Aaron Polson's Blog, page 28
May 9, 2011
Great Books: Lord of the Flies
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One of the highlights of my Senior English course is teaching Lord of the Flies. It's often taught a younger ages in other schools, but I use it as a "send off" for seniors. Reading Lord of the Flies is the last thing we do in class.
Why I consider Lord of the Flies a "Great Book":
The degeneration of a band of British school boys stranded on a deserted island during wartime is a frightening mirror for all human endeavors. Selfishness, greed, egoism, violence--all the ugly depths of the human psyche are laid open when the stress of survival pushes the kids too far.
The book plays with the dichotomy of civilization and savagery. As a nice parallel, the boys hunt pigs--swine are known to turn feral rather quickly when left to their own devices.
And then there's that Nobel Prize...
Favorite Line (*spoiler alert*):
"And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of a man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy."
Sheer brilliance.
I, for one, am looking forward to Stephen King's introduction in the new edition celebrating the 100th anniversary of Golding's birth.
Why I consider Lord of the Flies a "Great Book":
The degeneration of a band of British school boys stranded on a deserted island during wartime is a frightening mirror for all human endeavors. Selfishness, greed, egoism, violence--all the ugly depths of the human psyche are laid open when the stress of survival pushes the kids too far.
The book plays with the dichotomy of civilization and savagery. As a nice parallel, the boys hunt pigs--swine are known to turn feral rather quickly when left to their own devices.
And then there's that Nobel Prize...
Favorite Line (*spoiler alert*):
"And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of a man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy."
Sheer brilliance.
I, for one, am looking forward to Stephen King's introduction in the new edition celebrating the 100th anniversary of Golding's birth.
May 8, 2011
#samplesunday Borrowed Saints
From Chapter 1: Smoke and Mirrors of Borrowed Saints, available on Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble Nook (soon).
Phoebe Ellison hated mirrors, and mirrors shared the sentiment.
She stood before a mirror in one of the less-traveled ladies restrooms in Springdale High, exchanging a glare with the reflection. Tiny white lines on her forearms reached from the glass and shouted in her ears. Phoebe ran a finger across her skin, wondering if it was her imagination or the truth she felt in those little, rigid scars.
Muffled voices sounded in the hall. Phoebe's hands worked without thought—her left turned the hot water tap, and her right reached for the soap dispenser. The bathroom door crashed open. Haley Garret and her entourage brushed behind her, close enough Phoebe could smell Haley's perfume, sick and sweet and stinging her eyes like rubbing alcohol.
If she only had a match, they would all go up in flames.
"Lookie here," Haley said. She positioned her well-tanned face over Phoebe's shoulder in the mirror. "A piece of fresh meat. A newbie."
Phoebe's neck bristled. She could leave—walk out now and not look back.
"Whatcha doing, fresh meat?"
Haley's clones giggled.
"Washing my hands." Steam began to rise in the basin, distorting the faces in the mirror. "Going back to class."
"Right." Haley pushed her shoulder into Phoebe's back as she turned. "Don't be late, fresh meat. Bad things happen to newbies who are late. Bad things." Haley's breath was close enough for Phoebe to taste.
The giggling trio disappeared through the door. Water vapor condensed on the mirror, blurring it to a white haze. The steam began to tease Phoebe's dark hair. She smelled fire—felt it burn her nose. Smoke and ash. Voices crying. The voices always blended into a memory of her parents' final cries. How long had it been—three months? Only three months. Pain radiated through Phoebe's forearm, to her shoulder, across her back, and into her lips. Sweet pain. When she pulled back her hand, the hot water had seared a red mark on her skin.
She wanted to smash the mirror. She wanted to crush it into a million pieces and grind the pieces beneath her sneakers. Her right hand balled into a fist. Maybe she'd cut her knuckles on the shards. There'd be blood. Blood and pain. Phoebe fought the smile at the thought, and the bell rang, forcing her out of the bathroom, right hand clutched over the left to hide the burn.
Borrowed Saints for Kindle
Borrowed Saints for Nook (soon)
Phoebe Ellison hated mirrors, and mirrors shared the sentiment.
She stood before a mirror in one of the less-traveled ladies restrooms in Springdale High, exchanging a glare with the reflection. Tiny white lines on her forearms reached from the glass and shouted in her ears. Phoebe ran a finger across her skin, wondering if it was her imagination or the truth she felt in those little, rigid scars.
Muffled voices sounded in the hall. Phoebe's hands worked without thought—her left turned the hot water tap, and her right reached for the soap dispenser. The bathroom door crashed open. Haley Garret and her entourage brushed behind her, close enough Phoebe could smell Haley's perfume, sick and sweet and stinging her eyes like rubbing alcohol.
