R.S. Guthrie's Blog

RETOOLING BLOG!!

So, I’ve been out of the game for a while. To be more specific, I have not been writing regularly for more than a few years. I AM still working on the fourth Sheriff James Pruett book, newly named “Border Land”, but I have been in self-imposed exile from my soul for a stretch.

When a child dies, a parent never recovers. As with all grieving, time heals, one claws through the process, but a strange thing occurs with a level of tragedy worthy of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder:

Each new life-challenge, roadblock, kick in the shorts, or even many days just breathing or getting out of bed, can become unexpectedly impossible.

God willing, you learn to hang on, not only to live day-by-day, but minute-by-minute.

Often.

This isn’t self-pity. It’s my new reality.

Rob v2.0.

I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I can count. Never before in the pre-SIDS death of our son, Brody–over forty years of life–could I understand the concept of a person being driven to suicide, much less remotely imagine myself near that dark abyss.

Trust me, as do we all house the human capacity for unspeakable evil, so do we each house the capacity to believe the abyss is all that remains.

And we can each toe that terrifying ledge.

I’m going to keep this short. I want SOMETHING here for anyone who happens upon this site not expecting a lot of writing-related posts. I will be retaining all previous posts for those who desire to engage (or re-engage) with previous content. I am sure as this new chapter begins, as I rebrand, I will still write about writing. How can a writer NOT?

[image error]I have been slow-planning a podcast/V-Cast (what I call a podcast that is video-recorded). I don’t like to pull triggers until everything is well sighted-in, but since I already picked a name, and my friend (and brilliant graphic artist), Tanja Prokop–Book Cover World, www.bookcoverworld.com–has begun design on a banner/logo, the new Blog/Podcast will be titled REDBONE REPORT.

More to come. Much, much more, I reckon.

I am appropriating a signoff from Daily Wire host, Matt Walsh. I used to think of it as my own, but since we currently watch all his episodes, and he uses it, I will concede my plagiarism. I hope one day Walsh knows me and/or my content well enough to complain or comment. That would be a great indicator of reaching a far-off rung on the ladder of this new venture.

Godspeed.

The 90s: Arguably The Best Decade In History For Top 100 Movies

  

Lately I’ve been writing blogs, stopping around the 2/3 mark, and moving on to another subject. Sometimes I think writer’s muses catch viruses akin to the flu, or maybe a better comparison is a computer virus; everything works fine for a while and then, progressively, chaos ensues, and the mind wanders away, confused.

Nonsensical comparisons aside, and explanations notwithstanding, this has been the general modis operandi of my blogging lately, unpublished, behind the scenes. The other day, however, a subject really caught my interest and prompted me to want to blog about it—even though the subject matter was not one of worldly significance or, really, writing-related specifically.

Small epiphany: I believe that is part of the trouble. For me, and perhaps many writers, the best (or at least the more prolific) words come when we, the writers, are as interested in the subject material as we hope our readers will be.

In this case, a friend from college posted that he and his family instituted a new event in their household: a twist on “Movie Night”, where the parents come up with a list of favorite movies they “grew up watching”, then showing them to their young children. In the Facebook post, my friend listed the movies they’d so far thought of, and requested responses to include any ideas.

Being a monumental movie fan myself, I thought the idea was particularly innovative, the bridging of generation gaps cinematically being something I consider a quite original twist on a fairly common theme.

Also being that consummate movie fan, I was of course excited to make some suggestions. However, I realized that my friend’s added stipulation that the recommendations meet a criteria of PG or lower, not only impacted my “go-to” list of movies, rendering it mostly useless, but that also there were so many movies in “the PG range” that I had to actually look up the MPAA rating to see if the movie was age-appropriate in order to meet due diligence.

In other words, the exercise of making appropriate recommendations—movies that a parent could rent for their children—was much more challenging and time-consuming than I first thought. I noted that many respondents did not necessarily always follow the guidelines, and indeed my friend certainly did not make the criteria absolute, nor was he adamant—rather, simply being prudent. And the respondents were not being obtuse, only throwing out suggestions, most of which were fine and appropriate. My friend and his wife, having likely seen most of the movies recommended, are more than capable of deciding which to share with their kids.

The issue is that I am just OCD enough, particularly when it comes to supplying something from one of my few self-pronounced realms of “expertise” (or, at least, deep interest and above-average knowledge), that I am totally compelled to do what I consider, respectful and requisite, due diligence.

An interesting realization hit me as I was doing a little movie research (and believe me when I tell you that I do NOT make this statement lightly): 

The nineteen-nineties produced more great movies than any other on record.

Now I’m not talking about only award-winning, Best Picture caliber films, per se (nominated, or winners)—as we know, every decade has exactly ten “Best Pictures”. However, in the orchards of apples versus oranges, there are always contentions that particular films could or would have won for Best Picture had they been in another year (or, in this case, decade). There is one that really makes me cringe—used to cause me derision, at least toward Fate: The Shawshank Redemption. The year it was nominated for Best Picture, well, that was the “Year of Forrest Gump”. Most other years, screenplay writer/film director Frank Darabont, Red, Andy, Brooks and crew would easily have captured the Best Film prize.

But there would be no David to sling a stone against the dopey forehead of Philistine Forrest Gump in 1994.

(Truth is, though, on almost every Top 100 of All-Time movie list, Shawshank whoops Gump every time.)

