Michelle Garren Flye's Blog, page 67

Writing and publishing and what comes between.

I’m getting better at this self-publishing thing. I’ve even started thinking of it as a four-step process. The first step is writing/editing. This includes all the drafts and all the deep editing and re-writing. (I’m going to skip a step here, but stay with me.) The third step is publishing. This mostly consists of pushing a button and saying a prayer as your book begins its journey into the world. The fourth step, which actually begins somewhere between the second and third step and continues well into the future, is marketing. I’ve talked about that some, but it includes blogging, tweeting, sending out excerpts, begging for reviews, putting together a press kit…you name it, it’s there.

The second step, which is what I’ve been deep in the process of recently, is book-making. I include copy editing and formatting for ebook and print in this step, and it’s the step that many authors miss out on in traditional publishing. This is the step I’ve had to work to perfect over the years. I’ve found it’s not as simple as typing up a book and plugging it into a publishing platform like Smashwords or CreateSpace. It involves a lot of work, a lot of oversight and a lot of experimentation to get a good, clean-looking book. Chapter headings, white space, margins… Oh, and book covers! Book covers are so much fun. I usually have to get professional help with these, but I also get to make some suggestions and requests (much more so than with traditional publishing). And when it’s all done and you’re ready to move on to Step three, you can call yourself something new, something beyond an author, editor or even publisher. You can call yourself a book-maker.

Pretty stinking awesome.

I’ve been at it for a couple weeks now. I’ve finished the copy-editing and am into the formatting stage for Out of Time. It’s already up for pre-order on Smashwords and Amazon. Go check it out, even if just to look at the beautiful cover designed by Farah Evers Designs. But don’t forget to come back here often. As soon as I’m done with formatting the print version, I’m throwing myself headlong into marketing, and I’ve got a few surprises lined up that will culminate in the day long Out of Time Launch Party on June 15.

See you soon!

Promotion: The dirty word of writing.

With the launch of Out of Time less than two months away, I’m throwing myself into the process of making certain readers know about the book. In other words, promotion.

Promotion. It’s not a four-letter word, but it might as well be. As writers, we want readers to read our books, but we would rather stay away from the actual hawking of said books. But if we don’t hawk the books, they don’t get read, and to get the books read, we have to sell them.

Hence, promotion.

I’ve never yet gotten a real handle on the promotion thing. I would love to be one of those writers who writes only and hires someone to do all the dirty work for her. Tweeting and Facebooking and advertising…everything short of standing on the corner of Main and Broad yelling, “Buy my book! You’ll love it!”

But that’s not really possible, is it? I have to promote my book, but why can’t I have fun with it? So I’ve decided on June 15, I’m going to host a big party here, complete with party favors (i.e. e-giveaways) and a grand door prize of a Kindle Fire. Please spread the word. Invite your friends. And here’s your invitation:

One last note, I’m running a campaign on Thunderclap to promote the launch party, too. If you’d like to support the campaign, here’s a link: Help Me Launch Out of Time. Remember, I’m promoting the launch party, which will hopefully promote the book, but no purchase is necessary to participate! Just come and join the fun, and maybe take home some goodies!

Things are different now.

If you look around, you’ll see what I mean. My blog has changed a little. I may introduce more changes, and some things on here will change every time you visit. It’s a metamorphosis of sorts.

I’m morphing.

Out of Time, my new (and first) romantic fantasy will be out in just over two months and I’m a little weirded out by the whole thing. Writing romantic fantasy isn’t like writing a contemporary romance. Not even a little bit. And now I’m in the process of putting the final touches on the manuscript, I’m seized by uncertainty.

What if it isn’t any good?

You see, I know I’m a pretty decent writer. But writing romantic fantasy is so different from writing contemporary romance. There’s all this world-building and character development that’s totally different from contemporary romance. It’s kind of like if I was a painter, and I’d spent my whole life perfecting my technique at painting, but then I decided to try sculpting instead. I’m a really good painter, but until someone actually looks at my sculpture and tells me what they think of it, I don’t have any idea if I’m good at sculpting.

So what do I do to fix things? I spend my afternoon playing with fonts and headers and background colors on my blog. If I’m going to morph into a sculptor of worlds, I need a blog that reflects that, right? So things are different here.

