Tac Anderson's Blog, page 4

I’m an unemployed self-published author.Okay, I’m only unemployed by choice and...

I’m an unemployed self-published author.

Okay, I’m only unemployed by choice and it’s only for a week. But I did leave Amazon working there after almost 9 years. That was pretty big. And I am a self-published author and decided to take this “week off” to give my labor of love some long overdue attention and to get back into my second novel.

BTW, Super-Borg Dies is on sale right now.

Where has the year gone? April is almost over, which means 1/3 of the year is over! I ended 2020 on an oddly productive streak, thinking that 2021 would be even more productive. It hasn’t started turned out that way, so far. Q1 of 2021 was nuts. Just total chaos for me. Not bad chaos, necessarily, but not great chaos. So, how do I decide to deal with that chaos? I quit my job to join a startup, of course. (More on that in the near future.)

With this big change, I’m hoping to do a personal reset. First and foremost, I need to do the things I know I need to to do to take care of myself. For me that means sticking to my schedules - asleep by 11, up by 5, followed by study and exercise - and tracking my calories. I also need to get back into the habit of working on my book every day, even if it’s just an hour. That’s going to be hard starting a new job, but that’s partly why I’m taking this week off, so I can do some planning and preparations.

Wish me luck, and I hope your year is going well.

Self Publishing; The Analogy of the Apple Tree

“How is the book doing?” This is one of the most frequent questions I get, and it’s a totally understandable question. I published my book just over three weeks ago and people are excited for me (or at the very least, interested). But as a first time, self-published author, it’s kind of hard to answer that question at this point. To explain why, let me tell you about growing apple trees.

Most people think that you grow an apple tree by planting a seed in good soil, watering it, and waiting. This isn’t wrong. The problem is that it will take about eight to ten years until you have a tree that will produce fruit. This is too long for most people and there is another way, which is what the nursery industry does.

If you were to go to a nursery to buy an apple tree to plant in your yard, you might notice down at the bottom of the tree there’s a big knot. This is where they grafted a cutting from a tree (called a scion) onto the roots (called rootstock) of another tree.

Nurseries use scions, instead of seeds because it ensures that they get the exact variety of fruit that they want. Seeds will usually produce fruit genetically different from the parent tree - the way kids are different from their parents. And since they can take scions from small branches, one tree can produce hundreds of scions.

Nurseries use rootstock grown from a disease resistant variety, which keeps the trees healthier, and the right rootstock can ensure the tree stays a certain size (most homeowners want dwarf variety because it won’t take over your whole yard). By taking cuttings of roots and growing new rootstock, one tree can produce a lot of rootstock.

So by grafting scions to root stock, nurseries ensure they can produce hundreds of trees of the exact variety they want and that tree will produce fruit in two to three years, instead of eight to ten.

If you haven’t figured out my analogy yet, self-publishing is like growing an apple tree from a seed and traditional publishers are the nurseries. Publishers have a system which allows them to take new authors and graft them onto healthy rootstock, which allows them to see the fruits of that work much sooner. When you self publish a book, you are growing a tree from a seed and will wait much longer before you see the fruit of that work.

So, how is the book doing? It’s a nice healthy seedling. But in all seriousness, things are going well. Due to the impact Covid has had on the publishing industry, and the shopping rush of the holidays, I am just now getting the author copies of my book, which is what I was waiting for to start the marketing for the book. Despite that, I’m getting very positive reviews on Amazon and Goodreads (which is invaluable for any book). Some of the reviews are even from people I don’t know, which is terribly exciting.

So what’s next? I’ll kick off some marketing in January, but the key thing is I’ve already started writing the second book. This is great advice from Eliot Peper, who has both self-published and worked through a publisher. The best thing I can do to build up my readership is not heavily market my first book, but is to publish my second book. It’s going to take years to see the fruits of my labors, so the best thing I can do is to keep writing and give my readers more books to love, that they then tell their friends about. 

(Now I’m hungry for an apple.) 

Super-Borg Chapter 1

My book, Super-Borg Dies, is out now. You can purchase it here or read the first chapter below. You can also sign up for my newsletter here. 

