Mike Jastrzebski's Blog, page 95

The Thing(s) from Inner Space!

By Mike Jastrzebski

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind I remembered a movie I watched on TV as a kid. I looked it up on the internet. I don't remember if I saw it on a Saturday afternoon horror matinee or late at night on Shock Theater, but as I began to ready the boat for cruising, the title of the movie popped into my head. It was The Thing from Another World with James Arness as The Thing.

 

What brought this to mind are the things we're finding in the deepest recesses of Rough Draft's storage lockers. Some items are truly alien in that neither Mary nor I are sure why we bought them, and on a couple of occasions even what they are.

We also have a large variety of duplicate items, tools we've never used (that may be because I've never met a tool that I didn't fall in love with) and various items that we bought when we moved aboard eight years ago and were sure we would need as we cruised.

And so, like The Thing we are trying to get rid of all of these items, culling the bad fruit so to speak. Some items are going straight to the trash, others to friends and still others to total strangers. Anything that we haven't used in the past year is subject to the old heave ho.

This is the way it should be on a boat, but as we get rid of things we face the same dilemma that those brave souls faced who killed the movie monster–how do we know there's not another Thing out there waiting to climb aboard?

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You'd think . . .

if several members of the Write on the Water crew were all at the same conference on the same weekend, they would find some way to get together, right?

Well, here's the deal. First, let me explain that I am lousy at multi-tasking.  I can barely chew gum and tie my sneakers at the same time. So, Sleuthfest is this once a year conference and an opportunity for all of us to try to advance our careers with the agents and editors in attendance.  I was so focused this year on trying to get myself a new agent it never occurred to me that my fellow bloggers were there and that we should have attempted to meet in the real — as opposed to the virtual — world.

Check out the attendees:

Wooden Boat John

eBook Guru Mike

Chef Victoria

Guest blogger Marcia (with fellow writer Deborah)

Guest blogger Sharon

Agent seeker/solo sailor Chris

I have shared with you all that I have been working on my stand-alone thriller for more than four years and I have spent the last 4 days since Sleuthfest working 18 hours a day at revising and polishing this manuscript (I'm on Spring Break from the day job).  I have decided to send it out to three agents today.  That was my Sleuthfest focus.

To my WOW blog mates, I'm sorry I didn't organize a git-together.  Who knows when so many of us will be in the same place at the same time.  But I will keep you posted on my efforts to secure an agent and a print publishing deal.

Wish me luck!

Fair winds,

Christine

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Wanted–spare minutes!

By Mike Jastrzebski

As a writer I often let my imagination run wild. Lately, I've been imagining an alternative world where time is a commodity traded on an open market. Feeling lazy today and don't want to do much? Sell an hour. What the hell, you weren't going to use it anyway. Got a project that's going to take a little longer than planned, go online, buy 180 minutes, and get the work done before going to bed.

I know I'm not the only one who would love this world. Just think what would have happened if the White Rabbit could have bought a few minutes.  

 

 

So why the sudden obsession with time? The boat. My wife Mary retired last Thursday and we thought we'd get started right away on boat projects. Then I was asked to be on the e-book panel at SleuthFest this past weekend and suddenly it was Monday. Three days of fun, friends, and maybe a few drinks, but no work on Rough Draft.

Okay I thought, there's always Monday-but Monday's our beach day. We decided on a compromise. Morning at the beach, and that afternoon we'd go apply for our passports. It wouldn't be work on the boat, but we can't leave the good old USA without the passports. Unfortunately, despite what the post office website said, our local office doesn't take the photos, and how was I supposed to know I would need a phone number and address of someone besides Mary on the passport application. Also, although I could come within a year or so of guessing my parent's birth years, we had to return home for the information.

So Tuesday we drove back to the post office and then spent a couple of hours on the computer trying to find a good price for a flight so Mary could fly home for a few days to help her sister get her mother's house ready to go on the market.

Wednesday we had some more running around to do and finally tomorrow we plan to start the work on the boat. We've done this before, so we know how easily time slips away.

We spent five years working on the boat before we came down the river system from Minnesota.

