Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 95
August 27, 2014
Lost In The Amazon … Rankings
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Like many published authors, I’ve developed a psychological disorder known as OCA: Obsessively Checking Amazon.
This happens when you get a book listed on Amazon.com, and find yourself waking up in the middle of the night just to check the book’s ranking. When you don’t sell many copies (that would be most writers) your entire day can be made with one sale, or broken by the precipitous ranking drop that comes after that one sale.
My fourth book came out in May, and my wife had to use a Taser and a crowbar to pry me away from the internet before summer arrived. My rank peaked in mid-May at 68,201, which sounds pretty good until you realize that the previous February, for reasons that remain a mystery, my overall rank hit 9,093.
Of course, that counts only Amazon sales, as opposed to sales from other sources. I keep a box full of books in the trunk of my car, just in case I stumble across an unwary victim—ahem, reader—with a few bucks for books.
The other thing is that Amazon rankings aren’t determined by just the number of copies sold. There’s the question of velocity … in theory, if I sold two books in an hour I might get a higher ranking than if I sold one book a week for a month. There are other factors, which are very mystical and may or may not involve a bearded wizard manning a supercomputer.
That appears to be what happened in February. I sold a few books close together, or the wizard sneezed.
Through most of the long, outside-instead-of-reading summer days, my overall Amazon ranking hovered in the high 300,000’s. That sounds pretty bad, but with everyone self-publishing these days, and everyone else putting older print books out as e-books, there are millions upon millions of books for sale. For instance, I found The Ghost Of Dibble Hollow, a 1965 book that I loved as a kid, now available on Amazon.
Then, in early August, my ranking suddenly shot up 200,000 places.
My first thought was that word was getting around about my recent release, The No-Campfire Girls; after all, it only came out a few months before. (Yes, for those of you paying attention, this was written before I discovered my newer novel had been released without my knowledge.) Maybe campers were coming back home and looking for a fun read. Maybe it was about to catch fire, no pun intended. Maybe I could pay off my credit cards! Word of mouth is a great way to sell books.
But no.
It turned out to be, in fact, a small flurry of sales of my first book, Storm Chaser. It came out in June—2011. Don’t get me wrong: the book got great reviews, and I sold a lot of copies early on, but three years is a long time in the publishing industry. When it comes to publicity, I’ve been concentrating on The No-Campfire Girls and my novel that comes out in October (*ahem*). Why now?
I don’t know.
You thought I’d have an answer, didn’t you? Silly readers.
There is one possibility: my October release, The Notorious Ian Grant, is a sequel to Storm Chaser. I tried to write it so that you didn’t have to read the first story to appreciate the second, but I’m not going to tell anyone that. If you find that out, you might not buy the first one. So maybe someone was interested enough in the second to go back and read the first.
The problem is, I haven’t cranked up the publicity machine (which works about as well as my old lawn mower). I’ve been busy doing summer stuff, or trying to get people to buy The No-Campfire Girls, or checking my Amazon rankings. I don’t think I’ve even mentioned Ian Grant, who’s somewhat notorious, in the last few months. Besides, if it’s all about the sequel, why was there no uptick in sales for my related short story collection?
So in the end, I don’t know. I went from a rank in the 350,000’s to breaking 100,000, and I don’t know what—if anything—I did to make a difference. Most writers are good at writing, but stink at selling.
We don’t know how to make those Amazon numbers dance. We don’t know the best way to attract a publisher, an agent, or a reader … even if we’ve accomplished it, most don’t really know how. A good turn of phrase? An attractive penname? Getting our query letter to them on a Wednesday before lunch?
Occasionally a writer will figure out what worked for them, tell other people, those other people will try it, and it won’t work. Nobody knows. You might as well hire that wizard with the beard, only he’s getting better money as the head of the Amazon IT department.
I guess I’ll just keep whacking away at it, and occasionally take my frustrations out by writing … this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check Amazon.
Like many published authors, I’ve developed a psychological disorder known as OCA: Obsessively Checking Amazon.
This happens when you get a book listed on Amazon.com, and find yourself waking up in the middle of the night just to check the book’s ranking. When you don’t sell many copies (that would be most writers) your entire day can be made with one sale, or broken by the precipitous ranking drop that comes after that one sale.
My fourth book came out in May, and my wife had to use a Taser and a crowbar to pry me away from the internet before summer arrived. My rank peaked in mid-May at 68,201, which sounds pretty good until you realize that the previous February, for reasons that remain a mystery, my overall rank hit 9,093.
Of course, that counts only Amazon sales, as opposed to sales from other sources. I keep a box full of books in the trunk of my car, just in case I stumble across an unwary victim—ahem, reader—with a few bucks for books.
The other thing is that Amazon rankings aren’t determined by just the number of copies sold. There’s the question of velocity … in theory, if I sold two books in an hour I might get a higher ranking than if I sold one book a week for a month. There are other factors, which are very mystical and may or may not involve a bearded wizard manning a supercomputer.
That appears to be what happened in February. I sold a few books close together, or the wizard sneezed.
Through most of the long, outside-instead-of-reading summer days, my overall Amazon ranking hovered in the high 300,000’s. That sounds pretty bad, but with everyone self-publishing these days, and everyone else putting older print books out as e-books, there are millions upon millions of books for sale. For instance, I found The Ghost Of Dibble Hollow, a 1965 book that I loved as a kid, now available on Amazon.
Then, in early August, my ranking suddenly shot up 200,000 places.
My first thought was that word was getting around about my recent release, The No-Campfire Girls; after all, it only came out a few months before. (Yes, for those of you paying attention, this was written before I discovered my newer novel had been released without my knowledge.) Maybe campers were coming back home and looking for a fun read. Maybe it was about to catch fire, no pun intended. Maybe I could pay off my credit cards! Word of mouth is a great way to sell books.
But no.
It turned out to be, in fact, a small flurry of sales of my first book, Storm Chaser. It came out in June—2011. Don’t get me wrong: the book got great reviews, and I sold a lot of copies early on, but three years is a long time in the publishing industry. When it comes to publicity, I’ve been concentrating on The No-Campfire Girls and my novel that comes out in October (*ahem*). Why now?
I don’t know.
You thought I’d have an answer, didn’t you? Silly readers.
There is one possibility: my October release, The Notorious Ian Grant, is a sequel to Storm Chaser. I tried to write it so that you didn’t have to read the first story to appreciate the second, but I’m not going to tell anyone that. If you find that out, you might not buy the first one. So maybe someone was interested enough in the second to go back and read the first.
The problem is, I haven’t cranked up the publicity machine (which works about as well as my old lawn mower). I’ve been busy doing summer stuff, or trying to get people to buy The No-Campfire Girls, or checking my Amazon rankings. I don’t think I’ve even mentioned Ian Grant, who’s somewhat notorious, in the last few months. Besides, if it’s all about the sequel, why was there no uptick in sales for my related short story collection?