Another movie that just missed the 90s, so in my mind therefore is still at least representative of the time period, as it won Best Picture, and just about every other major award nomination, is Gladiator. That incredible epic dominated the year 2000—juuuuuust a bit outside the decade of the 1990s. I also mention the Russell Crowe gem for two other reasons:

1) Gladiator happens to be in my Top 5 of all-time (the Top 5 in my head—even the Top 10—tend to move around, depending on mood, or genre, and change places, rendering the making of a permanent-ink list undoable).

2) Russell Crowe is, in my opinion, the most talented, versatile actor of our generation (perhaps of all time). You can argue that last claim, but I have a slew of performances (A Beautiful Mind, Cinderella Man, The Insider, Gladiator, L.A. Confidential, Body of Lies, American Gangster,  3:10 to Yuma, Master and Commander, and Robin Hood) whereby I would ask you to really consider the range of characters portrayed, from larger-than-life heroes to gunslinger villain to overweight American corporate vice president to ’50s tough-guy cop to biopic rags-to-riches, Great Depression-era boxing World Champion to the Nobel Prize-winning, paranoid-schizophrenic math genius, John Forbes Nash.

(Oh, and in the spirit of “another movie that just missed the 1990s cut”: A Beautiful Mind took Best Picture, and nearly back-to-back Best Actor awards for Crowe, in 2001.)

But all the movies I found that were made and released in the 1990s have to make one wonder how many of the movies from that decade could have won Best Picture awards if in other decades? Perhaps a few years earlier, in 1989, using the Shawshank example. Or for another film, perhaps a 2002 release?

  

The other standing truth is that most decades produce their share of truly entertaining movies (e.g. The Full Monty, Contact, The Hurricane, Thelma and Louise, The Fugitive, Edward Scissorhands, Clerks, etc.). And then, of course, there will always be the movies upon which most of us can agree, but dozens that you may put in your Top 50 that I wouldn’t in mine, and vice versa (some examples from the 90s I concede were not my cup ‘o tea, but were enormously acclaimed—and awarded—movies: Angela’s Ashes, Trainspotting, Sense and Sensibility, The Bridges of Madison County—and many others)!

 Actually, I was leveled by the sheer number of movies I personally consider classic, “must-see” films—above and beyond the aforementioned “good movies” that are released over the period of an entire decade. I realized I’d never stopped to think much about dates or decades when talking about my all-time list of cinematic gems.

I can tell you now that the decade from January 1st, 1990 to December 31st, 1999, contains an enormity of fine film-making—and unlike some of the tried-and-true recipe, somewhat molded (while still being great) films, the 90s contained an inordinate number of true breakout writers and directors to date (e.g. Quentin Tarantino, the Coen brothers, and, I contend, the true evolution of Clint Eastwood from decades-great writer/director/actor to quintessential, all-time writer/director, film legend).

Hmm. By now, if you movie fans have not already Googled your own list out of sheer curiosity, I’m betting you’re plenty ready to see what movies the decade of the 1990s can claim as its own (minus those cats already out of the bag—or box, if you happen to be a big Schrödinger fan). I admit, I have been teasing you with a few of the more recognizable film posters along the way in this blog—whetting your cinematic appetite, while hopefully building up anticipation, as well.

So, if you’ve been paying attention, my next OCD-ish challenge has been how to present such a particularly royal list of one’s self-proclaimed field of expertise? (In other words, it really needs to be done right.)

I also happen to have a visual-spatial learning tendency, so I decided a movie poster representation of the top 1990-1999 films would be proper and, hopefully, visually pleasing to the reader as well:

 

Click Poster!

New Town, New View, New Book (Same Me)

Does anyone make major changes anywhere is the vicinity of their 50th birthday and not be accused of some type of midlife crisis?

First of all, obviously there’s some truth (a LOT of it?) to the statistics that a higher percentage of men and women make a relatively bigger life change near midlife than any other period (okay, okay, stop mentally screaming, ladies—predominantly men, I believe). But stop and think:

At the middle-point of a journey, isn’t that the perfect time to sit down, evaluate, examine the water past beneath the bridge, unalterable, but perhaps fixable; examine the current situation; maybe go ahead and throw in a dash of dreams yet unfulfilled; and contemplate the continued (or altered) path of the trip?

What necessarily makes it a crisis?

I would submit each case should be weighed upon its own merits (if there is any cause to weigh it in the first place.

Surprisingly few people have used the MLC moniker on me. In fact, I’ve received overwhelming support from family and friends on my move back to the hometown that raised me and which I use for the backdrop of my Sheriff James Pruett Mystery/Thriller series.

I’ve not told many people this factoid, but in college, when I realized I one day wanted to write novels—preferably a Mystery series based on the Wyoming town in which I grew to manhood (or, more reasonably, rookie adulthood)—my dream was to be doing it from that Wyoming town’s grandeur.

So I look at it more that I have made a big step, rather than reached some manner of crisis:

Five hundred mile’s worth.

After twenty-nine years in the big cities (eight in Los Angeles and twenty-one in Denver), I figure no can say I didn’t earn the short, yet personally monumental, leap:

From the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, to my hometown Rockies—the Wind River Range—at this point along Life’s journey. The only punctuation mark left to put on the whole event is a new book.

And I’ve almost got one. I put up the pre-order link on Amazon this week. As is usual with my books, it’s coming down to the wire and even I do not know exactly how the story is going to make it to the grand finish (though I always say at this point, if your characters are worth their salt, they have long since taken over their own world, making you a bit of a omnipotent spectator, and they know exactly what they are doing).

Sounds a bit like Life, doesn’t it?