And five months repairing the boat after Hurricane Katrina put Rough Draft into a neighbor's backyard, so we know how fast time slips away. It's worrisome, but we'll get a handle on things and the work will get done. Still, I sure do wish I could buy those extra minutes. I'd pay a couple of month's royalties from my book sales for an extra week of time to be used whenever I needed it.

Oh-oh, there goes that damn imagination again. What if I could make a pact with Satan to have all the time I needed in the next month to work on Rough Draft? Wait a minute, am I nuts? My soul's got to be worth at least a brand new boat. But then I realize I've seen that movie. I'd end up spending all my energy trying to get out of the pact and end up with the same old boat and nothing to show for those free hours. Guess I'll just do things the old fashioned way and get started on my projects tomorrow.

What about you? What would you do if you could buy all the minutes you wanted? Would you blow your wad on a couple of extra hours?  

 

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Renewal…

It's early March. The boatyard is gray and empty, with few signs of life… that is, aside from the raccoon tracks all over my decks. It seems some enterprising creature discovered by climbing the beams in the shed they could step across to my anchor and slip aboard. From there it was a simple matter of pushing in the screen in the forward cabin port, down the bookshelves, across the bunk and up to the galley, where ultimately they discovered that single bag of stale pretzels I'd left aboard as emergency rations. I can't begrudge my uninvited guest their meal, especially since aside from the pillaged bag of pretzels there was no other damage, though I've lowered my anchor a few feet so it no longer provides a convenient gangplank for the four-footed bandit.

There are a few other signs that life is returning to the yard. The ice has receded from the river and crews are prepping the yard boat and the lifts. Docks are going back in. A cover or two has been pulled back and a lone extension cord snakes across the gravel. Next to the office, between melting piles of grungy snow a few crocuses have broken through the soil. Within weeks this place will be bustling with energy as boats shed their cocoons and the warming air is filled with the smell of solvents and fresh paint. The hum of sanders and the whine of the travel lift will drone from morning till night as boats move from the yard to the docks.

It's a busy time, but a good busy. It's a time to reconnect with friends you haven't seen all winter, to catch up on life as you get things in order for those summer days ahead. There are those familiar faces, the ones that return year after year, though often I know them only by the name across their boat's hull. There's the older couple on 'Fairwinds', working away on that same boat they bought back when the kids, all grown and on their own now, were little. The fishermen with 'Reel Good', eager to launch early for the annual striped bass derby. And there will be new faces; there always are. The group of young friends with a scuffed up runabout preparing for a summer of waterskiing and wakeboarding. The retiree, proudly acquainting himself with that dream boat he'd worked years to achieve. A young couple ambitiously tackling a tired old sloop. We watch, realizing they have no clue where to begin, but what they lack in experience and knowledge they more than make up with enthusiasm and energy. And there will be missing faces and boats that sit untended, and talk of who became ill or passed away, and then you realize how little you truly knew about those people you'd known for years. But at least, looking back, there is a sense that the time spent with them was time well spent – laughing, swapping tools and stories, sharing drinks and dreams.

In this age of shopping centers and central air-conditioning, people have grown isolated. Modern life has fallen victim to its own success. A house in the suburbs with a big backyard and a driveway full of cars has created neighborhoods of commuters who rarely see and barely know one another. There was a time when societies flourished on communities working and building together, helping one another out. I suppose this is a big part of what I enjoy around the boatyard: that sense of community has not been lost. While there may be a diverse range of boats and owners, there is a certain unity. Backed to one another, transoms become porches and docks are communal sidewalks as we all pass one another while we come and go. People pause to stop and chat. A lifted engine hatch will immediately draw queries of "Everything all right?" and "Need a hand?" Friendships are forged as we sympathize, commiserate and assist, even if only to offer a cold beer. And I suppose that's what I enjoy most about spring within this little village of eclectic boats – that promise of another season among friends, both old and new.