Chapter One

“Stupid wannabe superhero,” a bulky man holding a metal pipe said, swinging it at Super-Borg, “why don’t you go home and read your comic-books?” Super-Borg had already disarmed the man of his gun but was surprised by the man’s resourcefulness when he pulled out a metal pipe. 

Super-Borg ducked the wild swing and brought his clenched, reinforced glove up into the man’s jaw, shutting him up. He hated banter. He stood over the unconscious man, catching his breath and wiping rain away from his goggles. His black exoskeleton-enhanced, military-grade personal armor creaked when he bent over and zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back. 

As he stood up, two bullets struck Super-Borg in the back. The carbon-fiber reinforced plates in his suit absorbed most of the blow, but it still hurt. He dove behind a garbage can as another shot fired; it didn’t provide much protection. He spotted the shooter standing fifty yards away, which placed Super-Borg directly between the shooter and the Space Needle. Super-Borg bolted from his cover, staying low to the ground. 

Even in a crouch, his powered suit allowed him to cover half of the distance quickly. He straightened up and then, as more shots whizzed by, he jumped, letting his suit propel him eight feet into the air. At the peak of his jump he threw a disc, about the size of a hockey puck, at the gunman. The disc struck just above his eye, and he crumpled with a grunt. 

Super-Borg landed and slid on the mud, crashing into a bush. He stood up, extricated himself from the bush and picked trash off his mud-caked suit. It wasn’t the most graceful landing, but it worked. Super-Borg sprinted over and zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back. “Let’s hope the cops find you before your friends do,” Super-Borg said to the unconscious man. “And hopefully the cops aren’t your friends.”

A bullet struck the tree next to him, and he ducked instinctively, jumping behind the tree. All this gunfire was bringing more unwanted attention. Yelling echoed through the vacant grounds around the Space Needle. What few lights that worked did little more than create small lighted cones of rain and mist. His disc was at the base of the tree but he didn’t bother to pick it up. He had lost so many that people were collecting them and reselling them online. Periodically he changed the design of the “SB” stamp he put on them, just to make the older discs collectible. People were funny. Even with all the chaos and economic instability, people still collected things. 

 The Space Needle, with its boarded-up gift shop and graffiti-covered cement supports, loomed ahead. The Neuro-syndicate was a gang specializing in the theft, production, and sale of neuro-enhancing drugs. Neuro enhancers were used by everyone: from corporate employees trying to stay sharp while they put in twelve-plus hour days, to professional gamers looking to get an edge in their next online tournament, or even school kids looking to pass their prep-school admissions tests. While it would be hypocritical for Super-Borg to object to people using neuro enhancers, the Neuro-syndicate killed people, and the stuff they cut their neuro enhancers with caused long-term brain damage and sometimes death. When neuro enhancers weren’t covered by a person’s corporate benefits plan, the black-market stuff was all most people could afford. 

Super-Borg was there to stop the Neuro-syndicate from making a major sale, but he did not expect them to have this much armed support. The deal must be bigger than he thought. 

“Super-cycle, deploy the drones and release smoke bombs between my location and the Space Needle.” Super-Borg used drones for several purposes. He was surprised more supers didn’t use them. But most supers weren’t rich. Super-Borg wasn’t Bruce Wayne rich, but he was rich enough, and after dropping out of med school he had earned a degree in engineering, so he could build most of his own equipment. He relied on drones to survey his surroundings and record his excursions. He used the recordings to make videos he released online to his followers, to watch for his own personal training, and he occasionally used them as evidence in court. Drones were also invaluable for providing a distraction. He could see the small flock of drones in the heads-up display built into his goggles. Soon dense smoke filled the park. 

His super-suit featured large, modified high-tech goggles that provided a heads-up display and video link from his drones, an open-face reinforced motorcycle helmet, and a face mask covering his nose and mouth. The mask was wired to receive his voice commands, amplify and alter his voice, filter out all smoke and toxins, and supply extra oxygen when he was exerting himself like right now. Sensors in his suit adjusted oxygen levels as needed. 

People yelled loudly, calling out to each other in the smoke, trying to get a handle on what was going on. An occasional shot rang out when someone saw — or thought they saw — something. 