At least some things are different. Others remain the same, like my love of sharing excerpts from my manuscript:

“Um, are you certain about this?” She clung to the railing, trying to talk herself out of her hesitation. “I haven’t climbed trees in a long time.”

“There’s no other way down.” He balanced easily on the branch.

“How did I get up here?”

“I carried you.”

That explained the clean, piney water scent from her memory. But not much else. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You carried me and climbed the tree at the same time?” Her incredulity made her voice rise at the end of the sentence.

“I’m a multi-tasker.” He shrugged. “I had things to do. I have things to do.” He rocked on the tree branch, heel-toe, heel-toe, his movement both impatient and graceful. “Come on.”

Excerpt Time!

Note: I often agonize over what to include in an excerpt. For traditionally published books, this is even more important as there are often limits as to how much you can include. Self-publishing lightens this requirement as I often give myself permission to publish as many excerpts as needed to let readers know this is a book worth reading. However, though I want to give you a real taste of what the book is about through an excerpt, I don’t want to give you everything. So, rest assured, though I plan to publish several excerpts of different lengths between now and OUT OF TIME’s birthdate of June 15, you aren’t going to get anywhere near all of the “good parts”. 

Enjoy!

 

My God, is he really holding a sword? The wonder of it drowned out the horror of what was actually happening. Kaelyn wanted to believe it was all cosplay, but her instincts screamed that the danger was very real. The hard metallic clang reverberated through her bones and then something hit her…hard…and she sprawled on the floor, rolling to all fours to see it was Jack of the expensive costume—not a costume at all—his sword drawn and fighting back to back with Todd as they both shielded her. Todd, the guy she’d met in a bar and made out with and was thinking about sleeping with because they’d been on six dates and he was perfect.

Jesus Christ.

Kaelyn scooted far enough away to be out from under the feet of her protectors, the shock beginning to change to an emotion she had never felt before. A white-hot fury. This was her house and her family. She looked for a weapon, cursing her inability to find anything more than a cardboard box to shield herself with, and knew she was lost if these two couldn’t defeat those who had attacked her. She’d have to trust the guard and her brother to do what they could to defend her home. And her father.

A feeling that it shouldn’t be happening at all overwhelmed everything. It couldn’t be real. She was just a girl. Just a girl who grew up the daughter of a king and went to college for a degree in advertising and marketing. Just a girl with an apartment in downtown Asheville, and a boyfriend and a brother…

An image of her father in his royal robes lying on the kitchen floor with her brother standing above him—defending—rose in her mind, and the world swayed beneath her. There’d been blood there. The blood on the sword of her attacker… This was no game, but what was real? She couldn’t be certain anymore.

Something heavy and metal swished through the air bare inches from her face, bringing her forcibly out of a cloud. Jack grabbed her arm and propelled her none-too-gently to her feet and behind him, backing toward the corner of the office. She tripped and stumbled, but refused to fall, catching herself on the back of Jack’s coat and falling against him just as his sword found its home in his enemy’s breastplate, squealing a metallic protest. A few feet away Todd had just finished off his opponent. He swung around as the metal-clad monster fell away from Jack’s sword. “Kaelyn!” Todd’s voice cut through the air between the two men.

Jack faced Todd. His sword out, he crouched ready to spring, and only then did Kaelyn realize she still clung to him, her breasts squished against his back. Releasing him and moving cautiously away, Kaelyn thought she’d never seen anyone look more menacing. His eyes gleamed with that otherworldly light she’d glimpsed before. Would he attack Todd? Had they really been fighting on the same side? Todd lowered his sword just a little. “You’re scaring her.”

Happy birthday!: Here there be dragons…

It’s my birthday. And hey, what better day than my birthday to announce my next book? It’s been more than a year since the release of my last book, but I have no regrets about taking my time with this one. It’s a bit of a departure for me.

Growing up, I read every science fiction and fantasy book I could get my hands on. At the bookstore, the library, my older brother’s bookshelves… I carried these books with me everywhere. They are the building blocks of my childhood and teenage years.

And recently I began to wonder, why don’t I write fantasy?

Inspired by this quote from J.R.R. Tolkien, the father of high fantasy, I set out to do just that:

“I desired dragons with a profound desire. Of course, I in my timid body did not wish to have them in the neighborhood.”