For you writers: I must say that, assuming your hometown is a place you consider high on the list of places to live, the rejuvenating effects of “returning home”, even to a man thirty years absent, are incredible, and do wonders for the muse inside.

And if it’s not your hometown, there must be somewhere you envision as the dream spot from which to “pen” your masterpieces. I can tell you, from experience, don’t wait too long. You’ll be kicking yourself in the hind parts for not doing it sooner.

For the readers: here a glimpse, a synopsis, and a clip from the book as a thank you for your patience!

Aryan Land is the fourth in the popular and riveting Sheriff James Pruett Mystery/Thriller series.

The newly-elected sheriff, Jake Walker, who’d replaced Pruett, has seemingly committed suicide; Pruett’s best friend has been savagely beaten—left for dead; and the White People’s Republican Army have clandestinely taken up land and strategic ground all over Sublette and Teton Counties, planning a horrific coup.

Having no legal authority or standing as sheriff, James Pruett must still find the will—and a plan—to answer the call of his town and homeland.

The “Republican Army” is a well-funded organization with heavy ties inside the Aryan network of America’s most dangerous prisons—being funded by, and operating as the eyes, arms, and legs for the enormous might of the Aryan Alliance, the largest militant, pro-white organization in the world.

Gaining the final territory in northwestern Wyoming—along with already-occupied lands in Idaho and Montana—will finalize their stranglehold of position and power in the Northwest, forming a tactical advantage the AA and RA have been building for decades. Enough power and locus to begin their campaign of war against the masses—a new racist civil war meant to unbalance the very bedrock of the United States Government.

James Pruett must create his own tactical pieces on the deadly game board; enough to topple the RA and AA’s final clamp on the Northwestern territory. The Wyoming Rocky Mountains are key to the Aryan’s plans and crucially strategic for a victory and must therefore not fall to the aggressors.

Lawful opportunity provides foundation for the RA/AA occupation, leaving Pruett with tactics (and even alliances) that border the fringes of lawful action. As ever, Pruett will operate from whatever side of that ethical and moral line he must, in order to protect the land he loves.

FROM THE BOOK:

“Racism is man’s gravest threat to man –

the maximum of hatred

for a minimum of reason.”

~ Abraham Joshua Heschel

The frigid temperature outside was nowhere near as cold as the abyss inside Pruett.

And that chill was worse than biting—a clawing cold in a ruthless blackness without even ambient light. A hole in the man that nothing could fill.

The void was there for almost the whole of a year spent in Cheyenne with his godson, away from Wind River and a community that had been induced to divide against him and, after nearly twenty years, voted Pruett out of office.

Sublette County without a Sheriff James Pruett?

The blow was miles beyond devastation. The sheriff had been ripped apart. Each day it felt as if some animal inside him needed to reopen his heart with its fangs, just to prove to the old man he could still feel the pain.

And worse—far worse—was the steely grip of the need for a drink. Like a self-aware entity, the need spoke to him, comforted him.

It promised him all the good things; and the one thing he needed so much—hungered for: the filling of the abyss; the bliss of total forgetfulness.

Alcohol’s voice, forever lodged inside him like a tiny, splintered speaker—Pruett drunk or sober—made so many promises Pruett had lost count. He tried not to listen, but every start of every day was a new war against the beast of alcoholism.

The thought of respite from the crushing pain to his pride, love of community, sense of self—he would never have believed such an event possible, but neither would he the power of the agony that rained down on him.

Pruett considered himself a thick-skinned, no-nonsense individual. Life was rarely kind—often, however, it was downright savage.

Now he dove through the frozen night because a sheriff had seemingly taken his own life, committing suicide inside the office he upheld.

And while Sheriff Jake Walker, only a year in office, was dead in a County building, still fifty miles away, Malcolm Whitefeather, James Pruett’s best friend in the world, lay in some cold, metal, pre-coffin, in the morgue.

Beaten to death.

Pruett’s most precious friend had been tortured and killed, the phone call had told him. Pruett could not even remember who called, so overwhelmed by immediate shock.

That was all he knew.

Beaten to death.

Well, there was also the news from Deputy Sheriff Red Horse Baptiste that the township and county was already rumbling about the requisite return of SHERIFF James Pruett.

Once such news would have saved the man. Gorged his starved heart. Filled the abyss. But this time was not then. He’d finally discovered a way to somehow survive the indescribable loss of his career—his life—without drinking. His godson had returned the favor from the trial and, this time, saved Pruett’s life.

Now—now after he’d recovered, or at least put the devastation to rest—they wanted him back. With the true sheriff and Pruett’s greatest friend gone.

Still, regardless of resident horrors, there was always the lawman inside that could never be stifled. That lawman; Pruett, the lawman—perhaps a throwback from the sheriffs and town marshals from the old West—only saw the beacon of one light, blazing white, even in the distance.

Justice.

Or was it more?

Vengeance?

Yes. It was that, too. The true Pruett, Pruett the lawman, would do whatever he could for any man or woman in his jurisdiction, bend whatever rule that needed bending, step on any toes that needing stepping, wrangle any bad people who needed wrangling—anything, particularly this time, to find elusive righteousness.

Oh, what that Pruett would do to the men who would dare murder his friend so barbarically—to whatever inhuman person who would even dare.

Sheriff or not; across the line of law or not—the beast of an un-blindfolded Justice, inside him, was fully awake.

Completely focused.

He would slaughter them all.

A “Stop Sign” Moment: Happy Birthday, Fletch.

