Jason Z. Christie's Blog, page 37
April 22, 2012
Sample Sunday - Untitled
I'm not revealing the title because this one isn't even being written on, currently, and I don't want to lose the great title. It's about a first-time serial killer rapist who abducts a teenage girl, and they fall in love... unedited.
She walked unclothed to the door and looked both ways in the
hallway like a child tentatively crossing the street. Pet was haunted by the
belief that she had done something wrong in her relatively juvenile life, but
she was unsure what it could be. Seeing and hearing no one, she fairly tip-toed her way down
the hall to the bathroom, where she naturally turned on the light and shut the
door.
Shortly thereafter, the man returned to find Pet missing,
having in essence left him at the altar.
He panicked and ran from the room, grabbing a knife as he
exited. When he saw the light on under the bathroom door, he felt
foolish. And then angry about feeling foolish. He stood to the left of the door and when she began to walk
down the hall, grabbed her from behind.
She saw the knife before she felt it, the same one that had
unnerved her when she saw it the first time in the grotto. By then it was too
late to scream, his hand now covering her mouth so tightly it hurt. He simply returned her to the altar and tied her up again,
never saying a word.
The hand with the knife hovered between her spread thighs.
Well, this is it, Pet
thought, I’m going to die.
He rotated his elbow, raring back to drive the blade home,
and said in a whisper, “I am your punishment.”
Even in the last seconds of her life, she was incredibly
turned on. As the knife blade flew toward her crotch, she found herself
replying, “And I am yours.”
As the last possible instance, he spun the knife around in a
deft maneuver that was clearly a practiced one. Instead of puncturing her with
the blade, the over-sized handle slammed home, leaving Pet writhing in orgasm
with the blade protruding. For a few moments it quivered and vibrated like a tuning
fork as she squirmed and rolled from side to side within the confines of her
ropes.
When she finally looked up he was gone. Pet hoped he would
be back, and soon. He had tied her much tighter the second time and she wasn’t
sure she could escape again. After a while, she began to suspect she had been abandoned.
She focused her efforts on a series of contractions intended to push the knife
handle out. It was over-sized and wooden, which made it slow going
despite her outstanding muscular control. Two minutes later, it dropped to the
altar with a thump just as he re-entered the room.
Wordlessly, he began to untie her. She sat up, rubbing her
wrists as he released her ankles. Neither mentioned the knife.
Pet swung her legs around and sat at the edge of the altar,
naked and unashamed.
“That was fun,” she cooed. “For a little while, I thought
you were gonna kill me.”
The face that was looking at her turned away.
His hand went to his pocket, and she knew his pager was
going off again.
“I have to go,” he said. “My wife…”
“Your wife?” she shrieked, leaping down and advancing on
him, causing him to retreat from the finger jabbing at his chest.
“I knew you were no serial killer. You don’t fit the
profile.”
Pet didn’t wonder why she felt disappointed.
“Asshole,” she hissed.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now what?” she mocked. “You’re asking me what to do?”
He looked into her violet eyes pleadingly.
“You leave. I stay. And in return, you give me…everything I
want.”
She looked at him with defiance in her eyes.
“Or?” he asked.
“Or you kill me. Or you go to prison for life. Or I kill
you. There are lots of ways to go with this, I think. It’s all the same to me,”
she sniffed.
Checkmated, his eyes searched the floor.
“Can I go?” he asked without looking up.
“One more thing,” she said, causing him to look up at her.
“What?”
“Kiss me…”
She walked unclothed to the door and looked both ways in the
hallway like a child tentatively crossing the street. Pet was haunted by the
belief that she had done something wrong in her relatively juvenile life, but
she was unsure what it could be. Seeing and hearing no one, she fairly tip-toed her way down
the hall to the bathroom, where she naturally turned on the light and shut the
door.
Shortly thereafter, the man returned to find Pet missing,
having in essence left him at the altar.