So in the end, I don’t know. I went from a rank in the 350,000’s to breaking 100,000, and I don’t know what—if anything—I did to make a difference. Most writers are good at writing, but stink at selling.
We don’t know how to make those Amazon numbers dance. We don’t know the best way to attract a publisher, an agent, or a reader … even if we’ve accomplished it, most don’t really know how. A good turn of phrase? An attractive penname? Getting our query letter to them on a Wednesday before lunch?
Occasionally a writer will figure out what worked for them, tell other people, those other people will try it, and it won’t work. Nobody knows. You might as well hire that wizard with the beard, only he’s getting better money as the head of the Amazon IT department.
I guess I’ll just keep whacking away at it, and occasionally take my frustrations out by writing … this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check Amazon.
August 26, 2014
Cheap Doctor Who joke
Matt Smith came to my house to help figure out why my clothes drier isn’t running—he even used his sonic screwdriver on it. He discovered it is indeed getting supplied with power ... but it still doesn’t work. It’s like the Federal government of driers.
Maybe I should have called Peter Capaldi?
Okay, not the same Matt Smith. +Seriously, it was nice of Matt to confirm the problem wasn’t with the plug, and now I’m going to start my own Kickstarter type program: When I sell $350 worth of books, I buy a new drier. It’ll work until everyone figures out I have to buy a new drier, whether I make any sales or not.
Maybe I should have called Peter Capaldi?
Okay, not the same Matt Smith. +Seriously, it was nice of Matt to confirm the problem wasn’t with the plug, and now I’m going to start my own Kickstarter type program: When I sell $350 worth of books, I buy a new drier. It’ll work until everyone figures out I have to buy a new drier, whether I make any sales or not.
August 24, 2014
Doctor Who/Harry Potter fanfiction: "The Headmaster's Doctor"
I promised myself that with every major writing milestone I'd have some fanfiction fun as a reward, so this is to celebrate the release of my novel, "The Notorious Ian Grant".
It's also, of course, a nice way to mark the first TV appearance of the 12th Doctor--even though what I'm giving you is the 10th, for reasons that will become obvious.
###
The fun part is looking, and while looking Luna Lovegood discovers a strange blue box in Hogwarts - and an even stranger man inside, with a simple request: "take me to your leader".
THE HEADMASTER'S DOCTOR
Luna Lovegood wandered through the halls of Hogwarts, looking.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she always found something. Looking was the fun part.
Sure enough, she found a new something in a dead end corridor, empty except for tall windows and a stone Gargoyle: a tall blue wooden box in the shadows, perhaps big enough for a few people to stuff themselves into, with the words “Police public call Box” along the top. She paused, her head tilting as she studied it.
“Hello.” It was clearly alive, so it was only polite to greet it.
The box’s door swung open, and Barty Crouch Junior stepped out.
“Oh.” Luna reached for her wand, then paused when the man smiled. “You look like someone who’s … no longer there.”
“Well, I can’t be that person then, can I? I’m here!”
That made sense. Plus, this man looked remarkably more sane, and seemed older, and Luna was fairly certain Crouch Junior could not have pulled off such a dashing look in a pinstripe soup and brown duster. “Are you a professor?”
“No, I’m a Doctor. I’m looking for a professor, though: a man by the name of Dumbledore.” The Doctor closed the box’s door and locked it behind him.
“Come along, then. My name is Luna.” If this man was not a student or a teacher, the Headmaster was exactly who should be alerted. But she paused when they reached the gargoyle. “I’m afraid I don’t know the password.”
“Really?” The Doctor took a wand from his pocket—a very unusual looking wand that made a strange whirring sound when he waved it toward the gargoyle. Luna instantly wanted one of her own. “Ah.”
The gargoyle leapt aside.
“Most wands don’t do that,” Luna told him.
The Doctor glanced at his wand, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “It’s sonic.”
“Of course. That explains the sound.” Luna knew what the word sonic meant, and assumed it must be a kind of magic, or at least not the kind of technology the Muggles used.
Together they climbed the circular staircase, and The Doctor didn’t seem the bit perturbed about it moving as they went. They paused at the oaken double doors. Instead of using his wand The Doctor gave three quick knocks, and the doors swung open.
Headmaster Dumbledore stood before them, and exchanged a hearty handshake with The Doctor. “Welcome Doctor, welcome! Come, sit. Miss Lovegood, by all means, do come in also.”
Was Dumbledore sick? He didn’t seem sick … maybe The Doctor wasn’t that kind of doctor. Luna followed the two men in and perched on an armchair, looking around curiously as they exchanged pleasantries and sat on either side of the desk. The books that lined part of the circular room called to her, but she silently told them she couldn’t read right now.
“You look well, Albus.”
“As do you, Doctor, younger than ever. I was paid a visit by your granddaughter earlier this year—she says hello.”
Granddaughter? Luna studied The Doctor.
Dumbledore pushed a glass bowl of candy toward the other man. “Please, help yourself.”
“Hm …” The Doctor rubbed his chin. “I’ve rather lost my appetite for those, after that dust flavored bean—I was thirsty for days. But I brought something I believe you’ll find just as tasty, and less of a risk.” He reached into a pocket, and produced a small bag. “Jelly Baby?”
“Why, thank you.” The Headmaster took a handful, then The Doctor offered the rest to Luna. “You can take the bag, Luna. I recently found a whole cabinet full of these, so there’s plenty to go around—and no surprises, like those Every Flavor Beans.”
Luna rather liked surprises, although she’d found the liver flavored Bean less than savory.
Dumbledore leaned forward, his smile fading into a grave expression. “I must apologize once again for that unfortunate unpleasantness at the Ministry, Doctor. I realize it could have been ages or minutes ago for you …”
“It wasn’t at all your fault—“
“Perhaps, but I was blind to what was happening, and you’re the one who suffered for it. Barty Crouch Junior was a youth when that spell diffused you into his body, so no one noticed as he grew to resemble you—and sadly, I knew you only by another face. If I had not managed to remove you at the moment of the dementor attack, you may have been trapped even longer …”
“To me it was only a few hours.” The Doctor’s voice was gentle. “Just the same, I’d rather not have it happen again. Can I assume a Time-Turner is no longer in the hands of Barty Crouch?”
Luna’s attention had been wandering to the arched ceiling, but now it snapped back onto the other occupants. Time-Turner?
“Barty Crouch has, I’m afraid, passed away.”
“Oh—I’m so sorry.” And The Doctor did look sorry, although Luna surmised something Crouch did had caused the strange man many problems.
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Dumbledore leaned back, looking suddenly much older. “The punishment for trying to change his son’s past would have been very severe indeed, had Barty survived. And of course he would have had to deal with the fact that his disruption, in the end, made no difference at all—and even caused his son’s mental imbalance.”
“Having two minds trapped in one body will do that. But they can’t be faulted for trapping me—Crouch didn’t even know I’d been drawn into the spell.” After a moment The Doctor waved his hand, as if putting it all behind him. “And the Time-Turners? I tried to convince the Master that humans were not yet capable of handling a device like that, but he does like sewing chaos.”
