Aaron Polson's Blog, page 15
December 4, 2011
Sample Sunday: From Vengeful Spirits
From Chapter 6 of Vengeful Spirits (now discounted at Amazon and Smashwords):
"Thankyou," Phoebe said to the librarian. The floor cried out and the old man shifted in his chair asshe turned to the foyer and heavy set of stairs which led to the second floor.To her surprise, the wide staircase didn't make a sound as she climbed. Therail, darkly stained wood, was cold and smooth in her hand. She rounded thelanding, and saw the second floor was dark. It'sjust a library. Shelowered her head and forced legs up the final steps. A small, handwritten signread "please turn off lights as you leave" with a switch beneath it. Phoebehappily flicked the switch, and the room sparked to life. The floor planmimicked the level below, with racks of books visible inside a room labeled"Non-fiction" to her left and another room labeled "Reference" to the right.She moved toward the right, surprised at the eerie silence of the carpetedfloors. So silent she imagined even the books were listening for the slightestsound, waiting to fall from the shelves and crush her. Tallwindows decorated the walls of the reference room, and Phoebe quickly found theshelves of bound newspapers. They were large books, as wide and tall as thepaper and at least three or four inches thick. Five volumes all together, eachmarked with dates on the spine. "Okay,Phoebe, where to start," she whispered to herself. She pulled out the volumewith 1918-1935 on the spine, deciding to start with the train. If what her brothersaid was true, she'd need a paper from 1928. The heavy book echoed in the emptyroom as she dropped it on the table top. Inside, the pages were obviousreproductions made on glossy, heavyweight paper. Thefirst headline, Doughboys Stop Hun in Belleau Wood, showed pictures of fourlocal men in uniform along with a map of France. Phoebe's fingers slid over theslick pages, turning them gently, one at a time. Some jumped weeks, others onlydays. The paper must have been published on an irregular schedule. She passedArmistice Day, various business announcements in the early twenties, electionresults, and finally, on April 30, 1928, the headline she'd been looking for:TragedyStrikes on Rail: 78 Confirmed DeadThereproduction, like most of the other pages, was of poor quality. Many of thewords were nearly unreadable because of smudges or age. Phoebe was able todecode enough to learn the train wrecked just west of town while crossing asteel deck girder bridge over the Republic River. The engine had skipped thetracks traveling at approximately 35 miles per hour, and dragged all cars andpassengers over the edge. Subsequentpages showed grainy, black and white photos of the rescue efforts. The finaldeath toll for the tragedy stopped at eighty-one. Asigh escaped Phoebe's lips, long and raspy like a midnight breeze. She hadn'trealized she'd been holding her breath until so much of it came at once.Eighty-one people died in a train wreck outside a small town in Kansas. Twoparents die on an icy road in Illinois. Phoebe's blood became frozen mud. Sheclosed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother's face. Shecouldn't.Anoise sounded across the second floor—a thump, the sound of a book falling froma shelf onto the carpeted floor. Phoebe pressed her fingers against thetabletop until the blood drained away and they were as white and cold as newsnow. "Hello?"Thebuilding answered with a quiet, settling creak. Outside, the sun had begun toset, and the room, with its bright fluorescent lights, was now brighter thanthe sky. How long had she been in there?Shereturned the 1918-1935 book to the shelf, and drew out 1936-1948. Another heavyvolume, this one largely filled with the last years of the Great Depression andWorld War II. Nothing about a school fire. Itwas a picture in the next volume, 1949-1965, which caused the icy fingers ofterror to encircle Phoebe's heart—not the picture exactly, but the captionbeneath. The photo was of a young woman, Lucy Hardaway, fifteen. The captionread:TheStrangler Takes Another VictimPhoebecovered her mouth and stifled a gasp. She scanned the date under the newspaperflag: September 21, 1957. Another victim? Her fingers worked the pages inreverse order, checking each until 1955. She found nothing about a firstvictim. Maybe an accident. An omission. Maybe the police hadn't known or thepaper didn't report it—Anothersound from across the way. Phoebefelt for her bag under the table. She thought of calling EG, telling him tocome pick her up, now. She would run down the stairs, leaving the 1949-1965book open on the table, open to the picture of Lucy Hardaway, a pretty girl inblack and white with dark curls, glasses, and thick eyebrows. She could…No.Sheturned past Lucy's picture, hunting for another mention of the Strangler. Amorbid curiosity took over Phoebe's fingers. She flipped the next few pages,working against the fear which clutched her heart and threatened to crush herlungs. Cars passed on the street below, making strange shapes on the walls withtheir headlights. She flinched at every, tiny sound.January4, 1958. Another girl, Joan Carpenter, dead of the Strangler, only now, thereporters had begun to call him—of course they assumed he was male—the SpringdaleStrangler. There was mention of another girl in the article, evidently thefirst victim, a young woman who lived in the rural area surrounding town.Evelyn Jones died six months before poor Lucy, but the police only made theconnection after the second death.Withfevered intensity, Phoebe continued her hunt. The police searched for theStrangler. He'd gone silent until 1961. The girl's name was Emma Lee. She haddark hair, limp and long, her face was long, too. High cheekbones. Phoebecouldn't help but think she'd seen the face before, somewhere. She went missingin June of '61, and the police feared the worst. The FBI became involved.Sheflipped pages, skipping anything which didn't mention the Strangler.July1, 1961, the FBI and Spring County Sheriff's Department cornered a man namedNathaniel Slade in a small house on the heights overlooking the RepublicanRiver. After an eight hour standoff, the law enforcement moved in, shootingSlade dead. He was unarmed.Theynever found Emma's body.