He panicked and ran from the room, grabbing a knife as he
exited. When he saw the light on under the bathroom door, he felt
foolish. And then angry about feeling foolish. He stood to the left of the door and when she began to walk
down the hall, grabbed her from behind.
She saw the knife before she felt it, the same one that had
unnerved her when she saw it the first time in the grotto. By then it was too
late to scream, his hand now covering her mouth so tightly it hurt. He simply returned her to the altar and tied her up again,
never saying a word.
The hand with the knife hovered between her spread thighs.
Well, this is it, Pet
thought, I’m going to die.
He rotated his elbow, raring back to drive the blade home,
and said in a whisper, “I am your punishment.”
Even in the last seconds of her life, she was incredibly
turned on. As the knife blade flew toward her crotch, she found herself
replying, “And I am yours.”
As the last possible instance, he spun the knife around in a
deft maneuver that was clearly a practiced one. Instead of puncturing her with
the blade, the over-sized handle slammed home, leaving Pet writhing in orgasm
with the blade protruding. For a few moments it quivered and vibrated like a tuning
fork as she squirmed and rolled from side to side within the confines of her
ropes.
When she finally looked up he was gone. Pet hoped he would
be back, and soon. He had tied her much tighter the second time and she wasn’t
sure she could escape again. After a while, she began to suspect she had been abandoned.
She focused her efforts on a series of contractions intended to push the knife
handle out. It was over-sized and wooden, which made it slow going
despite her outstanding muscular control. Two minutes later, it dropped to the
altar with a thump just as he re-entered the room.
Wordlessly, he began to untie her. She sat up, rubbing her
wrists as he released her ankles. Neither mentioned the knife.
Pet swung her legs around and sat at the edge of the altar,
naked and unashamed.
“That was fun,” she cooed. “For a little while, I thought
you were gonna kill me.”
The face that was looking at her turned away.
His hand went to his pocket, and she knew his pager was
going off again.
“I have to go,” he said. “My wife…”
“Your wife?” she shrieked, leaping down and advancing on
him, causing him to retreat from the finger jabbing at his chest.
“I knew you were no serial killer. You don’t fit the
profile.”
Pet didn’t wonder why she felt disappointed.
“Asshole,” she hissed.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now what?” she mocked. “You’re asking me what to do?”
He looked into her violet eyes pleadingly.
“You leave. I stay. And in return, you give me…everything I
want.”
She looked at him with defiance in her eyes.
“Or?” he asked.
“Or you kill me. Or you go to prison for life. Or I kill
you. There are lots of ways to go with this, I think. It’s all the same to me,”
she sniffed.
Checkmated, his eyes searched the floor.
“Can I go?” he asked without looking up.
“One more thing,” she said, causing him to look up at her.
“What?”
“Kiss me…”
April 21, 2012
Shayna Gier's Gone Crazy
Author Shayna Gier, who wrote the fabulous 'Stuck In Estrogen's Funhouse' is having a giveaway attack. Help her out, would you?
_________________________________________________________________
Hey!
There's just 3 days left for the Small Blogs Big Dreams giveaway hop and do I have big dreams for Shayangier.com.
Yesterday, SG.com just passed 1000 visitors in 30 days! To celebrate,
I'm opening up a 6th prize pack IF I can get one of the widgets on the
side to say there's 50 followers. So if you'd please
twitter/facebook/email and just share the heck out of this link http://bit.ly/HQQi92 I'd appreciate it! There's already 25 or so followers, so 25 more shouldn't be too hard to grasp, right?
And money is tight, but if we way overshoot (100+ followers) I'll add more winners accordingly.
Thank you for helping this giveaway be a success and for participating!
Sincerely,
Shayna Gier
_________________________________________________________________
Oh, and Radar Love is free this weekend and next. Which Shayna is giving away for me, as well. Doh! http://amzn.to/superlove
_________________________________________________________________
Hey!