That quote made me think of all the wonderful fantastical creatures I desire. Unicorns, elves, fairies, leprechauns… Why did I not write about those creatures? Why did I not create a world they could live in? In a very small but real way, I am a creator of worlds. If I couldn’t create one and people it with the stuff I wanted to read about, what good was I?

The result of this introspection is my new romantic fantasy Out of Time. You can read more about it in the space to the right beneath the beautiful cover. Watch this space over the next few weeks as I reveal more about Out of Time, which is the first book of my trilogy Synchronicity. I’m halfway through the second book Time Being, and have a rough outline of Timeless. There’s even a possibility of a prequel. It’s just an inkling now, and may not result in much more than a short story to be added as bonus material to Timeless, but this story has taken me places I never anticipated.

So if, like me, you desire dragons and unicorns, I hope you’ll join me in the world of Out of Time!

Since when is it not PC to be politically correct?

It’s Super Tuesday and a lot of people are heading to the polls to vote in the presidential primary. I wish them all luck and hope they will vote with their hearts.

That’s the politically correct thing to say. It demonstrates a faith in my fellow human beings, a respect for their wishes and a desire for them to be able to express those wishes, even if they don’t correspond with my own. (#NeverTrump)

More and more often I’m hearing people say “Don’t be so politically correct”. To which I have to respond, why the hell not? To me, being politically correct is not calling people offensive names because they have a different race, color or creed from me. It’s respecting other people with different viewpoints. It’s embracing the boiling pot of America with pride and patriotism and saying, “America is great because of our differences.”

If you are headed to the polls today or in the coming days, remember that America was founded on the fundamental idea that every person (“person” is more PC than “man”) has a voice and should be heard. And that’s about as politically correct as it gets.

When you don’t want lemonade.

So today I got a second rejection on my romantic fantasy novel, Out of Time. It’s the first book in a planned trilogy. I had hoped to return to the world of traditional publishing for these books, but I’m starting to think it might not happen.

No, that’s not bitterness.

It’s resignation.

So when I’d written my polite note of thanks to the sweet editor who took the time to write my rejection (complete with a compliment on my writing and style), I started thinking about what to do with the lemons I’d been handed.

And I’ve never been much for making lemonade.

When life hands you a slightly spotty lemon, create a still life on your bookshelf with it.

Labyrinth II continues…

Sarah woke in the darkness and her very first thought was for Davey. She sat up, an afghan sliding from her shoulders as she did so. Voices in the hall warned her and she lay back quickly. A moment later, the door opened and someone looked in.

“She’s still out.”

“You think she’s okay, though?”

Her husband and her father. She felt guilty about deceiving them, but she couldn’t really help it. She had to get to the Labyrinth. She had to find Toby and force him to return her son. That wouldn’t happen if she couldn’t get out of the house, though.

“She’s fine, son. You were right to call me.” The tone of worry in her father’s voice almost made Sarah flinch, but then the door shut and their voices grew fainter.

She sat up again, looking for her backpack. There it was, on the chair. She slipped out of the bed, found her boots and a light jacket, and tucked everything under her arm, ready to leave.

“You think all the preparations in your world can prepare you for another stint in mine, Sarah?” His voice slid from the mirror in a silvery shard.

She turned slowly, knowing she’d meet those mismatched eyes in the mirror, the ones that saw into her very soul, the only ones that could still see the frightened but determined fourteen-year-old girl she’d once been. The one who’d lost Toby in the first place because she’d been too self-involved and thoughtless to believe her own actions had consequences.

By that token, Davey’s disappearance could be traced directly back to her.

“Jareth.” She took a deep breath. “Tell Toby I’m coming for him. He can’t take my son and get away with it.”

“You once said that about a stuffed bear, if I remember correctly.” He tented his fingers below his chin in the reflection, grinning a lopsided grin at her. “You had second thoughts about that, I think.”

“Well, it won’t happen now.” She turned to the bedroom door.

“You won’t get there that way, Sarah.” He laughed. “But I can help you.”

“Why would you help me?” She gave the mirror a scornful look over her shoulder.

He shrugged. “Maybe because I enjoy the game as much as you.” His grin faded. “Or maybe because your brother has pissed me off and it’s time to teach him a lesson.”

