Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 289

Of Turtle Shots And Zodiac Signs

Went to the Obi-Gyn Kenobi's office yesterday to learn which particular brand of bait-and-tackle our upcoming child would possess. Boy parts? Girl unit? Some squirming squid-like mish-mash, some Cthulhu's beard of uncertainty lined with stinging nematocysts?

Of course, to discern this secret truth it was necessary to get busy with the ultrasound wand. If you're one of those people with kids older than… shit, I dunno, 10?… then I guess they can see a lot more these days with ultrasounds. You tell my mother about the ultrasound and basically it sounds like they had to rip her open and shove a submarine full of tiny doctors in there to report back on the health of my unformed heart.

Our first ultrasound showed an adorable poppet with cartoon cloud fists who persisted in punching invisible ghosts. Our second ultrasound revealed a child sucking its thumb — or, it did until you looked at the 3-D ultrasound, which actually revealed some kind of greasy unformed polecat curled around a boulder.

So, this ultrasound, we didn't know what to expect.

Mostly, the kid looked like some kind of… specter? Wraith? At one point the tech lady pushed in with the ultrasound and the child's face peeled away, illustrating some sort of… howling monkey skull, some wrothful rage-filled incubus. I honestly wish she had snapped that shot as one of our take-home Polaroid print-0uts so I could show it to our spawn years later.

"You're 13 now," I'll say. "It's time to show you the truth. See this picture? That's you in there. In your mother's womb. No, no, I know. You're right. That is so not the picture of a human being. That's an image of an undead baboon, its flesh flensed away by the keening winds of the underworld, scoured free of the bones by sand born of the Devil's dandruff. You're not our child. You're some kind of hell-imp. Which explains your nascent teenage behavior. P.S., stop stealing Daddy's liquor."

It was truly horrifying. Then she pulled back and sure enough, there's the kid again, sucking his thumb in the womb. Did you know they did that? Suck their thumb in the womb? I didn't know that either. They can do all kinds of shit in there. They suck their thumbs, they cry, they do robot dances, they put up shelves. They're busy. No wonder they scream coming out. I wouldn't want to leave my kickin' pad either.

She continued noodling around in there like some kind of ultrasound ninja, doing all these clicky-clickies and boop-boops. She showed us some crazy stuff — like, the four chambers of the heart, lub-dubbing away. Then we got to hear the heartbeat, which really just sounds like some news guy broadcasting from inside a hurricane while construction work goes on in the background. I was pretty sure I heard some construction worker catcall in the background. He used the word "gams." Do people say "gams" anymore? They really should. Maybe there's a time traveler inside our baby? Yeah. That'd be cool.

Sometimes the ultrasound tech lady would get so close to the baby it was like a Magic Eye painting. I'd sit there wondering, "Is that a dolphin? Mating with a tugboat? Is that Lady Gaga?"

One point she zoomed in good and close and I was like, "Oh, hey, there's the child's little face!"

And then she was like, "These are the kidneys."

"Are the kidneys part of the face?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

Whatever, lady. You're just a glorified joystick monkey.

At another point she asked, "When's the due date?" And we told her, June 1st. I had no idea that I'd come home and find out that June 1st now meant our child was going to belong to the 17th Zodiac sign of Herpecin the Syphilitic Brine-Carrier. I mean, what the hell, people? I go to the hospital for a couple hours and I return back to find you've totally dicked up the Zodiac. Ophioucus? Ophicus? Ophiucus? Ohfuckus? Odie, from Garfield? C'mon, somebody's just making that up. They're just fucking with us. The astrologers figure we've had it too good for too long and now they're just flicking nuggets of bullshit into our eyes. I'm onto you, astrologers. Your shit's already not real, you can't make it less real. What, are we going to add new Chinese Zodiac, too? "This is the Year of the Sugar Glider. Next year will be the Year of the Two-Cocked Coelacanth!" Are my Tarot cards broken now? Why does my divining rod only divine Diet Doctor Pepper? Someone went and broke all the mystic hoodoo!

Hrm. I feel like I've gotten on a tangent.

What I'm saying is, I gave the poor ultrasound tech lady a hard time, but she was actually quite nice. Right from the get-go she asked, "Do you want to know the gender?"

And we said, "Yes, yes we would." We never bought into that, "But then it won't be a surprise!" business. Really? Because it's a surprise whenever I learn it. Whether I learn it at 20 weeks or when the baby karate kicks his way out of my wife's baby compartment, it's still news I did not know before. And knowing it at 20 weeks means we don't get a shit-ton of "gender neutral" baby stuff. And "gender neutral" pretty much means "brown" and "yellow," which are (perhaps not coincidentally) colors that are going to be coming out of the child at regular intervals.

Upon confirming that yes, we'd like to know if our child is going to want a ninja sword or a pink pony for Christmas, she instantly zoomed in real close and said:

"This is the turtle shot."

And then she drew a circle around, well, what looked frankly like a turtle.

"Here's the shell," she said, pointing. "And here's the head poking out."

Then, just in case we were brain-diseased, she typed onto the screen, "BOY!!!!"

Which is, of course, what we're having.

I knew it all along. See, during the first ultrasound, what was playing over the Obi-Gyn radio? Don Henley. "Boys of Summer." And the first stuffed animal we bought for the tyke was in Hawaii — drum roll please, a sea turtle. Which is apparently a metaphor for "baby penis."

I'm excited. At first I wanted a little girl, but now, I'm onboard with the whole "boy" thing. Frankly, I'm just happy he's healthy. And that's he's not some kind of angry goblin hermaphrodite.

Oh, my wife wanted to ask all you people:

Advice!

Need baby books. But not crazy-person baby books, okay? But we need to catch up on some baby-reading. Anything you have, shoot it my way in the comments below.

Our baby thanks you. Gratitude, after all, is a trait of the 17th Zodiac sign of Herpecin the Brine-Carrier.

And Now, I Give Thee: Pandemic 41.410806, -75.654259

Earlier in the week, I said, "Hey, check out this short story collection."

Middle of the week — aka, um, now — I say, "Hey, check out this short film."

Sundance has been very kind to our little film and given it lots of great attention. Not only is it a big part of this year's Sundance 2011 app, but now it's online at the Sundance screening room.

I've embedded it here for ease (might I recommend full-screen?) but I encourage you to check out the screening room for other gems of cinematic goodness.

Funny story — when I went to… I think it was the second day of filming? The first thing I encountered was the scene with "Mom" on the bed. A bed pink with fluids. Her head swaddled in stained sheets. And Bree () sitting by the bed, a revolver in her lap.

Awesome. Crazy to see stuff you helped write come to life. Grim, fluid-stained life.

Anyway. Check out the film. I know I'm proud of it, and I think Lance did a bang-up job of bringing our storyworld — or, at least, a glimpse of it — to life. Make no mistake: he's a visionary.

Of course, it doesn't stop here. We've got the feature film moving toward fruition, and during Sundance will be the Pandemic storyworld experience. What's that, you ask?

Well. Just wait. You'll see. Expect something pretty crazy-go-nuts.

But it doesn't stop there. Sinister plans circulate. They fester like a sickness, they do.

Keep your eyes peeled.

www.hopeismissing.com

Irregular Creatures: The Prognosis

In case you missed it (which, given my self-prostitution, means you must've been buried under a tornado-smacked barn), I went ahead and "officially" released my short story collection, IRREGULAR CREATURES, to the Amazon Kindle marketplace.

I say "officially" because it had been up there since Saturday.

And between Saturday and yesterday, I had zero sales. Not surprising, one supposes, but contained within is a critical lesson: your audience isn't likely to stumble blindly upon your book. That is true whether it's in a bookstore or on Amazon — yes, there exists the chance someone will trip on a rock and fall face-down upon it, but you sure can't count on it. Bookstores are filled with thousands of books. Amazon multiplies that by a factor of… well, let's just go with one of those imaginary numbers like Snarbgang or Fronk. (Coincidentally, also the name of my favorite Vaudeville comedy duo!) You want people to read it, you gotta lead them to it. Put up signs. And fireworks. And a Tijuana donkey show.

