Dan DeWitt's Blog, page 3
October 11, 2011
The DIY Writer #3: The power of free.
This post is going to be a short one. It really doesn't need to be all that long, because it's simple.
From what I can tell, there are two kinds of self-pubbers:
The kind that only has one or two books in them and prices their book according to what they think their time and effort is "worth," even if it's vastly overpriced for the market.The kind that succeeds.Yeah, I said it.
Self-publishing isn't about hitting a home run with one brilliant novel. It's all about getting your leadoff guy on base, and scratching out runs. After a while, some power hitters may emerge, and then you're rolling.
I'll be blunt: A lot of writers I've run across won't even get a chance at the plate. Why? Because they let pride and shortsightedness get in the way of them offering free content.
Everyone loves free stuff. No cost makes people try some things that they never would have shelled out hard cash for.
As soon as I made the decision to self-publish, I knew that I needed to offer something significant for no cost, just to get my writing in as many hands as possible. Thus, the short story collection Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural was born. In one month of release on Amazon, Underneath has made it into the hands of nearly 4,000 people. That's just on Amazon. Though I don't have the actual numbers for B&N yet, Underneath is actually still climbing up; the first time I checked it was ranked at 400,000+, and as of today it's under 13,000.
Am I making any money directly off of it? No. Will it make me money for every single one of my present and future works merely because it offers an entirely risk-free look at what I have to offer. Hells, yeah. It's a gateway drug for readers.
If you're not offering something substantial for free, you're not doing you or your other books any favors.
From what I can tell, there are two kinds of self-pubbers:
The kind that only has one or two books in them and prices their book according to what they think their time and effort is "worth," even if it's vastly overpriced for the market.The kind that succeeds.Yeah, I said it.
Self-publishing isn't about hitting a home run with one brilliant novel. It's all about getting your leadoff guy on base, and scratching out runs. After a while, some power hitters may emerge, and then you're rolling.
I'll be blunt: A lot of writers I've run across won't even get a chance at the plate. Why? Because they let pride and shortsightedness get in the way of them offering free content.
Everyone loves free stuff. No cost makes people try some things that they never would have shelled out hard cash for.
As soon as I made the decision to self-publish, I knew that I needed to offer something significant for no cost, just to get my writing in as many hands as possible. Thus, the short story collection Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural was born. In one month of release on Amazon, Underneath has made it into the hands of nearly 4,000 people. That's just on Amazon. Though I don't have the actual numbers for B&N yet, Underneath is actually still climbing up; the first time I checked it was ranked at 400,000+, and as of today it's under 13,000.
Am I making any money directly off of it? No. Will it make me money for every single one of my present and future works merely because it offers an entirely risk-free look at what I have to offer. Hells, yeah. It's a gateway drug for readers.
If you're not offering something substantial for free, you're not doing you or your other books any favors.
October 1, 2011
Guest Story: "Death's a Circus" by Mike Whitacre
Dew perspired upon Grimm Preston's face as he awoke to the early morning. The atmosphere of his tawdry trailer was as sultry as it was unbearably musky, which was almost as horrendous as the nasty swamp he tasted in his mouth. He let out a roar of yawn then a growl of a groan while a stinging headache pierced his skull, dug deep, and jerked all around his brain, the way a butcher's knife jerks when trying to free itself from a slab of meat. When he sat up on the flimsy bed that came with the trailer, he saw that he was still wearing his overgrown overalls, shoes, and giant bowtie. Thank God he remembered to take off his make-up before he decided to hit the sauce, last night. Feeling another hot sting, he held his head and massaged it with his finger for a good, long moment.
He then picked up his kind-of-normal, black and white checkered hat off the ground, dusted it off, and fitted it onto his head. Grimm looked for his cigar box, found it, and then opened it. He immediately let out a tormented, nervous giggle when he saw only one cigar left. Taking in a deep breath then breathing out slowly, he regained his composure but maintained a sullen frown as he took the cigar. While holding the cigar, he searched for a new bottle of Jack. He didn't have to look for long.
With his cigar in one hand, whisky in the other, Grimm went outside to the empty area, near a ball park. The circus tent was about half a mile away, which was the way he wanted it. He was never prone to full-blown camaraderie, though all who knew him trusted him and respected him, despite never asking for any of the two.Setting the bottle down on the first step while stepping off the last of the three, he took the cigar clipper lying on the second step and then clipped the end of his cigar. Then he lit a match under his heel and placed the flame near the tip of the cigar as he bit down on the end. Puffing small translucent clouds out of the corners of his mouth, he squished the match with the toe of his shoe, upon the grassless ground.Grimm sat on the second step as he enjoyed the cigar and the Jack Daniel's and the peace and the stillness of the morning melancholy. He didn't mumble, grunt, or sigh; he didn't even think, but not-pondering came naturally anyway. He was a statue, but he wasn't a void of nothingness, either. In a strange sense, he was praying to God in his one way, asking the silent Creator for a sign, even an unexpected one.When he had downed barely a fourth of the bottle, a cold shiver suddenly ran up his spine. He looked suddenly from right to left, suddenly suspicious of the familiar area around him, but he saw nothing. His borne paranoia was encouraged when he saw no birds, insects, or any other animal he would've never noticed before this moment. If it wasn't for the grass upon the baseball field, and a couple of trees here and there, the area before him looked more resembling to a desolate planet. Unable to trust himself with the whiskey, he poured the rest of the dark liquid onto the dry soil.After a long moment of waiting, listening, and puffing rings of smoke, Grimm stood up and stretched his arms into the air before going back into the trailer. Inside, he went straight to his bed and pulled the Colt automatic handgun out from under his pillow and placed it on the small dinner table nearby.He stared at his attire for a moment and contemplated.Work clothes aren't bad looking, he thought, but they may be a little too much.So, Grimm placed the cigar over the ashtray near the sink before taking off his clothes. He then took a thoughtful, warm-water shower. Though a bit cramped, the process of cleaning away the grime soothed his nerves and calmed his silent, yet immense, reluctance.After turning off the shower then drying off, he then started putting on his Sunday's Finest: dark green buttoned shirt, with a bundle of illustrated daisies splayed all over it; a pair of black pants; black shoes; and a red and green striped felt hat, with a yellow pin wheel stuck in the right side of the head part.Dressed, he then took the cigar from the ashtray, bit down on it, and relit with a Zippo lighter standing near the ashtray. Then he opened the windows so the trailer could air out. The smell of cigar smoke wouldn't go away completely, but at least it would be tolerable. He then grabbed the Colt and immediately flipped the safety hatch off.Grimm sighed a cloud of smoke as he slowly laid his legs upon the mattress and kept his back erect with his pillow upon the wall. He then held the gun with both of his hands, pressed the muzzle against his cranium, bit tightly down upon his cigar, and pulled the trigger.The trigger stayed stiff.He checked the safety hatch, which should've been switched off. However, the red dot indicated that the safety hatch was indefinitely on.Grimm laughed.And laughed.And laughed.He hadn't laughed this hard in a long time. He couldn't remember the last time laughter had made his chest hurt as much as it hurt now. Certainly, he had no need to kill himself after being this amused."HELP!"A female scream whaled suddenly, pulling him out of his fit of chuckles. In a second, he was off his bed and out of the trailer and immediately saw a lady running away from Dominique "The Sword Swallower," way out in outfield and heading toward the infield. The lady was short, and Dominique was obviously a bear of a man, but he was never prone to chasing women neither with nefarious nor sexual intentions.The Grimm's back neck hairs went sharp and pointy. Something was wrong.Gun held tightly, cigar still burning between his lips, Grimm found himself running into the baseball field, toward the chased and the chaser. Closing in on them, the lady went from a face of pure fear to pure relief when she saw him and his gun. He motioned for her to move out of the way. She moved and he fired