Grab a copy for Kindle or other e-reading devices for only $0.99 and find out what happened to poor Emma.
"Thankyou," Phoebe said to the librarian. The floor cried out and the old man shifted in his chair asshe turned to the foyer and heavy set of stairs which led to the second floor.To her surprise, the wide staircase didn't make a sound as she climbed. Therail, darkly stained wood, was cold and smooth in her hand. She rounded thelanding, and saw the second floor was dark. It'sjust a library. Shelowered her head and forced legs up the final steps. A small, handwritten signread "please turn off lights as you leave" with a switch beneath it. Phoebehappily flicked the switch, and the room sparked to life. The floor planmimicked the level below, with racks of books visible inside a room labeled"Non-fiction" to her left and another room labeled "Reference" to the right.She moved toward the right, surprised at the eerie silence of the carpetedfloors. So silent she imagined even the books were listening for the slightestsound, waiting to fall from the shelves and crush her. Tallwindows decorated the walls of the reference room, and Phoebe quickly found theshelves of bound newspapers. They were large books, as wide and tall as thepaper and at least three or four inches thick. Five volumes all together, eachmarked with dates on the spine. "Okay,Phoebe, where to start," she whispered to herself. She pulled out the volumewith 1918-1935 on the spine, deciding to start with the train. If what her brothersaid was true, she'd need a paper from 1928. The heavy book echoed in the emptyroom as she dropped it on the table top. Inside, the pages were obviousreproductions made on glossy, heavyweight paper. Thefirst headline, Doughboys Stop Hun in Belleau Wood, showed pictures of fourlocal men in uniform along with a map of France. Phoebe's fingers slid over theslick pages, turning them gently, one at a time. Some jumped weeks, others onlydays. The paper must have been published on an irregular schedule. She passedArmistice Day, various business announcements in the early twenties, electionresults, and finally, on April 30, 1928, the headline she'd been looking for:TragedyStrikes on Rail: 78 Confirmed DeadThereproduction, like most of the other pages, was of poor quality. Many of thewords were nearly unreadable because of smudges or age. Phoebe was able todecode enough to learn the train wrecked just west of town while crossing asteel deck girder bridge over the Republic River. The engine had skipped thetracks traveling at approximately 35 miles per hour, and dragged all cars andpassengers over the edge. Subsequentpages showed grainy, black and white photos of the rescue efforts. The finaldeath toll for the tragedy stopped at eighty-one. Asigh escaped Phoebe's lips, long and raspy like a midnight breeze. She hadn'trealized she'd been holding her breath until so much of it came at once.Eighty-one people died in a train wreck outside a small town in Kansas. Twoparents die on an icy road in Illinois. Phoebe's blood became frozen mud. Sheclosed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother's face. Shecouldn't.Anoise sounded across the second floor—a thump, the sound of a book falling froma shelf onto the carpeted floor. Phoebe pressed her fingers against thetabletop until the blood drained away and they were as white and cold as newsnow. "Hello?"Thebuilding answered with a quiet, settling creak. Outside, the sun had begun toset, and the room, with its bright fluorescent lights, was now brighter thanthe sky. How long had she been in there?Shereturned the 1918-1935 book to the shelf, and drew out 1936-1948. Another heavyvolume, this one largely filled with the last years of the Great Depression andWorld War II. Nothing about a school fire. Itwas a picture in the next volume, 1949-1965, which caused the icy fingers ofterror to encircle Phoebe's heart—not the picture exactly, but the captionbeneath. The photo was of a young woman, Lucy Hardaway, fifteen. The captionread:TheStrangler Takes Another VictimPhoebecovered her mouth and stifled a gasp. She scanned the date under the newspaperflag: September 21, 1957. Another victim? Her fingers worked the pages inreverse order, checking each until 1955. She found nothing about a firstvictim. Maybe an accident. An omission. Maybe the police hadn't known or thepaper didn't report it—Anothersound from across the way. Phoebefelt for her bag under the table. She thought of calling EG, telling him tocome pick her up, now. She would run down the stairs, leaving the 1949-1965book open on the table, open to the picture of Lucy Hardaway, a pretty girl inblack and white with dark curls, glasses, and thick eyebrows. She could…No.Sheturned past Lucy's picture, hunting for another mention of the Strangler. Amorbid curiosity took over Phoebe's fingers. She flipped the next few pages,working against the fear which clutched her heart and threatened to crush herlungs. Cars passed on the street below, making strange shapes on the walls withtheir headlights. She flinched at every, tiny sound.January4, 1958. Another girl, Joan Carpenter, dead of the Strangler, only now, thereporters had begun to call him—of course they assumed he was male—the SpringdaleStrangler. There was mention of another girl in the article, evidently thefirst victim, a young woman who lived in the rural area surrounding town.Evelyn Jones died six months before poor Lucy, but the police only made theconnection after the second death.Withfevered intensity, Phoebe continued her hunt. The police searched for theStrangler. He'd gone silent until 1961. The girl's name was Emma Lee. She haddark hair, limp and long, her face was long, too. High cheekbones. Phoebecouldn't help but think she'd seen the face before, somewhere. She went missingin June of '61, and the police feared the worst. The FBI became involved.Sheflipped pages, skipping anything which didn't mention the Strangler.July1, 1961, the FBI and Spring County Sheriff's Department cornered a man namedNathaniel Slade in a small house on the heights overlooking the RepublicanRiver. After an eight hour standoff, the law enforcement moved in, shootingSlade dead. He was unarmed.Theynever found Emma's body.