“All destroyed in a conflict at the Ministry of Magic. All but this one.” Dumbledore pulled a necklace from a desk drawer, and handed it to The Doctor.
The visitor studied it as it dangled from his hand. “I suppose he expected the human race would destroy themselves with these. And they might have, too, if your people hadn’t tracked them all down.”
“What will you do with it?”
The Doctor shrugged. “The Master stole them from our home planet, but I can’t take it back there. I believe I’ll just hold onto it, for a while.”
“Perhaps you’ll find someone else trustworthy who can make use of it.” Dumbledore rose. “And now, Doctor, I fear I must take my leave of you. These are perilous times, and I find myself pulled in every direction.”
“Of course.”
“Miss Lovegood, will you show The Doctor back to where you found him? And do try not to be late for your next class.”
“Yes, Headmaster.” What an odd comment—Luna didn’t have another class until after lunch. But she obediently rose and led The Doctor through the door and down the stairs, where the gargoyle again stepped aside for them.
“How long have you known Professor Dumbledore?” Luna asked, as they headed back toward the box.
“Oh … a hundred years, give or take. He journeyed with me once, for a short time, after a friend of his passed away.”
“That sounds like fun. I suppose everything is a journey, but some are more interesting than others. ” They paused by the box, and Luna gazed up at it. “It’s bigger on the inside, isn’t it?”
Turning, The Doctor examined her more closely. Then he smiled. “You like to travel? As it happens, I travel a lot.” He opened the door, and she gazed in with wide eyes and an open mouth. It was, indeed, bigger on the inside.
“But I need to be back by my next class,” she breathed.
“Oh—didn’t I mention it’s a time machine?”
Luna grinned. “Of course it is.”
“Fantastic!” The Doctor led the way in. But, just as Luna was about to follow, she heard a cough behind her.
She turned to see a tall man in a flowing black robe. He gazed at her, mouth in that perpetual frown, face partially hidden by long strands of dark hair. “Miss Lovegood.” He held his hand out. The Time-Turner dangled from his fingers. “You will take this with you.”
“Oh. Where did you get that, Professor?”
“From you.”
The Doctor stuck his head back through the door. “Hello, Severus!”
If anything, Snape’s frown deepened even more. “Doctor. Miss Lovegood, you are going to be a few hours late.” The Doctor looked offended, but chose not to speak.
“Thank you very much.”
“Now that you know you will be late … I expect you will not … be … late.” Snape spun on his heels and stalked toward Dumbledore’s office.
“Thank you very much, Professor!” Luna walked into the box, and let the door shut behind her.
This would be interesting.
It's also, of course, a nice way to mark the first TV appearance of the 12th Doctor--even though what I'm giving you is the 10th, for reasons that will become obvious.
###
The fun part is looking, and while looking Luna Lovegood discovers a strange blue box in Hogwarts - and an even stranger man inside, with a simple request: "take me to your leader".
THE HEADMASTER'S DOCTOR
Luna Lovegood wandered through the halls of Hogwarts, looking.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she always found something. Looking was the fun part.
Sure enough, she found a new something in a dead end corridor, empty except for tall windows and a stone Gargoyle: a tall blue wooden box in the shadows, perhaps big enough for a few people to stuff themselves into, with the words “Police public call Box” along the top. She paused, her head tilting as she studied it.
“Hello.” It was clearly alive, so it was only polite to greet it.
The box’s door swung open, and Barty Crouch Junior stepped out.
“Oh.” Luna reached for her wand, then paused when the man smiled. “You look like someone who’s … no longer there.”
“Well, I can’t be that person then, can I? I’m here!”
That made sense. Plus, this man looked remarkably more sane, and seemed older, and Luna was fairly certain Crouch Junior could not have pulled off such a dashing look in a pinstripe soup and brown duster. “Are you a professor?”
“No, I’m a Doctor. I’m looking for a professor, though: a man by the name of Dumbledore.” The Doctor closed the box’s door and locked it behind him.
“Come along, then. My name is Luna.” If this man was not a student or a teacher, the Headmaster was exactly who should be alerted. But she paused when they reached the gargoyle. “I’m afraid I don’t know the password.”
“Really?” The Doctor took a wand from his pocket—a very unusual looking wand that made a strange whirring sound when he waved it toward the gargoyle. Luna instantly wanted one of her own. “Ah.”
The gargoyle leapt aside.
“Most wands don’t do that,” Luna told him.
The Doctor glanced at his wand, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “It’s sonic.”
“Of course. That explains the sound.” Luna knew what the word sonic meant, and assumed it must be a kind of magic, or at least not the kind of technology the Muggles used.
Together they climbed the circular staircase, and The Doctor didn’t seem the bit perturbed about it moving as they went. They paused at the oaken double doors. Instead of using his wand The Doctor gave three quick knocks, and the doors swung open.
Headmaster Dumbledore stood before them, and exchanged a hearty handshake with The Doctor. “Welcome Doctor, welcome! Come, sit. Miss Lovegood, by all means, do come in also.”
Was Dumbledore sick? He didn’t seem sick … maybe The Doctor wasn’t that kind of doctor. Luna followed the two men in and perched on an armchair, looking around curiously as they exchanged pleasantries and sat on either side of the desk. The books that lined part of the circular room called to her, but she silently told them she couldn’t read right now.
“You look well, Albus.”
“As do you, Doctor, younger than ever. I was paid a visit by your granddaughter earlier this year—she says hello.”
Granddaughter? Luna studied The Doctor.
Dumbledore pushed a glass bowl of candy toward the other man. “Please, help yourself.”
“Hm …” The Doctor rubbed his chin. “I’ve rather lost my appetite for those, after that dust flavored bean—I was thirsty for days. But I brought something I believe you’ll find just as tasty, and less of a risk.” He reached into a pocket, and produced a small bag. “Jelly Baby?”
“Why, thank you.” The Headmaster took a handful, then The Doctor offered the rest to Luna. “You can take the bag, Luna. I recently found a whole cabinet full of these, so there’s plenty to go around—and no surprises, like those Every Flavor Beans.”
Luna rather liked surprises, although she’d found the liver flavored Bean less than savory.
Dumbledore leaned forward, his smile fading into a grave expression. “I must apologize once again for that unfortunate unpleasantness at the Ministry, Doctor. I realize it could have been ages or minutes ago for you …”
“It wasn’t at all your fault—“
“Perhaps, but I was blind to what was happening, and you’re the one who suffered for it. Barty Crouch Junior was a youth when that spell diffused you into his body, so no one noticed as he grew to resemble you—and sadly, I knew you only by another face. If I had not managed to remove you at the moment of the dementor attack, you may have been trapped even longer …”
“To me it was only a few hours.” The Doctor’s voice was gentle. “Just the same, I’d rather not have it happen again. Can I assume a Time-Turner is no longer in the hands of Barty Crouch?”
