. And, curiously, like ferret musk. Don't ask questions. Just read.

Arrugula Screechers

Want a sales update on Irregular Creatures? Can do, my little winged kitties.

I won't break down the day-by-day because I suspect that's just going to get boring, but suffice to say since last Saturday, I've been selling between three and five per day, with the exception of yesterday, where I somehow managed to foist eight copies unto an unsuspecting populace.

That brings total sales up to: 189.

Amazon: 128

Amazon UK: 11

PDF: 48

Smashwords: 2

Looks like on Amazon the entry finally reflects (as of yesterday) the "People who bought Irregular Creatures also bought…" I'm in, of course, good company there. Chris Holm's 8 Pounds, the Terminal Damage collection, and Allan Guthrie's Bye Bye Baby. Need to crossover a little bit and get into the hands of people who are buying a lot of fantasy and sci-fi, though.

Received some lovely reviews this week:

… From Stephen Blackmoore.

… From Dave Turner.

… From Andrew Jack.

Got giveaways and interviews up at Bubblecow and Indie Horror.

Got a straight-up giveaway at Andrew Jack's blog.

And cover artist Amy Houser worked on a comic with author Cat Valente: "Deathless." It's up right now at the Tor-dot-com site, so hurry over and check it out.

For those who have not procured the book as yet, would love to know why? No harm no foul, just curious. If you're willing to share, of course.

Pandemic Countdown

www.hopeismissing.com

Click that link. See that gas mask? See that countdown clock?

Pandemic is coming. Are you going to be infected?

The event will cross a span of several days and will take place both in Park City and outside it — which means you crazy kids at home can both watch and interact with the experience. (I'll tell you — maybe tomorrow or the day after — how you can get involved in a big roleplaying experiment and become a part of the story and its damaged world.)

I'd like to personally thank some people who helped do some back-up writing for the experience: Andrea Phillips, Stephen Blackmoore, Will Hindmarch, Jason Blair, Jesse Scoble, Kari Hayes, Christopher Simmons, Wood Ingham. I did some writing myself and served as story editor of the Pandemic experience, and am excited to see how it all plays out.

Articles: "Disrupting What's Expected" at Sundance site; "Weiler Brings A Pandemic To Park City" at the Wall Street Journal; "Sundance Is Ground Zero For Pandemic 1.0" at Wired.

Remember:

Avoid the sick.

Don't sleep.

And beware strange objects.

More as it develops. Follow the #pandemic11 hashtag on Twitter.

Udder Work

Well, Double Dead continues apace. The novel, which could be subtitled, "A Vampire In Zombieland," is hella fun to write. Part of me thinks this is the key to writing — find projects that are fun as hell to write because the fun projects write themselves. Not to say you shouldn't get deep and personal and moody and whatever — serious is good. But man, I forgot how much fun it is to write crazy awesome shit.

Speaking of vampires, just did a Vampire: The Requiem SAS for White Wolf and the ever-excellent and always-charming Eddy Webb. And one assumes that sometime in the next 15 years, Danse Macabre will actually hit shelves, so look for that when you're old and gray.

I have two other gaming projects… lurking in the wings, but neither have entirely manifested yet. I only see gauzy shapes and trembling clouds, but I think they're going to materialize soon. Er, I hope they are.

But that also tells me to tell you:

Hey! I'm open for freelance work. It's the new year. And soon enough I'm going to have another mouth to feed what with the birth of our genderless centaur baby human boy come spring.

Know of any work?

I would be ever-gracious if you nudged it my way, or nudged me in that direction.

Just in case you forgot:

No, Seriously, I'm Not Fucking Around, You Don't Want To Be A Writer.

But, I am a writer, and this penmonkey needs a task.

Link Sausage And Blog Bacon

#cakeandwhores!

"Confessions of a Recovering Dilettante" at Dan O'Shea's blog.

Best webcomic ever? Romantically Apocalyptic.

The Adventures of Huck Finn — Modified For Modern Sensibilities!

No, Seriously, I'm Not Fucking Around, You Really Don't Want To Be A Writer

You don't want to be a writer.

No, no, I know. You think it's all kittens and rainbows. It's one big wordgasm, an ejaculation of unbridled creativity. It's nougat-filled. It's pillows, marshmallows, parades. It's a unicorn in a jaunty hat.

Oh, how sweet the illusion. My job, though, is to put my foot through your dreams with a high karate kick.

Consider this your reality check. You'll note that I do this periodically: I'm here, standing at the edge of the broken bridge in the pouring rain, waving you off — it's too late for me. My car's already gone over the edge. I've already bought the magic beans. I've already bought into the fairy's lie. I tried to pet the unicorn in its jaunty hat and it ran me through with its corkscrew horn, and now I am impaled.

See my hands? They're shaking. They won't stop. I'm like Tom Hanks in Shaving Ryan's Privates.

I am too far gone.

