Aaron Polson's Blog, page 29

WIP Wednesday: Tales of WIPs Past, Present, and Future

Hellnotes posted a great review of Shock Totem #3, and I'm thrilled to say the reviewer liked my story. "Wanting It" had a long and winding road before acceptance. For example: Ken Wood (editorial genius) and I exchanged several emails about what the narrator would call his butt. Anyway, the reviewer (Dave) had this to say:

"Facing facts leads to an emotional hurt that lyrically lingers in this lovely and haunting story."

Read the rest, here.

I'm working on Borrowed Saints (letting Sons of Chaos and the Desert of the Dead cool before another editing round). Parts of the book are much better than I remember:

She held the razor up to the mirror. The black mouth of the mirror girl opened, anticipating.

Phoebe blinked.

Make it pretty.

So, yes, there's a fair bit of cutting in the book. And voices. And ghosts. Oh my.

It's Alive! (The House Eaters)

What he said. And by "It" I mean The House Eaters and by "Alive" I mean back in print.

Available through Createspace now for $6.99.

(Amazon and other retailers will take a few days to update).

Of course, you can still pick up a $0.99 ebook for Kindle, at Smashwords, or through Barnes & Noble for the Nook.

Great Books: Of Mice and Men

I love teaching Steinbeck's short novel (go ahead, call it a novella) of friendship and dreams during the Great Depression. Students tend to love it, too--at least those who read it.

And at just under 30, 000 words*, most students will give it a try.

Steinbeck's language is beautiful but straight-forward, his dialogue and voice spot on. Of Mice and Men is a great vehicle for teaching characterization, foreshadowing, and theme.

I love this book, and I'm fortunate to have the opportunity to read it every year.

*How would Steinbeck have pitched a 30K novel in today's publishing world? Would he have self-published on Kindle because the big 6 were looking for 100K novels? Sorry--couldn't help myself. But just think of the gap in American literature if Of Mice and Men never saw print.

What I Should Have Done Six Months Ago

Fair warning: It's one of those "Big Experiment" posts.

I should have started this "indie publishing" thing six months ago. Am I going to retire soon? No, not at $0.35 a book, but my sales are definitely growing month to month. And when I write "sales" what I really mean is "potential readers". This week alone, I've seen more sales than the entire month of March. The Bottom Feeders continues to be my bestselling book, with 22 copies and counting out the virtual door. Notice: I'm not selling a ridiculous amount of any one book, but several are selling modestly well. Each book is a potential reader--note I use the word potential. Do you read everything you buy?

Will the trend continue? I hope so. It's a pretty steep curve.

Scott Nicholson, an indie author who has traveled the "traditionally-published path" and man for whom I have a great deal of respect, recently posted a blog entry Marketing is Not Selling. Read it and the companion piece on IndieReader. My favorite bit: "...I am not screaming "Buy my book." I'd rather you feed your family, or buy some seeds, or donate to your favorite local charity. That's what I do when you buy my book."

Feed your family.

For the first time I feel like I might be able to actually contribute to my family through writing rather than taking away. Think about it: years spent banging at the keyboard when I could have been doing something else. I've taken myself away from my family for my fictional worlds. It isn't as simple as that, but the kernel of truth is there.

Look in the mirror, Aaron: You are not evil because you want to be compensated for your time and effort. Got it? Good.

Yes, I've been releasing e-books faster than Jerry puts the smack-down on Tom. I have a pool of over 100 published short stories, some of them smelly as last week's garbage (don't worry about seeing them again) and several unpublished shorts which were "that close". Why let them fester on my hard drive? It's taken me years to arrive at this point. Years and thousands upon thousands of words.

After my current round of edits on The Sons of Chaos and the Desert of the Dead, I'm going to put the finishing touches on Borrowed Saints for a May release. I'm toying with the idea of writing a House Eaters sequel this summer.

The bottom line: I want to be read. I might be able to spread some good fortune to my family. Sounds like goals are meeting reality, right?

I just wish I would have started six months ago.

What are you waiting for?

Five Question Friday: Christopher M. Divver

Five questions with Christopher M. Divver...

What do you think makes a good story?

Anything that keeps my interest. I read mostly any genre but the one thing I despise, the one thing that makes me put the book down and never pick it up again is a poorly written plot. The story must keep my interest and I must have some type of connection, in some form or fashion, to the characters. I need to care what happens to them, good or bad, or it's just not worth my time.