There's just 3 days left for the Small Blogs Big Dreams giveaway hop and do I have big dreams for Shayangier.com.
Yesterday, SG.com just passed 1000 visitors in 30 days! To celebrate,
I'm opening up a 6th prize pack IF I can get one of the widgets on the
side to say there's 50 followers. So if you'd please
twitter/facebook/email and just share the heck out of this link http://bit.ly/HQQi92 I'd appreciate it! There's already 25 or so followers, so 25 more shouldn't be too hard to grasp, right?
And money is tight, but if we way overshoot (100+ followers) I'll add more winners accordingly.
Thank you for helping this giveaway be a success and for participating!
Sincerely,
Shayna Gier
_________________________________________________________________
Oh, and Radar Love is free this weekend and next. Which Shayna is giving away for me, as well. Doh! http://amzn.to/superlove
April 19, 2012
My New Cover Artist - And Yours?
This guy had some fairly innovative designs, is reasonably affordable, and is also really helpful in making changes and working with the author to provide the desired cover. And we all know, people judge books by their covers. Exclusively.
Well...
But check this out:
http://humblenations.com/2012/04/16/jason-christie-branding/
He did three mockups and wrote a little article about it. I am a marketing genius.
Ok, so I lucked out, and he's really cool. Check out his work. He also writes great blog posts on design. Best of all, he understands branding, which is exactly what I need, as all of my books seem to be in different genres.
On the other hand, I got my ass handed to me here. But I'm fine with that.
http://booknotselling.blogspot.com/2012/04/hurricane-regina.html
"Why Is My Book Not Selling?" - These people will tell you exactly what they think. This sort of criticism is worth far more than the opinions of family and friends, commercially, but it's also a lot more useful than the tripe you usually hear in a one-star review or something. Imagine a school of professional piranha stripping your novel bare en masse. Then you take the skeleton and rebuild it.
It is an invaluable service. The cost? Free. But I hope you respond well to criticism...
Well...
But check this out:
http://humblenations.com/2012/04/16/jason-christie-branding/
He did three mockups and wrote a little article about it. I am a marketing genius.
Ok, so I lucked out, and he's really cool. Check out his work. He also writes great blog posts on design. Best of all, he understands branding, which is exactly what I need, as all of my books seem to be in different genres.
On the other hand, I got my ass handed to me here. But I'm fine with that.
http://booknotselling.blogspot.com/2012/04/hurricane-regina.html
"Why Is My Book Not Selling?" - These people will tell you exactly what they think. This sort of criticism is worth far more than the opinions of family and friends, commercially, but it's also a lot more useful than the tripe you usually hear in a one-star review or something. Imagine a school of professional piranha stripping your novel bare en masse. Then you take the skeleton and rebuild it.
It is an invaluable service. The cost? Free. But I hope you respond well to criticism...
April 14, 2012
Petition Amazon To Remove Thumb
Amazon's great. Unless you don't like them. They sell my books. I have no qualms with them. But within this great framework lie problems. Just little, niggling things. Simple to fix, but instead slow to die.
As the owner of this comment said on some message board, "Tell me, then, why George R.R. Martin's books, which are FANTASY, sit atop the SCIENCE FICTION category?"
(List also culled from user complaints on message board.)
Missing sub-categories that should be standard.
Completely miscategorized books.
Misplaced subcategories (Dark Fantasy is under Sci-Fi? Really?)*
Misfiled books with poor response time to fixes.
But the real problem is that damn beige bar that sits there all month when you don't sell books.
Look at the light brown under blue green turf. Topsoil. Dead and buried, it says. Skies filled with smoke and soot. Pollution, desolation. Your book is sediment, settled to the bottom of the rushing Amazon to stilled waters. Observe how it mimics racism, with we poor relegated to the darker earth tones in contrast to the open air above. It's a battle of elements.