It wasn't until I released the truth of the book's existence into the wild that I netted the first sale — and the next, and the next after that.

Because you came calling. A stampede of awesome people.

First Up: My Thanks

So many of you rose to the call of "Please pimp my book" that I literally cannot thank each of you because if I tried to thank you individually, I would eventually die of some random old person disease.

At last count, I saw about 250 tweets of you fine feathered peeps shaking the reeds and shock-prodding other folks in the butt-pucker so they head on out and nab a copy of the e-book.

That is insane. Like, in the good way.

Never mind the many folks who pimped it on Facebook — Rick Carroll, Shawn Gaston, Keith Rawson, uber-agent Stacia Decker, and others. David Hill was the first reviewer on Amazon. James Melzer wrote a far-too-kind blog post exhorting people to go snatch up the collection. (Get it? Snatch? Because there's a whole story about Thai pussy shows? Shut up. Don't judge me.)

And again, that's just the tip of the iceberg.

The blog post announcement, too, was heartily attended. I'm writing this post ahead of time, and even now that post has 1000+ looky-loos all by itself.

You kick ass, everyone of you.

(And hey, the shepherd-slash-prophet of self-publishing — Konrath His Own Self — swung by the site.)

Second Up: The Numbers

By middle of the day, the collection achieved profitability. My only cost going in was the cover art — I won't tell you how much it cost because, well, I dunno. That's not your business. *points to crotch*

But I will share with you the total numbers.

As of 9PM:

Amazon US sales: 86

Amazon UK sales: 7

PDF sales through this website: 15

Total sales: 108.

I make $2.07 per sale from Amazon, and $2.60 when purchased here (Paypal fees).

So, a genuinely profitable day, and this is only the first day.

Oh — Amazon sales pushed us up to #824.

Fact: Amazon's sales ranking is determined by a parliament of insane robots. I began the day at #117,000, then one sale rocketed me up to #75,000 then another sale bumped me to #11,000. After that, I spent the day pinballing between #7,000-ish and #1,000-ish. It would sometimes do this even when I had not earned any new sales. Once, I earned sales, then dropped sales rank so fast, you'd think somebody kicked it out of a plane. Amazon sales rank is a cipher wrapped in a mystery enveloped in a slice of honey-glazed ham.

Mmmm. Ham.

Third Up: My Feelings On The Subject

I feel like a princess.

*pinches nipples, flings tiara skyward, does a pirouette*

Wait, no, that's a whole different post for a whole different website.

I am cautiously optimistic. I mean, you can really look at this three ways:

Optimistic: Hey, holy shit, awesome. Better than expected. It's just a dumb short story collection and I'm just some dipshit squawking and spitting into the void, so even if I never got a single other sale, I made enough money to go out and eat a kick-ass dinner. My writing is feeding me. Nobody owns my soul (except all those other people who own my soul — oh, and the Devil). Fucking-A. I rule. Everybody else drools. To celebrate, I will conquer some bacon with my gastrointestinal fluids.

Realistic: It was a good day. It remains to be seen if there's really going to be a long tail, though. Those who bought today were likely the faithful, so how will the book find an audience otherwise? The author can only do so much. If word of mouth doesn't carry it, the spark doesn't catch anything aflame and — sizzle, fizzle, hiss. This is a 45,000 word product. Were I to have earned even a meager per-word on getting those stories published (say, two cents a word), I'd be up $900. And as yet, I'm not really close to that. But the long tail might be there. If I work it good and work it hard (nnngh), I might see that return yet. One lesson to learn: blog views are free, retweets are free, clicks are easy-peasy, but all those things do not automatically translate into a purchase — and that's a-okay. It isn't all about the immediate sale.

Pessimistic: Fuck off, fuck-badger. Loser. Loo-hoo-hooo-oooooooser. That old-ass knight from the end of that Indiana Jones movie is saying, right now, "He chose… poorly." And he's saying it about you, douchewipe. That thing was 45,000 words. You usually get a pretty good per-word, so realistically, that thing is worth at least $1800. You really think it's going to make you almost two grand? Mm-humm. Sure. Sure. And my mother was Batman. See what I did there? Because my mother is not Batman. Herp. And derp. Dummy. Now those stories can't win awards, they won't be in print, and nobody cares because they're self-published namby-pamby poo-poo pee-pee wee-wee nonsense.

But again, I'm somewhere in the middle. Closer to optimistic. I'm happy about the day's sales.

And it's not like it's gone. You can still buy it.

No, really: You Can Still Buy It.

Fourth: What Now?

Well, in part, I shut up about it. I have other things to work on and other stuff to talk about. And the last thing I want to do is become a shill for my own book, a constantly-jabbering parrot: "Buy my crap! Buy my crap! KRAAAWWK! Buy my crap! Flying cats! Bangkok vagina! Buy my crap!"

Some of it will fall to you. You like it? Then please: spread the love. I'm hearing some good reports from people who have read the first story ("Dog-Man And Cat-Bird, A Flying Cat Story"), and that's awesome. Tell others. Leave reviews on Amazon (even if you bought only the PDF). Don't need to go overboard or out of your way, but if you'd be so kind as to occasionally pimp it, I would love you forever.

But some of it falls to me, too. If anybody needs a review copy, let me know. I can help make that happen. I'll also be soliciting some interviews and what-not about the process, but feel free to ping me if you'd be into hearing a bit about this whole process.

Plus, if you have any other ideas for getting it "out there," my ears are open. They're full of wax and earwigs, sure, but by golly, they are open.

And that's it for now, peeps.

Thanks again.

Keep them cats a-flying.

I Give Thee: "Irregular Creatures"

And so it is done.

Up on Amazon's Kindle marketplace: my first short story collection, IRREGULAR CREATURES.

Click here to purchase.

And, in fact, if you'd be so kind, I'd love it if you purchased it today. Just to see if I can't get a rush of sales. A caffeine-sugar spike of greedy eyes hungry to gander at my gibberish.

Still, you might be on the fence. You might be saying, "Ehhhh, ennnnh, nnnmmmgh, I just don't know."

Could be that you need a little convincing.

I can do that. Here, then, are five reasons to buy my short story collection, IRREGULAR CREATURES. Choose one or several reasons. Collect 'em, trade 'em with your friends.

1. Because Hey, Look, That Chuck Wendig Guy Is Writing Crazy Shit Again

Contained within this short story collection you will find:

Flying cats, Bigfoot, mermaids, demons, zombies, a giant chicken, a vaginally-capable Thai dancer, candy bar aliens, an incarcerated mentalist, and one mystic hobo hermaphrodite.

These are all irregular creatures. Just as I, the writer, am an irregular creature. In fact, I'd say all writers are sort of that — we're a little goofed-up at the margins, us author-types. I dig that.

These irregular creatures are bound up in nine short stories totaling about 45,000 words. Hell, one of those stories — Dog-Man and Cat-Bird (A Flying Cat Story) — is a big ol' 14,000 word fun-fest.

The collection is equal parts horror and humor, equal parts fantasy and sci-fi, equal parts sadness, weirdness, absurdity, and hilarity. Some of it is family friendly. Some of it is soaked in blood. You"ll find tales of Bangkok pussy shows, bizarre auctions in the middle of Amish country, soul-switching, and wars between heaven and hell (as fought by cats).

It contains many bad words.

It contains lots of weird ideas.

It contains a host of (I hope) engaging characters.

Click here to purchase.

2. Because This Is The Last Five Years Of My Writing Life

I'm a sucker for authorial point-of-view; I love the "auteur" theory of writing and writers. I like that certain writers carry — often unconsciously — certain themes and motifs through their work. It's a little bit obsessive, a whole lot unconscious, and maybe a tiny bit batshit crazy. Looking back over these short stories (which comprise the writing years of 2005-2009), I did not realize how these all pieced together. They do. They're clearly my work — while I think I've definitely developed as a storyteller since then, I still see a lot in these stories I like. They are bound together by common ideas and shared themes.

Hopefully that's the same for you. But you'll need to buy it to see what I'm saying.

Click here to purchase.