Luna’s attention had been wandering to the arched ceiling, but now it snapped back onto the other occupants. Time-Turner?
“Barty Crouch has, I’m afraid, passed away.”
“Oh—I’m so sorry.” And The Doctor did look sorry, although Luna surmised something Crouch did had caused the strange man many problems.
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Dumbledore leaned back, looking suddenly much older. “The punishment for trying to change his son’s past would have been very severe indeed, had Barty survived. And of course he would have had to deal with the fact that his disruption, in the end, made no difference at all—and even caused his son’s mental imbalance.”
“Having two minds trapped in one body will do that. But they can’t be faulted for trapping me—Crouch didn’t even know I’d been drawn into the spell.” After a moment The Doctor waved his hand, as if putting it all behind him. “And the Time-Turners? I tried to convince the Master that humans were not yet capable of handling a device like that, but he does like sewing chaos.”
“All destroyed in a conflict at the Ministry of Magic. All but this one.” Dumbledore pulled a necklace from a desk drawer, and handed it to The Doctor.
The visitor studied it as it dangled from his hand. “I suppose he expected the human race would destroy themselves with these. And they might have, too, if your people hadn’t tracked them all down.”
“What will you do with it?”
The Doctor shrugged. “The Master stole them from our home planet, but I can’t take it back there. I believe I’ll just hold onto it, for a while.”
“Perhaps you’ll find someone else trustworthy who can make use of it.” Dumbledore rose. “And now, Doctor, I fear I must take my leave of you. These are perilous times, and I find myself pulled in every direction.”
“Of course.”
“Miss Lovegood, will you show The Doctor back to where you found him? And do try not to be late for your next class.”
“Yes, Headmaster.” What an odd comment—Luna didn’t have another class until after lunch. But she obediently rose and led The Doctor through the door and down the stairs, where the gargoyle again stepped aside for them.
“How long have you known Professor Dumbledore?” Luna asked, as they headed back toward the box.
“Oh … a hundred years, give or take. He journeyed with me once, for a short time, after a friend of his passed away.”
“That sounds like fun. I suppose everything is a journey, but some are more interesting than others. ” They paused by the box, and Luna gazed up at it. “It’s bigger on the inside, isn’t it?”
Turning, The Doctor examined her more closely. Then he smiled. “You like to travel? As it happens, I travel a lot.” He opened the door, and she gazed in with wide eyes and an open mouth. It was, indeed, bigger on the inside.
“But I need to be back by my next class,” she breathed.
“Oh—didn’t I mention it’s a time machine?”
Luna grinned. “Of course it is.”
“Fantastic!” The Doctor led the way in. But, just as Luna was about to follow, she heard a cough behind her.
She turned to see a tall man in a flowing black robe. He gazed at her, mouth in that perpetual frown, face partially hidden by long strands of dark hair. “Miss Lovegood.” He held his hand out. The Time-Turner dangled from his fingers. “You will take this with you.”
“Oh. Where did you get that, Professor?”
“From you.”
The Doctor stuck his head back through the door. “Hello, Severus!”
If anything, Snape’s frown deepened even more. “Doctor. Miss Lovegood, you are going to be a few hours late.” The Doctor looked offended, but chose not to speak.
“Thank you very much.”
“Now that you know you will be late … I expect you will not … be … late.” Snape spun on his heels and stalked toward Dumbledore’s office.
“Thank you very much, Professor!” Luna walked into the box, and let the door shut behind her.
This would be interesting.
August 23, 2014
Singing Opera In Space
In all the fuss over the early release of The Notorious Ian Grant, I forgot to update you about work on the rough draft of my “space opera” story. I’m happy to say that, after the much-needed stress relief of a few marathon writing sessions, the initial draft of Beowulf: In Harm’s Way is finished.
It’s 55,000 words of pure … roughness, and I’m sure it’ll be at least a few thousand words longer by the time I’m finished. Just for the heck of it, I thought I’d share the first moments of the opening scene, which takes place on the United Planets warship CS-214—a craft so small the crew has to name it themselves.
Now, on to the second draft. And the third, fourth, fifth ….
###
A red light shone out on the shuttle's control board.
Commander Paul Gage leaned
forward, his hands still on the little craft's controls. “What did I do?”
Beside him, Kurt Biermann shook his head. “Nothing, Skipper—that's a comm alert from the bridge.”
“Well, that's damned inconvenient when I'm trying to get certified as a shuttle pilot.” Thank goodness they were parked in his ship’s shuttle bay, running a simulation. Gage couldn't remember flying anything since … since the incident.
The real pilot chuckled. “You know, a ship's captain doesn't have to know how to fly a shuttle. Since I'm usually up at the helm, I'm the one who should be practicing down here.”
“I ordered cross-training, so I cross-train.” Gage punched the comm button. Lt. Biermann, who no doubt hadn't expected to train anyone while running a shakedown cruise in a ship with only forty-two crewmembers, looked relieved.
“Damage control stations, all hands, we have a fire in engineering. This is not a drill.”
While Gage pushed the shuttle's door open and leaped out, he noticed Lt. Biermann no longer looked relieved.
It’s 55,000 words of pure … roughness, and I’m sure it’ll be at least a few thousand words longer by the time I’m finished. Just for the heck of it, I thought I’d share the first moments of the opening scene, which takes place on the United Planets warship CS-214—a craft so small the crew has to name it themselves.
Now, on to the second draft. And the third, fourth, fifth ….
###
A red light shone out on the shuttle's control board.
Commander Paul Gage leaned
forward, his hands still on the little craft's controls. “What did I do?”
Beside him, Kurt Biermann shook his head. “Nothing, Skipper—that's a comm alert from the bridge.”
“Well, that's damned inconvenient when I'm trying to get certified as a shuttle pilot.” Thank goodness they were parked in his ship’s shuttle bay, running a simulation. Gage couldn't remember flying anything since … since the incident.
The real pilot chuckled. “You know, a ship's captain doesn't have to know how to fly a shuttle. Since I'm usually up at the helm, I'm the one who should be practicing down here.”
“I ordered cross-training, so I cross-train.” Gage punched the comm button. Lt. Biermann, who no doubt hadn't expected to train anyone while running a shakedown cruise in a ship with only forty-two crewmembers, looked relieved.
“Damage control stations, all hands, we have a fire in engineering. This is not a drill.”
While Gage pushed the shuttle's door open and leaped out, he noticed Lt. Biermann no longer looked relieved.
August 21, 2014
Reality: A Little Less Funny Concept
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
The other night my wife asked me to hand her a bottle of water. I reached for it and said, “When I blow a dollar on a bottle of water …”
And then I stopped. I’d just learned of the death of Robin Williams, and that’s a line stolen from him. (It ends with, “I buy Perrier.”)
“Reality … what a concept.”
Celebrities are people, no matter how much we’re tempted to think otherwise. They often abuse their bodies with everything from drugs and booze to working too-long hours, all of which can make that dying thing come even sooner.