As we move through this thing called “Life” faster and faster, days like hours, months like days, and years disappearing almost before we’ve realized they began, there are always “stop sign” moments. No matter where you are in your personal situation, no matter how healthy (or otherwise), regardless of how fast that motor-scooter is zipping you through the hills and turns and hairpin curves of your timeline, these moments bring us to a complete halt, often only for a brief moment.

But in these moments, a whole life can pass before our eyes.

Our own life.

Another’s.

And it’s those moments we savor, even when they hurt like hell, because they remind us that even though we can’t change the past—that it’s water long since passed beneath our personal bridge, and that on it we should not dwell—that dwelling on something and remembering are two entirely different things.

And we should each of us value the “stop sign” moments. Cherish them, and the memories they pull forth.

Today is my friend’s birthday. A great friend. One of the best I ever had. And my bet is that every person who knew him as a friend felt the same way.

Because Robb Fletcher, our friend, was just that kind of person.

If you’re lucky, you know one or two in a lifetime.

Always smiling, and smiling BIG. With enough heart and happiness and gregarious love to fill any room he was in. Truth is, Robb could have filled Mile High Stadium with the heart and happiness he exuded. It was just not possible to be unhappy when you were with him.

That smile.

His laugh.

It was as if his very persona dared you to be downtrodden or gloomy or “not feeling it today.”

Stop sign moments.

Like most actual stop signs they can spring from behind a parked truck or a tree or a huge, unique, Pinedale snow plow mountain, but even more than those signs created and enforced by law, moments like today—the birthday of a dearly-departed friend—they beckon us:

“Please stop for a moment—stop and remember.”

And today I have. In fact, traffic has backed up for miles behind me, because I plan to sit at this stop sign for a might longer.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Good memories, Robb. I’m lucky you are part of Life that’s now behind me, and while I do wish you were still part of that Life, today and going forward, I know that’s just not how it was meant to play out.

And so I stop, force Life to quit whizzing by, and I steep myself in memories, pour them over my head like magic tonic. And for just a little while, brother, you are here.

Then, as with all amazing things, the peace and light of the moment fade, Life lifts the brake pedal, and away we go again.

But we move forward a heck of a lot more grateful than before we stopped. And for that, we can thank our friend, our rock, and our future companion.

Rest deep, my brother. You definitely earned it.

I’m Baaaaaack

Just a quick blog snippet—hmm, I think a “snippet” would actually be considered a short piece snipped from an existing blog. This is more of a really short blog. No, too short (and lacking too much substance) to actually be considered a blog.

Tell you what: if “snippet” isn’t close enough, have at it, let me know in the comments what might be a more appropriate noun to describe a few paragraphs meant only to let readers know a blogger is “back to blogging”.

I know some of you are wondering why even take up white space informing readers of my intent to get back to blogging more regularly. Well, the truth is, I felt some sort of a brief segue was appropriate since it’s been almost—ahem —two years since my last post.

Trust me when I say it’s been a difficult eighteen months.

That being said, I would have simply announced my return to blogging in the first paragraph of my first blog, but it seemed a bit “cart before the horse” to announce something that technically had already happened after hitting the “Post” button.

Also, as you will read very soon (in my first true blog, forthcoming), there is a reason I did not want to use any of the Title, or even first paragraph, to mumble about my reappearance.

Hey, maybe “mumble” would be a good noun.

Until someone comes up with something better, then, please pardon my (perhaps ill begotten) mumble.

I’m back.

(I swear I heard a man out there actually hack up a phlegm ball and curse at me. Well done, sir.)

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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Author known to use spontaneous satire, sarcasm, and unannounced injections of pith or witticisms which may not be suitable for humorless or otherwise jest-challenged individuals. (Witticisms not guaranteed to be witty, funny, comical, hilarious, clever, scintillating, whimsical, wise, endearing, keen, savvy, sagacious, penetrating, fanciful, or otherwise enjoyable. The Surgeon General has determined through laboratory testing that sarcasm can be dangerous, even in small amounts, and should not be ingested by those who are serious, somber, pensive, weighty, funereal, unsmiling, poker-faced, sober, or pregnant.) For those who enjoy and/or revel in the utterance of profanity, the author reserves the right to substitute “fish” for “fuck” without fear of repercussion, mental reservation, or purpose of evasion.

 

My Dad, The Writer (Who Knew?)

I’ve tried not to make a big thing about reaching the age my father died and that his father survived heart attack number one. Does such karmic, heredity reality give one pause? Sure. But I had a nuclear stress test done by a cardiologist a couple years ago (before losing 120+ pounds), and passed with flying colors.

That helps. Maybe I got my maternal grandpa Max’s ticker. He lived to a healthy 91.

This is all to say that I suppose I’ve been thinking about my father a lot more lately. He died in 1993, so I’ve reached the point where the wound, while still there amongst all the others, has scarred over some. Especially since losing my mom and best friend in 2004. I figure they spent their entire adulthood married in love, so now they can be together forever.

My mom wanted to be a writer. Her two sisters were published (traditionally), and she was very talented. Unfortunately she didn’t live long enough to see the digital publishing revolution where a monkey with a keyboard can sell his monkeyshine on Amazon. No, really, don’t get me started on the last nightmare I went through with someone using my name as editor of their monkeyshine. Let’s face it, there’s no quality control, but it does take the power out of the hands of snobby editors who are just pissed off that they could never write a book worthy of publishing.

Let’s not get started on that, either.

Where I’m going with the swirling verbiage (yes, Dorothy, it’s not Kansas, but there is a point in here somewhere) is that back in my hometown in Wyoming, late eighties, there was a “satellite” course in Creative Writing that came to the sticks from one of the Community Colleges. Of course, my mom wanted to go, but she was on the shy side, so she asked my dad to sign up and do it with her.