a warning shot at Dominique, who halted his monster-jog and looked toward Grimm. Finally able to see "The Sword Swallower," Grimm's jaw opened slightly and felt heavy when he saw the cuts and gashes all over Dominique's face, and each wound looked self-inflicted. The worst part was the blank, colorless, eyes occupying Dominique's eye sockets, which caused sharp needles to prickle up and along Grimm's spine, all the way to the back of his skull.Dominique smiled at him, as if amused by Grimm's initial horror. A guttural sound immerged from the circus performer's throat, and out came a voice that wasn't Dominique's voice at all, "Mm, you look tasty, Mr. Clown.""Shoot it!" shouted the lady, bringing Grimm out of the sea of disbelief.Then Dominique sprinted toward him with a hungry, animalistic expression upon his face as he let out a hissing snarl. Grimm didn't hesitate to react quickly. He aimed his gun, switched off the safety hatch, and pulled the trigger. This time the gun worked, the bullet punctured Dominique's skull and he fell flat upon the floor, instantly.All went quiet.Lowering the firearm, Grimm took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a cloud out of his mouth. He turned head toward the woman, who was still catching her breath. "You okay, Miss?" he asked."Yes," she answered, starting to take deep breaths. Then she stood near him and held out a hand to shake. "Name's Charlotte Itou.""Grimm Preston," he said, shaking her hand. "Stage name: 'Grim Glum.' Friends usually just call me Grimm." He then pointed to the seemingly dead body of seemingly-Dominique: "Looks like my coworker, Dominique, but it wasn't. What was it really?""What do you think? It ain't your buddy, not anymore, and it ain't livin', that's for sure." Her voice belonged to a Southern State, or just about any rural town in the United States. Somehow, her soft-yet-rough-yet-feminine voice complimented her short height, athletic build, mildly curvy features, medium perky breasts, long slightly-curly and slightly-silky back hair, sharp brown eyes, and a face that had charm and a glow that could make a full moon jealous. In short, she was beautiful, and even though he had just met her, Grimm knew he'd never known or seen any lady like her. "Thanks for savin' me, by the way," she said to Grimm."It was no-." The dead body interrupted and startled him as it flailed and jerked about on the ground. It remained lying down when it halted. Then it let out a wicked laugh in perfect mocking fashion."No escape," it bellowed. "You'll all be eaten alive.""Well, fuck," commented Charlotte, a bit distressed.Grimm studied the helpless, hysterical undead body for a long moment. Then he rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to another. His lips curled up as his face went from serious to mildly humored. He then stepped toward the monster and stood near its head. Looking into its blank, snarling eyes, Grimm took the cigar out of his mouth and huffed a thin air of steam from his mouth. Then, without any warning, he slammed the sole of his shoe into its skull, several different times. Eventually, the skull and the face melded together and became paste, and the body no longer harbored any insatiable hunger to feed on human flesh.Spitting on the ground then putting the cigar back into his mouth, Grimm looked over at Charlotte, who was giving him a peculiar expression, along with a cowgirl-swagger pose. "They should call you The Redneck Clown," she said."I'm from Seattle," he replied.Her smirk went ten times bigger: "So, I have an Asian heritage. Redneck's a redneck, sweetie."He shot her a smirk back then looked toward the circus and asked: "Odd, I thought there'd be more coming.""Just my take, but they don't seem like your garden variety undead. Plus, panic just kind of irrupted a few minutes ago. Whoever runs your freak shows, didn't keep the cage locked, for some reason, and when it came time to present, the ugly motherfucker started munchin' on the presenter, then went at our friend here.""God damn Frank," Grimm said, spitting on the ground. "The French bastard has to go find something authentic. We keep saying, you're not supposed to be a real Necromancer, but no! We're just 'Stupid Americans' who don't know anything… Well, I got wheels. Want to get the hell out of here, Charlotte?""Thought you'd never ask. Lead the way, Grimm."So, he walked toward his trailer and she followed. As they walked, he said, "It's a shame. I was kind of looking forward to tussling with some zombies.""Well," said Charlotte, face keeping straight and serious, "if you play your cards, you could be tusslin' with me before the day is through. That is, if we survive interrupting the Undead Circus. I wouldn't mind having a gun and a cigar, neither.""I'll make a pit stop for the cigars," Grimm said, taking the cigar out and blowing smoke. Then he pointed to the cigar and continued, "This was supposed to be the last cigar before I die, but I've a nice Smith and Wesson revolver you might enjoy… And might I add, you don't seem like the type to go for clowns."She laughed as they went around to the other side of the trailer, where the pick-up was located. "Honey, nothin' against your sex, but all of you are clowns, in one way or another."They got in the car and drove toward the circus tent. Grimm felt alive, like he found his true calling, which wasn't necessarily as a zombie hunter. In his head, he saw himself as a exterminator of supernatural evil. He just hoped the elephant couldn't be turned into the undead. That'd be harder to kill.Follow Mike on Twitter, and then check out an interview that he conducted with a certain author over on his blog.
He then picked up his kind-of-normal, black and white checkered hat off the ground, dusted it off, and fitted it onto his head. Grimm looked for his cigar box, found it, and then opened it. He immediately let out a tormented, nervous giggle when he saw only one cigar left. Taking in a deep breath then breathing out slowly, he regained his composure but maintained a sullen frown as he took the cigar. While holding the cigar, he searched for a new bottle of Jack. He didn't have to look for long.
With his cigar in one hand, whisky in the other, Grimm went outside to the empty area, near a ball park. The circus tent was about half a mile away, which was the way he wanted it. He was never prone to full-blown camaraderie, though all who knew him trusted him and respected him, despite never asking for any of the two.Setting the bottle down on the first step while stepping off the last of the three, he took the cigar clipper lying on the second step and then clipped the end of his cigar. Then he lit a match under his heel and placed the flame near the tip of the cigar as he bit down on the end. Puffing small translucent clouds out of the corners of his mouth, he squished the match with the toe of his shoe, upon the grassless ground.Grimm sat on the second step as he enjoyed the cigar and the Jack Daniel's and the peace and the stillness of the morning melancholy. He didn't mumble, grunt, or sigh; he didn't even think, but not-pondering came naturally anyway. He was a statue, but he wasn't a void of nothingness, either. In a strange sense, he was praying to God in his one way, asking the silent Creator for a sign, even an unexpected one.When he had downed barely a fourth of the bottle, a cold shiver suddenly ran up his spine. He looked suddenly from right to left, suddenly suspicious of the familiar area around him, but he saw nothing. His borne paranoia was encouraged when he saw no birds, insects, or any other animal he would've never noticed before this moment. If it wasn't for the grass upon the baseball field, and a couple of trees here and there, the area before him looked more resembling to a desolate planet. Unable to trust himself with the whiskey, he poured the rest of the dark liquid onto the dry soil.After a long moment of waiting, listening, and puffing rings of smoke, Grimm stood up and stretched his arms into the air before going back into the trailer. Inside, he went straight to his bed and pulled the Colt automatic handgun out from under his pillow and placed it on the small dinner table nearby.He stared at his attire for a moment and contemplated.Work clothes aren't bad looking, he thought, but they may be a little too much.So, Grimm placed the cigar over the ashtray near the sink before taking off his clothes. He then took a thoughtful, warm-water shower. Though a bit cramped, the process of cleaning away the grime soothed his nerves and calmed his silent, yet immense, reluctance.After turning off the shower then drying off, he then started putting on his Sunday's Finest: dark green buttoned shirt, with a bundle of illustrated daisies splayed all over it; a pair of black pants; black shoes; and a red and green striped felt hat, with a yellow pin wheel stuck in the right side of the head part.Dressed, he then took the cigar from the ashtray, bit down on it, and relit with a Zippo lighter standing near the ashtray. Then he opened the windows so the trailer could air out. The smell of cigar smoke wouldn't go away completely, but at least it would be tolerable. He then grabbed the Colt and immediately flipped the safety hatch off.Grimm sighed a cloud of smoke as he slowly laid his legs upon the mattress and kept his back erect with his pillow upon the wall. He then held the gun with both of his hands, pressed the muzzle against his cranium, bit tightly down upon