Or just a crap design choice that no one paid much attention to. They don't realize how much time people spend staring at that bar. While I'm on the subject of Amazon's book sales/or not, doesn't it bother Italy that they are somehow below what I am going to just assume is Estonia in the country rankings?
So, Amazon. Get your head out. Hire some sharp indie writer to seek out, research and correct these things. I bet a bunch of 'em need jobs. And give the end user the power to make the little brown bar any color we want!
* Cheeky comment belongs to original poster, whoever that was.
As the owner of this comment said on some message board, "Tell me, then, why George R.R. Martin's books, which are FANTASY, sit atop the SCIENCE FICTION category?"
(List also culled from user complaints on message board.)
Missing sub-categories that should be standard.
Completely miscategorized books.
Misplaced subcategories (Dark Fantasy is under Sci-Fi? Really?)*
Misfiled books with poor response time to fixes.
But the real problem is that damn beige bar that sits there all month when you don't sell books.
Look at the light brown under blue green turf. Topsoil. Dead and buried, it says. Skies filled with smoke and soot. Pollution, desolation. Your book is sediment, settled to the bottom of the rushing Amazon to stilled waters. Observe how it mimics racism, with we poor relegated to the darker earth tones in contrast to the open air above. It's a battle of elements.
Or just a crap design choice that no one paid much attention to. They don't realize how much time people spend staring at that bar. While I'm on the subject of Amazon's book sales/or not, doesn't it bother Italy that they are somehow below what I am going to just assume is Estonia in the country rankings?
So, Amazon. Get your head out. Hire some sharp indie writer to seek out, research and correct these things. I bet a bunch of 'em need jobs. And give the end user the power to make the little brown bar any color we want!
* Cheeky comment belongs to original poster, whoever that was.
April 9, 2012
How and Why I Am A Motherfucker
This document right here. I hesitate to use the words, "This bitch right here." Because I've now got it down to a magical semi-science, and you can do away with all of your silly worries about fulfilling a few guest blog posts or that your novel is coming along too slowly. What, you're only writing one novel at a time?
Coming up with your own content will now be part and parcel of your being. I realize at this point that I am alleging to be building toward something. I am. I'm trying to, anyhow.
But it's so damn simple. Yet, I know, even at this late hour as I write this, I know it to be true. It will work. If it doesn't, you suck.
Welcome to your new world: the never-ending document.
See? I was already fucking off, reading, stupidly,
http://www.pharopromo.com/1/post/2012/03/5-simple-ways-to-increase-your-productivity.html.
Get the fuck back to work. Because this endless document is your new home. See those four walls, the border around your writing application? That's your fucking castle. Fuck your home. If you're homeless, you'd better get some composition books for your downtime. And what are you reading this for, homeless person, in the first place? Get the fuck back to your job of being homeless.
Do you know how dark and ugly work is for men? Our entire self-worth is derived from how much money we make, how we make it, and women. I'm surprised the suicide rate isn't higher.
So make it your work. Confine yourself in your little box for as long as a real job. I don't know about you, but I am incredibly slack.
But get this. See outside of those four walls? (Erm, you really need to resize the window from full-screen. There's a lad.) When you're not writing, you should be bringing people to your writing. That usually just involves more writing, one way or another. Email, blog posts, unique tweets, Facebook.
The reason the endless document works is your current workflow doesn't accommodate train-of-though, necessarily. Doing all of your writing in a single document forces you to keep writing, keep polishing. Keep fucking publishing.
You don't necessarily have to keep *saying* keep fucking publishing, but I hope the phrase catches on. Hey, what's your name, Konrath.
I also recommend you take a new, gangsta approach to other writers. "Hey, what are you guys writing about?" Fuck what they're writing about. Your writing needs to be as far away from the rest of them as it can be. Style and original ideas are all any writer has.
Until it's time to promote your work. Then I highly recommend you befriend other writers at your skill level and start working together. There is nothing better than a good review written by a great writer. And you'd better read and review their work, too. It is a two-way street, for sure, on an information superhighway. Ha! First use of that phrase in ten years, I bet.