Sarah did a double-take, hearing the sincere irritation in his voice. She turned all the way around and gave him her full attention. “I’m listening.”

What happened next…

Author’s note: I have been encouraged to continue my sequel to Labyrinth. Understanding that what I write on my blog comes directly out of the files in my head—and therefore is completely unedited and unpolished—I’ve decided to undertake the challenge this month and post the story, serial-style, right here on my blog. So, direct from my brain’s writing den, here are a few more paragraphs chronicling the adventures of Sarah and her misguided brother Toby. If you missed the first part of the story, you can find it at the end of this post: Writers write…even when they’re not at a computer.

Sarah feverishly stuffed the backpack with all the things she wished she’d taken into the Labyrinth before. Water, protein bars, tissues. Thirteen hours was a long time, and Toby would make sure the Labyrinth didn’t supply any of her needs. Quietly cursing Toby for getting her into this mess in the beginning, she shouldered the backpack and turned.

Stephen stood in the doorway, his expression concerned. “Sweetheart, there’s someone here to see you.”

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She’d already told her husband she didn’t want to see a doctor, didn’t want a sedative, didn’t want to rest. Would he never give up? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone to do what she had to do? “I won’t take any drugs.”

“It’s not a doctor.” Her husband squeezed her hand and stepped aside.

Another man entered the room after him. Older, graying, a cloud of worry hanging over his face. He summoned a little smile for her—cautious even now. After all the years that had passed between them, he still looked ready to cringe away from a fight with his daughter.

“Dad.” Sarah nodded. “Hi.” She turned back to her packing. “I’m really sorry I don’t have time to catch up right now. I’m a little busy.” She considered telling him she was going after Toby, but knew it was useless. He hadn’t believed her back when Toby disappeared. He wouldn’t believe her now.

“Sarah.” Her father spoke so gently, she closed her eyes. Why did she still want his approval? Why did it matter anymore?

In spite of herself, she turned. “Dad.”

“Stephen says you think Toby took Davey.”

“I do.” She nodded. “Actually, I don’t just think he took him. I know he did.”

“Honey.” Her father stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Your brother has been gone a long time. He…he’s probably dead.” His features twisted a little in remembered pain.

Sarah knew her father had accepted Toby’s death long before. Drugs, he thought. A tragedy, losing a son to drugs, but Toby had been withdrawn for a long time before he disappeared.

Only Sarah knew the real reason for that. Only Sarah knew Toby had gone looking for the man who’d kidnapped him as a baby, answering a call he didn’t quite understand until she told him the story of the Goblin King who took him…because she asked him to.

Damn Jareth.

She should say, Toby’s not dead, Dad. And you have to stop blaming yourself. You aren’t to blame. I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who asked the Goblin King to take him and I’m the one who went to get him back. And now he’s looking for revenge. Probably Jareth, too.

Instead, her heart full of remorse and worry and guilt, she gritted her teeth and blamed the only person she could think to blame right then. She shook off her father’s hands. “He’s not dead, Dad. He took Davey, and I’m going to get him back.” She shouldered her backpack and turned to face them. “Spoiled brat always was taking my stuff.”

Stephen caught her hand. “Sweetheart—”

But it wasn’t him who stopped her. Her eyes were caught by a face in the mirror. A face she recognized though she hadn’t seen it in more than two decades. She froze, her heart beating so wildly she couldn’t hear her father or her brother. She couldn’t even hear her own voice though she thought she called out.

Jareth.

And then everything around her went black.

Writers write…even when they’re not at a computer.

“Are you writing anything new?”

Every writer gets this very excellent question, although many of the askers don’t even realize how appropriate it probably is. Because if you’re talking to a writer, chances are, they’re writing something.

I’m writing all the time. So my answer should always be yes, but sometimes I equivocate. “Yes, when I have time.” “Yes, but not as much as I’d like.” “Well, it’s been busy with the kids and all.”

But that’s not true. I’m writing even when I’m answering the question. In some back room of my brain, I’m scribbling away at an old-fashioned desk…using a feathered quill on parchment, probably. Sunlight streams in through a yellow-paned window and the pages I’ve written litter the floor.

Yeah, that’s why I sometimes stare vaguely at a green light until somebody honks at me.