his cigar, and pulled the trigger.The trigger stayed stiff.He checked the safety hatch, which should've been switched off. However, the red dot indicated that the safety hatch was indefinitely on.Grimm laughed.And laughed.And laughed.He hadn't laughed this hard in a long time. He couldn't remember the last time laughter had made his chest hurt as much as it hurt now. Certainly, he had no need to kill himself after being this amused."HELP!"A female scream whaled suddenly, pulling him out of his fit of chuckles. In a second, he was off his bed and out of the trailer and immediately saw a lady running away from Dominique "The Sword Swallower," way out in outfield and heading toward the infield. The lady was short, and Dominique was obviously a bear of a man, but he was never prone to chasing women neither with nefarious nor sexual intentions.The Grimm's back neck hairs went sharp and pointy. Something was wrong.Gun held tightly, cigar still burning between his lips, Grimm found himself running into the baseball field, toward the chased and the chaser. Closing in on them, the lady went from a face of pure fear to pure relief when she saw him and his gun. He motioned for her to move out of the way. She moved and he fired a warning shot at Dominique, who halted his monster-jog and looked toward Grimm. Finally able to see "The Sword Swallower," Grimm's jaw opened slightly and felt heavy when he saw the cuts and gashes all over Dominique's face, and each wound looked self-inflicted. The worst part was the blank, colorless, eyes occupying Dominique's eye sockets, which caused sharp needles to prickle up and along Grimm's spine, all the way to the back of his skull.Dominique smiled at him, as if amused by Grimm's initial horror. A guttural sound immerged from the circus performer's throat, and out came a voice that wasn't Dominique's voice at all, "Mm, you look tasty, Mr. Clown.""Shoot it!" shouted the lady, bringing Grimm out of the sea of disbelief.Then Dominique sprinted toward him with a hungry, animalistic expression upon his face as he let out a hissing snarl. Grimm didn't hesitate to react quickly. He aimed his gun, switched off the safety hatch, and pulled the trigger. This time the gun worked, the bullet punctured Dominique's skull and he fell flat upon the floor, instantly.All went quiet.Lowering the firearm, Grimm took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a cloud out of his mouth. He turned head toward the woman, who was still catching her breath. "You okay, Miss?" he asked."Yes," she answered, starting to take deep breaths. Then she stood near him and held out a hand to shake. "Name's Charlotte Itou.""Grimm Preston," he said, shaking her hand. "Stage name: 'Grim Glum.' Friends usually just call me Grimm." He then pointed to the seemingly dead body of seemingly-Dominique: "Looks like my coworker, Dominique, but it wasn't. What was it really?""What do you think? It ain't your buddy, not anymore, and it ain't livin', that's for sure." Her voice belonged to a Southern State, or just about any rural town in the United States. Somehow, her soft-yet-rough-yet-feminine voice complimented her short height, athletic build, mildly curvy features, medium perky breasts, long slightly-curly and slightly-silky back hair, sharp brown eyes, and a face that had charm and a glow that could make a full moon jealous. In short, she was beautiful, and even though he had just met her, Grimm knew he'd never known or seen any lady like her. "Thanks for savin' me, by the way," she said to Grimm."It was no-." The dead body interrupted and startled him as it flailed and jerked about on the ground. It remained lying down when it halted. Then it let out a wicked laugh in perfect mocking fashion."No escape," it bellowed. "You'll all be eaten alive.""Well, fuck," commented Charlotte, a bit distressed.Grimm studied the helpless, hysterical undead body for a long moment. Then he rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to another. His lips curled up as his face went from serious to mildly humored. He then stepped toward the monster and stood near its head. Looking into its blank, snarling eyes, Grimm took the cigar out of his mouth and huffed a thin air of steam from his mouth. Then, without any warning, he slammed the sole of his shoe into its skull, several different times. Eventually, the skull and the face melded together and became paste, and the body no longer harbored any insatiable hunger to feed on human flesh.Spitting on the ground then putting the cigar back into his mouth, Grimm looked over at Charlotte, who was giving him a peculiar expression, along with a cowgirl-swagger pose. "They should call you The Redneck Clown," she said."I'm from Seattle," he replied.Her smirk went ten times bigger: "So, I have an Asian heritage. Redneck's a redneck, sweetie."He shot her a smirk back then looked toward the circus and asked: "Odd, I thought there'd be more coming.""Just my take, but they don't seem like your garden variety undead. Plus, panic just kind of irrupted a few minutes ago. Whoever runs your freak shows, didn't keep the cage locked, for some reason, and when it came time to present, the ugly motherfucker started munchin' on the presenter, then went at our friend here.""God damn Frank," Grimm said, spitting on the ground. "The French bastard has to go find something authentic. We keep saying, you're not supposed to be a real Necromancer, but no! We're just 'Stupid Americans' who don't know anything… Well, I got wheels. Want to get the hell out of here, Charlotte?""Thought you'd never ask. Lead the way, Grimm."So, he walked toward his trailer and she followed. As they walked, he said, "It's a shame. I was kind of looking forward to tussling with some zombies.""Well," said Charlotte, face keeping straight and serious, "if you play your cards, you could be tusslin' with me before the day is through. That is, if we survive interrupting the Undead Circus. I wouldn't mind having a gun and a cigar, neither.""I'll make a pit stop for the cigars," Grimm said, taking the cigar out and blowing smoke. Then he pointed to the cigar and continued, "This was supposed to be the last cigar before I die, but I've a nice Smith and Wesson revolver you might enjoy… And might I add, you don't seem like the type to go for clowns."She laughed as they went around to the other side of the trailer, where the pick-up was located. "Honey, nothin' against your sex, but all of you are clowns, in one way or another."They got in the car and drove toward the circus tent. Grimm felt alive, like he found his true calling, which wasn't necessarily as a zombie hunter. In his head, he saw himself as a exterminator of supernatural evil. He just hoped the elephant couldn't be turned into the undead. That'd be harder to kill.Follow Mike on Twitter, and then check out an interview that he conducted with a certain author over on his blog.
September 29, 2011
This YouTube comment represents what I love about the internet.
From user "CokeCookies" on one of the "Moves Like Jagger" videos:
This song makes me wanna strip naked, burst out of my window, free fall 28 floors, faceplant in the snow, make a snow angel mixed with my own blood, shiver from the cold, get hypothermia, DIE, go the pearly gate, say wuzzup to Jesus, do our secret hand shake, look for Buddha, find him, have him reincarnate me into a frog, meet a princess, kiss her, turn into a prince, order my subjects to bring me a computer, listen to this song again, sleep, Wake up.. Repeat.
Bravo, sir.
This song makes me wanna strip naked, burst out of my window, free fall 28 floors, faceplant in the snow, make a snow angel mixed with my own blood, shiver from the cold, get hypothermia, DIE, go the pearly gate, say wuzzup to Jesus, do our secret hand shake, look for Buddha, find him, have him reincarnate me into a frog, meet a princess, kiss her, turn into a prince, order my subjects to bring me a computer, listen to this song again, sleep, Wake up.. Repeat.
Bravo, sir.
September 26, 2011
From the old blog 4: The day I got completely worked by my three-year-old.
This afternoon, I went to pick my son up at daycare. When I got there, I found that he was trying to hug one of the girls in his class (to protect the identity of the unhuggable, I'll call her Betty) without her permission. No matter how many times I told him he had to ask her permission or the teacher showed him how easy it was to get Betty's permission, he flat-out refused. He kept trying to hug, we kept stopping him, rinse, repeat.
He got bored of this game and started to run around the room. He passed by Betty and put a shoulder into her...not enough to hurt her or knock her down, but enough to be rude.
So what does Dad...the boss, the smart one...do?
I tell Nate that he has to go apologize to Betty. And he does the standard apology: an "I'm sorry" accompanied by...
...a big hug, of course, met with open arms.
To recap: After several minutes of refusing to let my son hug a girl without her permission, he decides to Jedi mind trick me into ordering him to hug her. Which she welcomes.
1-zip, Nate.
He got bored of this game and started to run around the room. He passed by Betty and put a shoulder into her...not enough to hurt her or knock her down, but enough to be rude.
So what does Dad...the boss, the smart one...do?
I tell Nate that he has to go apologize to Betty. And he does the standard apology: an "I'm sorry" accompanied by...
...a big hug, of course, met with open arms.