3. Because, I Mean, Pshhh, Three Bucks, C'mon

You can't buy jack shit for three bucks. Fast food meal? Hardly. Action figure? Nope. Handjob from a hobo with callused hands? Not the last time I checked, no. (And I check often.)

I'm offering you hours of entertainment for three bucks. You go buy Chinese food from the mall, it's going to cost you twice that and it'll be gone in a half-hour. Of course, it'll come back about three hours later (remember, you don't own food court food, you just rent it for a little while and then you return it back to the water supply like that kid with that killer whale in that movie with the kid and the killer whale).

Irregular Creatures will last a lot longer than that.

Plus: no diarrhea.

In this day and age, that has to be a selling point. Especially given the quality of some of the stuff you might buy on the Kindle marketplace. Am I right? Am I right? I'm totally right.

Click here to purchase.

4. Because You Believe Self-Publishing Is The Future

Forget that shit Whitney Houston sang about — you mayhaps believe that self-publishing is the future. Hell with the children. Are children going to provide you with cheap and easy literary entertainment? Can you download children to a hand-held device? Can you turn children off and on? I think not.

See, I'm on the fence about self-pub. This is an experiment for me to test its viability. You want to confirm that it's viable? You want to see more self-published work, not less? I'm going to be publishing my results, after all — if the results are good, I'll say so. Do you want me to proselytize the power of self-pubbing?

Then pony up, wordmonkeys! Money where your mouth is. Boom. Yeah. Nnngggh.

Click here to purchase.

5. Because You Really Love Terribleminds

(Warning: Guilt alert! Guilt alert! Awooga! Awoooga!)

You'll note that I blog here every day. I do so for free despite it costing me for the theme, for hosting, for the domain, for the hookers, for the meth lab, for all of that. It takes me a lot of time.

And I do it all for you. (It has nothing to do with my ego. Shut up! Shush!)

I've had folks contact me and tell me they wanted to donate. I tell them, "Nope." Some writers ask for donations. I'm not one of them. No harm no foul on those that do, but I figure — hey, this blog is here to keep me disciplined and to put myself out there for you crazy cats and kittens. I say "No donations, but once I have something to sell, please support me and this website by buying it."

And thus, the guilt. Here I am, offering you a product. And I have big wide doe eyes blinking at you — blink, blink — and at the bottom of those doe eyes is a shimmering pool where my tears are starting to form. You like this site? Been enjoying its free content for ten years? Want to help throw a little money my way to help support the child that is one day soon going to spring forth into this household? Want to help support my "chocolate milkshake and Burmese heroin" diet? Here's your chance, superstar.

Two words: IRREGULAR CREATURES.

Click here to purchase.

Only On The Kindle Machine?

You may be asking, "Is this only available on Das Kindlemaschine?"

To which I respond, yes, for the foreseeable future. I'm interested in keeping this experiment fairly well contained. Besides, Amazon offers a pretty robust marketplace, distribution network, and chunk of the pie.

What If I Do Not Possess A Magic Kindle Device?

You did know that Kindle offers a mighty host of Free Kindle-Reading Apps, right?

But that's okay. Maybe you have a Nook or something.

So, I'll offer you this:

I will send you a PDF if you give me the $2.99 via PayPal.

Contact me through this site, and I'll get you squared away with the PDF.

The PDF should work in iBooks, on the Nook, or across various other apps or devices. Plus, if you're morally Amazon-averse, hey, here's your way to get the collection.

But Wait! I Want To Do More!

That's awesome, because as it turns out, I need you to do more.

If this experiment is going to succeed, I could use your help in other ways.

First, spread the word. Get on the Twittertubes, the Faceyjournals, the Clown Sex Forums, and spread the love far and wide. "Hey," you might say, "I found this really awesome collection of stories called IRREGULAR CREATURES and it gave me a word-boner. And I'm a lady! It gave me a lady word-boner. You should go buy it, or I will hate you forever."

You may need to compress that into 140 characters, to which I offer:

Hy I fnd ths rlly awe coll of stor IRRGLR CRTRS gve me wrd-bner Im lady gve me ldy wrd-bnr u shld buy or I h8 you 4eva http://amzn.to/e6JeQy

Also, I would love it if you went to Amazon and gave it a review.

Now, you might be asking, "But what if I hated it?"

Uhhh. Well. On the one hand, I encourage honesty, on the other, I'll merely remind you what your mother told you: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

And then she whipped you with a metal coat hanger. Just a reminder of that.

Alternately, if you don't want to do these things, then I'm just happy that you bought the book.

In A Perfect World, You'll Buy This Today

I'd love to see a crazy spike of sales today. Hell, wouldn't it be cool to get into the Top 100 Kindle books for just one shimmering moment? No, it probably won't happen, but my father always said to "aim high." I mean, sure, he was just exhorting me to account for distance and wind speed when I was to shoot a zombie in the melon, but I like to think of the advice as one big metaphor for my hopes and dreams.

I Will Report Back From The Wilderness

As promised, I will periodically send missives back from the Self-Publishing Front with my data rolled into a leather tube and staple-gunned to the back of a donkey. A donkey with firecrackers in its ass to ensure it picks up the pace and is not eaten by a lazy puma.

I don't know how often I'll report data — I guess as often as necessary.

Bee Tee Dubs: "Thank You"

If you purchase it, thank you.

If you write a nice review or spread the word, thank you.

If you love terribleminds, thank you for that, as well.

If you don't buy my short story collection, I'll kill a unicorn in front of a little girl.

Thanks again, tmeeps.

Why Your Novel Won't Get Published

You know the word "scapegoat," right? Are you aware of the origins?

It's like this: in what we'll just call "Bible Times," the community would heap all their sins upon a goat. The sins were metaphorical; the goat was not. Then they would kick that goat in the ass and force him into the desert, where presumably he'd either a) get into crazy adventures with the Devil and a talking cactus or (more likely) b) die and be eaten by flies. Either way, that goat carried your sins away from town. When the goat expired, so did all your terrible actions.

Your novel is kinda the opposite of that pathetic goat: onto it you heap not your sins, but your greatest hopes and dreams. "One day, you'll be a bestseller," you whisper to the goat as you duct-tape your manuscript to his back. Then you put him in the elevator and send him into the Publishing Wilderness, where he will either a) randomly wander into the proper agent or editor office and get your book published or (more likely) b) die and be eaten by flies.

Brutal honesty time:

That novel of yours isn't likely to get published. The numbers just aren't in your favor. Last I did a sweep of the Internet, it was home to 500,000,000 writers. Once you remove the wanna-be dilettantes, you still end up with 1,000,000 left. And they're all fighting to have their manuscripts published.

You gotta maximize your chances of putting a kick-ass book into the ecosystem where it bites, kicks, shivs and garrotes any other novel that gets in its way. One way to do that is to identify the many pitfalls that await you, your book, and its goat.

Wanna know why your novel won't get published? (Or, alternately, won't get an agent?)

Ten reasons. Here we go.

1. Them Brownies Ain't Done Baking

Brownies need long enough in the oven, or the middle ends up soft, gooshy, and still uncooked. Your novel might suffer from that problem: you sadly didn't do enough with it. Maybe it needs another draft. Maybe it needs a strong copy-edit. Could be that it will benefit from some challenging readers or from a down-to-earth writer's group. Whatever the case, the novel just isn't "there yet."

Make sure you're spending enough time and effort on that sucker before you loose it into the world.

2. Your Training Wheels Are Still Attached

Sometimes the problem isn't the novel — the problem is you. Ever hear the term "starter novel?" It means that this is your first book and it implies that this first book just isn't a fully-formed novel. It was a learning process. It was an experiment. The training wheels are still squeaking and rattling.

Hey, listen, I wrote five novels before I got an agent for the sixth. Those first four novels were crap, the fifth almost got me an agent, and the sixth really sealed the deal. I learned as I wrote. I grew as a writer. I kicked the training wheels off. Now I'm on a mad Huffy BMX bike. Or maybe a Vespa scooter.

That's right. I said it. A Vespa. Mmmm. I know I'm sexy.