An alert on his display warned him that his heart rate was elevated. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. “Keep it together, SB.” Super-Borg took a deep breath in and slowly let it out. “Someone has to do something. This is what you do. This is who you are,” he said, repeating the oft-invoked mantra. He took a deep breath, “Up, up, and away,” he whispered, and sprinted for the Space Needle.  

_____________________________________________

Who brings rocket launchers to a drug deal? Super-Borg thought, running to get clear of the falling Space Needle. Beams, bolts, and concrete built to survive a 9.1 earthquake began to scream as if in unbelief that they had finally failed. As he ran, Super-Borg was still looking up at the falling Space Needle. It was like a bad dream. He was trying to not run directly in the path of the falling mountain of architecture, but there seemed to be no escaping it. He tried to change direction and tripped — over what, he didn’t know — and fell sprawling into the mud. He cursed himself for not watching where he was going, scrambled to his feet — determined to watch where he was running — and kept his head down as he ran. He was so intent on running and watching where he was going, that he failed to see the furniture dropping out of the old top-floor restaurant. A chair slammed on the ground immediately in front of him. He didn’t have time to hurdle it, so he tried to kick it, but his foot got stuck in the armrest and he fell again. Debris and concrete rained down. He curled up into the fetal position as Seattle’s most iconic landmark buried him.

_____________________________________________

Trent was coughing on water and his head was throbbing, but he wasn’t awake enough to open his eyes. 

“Trent? Trent, can you hear me?” His father’s voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “Trent, I need you to wake up.” His head shook slightly, and water sloshed around the side of his face, like it was bobbing in the ocean. 

Trent’s eyes snapped open, his head hurt, and he was still coughing. 

“He’s awake,” his father said, sounding relieved. “I think he’s okay.” His father was looking at him, but he wasn’t talking to him. 

“That’s great, Mr. Daeshaun,” a woman’s voice said from overhead. “Help is on its way, just hang in there.” 

It came back to Trent then. Headlights swerving into their lane. His dad swearing. Tires screeching. The world spinning. 

“Trent. Buddy. Can you hold your head up? I need to let go.” Trent realized that his head was being held up out of the water by his dad, who was turned around from the driver’s seat — one shaky arm holding Trent’s head up so he wouldn’t drown and one hand pushing against the steering wheel, giving him the leverage that he needed to reach Trent. Trent nodded and lifted his head up. 

“Mr. Daeshaun, how are you doing? How are your legs?” the woman asked, with an intentionally calm voice — not emotionless or robotic, but not worried either, just appropriately concerned. 

“I still can’t feel my legs. I’m feeling light-headed.” Trent’s dad glanced back at Trent and then added with the best smile that he could muster, “But I’m fine. I got my boy here with me, so everything will be okay.” Trent’s dad was a cop, so he knew how to lie convincingly. 

Trent was twelve and knew when his dad was being a cop and when he was being a dad. Right now, Officer Daeshaun was in the driver’s seat, and everything would be okay. Trent knew when his dad put on his work persona in front of him: it was either because he needed immediate and unquestioning obedience, or when he needed to lie because whatever was going on in the world was out of his control and he couldn’t face his son with the truth. For the first month after his mother died, he lived with Officer Daeshaun and didn’t see his dad much. 

Trent always thought he looked like a faded version of his dad. He had seen pictures of his dad as a kid and they looked so much alike, except Trent had his mother’s lighter Indian skin. His mother was beautiful, but he had always wished he had been darker like his dad. He spent a lot of time looking at his dad’s complexion and had learned what the subtle changes meant. He could tell when his dad blushed because his cheeks and ears turned a richer color of brown. When he was sick or light-headed, he looked like the chocolate Easter bunny Trent had forgotten about for almost a year that had developed a gray-tinted film over the surface. His dad looked like that now. 

“Dad, what’s wrong?” 

Officer Daeshaun looked back and met Trent’s eyes, “We were in an accident. Help is on the way. It will be okay.” 

“Dad, you’re shaking. You don’t look good.” His dad was shivering severely. 