If you're at all inspired, you'll have ideas added to your document faster than you can expound upon them. Article ideas like this, possibly:
"Skittle flavors are ridiculous. Flavors inside of colors. False colors. False colours in parts of Europe. Skittle Riddles. The riddle is, "Why in the fuck am I eating seven-eights of a pound of Skittles?" But you know, ladies. You know."
But that's just how I'm a motherfucker. *Why* am I feeling sort of trumpety about myself?
Because I just realized the majority of my readers are, and will always be, fabulous, beautiful, intelligent women. That's no accident, but even I always thought I was writing for both men and women. I don't know the ratio, but it's overwhelmingly in favor of women readers.
Why do I think this is cool? Because, let's face it. You can't have sex with them all. Sooner or later, you realize that the best you can do in life is find that one girl and make her the happiest she can be for the rest of her life. So going mind-to-mind with the rest of them is the next best thing. Probably better, because even a cockswain such as myself probably couldn't get that deep into your head just having sex…
And that's also a form of power that's really interesting and unexplored by me, as of yet.
So give it a try. I know how most people work. Get an idea, maybe, open Word or whatever. Don't. First of all, Word on all platforms is too slow for this kind of stuff. Use some Notepad-type app that always blazes.
An intermediary step might be to start drafts of your article ideas directly on your blog as they come to you, but that is a half-assed way to go.
Both of these approaches are complete failures compared to the volume of output you'll get if you adopt the endless document method. Oh, excuse me, I have to go post this to my blog. Or send it as a guest post. And then I have to get back here, because I have a killer idea for a new blog post…
Bam! See how that works? I've already started writing another article. And check the word count. Get back to work.
Coming up with your own content will now be part and parcel of your being. I realize at this point that I am alleging to be building toward something. I am. I'm trying to, anyhow.
But it's so damn simple. Yet, I know, even at this late hour as I write this, I know it to be true. It will work. If it doesn't, you suck.
Welcome to your new world: the never-ending document.
See? I was already fucking off, reading, stupidly,
http://www.pharopromo.com/1/post/2012/03/5-simple-ways-to-increase-your-productivity.html.
Get the fuck back to work. Because this endless document is your new home. See those four walls, the border around your writing application? That's your fucking castle. Fuck your home. If you're homeless, you'd better get some composition books for your downtime. And what are you reading this for, homeless person, in the first place? Get the fuck back to your job of being homeless.
Do you know how dark and ugly work is for men? Our entire self-worth is derived from how much money we make, how we make it, and women. I'm surprised the suicide rate isn't higher.
So make it your work. Confine yourself in your little box for as long as a real job. I don't know about you, but I am incredibly slack.
But get this. See outside of those four walls? (Erm, you really need to resize the window from full-screen. There's a lad.) When you're not writing, you should be bringing people to your writing. That usually just involves more writing, one way or another. Email, blog posts, unique tweets, Facebook.
The reason the endless document works is your current workflow doesn't accommodate train-of-though, necessarily. Doing all of your writing in a single document forces you to keep writing, keep polishing. Keep fucking publishing.
You don't necessarily have to keep *saying* keep fucking publishing, but I hope the phrase catches on. Hey, what's your name, Konrath.
I also recommend you take a new, gangsta approach to other writers. "Hey, what are you guys writing about?" Fuck what they're writing about. Your writing needs to be as far away from the rest of them as it can be. Style and original ideas are all any writer has.
Until it's time to promote your work. Then I highly recommend you befriend other writers at your skill level and start working together. There is nothing better than a good review written by a great writer. And you'd better read and review their work, too. It is a two-way street, for sure, on an information superhighway. Ha! First use of that phrase in ten years, I bet.