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In the Mind of a Woman

by Tom Tripp

Excerpt from work-in-progress…

—–

Rebecka turned the corner and saw Andy's familiar green Jeep far down the street as it began to pass slowly in front of a black limousine parked just across the lot from the wharf where a large, grey freighter was tied up.   She could see a white van driving straight toward the limo and slowing to a stop about 30 feet on the other side of it.  Why was Andy driving so slowly?  Didn't he see what was about to happen?  Rebecka saw the van's doors slide open and four men simultaneously slip down out of the vehicle into a crouched firing position with automatic weapons aimed at the limo. 

She screamed at the Jeep.  "Andy, go!   For God's sake, Andy, move!!!!"   The Jeep was now barely moving and was right next to the limo.  Rebecka's gaze moved up to the white van and she saw sparkling white lights appear at the muzzles of the guns.  She screamed louder at Andy and ran faster toward the Jeep.  She saw Andy turn to his left and look at her, even as the glass and steel of the limo on the other side of the Jeep began to erupt.  "Andy!  No!!!!!," she screamed.  He looked at her curiously and a small smile crossed his face as he seemed to recognize her.  She saw a small blond head in the backseat just as the Jeep itself seemed to explode from within, armor-piercing bullets perforating its fuel tank and causing the vehicle to fly apart as though it was made of paper, the chassis rising almost magically off the ground and spinning forward.  It hit the street nearly 50 feet in front of the limo, or what was left of it and the sound of the steel careening across the concrete was a scream slicing into her own head and filling it with blinding white light.

She sat up abruptly, sucking in the cool dark air in her bedroom, faintly illuminated by the cold moonlight slanting through the wooden blinds.  "God, no…." a faint plea escaped her dry lips.  Andy's old t-shirt, the one she slept in ever since he died, was soaked at the neck and the sweat ran down her neck in rivulets that raced the tears now cascading down her cheeks.   The dream was always the same.   The shrink her father had taken her to in Tacoma had said it wasn't uncommon at all in these kinds of cases and would eventually stop.  But every night that it came back, Rebecka felt nothing but despair; hopelessness in the face of the almost nightly reminder not only of what had happened to the two most important people in her life, but in what gruesome manner they had been taken from her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling with the oppressive sense of loss and the sweaty heat of her repressed anger.  She yanked the soggy t-shirt over her head and threw it across the room.  The cool autumn air from the window brushed against her skin and cooled the fire.  Rebecka leaned back against the headboard and tried to breathe deeply and slowly.  She felt her heart rate slowing and she focused on an imaginary sanctuary deep in an old growth forest; a mental picture she had learned to retreat to when she felt overwhelmed.  She slid down the pillow a bit as her muscles relaxed and then suddenly felt chilled.  She pulled the sheet up over her bare shoulders and slid farther down and rolled on her side; deciding perhaps she could sleep again.  In the instant before sleep overtook her she saw the trees of the little island and the red kayak.  But the image couldn't hold her and she fell deeply asleep. 

—–

The preceding is part of a chapter in my novel, "The Fourth Wave," in which we learn about a major character's crippling grief.  Although this part actually comes several chapters into the book, long after we have been introduced to her, it was the first thing I wrote about her and it was when I began to try to live in the mind of a woman (which, to be clear, I am not).  Only time, and future readers, will decide if my temporary stay in that place enabled the successful portrayal of a fictional woman by a male author. It's one of the harder things I've done as a writer, and I'm wondering what readers of this blog have experienced as they wrote characters who didn't share their gender.

This work Copyright © 2011 by Thomas M. Tripp.  All rights reserved.

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From Rags to Riches on the Kindle: SleuthFest 2011 and February sales.

By Mike Jastrzebski

I spent the weekend at the SleuthFest writer's conference which is put on every year by the Florida chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. I think this is my seventh year attending the conference and as always it's great to visit with old friends and pick up a tip or two from the panels.

Here I am with Paul Levine and Jonathon King on the e-book panel.

 

The biggest difference I noticed this year was the attitude of writers, editors and agents toward e-books. Last year, the general theme among these attendees was that e-books were such a small percentage of books sold that they weren't very important. This year everyone admits that they are.