Wait, what? I dunno. Point is, you still have work to do as a writer. Let this novel be a stepping stool to other, better books. Is it guaranteed that your first novel is a stinker? No. But I'd call it a reasonable chance, so it's best to get some informed opinions before you pin your publishing dreams to it.

3. You're Allergic To Following Instructions (AKA You Suffer From "The Special Snowflake" Conundrum)

When you submit a novel, you are beholden to a number of instructions supplied by the agent or the editor. "Send the first five pages and a query letter; also include a deed signing over the soul (but not body) of your first-born child. Please include an SASE as well as a feather from a peacock made of molten pewter."

Writers, for whatever reason, think they're immune to such instruction. As if it's some kind of test. "Oh, they don't mean me. My novel is sublime. It transcends such petty nitpickery. Lesser authors will be caught in the netting of micromanagement while I — champion of all writer-kind! — send them a novel written across 40,000 Post-It notes and shoved into the digestive tract of this here billy goat."

You are not immune. Follow the fucking instructions. You are not a special snowflake. Do what they ask. Do so politely. Shut up about how they're trying to oppress you and just dance the dance.

4. Novel's Great, But The Query Letter Sucks Eggs

You've written a 90,000 word novel. And now you have to condense it down into 250 words.

Trust me, it's hard. I know. It's like putting on 200 lbs but you still have to fit into your Speedo bathing suit: it feels like you're cramming so much into so little.

Sure, sure, it isn't fair. Neither is a 40-hour work-week. Go home and cry in your mother's vagina. You want to sell that book, that means you have to put together a good query. I don't know that you need to put together a great query — you just need to convince them to take a peek at your beast. And I don't mean that in a creepy, sexy way, either: the query is there to convince them to take it to the next level and request a full manuscript. Then your book can sell itself, as you had intended.

If you want to know how I wrote my query letter, check out:

"The Pitch Is A Bitch (But Don't Fear The Query)."

5. You're A Dick

Maybe your novel is the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas, the canine's testicles (as they say in England).

Fact remains, if you're just a big ol' douchey dickface, nobody's going to want to touch you with a ten foot pole. This is an industry of people. You're selling your novel, but your novel won't even get in the door if you can't muster cursory politeness and expected tact. Are you a whiny, complainy, ego-driven Negative Nancy? Not a good sign. If the author is more trouble than the novel is worth, well…

*poop noise*

So sorry. No consolation prize. Buh-bye.

Be nice. Put a good face out there. You don't need to be bland or boring or Suzy Sunshine all the time.

Just don't be a dick.

6. What Genre Is That, Again?

Ask yourself this: "Where will this go in the bookstore? In what section? On what shelf?" If that has no clear answer, then you're throwing up a red flag. "It's horror paranormal romance mystery, with sci-fi elements. Oh, and it also has recipes!" Hey, I think that's an awesome and brave experiment and maybe you'll have some luck with it. But you have to recognize that, for better or for worse, publishing is in shaky straits right now and it's running a little scared. Something that doesn't fit in any box is problematic — how do you market something whose market is uncertain? If you can't do it, neither can they.

7. Deja Vu

"And then Neo sticks his lightsaber into the Eye of Mordor. Popeye kisses Olive. The End."

Your work is derivative.

Maybe you didn't mean for it to be, but it is. Or maybe you thought it was some kind of "homage." Either way, an agent is going to look at it and say, "Seen it, done that, don't need it, need a nap."

You might be asking, "Wait, I'm supposed to stay inside the box but also think outside the box?"

And now you know why it's so hard to get a book published.

Yes. We want comfort and familiarity without redundancy.

Shepherding a novel to publication is like threading a needle. Blind. On a moving train. While you're being attacked by monkeys with sticks. Good times.

8. The Book Is Not, How You Say, "Commercially Viable?"

Something about the book is just striking the, "I don't know if this will sell" bell. Maybe "vampire koalas" aren't hot this year. Maybe the book-buying public has, in polls, revealed a certain discomfort with novels that prominently feature "cat abortions" as a plot point.

This is a tough one (says the author who perhaps knows it intimately).

Maybe your book is in a niche. A niche is nice in that it has an audience, but its audience may be too small to accommodate publication — which makes the niche a bad place to be.

Either way, the best advice is, be ready to make changes. Changes that will mold the book into something that is deemed attractive to a money-wielding audience.

9. Sometimes, Even The Brightest Spark Won't Catch Fire

You might have a glorious masterpiece in your hands and yet… bzzt. Nothing. You know it's awesome. Everybody else knows its awesome. And yet for some reason, it just isn't happening.

What can you do about it?

*blank stare*

I really don't know. You probably have two courses of action:

1) Be patient. Eventually an editor will get mauled by a tiger or something and then you can try again.

2) Self-publish. The publishing world doesn't know your novel's glory, so you must become its pimp.

(Check out, "Should I Self-Publish? A Motherfucking Checklist.")

10. Unfortunately, You're A Deluded, Talentless Hack

Out of the 500,000,000 writers out there, do you honestly believe that they're all top notch penmonkeys? Mmmyeah. No. Some of them are completely in love with the stink of their own word-dumpsters, just huffing their foul aromas, getting high on inelegance and ineptitude.

Thing is, if you're that guy, you're probably never going to not be that guy. It's possible that, once you recognize the illusion you may shatter it as if it were a distorting funhouse mirror, but that won't do anything for the "talentless" portion of our competition. Some people just aren't meant to be writers no matter how much they want to be that thing. Reality is a cold bucket of water.

Of course, realistically, if you're deluded, then you're probably not even reading this post, are you? And if you are, you're not going to take any of my advice — not one lick of it. Which is okay, because hey, maybe I'm a deluded, talentless hack, too.

Anyway, looking to hear from you kids out there in the audience. Writers, editors, agents: why aren't novels getting published? I'm sure I missed something. Shout it out.

An Era Of Ugliness And Uncertainty

What's to say after yesterday?

What a sad, fucked-up day.

As the horror of the shooting unfolded, it was easy to cling to the worst in humanity — like holding onto a sewer barrel in the ocean so you don't sink. The anger buoyed us. I know my first instinct wasn't just to find blame and meaning in the event but also this grim, fugly hope that indeed this attack had been perpetuated by "enemies from within," so that we could find some good in this event and it could be used to nail-gun shut the coffin on right-wing rhetoric. Then I realized my first instinct was actually pretty disturbed: I wasn't seeking truth, or fact, but only embracing the rage of the moment. Understandable, maybe, but presumptive and perhaps dangerous all the same. I yell and scream about this being a country that puts its heart on its sleeve, a country that never wants to look for fact and instead would rather thrive on assumptions and emotions, a country that supports a media who, when they put a question mark at the end of a scandalous and impossible headline it almost makes it seem true ("Obama: Cat Rapist?"). I realized I was giving into the same instinct that lets the misinformation flag fly, the same instinct that lets us still somehow question whether Obama is a Kenyan Muslim (or whether 9/11 was an "inside job").

I don't think it's weird to feel that rage go through you — but rage is like an electrical current. It doesn't care where it comes out, it just comes out.

The blame game is nothing new, and I know I played it just the same. I took a look, though, at one point at the Twitter search feed and saw that Sarah Palin's name (a name I bandied about in a number of tweets yesterday) was trending a helluva lot faster than Congresswoman Giffords. The search feed for Palin was like the credits of a movie thrown in fast-forward: you could barely read one before it took off like a shot and was replaced by 50 more just like it. And I saw some things in there that — well, maybe they didn't surprise me, but they damn sure made me bug-eyed. Some said she should be hanged (or hung, the dopes) for treason. Some said that we should put a map up with a bullseye on her face, see what happens. I saw some claim that only the right-wing is capable of violence or violent rhetoric, which even a cursory examination reveals to be nonsense.

Listen, I get it. I do. We want to grab hold of the chain and follow it down through the depths until we get to that one person or party to blame, and it's all the easier to make that leap when it's someone in the other party, the other camp, the other tribe. As I said, it was my first instinct, too. But as always we must be cautious that the ground before us isn't slippery and slick with our own froth and vitriol. We must be careful that we don't give in and become like those we demonize.