If she only had a match, they would all go up in flames.
"Lookie here," Haley said. She positioned her well-tanned face over Phoebe's shoulder in the mirror. "A piece of fresh meat. A newbie."
Phoebe's neck bristled. She could leave—walk out now and not look back.
"Whatcha doing, fresh meat?"
Haley's clones giggled.
"Washing my hands." Steam began to rise in the basin, distorting the faces in the mirror. "Going back to class."
"Right." Haley pushed her shoulder into Phoebe's back as she turned. "Don't be late, fresh meat. Bad things happen to newbies who are late. Bad things." Haley's breath was close enough for Phoebe to taste.
The giggling trio disappeared through the door. Water vapor condensed on the mirror, blurring it to a white haze. The steam began to tease Phoebe's dark hair. She smelled fire—felt it burn her nose. Smoke and ash. Voices crying. The voices always blended into a memory of her parents' final cries. How long had it been—three months? Only three months. Pain radiated through Phoebe's forearm, to her shoulder, across her back, and into her lips. Sweet pain. When she pulled back her hand, the hot water had seared a red mark on her skin.
She wanted to smash the mirror. She wanted to crush it into a million pieces and grind the pieces beneath her sneakers. Her right hand balled into a fist. Maybe she'd cut her knuckles on the shards. There'd be blood. Blood and pain. Phoebe fought the smile at the thought, and the bell rang, forcing her out of the bathroom, right hand clutched over the left to hide the burn.
Borrowed Saints for Kindle
Borrowed Saints for Nook (soon)
May 6, 2011
Five Question Friday: Helen Hanson
Five questions with Helen Hanson: What would be the ideal meal for one of your favorite characters?
Amir graces the cover of my novel, 3 LIES. His perfect meal consists of lamb kebabs on a bed of saffron rice. Sides of fattoush, baba ghanoush, roasted red pepper hummus, steamy pitas, and a ramekin of tahini would round out the meal.
Pair it with a Napa Syrah, and I want a place at this table. He makes fascinating conversation.
What do you keep in the dashboard of your car?
Dental floss, a Swiss Army knife, flashlight, tear gas, doggie litter bag, USB charger, duct tape, ink pen, a tiny tactical nuke, passport, flashlight, latex gloves, boat keys, December issue of Soldiers Of Fortune, cork puller, thirty-round clip , and lipstick.
If you could be a superhero, what would you want your superpowers to be?
In spite of the added danger of getting sucked into jet engines, I want a cape on my super suit. I know that's not a superpower, but I like capes. Purple satin, I should think. Or, cobalt blue.
As for the super powers, I want to be an empath. I want the ability to tell what someone was thinking and to know with certainty if that person was a liar. Why, with that single super power, then– Then I could take my rightful place and rule the world!!! Bwah-ha-ha-ha!!
Um. Not that I would . . .
Describe your imaginary friend.
My friend is invisible and has an IQ beyond measure. He whispers in my ear all the correct answers to life, liberty and my pursuit of happiness and finding readers. Unfortunately, he's a gentleman and won't follow me in to the ladies room, so I miss a lot of that great stuff, and I'm forced to waltz alone.
If aliens landed in front of you and, in exchange for anything you desire, offered you any job on their planet, what would you choose?
Emissary to outlanders. My official title: Most High Planetary Ambassador to Visiting Dignitaries and Whatnot.
Think about it. I'd routinely meet people daring enough to leave their home world and travel the galaxy in search of adventure. An endless opportunity to try exotic new foods, listen to languages strange to my ear, and ride in cool ships, what more could a writer ask for?
www.HelenHanson.com Website
http://itunes.apple.com/ud/book/isbn9780983202707 iBooks
http://www.amazon.com/3-LIES-ebook/dp/B004F9P8BI Amazon US
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/3-Lies/Helen-Hanson/e/9780983202707/?itm=1 Barnes & Noble
http://www.amazon.co.uk/3-LIES/dp/B004F9P8BI/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1295645566&sr=1-13 Amazon UK
May 5, 2011
Monsters Among Us
I've collected four of my 99 cent e-books into one 115K word/39 story omnibus, Monsters Among Us. The price? $2.99.Why would I guy do a thing like that?
1. Readers can purchase the content of four books for less than they would pay individually.
2. It would take six copies at 99 cents to equal one copy at $2.99 thanks to the 70% royalty rate.
3. J.A. Konrath told me to. *
Think about items 1 and 2: readers gain and I gain. Sounds good. But Aaron, you say, what about those 99 cent books? Aren't you cannibalizing their sales?