To recap: After several minutes of refusing to let my son hug a girl without her permission, he decides to Jedi mind trick me into ordering him to hug her. Which she welcomes.
1-zip, Nate.
September 5, 2011
Here's another free short story from "Underneath."
I just hit the 500 follower mark on Twitter, which was a goal I'd set for the weekend. I said that if I reached that goal, I would post another free short story from "Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural." Granted, the whole collection is free on Barnes & Noble, but still. This is more convenient.
Here we go.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Terror by Text
I wrote thisstory while sitting on my deck, having a cigar. When I started it waslight out, but dusk crept up without me noticing. This story creepedme out more than any other in the collection, though I'm fully awarethat the title sucks.
* * *
ScaresYou: Well, I hope you're readyfor this. I'm at the old Windy Meadows Sanitarium. Alone, as Ipromised. Go to my page to see a stock photo of the exterior. Thatwas taken a long time ago. It's much creepier now.
ScaresYou: The sun just disappearedbelow the horizon. We have liftoff.
ScaresYou: Oh, and it looks like rain.How perfect is that?
ScaresYou @1HungLow: Good question. Theload = 2 bright-ass LED flashlights, headlamp, lantern, cell phone(duh), extra batteries for everything, sandwiches, couple bottles ofwater, sleeping bag, latest SK book.
ScaresYou @dainbramaged: No gun, but Ido have an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on my back. Hea-vy.
ScaresYou: In we go...
ScaresYou: Nice: RT@blockcocker Whensomeone asks if you're a god, you say yes!
ScaresYou: I should warn you that these"Ghostbusters" quotes could go on all night. If you haven'tever seen it, why are you reading me?
ScaresYou: Creaky door...cool.Forgetting about creaky door and letting it slam behind me...notcool.
ScaresYou RT@Robomop: Break out thebackup underwear?
ScaresYou: Heh. It'll take more thanthat to make me shit my pants. Oh, damn...what if I actually have totake a crap tonight? How long before TP biodegrades, anyway?
ScaresYou: Moving on...dust everywhere,enough to leave footprints. So far, mine are the only ones. I seeanother set, I'm out. :-)
ScaresYou: When these places close, isit mandatory that someone be tasked with overturning gurneys in thehall and leaving a doll somewhere? Because I just saw both.#alternatecareerideas
ScaresYou: Spontaneous doll namingcontest, and winner gets signed edition of whatever they want. Go.
ScaresYou: All of the "guest"rooms are open; I'll go to my grave wondering if that's creepier thanclosed doors or not.
ScaresYou @Darcy411: Yes, that was anabsolutely awful choice of words. I have a real gift for that kind ofstuff.
ScaresYou: There are bats here. Whywouldn't there be bats? I guess that means a lot less bugs, though.I'm Mr. Positive.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain in feer
ScaresYou: I love it when my fans getinto character. Officer "Corpse" Christie, for those whomight have only just discovered my work, was a cop (complete withilliterate killer personality) in one of my earlier novels.
ScaresYou: He had...issues.
ScaresYou: Spontaneous naming contestwinner: "Raggedy Sybil." @ccdrummer4life, send your bookchoice and mailing address.
ScaresYou: Holy crap, I wish I couldtell you how fast my heart is racing right now. A damn raccoon justskittered right in front of me.
ScaresYou: "Skitter" is whatcreatures do in a place like this, by the way. It's a law; I lookedit up.
ScaresYou: Also, I just shut that doorfast. Starve, you little bastard.
ScaresYou: I just checked, and I gotsome great video of the raccoon. Oh, I'm taking some video here andthere. Check the site in a few days.
ScaresYou: Found base camp. Infirmary1. They still have beds. I'll be burning my sleeping bag tomorrow,though. Regretting not bringing hand sanitizer. Or a HAZMAT suit.
ScaresYou: Lunch break. I won't boreyou with details unless I find the Madonna in my turkey sammich.
ScaresYou: I'm fine. Sorry for thelull. Tryptophan kicked in and I dozed. No Madonna, although my handswere covered in fucking ants when I woke up. #heebiejeebies and#washyourhands.
ScaresYou: Yes, folks, I know theturkey sleepy thing is a myth. I bend truth but make you feel likeit's still real; it's what you pay me for. By the way, thanks againfor that. It beats actually working.
ScaresYou: And this is how you go fromamusing to creepy in no time. Relax, dude. RT@corpsechristie sleepgood? u wont sleep agin 4 a long time
ScaresYou: Obviously another aspiringauthor. :-)
ScaresYou: Into the next circle...justleaving my shit here for now.
ScaresYou: Wow, this place is decrepit.I can hear it falling down around me. I mean that literally. At firstI though the cracking sounds were just rain (which has intensified,by the way), then I saw pieces of the wall flake off.
ScaresYou @KarlawithaK: I'm man enoughto admit that, yes, I'm a little freaked out. But I've also gottenlike fifty more ideas to scare the piss out of you, so that makes ita win/win.
ScaresYou: For the record, I've gained16 followers since I walked through the door. I also nuked one. Youmight be able to guess who that was. I have a pretty high tolerancefor morbid talk, but even I have my limits.
ScaresYou: No, I won't RT them, yousickos. ;-) Believe me, I'm doing you a favor.
ScaresYou: I'll be honest. Athunderclap got me bad. And I'm now looking at a door labeled"Violent Patients Ward." I volunteered for this?
ScaresYou RT@NovelistJunior: As anaspiring writer, you're my hero for keeping up your spelling andpunctuation under duress.
ScaresYou: Several other people havesent similar thoughts. It's automatic for me. It kind of has to be.
ScaresYou: Let me give all of youwannabe-pros a valuable tip. Writers don't "practice."Every damn word you write, Tweet, email, Facebook, text...it's alwaysgame time if you want to ever be legit.
ScaresYou: dont eva tlk lik dis, k?
ScaresYou: My wife knows that if I eversend a text to her that isn't capitalized, punctuated, etc. to callthe cops, because something's wrong. True story. Ask her.
ScaresYou @CopyCatherine: No, I'm notstalling. As far as you know.
ScaresYou: I've been to multiplehaunted sites, been alone in rooms with serial killers, been marriedtwice...and this is by far the most uncomfortable I've ever been.
ScaresYou: Signal's crappy here, so letme know if you're getting these.
ScaresYou: Good to know. Thanks,everyone.
ScaresYou: More pics for the site.
ScaresYou: Bad things happened here,people.
ScaresYou RT@BarryTBarnes: If you feellonely, you're right next to the converted TB ward. Approx. 10,000ghosts to keep you company.
ScaresYou: Gee, thanks for that.
ScaresYou: Found something weird here.I know I saw the layout of this place online somewhere. Someone findit and tell me what's between rooms 18 and 20.
ScaresYou: Nothing, my ass. I just wentinto both of the rooms and there's a big space in between. The roomwalls are cement, but the wall outside is just plaster. Do I engagein my first B&E?
ScaresYou: Somehow I knew which waythat question was going to go. Apparently, all of my readers arefelons. Eat your heart out, Dan Brown!
ScaresYou: Fire axe, meet wall. Wall,fire axe. Hey, they're tearing this place down, anyway.
ScaresYou RT@nahtanoj: This is the mostawesome thing ever. Better than Geraldo/Capone.
ScaresYou: Not a normal wall. It'salmost a foot thick. Had to take a break. But I'm through. Youhaven't seen darkness until you've seen THIS darkness. Glad I broughtall of these lights.
ScaresYou: I thought I lost this guy.RT@corpsechristie: u screwd up
ScaresYou: Okay, now I definitely gotrid of him.
ScaresYou RT@domino1212: What's in theroom already?!?
ScaresYou: Nothing yet. Can't see athing. It's a LOT bigger than I thought it would be. The hole lookslike it's fifty yards away. No sounds. No echoes when I yell, either.It's cold.
ScaresYou: How can there be wind inhere?
ScaresYou: Jesus, this place is vast.The lights aren't hitting anything. They're just getting...swallowedup.
ScaresYou: I tripped over a shoe. Awhite nurse's shoe! You know what? I'm heading back to the nice,normal part of the haunted hospital. This isn't worth a broken leg orcave-in.