Last year I started talking about releasing my historical novel, The Storm Killer, as an e-book and the general consensus was that I was wasting my time. When I referenced what I'd been reading on Joe Konrath's blog I was told, "You can't believe everything Joe says. Nobody can be making that kind of money on e-books." Boy has their attitude changed.

As I talked with fellow writers this year and told them what my sales have been, (I sold 319 copies of The Storm Killer and 493 copies of Key Lime Blues (A Wes Darling Mystery) for a total of 812 sales in February) even some of the big name writers wanted more information. I'm holding back the names of these writers because I know they would prefer that their publishers didn't know about their interest, but believe me, it's there.

As for the publishers, well they claim not to be worried about e-book sales. Their attitude is they'll just adjust for the decrease in paper book sales and increase in e-book sales. They believe that at best e-books will only account for 50% of book sales in five years. I suppose they could be right, but I'm willing to bet that fiction e-books will make up a far greater percentage than 50%.

As for the agents, they're a bit more realistic about matters. They're afraid they may lose some of their mid-list writers to self publishing on the Kindle, and all of the agents I spoke with had a rough idea of how many books a self published e-book writer would have to be selling before they would be interested in talking to a writer.

The number varied. One agent said a thousand books a month, another set the bar at fifteen hundred a month and a third agent told me they would rather see a long term track record. The figure mentioned by the third agent was 10,000 books sold over a year.

So I ask the readers of this blog, if you were selling 10,000 e-books a year, how big of an advance would you want to be offered before you would consider pulling your books off of Amazon and signing with a traditional publisher? I don't have a figure that I would accept, but I know that a $50,000 advance would not be enough to tempt me.

By the way, if you are wondering, I'm not worried about having that offer at this time. My total sales for both books since July of 2010 when my first book went on sale are only a little over 4000 books. Want to test my resolve? Buy my books, push my numbers higher, and I promise that if an offer ever comes in I'll write about it on this blog.

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From Rags to riches on the Kindle: SleuthFest 2011 and February sales.

By Mike Jastrzebski

I spent the weekend at the SleuthFest writer's conference which is put on every year by the Florida chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. I think this is my seventh year attending the conference and as always it's great to visit with old friends and pick up a tip or two from the panels.

The biggest difference I noticed this year was the attitude of writers, editors and agents toward e-books. Last year, the general theme among these attendees was that e-books were such a small percentage of books sold that they weren't very important. This year everyone admits that they are.

Last year I started talking about releasing my historical novel, The Storm Killer, as an e-book and the general consensus was that I was wasting my time. When I referenced what I'd been reading on Joe Konrath's blog I was told, "You can't believe everything Joe says. Nobody can be making that kind of money on e-books. Boy has their attitude changed.

As I talked with fellow writers this year and told them what my sales have been, (I sold 319 copies of The Storm Killer and 493 copies of Key Lime Blues (A Wes Darling Mystery) for a total of 812 sales in February) even some of the big name publishers wanted more information. I'm holding back the names of these writers because I know they would prefer that their publishes didn't know about their interest, but believe me, it's there.

As for the publishers, well they claim not to be worried about e-book sales. Their attitude is they'll just adjust for the decrease in paper book sales and increase in e-book sales. They believe that at best e-books will only account for 50% of book sales in five years. I suppose they could be right, but I'm willing to bet that fiction e-books will make up a far greater percentage than 50%.

As for the agents, they're a bit more realistic about matters. They're afraid they may lose some of their mid-list writers to self publishing on the Kindle, and all of the agents I spoke with had a rough idea of how many books a self published e-book writer would have to be selling before they would be interested in talking to a writer.

The number varied. One agent said a thousand books a month, another set the bar a fifteen hundred a month and a third agent told me that they would rather see a long term track record. The figure mentioned by that agent was 10,000 books sold over a year.

So I ask the readers of this blog, if you were selling 10,000 e-books a year, how big of an advance would you want to be offered before you would consider pulling your books off of Amazon and signing with a traditional publisher? I don't have a figure that I would accept, but I know that a $50,000 advance would not be enough to tempt me.