Grab a copy for Kindle or other e-reading devices for only $0.99 and find out what happened to poor Emma.
December 3, 2011
We have a Winner! (and More Elective Surgery)
Fred, the envelope please...
Mary Rajotte is the winner of my 50/50 split of In the Memory House profits for November, thus continuing a fine tradition of Canadians winning my contests. Congrats, Mary. I'll be in touch to share the bounty.
Which might (or might not, who knows?) have been a bigger bounty had I started with this:
Instead of In the Memory House. Sometimes I need a little more market research. I tend to be too much of a gut guy. You see, In the Memory House is also the title of Howard Mansfield's book of essays about New England culture and history.
Yeah. Not my book at all. Mine features a living house which tries to make friends by killing people. Think of it as a house with Asperger's on steroids.
So maybe Echoes of the Dead has a little more zip. The word "Dead" lands hard, at least. It does deliver the message directly, and I've found that is a key piece of marketing any book. And yes, the paperback is still coming.
And then I've nixed Smoke and replaced it with Vengeful Spirits . Again, I think the new title lands harder and sends a little more of a direct message about the book's content. I've also tweaked the cover with new font and image:
This poor puppy has been through a number of changes, originally starting as Borrowed Saints. Like I said, I'm a gut guy. My heart and mind need to arm wrestle before the next book skitters into the wild.
Congrats again, Mary. And good luck, my dear books. I will try to do you better in the future.
Mary Rajotte is the winner of my 50/50 split of In the Memory House profits for November, thus continuing a fine tradition of Canadians winning my contests. Congrats, Mary. I'll be in touch to share the bounty.
Which might (or might not, who knows?) have been a bigger bounty had I started with this:
Instead of In the Memory House. Sometimes I need a little more market research. I tend to be too much of a gut guy. You see, In the Memory House is also the title of Howard Mansfield's book of essays about New England culture and history.
Yeah. Not my book at all. Mine features a living house which tries to make friends by killing people. Think of it as a house with Asperger's on steroids.
So maybe Echoes of the Dead has a little more zip. The word "Dead" lands hard, at least. It does deliver the message directly, and I've found that is a key piece of marketing any book. And yes, the paperback is still coming.
And then I've nixed Smoke and replaced it with Vengeful Spirits . Again, I think the new title lands harder and sends a little more of a direct message about the book's content. I've also tweaked the cover with new font and image:
This poor puppy has been through a number of changes, originally starting as Borrowed Saints. Like I said, I'm a gut guy. My heart and mind need to arm wrestle before the next book skitters into the wild.
Congrats again, Mary. And good luck, my dear books. I will try to do you better in the future.
December 1, 2011
The Editing Ninja Assassinates Myself
Okay, the pronoun myself is used and abused far too much.
Myself is NEVER used to replace I or me. Got it? It should only be used reflexively (I stabbed myself) or for emphasis (I told Mr. Polson myself).
Wrong: Myself and my son will go to the game on Saturday.
Right: My son and I will go to the game on Saturday.*
Wrong: She emailed Juan and myself.
Right: She emailed Juan and me.
*You should always mention yourself last. It pays to be humble.
Myself is NEVER used to replace I or me. Got it? It should only be used reflexively (I stabbed myself) or for emphasis (I told Mr. Polson myself).
Wrong: Myself and my son will go to the game on Saturday.
Right: My son and I will go to the game on Saturday.*
Wrong: She emailed Juan and myself.
Right: She emailed Juan and me.
*You should always mention yourself last. It pays to be humble.
November 30, 2011
WIP Wednesday: Playing Games
I teach a drama class in disguise (it's called "interpretive reading"). We play games all the time. Drama games loosen the students' imaginations and break down acting barriers (nerves, inhibitions, etc.). We invented (well, modified) one yesterday to mimic the outbreak of a disease which caused near-instantaneous death. They sure love death scenes.
Speaking of death, I've killed too many WIPs in the past few weeks. They aren't dead, per se, just resting. I blame it on one of my alter egos. My latest WIP has zombies. Zombies sell in the commercial market. Crazy, but true. They are the erotica of horror fiction.
Wait... Zombie erotica. Now that's something special. (and icky) And I didn't even invent the idea.
Today's the last day to jump in the In the Memory House contest--and the last day for a free story should you buy (or have bought) the book and drop me a line at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com.
Speaking of death, I've killed too many WIPs in the past few weeks. They aren't dead, per se, just resting. I blame it on one of my alter egos. My latest WIP has zombies. Zombies sell in the commercial market. Crazy, but true. They are the erotica of horror fiction.
Wait... Zombie erotica. Now that's something special. (and icky) And I didn't even invent the idea.
Today's the last day to jump in the In the Memory House contest--and the last day for a free story should you buy (or have bought) the book and drop me a line at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com.
November 28, 2011
Clearing Clutter
I've nuked a good portion of my blog today, including all of the pretty little pictures of my books on the sidebar.
Don't worry, they're still here, just not plastered to my virtual front door. (Not that you were worried, anyway.) I'm feeling somewhat scattered. Maybe it's my new fake name. (Heh.)
Maybe it's because I woke at 2:30 AM last night, evidently in training for the pending addition to the family.
Don't forget the free story offer if you grab a copy of In the Memory House by Wednesday. I'm also splitting Memory House profits with one lucky soul. Let's get reading.
November 26, 2011
Elective Surgery
I'm learning some tricks about publishing--lessons which are different in the small press/short fiction market and the mass commercial market.