I believe that what happened yesterday was a tragedy and I believe the blame lies with the man who pulled that trigger. Whether he was a drug addict, a schizophrenic, a Tea Partier, a Libertarian, a Communist, a racist, or a Zoroastrian, I believe the blame is on him. Unless we find a conspiracy behind him — not impossible, mind you, but we need more facts to support that — then he's the shooter. The Tea Party didn't shoot her. His copy of Alice in Wonderland didn't shoot her. Violent video games did not do it. Sarah Palin and John Boehner did not do it. His apeshit YouTube videos didn't pull the trigger.

One fucked-up human monster [correction: shot] her with a pistol.

But that doesn't mean we can't look for culpability. It doesn't mean we can't look at those threads that lead out from that single moment in time, following them backward and outward until we get a bigger picture. It means we have to shine a light on the darkest side of politics and rhetoric. It means we have to look at the climate of violence and lies that lay bubbling beneath the surface of this country right now. One man will hang for this, and that's the sick fucking goblin that shot a Congresswoman, a judge, a nine-year-old child, and so many others. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't look beyond it, shouldn't consider all those factors that encourage an atmosphere of vandalism and violence born out of misinformation.

Sarah Palin didn't pull the trigger, but she — not alone, and with others — vomited forth a toxic tide of misinformation into the world.

And let's be clear, that's where violence and horror comes from: misinformation. Groups like the Tea Party possess a rage born of ignorance: Obama's a Muslim, Obama's raising taxes, health care will rely on death panels, and so on and so forth. Their violence is not born of indignation against what's really going on: all that sound and fury comes from hollow bellows, born only of the worst kind of ignorance and misinformation (or far crueler still,  disinformation).

That means we can't be that. If we are going to be the champions of reason, then we must ourselves be reasonable. If we are going to trump misinformation and cut short the rage that crawls from that rotten apple, then we cannot also be the ones who spread misinformation, we cannot also be the carriers of such parasitic rage. The statement, "Fight fire with fire" has always been a bullshit idea: you fight fire with better, smarter weapons. We can't fight the climate of awful rhetoric by just putting more of it out there. Otherwise, we're just as shitty as they are.

My hope is that some small ember of good does come out of this. It'll never be enough to justify the events of yesterday, but maybe we can now shine a light in dark spaces and try to step out of shadow. Maybe from here we can try to be smarter, more practical, more even-keeled and — let's hope against all hope — nicer.

Anyway. Who knows? I'm just one duck quacking into the void. It's a fucked-up time in America, and I just think the best way through the darkness is to once more put our foot on the neck of ignorance and make it – not "conservative" or "liberal" — the dirty word.

Macaroni + Cheese + Sausage = You Building Temples To Me And My Glory

Here's the deal. I give you this recipe, you gotta give me something in return. We're not talking like, a handshake and a high-five here. This is too good. Your gratitude must be measured in sexual favors and hymns sung to my nascent godhood. I want blowjobs from celestial figures. I want a pegasus made of chocolate and gold. I want a leprechaun I can saddle up and ride across all the world's rainbows.

You want this recipe, you gotta pony up. This is quid pro quo, Clarice.

You will literally have to dance for your dinner on this one. You will also have to kill for your dinner. Upon the completion of you reading this recipe, you will receive a list of all those who have ever slighted me.

What I'm trying to say is, damn did I make a kick-ass macaroni and cheese the other night.

Here's the sitch.

I thought, "Mmm, macaroni and cheese." I have a recipe I use, and lo, it is good. But then I thought, "What would make this recipe double-awesome? What would make this recipe do keg-stands on my taste-buds? Sausage." And then I was like, "Ha ha, it's going to be a real sausage party in this kitchen!" And then I was like, "Hey, I should really zip up my pants and get my manhood out of the lunchmeat drawer." And then I was like, "Ha ha, lunchmeat. That's what I'll call my penis from now on! Lunchmeat!"

Then I high-fived a ghost.

Moving on.

I went to the local butcher (Saylor's, Hellertown) and bought their psycho-delicious Provolone and broccoli rabe sausage. You may buy whatever sausage tickles the reptilian pleasure centers of your brain.

With this mac-n-chee recipe, you have to do a bunch of things at once. I hope you played a lot of video games as a kid and are subsequently good at multitasking.

We're going to start with the sausage.

Brown it on both sides in a hot pan. Five minutes or so on each. I used just under a pound of the stuff.

Then, normally, you would finish the sausage by pouring in a half-cup or so of water into the skillet, and then let the water cook the sausage. Except, I had a different idea.

In the fridge lurked about 1/4 cup each of chicken broth and veggie broth that I had to use up. I thought, "Hey, those are liquidy. I use those, maybe the Flavor Gods will shine down upon this pan with their favor." So, instead of using water, I poured the remainder of the broth in with the sausage.

I let that start to cook down for about 20 minutes or so, turning the sausage every five minutes.

About halfway through (10 minute mark, in case your math skills are that of a mule-kicked billy goat), I put just a splash of water — maybe 1/4 cup. Probably not even that.

Meanwhile, time to cook your pasta. Despite this being called macaroni and cheese, you don't actually need to use macaroni. Don't be pinned down by such Draconian thought. Express yourself with some fusili or some bow-tie pasta. Someone tells you that you have to use macaroni, call them a "food racist" and then stab them in the kidneys with a carrot peeler.

While the water is boiling, might I recommend you grate some cheese?

The cheese combination you choose is up to you, but I like a good mild white cheese paired with a strong, assertive "kick to your reproductive widgets" cheese.

In this case, I used 8 oz of colby longhorn, and 8 oz. of Beemster, which is really just a brand of kick-ass Gouda. You could also go with Prima Donna, which is fuuu-huuu-huuuu-cking phenomenal. You can tell how good it is by all the extra syllables I had to jam into the word "fucking."

Anyway, grate that stuff up, set it aside.

By now, pasta should be boiling. Boil it. Boil it like you're boiling the flesh off a severed head.

Mmm. Human head cheese. But that's not in this recipe, so shut up, you pesky cannibal.

While the pasta is boiling and your sausage is almost done cooking (cook to 160 degrees internal, which is the temperature necessary to kill off, I dunno, syphilis and Space AIDS or whatever), it is time to attend to your cheese sauce. You were thinking, "But I just attended to the cheese!" and I'm like, "Whose recipe is this?" And then you complain and whine some more, and I am forced to spray you with bear mace.

Here's what you do with the cheese sauce.

First, a roux. You know what a roux is, right? Goddamn you try my patience. Were you born this way, or did your parents feed you drain cleaner or something? Dang. Roux = flour + fat in equal proportion. Adds thickener, adds flavor. Just like elk semen. Except, the guy who sold me my elk semen, well, he was arrested. Not coincidentally, he was arrested for chasing down elk and molesting them.

Anyway, roux: 3 TBsp melted butter (clarified helps but is not necessary), 3TBsp flour. Cook it over medium heat for 3-5 minutes, until it turns golden, or "blond."

Add into that: 2 cups of milk.

And 4 oz. of cream cheese.

Whisk like you're trying to conjure a tropical cyclone.

Now, here is the piece de resistance. I don't actually know what that means. "Piece of resistance?" What the fuck is that? Let's revise, because, y'know, psshhh, the French.

"Now, here is the piece de awesomesauce."

Much better.

Anyway, remember that sausage you were cooking? Remember that broth? By now, that should've reduced down to about a 1/4 cup of meaty brothy saucey, erm, sauciness. Here, then, is where happy accidents can sometimes help change a meal: I was going to dump that stuff. Just dump it right out. But I thought, "Well, let's see what it tastes like." Took the back of a spoon, pressed it into the reduction, then tasted it.

I immediately shellacked my pants with joy. Liquid joy.

I thought, "Hell with it," and I dumped that into the cheese sauce.

This is the best mistake I ever made. Except for that time when I went to my ex-wife's Christmas party and saved her and her co-workers from a handful of German "terrorists."

Put cheese sauce on low, cook till thick(er).

Now: cut up the sausage into little "sausage coins."