Now Dad was the 6th, 7th, and 8th grade Science teacher. I can attest, as I had him twice (we moved to Wyoming as I was entering the 8th grade—in Iowa, Dad taught only 7th grade).

Both times he made me call him “Mr. Guthrie.”

Yeah. To my old friends out there (and I DO mean OLD friends), kiss my patootie.

Anyway, I was a know-it-all twenty-something and I vaguely remember my dad grumbling about how he thought he was all finished writing papers and my mom (loving every minute of the class) telling me something about dad’s final story and it actually being good.

Yeah, uh-huh, sure, Mom. Can you send money?

Today I was cleaning my office and came across my stash of “old family things”, one being an essay my great uncle Bob Robert Glass Remley), a lawyer in Webster City, Iowa for fifty-four years, wrote on his 100th birthday. Classic. Then I opened a folder and there was the typewritten final story assignment by my father.

Now I had seen this document before, but my father always poo-pooed it, seriously not wanting me to read it, so I never really did (I realized in horror as I began perusing it this morning!).

Wow.

Turns out as a Science teacher my father was one helluva writer!

I wanted to share it somewhere. I HAD to share it. You have to realize this is the man who loved my mother, his kids (which included his students), fishing, and hunting. And old westerns. Only, and in that order. His reading, as far as I ever witnessed, was limited to Field & Stream and Guns & Ammo.

Yet here, today, his story captured not only my attention, but my heart.

I was going to type it in, but it’s long, I’m lazy, and there is a heartwarming honesty to the old typewritten tale (handful of typos notwithstanding). So I am taking great care scanning the pages—I present “Half Moon”, by Jeff Guthrie. (Is it weird for me to be so damned PROUD?)

By

Jeff Guthrie

(Hover over the picture sides and you’ll be able to change pages.)

 

Amazon Review Process Does NOT Protect Your Trademark

A few weeks ago I received some emails from a person who was clearly not lucid. The person was also tweeting gibberish with my @rsguthrie name in the tweets. I never responded to him, naturally hoping the delusion would solve itself. There was nothing threatening or dangerous in the posts or emails, so I assumed it was just more chaff that would eventually dry out and blow away.

Well I was notified that two days ago the person published a book on Amazon with my author name both on his cover and listed as the sole contributor (Editor). All of this without him ever actually hearing from or speaking with me! And here’s the scary part:

“Team Amazon”

Amazon’s publishing review team (you know, the experts that can take twelve hours to decide whether your book—even just a price or text change—is proper for release to the civilized world), infamous and ruthless as they may be (twice having stopped my upload for a search keyword that was “too broad”), allowed this person to post a book with my name on the cover and listing me as its sole contributor without ever consulting me.

So I wrote Amazon KDP and their lauded team of gatekeepers last night, and they informed me the onus is on me to provide proof that my trademark (author name) has been infringed upon, meanwhile leaving the person’s book up on their site!

To say I am aghast is the understatement of 2015. I should publish a book under Stephen King’s name and make a quick million before they sort it out and take it down!

Caveat Emptor, and then some! If someone uses your name, and puts you as the sole contributor, the book appears on Amazon’s site as your book. How this can happen is beyond me. I’ve had to go to my AuthorCentral page because Amazon did not have one of my books correctly tied to my name, but some stranger can post work that claims to be written/edited/whatever by ME, and there is no verification process whatsoever.

Not an exciting or interesting blog, per se, but one I felt I should post to let authors (and readers) know that such fraud is not only possible, it is verifiable!

Now, since I hate posting pure negativity, let me finish by presenting you a Friday laugh from one of my all-time favorite movies (as if the above book parody wasn’t enough). It’s unrelated, but a great way to start the weekend:

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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Who Devalued Our Work?

One of the things I have been working to learn in my copious spare time is web design. No, I’m not yet attempting to build pages (although if you are just starting out and don’t have the $$ for a top-tier professional, comment here and I will email you and see if we can work something out). The point is, I have been working on learning the intricacies of WordPress, but felt I needed to brush up on my HTML/CSS coding in order to follow along with the WP course pace, as the instructor flies through the HTML/CSS coding very quickly.

How is this relevant to this post (and writing)? Well, the HTML/CSS course, offered by the same instructor (who I like very much and is quite knowledgeable), is 9-hours and costs $29. I thought that an extremely fair price as anyone who’s taken a technical course with their company and/or from a “well-known” instructional institute, knows a one-day course normally runs in the neighborhood of $500 or more.

Here’s the rub: as I paid for the course, my mind was wandering a bit as I filled in the boring sign-up data and I started thinking “How does this 9-hour course at $29 compare, relatively, to the price of my books in the marketplace?” The main reason I wondered this is because I had no issue at all paying $29 for a course whose instructor I already knew, had experienced positively, and would deliver that for which I was looking.

Imagine my dismay when my mind went from “wandering mode” to “focused mode” and I realized that this one-day course (approximately) was nearly TEN TIMES the cost of one of my entire novels. What was upsetting me, however. may not be what you expect. I still wasn’t put of at all by the price of the course. Nor, actually, was I terribly put off by the price differential, per se. Novels and technical training are, after all, at best “apples and oranges” and probably more like “apricots and Buicks”.