“Don’t look good? You calling me ugly?” The laugh that followed was weak — even weaker than the joke. Trent said nothing. 

Trent’s dad sighed, “The wreck was pretty bad. We’re lucky to still be alive. My legs are trapped. I also think I lost a lot of blood.” 

“That’s why you’re shaking so bad?”  

“Probably a combination of shock and the adrenaline wearing off. But the blood loss isn’t helping.” 

“Mr. Daeshaun,” the voice spoke from their car speakers, “the paramedics and the police are arriving now.” Trent could see the flashing lights and hear the vehicles pulling up. “I’m in contact with the officer in charge. I will leave the line open until you are both out of the vehicle.” Neither Trent nor his dad bothered to respond. They were both transfixed by the emergency vehicle lights. 

“Mike?” They could hear footsteps and the sound of a belt full of equipment bouncing as the officer it was attached to ran toward them. “Mike?” A flashlight moved closer, breaking away from the emergency vehicles parked along the road, like a bright white scout sent out from the hive of flashier, colorful lights. 

“Here. We’re here.” Trent’s dad called out. Tears filled Trent’s eyes and he wasn’t sure why, he tried uselessly to wipe them away with a wet hand. 

Light filled the windshield and then came around to the driver’s window. The car had rolled into the lake, but they were near the shore where the water was shallow. Trent sat in the backseat, passenger side — his dad still preferred him to ride in the back so the airbags wouldn’t hurt him if they were ever in a wreck. Trent almost laughed as the tears ran down his face. The one time they were in a wreck, and the airbags failed to go off. 

“Mike, thank God you’re alive.” It was his dad’s partner, Jose, and Trent knew he was crossing himself. His dad teased Jose about how much he crossed himself and uttered little prayers. Trent was glad Jose was praying for them. 

“Jose, Trent’s in the back. Get him first.” The flashlight turned its stare on Trent and panned back and forth.

“Trent, you hurt?” Jose said.

“I don’t think so.” 

“Trent, can you unbuckle yourself?”

“I think I can,” Trent said, reaching down until he found the buckle and unlatched it. 

“Bring me a stretcher,” Jose yelled back toward the flashing lights. “Trent,” Jose said, in his soft, but still firm, everything’s going to be okay if you do what I say voice, “I’m going to pull you toward me and then out. Okay?”

Trent nodded and slid toward Jose. Large hands reached in and grabbed him. Trent began coughing again.  

_____________________________________________

Super-Borg woke up coughing on dust and his whole body was in pain. His mask had come off, it was dark, and dust filled the air. He was trapped and concrete dust coated everything, forming a sticky paste as it mixed with the rainwater. His head hurt and his ribs screamed in pain when he coughed. “Broken rib, great.” The display on his goggles wasn’t working. There was a cold breeze and drops of rain splashed around him. His leg felt trapped, and he didn’t have much room to move, but he was thankful to be alive. Trying to lift the slab of 1960s concrete that trapped his leg proved impossible as there was no power from his suit, and without it he wasn’t strong enough. 

A sharp pain in his knee pulsed like someone was stabbing it with an icepick in time with his heartbeat. The concrete rock kept him from bending his leg, but he moved his toes and then his foot. “I don’t think the leg’s broken, that’s good.” There was a large gash on the armor over his chest where a large piece of rubble had bounced off and broken his ribs. He was lucky to be alive. 

He coughed again and forgot about the icepick in his knee as pain shot through his chest. He could feel his ribs shifting when he coughed. Between the dust and the broken rib, it was hard to breathe, and he felt light-headed. 

“I can’t believe they dropped the Space Needle on me. What the hell?” His voice was rough and scratchy from dust and coughing, but talking to himself helped to keep him calm. 

No power in his exoskeleton or in the goggles meant the suit was in sleep mode, out of power, or the impact had somehow shut everything down. It was also possible the suit was critically damaged, but he didn’t want to think about that. Opening the cover of the touchscreen on his arm, he poked at it a few times. Nothing happened. He coughed again and grimaced through the pain. The suit would need a hard reboot. 

Lifting a panel built into the armor on his shoulder, he flipped open the small breaker box. Sliding the switch inside to the off position, he counted to three and then slid it back. The slow, electrical whining of his suit waking up filled his little cave. He lay back, exhausted but smiling.  