You, on the other hand, may yet be saved. I see a lot of you out there. An army of writers. Glistening eyes. Lips dewy with the froth of hope. You're all so fresh. So innocent. Unmolested by the truth.

And so it is time for my annual "Holy Crap The New Year Is Here And Now You Should Reevaluate Your Shit And Realize You'd Be Much Happier As An Accountant Or Botanist Or Some Fucking Thing" post.

More reasons you do not — awooga, awooga, caution, cuidado, verboten — want to be a writer:

It's The Goddamned Publipocalypse And Now We're All Doomed

The meteors are coming. Tides of fire are washing up on beaches. Writers are running scared. The publishing industry has heard the seven trumpets and it wails and gibbers.

It's bad out there.

You know how many books you have to sell to get on the New York Times Bestseller List? Four. You sell four print copies of a book, whoo, dang, you're like the next Stephen King. Heck, some authors are selling negative numbers. "How many books did you sell this week?" "Negative seven." "I don't understand." "My books are like gremlins. You spill water on them and they multiply. And then pirates steal them and give them away for free. Hey, do you have a gun, because I'd like to eat it."

Borders pissed the bed. Editors are out of work. Fewer authors are being signed and for less money up front. Jesus, you have a better shot of getting eaten by a bear and a shark at the same time.

And e-books. Pshhh. Don't even get me started on e-books. Did you know that they eat real books? They eat them right up. That's what the "e" stands for. "Eat Books." I'm not messing with you, I have seen it happen. Plus, every time an e-book is born, a literary agent gets a tapeworm. True fact.

I'm cold and frightened. The rest of us writers, we're going to build a bunker and hole up in it. Maybe form some kind of self-publishing cult and wait out the Pubpocalypse in our vault. We'll all break down into weird little genre-specific tribes. Horror slashers, elf-fuckers, steampunk iron men, and space whores. But it'll be the poets who will win. The poets with their brevity and their stanzas. And their bloody claws.

Eventually Editors And Agents Are All Going To Snap (And It'll Be Our Fault)

It's easier now than ever to submit to an agent or an editor. Used to be you had to jump through some hoops, maybe print some shit out, pay some cash to ship your big ol' book out into the world. Now any diaper-rash with a copy of Wordperfect, an e-mail address and a dream can send his 10-book fantasy epic to a thousand agents with the push of a button.

Click! "Here, please consume this sewage as if it were a meal!"

This is your competition. Sure, you might be a real gem, a right jolly ol' corker of a writer with skills and art and craft and a sexy smug author photo. But these wild-eyed crazy-heads are your competition.

Don't think so? Peep this scenario:

Your manuscript arrives in the inbox of an agent with 450 unread messages just from that morning. At least 445 of those unread mails comprise a festering heap of word-dung, and that agent has to get through these and write some kind of "No, I don't want to rep your book about a chosen one Messiah space pilot hermaphrodite ring-bearer wombat-trainer blacksmith" rejection letter. And she has to do it again and again. And again. And again. Times 400. Let's be honest, by Piece Of Crap #225, that agent has basically lost her mind. Her brain is a treacly, yogurt-like substance that smells faintly of coffee and disappointment.

So, when she gets to your manuscript (#451), it's late in the day. Sure, she might read it and be cowed by your brilliance — "Holy crap, it's not crap!" — but realistically, she can't even see straight. She hates everything. She wants to punch the life out of baby animals. Her madness and anger has been honed. It is a machete one could use to strike down God and prune his limbs.

That agent's on a hair trigger.

Once she gets to yours, she reads that first sentence and doesn't like that one comma and blammo, she's firing off a rejection letter. And before too long she'll be out on the ledge firing off a high-powered rifle.

You don't want that kind of guilt on your head, do you?

Evidently, Society Still Requires "Money" To Procure Goods And Services

Few writers make enough money to earn a so-called "living wage."

What is a living wage, you ask? It's an annual wage that allows you to not perish. It allows you to not freeze to death, or not live in a dumpster where your extremities are eaten by opossum, or not die of starvation under an underpass. I mean, let's be clear: most writers earn less than your average hobo. A hobo, he might earn ten bucks an hour. Sure, it goes toward booze or toward his raging Magic: The Gathering habit, but still, it's more than you get paid to be a wordmonkey.

Okay, yeah, I earn a living wage, but you know how hard I have to work? I have to write like, 10,000 words per day. Backwards. While I provide sexual favors to industry insiders with my left hand (the sinister hand is the only hand appropriate for the tasks I give it to perform, be assured).

Since society still demands that we pay it money — and not, say, wampum or words or sexy dances — then trust me, it is not worth it being a writer. A writer, you're basically just a homeless troglodyte.

Your Soul Remains Uncrushed, Your Mind Is Intact, And Your Orifices Unviolated

First comes the ceaseless parade of rejection. (Probably because you're just not that good, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting, right?) You're punched in the pink parts over and over again. It'd be comical if it were happening to anybody else, but it's not. It's happening to you.