ScaresYou: Yes, of course I'm takingthe shoe as a creepy souvenir.
ScaresYou: If I didn't know better, I'dsay the wind was following me. I'm that creeped out. Glad to be ridof that room.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: 2 late
ScaresYou: Okay, I didn't RT that.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u dint hav2 im out now
ScaresYou: What the Hell is going onhere? Did one of you hack my account?
ScaresYou @CarmenZ: No, I am definitelynot fucking okay! DID ONE OF YOU HACK MY GODDAMN ACCOUNT?!?
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: i did butnot n the way u think
ScaresYou: I swear to God, if I findout who's doing this, I'll put you under this place. That's apromise.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: tuff guy!tuff guys hav the rite to remain in pain
ScaresYou @corpsechristie: Fuck off,you psycho.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: nice shirt2 bad its got a big mayo stain on it now
ScaresYou: This prick can see mesomehow. I'm outta here.
ScaresYou: Back in the infirmary. Myshit's gone. He's here. Someone please call the cops. I'm not gettingthrough. I'M NOT KIDDING. HELP ME.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain bleedin
ScaresYou: Someone please tell me thecops are on their way!
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain screeming
ScaresYou: I see headlights. Thank you,thank you!
ScaresYou: Had a bad feeling and hid.Hear footsteps.
ScaresYou: Cop at the entryway. Lord, Irecognize him. I created him.
ScaresYou: Freaking out. Not hangingaround anymore. No place to go but back in. Send help. Please.
ScaresYou: Back at the hidden room.Remember how huge it is. Maybe lose him in here. Don't want to goback in.
ScaresYou:Yelling...gunshot...laughing. Footsteps echoing. Can't figure outwhere they're coming from.
ScaresYou: No choice. Going in. Roombetween 18 and 20. REMEMBER THAT.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain in custedy 4evr
ScaresYou RT@jabbathehuffer: You okay,dude?
ScaresYou RT@tammycakes: You there?
ScaresYou RT@tapout247: I'm calling thecops again!
ScaresYou RT@liquorupfront: Damn it,say something!
ScaresYou: im fine thx talk 2 ya l8r
Here we go.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Terror by Text
I wrote thisstory while sitting on my deck, having a cigar. When I started it waslight out, but dusk crept up without me noticing. This story creepedme out more than any other in the collection, though I'm fully awarethat the title sucks.
* * *
ScaresYou: Well, I hope you're readyfor this. I'm at the old Windy Meadows Sanitarium. Alone, as Ipromised. Go to my page to see a stock photo of the exterior. Thatwas taken a long time ago. It's much creepier now.
ScaresYou: The sun just disappearedbelow the horizon. We have liftoff.
ScaresYou: Oh, and it looks like rain.How perfect is that?
ScaresYou @1HungLow: Good question. Theload = 2 bright-ass LED flashlights, headlamp, lantern, cell phone(duh), extra batteries for everything, sandwiches, couple bottles ofwater, sleeping bag, latest SK book.
ScaresYou @dainbramaged: No gun, but Ido have an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on my back. Hea-vy.
ScaresYou: In we go...
ScaresYou: Nice: RT@blockcocker Whensomeone asks if you're a god, you say yes!
ScaresYou: I should warn you that these"Ghostbusters" quotes could go on all night. If you haven'tever seen it, why are you reading me?
ScaresYou: Creaky door...cool.Forgetting about creaky door and letting it slam behind me...notcool.
ScaresYou RT@Robomop: Break out thebackup underwear?
ScaresYou: Heh. It'll take more thanthat to make me shit my pants. Oh, damn...what if I actually have totake a crap tonight? How long before TP biodegrades, anyway?
ScaresYou: Moving on...dust everywhere,enough to leave footprints. So far, mine are the only ones. I seeanother set, I'm out. :-)
ScaresYou: When these places close, isit mandatory that someone be tasked with overturning gurneys in thehall and leaving a doll somewhere? Because I just saw both.#alternatecareerideas
ScaresYou: Spontaneous doll namingcontest, and winner gets signed edition of whatever they want. Go.
ScaresYou: All of the "guest"rooms are open; I'll go to my grave wondering if that's creepier thanclosed doors or not.
ScaresYou @Darcy411: Yes, that was anabsolutely awful choice of words. I have a real gift for that kind ofstuff.
ScaresYou: There are bats here. Whywouldn't there be bats? I guess that means a lot less bugs, though.I'm Mr. Positive.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain in feer
ScaresYou: I love it when my fans getinto character. Officer "Corpse" Christie, for those whomight have only just discovered my work, was a cop (complete withilliterate killer personality) in one of my earlier novels.
ScaresYou: He had...issues.
ScaresYou: Spontaneous naming contestwinner: "Raggedy Sybil." @ccdrummer4life, send your bookchoice and mailing address.
ScaresYou: Holy crap, I wish I couldtell you how fast my heart is racing right now. A damn raccoon justskittered right in front of me.
ScaresYou: "Skitter" is whatcreatures do in a place like this, by the way. It's a law; I lookedit up.
ScaresYou: Also, I just shut that doorfast. Starve, you little bastard.
ScaresYou: I just checked, and I gotsome great video of the raccoon. Oh, I'm taking some video here andthere. Check the site in a few days.
ScaresYou: Found base camp. Infirmary1. They still have beds. I'll be burning my sleeping bag tomorrow,though. Regretting not bringing hand sanitizer. Or a HAZMAT suit.
ScaresYou: Lunch break. I won't boreyou with details unless I find the Madonna in my turkey sammich.
ScaresYou: I'm fine. Sorry for thelull. Tryptophan kicked in and I dozed. No Madonna, although my handswere covered in fucking ants when I woke up. #heebiejeebies and#washyourhands.
ScaresYou: Yes, folks, I know theturkey sleepy thing is a myth. I bend truth but make you feel likeit's still real; it's what you pay me for. By the way, thanks againfor that. It beats actually working.
ScaresYou: And this is how you go fromamusing to creepy in no time. Relax, dude. RT@corpsechristie sleepgood? u wont sleep agin 4 a long time
ScaresYou: Obviously another aspiringauthor. :-)
ScaresYou: Into the next circle...justleaving my shit here for now.
ScaresYou: Wow, this place is decrepit.I can hear it falling down around me. I mean that literally. At firstI though the cracking sounds were just rain (which has intensified,by the way), then I saw pieces of the wall flake off.
ScaresYou @KarlawithaK: I'm man enoughto admit that, yes, I'm a little freaked out. But I've also gottenlike fifty more ideas to scare the piss out of you, so that makes ita win/win.
ScaresYou: For the record, I've gained16 followers since I walked through the door. I also nuked one. Youmight be able to guess who that was. I have a pretty high tolerancefor morbid talk, but even I have my limits.
ScaresYou: No, I won't RT them, yousickos. ;-) Believe me, I'm doing you a favor.
ScaresYou: I'll be honest. Athunderclap got me bad. And I'm now looking at a door labeled"Violent Patients Ward." I volunteered for this?
ScaresYou RT@NovelistJunior: As anaspiring writer, you're my hero for keeping up your spelling andpunctuation under duress.
ScaresYou: Several other people havesent similar thoughts. It's automatic for me. It kind of has to be.
ScaresYou: Let me give all of youwannabe-pros a valuable tip. Writers don't "practice."Every damn word you write, Tweet, email, Facebook, text...it's alwaysgame time if you want to ever be legit.
ScaresYou: dont eva tlk lik dis, k?
ScaresYou: My wife knows that if I eversend a text to her that isn't capitalized, punctuated, etc. to callthe cops, because something's wrong. True story. Ask her.
ScaresYou @CopyCatherine: No, I'm notstalling. As far as you know.
ScaresYou: I've been to multiplehaunted sites, been alone in rooms with serial killers, been marriedtwice...and this is by far the most uncomfortable I've ever been.
ScaresYou: Signal's crappy here, so letme know if you're getting these.
ScaresYou: Good to know. Thanks,everyone.
ScaresYou: More pics for the site.
ScaresYou: Bad things happened here,people.