1. Editors and readers of smart short fiction mags differ from the general reading public. Several reviews of my short fiction collections have brought this to my attention. Most recently, a reviewer in the UK wrote: " I particularly enjoy short stories that offer a final twist. I don't recall any of this collection having what I would regard as a decent ending" of Violent Ends . Ouch. Anyone in the UK want to counter that with some mild words of praise? I'll give you a cookie...
Anyway, final twists? Good luck getting a story with a "twist" ending published in most mags.
2. Commercial readers, by and large, don't give a sh*t about how beautiful your prose is. In fact, some will simply regard creative word-play as "typos" and snark about it.
I've published a few pieces under pseudonyms. No, I won't tell you what they are, yet, because they aren't in my genre. Let's just say they aren't my best work. Trust me. What I will tell you is that they are outselling In the Memory House , a book on which I worked for half the year. Gives a guy pause...
3. Cover art matters to everyone. I've given Black Medicine Thunder a Facelift and cover art change:
From this:
To this:
I think I like. You?
1. Editors and readers of smart short fiction mags differ from the general reading public. Several reviews of my short fiction collections have brought this to my attention. Most recently, a reviewer in the UK wrote: " I particularly enjoy short stories that offer a final twist. I don't recall any of this collection having what I would regard as a decent ending" of Violent Ends . Ouch. Anyone in the UK want to counter that with some mild words of praise? I'll give you a cookie...
Anyway, final twists? Good luck getting a story with a "twist" ending published in most mags.
2. Commercial readers, by and large, don't give a sh*t about how beautiful your prose is. In fact, some will simply regard creative word-play as "typos" and snark about it.
I've published a few pieces under pseudonyms. No, I won't tell you what they are, yet, because they aren't in my genre. Let's just say they aren't my best work. Trust me. What I will tell you is that they are outselling In the Memory House , a book on which I worked for half the year. Gives a guy pause...
3. Cover art matters to everyone. I've given Black Medicine Thunder a Facelift and cover art change:
From this:
To this:
I think I like. You?
November 23, 2011
WIP Wednesday: Playing with Genre
I'm thankful to be home today and squeeze in a little writing time. Of course extra time means extra thinking...
How do horror books sell? Depends on how many zombies a book has... Kidding, but seriously, I'm playing with genre on my WIP. Or I should say, playing in another genre. We'll see how it pans out. I've put Reunion on hold for a book which had to be written, a thriller (what?!?) called Badlands. The first line:
Ryan enjoyed a breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit before he returned to his room and found his son missing.
Yeah, one of those kidnapping stories. There's going to be copious sex and violence, too. Maybe even an explosion. That is, if Ryan can't stop the explosion from happening. Hmmmm...
Hey... It works for Hollywood, right?
Hope everyone is having a fantastic week.
How do horror books sell? Depends on how many zombies a book has... Kidding, but seriously, I'm playing with genre on my WIP. Or I should say, playing in another genre. We'll see how it pans out. I've put Reunion on hold for a book which had to be written, a thriller (what?!?) called Badlands. The first line:
Ryan enjoyed a breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit before he returned to his room and found his son missing.
Yeah, one of those kidnapping stories. There's going to be copious sex and violence, too. Maybe even an explosion. That is, if Ryan can't stop the explosion from happening. Hmmmm...
Hey... It works for Hollywood, right?
Hope everyone is having a fantastic week.
November 21, 2011
Some Thoughts on Going Solo (and Why I Did)
The decision to go "indie" or self-publish did not come easily.
I'm a gut guy most of the time, going with feeling rather than logic (even though I tend to score higher on analytic items on standardized tests--go figure). Sometimes my gut leads me in the wrong direction. Sometimes I make mistakes.
I wrestled with going solo for quite a while. I tried to play the game, querying for three novels before punting. I sold well over one hundred stories to paying markets (token to pro) and gave a number away as well. Close to one thousand rejections have come my way. I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep specifically with the small press in mind, and thankfully, Belfire Press published it.
I never planned to self-publish. I'm glad I started writing five years ago--self-publishing was cost prohibitive then and not a viable business model. I believed all the negative hype because most of it was true. If I would have self-published at first, I wouldn't have had any drive to be a better writer. Rejection is your friend, folks. Really.
Things change. E-books happened. My craft improved. The system failed me (i.e., disillusionment happened).
But being a gut guy, I worried. I worried about what some of my writing colleagues might think. I worried about them more than readers because, to be perfectly honest, most readers just want a good story. I hope I can supply that more often than not. I'm sure I've alienated some of my writer buddies (or at least have given them pause) by choosing this path.
But it is the right path. For now.
Here's why I ultimately decided to go "indie" (a moniker I don't wave like a battle-flag as some do--I'm a writer first):
The first two reasons could fall under the sub-heading How I've been treated by agents:
I know it's bad form to snark about agents. I don't care. Unrepresented authors need to stop being afraid and demand humane treatment. These are not our overseers, folks. Too much power corrupts.
1. Once upon a time an agent showed interest in one of my books. Said agent suggested he/she would call and talk about some revisions. I played hooky on the prescribed day, calling in sick and hanging out around the house, waiting for the call which never happened. Later that evening, I received an email: sorry, I was having drinks with so-and-so. Clean up your book and send it in again.
Yeah. Right. I guess I was the naive one.
2. Once upon a time I sent a query for a book. Six months passed. I sold the book to a small press. The agent I queried half a year ago asked to see a full. I told him/her the book was no longer available. The reply: "bad form, man". No--bad form was making me wait six months without reply. At that point, I assume rejection. Time is the most precious commodity, and six months is a long time.