Ding! Pasta's done. Good, because all this talk of elk semen and German terrorism has made me hungry!

Real quick: getcher oven going at 350.

Get a casserole dish. (Did you know that on the FX airing of Pineapple Express, they exchanged the word "asshole" with "casserole?" That's kind of awesome.) What size? 9 x 13.

Pour the pasta in there.

Pour the sausage coins in there.

Pour the thickened cheese sauce over it.

Dump in all that grated cheese.

Stir gently (lest you fling goopy pasta overboard).

Then, top with one sleeve of pulverized butter crackers. I don't use Ritz because I am now a High Fructose Corn Syrup Nazi. I go with the Pepperidge Farms ones that look like butterflies. Added bonus, it makes me feel like a powerful monster, crushing poor little butterflies between my godlike palms.

Into the oven goes the dish (uncovered) for 20 minutes.

Take it out.

Eat it.

Roll your eyes in pleasure.

Then go and build a temple to my glory. Tear out your eyes with a melon-baller. Fill the sockets with cheese sauce. Become my oracle. Prophesy the doom of all who oppose me. Sing prayers to my neverending divinity with your moist, tongueless mouth. The End.

The True Cost Of Today's Price?

To catch you up, earlier this week Adamant Entertainment (shepherded forth by the mighty Gareth-Michael Skarka) made an announcement: all their digital RPG products will now be subject to an "app-pricing model," which is to say that they will cost you, the consumer, $1.99 a pop.

Then I caught sight of DriveThruRPG's take on app-pricing, which you can find on Fred Hicks' Tumblr (in short, it becomes a race to the bottom).

Obviously, given the name of the Adamant pricing initiative it highlights the current disparity between games you'd buy for your iPad ($1 to $10) and games you'd buy for your Xbox 360 ($40 -60).

I'm not knocking Gareth or his approach here: I hope it works for him. He's done the math, he's the publisher, and he sees this as the right move. And it may very well be. I am not a publisher — I'm just a wee little writer, belly so low I'm like a snake in a wheel rut. I just write stories. (This is a lie, of course. The writer is always more than just the writer. Or, he damn well better be. The ecosystem is changing, peeps.)

Except, of course, next week — provided that Kindle formatting does not destroy my brain and Space Jesus and Doom Buddha don't decide to add "humans" to the list of mass animal deaths going on — I'm going to be releasing my short story collection, IRREGULAR CREATURES, to the Kindle store for $2.99. What we're looking at right now is that while we have to make some bold moves and set competitive prices it remains unseen what the true cost of that price-setting may be. I don't have any huge feelings on game pricing particularly, but I damn sure have feelings about fiction pricing.

So, this is just a random coagulation of thoughts about price (and cost).

These thoughts are not from an expert. They are from my addlepated monkey's brain.

They make no conclusions. I'm just as confused as the next chimp down the line.

Here goes.

How I Pay For My Yacht Made Of Human Infants

I'm a freelancer, and I do so full-time, which means I have to make enough annual money to put food in my mouth (and soon, a baby's mouth) and keep a roof over our head. And to support my "tentacle porn" habit.

If I were to release a product myself — like, I write it, I release it, I sell it — I'd need to make something close to my freelance rate to survive. So, if I released a product that were, say, 70,000 words, at the end of the day I need to make somewhere in the neighborhood of $3500-4000 just to not feel ashamed of myself. (And, really, let's be honest, I should make more. Because in my mind, I'm worth it. In my mind, I'm also a ninja. Just so you have that as a point of reference.)

Selling at a buck a pop, I need to sell 3500 copies. That's me selling it directly. Selling it through another venue, I'd need to sell somewhere around twice that, right? Seven thousand copies or so.

Doubling the rate changes things. Obviously it halves what we're looking at for sales. And forgive me if this is dull as paint: I'm just babbling out loud, like that guy from A Beautiful Mind. Except, uhhh, I'm not a math genius. Tentacle porn-addicted ninja, yes. Math genius, not so much.

Going to three bucks gives me a little more breathing room. I'd get 60-70% most places out of that that three buck price, which means I'm getting roughly two bucks for each e-book sold. Means that I only have to sell like, 1750 copies to not feel like an asshole.

That's about what I'd be worth to a smaller client. (Bigger clients pay more — uhh, or rather, they do in a perfect world.) The question is, is it fair to equate what a client pays me with what an aggregate audience pays? A client pays work-for-hire and it's one and done. An audience pays me, and I have the potential to make fifteen bucks or fifteen-thousand bucks.

Is three bucks the sweet spot for something like that?

Or is that just a price too low?

None of this figures in the reality of paying a cover artist or an editor or what it costs me in time (and time is money) to market it. Freelancing doesn't require me to do any of that. Publishing does. Nothing in a freelance contract says it's my job to get artwork or find reviewers. (Novelists have it a little differently — technically they're not responsible, but they earn out per sale so it behooves them to put time, effort, and maybe even a little money into pimping the book.)

The concern comes into play when a publisher — not the writer-as-publisher — begins to lower those costs. Because that means they're not going to be able to pay someone like me, Mister Freelance Ninja Motherfucker, what I need to make to survive. Uh-oh.

Price Perceptions Of The Devil We Know

Three bucks doesn't seem like an awful price for a digital novel, but is it too low? You'd pay more than twice that in the store for a hardcopy — and, for established authors, you'll pay a lot more ($10-15 for an e-book).

For an established author I love, I'm totally on board with that price. That's the tricky part about determining the value of intellectual property — this isn't a widget that has clear supply and demand. This is a limitless ebook written with the candyfloss and unicorn dreams of one's imagination (and yes, time). For an author I'd love, I'll pay the full price on the book. Hell, you could tell me that prices are going up, and I'll pay it. You hand me a new Joe Lansdale or Robert McCammon novel and tell me it's $40, fuck it, here's my money. And you want me to stick my dick in this mysterious hole? I'll do that, too.

For things we love, we'll pay a lot.

I don't know what that means, but it's worth noting.

Once You Go Low, You Can't Go High

It's like doing the limbo — you go too low, you might wrench your back in that position. Forever.

The pricing of apps — hell, the pricing of everything digital — has started to erode my sense of value, and I don't really like it. I will no longer take easy risks on (bare with this next phrase) high-priced low-priced items. What is a "high-priced low-priced" item? A CD ten years ago in a store cost $16.99, which was bullshit. Digital costs have dropped those CDs down to $7.99 – 9.99.

Which is, by the way, a very nice price. Generally comes out at less than a buck a song.

And I'm now reticent to pay that price. Why? Because a company like Amazon offers a lot of sales. Because I used to get MP3s for free. Because I can buy Angry Birds for two bucks and get a billion (estimated) hours of play. No, I know that app isn't a CD, but when it comes down to time spent on the entertainment I procure for myself, it still matters how much mileage I get out of a product. I will no longer take a risk on an artist for like, less than five bucks.

That's insane. I feel like a total asshole. I have to consciously push past that inclination.

Price erosion in the marketplace has eroded my concept of value for — well, most types of entertainment. I think prices used to be too high, no doubt. But now I'm worrying that prices are going too low. The combination of the "culture of free" and plummeting prices has rewired my brain chemistry to make "pssh!" or "pfeh!" noises when a product goes above $4.99.

But again, that's only for unknown quantities. For known quantities — a band I love, an author I dig, a game sequel I know is going to be rock solid — that's not at all a problem.

It does make me less likely to take risks and buy unknown (to me) material.

That is not a good thing.

Word Of (Foot In) Mouth

Word of mouth helps that though, doesn't it? A book, film, band, whatever feels like it becomes "known" to me when someone I trust tells me that it's awesome. And then it moves from that nebulous "Ehh, if it's not five bucks I'm not buying it" zone to the more robust, "Well, I'll pay what I need because I want this thing."

I don't know how you can really make that work for you outside of writing the best damn book you can write and just hoping that it gets people crazy gonzo geeked about it.

It comes back to this: what we really want, I think we'll pay for.

But are we pricing low to sell to people who don't necessarily want what we're selling?

Are We Undervaluing The Creative Sauce?

Are there dangerous, long-term costs to such price-slashing? Maybe.