What hit me like a freight train on a dark track in the middle of a lightless tunnel was the magnitude of complaining I hear about the cost of eBooks while the world’s consumers go right on paying “normal” prices for most of their other goods. As if to punctuate this thought, it was not an hour later when one of my web posts received the below comment in regard to my third James Pruett Mystery, Honor Land (I determined NOT to post the comment for two reasons, which I will discuss in a moment)—here is the comment:

“Enjoyed first book. Just reying to get free copy next anazon want 4.99″

The reasons I did not approve the comment were these:

1) I planned on giving the comment, or at least the logic behind it, its due response (in this blog)

and

2) I didn’t want to embarrass the commenter by showing the world his/her inability to write two sentences without butchering the English language.

I’m sure by now you have either reached, or are very close to reaching, the reason for my frustration at this comment (sans grammar issues). It represents a quite prevailing wind of opinion about eBooks that has been swirling around the marketplace since the early days (2010-2011) when John Locke and Amanda Hocking (and a few others) permanently mortared our prized product—books—by devaluing them to 99 cents to make millions on volume sales then disappear into the night.

(Yes, I realize to blame the entire market shift on two authors is a bit hyperbolic, but every scandal must have its scapegoats.)

Why is it that a course on HTML/CSS, or a cup of coffee at one’s favorite latte shack, or an $800 iPhone, or a $55,000 Chevy, barely raise an eyebrow, but a novel—which not long ago cost over $20 in hardback and $12-15 in paperback—are suddenly entirely overpriced (in many readers’ minds) at $2.99-4.99? That’s three to five BUCKS! For a novel that took the writer months to construct and likely provided the consumer with at least a week (or even weekend) of pleasure.

Let me put it another way: how many four-dollar lattes does the average reader drink over the course of enjoying a novel?

Now please, don’t misunderstand: I am not implying that ALL (or even MOST) readers are oblivious to the value of a good book. However, ask yourself, honestly, where’s your price-line, even for an author you’ve already discovered and love? It’s just you, so be honest. $3? $4?

I receive a handful of emails a day from readers who LOVE the Sheriff Pruett series. LOVE. IT. All want to know only one thing:

When’s the next one out?

But I seriously wonder if I raised the price on my books to $7.99 or $9.99, like any well-known writer, if my fans would pay it. I can almost guarantee at least some wouldn’t. Not because they are bad people; it’s because of the Locke-Hocking Price-Conditioning Pandemic.

Yep, I’ve officially given it a name and therefore a place in history.

The Great Locke-Hocking Price-Conditioning Pandemic.

If I go out to buy a new pickup truck that my mind tells me, because of the ads I’ve seen; people with whom I’ve discussed the purchase; sites I’ve visited and seen comparable pricing, should cost me somewhere around $30,000, and the salesman starts off at $70,000—I’M GONE. It’s not that I’m a bad person, or that I want to ruin the poor salesman’s day, but I am conditioned to know what the expected (i.e. material) cost of the item should be.

The GLHPCP has (hopefully not permanently) altered normal consumer/readers’ perceptions of value-to-product for eBooks. It’s not the fault of the consumer/readers. They are not mean-spirited—the readers who write me are some of the kindest, most supportive (and thankful) people I’ve encountered in Cyberspace. But I would bet my left, uh, eyebrow that were I to raise my book price to $7.99, the next book—the one for which they are salivating—few (if any) would buy it.

Now I sympathize with the reader, who is now (unfairly) faced with what I call “finding a needle in a stack of needles”. There is so much CRAP out there, and the consumer/reader is now tasked with sifting through it (a good friend just read an Indie book that, when it came to the pinnacle of the story—a proposal—the man fell to one knee and romantically asked “Will you many me?”

But THIS is why unknown authors run promos, and give away their books for free (or for 99 cents—same as a comb in the Dollar Store): so that the reader can sample their wares without risk. Not because a book is worth NOTHING.

I’ll admit, it’s really frustrating. I try to find another market—morning lattes; pocket and tablet electronics; bagel stores—anywhere where the prices have been forced to drop to a few dollars (or in the case of lattes or a dozen bagels, a few cents).

There are none. Prices are going up, yet the Starbucks near my house has a line of cars at the drive-thru that wraps around the building from 5AM to noon. There’s so much new construction of housing “Starting in the low $400,00’s” that the roads are literally packed with every manner of construction vehicle. 75% of the cars on the road with me, if not new, are no more than a year or two old.

But a book?

50-150,000 words of wonderful story.

Months of the author’s blood, sweat, tears, and fingertip calluses.

Hours and hours of entertainment.

Three bucks? Four?

Outrageous.

99 cents or FREE. That is what many readers expect. Probably in many cases, subconsciously, but try to sell an eBook for more than a few dollars and you’ll soon discover that the bar is set abnormally low in the literature marketplace.

Do I have an answer? Not really. I won’t insult the readers for simply viewing the marketplace. I suppose the only antidote that has any chance of working is time. Perhaps, over time, readers will again realize what books really mean to them—and to society as a whole.

It has gotten better. I remember literally begging authors not to permanently price all their books at 99 cents (even though many of them were overpriced even at that number). “Use it as a promotion, yes, but otherwise you are devaluing not just the marketplace, but our profession.”

When I was 14, 15, and 16, I used to devour Stephen King (not literally—his writing). This was, for perspective, in the eighties. Thirty plus years ago. Even setting inflation aside, I used to wait, impatiently, for the new King book (and for those who remember how it worked then, most authors wrote a book a year, and it always came out first in hardback and then, maybe six months to a year later, paperback). But if you loved an author, you had to have the hardback, as soon as it came out.