3. Running a small press (the now semi-defunct Strange Publications) taught me that most modern small presses were just folks doing the same thing I was: using desktop publishing technology to churn out books via on-demand printing. I learned all about layout and book design. I know I can do it better than some of the crap I've seen from so-called "small presses". Some are top notch outfits with solid followings (Permuted Press and Belfire are both prime examples); many are hucksters and glorified vanity presses.
4. Self-publishing has moved beyond a vanity affair to a viable business solution. The up-front costs are not prohibitive (and really nothing but time and effort if you e-publish and are willing to do the work yourself). Authors are making money. I know some want to claim making money isn't important, but I'm not going to lie. If I wasn't making any money writing, I'd have to quit and find a new part time job. That is the reality of my economic situation and the pending birth of our third child. Time is the most precious commodity--and you can't just print more.
That's my story, more or less.
I'm not perfect. I'll continue making mistakes. I'll continue writing.I will work harder.
Have a good one.
I'm a gut guy most of the time, going with feeling rather than logic (even though I tend to score higher on analytic items on standardized tests--go figure). Sometimes my gut leads me in the wrong direction. Sometimes I make mistakes.
I wrestled with going solo for quite a while. I tried to play the game, querying for three novels before punting. I sold well over one hundred stories to paying markets (token to pro) and gave a number away as well. Close to one thousand rejections have come my way. I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep specifically with the small press in mind, and thankfully, Belfire Press published it.
I never planned to self-publish. I'm glad I started writing five years ago--self-publishing was cost prohibitive then and not a viable business model. I believed all the negative hype because most of it was true. If I would have self-published at first, I wouldn't have had any drive to be a better writer. Rejection is your friend, folks. Really.
Things change. E-books happened. My craft improved. The system failed me (i.e., disillusionment happened).
But being a gut guy, I worried. I worried about what some of my writing colleagues might think. I worried about them more than readers because, to be perfectly honest, most readers just want a good story. I hope I can supply that more often than not. I'm sure I've alienated some of my writer buddies (or at least have given them pause) by choosing this path.
But it is the right path. For now.
Here's why I ultimately decided to go "indie" (a moniker I don't wave like a battle-flag as some do--I'm a writer first):
The first two reasons could fall under the sub-heading How I've been treated by agents:
I know it's bad form to snark about agents. I don't care. Unrepresented authors need to stop being afraid and demand humane treatment. These are not our overseers, folks. Too much power corrupts.
1. Once upon a time an agent showed interest in one of my books. Said agent suggested he/she would call and talk about some revisions. I played hooky on the prescribed day, calling in sick and hanging out around the house, waiting for the call which never happened. Later that evening, I received an email: sorry, I was having drinks with so-and-so. Clean up your book and send it in again.
Yeah. Right. I guess I was the naive one.
2. Once upon a time I sent a query for a book. Six months passed. I sold the book to a small press. The agent I queried half a year ago asked to see a full. I told him/her the book was no longer available. The reply: "bad form, man". No--bad form was making me wait six months without reply. At that point, I assume rejection. Time is the most precious commodity, and six months is a long time.
3. Running a small press (the now semi-defunct Strange Publications) taught me that most modern small presses were just folks doing the same thing I was: using desktop publishing technology to churn out books via on-demand printing. I learned all about layout and book design. I know I can do it better than some of the crap I've seen from so-called "small presses". Some are top notch outfits with solid followings (Permuted Press and Belfire are both prime examples); many are hucksters and glorified vanity presses.
4. Self-publishing has moved beyond a vanity affair to a viable business solution. The up-front costs are not prohibitive (and really nothing but time and effort if you e-publish and are willing to do the work yourself). Authors are making money. I know some want to claim making money isn't important, but I'm not going to lie. If I wasn't making any money writing, I'd have to quit and find a new part time job. That is the reality of my economic situation and the pending birth of our third child. Time is the most precious commodity--and you can't just print more.
That's my story, more or less.
I'm not perfect. I'll continue making mistakes. I'll continue writing.I will work harder.
Have a good one.
November 20, 2011
In the Memory House, Chapter 1 (and a free story)
If you've bought an e-copy of In the Memory House (or plan to do so before the end of the month), email me at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com for a free bonus story.
In the Memory House is currently available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.
