Rob Teun's Blog

A is for…Anally Retentive.

The term anal-retentive (also anally retentive), commonly abbreviated to anal, [1] is used to describe a person who pays such attention to detail that the obsession becomes an annoyance to others, potentially to the detriment of the anal-retentive person. The term derives from Freudian psychoanalysis….or I was potty trained at gunpoint…

So a friend of mine, a wonderful chap by the name of Steven Chapman (whose blog can be found here; http://stevenchapmanwriter.com/?p=1510) wondered where my blog was, and it has been a while and then I wondered, well where is it? It came to my attention that an ABC’s of blogging challenge was around, a blog for each letter in the alphabet…so here we go!

I am an obsessive for detail but I am also a paradox (guess what it is!)

You’ll gather what I mean by this as you read this blog…

When I write; even those parts that do not make it onto paper, I wonder about the colour of the walls, the brand of alcohol my characters might drink. Etc. It all boils down to how absorbed you are by the tale and one would hope you are immersed to the point of obsessive, to the point reality and fiction fuse and conspire against your very sanity.

It is better to know the world you have created and I know that seems obvious, but it does go other some people’s heads and the effect is detrimental to both parties of reader and writer because they both miss out on such a joyous experience. The world I am currently trying to recreate would be all the poorer if I did not know every nook and cranny of the world I was trying to create, furthermore, I would have a hard time trying to convince you of its existence if I was unsure of the details. “False Interiorization” is the term it’s a cheap labour-saving technique. The author, too lazy to describe the surroundings, afflicts the viewpoint-character with a blindfold, an attack of sickness, the urge to play marathon games in the smoking-room, etc.

Just lazy writing and sometime bad habit – stop it!

Words are your friend. Use them.

“If anything is possible, then nothing is interesting.” H.G. Well’s would say.

Best. Advice. Ever. It is when you sit and think about it.

Dream the impossible! Damn the banal!

But…this can only be achieved with….well you guessed it, by being a little anally retentive!

We do have to be careful though not to burn ourselves out, and yet not end up with a picaresque plot in which this happens, and then that happens, and then something else happens, and it all adds up to nothing in particular. It’s a delicate balance…. So as long as we have some semblance of where we are going then we’ll be fine. To simplify it all here are some bullet points;

Plot is needed, even a loose one. The more details you know the better.
Well-rounded character research is needed; the more details you know the better.
Rich imagery, or at least a decent explanation of what the hell I am looking at; the more details you know the better.
That’s all folks…at least for now, I wrote this with a one-hour dead line…

But I’ll be back for… B is for Bigger, Badder and Better!

The illustrated man; a view on Daniele Serra

“Profiles”

I have not opened with words, but with a picture and that as we know, speaks a thousand words. I was fortunate enough to see a reviewer’s copy of Daniele Serra’s book: Veins and Skulls…

Who is Daniele Serra? Well, allow me to give you a brief history. He was born in Italy, he has worked for numerous small press publications and has produced work for such notable writers such as Barbie Wilde (who wrote the beautifully disturbing book ‘The Venus Complex’ and who played the Female Cenobite from the classic series of films of the Hellraiser franchise).

Daniele has also illustrated for DC Comics. As if this was not enough, he has also received the British Fantasy Award and has had exhibits across the world.

Now, I am not one for collecting art, but there are two exceptions in my world and these are Clive Barker and Daniele Serra. Just as I, just as Barbie and just as Daniele and Clive, we all strive for new horizons and metaphors to explain our view of the world. Some of us use words; some of us use paints and pencils, using our hands as extensions of our souls. We bleed words, we bleed paint, and Daniele Serra show us so perfectly the innermost darkness of his soul and it’s beautifully macabre spirit. That’s what attracts me to Daniele’s art; it conveys deep eroticism without being explicit. It has rage and darkness without violence. He is a wonderful paradox.

I am especially fond of his use of sepia’s the warm yellows as they compliment with earthy browns and contrast with blue-grey tones, all making wonderful art as exhibited in the examples in this blog. I am not the only fan of his work. Joe R. Lansdale and Ramsey Campbell also love his work. Jeff Mariotte writes a wonderful introduction to the book.

‘Light’

Daniele’s book, Veins and Skulls, is a testament to what the small presses can produce, it shatters all expectations, and it makes you sit up and say ‘wow.’ His art transcends words, it evokes emotions, and actions, thought provoking art, that makes us wonder. Broken down into several parts, Daniele begins with some powerful themes for his art; sex, nudity, the female form mingled with death. While these evoke different pictures and images in our minds, Daniele melds these subjects without once making them crude or vulgar, he makes them images of beauty despite being so very dark in nature. “Goodbye” is a personal favourite of mine of the first part of this wonderful art book. There are paintings of loss and loneliness, which also run alongside the powerful themes he has chosen.