I remember the pure elation at seeing that “new book display” at the front of (Waldenbooks, Barnes & Noble, Borders—which I don’t think actually existed yet). A 14-year-old kid slapping down his TWENTY-SOME BUCKS. I wasn’t rich. My parents were teachers, with a family of five.

I sacked groceries.

And I never missed a new King release (among other authors: Terry Brooks, John Grisham, Dean Koontz).

I DO know there are a lot of readers out there who already know (and agree) with everything I’ve said. And if I could afford to put you all on a private jet for the Bahamas or Hawaii to celebrate my appreciation for you, I would. Swear to God.

And those positive emails you send? The ones like this:

“I never write authors, give stars or say anything kind–but you are the exception. I LOVE your books. Raised in Casper, Laramie for undergrad then returned to teach a few years in Lander and Laramie–I love my ex-state. You are the only author to get Wyoming right–culture and atmosphere and location.

Please write lots more Wyoming.”

Please keep them coming. I always respond and say how much the love keeps we writers going and that readers are the lifeblood. You are. And you are far more than appreciated—you are everything.

The economics of it all? As with everything, I’m sure one day equalization will happen.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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Honor Land Release Giveaway

For any readers out there not on my list (or authors who enjoy my books), I am hosting a release giveaway for the third James Pruett Mystery, Honor Land. If you want the first two books free, Blood Land is free on Amazon and if you follow this link (http://bit.ly/rsguthrie) and sign up for my newsletter, you’ll receive the information on the giveaway. Entries begin tonight! The link to the Rafflecopter contest is on the last page of the book and entries begin Thursday, April 30th @ 12:00 AM EDT through Friday, May 1st @ 11:59 PM EDT.

(Also, since quite a few of my readers are authors, and you may have missed my blog regarding the new cover artist I found who is revamping my cadre of books and is the nicest, best-priced, most talented cover designer I’ve met. If so, shoot me an email or respond to this post. The cover showcased here is the new Honor Land design on which he’s in process!)

Back to the contest/giveaway:

The Grand Prize is an Amazon Kindle Fire HD 7! It has 8 Gigabytes of storage for your movies, books, etc., a 7″ high definition screen, and Wi-Fi connectivity. For second place I’ll be giving out three signed copies of Blood Land (the new matte cover if you’re willing to wait for it), and for third place in the drawing, I will be giving out five digital copies of the Denver Detective Bobby Mac series (Black Beast, L O S T, and Reckoning).

The giveaway link can also be found on the Giveaway tab on the R.S. Guthrie Author Page on Facebook here: facebook.com/rsguthriebooks.

 

 

The Internet: Also A Place For Anonymous Abuse

It’s funny when I think back on the first days of the Internet, for me. You see, that last part is really important because the “Internet” has been around a lot longer than most people think. The large, interconnection of nodes (or computers) began as a government project called ARPANET (Advanced Research Projects Agency Network)—eventually, as many things are, it was gobbled up by the Department of Defense and called DARPANET. That’s all the history I am going to give you, other than to tell you the first successful message was sent and delivered on October 29, 1969.

Most people think the invention/creation of the Internet to be much closer to the 21st century. Why? Well because that’s when more people began using it, and of course, we humans think that everything revolves around ourselves, individually.

Nice segue, right? I promise, this won’t be long and I will do my best not to rant.

If any of you read my blog on the great (super affordable) cover designer I happened across, you might remember I mentioned an email I was going to send to my writer “friends”. Now first, let’s agree that in this day and age, on the Internet, “friends” has taken on a whole new meaning. Internet friends, well, in most cases (if you’re like me), you actually know fewer than you’ve ever met face-to-face or talked to on a phone. Some you probably haven’t ever spoken to at all.

Another thing about this email I sent: the majority of recipients were writers who are hosted on my RABMAD (Read A Book, Make A Difference) page. I call it “mine” because it was my concept, I created the page, I pay for its hosting (going on four years now), and I manage it. For free. And at least 80% of the writers I included in my email were RABMAD authors, who I support daily, without charging them anything.

That said, even if a recipient was not a member of RABMAD, I explained how to join (free) and I also apologized for the intrusion, even though the entire email was for the writers’ benefit. This is critical: I sent this to help. Writers helping writers. That doesn’t mean any recipient was obligated in any way to even read my email, much less engage the cover artist I touted. And though the email had a (legally necessary) “Unsubscribe” link at the bottom, I explicitly asked that recipients not avail themselves of that option as this was very likely the only email they would ever receive from me and, if I did ever email somewhere out in the future, it would only be to share something else helpful to the writer.

It never occurred to me to ask recipients not to use the “Report Abuse” button. Not in a million years. Not only was the email not abusive, it was totally the opposite end of that spectrum.

It was helpful.

And, based on my request not to unsubscribe, it would have obviously been an acceptable “protest” to avail your rights and do just that: unsubscribe. Which a few others still did.

But REPORT ABUSE?

And therein lies the rub. Like drivers in cars, users of the Internet have become so accustomed to anonymity, and the “freedom” it affords them, that they don’t think twice about taking a dump on another human being. Had I known there were writer friends of mine capable of doing such a thing, I would have politely asked them not to do that because “abuse” is taken very seriously by the providers of my group email platform. In fact, by reporting abuse, this writer risks damaging my career and my income. The “pebble in the water” effect could go so far as to completely destroy my ability to converse with my readers, announce new books, and ultimately ruin me.

Not unlike someone who casually and anonymously labels someone in real life “an abuser”, when they really aren’t. Such indiscriminate use of terrible words, without a thought—on a mean-spirited whim—can brand someone for life.