What is the hardest part of being a writer?

Rejection. The time and the energy involved in putting together a manuscript is almost immeasurable. To some it's truly a blood, sweat and tears kinda thing, and to have that rejected, by an agent in a query letter or by an unknown reviewer can be emotionally overwhelming. Every writer, myself included, thinks theirs is the "greatest story ever told," but the real test comes when people you don't know read it. That is a writer's only true barometer, and sometimes the truth hurts.

Is the book always better than the movie?

Absolutely. A movie has a time limit, and not just because of production scheduling, but simply because of the average person's attention span. Three hours is the limit to which a person will willingly sit still and watch anything! So movie's are restricted to how much plot, conflict and resolution they can produce in under three hours, whereas a book can be nearly endless i.e. War and Peace. Pulp writer's have much more leeway when it comes to character development than screen writer's do.

What is your perfect Sunday?

A blue sky, perhaps with a spotty puffy white cloud or two; warm, but not hot with a calm, gentle breeze. My wife and I together, along a trail shrouded in thick trees and vegetation. A deer, a few yards off, chews a leaf, ignoring us as we pass. Miles later the trail bends and the trees suddenly open to a rocky outcropping along the edge of the mountain and there, laid out for miles beneath us, is the valley. We sit along the edge, share a bottle of water and a light snack and silently take in the splendor, each of us wishing it wouldn't end.

What is on the floor of your bedroom?

Carpet, eggshell colored, once plush and vibrant now well worn. A cat or two napping in the warmth of the sun that covers most of the bedroom and an article or three of clothing, mine, that my wife politely asks me to pick up but I say to her "the floor is the largest shelf in the house," and smile.

Check out Time in a Bottle at Amazon.com.

What I Mean When I Say "Tired"

I'm feeling a little stress. We all do from time to time. Mine is usually brought on by my own hand, that is I cause stress for myself.

Undue stress, for the most part. I'm tired of it.

I've never really wanted to consider myself a "type-A" personality, but there you have it. (please oh please let me be an A- at least)

Stress makes for lousy writing sessions. Stress makes for neurotic checking of email and Kindle sales and publishing contracts and email and Twitter and email (did I mention email?). Stress makes for lack of sleep. Lack of sleep makes for tired. Tired makes for a cranky Aaron.

So what do you do? How do you manage stress in your life?

WIP Wednesday: Juggling & Big Experiment Update

From my "notes" on my iPod (where I leave myself late night "to dos"):

guest blog
XXXX's book
finish war story
finish zombie piece and revise
prep Saints for May release
finalize House Eaters print
revise flash and send

My goal today is to knock out XXXX's book (a beta read--I'm 70% done), the guest blog, and finalize The House Eaters for print. I'd love to finish the "war" story. It's been fun:

By some accident of God, I survived the first assault.

See. Fun.

The big experiment update? I've sold 50+ e-books this month (50 on the Kindle and another 5 or so via Smashwords). A bit of a milestone for me.

Onwards and upwards!

Playing Hooky

I'm not sure the phrase "playing hooky" is universal in other English-speaking cultures. Around here it means I'm skipping school.

And I am--so I can go to school with my son. They have a wonderful program at Sunset Hill Elementary called "Watch D.O.G.S." and I'm the D.O.G.S. today. (Dads of Great Students) Of course, I'm not typing this at Owen's school; I'm having lunch at home during a break. What I've learned today:

1. Reading is everything in an elementary
2. Recess is still fun, but chaotic (and not nearly long enough)
3. I'm really proud of my kid

Owen even devoured his broccoli first at lunch. I wouldn't have had the willpower. (My sugar cookies would have been gone in five seconds.)

Enjoy your Tuesdays (or Wednesday for those of you down under).

On Second Reads

Do you read a story/novel more than once?

I'm a chronic re-reader. Some books, like Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis, I've read three or more times. Of course others, Of Mice and Men, I've taught for ten years or more. I almost have that poor little book memorized.

Sometimes the re-read doesn't carry the same impact as the first time. I couldn't sleep last Friday night, and so pulled one of my H.P. Lovecraft collections off the shelf and tackled "The Rats in the Walls" for the third time. It is a brilliant story, wonderfully set up and paced. But--and here's the spoiler alert--upon my second and third reads, when the protagonist and his compatriots open the secret staircase and descend into the "grotto of twilit horrors" it didn't have the same effect as it did upon first reading.