Chapter 1 - In the Memory House
Kelsey hated the club. She hated the noise, the sweat-slicked men bumping and grabbing andoozing all over her. She hated the way the throbbing beat worked into herbrain, and how she woke the morning after a dancing with the beat stillpounding in her blood. She knew these were things a fit, attractive,twenty-seven-year-old woman was supposed to like. But she didn't. She went to Tremors with Brit and Caitlin because she didn't want to bealone, not after the dreams came back. Jared had haunted her dreams for thepast week, Jared and the dead man with no blood. Even during waking hours, ifKelsey closed her eyes, the puckered-white flesh of the dead man's gashesblinked in her memory. It haunted her more than the wreck, but Jared'sdisappearance and the dull ached it caused weighed more than the dead man. Nearly five years later, and the dreams were as bad as they'd everbeen. Even though she hated it, the club banished demons better than graduatestudies ever had—much better than Human Lifespan Development or Principles ofTesting and Measurement. A PhD in psychology seemed rather meaningless afterwhat happened in the house. The world felt rather purposeless after Jaredvanished without a trace. "Hey, Kels? Where are you?" Brit asked. She'd been Kelsey's friendsince high school and still wore her dark hair past shoulder length. Kelsey hadalways thought of Brit—short for Brittany—as pretty, but in a vaguely EasternEuropean and mysterious way. "Sorry," Kelsey said. "Sorry… Just thinking."Brit flashed her news-desk-perfect teeth. "You need more booze,girlie." She pushed a plastic cup filled with bright green liquid across thetable. "This isn't the time for thinking. It's the time for drinking andgetting stupid."Kelsey looked at the cup. The drink, whatever it was, glowed likeradioactive Kool-Aid in a bad science fiction movie. Her eyebrows rose. "Chill out. It's a Midori Sour. Tastes like a Jolly Rancher but numbsthe worry center." Brit's forefinger tapped her temple. "You've got way toomuch on your brain, sweetie. I don't know why you'd want to stuff your prettylittle head with all that psychobabble anyway." "It's not that."Brit nodded. "Right." She shook her hair, and long black strands flopped over her shoulders.Her eyes—almost as dark as her hair—drilled through bone, mining Kelsey'ssecret thoughts. At least Kelsey felt she was. They'd been friends for a longtime, true, but Brit hadn't gone on the ski trip. Brit hadn't clutched the doorhandle in Johnny's SUV while the vehicle spun out of control and landed in aditch. She hadn't felt the brutal, numbing cold from the snow, the endlesswhite blanket which plagued them to the porch, which forced them inside. Shewasn't the one to find the dead man, wrists splayed open in his bathtub. Shedidn't lose Jared. "Earth to Kelsey. I've lost you again. Go on and take a drink."Kelsey touched the cold plastic cup. She brought it to her lipsand took a drink. The alcohol was cool and sweet and sour as it washed over hertongue. It warmed her chest as it slid down her throat. Maybe she didneed to loosen up and get, as Brit so eloquently said, stupid. Maybe sheneeded to bury the past and try and forget Jared, forget the house, and forgetthe dead man. Just dreams… Dreams and bad memories. She closed her eyes andtook another sip. It did taste a bit like a Jolly Rancher."Watermelon," Kelsey said."You like?"Kelsey smiled. "I like. Let's dance."Bodies shook and cavorted on the dance floor, all awash with flashinglights. Throbbing music—a pop tune with relentless, pounding beat—swayedarms and legs in unison. Kelsey followed Brit to an empty corner, and bothjoined the frenzy. Kelsey's eyes roved the crowd. Even at twenty-seven, she wastoward the upper age limit at Tremors. Some faces looked like children—a fewmight have been students from the abnormal psychology lecture for which she wasthe teaching assistant. Three men—boys, Kelsey thought—in matching silver silk shirtsmade their way through the crowded dance floor. Each carried a plastic cup andfaux-danced so as not to spill. Sweat slicked their faces so each sparkledunder the bright, flickering lights. Kelsey watched them as she shuffled herfeet. Some malaise and inhibition sloughed from her skin as she let the beattake her body. She hated the club, but Brit was right about one thing. Sheneeded to let loose, get stupid. She hated the club, but dancing felt good.She leaned close to Brit. "Those three are on the move. I thinkthey're looking for wounded members of the herd."Brit laughed. "The lead is cute. Kind of. But his nose." She scowledand shook her head so her hair spun from side to side."It's huge," Kelsey said."You know what they say about boys with big noses." Brit ran her handsdown her body, rolling her eyes in mock ecstasy.As they both laughed, Caitlin, the shortest of the three, joined them.Kelsey felt Caitlin had the best body, busty but lithe with just enough ass toshake. Her blue eyes were monstrous, near Anime size, and hair in dirtyblonde ropes offered a sweet, innocent disguise. Caitlin was always happy andKelsey a little jealous."I thought I'd lost you two." The music shifted. The three silver-shirted boys danced toward them."I'm taking a break," Kelsey said. "Me too. I need another drink." Brit grabbed Caitlin by the wrist. "What?" Caitlin's alcohol-slick eyes were on the boys in silver. "We don't want to lose you to the wolf pack."The three friends skirted to the crowded dance floor's edge. Caitlincraned her neck to watch the boys in silver. Kelsey fell into her chair,suddenly feeling very tired. "You two want anything? Another Midori Sour?"Kelsey shook her head. "I'm good, thanks.""I could use another screwdriver." Caitlin held out her half-emptyglass. "Pretty please."Brit rolled her eyes and headed for the bar. Caitlin pulled her glass to her lips. Kelsey grabbed her forearm beforeshe took a drink."You don't want to do that.""I don't?" Caitlin pouted. "Why not?""You left it at the table. Anybody could have slipped something inthere.""Oh my God." Caitlin snorted. "You are such a mother, Kels. Lighten up." Caitlin pulled her arm away, and a little liquid sloshed from the glassas the lights went out over the table."We hoped you ladies would have stayed on the dance floor."It was the nose, the leader of the silver-shirted wolf pack. Hisbuddies grinned at either shoulder. Up close, his nose was big,ridiculously big, and Kelsey couldn't stifle a giggle when she remembered whatBrit suggested about boys with big noses. Big noses mean big…"Some of us would have," Caitlin said. She wrapped her tongue aroundthe tiny black straw in her glass. Kelsey rolled her eyes. She let her gaze stray across the roomand fall on a tall man near the entrance. A flare burst in her memory. Johnny. She hadn't seen him in almost five years, not since graduation, but it was him.His tall, cut features gave him away. Several years hadn't changed anythingabout his face, his sleek, angular cheekbones and firm chin. Kelsey couldalmost feel his blue eyes, even across a dim club filled with people. He wasn'tdancing, just standing near the wall, almost like he was waiting for someone.Maybe looking for someone. Kelsey's stomach knotted. "…and our unit ships out at month's end."Kelsey snapped back to her immediate vicinity. "What? Are you tryingthat old line? C'mon, boys. Really?"Big nose blinked hard at the word boys. Caitlin kicked Kelsey's leg under the table. "Whatever." Big Nose frowned. "I can see you're not interested. We were talking to your friend."Brit returned balancing three drinks in her hands. She read the look onKelsey's face. "Looks like I'm missing the party."Kelsey glanced at Johnny again. The dance floor lights flashed red andblue and white. "I was just leaving." She climbed from her chair. Big Noselooked her up and down as she stood, and the two baboons at his shoulders didthe same. She hated feeling dirty when a greasy boy eyed her like a cut ofmeat. She wanted a shower, to clean off the slime he'd heaped on her. "Not bad," he said. Kelsey's fingers curled into a fist at her side. "Fuck off." Shestarted to walk away. He grabbed her wrist. "You wish, honey."Kelsey yanked her arm from his grasp. The flight across the clubblurred in her head along with the music's pound and her feet against thefloor. She heard Brit's voice bark her name twice, "Kels—Kels." Shapes shiftedand contorted, silhouettes of people, cardboard cutouts. Her headspun. By the time she worked her way across the room, Johnny was gone.