ScaresYou RT@BarryTBarnes: If you feellonely, you're right next to the converted TB ward. Approx. 10,000ghosts to keep you company.
ScaresYou: Gee, thanks for that.
ScaresYou: Found something weird here.I know I saw the layout of this place online somewhere. Someone findit and tell me what's between rooms 18 and 20.
ScaresYou: Nothing, my ass. I just wentinto both of the rooms and there's a big space in between. The roomwalls are cement, but the wall outside is just plaster. Do I engagein my first B&E?
ScaresYou: Somehow I knew which waythat question was going to go. Apparently, all of my readers arefelons. Eat your heart out, Dan Brown!
ScaresYou: Fire axe, meet wall. Wall,fire axe. Hey, they're tearing this place down, anyway.
ScaresYou RT@nahtanoj: This is the mostawesome thing ever. Better than Geraldo/Capone.
ScaresYou: Not a normal wall. It'salmost a foot thick. Had to take a break. But I'm through. Youhaven't seen darkness until you've seen THIS darkness. Glad I broughtall of these lights.
ScaresYou: I thought I lost this guy.RT@corpsechristie: u screwd up
ScaresYou: Okay, now I definitely gotrid of him.
ScaresYou RT@domino1212: What's in theroom already?!?
ScaresYou: Nothing yet. Can't see athing. It's a LOT bigger than I thought it would be. The hole lookslike it's fifty yards away. No sounds. No echoes when I yell, either.It's cold.
ScaresYou: How can there be wind inhere?
ScaresYou: Jesus, this place is vast.The lights aren't hitting anything. They're just getting...swallowedup.
ScaresYou: I tripped over a shoe. Awhite nurse's shoe! You know what? I'm heading back to the nice,normal part of the haunted hospital. This isn't worth a broken leg orcave-in.
ScaresYou: Yes, of course I'm takingthe shoe as a creepy souvenir.
ScaresYou: If I didn't know better, I'dsay the wind was following me. I'm that creeped out. Glad to be ridof that room.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: 2 late
ScaresYou: Okay, I didn't RT that.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u dint hav2 im out now
ScaresYou: What the Hell is going onhere? Did one of you hack my account?
ScaresYou @CarmenZ: No, I am definitelynot fucking okay! DID ONE OF YOU HACK MY GODDAMN ACCOUNT?!?
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: i did butnot n the way u think
ScaresYou: I swear to God, if I findout who's doing this, I'll put you under this place. That's apromise.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: tuff guy!tuff guys hav the rite to remain in pain
ScaresYou @corpsechristie: Fuck off,you psycho.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: nice shirt2 bad its got a big mayo stain on it now
ScaresYou: This prick can see mesomehow. I'm outta here.
ScaresYou: Back in the infirmary. Myshit's gone. He's here. Someone please call the cops. I'm not gettingthrough. I'M NOT KIDDING. HELP ME.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain bleedin
ScaresYou: Someone please tell me thecops are on their way!
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain screeming
ScaresYou: I see headlights. Thank you,thank you!
ScaresYou: Had a bad feeling and hid.Hear footsteps.
ScaresYou: Cop at the entryway. Lord, Irecognize him. I created him.
ScaresYou: Freaking out. Not hangingaround anymore. No place to go but back in. Send help. Please.
ScaresYou: Back at the hidden room.Remember how huge it is. Maybe lose him in here. Don't want to goback in.
ScaresYou:Yelling...gunshot...laughing. Footsteps echoing. Can't figure outwhere they're coming from.
ScaresYou: No choice. Going in. Roombetween 18 and 20. REMEMBER THAT.
ScaresYou RT@corpsechristie: u hav therite to remain in custedy 4evr
ScaresYou RT@jabbathehuffer: You okay,dude?
ScaresYou RT@tammycakes: You there?
ScaresYou RT@tapout247: I'm calling thecops again!
ScaresYou RT@liquorupfront: Damn it,say something!
ScaresYou: im fine thx talk 2 ya l8r
Cliches and other stuff that you'll never see in my writing.
This is by no means an exhaustive list, so let's jump right in.
* "Where are we? More like when are we?"
* A hard-drinking cop whose next case will either save his life...or end it.
* By the same token, said cop's screaming sergeant/lieutenant.
* A car horn going off in one long, somber note because someone's slumped dead against it. Try it the next time you're in your car.
* "Now that's what I call (fill in the blank)!"
* Someone being saved by a sniper's bullet because they just happened to drop their cell phone at the perfect moment.
* A character coming back from the dead (a la Ian Malcolm in Crichton's "The Lost World.") When I kill them, they stay dead.
* A "Mary Sue." And, yes, giving a Mary Sue one charming flaw (e.g. can't cook, allergic to burlap) counts.
* "I've heard of (fill in the blank) before, but this is ridiculous!"
* A character "shrugging his shoulders." A shrug, by definition, involves shoulders. Brought this up on Twitter the other day. No longer felt alone.
* A traitor revealing himself by saying something dumb, then another character saying, "Wait, how do you know? I never said anything about (fill in the blank)."
* A character who exists solely to be the object of ridicule as a form of comic relief.
* "Wait, if you're here, that means...oh, no!"
* "I've never (fill in the blank) in my life, and I don't intend to start now."
* A tattooed/albino, self-abusive, celibate, religious zealot assassin who likes to admire himself naked. By law, only Dan Brown can do this.
* "Where are we? More like when are we?"
* A hard-drinking cop whose next case will either save his life...or end it.
* By the same token, said cop's screaming sergeant/lieutenant.
* A car horn going off in one long, somber note because someone's slumped dead against it. Try it the next time you're in your car.
* "Now that's what I call (fill in the blank)!"
* Someone being saved by a sniper's bullet because they just happened to drop their cell phone at the perfect moment.
* A character coming back from the dead (a la Ian Malcolm in Crichton's "The Lost World.") When I kill them, they stay dead.
* A "Mary Sue." And, yes, giving a Mary Sue one charming flaw (e.g. can't cook, allergic to burlap) counts.
* "I've heard of (fill in the blank) before, but this is ridiculous!"
* A character "shrugging his shoulders." A shrug, by definition, involves shoulders. Brought this up on Twitter the other day. No longer felt alone.
* A traitor revealing himself by saying something dumb, then another character saying, "Wait, how do you know? I never said anything about (fill in the blank)."
* A character who exists solely to be the object of ridicule as a form of comic relief.
* "Wait, if you're here, that means...oh, no!"
* "I've never (fill in the blank) in my life, and I don't intend to start now."
* A tattooed/albino, self-abusive, celibate, religious zealot assassin who likes to admire himself naked. By law, only Dan Brown can do this.
September 2, 2011
You might not be a writer, but I sure as Hell am.
A few weeks ago, I posted about the general disbelief that I've experienced from other people when I tell them I'm a novelist.
This topic came to the forefront of my mind a couple of days ago due to a Twitter conversation. Twitter Goddess* Julie Anne Lindsey related a conversation with her neighbor in which he commented that she'd "wasted a year of her life" writing a novel.
I've been simmering about it ever since, mostly because of all the responses I'll never get to deliver. They'd go something like this:
Wasted, you say? Let me tell you something, pal. I spend a lot of time toiling away at what I do. I create worlds. I breathe life into characters. And sometimes, I have to do bad things to them. My stories haunt me almost all of the time. I sit down and slap words on a page, delete a lot of them, replace them (often just Ctrl-Z-ing because I was right in the first place), agonize some more, and generally bust my arse until I can type "The End."
Then I get to rewrite. A lot. And edit. And then I get to pretend I'm a graphic designer and do a cover.
Oh, I think it's worth mentioning that this is all in addition to my day job.
When I finally decide that my product is "good enough" (because I'll always believe I can make it better), I'll put it out there for anyone to see. Do I want to make a living off of my work? HELL yes. I make no apologies for that.
However...
Even if I didn't make a dime, I'd still do it, anyway. If some people tell me how much they enjoyed it, that's good enough for me to justify my effort. Honestly, if I'm the only one who ever reads it, and I love it, then it's time well-spent.