Part two are simpler, spartan images painted in black upon crisp white paper and still no power is lost, in fact, it draws more attention to the art at hand. More concentrated on that great mystery to men: the female form. Vulnerable and yet so strong. His love of the feminine form echoes throughout the book.

Part three comes to Daniele’s landscapes, images that you wish you could climb into and explore. The paradox that is Daniele’s brush and imagination come into play, more so here than any other part of the book in my opinion. These are bleak images, and yet somehow there is a haunting magnificence to them. There is a story there awaiting to unfold between the brush strokes. Daniele can often tell more of a story in a couple of brush strokes than I could in a thousand words. Throughout these paintings, there is a touch of the artist Goya, The Black Paintings to be more precise, and as with Goya as he painted his dark thoughts, Daniele bellows his down the catacombs of our imagination, bringing forth what he sees when he stares into the abyss. It does not just stare back, but he captures it and shows us that there is beauty in the dark, all we have to do is take his hand and let our eyes hold testament.

Into the darkness, we tread…

For more of Daniele Serra’s work please drop by his site: http://www.multigrade.it/

Or follow him on Twitter: https://twitter.com/multigrade

For more on Barbie Wilde; https://www.facebook.com/BarbieWildeAuthorActress

For more on Clive Barker; https://www.facebook.com/officialclivebarker

And finally, for more on me; https://www.facebook.com/R.D.TEUN

Veins and Skulls will be released later this month.

Artwork © 2013 Daniele Serra

The Great Pretenders

The Great pretenders

 

I came across something last night that confirmed a great deal in my mind. Suspicions I had if you will. It came from the mouth of a well renowned writer (whom is no longer with us); they spoke of how the small press was full of wannabe horror writers, how it was a rancid cesspool of talentless morons who did not know the difference between a split infinitive and a slice of toast.

Unimaginative.

Derivative shit.

This person was right. I wholeheartedly agree.

Okay now I am going to add to it.

It is full of sharks swimming in the waters of unprofessionalism.

Conmen.

I have come across madmen with inflated egos.

Bloody know it all’s who profess to be experts and tweet #writing tips, yet somehow they chase that elusive major publisher, and yet still have not found. Yet, I see writers from all walks of publishing (self, small etc.) claiming and sometimes believing, sadly that they are the next Stephen King or Clive Barker. In the next breath/Tweet/Facebook update, they are slagging off the best sellers. Jealousy perhaps? Delusion?

I have seen Facebook fan pages parading as magazines, asking for submissions in return for exposure, and a word to the wise; there is no exposure, just exploitation. I have been there, yet if anything, it gave me confidence (every writer needs this – in moderation.) I only ever submitted the once. Never again.

What is my point?

I think the small presses need to gather the ones that are decent and yes, they are out there, not many but they are scattered like little islands of relief and beacons of light. They should gather and drive out the bad presses out until they are out there on the very fringes of horizon, stalking the sides like the jackals they are. I think the same should go for writers. Lord only knows, I have met some of worst of the worst.

All I can take away from all that I have seen is an education, one I am still in and I am the first to say, I still have a fair way to go. My first book for instance, was not my best work. I should have left it a little longer before I released it into the world and if I was not so eager to spill my guts, I may have had better sales and responses. With that said, I think it was needed for me to experience that. It brought me to earth and made me think very honestly about how I see myself as a student of writing. These last few months have been a series of revelations, the most recent one being on how difficult it is to write that second book…but that is for another time.

What it boils down to is what the individual writer wants from this at the end of the day and only you know that. I am happy just to be creating, if other people enjoy it, great. If not, I’ll be bummed out. If I make money, well that’s great also. As long as, I am read and I have entertained than I am happy and the only pretending I am doing is in the pages and not to myself.

I know where I am, I know my station within publishing. If every writer knew exactly, where they stood and how much they had to learn and then maybe we would all be taken a great deal more seriously.

Take what you want from this blog, I’m just making some observations and learning my art the best way I can.

Be a writer? You must be mad!

 

 

(I just wrote this in the last hour, so bear with me…ahem!)

*Clears throat*

It’s not all doom and gloom being a writer; it is hard work, sure. Nevertheless, we write because we love too, trust me; those who write for the money never last long and there are those who will expose that, but we’ll get to that in a tick.

For now, we are proceeding as though we have already written that book and now we are eager to share our dream with the rest of world!

WAIT! PULL THE BREAKS!

Where do we begin?

What are our options?

Well…let me show you some pros, cons, and even warning signs.

Now, this is where I piss on a few toes, shatter some dreams, and let’s face it, be an adult about it or otherwise be realistic about the whole affair of writing. I am not trying to put you off, yes it is very rewarding etc…but I think it is only fair I give you some fair warning about the less than reputable folks who will take advantage of you. Rip you off and leave you cowering on the cold wet floor a gibbering wreck clutching at their pen. Not everyone in the publishing world is like this, nor is the self-publishing world any sweeter (despite illusions) and I am going to be honest about why, it is only fair in the interest of balance. So let’s get this ball rolling.