Maybe.** But I suspect bargain hunters will still pick them up. Monsters Among Us includes every story in The Bottom Feeders, Thirteen Shadows, and Violent Ends as well as "Black Medicine Thunder and the Sons of Chaos". It's all linked with a handy-dandy table of contents. It's also my first legitimate foray into the $2.99 price point. In the next 24-36 hours my second foray goes live. I'll talk about that come Monday... If you're observant, you'll find out sooner.
It's all a big experiment, after all.
* No, he didn't. But I did take the idea from him.
** Remember what I said about this being an experiment?
May 4, 2011
WIP Wednesday: Lost in the Font Forest
One of the fun things (for me) about e-publishing involves font selection.
Yes, you read that right: font selection. Crown me king of the geeks.
But think about it. Book covers are different in the digital era. They are an electronic "button" with which a reader might investigate or purchase your book. Fonts must be readable on small icons and draw in a reader's attention. They should convey a message about the book, too.
I could spend hours looking at fonts...
Unfortunately not much else would get done.
Some of my favorite haunts:
dafont.com
urbanfonts
1001 Free Fonts
Don't blame me if you accomplish nothing today.
Yes, you read that right: font selection. Crown me king of the geeks.
But think about it. Book covers are different in the digital era. They are an electronic "button" with which a reader might investigate or purchase your book. Fonts must be readable on small icons and draw in a reader's attention. They should convey a message about the book, too.
I could spend hours looking at fonts...
Unfortunately not much else would get done.
Some of my favorite haunts:
dafont.com
urbanfonts
1001 Free Fonts
Don't blame me if you accomplish nothing today.
May 3, 2011
If I Only Wrote One Story...
If I could only keep one story, which would it be? Which one best exemplifies my "style"? What about you, if you are a writer? Which story, novel, play, poem, etc. best represents you?
I think I'd go with "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable"--mostly because I hope, hope, I'd make the same choice as the protagonist.* But there are other stories I love, too many to hold in one hand.
"Wanting It" from Shock Totem 3 is a love letter (okay, a sorrowful love letter) to my childhood.
"The Weight of Children's Stories" from Midnight Echo 5 chilled me as I wrote.
Plenty more...
But if I only had one, it would be "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". Aqueous has released The Saints are Dead, including a shiny, spiffed-up version of the story.
You can still read the "old" version online at A Fly in Amber. Or, if you want the shined-up story with sixteen others, this is for you:
*I'm just not that good with spray paint.
I think I'd go with "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable"--mostly because I hope, hope, I'd make the same choice as the protagonist.* But there are other stories I love, too many to hold in one hand.
"Wanting It" from Shock Totem 3 is a love letter (okay, a sorrowful love letter) to my childhood.
"The Weight of Children's Stories" from Midnight Echo 5 chilled me as I wrote.
Plenty more...
But if I only had one, it would be "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". Aqueous has released The Saints are Dead, including a shiny, spiffed-up version of the story.
You can still read the "old" version online at A Fly in Amber. Or, if you want the shined-up story with sixteen others, this is for you:
*I'm just not that good with spray paint.
May 2, 2011
Great Stories: "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Edgar Allan Poe
Every American Literature text in this country has at least one entry, if not two, from Edgar Allan Poe. He's an icon to students everywhere, and while his texts are difficult, I never hear complaints. Something about murder, plague, and madness speaks to the teenage mind, I suppose.
I've been spending a portion of my Thursday evenings, while Max takes gymnastics class, walking through historic Oak Hill cemetery. It's a lovely, gloomy place with craggy hillsides littered with monuments, plenty of gnarled and twisted trees which snatch up the fading daylight. Ah...
And then there's this:
While the Usher family of Poe's story entombed the dead in catacombs below the house, it's simply delightful to walk past a crumbling, in-earth vault inscribed with the name "Usher".
"The Fall of The House of Usher" is one of Poe's masterpieces. You can click on the text below to read the full story, should you wish. Have a wonderful Monday.
DURING THE WHOLE of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into everyday life—the hideous dropping off of the veil.
I've been spending a portion of my Thursday evenings, while Max takes gymnastics class, walking through historic Oak Hill cemetery. It's a lovely, gloomy place with craggy hillsides littered with monuments, plenty of gnarled and twisted trees which snatch up the fading daylight. Ah...
And then there's this:
While the Usher family of Poe's story entombed the dead in catacombs below the house, it's simply delightful to walk past a crumbling, in-earth vault inscribed with the name "Usher".