“Cocaine is God’s way of saying you’re making too much money.”
Lauren Bacall, a truly legendary actress, died the day after Williams. It’s not the first time the passing of one legend was overshadowed by the passing of another, partially because the height of Bacall’s career came much earlier. We can remember the first time we saw Robin Williams. For me, and many old enough to have been watching, it was a guest appearance on “Happy Days”, playing a very strange alien named Mork.
“Never fight with an ugly person. They’ve got nothing to lose.”
He was off and running.
I last saw Robin Williams in one of the best new sitcoms of last year, “The Crazy Ones”. He was in the groove, and more surprisingly the rest of the cast kept up with him. It was the funniest new show I watched in 2013, but it went up against another good series, “The Michael J. Fox Show”, and they canceled each other out.
“The Crazy Ones” had the questionable honor of being the highest rated canceled show of the season.
“Ah, yes, divorce … from the Latin word meaning to rip out a man’s genitals through his wallet.”
I’m sure all his fans knew Robin had been treated for addictions, and it’s the entertainment community—you can’t swing a sack of pill bottles without hitting someone in treatment. The job seems to attract addictive personalities. Also, there’s a lot of “hurry up and wait” to Hollywood jobs, and idle hands are indeed the Devil’s workshop. Maybe there’d be fewer addicts if they took more time to read books.
“Death is nature’s way of saying, ‘your table is ready’.”
On the other hand, I’m not sure how many people realized just how much Robin Williams struggled with depression.
I knew. It’s possible that’s why his death hit me so hard.
I’m not one to idolize celebrities. They’re often very good at one or two things, and terrible at just about everything else. They live in a tiny, insulated community, and often have little idea of what real life is about, sometimes not even after it rears up and smacks them in the face. I appreciate their talent, but hero worship for flawed people doing something that usually doesn’t matter in the scheme of things seemed foolish.
“In America, they really do mythologize people when they die.”
Still, I stand in awe of people who can stand up and do rapid-fire entertainment without a net—which in this case means without a script or teleprompter. These days, I also stand in awe of people who have energy. Robin Williams had energy and talent by the bushel, and he also had heart. By all accounts he was a genuinely nice guy, on or off the set, and by all accounts he cared. He organized and hosted relief projects, entertained the troops, and stood ready to help friends and strangers alike.
As for the funny, he never seemed to turn it off.
And that’s why I knew about his depression. To me it was obvious: One of the things depressed people are particularly good at is hiding their depression. Society teaches us that depression is “all in your head”, and that all you need to do is buck up and fight it off. If you don’t have it, it doesn’t seem real. You’re not bleeding, your bones aren’t broken, your hair isn’t falling out … it couldn’t be that bad.
I also fancy myself to be a creative person, more or less, although I share with most people a mortal fear of public speaking. In other words, I envied him and felt for him at the same time. I could tell there were demons back there.
“Comedy is acting out optimism.”
I fight off my demons with the help of anti-depression techniques, the love of family, the creative process, and—from October through March, when it’s worst—a little happy pill. It never goes away, so you have to control it … or it controls you.
My depression is not as serious as his was, if you can measure such a thing that way, but I thought Robin Williams had it under control. I never expected his demons would win.
If there’s any comfort at all we can take in this, it’s that Robin Williams left the world with a body of work that, if put together, could make us all laugh for years on end. And here’s the irony: Humor is one of my anti-depression techniques. It works, again ironically, better for the consumer than for the artist.
“No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can charge the world.”
I have no advice here at the end, except perhaps to appreciate what he left and what you have, while you have it. Honestly, I’m still processing. Processing, and hoping that in death, Robin Williams found peace.
“Seize the day, boys; make your lives extraordinary.”
He made his life extraordinary.
The other night my wife asked me to hand her a bottle of water. I reached for it and said, “When I blow a dollar on a bottle of water …”
And then I stopped. I’d just learned of the death of Robin Williams, and that’s a line stolen from him. (It ends with, “I buy Perrier.”)
“Reality … what a concept.”
Celebrities are people, no matter how much we’re tempted to think otherwise. They often abuse their bodies with everything from drugs and booze to working too-long hours, all of which can make that dying thing come even sooner.
“Cocaine is God’s way of saying you’re making too much money.”
Lauren Bacall, a truly legendary actress, died the day after Williams. It’s not the first time the passing of one legend was overshadowed by the passing of another, partially because the height of Bacall’s career came much earlier. We can remember the first time we saw Robin Williams. For me, and many old enough to have been watching, it was a guest appearance on “Happy Days”, playing a very strange alien named Mork.
“Never fight with an ugly person. They’ve got nothing to lose.”
He was off and running.
I last saw Robin Williams in one of the best new sitcoms of last year, “The Crazy Ones”. He was in the groove, and more surprisingly the rest of the cast kept up with him. It was the funniest new show I watched in 2013, but it went up against another good series, “The Michael J. Fox Show”, and they canceled each other out.
“The Crazy Ones” had the questionable honor of being the highest rated canceled show of the season.
“Ah, yes, divorce … from the Latin word meaning to rip out a man’s genitals through his wallet.”
I’m sure all his fans knew Robin had been treated for addictions, and it’s the entertainment community—you can’t swing a sack of pill bottles without hitting someone in treatment. The job seems to attract addictive personalities. Also, there’s a lot of “hurry up and wait” to Hollywood jobs, and idle hands are indeed the Devil’s workshop. Maybe there’d be fewer addicts if they took more time to read books.
“Death is nature’s way of saying, ‘your table is ready’.”
On the other hand, I’m not sure how many people realized just how much Robin Williams struggled with depression.
I knew. It’s possible that’s why his death hit me so hard.
I’m not one to idolize celebrities. They’re often very good at one or two things, and terrible at just about everything else. They live in a tiny, insulated community, and often have little idea of what real life is about, sometimes not even after it rears up and smacks them in the face. I appreciate their talent, but hero worship for flawed people doing something that usually doesn’t matter in the scheme of things seemed foolish.
“In America, they really do mythologize people when they die.”
Still, I stand in awe of people who can stand up and do rapid-fire entertainment without a net—which in this case means without a script or teleprompter. These days, I also stand in awe of people who have energy. Robin Williams had energy and talent by the bushel, and he also had heart. By all accounts he was a genuinely nice guy, on or off the set, and by all accounts he cared. He organized and hosted relief projects, entertained the troops, and stood ready to help friends and strangers alike.
As for the funny, he never seemed to turn it off.
And that’s why I knew about his depression. To me it was obvious: One of the things depressed people are particularly good at is hiding their depression. Society teaches us that depression is “all in your head”, and that all you need to do is buck up and fight it off. If you don’t have it, it doesn’t seem real. You’re not bleeding, your bones aren’t broken, your hair isn’t falling out … it couldn’t be that bad.
I also fancy myself to be a creative person, more or less, although I share with most people a mortal fear of public speaking. In other words, I envied him and felt for him at the same time. I could tell there were demons back there.