In the Memory House is currently available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.
Chapter 1 - In the Memory House
Kelsey hated the club. She hated the noise, the sweat-slicked men bumping and grabbing andoozing all over her. She hated the way the throbbing beat worked into herbrain, and how she woke the morning after a dancing with the beat stillpounding in her blood. She knew these were things a fit, attractive,twenty-seven-year-old woman was supposed to like. But she didn't. She went to Tremors with Brit and Caitlin because she didn't want to bealone, not after the dreams came back. Jared had haunted her dreams for thepast week, Jared and the dead man with no blood. Even during waking hours, ifKelsey closed her eyes, the puckered-white flesh of the dead man's gashesblinked in her memory. It haunted her more than the wreck, but Jared'sdisappearance and the dull ached it caused weighed more than the dead man. Nearly five years later, and the dreams were as bad as they'd everbeen. Even though she hated it, the club banished demons better than graduatestudies ever had—much better than Human Lifespan Development or Principles ofTesting and Measurement. A PhD in psychology seemed rather meaningless afterwhat happened in the house. The world felt rather purposeless after Jaredvanished without a trace. "Hey, Kels? Where are you?" Brit asked. She'd been Kelsey's friendsince high school and still wore her dark hair past shoulder length. Kelsey hadalways thought of Brit—short for Brittany—as pretty, but in a vaguely EasternEuropean and mysterious way. "Sorry," Kelsey said. "Sorry… Just thinking."Brit flashed her news-desk-perfect teeth. "You need more booze,girlie." She pushed a plastic cup filled with bright green liquid across thetable. "This isn't the time for thinking. It's the time for drinking andgetting stupid."Kelsey looked at the cup. The drink, whatever it was, glowed likeradioactive Kool-Aid in a bad science fiction movie. Her eyebrows rose. "Chill out. It's a Midori Sour. Tastes like a Jolly Rancher but numbsthe worry center." Brit's forefinger tapped her temple. "You've got way toomuch on your brain, sweetie. I don't know why you'd want to stuff your prettylittle head with all that psychobabble anyway." "It's not that."Brit nodded. "Right." She shook her hair, and long black strands flopped over her shoulders.Her eyes—almost as dark as her hair—drilled through bone, mining Kelsey'ssecret thoughts. At least Kelsey felt she was. They'd been friends for a longtime, true, but Brit hadn't gone on the ski trip. Brit hadn't clutched the doorhandle in Johnny's SUV while the vehicle spun out of control and landed in aditch. She hadn't felt the brutal, numbing cold from the snow, the endlesswhite blanket which plagued them to the porch, which forced them inside. Shewasn't the one to find the dead man, wrists splayed open in his bathtub. Shedidn't lose Jared. "Earth to Kelsey. I've lost you again. Go on and take a drink."Kelsey touched the cold plastic cup. She brought it to her lipsand took a drink. The alcohol was cool and sweet and sour as it washed over hertongue. It warmed her chest as it slid down her throat. Maybe she didneed to loosen up and get, as Brit so eloquently said, stupid. Maybe sheneeded to bury the past and try and forget Jared, forget the house, and forgetthe dead man. Just dreams… Dreams and bad memories. She closed her eyes andtook another sip. It did taste a bit like a Jolly Rancher."Watermelon," Kelsey said."You like?"Kelsey smiled. "I like. Let's dance."Bodies shook and cavorted on the dance floor, all awash with flashinglights. Throbbing music—a pop tune with relentless, pounding beat—swayedarms and legs in unison. Kelsey followed Brit to an empty corner, and bothjoined the frenzy. Kelsey's eyes roved the crowd. Even at twenty-seven, she wastoward the upper age limit at Tremors. Some faces looked like children—a fewmight have been students from the abnormal psychology lecture for which she wasthe teaching assistant. Three men—boys, Kelsey thought—in matching silver silk shirtsmade their way through the crowded dance floor. Each carried a plastic cup andfaux-danced so as not to spill. Sweat slicked their faces so each sparkledunder the bright, flickering lights. Kelsey watched them as she shuffled herfeet. Some malaise and inhibition sloughed from her skin as she let the beattake her body. She hated the club, but Brit was right about one thing. Sheneeded to let loose, get stupid. She hated the club, but dancing felt good.She leaned close to Brit. "Those three are on the move. I thinkthey're looking for wounded members of the herd."Brit laughed. "The lead is cute. Kind of. But his nose." She scowledand shook her head so her hair spun from side to side."It's huge," Kelsey said."You know what they say about boys with big noses." Brit ran her handsdown her body, rolling her eyes in mock ecstasy.As they both laughed, Caitlin, the shortest of the three, joined them.Kelsey felt Caitlin had the best body, busty but lithe with just enough ass toshake. Her blue eyes were monstrous, near Anime size, and hair in dirtyblonde ropes offered a sweet, innocent disguise. Caitlin was always happy andKelsey a little jealous."I thought I'd lost