But you know what is a colossal waste of time? Everyone like you telling everyone like me how you believe we're on a fool's errand. Have you ever read a book? Who do you think wrote them? Angels? Superheroes? A tribe of genetically-engineered überauthors?
Because it was people like me. People you see on the highway, at the grocery store, along your property line. Maybe next time, instead of telling me how you think we should better spend our time, do something crazy.
Ask about our work. We'll be more than happy to share it with you.
If you choose not to, if you decide that you'd rather denigrate what amounts to our second job (but first love), I'm sure I speak for a lot of people when I say, "Shut your fool face."
*I owe myself a quarter in royalties.
This topic came to the forefront of my mind a couple of days ago due to a Twitter conversation. Twitter Goddess* Julie Anne Lindsey related a conversation with her neighbor in which he commented that she'd "wasted a year of her life" writing a novel.
I've been simmering about it ever since, mostly because of all the responses I'll never get to deliver. They'd go something like this:
Wasted, you say? Let me tell you something, pal. I spend a lot of time toiling away at what I do. I create worlds. I breathe life into characters. And sometimes, I have to do bad things to them. My stories haunt me almost all of the time. I sit down and slap words on a page, delete a lot of them, replace them (often just Ctrl-Z-ing because I was right in the first place), agonize some more, and generally bust my arse until I can type "The End."
Then I get to rewrite. A lot. And edit. And then I get to pretend I'm a graphic designer and do a cover.
Oh, I think it's worth mentioning that this is all in addition to my day job.
When I finally decide that my product is "good enough" (because I'll always believe I can make it better), I'll put it out there for anyone to see. Do I want to make a living off of my work? HELL yes. I make no apologies for that.
However...
Even if I didn't make a dime, I'd still do it, anyway. If some people tell me how much they enjoyed it, that's good enough for me to justify my effort. Honestly, if I'm the only one who ever reads it, and I love it, then it's time well-spent.
But you know what is a colossal waste of time? Everyone like you telling everyone like me how you believe we're on a fool's errand. Have you ever read a book? Who do you think wrote them? Angels? Superheroes? A tribe of genetically-engineered überauthors?
Because it was people like me. People you see on the highway, at the grocery store, along your property line. Maybe next time, instead of telling me how you think we should better spend our time, do something crazy.
Ask about our work. We'll be more than happy to share it with you.
If you choose not to, if you decide that you'd rather denigrate what amounts to our second job (but first love), I'm sure I speak for a lot of people when I say, "Shut your fool face."
*I owe myself a quarter in royalties.
August 24, 2011
From the old blog 3: Sorry, traditional publishing, I'm breaking up with you.
It's not you, it's me.
No wait, it's you. It's definitely you.
For as long as I've known me, I've always been a staunch (read: militant) paper and ink book guy. The sensation of flipping through a physical book is just another book-related taste that I'd wager I inherited from my mother. As a reader, I fought the so-called electronic revolution...then I used a Nook for the first time. Love at first sight, I tell ya.
More importantly, as a writer, I was determined to make it the traditional way: query my ass off, wallpaper my writing space with the rejection letters, and query my ass off some more until I was finally lucky enough to get through the rest of the slush and find an agent who'd be worth their 15%. Then my book would sit on the shelf for a month-and-a-half until it was pushed out by the newer stuff.
Not exactly a dream come true.
That process officially started in October, and it officially ended a few weeks ago, when I first started reading articles like this: Ebook sales whupping up on print.
Even if the reported numbers aren't wholly accurate, the message that they send is clear: Can't fight the future.
As a reader, I kind of mourn the imminent demise of print. As a writer, I'm !@#$%^& psyched.
When I started weighing the lists of pros and cons, I was certain that, when all was said and done, I'd still be torn over my decision. Let me tell you: ain't happening.
Self-publishing offers: ease of initial publishing (and the ability to make instant changes to the finished product); setting your own price (and changing it instantly); a much higher percentage of profit for the author; 24-hour reader access and reviewing.
Lastly, and, what I think is the most valuable asset: permanence. Once you put it out there, it's available for as long as you want it to be. A motivated, prolific, and patient author (which is what I'm trying to mold myself into) can gradually build up his readership over time. Only a lucky few traditionally-published authors can claim that. They either make a big splash or they disappear.
John Locke (not the guy from Lost) occupied seven spots on the Amazon Top 50 and made over $126,000 of profit in March alone: Holy Crap. As an aside, I read his debut novel, intending to review it. Lethal People was so phenomenally ridiculous that I couldn't bring myself to actually write a review, but his success illustrates my point well enough. Slow and steady wins the race.
The only true advantage I can see print having over ebooks is the fact that a self-publisher is 100% responsible for their own marketing, but this is offset by a) the knowledge that very few books actually get any type of marketing blitz, and b) the permanence of ebooks which we just discussed.
So that's where we're at.
See you in the e-trenches.
No wait, it's you. It's definitely you.
For as long as I've known me, I've always been a staunch (read: militant) paper and ink book guy. The sensation of flipping through a physical book is just another book-related taste that I'd wager I inherited from my mother. As a reader, I fought the so-called electronic revolution...then I used a Nook for the first time. Love at first sight, I tell ya.
More importantly, as a writer, I was determined to make it the traditional way: query my ass off, wallpaper my writing space with the rejection letters, and query my ass off some more until I was finally lucky enough to get through the rest of the slush and find an agent who'd be worth their 15%. Then my book would sit on the shelf for a month-and-a-half until it was pushed out by the newer stuff.
Not exactly a dream come true.
That process officially started in October, and it officially ended a few weeks ago, when I first started reading articles like this: Ebook sales whupping up on print.
Even if the reported numbers aren't wholly accurate, the message that they send is clear: Can't fight the future.
As a reader, I kind of mourn the imminent demise of print. As a writer, I'm !@#$%^& psyched.
When I started weighing the lists of pros and cons, I was certain that, when all was said and done, I'd still be torn over my decision. Let me tell you: ain't happening.
Self-publishing offers: ease of initial publishing (and the ability to make instant changes to the finished product); setting your own price (and changing it instantly); a much higher percentage of profit for the author; 24-hour reader access and reviewing.
Lastly, and, what I think is the most valuable asset: permanence. Once you put it out there, it's available for as long as you want it to be. A motivated, prolific, and patient author (which is what I'm trying to mold myself into) can gradually build up his readership over time. Only a lucky few traditionally-published authors can claim that. They either make a big splash or they disappear.
John Locke (not the guy from Lost) occupied seven spots on the Amazon Top 50 and made over $126,000 of profit in March alone: Holy Crap. As an aside, I read his debut novel, intending to review it. Lethal People was so phenomenally ridiculous that I couldn't bring myself to actually write a review, but his success illustrates my point well enough. Slow and steady wins the race.
The only true advantage I can see print having over ebooks is the fact that a self-publisher is 100% responsible for their own marketing, but this is offset by a) the knowledge that very few books actually get any type of marketing blitz, and b) the permanence of ebooks which we just discussed.
So that's where we're at.
See you in the e-trenches.
August 22, 2011
My birthday wishlist (not what you think).
On this date (August 23rd) in history:
Absolutely nothing of note has happened. Ever.
Instead, we celebrate the respective naissance of Dan "Rudy" Ruetiger...the working class dog himself, Rick Springfield...Kobe (the Bryant, not the beef)...and yours truly. Rudy's got a timeless movie, Rick has a bunch of hits and a soap opera role to his credit, Kobe's got pretty much everything, so it's my turn.
The only thing I want for my birthday is for you to support your writer friends, and for them to support you. There are some things we can do for each other better than anyone else. Here's what I want for my thirty*mumble* birthday:
1) Read and review. Reviews are our lifeblood. A lot authors have a free ebook somewhere. Free, homie. If it's within your genres of interest (or even if it's just not completely out of the realm of interest), download that bad boy, read it at your leisure, and post a quick review. If you're interested in doing a real review of a pay book, a lot of authors will send you a free copy, anyway.
2) Viralize. Like something that you read? Tweet it, Facebook it, G+ it. Hopefully others will, as well. Then do it again.