Looking at the screen on his forearm, he could see his suit’s power was at 20 percent. There was also a problem with the right knee joint. All of his drones were still circling the area, collecting data. They reported that his immediate vicinity was clear — the Neuro-syndicate must have bolted. The police weren’t there yet, but an alert told him they were on the way. Super-Borg had no desire to talk to the police. They disliked supers, and Super-Borg was a vocal critic of the privatization of the police force. Whenever he had to deal with the police, they went out of their way to make things difficult for him. He still respected the badge, but he knew even his dad wouldn’t like what had become of the force. His best option was to try and get out of there quickly and quietly, and file his community marshals incident report later. 

With the power restored to his goggles, he turned them to night-vision mode and located his mask. He braced himself, then used the power of his suit to lift the chunk of man-made rock off his leg. Even with the suit doing most of the heavy lifting, his ribs still screamed at him. The rock shifted and he stopped, catching his breath, trying not to cough.  

Taking a slow breath, he repositioned his hands and lifted again. The concrete slowly shifted, causing a small avalanche of rubble to fall on his helmet. 

He slid his leg out and slowly stood, leaning against the same rock that had been trying to crush him. There was a piece of rebar wedged into the knee joint of his suit. The rebar had cut a large gash in his leg. Blood dripped down his suit, mixing with the dirt and rainwater, but he thought how incredibly lucky he was that it had not skewered his knee. He grabbed the piece of metal and pulled it free, inhaling sharply as it dragged across the cut. The mechanized joint on his suit was useless, but he could still bend his knee.   

It was only a few blocks to where he had parked his motorcycle. He hoped no video of him limping away from the scene would turn up online. 

He made it to the super-cycle without any hassle. He called it a super-cycle, but it looked like any other motorcycle. That was the point. He pulled a large, black hoodie from the storage compartment under the seat and covered himself up. As he rode away, shame and embarrassment flushed his cheeks. This was bad. He would have to call his publicist. 

_____________________________________________

Super-Borg Limps Away from Destroyed Space Needle

 We are receiving reports that today’s collapse of Seattle’s iconic Space Needle happened during an altercation between the Neuro-syndicate and the community marshal known as Super-Borg. Amateur video of Super-Borg fleeing the aftermath of the fallen Space Needle has been posted online.

Today, Super-Borg has given more fuel to the fire for those who think the community marshals cause more harm than good when he was involved in an altercation that resulted in the collapse of the Space Needle. Losing the iconic Seattle structure has many residents calling for the disbanding of the community marshals. While some call them superheroes, others call them reckless vigilantes. 

Fredrick Harman, the owner of a vegan hamburger truck called, Where’s the Beef, who lives in an apartment near the Space Needle, doesn’t see the purpose of the community marshals anymore. “They just run around playing superhero and doing more damage than they prevent. We lost the Space Needle today. Is it worth it?” 

Deputy Veishea of the local community marshals’ office has continuously stated that because the police are now privately funded, their priorities don’t always align with those of the public. 

The Space Needle is owned by the city and has been condemned for years, so there were no police assigned to the area, but they are looking into the use of banned weapons and explosives that reportedly brought it down. 

From The Seattle Wire

My First Book: Super-Borg Dies

I did a thing. I wrote a book. It’s a thing I’ve wanted to do most of my life. It took me four years, but I finally did it. It’s my first book, but it won’t be my last - and I plan to speed up the pace of writing. 

Super-Borg Dies is speculative fiction that takes place roughly 40ish years in the future. It takes place in Seattle where homelessness is out of control, the police force has been privatized and regular people take it upon themselves to be superheroes, protecting the people - with mixed results. 

Here’s the cover! 

My planned release date is Dec 26th (give or take a day), if everything goes according to plan. There’s still a lot to do between now and then, but I’m optimistic. 

I’ll be sharing excerpts and more details between now and then, so if you’d like to learn more and be notified of future updates, sign up for my newsletter over here. 

Dusting off the old electronic newsletter

It’s been a while since I used my newsletter, but if you’re interested, or think you might be interested, you can check it out over here. 