By the way, if you are wondering, I'm not worried about having that offer at this time. My total sales for both books since July of 2010 when my first book went on sale are only a little over 4000 books. Want to test my resolve? Buy my books, push my numbers higher, and I promise that if an offer ever comes in I'll write about it on this blog.

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A Boating Life for Me

Photo provided by Amy Reynolds

Please join me in welcoming Amy Reynolds as a guest this week at Write on the Water. Amy has been writing for marine publications for many years, most recently as the founding editor of a regional boating publication, Waterside News.  Welcome Aboard, Amy!

********

Growing up in the Midwest, my primary experience with water was a view of the muddy Mississippi as it filled my yard and I waded through the waist deep chill with a box held over my head wondering if this would be the time our house simply floated away.

Jump forward a couple years to the age of 18 when I hitchhiked to California (yes, a bit impetuous, but it's served me well for the most part) and two new friends, on learning I'd never seen the ocean, took me to Malibu Beach. Walking out onto the sand and seeing such a vast expanse of water that only ended where it met the sky made an impression on me I'd never experienced in my young life. It has only been equaled since by the births of my children and falling in love.

I only lasted a year in California, mostly in San Francisco, before I returned to the security of the Midwest. But I made a promise to myself that no matter what, I would someday move to a coast and live on the water.

Jump forward almost 20 years to the summer of divorce. I was living outside Atlanta and hadn't managed to make it to the water yet, but my writing career was sprouting wings (ok, feathery nubs), my kids were teenagers (almost out of the nest!), and the whole world was in front of me. One weekend when the kids were at their dad's, I packed up my dog and an overnight bag and headed for Jekyll Island – the only place on the nearest coast where I could take my furry companion. My best bud, Bex, who'd purchased a houseboat earlier that year, insisted I go walk the docks at a local marina and look at boats. I was resistant. Why would I want to walk on wood and look at floating vehicles when I could walk on the beach and look at the ocean? But as it happened, it was the best advice I've ever gotten. I met a couple who lived aboard and it occurred to me that weekend that if living near the water was good, then living in a boat on the water had to be so much better!

And that was it. Within four months I'd purchased my own small sailboat, a U.S. Yachts 25 (I know, you've never heard of it. It was a Pierson design.), put it on the nearest lake where I could visit it every weekend, and rearranged my entire life plan to include living on a real sailboat and exploring the world from my floating home. It took me another two years to move to saltwater, and I've bought and sold several boats since then, though have yet to live aboard full time. However. That time is finally near at hand.

The youngest has reached the age of majority (as in getting his butt out of mama's house), the boating newspaper I started over two years ago has proven successful, and it's time to start shopping for the perfect boat. Ah, I can see you flinch! I uttered the words, "perfect boat."

But that topic's for another time. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this: don't give up the dream. If you believe and work and have faith (in whatever or whomever gives you hope) then it will happen. Write your heart out (literally) and keep a weather eye.

*************

Amy Reynolds was a regular columnist for various regional newspapers and online magazines for more than ten years, and is also the publisher and founding editor of a regional boating publication, Waterside News. This allows her to combine her two passions, writing and sailing, as well as providing her with other water-related adventures such as trapping alligators, hanging out on NOAA research vessels, fishing, and exploring her local waterways. She lives on a back-barrier island in Coastal Georgia with her dogs, the occasional adult child who will hopefully be vacating for good soon, and a burr fish named Puff. She is currently completing revisions on her novel and saving money for her first liveaboard sailboat. She can be reached at amy@watersidenews.com

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On the Move

A ship in harbor is safe–but that is not what ships are built for.

John A. Shedd

We are moving again! The boat has been tied to the dock for too long. Barnacles have grown on the hull; dock lines are stiff around the poles. I am stagnant.

At six this morning, I stood on our aft deck. The sky melded from black to mauve. A mug of hot Oceana coffee warmed my hands.

"Drop the bow line." Patrick's voice over the handheld radio seemed foreign, it had been so long since we had had to use the thing.

"Bow line's off," our deckhands voice filled the air. I couldn't see him from where I stood, but I knew he was busy pulling the heavy line in through the fairlead.

"Mid-ship's free," the bosun called next.