you two." The music shifted. The three silver-shirted boys danced toward them."I'm taking a break," Kelsey said. "Me too. I need another drink." Brit grabbed Caitlin by the wrist. "What?" Caitlin's alcohol-slick eyes were on the boys in silver. "We don't want to lose you to the wolf pack."The three friends skirted to the crowded dance floor's edge. Caitlincraned her neck to watch the boys in silver. Kelsey fell into her chair,suddenly feeling very tired. "You two want anything? Another Midori Sour?"Kelsey shook her head. "I'm good, thanks.""I could use another screwdriver." Caitlin held out her half-emptyglass. "Pretty please."Brit rolled her eyes and headed for the bar. Caitlin pulled her glass to her lips. Kelsey grabbed her forearm beforeshe took a drink."You don't want to do that.""I don't?" Caitlin pouted. "Why not?""You left it at the table. Anybody could have slipped something inthere.""Oh my God." Caitlin snorted. "You are such a mother, Kels. Lighten up." Caitlin pulled her arm away, and a little liquid sloshed from the glassas the lights went out over the table."We hoped you ladies would have stayed on the dance floor."It was the nose, the leader of the silver-shirted wolf pack. Hisbuddies grinned at either shoulder. Up close, his nose was big,ridiculously big, and Kelsey couldn't stifle a giggle when she remembered whatBrit suggested about boys with big noses. Big noses mean big…"Some of us would have," Caitlin said. She wrapped her tongue aroundthe tiny black straw in her glass. Kelsey rolled her eyes. She let her gaze stray across the roomand fall on a tall man near the entrance. A flare burst in her memory. Johnny. She hadn't seen him in almost five years, not since graduation, but it was him.His tall, cut features gave him away. Several years hadn't changed anythingabout his face, his sleek, angular cheekbones and firm chin. Kelsey couldalmost feel his blue eyes, even across a dim club filled with people. He wasn'tdancing, just standing near the wall, almost like he was waiting for someone.Maybe looking for someone. Kelsey's stomach knotted. "…and our unit ships out at month's end."Kelsey snapped back to her immediate vicinity. "What? Are you tryingthat old line? C'mon, boys. Really?"Big nose blinked hard at the word boys. Caitlin kicked Kelsey's leg under the table. "Whatever." Big Nose frowned. "I can see you're not interested. We were talking to your friend."Brit returned balancing three drinks in her hands. She read the look onKelsey's face. "Looks like I'm missing the party."Kelsey glanced at Johnny again. The dance floor lights flashed red andblue and white. "I was just leaving." She climbed from her chair. Big Noselooked her up and down as she stood, and the two baboons at his shoulders didthe same. She hated feeling dirty when a greasy boy eyed her like a cut ofmeat. She wanted a shower, to clean off the slime he'd heaped on her. "Not bad," he said. Kelsey's fingers curled into a fist at her side. "Fuck off." Shestarted to walk away. He grabbed her wrist. "You wish, honey."Kelsey yanked her arm from his grasp. The flight across the clubblurred in her head along with the music's pound and her feet against thefloor. She heard Brit's voice bark her name twice, "Kels—Kels." Shapes shiftedand contorted, silhouettes of people, cardboard cutouts. Her headspun. By the time she worked her way across the room, Johnny was gone.
November 18, 2011
Five Question Friday: Chris Blewitt
1. What is the last book you read? - I just finished "The Girl Who Played With Fire" by Steig Larson. It is the 2nd in his trilogy of "Girl Who..." novels. I read the 1st one, Dragon Tattoo, earlier this year and thought it was fantastic. The books are kind of intimidating at 600+pgs but for some reason, they flow very nicely. "Fire" is just as good as the first one and I look forward to reading the final book, "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest". If you haven't checked out these books or don't know the story behind Larson, do yourself a favor and read the them. 2. Is the book always better than the movie? - I'd have to agree here. The Firm is one of my all-time favorite books and really inspired me to write and I think they did a poor job of replicating the book. The music in the background, the piano, really turned me off. And, they changed the ending. Sleepers was a great book, but also a great movie. On the other hand, action movies or something like Jurassic Park, could be better on screen than in a book. 3. What three things are always in your refrigerator? - Lemon juice, cheese, beer. I add a few drops of lemon juice to every glass of water I drink, my wife cannot live without cheese, and I'm a beer connoisseur. 4. What is on the floor of your car?
- Sunflower seeds, both whole and in the shell. They are my litte vice when I drive. Car charger for my phone and my laptop. Ice-scraper, usually from November to March. Water bottles. Lots of dog hair from my dog, Guinness. 5. What items do you always have with you?
- I'm kind of a freak about chapstick. It is ALWAYS with me. Left pocket of my pants. Other than that, my phone and my money clip with a few cards and a few bucks in it. I haven't carried a wallet in 12 years. Read The Lost Journal