I didn’t consciously realize this about myself until the other day when I read an article about of all things, a possible remake or sequel to the movie “Labyrinth”. I was still listening exclusively to David Bowie, not really mourning his death, but definitely feeling the loss of it. My immediate, visceral reaction was a total rejection of the idea. How could you remake “Labyrinth” without the Goblin King himself?

Then I left to pick up my kids and while I was in the car, I started to write the sequel to “Labyrinth” myself. By the time I was done, I had the whole story. It even stars Jennifer Connelly. And David Bowie (computer animated?) makes a cameo appearance.

I haven’t written any of it down—not even an outline—because, you know, what are the chances that Hollywood is going to call me and ask me to write Labyrinth II? But it’s all up there in my head, scribbled on yellow parchment and lying in a neat stack in a square of sunshine. And I wrote it while in the carpool lane, while picking up groceries, while chatting with friends and doing laundry.

Am I writing anything new? Yes, I just haven’t decided if I want to share it yet.

Author’s note: The following is just for fun and about as fresh off the press as it’s possible to be (read VERY rough draft). If you are a fan of Labyrinth, you might enjoy it. You might not. It’s really just a bit of fan fic about how I’d like the sequel to start out. 

The horrible feeling that something was very wrong built in Sarah’s chest. So when she rounded the corner and saw the flashing lights, she was barely surprised. When she pushed open the car door and rushed toward the house, she was almost calm.

She saw Davey’s tricycle on its side in the middle of the road, but there were no ambulances. Cassidy sat on the front steps, obviously crying, with a police officer in front of her, writing something on a pad of paper.

“Cassidy.” Sarah spoke sharply. “What have you done?”

The fear on the babysitter’s face echoed in Sarah’s heart. “Mrs. Lawrence, I swear, I barely took my eyes off him. One second he was there and the next…” She swept her arm around the empty yard with its emerald grass and ruby roses and no laughing little boy with sapphire eyes running to greet his mother.

“Mrs. Lawrence, we’re conducting a search. We think your son just wandered off…couldn’t go far…” The voices faded into the background and Sarah closed her eyes.

It’s happening again.

She felt hands on her shoulders. “Mrs. Lawrence? Can we call someone for you? Your husband?”

She shook them off, opening her eyes and facing them. “You can call off the search. I know who has my son. And he’ll only give him back to me.”

“You know where he is?”

“God help me, yes.” Sarah glanced at her watch. How long ago had Davey disappeared? Twenty minutes? Thirty? How much of the thirteen hours was left? “My brother has him.”

She knew how it must sound. Her brother Toby—her only sibling—had disappeared ten years ago at the age of sixteen. Everyone knew about that disappearance. Nobody knew about the one that had happened when he was still a baby. And nobody knew the two were connected.

Except me. And now he’s taken my baby. Her lips curved in a little smile. She already knew the rules, she already knew the way. She knew nothing would be fair and certainly not easy. Toby would do everything he could to keep her from making it through the labyrinth. But Toby had made a mistake Jareth would never have made. Jareth had only taken her brother. Toby had taken her son.

Don’t worry, Davey. Mama’s coming.

My Elvis died.

Another one of my heroes died this week, and it’s left a bigger hole in the world than I’d anticipated. I mean, people die. Even the stars we admire from afar. I’ve got more heroes in heaven than I do on earth at this point. Walt Disney, Mark Twain, Bing Crosby, Steve Jobs… Yet, it just seems so wrong that David Bowie isn’t still here.

Why him more than the others? It’s hard to say, really. I wasn’t the best David Bowie fan. I didn’t love everything he ever put out. I didn’t buy every album. I tended to pick and choose, more of a greatest hits than a B-side fan. I never went to a concert. I own a lot of his music, but I don’t listen to it all the time.

I think he was my Elvis. The one artist that won’t be replaced for me. It’s not just that it’ll be difficult. There won’t be another David Bowie. That incredibly elastic voice and personality can’t be replaced. We won’t see another Major Tom or Ziggy Stardust or Jareth or Thin White Duke. Not again.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mourn him. I didn’t know him. But I’ll never listen to his music again without a sense of loss and the impermanence of life. Which means his music doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it did. I can’t just fall in love with his croon and wonder at the hidden meanings to his lyrics. And it’s that loss that I mourn.

So good-bye, Mr. Bowie. I’ll miss you every time I hear your voice.