“Comedy is acting out optimism.”
I fight off my demons with the help of anti-depression techniques, the love of family, the creative process, and—from October through March, when it’s worst—a little happy pill. It never goes away, so you have to control it … or it controls you.
My depression is not as serious as his was, if you can measure such a thing that way, but I thought Robin Williams had it under control. I never expected his demons would win.
If there’s any comfort at all we can take in this, it’s that Robin Williams left the world with a body of work that, if put together, could make us all laugh for years on end. And here’s the irony: Humor is one of my anti-depression techniques. It works, again ironically, better for the consumer than for the artist.
“No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can charge the world.”
I have no advice here at the end, except perhaps to appreciate what he left and what you have, while you have it. Honestly, I’m still processing. Processing, and hoping that in death, Robin Williams found peace.
“Seize the day, boys; make your lives extraordinary.”
He made his life extraordinary.
August 18, 2014
About that “The Notorious Ian Grant” after-the-fact cover reveal …
Emily updated the website at www.markrhunter.com with links to get The Notorious Ian Grant in the Kindle, Nook, PDF, and EPUB formats. The cover blurb is also there, and of course you can read the first chapter for free. Meanwhile, although it’s already been on some of my social media and it’s way late for this to be a reveal, here’s a better quality version of the book’s cover, done by Gemini Judson:
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2014/...
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2014/...
August 16, 2014
My new book is out! … much to my surprise.
As all fourteen of my regular readers know, my newest and funniest book, The Notorious Ian Grant, comes out in October. (Yes, I’m aware it’s a little early to make that claim. I’m working on my self-confidence.)
Almost nine of those fourteen readers are also aware that my publisher, Whiskey Creek Press, has been acquired by a larger publisher, Start Publishing. (Incidentally, if you Google Start Publishing, you have to wade through a lot of advertisers wanting you to … start publishing.)
Now, sometimes, during an acquisitions process, things can get … mixed up. And … *ahem* well, here’s the thing:
The Notorious Ian Grant has already been published.
I found out by accident early Saturday. According to Amazon, it came out as an e-book the previous Thursday. Barnes and Noble had it up on Friday, and it’s also up on the Whiskey Creek Press website. All for $3.99, by the way, which is a nice drop from the initial price of my first book.
The print version isn’t available yet, because that’s something I’m involved with, and I’d planned to time it with the e-book release. In October. But don’t worry, I’m on it, and the website will soon be updated with order information, too.
So my big build-up to the release date, including the cover reveal and the related short story giveaways, will be somewhat anti-climactic. On the other hand, considering the nightmares you sometimes hear about publishing delays, it’s hard to complain too much.
The links:
Whiskey Creek Press: http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com/stor...
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Notorious-Ian-G...
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-n...
Almost nine of those fourteen readers are also aware that my publisher, Whiskey Creek Press, has been acquired by a larger publisher, Start Publishing. (Incidentally, if you Google Start Publishing, you have to wade through a lot of advertisers wanting you to … start publishing.)
Now, sometimes, during an acquisitions process, things can get … mixed up. And … *ahem* well, here’s the thing:
The Notorious Ian Grant has already been published.
I found out by accident early Saturday. According to Amazon, it came out as an e-book the previous Thursday. Barnes and Noble had it up on Friday, and it’s also up on the Whiskey Creek Press website. All for $3.99, by the way, which is a nice drop from the initial price of my first book.
The print version isn’t available yet, because that’s something I’m involved with, and I’d planned to time it with the e-book release. In October. But don’t worry, I’m on it, and the website will soon be updated with order information, too.
So my big build-up to the release date, including the cover reveal and the related short story giveaways, will be somewhat anti-climactic. On the other hand, considering the nightmares you sometimes hear about publishing delays, it’s hard to complain too much.
The links:
Whiskey Creek Press: http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com/stor...
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Notorious-Ian-G...
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-n...
August 15, 2014
Crossing Over For New Stories
Between now and its October release, I’m posting a series of short stories featuring the title character of my novel, The Notorious Ian Grant. Since the book starts just as he finishes a road trip from California to Indiana, I thought I’d tell some fun tales about whom and what he encounters along the way.
My idea to do something similar before the release of Storm Chaser led instead to my publisher collecting the tales as Storm Chaser Shorts. But this time they’ll be free, and I had a different idea: Suppose I had Ian encounter characters from other fandoms along the way? (Most of you know I’ve written fanfiction under the name Ozma914.)
I’m thinking especially of characters from shows, movies, and such that take place in the areas Ian travels through, or who might come through in their own travels. What do you think? And who would you like to see him encounter? I hope you all like the idea, because I’m already working on them!
My idea to do something similar before the release of Storm Chaser led instead to my publisher collecting the tales as Storm Chaser Shorts. But this time they’ll be free, and I had a different idea: Suppose I had Ian encounter characters from other fandoms along the way? (Most of you know I’ve written fanfiction under the name Ozma914.)
I’m thinking especially of characters from shows, movies, and such that take place in the areas Ian travels through, or who might come through in their own travels. What do you think? And who would you like to see him encounter? I hope you all like the idea, because I’m already working on them!
August 14, 2014
Camping: By The Light Of The Laptop
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
My concept of camping is a great example of wanting to have things both ways. I like being away from home for a day or two … but I want to bring home with me.
When my wife the Girl Scout went camping, she’d take a square of canvas, fifty feet of rope, and a pocket knife. For a week. To her, it’s not really camping if you can get there by car. No, you have to hike, and preferably climb a cliff, to get to the perfect site. Once there, you dig a pit for a toilet and make furniture out of twigs.
To some people, the best way to camp is to buy several sets of wheels and red flags, then take your house with you as an oversized load. I may not be one of those people, but I’m way closer to it than she is.
It seemed a compromise was in order.
Complicating matters is that we now have an 85 pound dog, and he’s not the kind of pet who can be left behind overnight. Well, not unless you’re planning to refurnish.
We decided to make a test run at Chain O’ Lakes State Park. The advantage is that the park is only six miles from home: If we forgot something, or if I started missing cable TV, we could simply drive back to town.
Now, I need to point out that we’ve wanted to have what we call writing holidays. I was about a third of the way through the first draft of a novel, and being on a roll I wanted to keep going. Emily, also a writer, understood. It’s a strange thing about writers, that they’d want to take their work with them. Maybe if we were doing it full time we’d feel differently.
That explanation makes what I said next seem just a little less ridiculous: “We need to get a space with an electrical hookup.”
“Why?” We had a tent. No air conditioning, no mini-fridge, and battery powered lanterns.
“Well, so I can use my laptop.”
She didn’t even blink. My portable computer is getting old enough that the battery no longer holds much of a charge, making the term “portable” questionable. She, meanwhile, took along a notebook and pen—and her cell phone, which has a writing app on it. We also took along a book, a writer’s magazine, and a Kindle with maybe a hundred books in it.
Because heaven forbid that while relaxing we should, you know … relax.