Then, should you have the good fortune of getting published, you are now going to be dragged through a house of possible horrors. Seriously, you should hear the horror stories.

"My contract requires me to tithe a cup of blood every Tuesday morning. A man in a dark hat and a wine-colored cardigan shows up at my door, gives me a plastic cup, and then I have to blood-let into the cup. I don't know what this has to do with my book, but I think it has something to do with my soul."

"I found a stipulation in my contract that, should they be able to prove that I used a Barnes & Noble restroom, they could force me to pay back my advance. Also, they stole my shoes."

"I did not get to approve my own cover art, and for some reason the cover of my paranormal thriller features an orangutan peeing into his own mouth. At least he's wearing a monocle."

"I must've mis-read. Here I thought they owed me 17% royalty on every e-book sold. Actually, I owe them a 17% royalty on every e-book sold. Mea culpa. Time to pay the piper. Literally. They sent a piper to my house and his pan-pipes play a discordant tune that drives cats mad."

"Someone spent my marketing budget on cake and whores."

After all that's said and done, you have to go through it again with your second book. Which probably nobody will publish. Because they hate you.

Because The Fucking Snooki Book, That's Why

At first I was like, "Eh, so what, Snooki got a book. Blah blah blah. We've seen trash celebrity books for years. Publisher's gotta eat. Who cares? It's not the end of the world."

No, no, it's definitely the end of the world.

Snooki shouldn't even be allowed outside and amongst the public without a handler. She's like a shapeshifting gonorrhea monster. That girl has more brain in her hair than she does in her actual head. And yet I know talented writers who are struggling, but Snooki — some kind of orange monkey-goblin — gets paid enough money to buy a house full of solid gold tanning beds. And, her book is apparently tanking. And, the Today Show chose to put her on instead of a literary icon like Jane Yolen.

That's what it is to be a writer these days.

Snooki, who is by all reports the equivalent to a drunken, self-aware slime mold, is way, way higher up on the food chain than Jane Yolen. And Jane Yolen is way, way higher up on the food chain than you. Think about that. Think about just how screwed that makes you. It's like a crazy house. It's like an asylum where they let that guy who paints leprechaun porn in his own waste run the joint. And there are you and Jane Yolen, holed up in Room 313, the only sane ones in the whole zip code while an army of Snooki Zombies (their book deals flailing in their rotten, epileptic grip) tries to kill you. Or have sex with you.

*shudder*

You don't want to be a writer.

Turn back now. Save yourself.

While you still can.

What Makes For A Good Story?

Next month, I'm thinking I might use this space to take the 40,000 feet view and leave the "writing" discussion behind for February — writing, after all, is really just a delivery system for storytelling. The pen scratching and the fingers tippity-tapping across the keyboard are merely a conveyance. We're making the unreal real. Writing is a means to that end. The thing that's bigger than writing is storytelling. (And the thing that's bigger than storytelling is creating, but for me that enters "too vague" territory. I do not consider myself a "creator." Unless maybe you mean in the godly sense, because on the page, I'm making mountains, I'm killing millions, I'm turning this chick into a swan and that dude into a spider. I am the Zeus of my own reclusive little story-worlds. It's all thunderbolts and incest, baby.)

The reason storytelling is interesting is because it transcends medium. A good story is a good story no matter how you tell you it — whether you tell it in moving images, across comic panels, across emails or blog posts or tweets or even across the pages of an old-school novel, story is story. Writing isn't writing in these cases: the actual writing of each mode is a whole different animal. The mechanism is separate.

But the goal is the same: to tell a good story.

And, to reiterate, a good story is a good story, no matter how it is told.

In fact, I hereby demand someone make me a t-shirt:

"I Give Good Story."

Mmm. Sexy. Yeah. Nnnngh. Give me that story. Tell it to me, you little story slut.

Whoa, sorry, went a weird place there for a wee moment.

Anyway, my point is, if you understand story (and the telling of stories), then the only thing standing in your way is the method of conveyance. As writers and storytellers are increasingly called upon to shapeshift and don the skin-cloak of other media, it seems like it would behoove us to really get to the center of it. Break apart the breastbone and get right to the beating heart. This is especially true of those who are transmedia designers: I think the raw power of transmedia, where good storytelling nimbly leaps from rooftop to rooftop, isn't put on display as often as I'd prefer. A lot of that gets lost and buried underneath the many-headed media approach, or it gets shouldered out by the "cool factor," or watered down because it's a lot of work and not all the moving parts are so clearly understood.

So for me, to get to the truth of that, we need to take a long hard look at story. Or Story, if you prefer to make things more important by capitalizing them. Huzzah, Capitalization.

Now, to you, I ask the question posited in the post title.

It's a vague question.

Totally open-ended.

And I want it that way.

Throw open you brain doors and see what answer lurks in response to the question:

"What Makes For A Good Story?"

Brainstorm. Discuss. Talk to each other.