I felt a tad sad. The first time I read "The Rats in the Walls" I felt a sense of discovery and revulsion upon making the discovery. Knowing "what was coming" softened the blow. The overwhelming sense of dread and terror just wasn't there.

Are there types of stories which fair better upon re-reading? How so?

#samplesunday The House Eaters

Chapter One - The House Eaters

I found the half-devoured house on our first afternoon in Broughton's Hollow.

Dad and Mom were busy unpacking, Tabby was in her room being a moody fourteen-year-old, and I was bored. It was day one in Nowhere, Kansas, and my skull was already starting to ache. Okay, the place was officially called Evergreen Estates, and it was a new development, one of those places where people come in and smash old houses or bulldoze nature to make room for new construction. But Dad called the place Broughton's Hollow because that was the name of the town when he was a kid. He grew up in nearby Springdale, the little town where I'd be a senior in the fall.

I figured the initials B.H. fit the place pretty well. B.H. as in black hole. As in goodbye social life, sorry to see you go, but Nick is stuck in Kansas, and no tornado is going to ferry his sorry butt to Oz.

Officially, we moved because of Mom. Not because she wanted to; she was a city girl, St. Louis born and raised. No, we moved because Mom lost her job with Sprint. Dad was an English teacher, and they couldn't afford our place in Kansas City. Tabby's hospital bills still hung over the family, and the 'rents even had not-so-secret conversations about how a move might help her. I overheard them talking about it on more than one occasion even though it was hush-hush. Besides, the new house was cheap. "A steal," Dad said.

Broughton's Hollow—Evergreen Estates. Whatever. It was nothing like K.C.

So while everyone was unpacking, I decided to go for a run. After a long day, I was stiff, and I figured I could work in a few laps before dinner. Hitting a pool would be nicer—more my style, but then again anything would be nicer than moving two weeks before my senior year. Who knew if there was a decent lap pool within fifty miles? Evergreen was a new development, just about ten houses—all on a couple newly paved streets. I counted when we pulled in that morning. I wasn't really paying too much attention, of course. I also had the whole "teenage resistance" thing going on, or so said Mom.

The streets were paved with varying degrees of success. The new streets, like ours, were smooth and black. The county roads and streets that held remnants of older houses surviving from Dad's childhood lay in cracked stretches, with weeds and grass poking through the gashes. I ran down one of those roads, away from the development, following the county highway around low hills that sort of sheltered the Hollow. My long legs took the broken road in easy strides while I scanned the horizon. Kansas was flat, but mostly out west. In the northeast, little towns like Broughton's Hollow were tucked away between hills and stands of cottonwood trees, lost amongst green smudges that marked rivers or streams.

I rounded a turn, and something hit me, landed in my gut with the force of a ball of ice. Even though it was July, I shivered. The sun was in hiding all day, resting behind a healthy layer of rain clouds, so it was colder than usual. But that wasn't it.

I didn't shiver because of the cold. There, in front of me, burrowed in the side of one of these low hills, rested the ruins of an old house, almost twice the size of our new place. A monster lurking in the shadows. It was a predator, an abomination—the outside walls were mostly smashed, almost peeled off, from a little tower that rose in the middle to the sprawling foundation. The roof was intact, but splinters of graying wood from the torn up siding jutted toward me like broken teeth. The sun peeked out just enough to ignite the front of the House before vanishing into the granite sky and bits of glass glinted like flickering eyes.

For a moment, the House was alive.

I was distracted while running, trying to ignore the stiffness in my legs and thinking about how much suckage I'd have to contend with at Springdale High, but then the House leapt out of nowhere, kind of like it was waiting in the shadows of the hill. With a quick glance to each side, I noticed I was a couple hundred yards from the edge of the development. My brain overcrowded with the feeling that the House was watching me.

I hurried back home. My feet pounded against the ground, and my heart clanged away inside my chest as I ran as fast as I could for the first hundred yards. My paced slowed, and I was almost fully thawed by the time I rounded the last of the highway and saw the old man standing on our porch, talking to Mom.

Instant freeze again.

Want some more? The House Eaters is on sale for a buck at Amazon.com and Smashwords.com.