Meanwhile, because of the dog, we traded in her pup tent. The irony! We couldn’t leave him chained up outside in an unfamiliar campsite, so we went for a bigger tent. A four man tent? Big enough for the two of us, the dog, and maybe a small bookcase?
Nah.
Our new tent sleeps ten people. You can stand up in it. Yao Ming could stand up in it. (He’s a basketball player. I looked it up.) Bae, the dog, took off to explore it, and we didn’t see him for two days. There wasn’t enough room at the campsite for both it and the car, so we parked the car inside.
And now to stock it.
Emily had a list. One lantern. A small cooler. Just one sleeping bag, ‘cause it’s summer. A warm dog, just in case it did get cold. And, her one luxury, an inflatable queen sized mattress.
Incidentally, while queen sized is plenty big enough for two people, it becomes a problem when you add a very determined dog who wants to cuddle.
My list was, shall we say, more eclectic.
For one thing, I like lots of light. That’s the big reason why I hate winter so much: the short days. I have … let me count … nine flashlights and lanterns. I brought ‘em all, and also stocked up enough
firewood for three hog roasts.
Emily drew the line when she saw me heading toward the car with two lamps from the living room. “We do not need those.”
“But … we’ll have electricity!”
“We have enough light. Now, put them back, then remove the TV from the car.”
She wouldn’t let me take my writing desk, microwave, chain saw, or toilet. (Granted, there were practical problems involving that last one.) She wouldn’t even let me take a full case of Mountain Dew, just a couple of cans. It was uncivilized.
Still, when we sat at the picnic table that evening, with the scent of food cooking on the campfire, listening to the sounds of birds while hungry raccoons circled the dog … it was really nice.
Even if the folks in the double-wide camper next door did look at me strangely when I plugged in the laptop.
My concept of camping is a great example of wanting to have things both ways. I like being away from home for a day or two … but I want to bring home with me.
When my wife the Girl Scout went camping, she’d take a square of canvas, fifty feet of rope, and a pocket knife. For a week. To her, it’s not really camping if you can get there by car. No, you have to hike, and preferably climb a cliff, to get to the perfect site. Once there, you dig a pit for a toilet and make furniture out of twigs.
To some people, the best way to camp is to buy several sets of wheels and red flags, then take your house with you as an oversized load. I may not be one of those people, but I’m way closer to it than she is.
It seemed a compromise was in order.
Complicating matters is that we now have an 85 pound dog, and he’s not the kind of pet who can be left behind overnight. Well, not unless you’re planning to refurnish.
We decided to make a test run at Chain O’ Lakes State Park. The advantage is that the park is only six miles from home: If we forgot something, or if I started missing cable TV, we could simply drive back to town.
Now, I need to point out that we’ve wanted to have what we call writing holidays. I was about a third of the way through the first draft of a novel, and being on a roll I wanted to keep going. Emily, also a writer, understood. It’s a strange thing about writers, that they’d want to take their work with them. Maybe if we were doing it full time we’d feel differently.
That explanation makes what I said next seem just a little less ridiculous: “We need to get a space with an electrical hookup.”
“Why?” We had a tent. No air conditioning, no mini-fridge, and battery powered lanterns.
“Well, so I can use my laptop.”
She didn’t even blink. My portable computer is getting old enough that the battery no longer holds much of a charge, making the term “portable” questionable. She, meanwhile, took along a notebook and pen—and her cell phone, which has a writing app on it. We also took along a book, a writer’s magazine, and a Kindle with maybe a hundred books in it.
Because heaven forbid that while relaxing we should, you know … relax.
Meanwhile, because of the dog, we traded in her pup tent. The irony! We couldn’t leave him chained up outside in an unfamiliar campsite, so we went for a bigger tent. A four man tent? Big enough for the two of us, the dog, and maybe a small bookcase?
Nah.
Our new tent sleeps ten people. You can stand up in it. Yao Ming could stand up in it. (He’s a basketball player. I looked it up.) Bae, the dog, took off to explore it, and we didn’t see him for two days. There wasn’t enough room at the campsite for both it and the car, so we parked the car inside.
And now to stock it.
Emily had a list. One lantern. A small cooler. Just one sleeping bag, ‘cause it’s summer. A warm dog, just in case it did get cold. And, her one luxury, an inflatable queen sized mattress.
Incidentally, while queen sized is plenty big enough for two people, it becomes a problem when you add a very determined dog who wants to cuddle.
My list was, shall we say, more eclectic.
For one thing, I like lots of light. That’s the big reason why I hate winter so much: the short days. I have … let me count … nine flashlights and lanterns. I brought ‘em all, and also stocked up enough
firewood for three hog roasts.
Emily drew the line when she saw me heading toward the car with two lamps from the living room. “We do not need those.”
“But … we’ll have electricity!”
“We have enough light. Now, put them back, then remove the TV from the car.”
She wouldn’t let me take my writing desk, microwave, chain saw, or toilet. (Granted, there were practical problems involving that last one.) She wouldn’t even let me take a full case of Mountain Dew, just a couple of cans. It was uncivilized.
Still, when we sat at the picnic table that evening, with the scent of food cooking on the campfire, listening to the sounds of birds while hungry raccoons circled the dog … it was really nice.
Even if the folks in the double-wide camper next door did look at me strangely when I plugged in the laptop.
August 6, 2014
It's A Wet Dog's Life
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Sometimes I wish my dog could talk. Other times I realize how very, very good it is that he can’t.
Bae—we named him Beowulf, although for all I know he thinks of himself as Mxyplictic—must think we’re crazy. We cut our nails without complaint. We put perfectly good food in the trash can and then don’t let him sample. Worst of all, we get wet on purpose.
“Wait – you’re going in there again? But that’s the room where all the water sprays down. Don’t climb in there! Water! Oh, the humanity!”
Bathing is an issue.
Sometimes he gives us looks that make it obvious he understands all too well. When I get ready for work, it’s a time of mourning:
“Oh, you’ve leaving! But you might not be back this time. Who will give me kibble? Pet me? Say stupid things in weird voices just to hear themselves talk? It’s so depressing … oh, wait, the lady is staying—never mind, she’s lots more interesting than you, anyway.”
Trying to trim his nails brings an understandable reaction:
“Okay, I like you, but you have to understand if you approach my toes with that sharp thing one more time I will take your fingers off.”
We don’t have to tarry for more than a minute in the kitchen before Bae pokes his head in.
“Hey, this is where the food comes from. Well? Making food? Come on, drop some on the floor,
make it quick. Come on, you know you will.”
And of course I do, then pretend it was on purpose to give the dog a treat.
He’s also puzzled by the fact that we sometimes sit on his couch. Granted it’s usually when we’re petting him, but he really does appear to get offended.
“Dude. You let me sit on one piece of furniture in the whole house. Do I sleep on the leather couch? No, ‘cause you yell. Do I climb on the bed? No, except during fireworks and thunderstorms, because you swat me off. But then you crowd onto my couch? That’s it—next time you leave the house, I’m sleeping on your desk.”