"Roger that." I could hear the excitement in Patrick's voice. "Victoria, drop your line."

This was it—the last tie to land.

I let the line go slack in my hand while a man on the dock unhooked the loop from the clete

"Stern is clear." I clipped the radio back on my hip and watched as the boat inched away from the dock.

The sky slid into lilac as I thought back to all the new friends I had met in this port. I would miss chatting with the woman in the market every morning. I had learned how to poach the local shrimp in citrus from her. I still wanted to eat in the restaurant on the beach that specialized in stone crabs. I'd enjoyed the sounds of a steel guitar that the man at the corner bar played Friday nights.

But none of those things could stop the excitement building inside me.

What would the new port be like? Where would I find the market? How many new friends would I meet? There is so much to discover about a new place.

As the boat picked up speed, sea air blew over my skin. The smell of salt invaded my senses. I smiled. This is what living on a boat is all about.

The possibilities for stories bubbled in my mind. New places inspire me.

I might learn new recipes. I might find a new character wandering streets. I might hear a story that ignites my imagination and makes me ask 'what if…'.

Flying fish flittered across the sea of teal seeming to lead us to our new destination.

We were on the move again!

What about you? How long do you like to stay in port? What do you look for in a new port? Where do you want to cruise next?

Victoria Allman, author SEAsoned: A Chef's Journey with Her Captain, has been following her stomach around the globe for twelve years as a yacht chef.  She writes about her floating culinary odyssey through Europe, the Caribbean, Nepal, Vietnam, Africa and the South Pacific in her first book, Sea Fare:  A Chef's Journey Across the Ocean.

You can read more of her food-driven escapades through her web-site, www.victoriaallman.com

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Climb Aboard

The steep piles of snow outside my window look more like a scene from a Quebec winter than March 1st in the suburbs of Boston, but it must be time to start thinking about boating because my mind keeps focusing on one subject – boat ladders. Boat ladders? Really? You'd think this Nordic hell we've been living through all winter might trigger escapist images of beaching a dinghy on a warm stretch of sand or sailing on a fresh breeze. Nope. Not yet anyway. Ladders. That's what I am thinking about.

This isn't the first winter these thoughts have snuck into my psyche. There's a reason for this, too, and it's a pretty good one. For as wonderful as boating is, and as relaxing as swimming may be, boaters eventually learn that it's damn near impossible to climb into their boat once they find themselves overboard.

Let's start with the Boston Whaler. Ours is a simple 1976 17 footer, a reliable little boat that sits no more than a foot out of the water. So how hard can it be getting back in the boat? Not hard at all if you're a twenty year old who pumps a hundred push-ups twice a day and has a skinny lower body. Just pull yourself up out of the water, swing your legs around, and climb over the side. I have done this myself. Unfortunately, that was back when the Bee Gees were in the Top 40 and Burt Reynolds was driving around in a Trans Am with The Flying Nun at his side. In a pinch, I can still make it into that boat, but it isn't pretty. Bottom line, I need a ladder.

And our sailboat? Many modern designs are built with reverse transoms that serve as a built-in boat ladder. Unfortunately, no such amenity was in place in 1946 when our old wooden boat came to be. Like many traditional hulls, the thing is impossible to board from the water. Try to climb up and your legs slip down under the curvature of the hull. If you try to board from the stern it's even worse because of the way the transom is cut.

And this isn't simply a hypothetical problem. A few years back I jumped in for a swim, not thinking of the ladder problem and I was stuck in the water for a good long time while my wife and I tried alternative after alternative. If I had been wearing shorts I might have even tried hooking the main halyard to my rear belt loop so my wife could crank me up out of the water. Instead we travailed with a very stowable, very useless rope ladder that was designed more as a workout machine than a boarding device. The more worn down I got, the more futile the effort became.

So just buy a ladder you might say. The problem is, the ladders you can stow easily work like crap and the ones that are functional are better outfitted on a fire truck than a wooden boat.

The result is that I sit here thinking of the new boating season perplexed about how I might find a good compromise of style and function. Hopefully, this gets resolved before the season because after that, I'm ready to push a character overboard in my next story to see how things work out.

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