We live in a world where art and creative craft is already suffering in terms of value: can't get funding for arts, libraries are closing, more and more you see pleas for free writing, free artwork, free this, free that. By pricing low, are we just keeping up with the realities (maybe), or are we contributing to the long-term erosion of what creative stuff is worth? Again, you price low, you have to stay low. Do we set a new low watermark for What The Written Word Is Worth?

Hell, maybe we're just over-entertained. Maybe we have too easy access to entertainment — so much is available to us now that the competition is at an all-time-high for our (increasingly unstable) attention spans. Low price combats that and keeps smaller authors competitive, which is a good thing (in theory). And it makes it likelier that someone will take a risk on you — also not a bad thing.

In the short term, the low prices seem like a good thing. I just don't know if we're playing the short game without thinking of the long con. I genuinely don't know — I'm pondering. Asking, but not answering.

Curious to get your thoughts. I recognize that this post is a muddy, mumbly "me talking out loud" post, but hopefully it spurs a little thought in that direction.

What is creative material worth to you?

What is it worth if you know and love the author (or band, or filmmaker, or game designer)?

What is it worth if it's an unknown quantity?

Why Are Dead Birds Falling From The Sky? (Hint: It's Totally My Fault)

Dear Publishers Of Books:

You may have noticed that, around the world, birds are dropping out of the sky like frozen poop from an airplane bathroom. These dead birds are found all over the map — Arkansas, Kentucky, Georgia, Italy, Sweden — and many suspect these instances will increase as the coming Hellpocalypse of Cthulhu's awakening draws closer. You will note, of course, that the first birds to go were several thousand (also calculated as "one fuck-ton") of dead red-wing blackbirds in Arkansas, and days later, more blackbirds took a free-falling dirt-nap in Louisiana. Further, in Sweden, you will see that the birds that perished there were jackdaws — which sounds like a totally made-up bird, but I assure you, is no more made up than the titmouse, boobie, or nuthatch. Jackdaws are in fact a type of crow. Or they are at least "crow-flavored."

Let's switch gears for a moment.

You may have also noticed that I am a penmonkey (equal parts "game designer," "screenwriter," "alcoholic," and "novelist"), and it is the latter identifier that should ring a bell, as my novel BLACKBIRDS is out on submission with you fine, friendly folks, and has been for a number of months, now. You may gaze upon a mock cover I did for this novel below:

This novel deals with a cranky, profane psychic character, Miriam Black, who has a very curious way of solving murders before they happen. It is a book very much about death and how we deal with it. It is also funny and contains both sex and blood, and who doesn't like that? Communists, that's who.

I have, over the course of many moons, received a cascading series of glowing rejections from your wonderful industry. Editors love the book! They assure me that they would not change a thing. "Huzzah!" I thought, "What good news!" But then I got to the part of the letter where it also says something like, "We love the book and it's perfect as it is and yet, somehow, mysteriously, we could not convince the army of terminators our sales board that this was a book that would sell more than seven copies. They remain in fact unconvinced that even your mother would buy a copy. Trust us. We called her. We asked her. She shrugged and gave a half-committal ennh, then said something about how you write rude books about rude people and why don't you write a nice book about a girl who buys a pony? She also reminds you to call her. As we feel that you are a bad son and a wonderful but unsellable author, we have decided to not publish your truly spectacular standout don't-change-a-thing novel, BLACKBIRDS."

This is of course a shame, because I feel I am a prime catch. First: I'm dead sexy. (I look hot dressed up as a Barnes and Noble book display.) Second: I am nothing if not loud and irritating, so you can be assured I will market this novel until my fingers are worked to bloody nubs and my tongue explodes. Third: I have that mythical "writer's platform" thing covered. Fourth: I think I wrote a pretty snazzy book with a flawed-but-lovable murder-solvin' psychic-havin' sexy-bein' character that people seem to really enjoy reading.

You may at this point be asking, "Wasn't this asshole supposed to answer the mystery of the dead birds?"

I am, and will.

You see, it is not coincidental that the name of my book is BLACKBIRDS and that many of the dead birds are also blackbirds (or, at least, birds that happen to be black of feather). It is also not coincidental that my book is about death and solving murders, and this mystery of the birds also orbits the cheerful, charming subject of death, doom, and gloom. Why is that, you ask?

I'm totally the guy killing all those birds.

Whew. I'm really glad to have that off my chest.

It's been so hard! Seriously. Go ahead — you try to kill a metric fuck-ton of birds by yourself in order to pimp out your unsold novel. It's really tough stuff! I have had to shoot fireworks into flocks of grackles, I've had to rig up supervillain-esque contraptions that hoses blackbirds down with water before blasting them with the coruscating energy from a secret Nikola Tesla device, I've had to break into secret government labs and release toxic Phosgene into the atmosphere. Heck, I've even had to pilot an ultra light plane amongst the birds while (with a free-hand) clubbing them all to death with a croquet mallet.

I am, frankly, exhausted.

Unfortunately, the bird deaths will continue as long as my novel remains unsold. This is, of course, regrettable, but I see no other course of action beyond these Blofeld-like tactics.

For every day that my novel goes unsold, I will continue punching, scalding, exploding, electrocuting, poisoning, and tickling birds to death. I have already begun to expand my purview beyond blackbirds and crows — you may have read about the thousands of dead doves in Italy? Yup. That was me. My only regret there was that I could not also manage to spraypaint them all black, y'know, to keep in theme.

Oh well. Next time!

So, while I am pleased to announce that the bird deaths are not in fact a sign of the Apocalypse, they are however the acts of a disgruntled novelist who just wants his book to find a home with a lovely publisher.

Please buy my novel. If not for the awesomeness of the book itself, do it to save the birds of the world. Because I'm totally going to keep killing birds until someone buys this goddamn book.

Thank you for your time. I appreciate any efforts on my behalf. The birds thank you, too.

BLACKBIRDS is represented by super-agent Stacia Decker of the Donald Maass Literary Agency. You may contact her to request that the bird deaths cease make a wonderful offer on my book.

Regards,

Chuck Wendig

P.S. I also have a non-fiction book on pitch called CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Please don't make me kill any monkeys or writers. Unless you want me to kill a few writers? Call me.

P.P.S. Oh, the fish aren't my fault. It's possible that you have another grumpy novelist out there who wrote a book called FISHHEADS or some shit, but if you ask me, all the dead fish are a sign of the fucking Apocalypse, so you should probably start praying to your God and building bunkers and what-not.

Drop The Pen, Grab A Hammer: Building The Writer's Platform

Ahhh. The writer's platform.

I first heard the term… what? About three, four years ago? Reading various snidbits of advice, you pick up on that increasingly popular question: "Do you have a platform?"

I thought, oh, shit. No, no I don't. I didn't have anything that looked remotely like a platform. So, out in the woods I built a small raised dais. On it I placed a chair. In the chair I placed my ass, and on my lap I rested my novel. Just in case, I wrote a crazy person sign — "I AM NOVELIST WILL WRITE FOR HOOKERS" — and then I waited. Eventually I grew hungry — and further, I grew tired of people throwing their fast food garbage at my head. So I went inside, did a little investigation and lo and behold I was doing it wrong.

Sadly, building a writer's platform does not involve an actual platform. I know, right? Welcome to Disappointment City, Population: Me.

So it goes.

Let me be clear: I detest the word "platform." I mean to say, it's fine when used to literally define something that deserves the term: I don't froth at the mouth and rip out clods of chest hair anytime I hear the phrase "platform shoes," for example. But when someone says "writer's platform," I cannot help but grind my molars together until I hear the crinkly, crunchy snap as my enamel cracks like punched glass.

Still. As a buzzword, it's got legs.

And in the bullshit of the buzzword, truth lingers. Let us tease it out with a tickle, shall we?

Define Your Terms, Inkmonkey: What In Tarnation Is A Writer's Platform?

The metaphor of the writer's platform is — duh — that you as a writer need to stand on a platform with your megaphone and your lectern, and the stronger the platform is — or is it the higher the platform? — the better off you're going to be when the time comes to get published because you stand on a solid base above all others and you rule them with an iron fist. Blah blah blah. Snargh. Or something.