One other moment when he makes his feelings clear is at bath time. His basic reaction:
“Nooooooo!!!!! Murder! Terrorism! They’re waterboarding me, somebody help!”
It’s the only time I have to fight with our dog, except for when he’s on the leash and sees a rabbit. Unfortunately for me rabbits roam our back yard, so I’ve invested a lot of time in grass stain removal, after being drug halfway across the yard on my face.
Bae feels very strongly that the purpose of water is to drink. That’s it. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to dogs (something I didn’t know when we got him), so we have to keep his dander down in more ways than one. Also, sometimes he stinks.
Nobody’s perfect.
We experimented with different ways of giving him a bath. Sometimes we take him into the back yard, which has the advantage that his inevitable shake won’t soak anything except the closest humans. It also waters the lawn, and when he shakes I mean the whole lawn.
The biggest problem is that it exposes us to the ridicule of the neighbors, who are already well aware of how ridiculous I can be. When two full grown humans wrestle one dog and lose, that’s YouTube material.
In any case, cold weather will come. Put me down as someone who’s against using the garden hose in a snowstorm.
Then we tried the basement, where there’s an old shower. I used to shower down there myself, but the spiders would crawl across the ceiling, turn off the water, and make fun of me. Big spiders.
It’s not so bad showering the dog down there, except we all get showered. And what the heck, don’t we all need it from time to time? But I do get tired of the giggling spiders.
The last time, we tried to get him into the bathtub. I don’t know what we were thinking. Well, I do—a warm room, plenty of water, and a tub that would hold the water in a little. He’d been itching, and we wanted to see if any fleas came off of him.
We saw no fleas, although I lost some skin and hair myself.
You’d be surprised how hard it is to get an 85 pound dog into a tub if he doesn’t want to get into the tub. I ended up bodily picking him up, then had to hold him by the collar for an hour while we washed him down with anti-itch, anti-flea shampoo that was mostly oatmeal and actually smelled pretty good, and I’m thinking of trying it for breakfast next week.
Yes, I hurt my back. Saw that coming, didn’t you?
But at least I didn’t have to sit in the bathtub scrubbing the dog, which is what Emily did. When it comes to getting wet, where we were in the bathtub didn’t really matter, of course. Later I found standing water in the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, and the lid was closed at the time.
Afterward something happened that I almost never see: Bae got mad at Emily. I’m talking full-scale pout.
“I can’t believe you did that … I got so wet. I thought you loved me!”
Well, we do—otherwise we wouldn’t have bothered—and he got over it. And although we may always be a puzzle to our pets, they love us, too.
As long as we bring the kibble.
Sometimes I wish my dog could talk. Other times I realize how very, very good it is that he can’t.
Bae—we named him Beowulf, although for all I know he thinks of himself as Mxyplictic—must think we’re crazy. We cut our nails without complaint. We put perfectly good food in the trash can and then don’t let him sample. Worst of all, we get wet on purpose.
“Wait – you’re going in there again? But that’s the room where all the water sprays down. Don’t climb in there! Water! Oh, the humanity!”
Bathing is an issue.
Sometimes he gives us looks that make it obvious he understands all too well. When I get ready for work, it’s a time of mourning:
“Oh, you’ve leaving! But you might not be back this time. Who will give me kibble? Pet me? Say stupid things in weird voices just to hear themselves talk? It’s so depressing … oh, wait, the lady is staying—never mind, she’s lots more interesting than you, anyway.”
Trying to trim his nails brings an understandable reaction:
“Okay, I like you, but you have to understand if you approach my toes with that sharp thing one more time I will take your fingers off.”
We don’t have to tarry for more than a minute in the kitchen before Bae pokes his head in.
“Hey, this is where the food comes from. Well? Making food? Come on, drop some on the floor,
make it quick. Come on, you know you will.”
And of course I do, then pretend it was on purpose to give the dog a treat.
He’s also puzzled by the fact that we sometimes sit on his couch. Granted it’s usually when we’re petting him, but he really does appear to get offended.
“Dude. You let me sit on one piece of furniture in the whole house. Do I sleep on the leather couch? No, ‘cause you yell. Do I climb on the bed? No, except during fireworks and thunderstorms, because you swat me off. But then you crowd onto my couch? That’s it—next time you leave the house, I’m sleeping on your desk.”
One other moment when he makes his feelings clear is at bath time. His basic reaction:
“Nooooooo!!!!! Murder! Terrorism! They’re waterboarding me, somebody help!”
It’s the only time I have to fight with our dog, except for when he’s on the leash and sees a rabbit. Unfortunately for me rabbits roam our back yard, so I’ve invested a lot of time in grass stain removal, after being drug halfway across the yard on my face.
Bae feels very strongly that the purpose of water is to drink. That’s it. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to dogs (something I didn’t know when we got him), so we have to keep his dander down in more ways than one. Also, sometimes he stinks.
Nobody’s perfect.
We experimented with different ways of giving him a bath. Sometimes we take him into the back yard, which has the advantage that his inevitable shake won’t soak anything except the closest humans. It also waters the lawn, and when he shakes I mean the whole lawn.
The biggest problem is that it exposes us to the ridicule of the neighbors, who are already well aware of how ridiculous I can be. When two full grown humans wrestle one dog and lose, that’s YouTube material.
In any case, cold weather will come. Put me down as someone who’s against using the garden hose in a snowstorm.
Then we tried the basement, where there’s an old shower. I used to shower down there myself, but the spiders would crawl across the ceiling, turn off the water, and make fun of me. Big spiders.
It’s not so bad showering the dog down there, except we all get showered. And what the heck, don’t we all need it from time to time? But I do get tired of the giggling spiders.
The last time, we tried to get him into the bathtub. I don’t know what we were thinking. Well, I do—a warm room, plenty of water, and a tub that would hold the water in a little. He’d been itching, and we wanted to see if any fleas came off of him.
We saw no fleas, although I lost some skin and hair myself.
You’d be surprised how hard it is to get an 85 pound dog into a tub if he doesn’t want to get into the tub. I ended up bodily picking him up, then had to hold him by the collar for an hour while we washed him down with anti-itch, anti-flea shampoo that was mostly oatmeal and actually smelled pretty good, and I’m thinking of trying it for breakfast next week.
Yes, I hurt my back. Saw that coming, didn’t you?
But at least I didn’t have to sit in the bathtub scrubbing the dog, which is what Emily did. When it comes to getting wet, where we were in the bathtub didn’t really matter, of course. Later I found standing water in the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, and the lid was closed at the time.
Afterward something happened that I almost never see: Bae got mad at Emily. I’m talking full-scale pout.
“I can’t believe you did that … I got so wet. I thought you loved me!”
Well, we do—otherwise we wouldn’t have bothered—and he got over it. And although we may always be a puzzle to our pets, they love us, too.
As long as we bring the kibble.