3) Tell your friends. If you know someone who likes to read a particular genre, and you also happen to know someone who writes in that same genre, channel your inner Chuck Woolery and hook 'em up. Maybe there will be sparks.
4) Turn "tomorrow" into "today," especially concerning ebooks. Yes, that $.99 book that really interests you will still be around tomorrow, and the day after...but will you remember it? There are a lot of distractions out there. So drop the buck. The impact that you have on the author will probably be much greater than the impact on your wallet.
5) Join forces. Whether huge or modest, you have a following. Someone else does, too. Introduce those fans to one another. Guest blog. Do an interview. Expose someone you admire to your audience. It won't hurt you, either.
6) Sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads.
I think these are all pretty reasonable requests.
Remember, you got the touch. You got the power.
Dan
Absolutely nothing of note has happened. Ever.
Instead, we celebrate the respective naissance of Dan "Rudy" Ruetiger...the working class dog himself, Rick Springfield...Kobe (the Bryant, not the beef)...and yours truly. Rudy's got a timeless movie, Rick has a bunch of hits and a soap opera role to his credit, Kobe's got pretty much everything, so it's my turn.
The only thing I want for my birthday is for you to support your writer friends, and for them to support you. There are some things we can do for each other better than anyone else. Here's what I want for my thirty*mumble* birthday:
1) Read and review. Reviews are our lifeblood. A lot authors have a free ebook somewhere. Free, homie. If it's within your genres of interest (or even if it's just not completely out of the realm of interest), download that bad boy, read it at your leisure, and post a quick review. If you're interested in doing a real review of a pay book, a lot of authors will send you a free copy, anyway.
2) Viralize. Like something that you read? Tweet it, Facebook it, G+ it. Hopefully others will, as well. Then do it again.
3) Tell your friends. If you know someone who likes to read a particular genre, and you also happen to know someone who writes in that same genre, channel your inner Chuck Woolery and hook 'em up. Maybe there will be sparks.
4) Turn "tomorrow" into "today," especially concerning ebooks. Yes, that $.99 book that really interests you will still be around tomorrow, and the day after...but will you remember it? There are a lot of distractions out there. So drop the buck. The impact that you have on the author will probably be much greater than the impact on your wallet.
5) Join forces. Whether huge or modest, you have a following. Someone else does, too. Introduce those fans to one another. Guest blog. Do an interview. Expose someone you admire to your audience. It won't hurt you, either.
6) Sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads.
I think these are all pretty reasonable requests.
Remember, you got the touch. You got the power.
Dan
August 18, 2011
The DIY Writer #2: Don't get scammed.
I originally intended on writing this post on a completely different topic, but the events over the last few days concerning PublishAmerica (I won't ever link to those d-bags) have made me feel it's necessary to address something else.
"We will bring your book to the attention of Harry Potter's author next week while our delegation is in her hometown, and ask her to read it and to tell us and you what she thinks. Tell her what you think: in the Ordering Instructions box write your own note for JK Rowling, max. 50-100 words. We will include your note in our presentation for her!
Go to (redacted), and your book will be among the very first that we will bring to JK Rowling's attention next week while we are in Edinburgh. Go to (redacted) if you have more than one book with PublishAmerica. We will ask the world's very bestselling author to look at all of your books next week."
It should be noted that JK Rowling's attorney's immediately sent a cease and desist, to which PublishAmerica responded with this. Shorthand: "We can fulfill our obligation to 'present' your book by throwing it onto Rowling's lawn."
If you recognize that for the bullshit that it is, good one on you, and have a nice day.
If you don't...don't move. Stay right there. This post is for you.
* * *
Now, that little rant was just a bonus. Here's the actual blog post.
Writer scams.
For the new writer, they're everywhere. And there's a reason for that. A lot of new writers (a group I belong to) don't know any better. For the most part, the only research they do concerns the content of the book. By the time they've typed "The End" and hammered out their dedication, they're so gung ho to get the ball rolling and go worldwide that they're incredibly vulnerable to predators like PublishAmerica.
I can sum up everything that the new writer needs to know about avoiding scams in four words: NEVER PAY UP FRONT.
Not for an agent.
Not for a publisher.
Nothing.
No reputable entity will ask you for money up front. If a publisher does it, it's a vanity press. If an agent does it, well...they're just an asshole.
That isn't to say that there aren't some legitimate charges associated with an agent. For example, it's a known (but not completely common) practice for an author to be responsible for certain costs like copy fees and postage to publishers that an agent incurs. Research something like that on a case-by-case basis.
But <chrisjericho> never....eeeeeeeeever...</chrisjericho> pay a publisher up front for the privilege of having your work printed up. Don't pay an agent a "reading fee." Just don't.
If you're going the traditional publishing route, Predators & Editors is a fantastic resource to research prospective agents and publishers. If you're a self-publisher, the entire process doesn't have to cost you a dime.
There are no shortcuts to success as a writer. If such a thing existed, so many people would use it that it wouldn't even qualify as a shortcut anymore. A writer needs patience, a willingness to learn, a good work ethic, an entrepreneurial spirit, a little bit of luck, and yes...some talent.
We all need to hear this.
Stop enabling these pinheads.
Every person that falls for scams like PublishAmerica emboldens them to keep doing it. Any writer who disregards this advice because they think they've found the Golden Ticket only succeeds in becoming part of the problem.
If I sound edgy about this, it's because I am. I don't like to see trusting people get separated from their money dishonestly.
In life, much like in my stories, I don't like to see the bad guys win.
"We will bring your book to the attention of Harry Potter's author next week while our delegation is in her hometown, and ask her to read it and to tell us and you what she thinks. Tell her what you think: in the Ordering Instructions box write your own note for JK Rowling, max. 50-100 words. We will include your note in our presentation for her!
Go to (redacted), and your book will be among the very first that we will bring to JK Rowling's attention next week while we are in Edinburgh. Go to (redacted) if you have more than one book with PublishAmerica. We will ask the world's very bestselling author to look at all of your books next week."
It should be noted that JK Rowling's attorney's immediately sent a cease and desist, to which PublishAmerica responded with this. Shorthand: "We can fulfill our obligation to 'present' your book by throwing it onto Rowling's lawn."
If you recognize that for the bullshit that it is, good one on you, and have a nice day.
If you don't...don't move. Stay right there. This post is for you.
* * *
Now, that little rant was just a bonus. Here's the actual blog post.
Writer scams.
For the new writer, they're everywhere. And there's a reason for that. A lot of new writers (a group I belong to) don't know any better. For the most part, the only research they do concerns the content of the book. By the time they've typed "The End" and hammered out their dedication, they're so gung ho to get the ball rolling and go worldwide that they're incredibly vulnerable to predators like PublishAmerica.
I can sum up everything that the new writer needs to know about avoiding scams in four words: NEVER PAY UP FRONT.
Not for an agent.
Not for a publisher.
Nothing.
No reputable entity will ask you for money up front. If a publisher does it, it's a vanity press. If an agent does it, well...they're just an asshole.
That isn't to say that there aren't some legitimate charges associated with an agent. For example, it's a known (but not completely common) practice for an author to be responsible for certain costs like copy fees and postage to publishers that an agent incurs. Research something like that on a case-by-case basis.
But <chrisjericho> never....eeeeeeeeever...</chrisjericho> pay a publisher up front for the privilege of having your work printed up. Don't pay an agent a "reading fee." Just don't.
If you're going the traditional publishing route, Predators & Editors is a fantastic resource to research prospective agents and publishers. If you're a self-publisher, the entire process doesn't have to cost you a dime.
There are no shortcuts to success as a writer. If such a thing existed, so many people would use it that it wouldn't even qualify as a shortcut anymore. A writer needs patience, a willingness to learn, a good work ethic, an entrepreneurial spirit, a little bit of luck, and yes...some talent.
We all need to hear this.
Stop enabling these pinheads.
Every person that falls for scams like PublishAmerica emboldens them to keep doing it. Any writer who disregards this advice because they think they've found the Golden Ticket only succeeds in becoming part of the problem.
If I sound edgy about this, it's because I am. I don't like to see trusting people get separated from their money dishonestly.
In life, much like in my stories, I don't like to see the bad guys win.