Each day, like you I am sure, I receive literally dozens (if not hundreds) of spam emails. And I receive quite a few for which I don’t remember signing up. You know, from places on the Internet where I’ve purchased something online (usually the sender). And even though I don’t recall actually signing up, I am intelligent enough to realize that I did buy something from them, and it makes a certain amount of sense that they would email me once a month (or even more often) with specials, deals, etc.

And yes, many times those check boxes are pre-checked when you complete your transaction, slipped in (so to speak) by the vendor. But let’s take a look at that situation, and my options. Let’s say it was Best Buy, a very reputable company that does a great job of servicing their customers (I brought in an iPhone glass protector I bought online, not from them, and the guy working that area, since he is so good now at installing them, put mine on and charged me NOTHING).

So let’s just agree that Best Buy is a reputable company. Not an “enlarge your penis” or “send me your information so I can give you $2,000,000 American dolars [sic]” kind of “spammer”. But even though I LOVE Best Buy, I just get way too many emails from other reputable companies (AND the nasty, true spam mention above, which thankfully my spam filter normally picks up)—thing is, I don’t want to receive Best Buy’s emails any longer. I go to the bottom of the page and right in clear view is the “Unsubscribe” button. One click, no harm, no foul, and I never receive another unwanted email again.

But wait; there is another button!

“Report ABUSE”!

Hey, if I choose, I can really f*ck this company over. If I am a grouchy, mean-spirited, a-hole, then I LOOOOOOVE “abuse buttons”! They give me so much power. Hell, if they had a “Stone them to Death” button, I would use it. I could be like God. I could choose who lives or dies.

Just as a Caesar of ROME!

The crowds would adore me.

The Internet offers anonymity and with that (and certain responses), yes, power. But just because you have power, doesn’t mean you should use it. It is up to your humanity and your higher intellect to be very careful and responsible with power. Do I really want to hurt these people—this person? Did they truly abuse me? Or did they but share with me a discovery where I, as a writer, could have a better book cover while at the same time saving some of my hard-earned money?

Yes, I get too many emails—some of them disgusting; some of them criminal. Yes, I am sick to death at my computer being infected with malware and viruses and JUNK. Abhorred at the money I have to spend for software products to keep my computer from completely falling apart or freezing up. I’m also tired of having to clean my website every day because some weinerless little imp hacked into my (no gain) website and, just to cause me more work and grief, actually abused me. Where is the button for THAT?

But this other person—this co-author, coworker, nice guy—he is only reaching out to help. He not only apologized, but his email has an “Unsubscribe” button.

One click.

No malware.

No virus.

No hack.

Just a click and this nice man will never email me again.

But I can also “Report Abuse”! I have that POWER. In my normal life, I have no power. But here, anonymously, in my dark little cave, I have true power. I can screw over this nice person. I can ruin them if I choose.

So do I? For what possible reason would I even consider it? I mean, if the button said “Report my bad mood” of “Report my not really feeling like getting or reading this email” or “I really don’t remember this writer”, then fine. If you have to go further than unsubscribing, do it.

But the term is ABUSE. And those who hold the real power—the power to destroy a writer’s ability to do his or her marketing (something YOU must do, too, if you want to sell any books)—take these reports of ABUSE very seriously. Just as in PUBLIC. Where you can’t hide and make your accusations. Where people think twice, three times, even four about reporting someone as “abusive” if they really AREN’T.

Anonymity has gone too far. The pendulum has swung. Yes, all those nagging Internet realities still exist—and are getting worse (malware, viruses, website hacks, malicious code). But you know what?

That’s not this. Even in a court of law, if a jury is hung, the prosecutor has the right to poll the jury and every single jury member MUST show how they voted. But does this person who reported “ABUSE” have to give their identity? Explain themselves? PROVE abuse?

Be A-C-C-O-U-N-T-A-B-L-E?

No. From their anonymous perch, they can hurl complete bullsh*t.

BTW, so we are on the same page, here are some of the definitions of “abuse”:

“to treat in a harmful, injurious, or offensive way: to abuse a horse.”

“to speak insultingly, harshly, and unjustly to or about; revile; malign.”

“to commit sexual assault upon.”

The irony is, the writer who reported the abuse is actually the abuser here. “To treat in a harmful, injurious way. To malign.“

Please, dear readers: think before you act.

Don’t be malicious, capricious, or injurious to your fellow humans.

Don’t take out your frustration with real abuse by accusing an innocent of the act.

And if you do get off on power, and injuring people, and being mean-spirited, then I hope you seek help. Because you are the one who is one-off. Not the other 169/172 that did not so much as unsubscribe, much less report abuse. Look at yourself in the mirror, think about what you did (and what you likely do to others each day in life), take responsibility, be accountable, and seek help.

Earlier I compared how people act when anonymous on the Internet with the way they act in cars (same perceived anonymity). They cut you off, drive to the front of a line and push in, flip you off, scream obscenities. Road rage, they call it. I employ a simple rule for these people (and yes, sometimes I am one of them—hence, the rule):

Imagine you are not in your car, but “driving” a cart around the supermarket. Use this test: would I do the same thing, without thought or care, at the store?

Imagine getting to the front of the store, each line is eight carts deep, and without a moment’s hesitation, you push your cart to the front of one of the lines and start pointing the nose of your “vehicle” in at the front. Imagine someone does something you don’t like, so you tail them down the baking aisle, right on their butts, yelling at them, flipping them off.

There is your yardstick.

Sorry, I tried to keep it short. I failed.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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