One more question that I have struggled with the trip flags: If you have multiple projects, how do you know which project does the flag refer to in a notebook? This has been a bit challenging. Thanks, Vikas

Hey, Vikas. That’s a really good question. Because the flags are just to denote what action items I have or things of particular interest, I’m not as worried about which specific project they’re tied to. I have tried using smaller flags and more colors to denote specific projects, but my projects tend to change so much that this just didn’t work for me. 

The thing I love about this whole system is that it’s very adaptable, I’d encourage you to find your own variations that work for you. There’s so many journaling systems out there, you can probably find aspects of different systems you could combine. That is how I came up with this approach in the first place. 

One more question that I have struggled with the trip flags: If you have multiple projects, how do you know which project does the flag refer to in a notebook? This has been a bit challenging. Thanks, Vikas

Hey, Vikas. That’s a really good question. Because the flags are just to denote what action items I have or things of particular interest, I’m not as worried about which specific project they’re tied to. I have tried using smaller flags and more colors to denote specific projects, but my projects tend to change so much that this just didn’t work for me. 

The thing I love about this whole system is that it’s very adaptable, I’d encourage you to find your own variations that work for you. There’s so many journaling systems out there, you can probably find aspects of different systems you could combine. That is how I came up with this approach in the first place. 

Hi Tac, Love your #GTDhack and use it everyday. Looks like you removed the scheduled hourly breakdown from the original set up. Question: Do you use any state-of-the-art apps / tools like Evernote / Apple notes coupled with this system for archiving etc? T

Thank you. The family is doing well and I’m really pleased you’re finding the notebook hack useful. 

I removed the hourly breakdown, mostly because my schedule changes so much every day. I usually have multiple conflicting meetings, meetings regularly change, and relying on Outlook was just a much better than trying to update the schedule in my notebook. 

I do use Evernote quite a bit. I use it for clipping notes from the web, note taking for things I don’t keep in my notebook, and for archiving notes from my notebook I know I’m going to need well past the life of the physical notebook. 

Hi Tac, Love your #GTDhack and use it everyday. Looks like you removed the scheduled hourly breakdown from the original set up. Question: Do you use any state-of-the-art apps / tools like Evernote / Apple notes coupled with this system for archiving etc

Thank you. The family is doing well and I’m really pleased you’re finding the notebook hack useful. 

I removed the hourly breakdown, mostly because my schedule changes so much every day. I usually have multiple conflicting meetings, meetings regularly change, and relying on Outlook was just a much better than trying to update the schedule in my notebook. 

I do use Evernote quite a bit. I use it for clipping notes from the web, note taking for things I don’t keep in my notebook, and for archiving notes from my notebook I know I’m going to need well past the life of the physical notebook. 

Simplified GTD Notebook Hack - The Weekly View

When I first developed my GTD notebook hack (if you’re not familiar with my system you should check it out), I needed a daily to do list. I was an IC (individual contributor) and was managing multiple projects myself. I took notes in almost every meeting because I almost always had tasks from that meeting. I went through a notebook in about six to eight weeks. I used to go through a lot of notebooks. 

As I’ve progressed in my career, managing larger and larger teams, I don’t have as many projects where I’m directly responsible for the deliverable. Instead of multiple tasks I need to get done daily, I have a few big items I need to get done weekly (in addition to providing input and clearing obstacles for my team). My tasks carry over multiple weeks or even months. I also don’t take as many notes in meetings as I’m usually giving feedback to others, and I don’t walk away with as many assigned tasks. 

To accommodate for this, I adjusted my previous notebook hack by combining my weekly and daily pages.

Priorities is where I track next steps on my various projects. Other Things is where I capture all those unplanned tasks I end up doing. I especially find value in Return and Report, where I reflect on the week and what went well and what didn’t.  

I still use my trip-colored flags to denote the different pages and action items, and I still take notes the same way (just not as many). Now instead of going through a notebook every six to eight weeks, a single notebook lasts me six to eight months.

Hope you found this useful. If you have any thoughts or questions, hit the AMA link (as seen in the sidebar) and ask away.