If you're at all inspired, you'll have ideas added to your document faster than you can expound upon them. Article ideas like this, possibly:
"Skittle flavors are ridiculous. Flavors inside of colors. False colors. False colours in parts of Europe. Skittle Riddles. The riddle is, "Why in the fuck am I eating seven-eights of a pound of Skittles?" But you know, ladies. You know."
But that's just how I'm a motherfucker. *Why* am I feeling sort of trumpety about myself?
Because I just realized the majority of my readers are, and will always be, fabulous, beautiful, intelligent women. That's no accident, but even I always thought I was writing for both men and women. I don't know the ratio, but it's overwhelmingly in favor of women readers.
Why do I think this is cool? Because, let's face it. You can't have sex with them all. Sooner or later, you realize that the best you can do in life is find that one girl and make her the happiest she can be for the rest of her life. So going mind-to-mind with the rest of them is the next best thing. Probably better, because even a cockswain such as myself probably couldn't get that deep into your head just having sex…
And that's also a form of power that's really interesting and unexplored by me, as of yet.
So give it a try. I know how most people work. Get an idea, maybe, open Word or whatever. Don't. First of all, Word on all platforms is too slow for this kind of stuff. Use some Notepad-type app that always blazes.
An intermediary step might be to start drafts of your article ideas directly on your blog as they come to you, but that is a half-assed way to go.
Both of these approaches are complete failures compared to the volume of output you'll get if you adopt the endless document method. Oh, excuse me, I have to go post this to my blog. Or send it as a guest post. And then I have to get back here, because I have a killer idea for a new blog post…
Bam! See how that works? I've already started writing another article. And check the word count. Get back to work.
April 8, 2012
The Rebirth of "Blaxploitation"
There's an interesting new trend going on lately, and a positive one, I think. "Street Lit" is gaining in popularity among black readers. Wahida Clark, for example, is on the NYT best sellers list for what she calls "Thug Love" novels.
Apparently, she's moving into Wal-Mart territory. If you remember the 70s, or listened to rap in the mid to late 80s, you're no doubt familiar with Iceberg Slim, Donald Goines and writers of that ilk. But for a long time, people seemed more content to commit street crime that write about it. We have come full circle, now.
I think this is a positive trend for a number of reasons. For one thing, if it gets actual thugs reading, wow. That's a big deal.
For another, I've always gotten the impression that most black fiction is of the Bill Cosby variety. I read, say, "She's the One". You could change that entire novel from black people to white people with a simple search and replace, I think.
I've tried to write a few black characters, with varying results. Tessa Rack and Oracle Jones in my funny sci-fi "Perfect Me". It's a comedy, so I hope I can be forgiven the broad brush they're painted with. But Maxine Jackson of "Pageburner"? I'd like to think she's a pretty fleshed-out and realistic, erm, drug-dealing black cheerleader studying computer science...
Well, I'll keep trying.
Joey Pinkney has a nice interview with Wahida here: http://joeypinkney.com/urban-lit/interview-wahida-clark-author-of-payback-aint-enough.php
Also, there aren't many good rappers out there anymore. I hope more of them pack in and become writers, instead...
Apparently, she's moving into Wal-Mart territory. If you remember the 70s, or listened to rap in the mid to late 80s, you're no doubt familiar with Iceberg Slim, Donald Goines and writers of that ilk. But for a long time, people seemed more content to commit street crime that write about it. We have come full circle, now.
I think this is a positive trend for a number of reasons. For one thing, if it gets actual thugs reading, wow. That's a big deal.
For another, I've always gotten the impression that most black fiction is of the Bill Cosby variety. I read, say, "She's the One". You could change that entire novel from black people to white people with a simple search and replace, I think.
I've tried to write a few black characters, with varying results. Tessa Rack and Oracle Jones in my funny sci-fi "Perfect Me". It's a comedy, so I hope I can be forgiven the broad brush they're painted with. But Maxine Jackson of "Pageburner"? I'd like to think she's a pretty fleshed-out and realistic, erm, drug-dealing black cheerleader studying computer science...