"The Fall of The House of Usher" is one of Poe's masterpieces. You can click on the text below to read the full story, should you wish. Have a wonderful Monday.
DURING THE WHOLE of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into everyday life—the hideous dropping off of the veil.
April 30, 2011
My Boys
Owen is receiving 1st communion today. He's nearly five feet tall (at age seven) and scored four goals in his soccer game this morning (a come from behind win). He now owns a suit, his first. He has three neckties, all clip-on. Thank Zeus.
Max turns five today. He still has one missing tooth, chipped and pulled when he was two. He can stand on his head and do a cherry drop in gymnastics. I've baked three birthday cakes in the past two weeks.
I looked at some old pictures the other day and realized how fast they grow up.
I love these guys, even when they're knuckleheads.
They're inspirations. In fact, I've dedicated The Saints are Dead to them.
Have a wonderful weekend.
Max turns five today. He still has one missing tooth, chipped and pulled when he was two. He can stand on his head and do a cherry drop in gymnastics. I've baked three birthday cakes in the past two weeks.
I looked at some old pictures the other day and realized how fast they grow up.
I love these guys, even when they're knuckleheads.
They're inspirations. In fact, I've dedicated The Saints are Dead to them.
Have a wonderful weekend.
April 29, 2011
Five Question Friday: J.M. Zambrano
What do you think makes a good story? Unforgettable, sometimes quirky, characters and a plot that leaves something to the imagination of the reader. Reading should not be solely a spectator sport. What would be the ideal meal for one of your favorite characters?Jessica Edwards of The Trophy Hunter would choose a bloody rare steak with Darren Rogart as a side dish. If I could read a diary of one of your characters, what would I learn about him/her? Morgan Bayfield of Pool of Lies would reveal in her teenage diary how she felt when she had to choose between following her heart and protecting her lover. Cats or dogs? Why?
Dogs are loyal, even when abused. Cats are independent and require that their loyalty be earned. I choose cats, though I also love dogs. What is on the floor of your bedroom?
Well-worn carpet, potted plants, a cat box and a trail of cat litter. Must vacuum soon!
http://www.jmzambrano.com http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JMZambrano http://www.amazon.com/J.-M.-Zambrano/e/B004DWQV0O
April 28, 2011
The Value of Failure: by the Numbers
Duotrope's Digest tells me I have had 436 short story/poetry rejections in the past four years.
I have (at least) another 100 rejections from agents for the three books I queried the traditional way: Last Days of the Springdale Saints, The House Eaters, and Rock Gods and Scary Monsters.
536 doesn't even touch the real number. Some markets aren't listed on Duotrope. Sometimes I don't report rejections or submissions.
I received well over 50 rejections before I sold my first short story, "A Fresh Coat of Paint" to Big Pulp. That story was rejected 3 times before being accepted.
The point of these numbers? Lessons. Every one of them. I learned through each and every tiny failure.
By my records, which I think are complete, I have had 153 stories accepted for publication. A handful of these are reprints. Five markets died before an accepted story was published. Several stories are waiting for publication. I was paid, at least a token amount, for 102 of those stories, ranging anywhere from $1 to $150.
Lessons. Every one.
I'm glad I started self-publishing my work in e-book format. I think it's the right thing to do--for me, for now. If I would have started in 2007... Failure. Not the good, lesson-learning failure.
Just failure.
My writing has grown because of every stumble and fall and failed story. There's no other way to become a better writer.
How do you feel about failure?
I have (at least) another 100 rejections from agents for the three books I queried the traditional way: Last Days of the Springdale Saints, The House Eaters, and Rock Gods and Scary Monsters.
536 doesn't even touch the real number. Some markets aren't listed on Duotrope. Sometimes I don't report rejections or submissions.
I received well over 50 rejections before I sold my first short story, "A Fresh Coat of Paint" to Big Pulp. That story was rejected 3 times before being accepted.
The point of these numbers? Lessons. Every one of them. I learned through each and every tiny failure.
By my records, which I think are complete, I have had 153 stories accepted for publication. A handful of these are reprints. Five markets died before an accepted story was published. Several stories are waiting for publication. I was paid, at least a token amount, for 102 of those stories, ranging anywhere from $1 to $150.
Lessons. Every one.
I'm glad I started self-publishing my work in e-book format. I think it's the right thing to do--for me, for now. If I would have started in 2007... Failure. Not the good, lesson-learning failure.
Just failure.
My writing has grown because of every stumble and fall and failed story. There's no other way to become a better writer.
How do you feel about failure?
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