Fuck all that right in the blowhole.

Here's a simple definition:

You are your platform.

Lemme explain. Getting published is the sum of two parts: one, the book, and two, the author that wrote the book. The book matters in the short term: the audience (and by proxy, the publisher) want a good book in hand. The author matters in the long term: everybody wants to get behind an author with some longevity, an author they like, or even better, an author that they love.

The writer's platform is about you. It's about putting yourself out there. It's equal parts "putting on armor" and "taking off all your clothes." Your platform is how people know you — it's their perception of you as an author, but even more importantly, of you as a human being.

Your Strongest Platform Is A Book That Doesn't Suck Moist Open Ass

Go read a gaggle of articles about a writer and his platform and the one thing you won't see very often is advice talking about your actual book. Here's the thing: a writer without a platform can still get published if he has a kick-ass book, but a writer with a great platform isn't likely to get published if his book is better off being dragged out behind the barn and shot in the head.

A shitty book will crush even the most well-constructed platform under a ton of manure.

Let it be said: your primary goal is to write a fucking whopper of a book. The lion's share of your efforts should go into that which makes you a writer: your writing. Many writers are all about the sound and the fury, but it's all bark and not a lot of bite. They over-promise and never deliver. Don't be that asshole. Write the best book of your life, and then go write an even better book.

The book is your currency. You and your platform are just the way to get that book seen.

Now, to be clear, I don't mean you shouldn't concentrate at all on getting yourself out there. You can, and should. No false dichotomies here — you can do both. As you're writing the book you should also be putting yourself into the world as the writer you want people to know and to read. Just remember that the book is king. You are merely the power behind the throne.

A Writer's Platform Is Made Out Of People

"A writer's platform: the miracle food of high-energy plankton gathered from the oceans of the world."

No, wait, that's Soylent Green, isn't it?

Still, the point stands: your platform is made out of people. You'll hear a lot about social media this and writer conference that. Those are tools. Those are means to an end.

People matter. Relationships count. That is no less true today than it was 50, 100, or 1,000 years ago — you don't want to lone wolf this shit. You are not Author Ronin Without Clan.

Your platform is about connecting with people.

Yes, it's that simple. It is in part about building audience, but to me there's a bit of a mind-set tweak in there: building audience puts you at a separation from people, and it's the same separation suggested by the term "platform." It sets you both above and apart. "I am Author!" you shout from your dais made of human skulls. "Hear my voice! Read my book! When you're done reading my book, I'll also need you to lick my feet! And smite my enemies! And buy my t-shirts and coffee mugs! Do not forget to read this interview with me, for it is filled with the blood of awesome! Raaaaar!"

Ah, but the writer's platform isn't all about you.

You shouldn't stand above and apart. You should stand within.

That sounds like some real Zen Hippie Shit, but your platform isn't about screaming so the cheap seats can hear it. It's about connecting. It's about connecting with people so that you may exploit them and make them dance on your puppet strings and then when you're done you will wear their flesh like a suit and boil their bones for broth! Whoa, wait, no, where'd that come from? Whoo. Zoinks. I maybe need a Xanax. And a Zantac, because I have heartburn from slurping all this bone broth.

No, seriously, connecting with people is about reciprocal relationships. It's not even all about I Am Writer, it's in part about I Am Just A Dude Or Chick Who Is Pretty Cool And You're Pretty Cool And We Should Talk About Coffee And Bacon And Dreams And Writing. Be a writer, but also, be a person. And don't be an asshole. Or, rather, don't be a huge asshole. More on that in another post.

Because Damn, Who Doesn't Love A Checklist?

Okay, fine, I hear you. You're saying, "This is a big basket of theory and metaphor, but you're not giving me any practical information. Dickwipe." And I'm like, "Dickwipe?" And you're like, "Yeah, I said it."

Fair enough.

Practical information. Here goes. Ready?

One: Figure out who you are and who you want to be. You know how you go to college and that's a time to kind of… if not "reinvent" yourself than to make upgrades to your original design? This is like that. You are transitioning from Regular Human to Author Human. No superiority intrinsic to that, I just mean that now is a good time to slap a new coat of paint on who you want the world to see. Want to know a secret? This should be the best and most interesting face of who you already are. No ruse, no illusion.

It helps, too, to think a little about your authorial mission: ideally, who you are or appear to be matches the books you hope to write. Presuming you're a confident author with some understanding of your voice, this shouldn't be too much of a problem. That said, if they're totally different, you need to navigate that. Do you sanitize and create an illusion? Me, I say be who you are and let the chips fall as they may. The majority of readers won't know that you're a foul-mouthed weirdo on the Internet. And when they find out, they probably won't really give a rat's right foot.

Two: Get a blog. That blog should not look like a Myspace page or Geocities blog from 1998. No amateur hour shit. Go pro, or go home. Own that blog. Own it from the ground up. Feel free to disagree with me, but I'll just pull this lever and drop you into the dark churning ocean. No, I don't have any sharks. I have squid. Little squid with robot brains and laser eyes. Seriously: own your blog and your domain name and create a space. This is your nexus online. Drive traffic here.

Three: Get slathered up in the sweet grease of social media. Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, Tumblr, Goodreads, Forums, Skype, Soup Cans Connected By Cat-5 Cable, whatever.

Four: Remember that the key word of social media is social, which means it's about people, which means you need to connect and communicate. That means you are not just a salesman of information. You are not just pimp and prostitute. If you act like that, then our hunter-killers will confuse you with a Spam Bot and you will be beheaded on sight by their whirring mouth-saws. BZZZTGGRHHBLLE. Blood everywhere.

Five: Don't be a huge asshole. Or a giant douche. Be cool. Be funny. Be honest (mostly).

Six: Be consistent. Put yourself out there and stay out there. Communicate with your people frequently. Don't have to be annoying about it, but don't drop off the map: connect, and stay connected.

Six-Point-Five: Do not confuse "followers" with "buyers." Tweets and blog posts are free. Your book will not be. They may buy. They may not. Keep expectations in check.

Seven: Realize that the Internet isn't everything and that a real world exists. Leave your home. Talk to people. Meet other writers and industry people — your so-called "platform" is as much about audience as it is about connections within the industry. Those people have done it. Listen to them. Extend a hand. Better yet: buy them alcohol. Many writers have built strong platforms out of beer kegs and whiskey bottles. (Alternately, buy them a meal because otherwise they'll go home to a fridge empty of everything but hobo wine, mustard packets, and month-old Indian food.)

Eight: Go to a conference or three. Meet people who write the kinds of things you write.

Nine: Meet people who aren't writers or publishers. Break the incestuous little fuck-tangle and meet anybody you can: dock-workers, librarians, artists, bartenders, hookers, and did I mention bartenders?

Ten: Keep writing. Always keep writing.

Caveat, Cuidado, Verboten, Awooga, Awooga

Be advised: nobody is a social media expert. Do not pay anybody anything to help you build your platform. You want to pay somebody, pay an editor. Pay an agent. Pay a cover artist if you're self-publishing. But you need to handle your own shit. Only you can be the face of you, and it really is as easy as a) finding your voice b) putting that voice out there by connecting with people in and out of the industry.

Further, the platform isn't a magic bullet. It won't guarantee sales. It won't guarantee a publishing deal. It won't make that dead fish of a book you wrote suddenly come alive and start flopping around on the dock. It is merely a maximization of luck: you won't get hit by lightning if you don't stand out in the field.

Your platform can backfire. It can collapse under the weight of your bullshit. If you don't have a good instinct for dealing with people but you write kick-ass books, then trust me — step off the platform and disappear into the crowd and let the book sell itself. I've seen a few upcoming authors who are pretentious jerkoffs or self-righteous blowhards — I know they're good writers, but their attitude turns me off.

Now Go Forth And Connect

That's it. Find your voice and use it to talk to people.

And all the while, keep writing.

There you have it: a writer's platform in a nutshell.

Comments? Questions? Prayer requests? Death threats? Proposals of marriage? Nigerian email scams?