Well, I'll keep trying.
Joey Pinkney has a nice interview with Wahida here: http://joeypinkney.com/urban-lit/interview-wahida-clark-author-of-payback-aint-enough.php
Also, there aren't many good rappers out there anymore. I hope more of them pack in and become writers, instead...
Sample Sunday - Penultimate Hustle
Janique Turner was the best cocksucker in the business.
And she was late. For daycare.
"…I don't care if she has a flight in six hours, Rai, tell
her her pussy isn't made of gold."
Her assistant repeated the line back in Japanese so she
could fully assess the impact it would have on her recalcitrant co-star, but
Janique had already regretted her utterance.
"I'm sorry, Rai. Please tell Sushi-San that a set of
unfortunate, changing circumstances dictate that I ask to delay shooting for
another hour.
Tell her she'll receive an additional day's pay and perdiem,
as well as dinner and accommodations if she deigns to grace this country with
her presence for another day. If not, she can start walking to the airport."
Rai said nothing, but emitted a soft sigh.
"Ok, strike the last sentence."
Janique hung up abruptly, as was her practice. She had no
time for goodbyes.
"Hey, little man," she called out to the figure sleeping in
the car seat beside her. "We're almost at school."
Much like his mother, young Johnny Turner was not a morning
person. Janique felt mornings were for having sex and going back to sleep.
Johnny preferred to skip mornings entirely, sleeping till noon whenever he
could. He was quite a handful at four years old.
Instead of waking him, Janique passed her hand over his brow
with motherly affection, never taking her eyes off the road. Behind her, San
Fernando Valley commuters laid on their horns as they passed by. She maintained
a steady fifty-five miles an hour when her son was in the car.
Regis Academy was the most expensive and pretentious
pre-school in Beverly Hills. That's not to say it was the best in the area, but
neither Chris nor Janique felt a child barely older than a toddler should be
forced to do schoolwork.
Instead, she had enrolled him there because she liked
tweaking the noses of the parents and staff. Janique had more money than the
rest of them put together, and she never let them forget where it came from -
their husbands and boyfriends.
She pulled into her private parking spot next to the
headmaster's. Janique would have had his space except he had tendered his
resignation on the spot when informed that he would have to take the second
best slot.
Eventually, Janique relented and let him keep his position.
It still made her grin to think that she owned the school, and no one knew it.
She walked around and opened the passenger side door,
clutching her precious cargo to her not inconsiderable chest. At the entrance,
the staff greeted her in whispers as they opened the door and whisked him away
to a classroom where he could sleep until he felt like waking.
Janique made it a point to talk to his teacher whenever she
could, but there was no way today. Ultimate Hustle had a burn rate of ten
thousand dollars per hour, year-round. You didn't stay on top in this business
by slacking and socializing.
"How to suck seed in business," Janique said into her voice
recorder.
Excerpt from "Penultimate Hustle", the sequel to Radar Love.
Coming in May?
April 7, 2012
Iain Manson Rules!
I found this poem tucked away on a thread on Kindleboards. I think we indie writers have found our Kerouac.
The Thinking Vampire
John Locke was a philosopher ―
He shared the world with Pepys,
Whose diaries cure insomnia,
And thus they sell in heaps.
Imagine my surprise on hearing
Locke is selling too.
I'd thought none read philosophy
It seems that millions do.
I've tried his work myself, and while
I don't deny he's clever,
I never thought he'd make it with
Such cerebral endeavour.
I think the lookout's poor for all
I gloomily confess,
When millions read philosophy
And still the world's a mess.
I told a friend, who said "I find this
Altogether shocking
In a world that's run by vampires.
Do you read Amanda Hocking?"
"I've never even heard of her,"
I said, "What has she written?"
He told me that she tells the tales
Of ladies who are smitten
By dead men who've returned to life.
I said "My patience fails."
"It would," he said, "if you could see
Her quite enormous sales."
It's true I sell no books
And nor does Jennifer or Connor
Or Kimberly or Nicholas:
Ours the Beige Bar of Honour.
But soon my sales will soar because
I now know where it's at:
I'm working on a book about
A philosophic bat
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004LGTNQQ/?tag=kindleboards-20
Buy one of his books so he doesn't bust my chops about stealing content...
The Thinking Vampire
John Locke was a philosopher ―
He shared the world with Pepys,
Whose diaries cure insomnia,
And thus they sell in heaps.
Imagine my surprise on hearing
Locke is selling too.
I'd thought none read philosophy
It seems that millions do.
I've tried his work myself, and while
I don't deny he's clever,
I never thought he'd make it with
Such cerebral endeavour.
I think the lookout's poor for all
I gloomily confess,
When millions read philosophy
And still the world's a mess.
I told a friend, who said "I find this
Altogether shocking
In a world that's run by vampires.
Do you read Amanda Hocking?"
"I've never even heard of her,"
I said, "What has she written?"
He told me that she tells the tales
Of ladies who are smitten
By dead men who've returned to life.
I said "My patience fails."
"It would," he said, "if you could see
Her quite enormous sales."
It's true I sell no books
And nor does Jennifer or Connor
Or Kimberly or Nicholas:
Ours the Beige Bar of Honour.
But soon my sales will soar because
I now know where it's at:
I'm working on a book about
A philosophic bat
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004LGTNQQ/?tag=kindleboards-20
Buy one of his books so he doesn't bust my chops about stealing content...
April 2, 2012
She Sleeps With Dragons
She sleeps with dragons
Nestled on a lonely beach
Waiting for her gunslinger
To open the door
Nestled on a lonely beach
Waiting for her gunslinger
To open the door
March 29, 2012
The Analog Method
Frankly, I'm a little jealous at many of you writers. Oh, not necessarily for what you write, or your successes, things like that. I'm jealous because you write your books on a computer.
I hand write everything. I always have, and I probably always will. Why?
I'm not sure. I'm certainly capable of writing on a computer. I've done it for years, except where my novels are concerned. How nice it would be to write a little, pop over to a new window, check my stats and email, get right back to writing. But it doesn't work like that with composition books. The computer becomes a distraction instead of a tool or ally.
And yet...
I type way too fast. Handwriting is so time-consuming, I am usually composing the next sentence before I've finished writing the last one. I think it makes for more contemplative writing, at times. Plus the margins are great places to make notes, drawings for your muse, things like that.
It's also a nod to the past. I often work with dead authors (erm...), who look over my shoulder, if nothing else. Many of them prefer the way they used to do things. And they are quite helpful, at times.
So typing up the novel is an extra editing step that you don't get when you start out on the computer in the first place. I do enjoy that part, if not the actual typing.
I can't argue with the results. But the fact is, I would write a lot more without this computer and network. I'd rather write well.
I hand write everything. I always have, and I probably always will. Why?
I'm not sure. I'm certainly capable of writing on a computer. I've done it for years, except where my novels are concerned. How nice it would be to write a little, pop over to a new window, check my stats and email, get right back to writing. But it doesn't work like that with composition books. The computer becomes a distraction instead of a tool or ally.
And yet...
I type way too fast. Handwriting is so time-consuming, I am usually composing the next sentence before I've finished writing the last one. I think it makes for more contemplative writing, at times. Plus the margins are great places to make notes, drawings for your muse, things like that.
It's also a nod to the past. I often work with dead authors (erm...), who look over my shoulder, if nothing else. Many of them prefer the way they used to do things. And they are quite helpful, at times.
So typing up the novel is an extra editing step that you don't get when you start out on the computer in the first place. I do enjoy that part, if not the actual typing.
I can't argue with the results. But the fact is, I would write a lot more without this computer and network. I'd rather write well.