I am going to be brutal…

***

 

Publishing (Traditional, and a quick word on agents.)

So the first thing I’d do as a new writer and I wanted to find a publisher, is I’d pick up a copy of the Writers and Artist’s Yearbook (with relevant year, the industry is ever changing in this climate.) I should not have to say this, but so many people neglect to read and that is submission guidelines! They are there for a reason and if you don’t adhere to them, you’ll never get a reply. However, this is not a blog about that, perhaps another time.

Secondly, once you have looked at your prospective publishers (unsolicited or otherwise.)   

There is a list of publishers you should stay away from, now not everyone agrees with these guys, but I find them helpful for a baseline to work from and I am a great believer in “no smoke without fire” you can find them at WRITER BEWARE! At this link; http://www.sfwa.org/other-resources/for-authors/writer-beware/alerts/

Do not be put off by the Sci-fi part; they cater for just about everyone.

From personal experience, I can tell you to look out for “overly friendly” publishers, those who are there at every moment of the day, who drop everything and heed your call and every whim! Who give you supposed creative free reign over every facet of the journey that is your book.

No. Nope. Nadda.

It don’t work this way.

Never does. Never will. Not for the honest ones at least.

Publishers are very, very busy people who have a business to run and are not there to kiss your booboo’s or tell you how great you truly. Nor are or are they there to help you throw any toys out of the pram (and on this subject while I am on it; any publisher wrapped up in slagging matches or playground arguments with another; stay away from them. Very unprofessional indeed).

STAY AWAY FROM THEM!

You’ve had your warning.

No publisher will hand you a contract within days of receiving your submission. Expect to be turned down and don’t feel bad, it is a rite of passage for all of us.

Here are some bullet points on what to watch out for (this saves me boring you too much)

Overly eager publishers/ controversially viewed publishers or publishers with controversial views: not good for business is it?  
Publishers that expect you to pay for an outside editor, cover artist etc…that is their job, not yours.
Publishers which ask you to part with any money, for anything!

 (The most inventive one I have seen personally so far was when one publisher suggested that every writer place their OWN PERSONAL MONEY into a kitty fund to pay for other writers at said label to use when it came to publicity. Real no –no.

 

Unprofessional publishers; those who promote only themselves and leave you in the lurch, you see most small publishers are ran by a writer and should be putting you ahead of their own interests, they decided to be a publisher after all.

 

*Now, I realise some people may get prissy about this, but choose a role, a path and stick to it as far as I am concerned.*

 

By the way, that quick word on agent’s…stay away from those who ask for money, ask you to buy their exclusive hints and secrets on cd and DVD for the low, low price of $89.99!

I am not kidding; I have seen this happen…how desperate have you got to be, to be trying to sell me stuff when you are meant to be making me money?  

From the trunk of your car no less.

Classy.

 

Self-publishing

 

Not all sweetness and light, not all freedom and free speech. I refer you to an earlier blog on here about the KOBO incident (Fat cats VS. The people – that’s if you interested, but leave it until after this blog, don’t want to ruin your appetite now do we?)

Here are some things to watch out for (in bullet points)

Cover artists are not always honest. There are some of them who will repeatedly use the same image from one cover but will use it again in different colours squeezing the same juice from the same lemon every time. Some “artists” will not even give you the work and run with the money. Do your homework, shop around, and ask around for a reputable cover artist. Do not be afraid to ask other writers, they’ll answer, they love the attention…I know I do.
  Free-lance editors (not my favourite people I must say.)

Some of them are very good at what they do and others…well…they are just shit to put it plainly. Yet again, another case of asking around, and before anyone says anything; EVERYONE NEEDS AN EDITOR.

Even Stephen King needs and has an editor. Argue with that and I’ll direct you to his sales, can’t argue with those. Find a reputable one, with at least a few happy customers.

Those who charge you to place your stories up on Amazon/Kobo/etc. No. Stay away from these and learn it yourself. Brutal? You betcha’. Unless of course you don’t mind parting with a hundred and two because you are too lazy to learn the ladder of being a self-published writer. How can you be otherwise?

 

So armed with an earlier blog, a link to a website that points out the worst of the worst and yours truly on hand to dispense advice (when free to), you should have everything you need to go out into the world of publishing. Now before you go…

The world of writing, publishing is very rich and rewarding. It is worth the humiliation, the time, the insults etc. because let’s face it; there is nothing better we’d rather be doing. Write for the love.

Not for the money.  

Feel free to drop by Twitter (@rdteun) or my Facebook page; https://www.facebook.com/R.D.TEUN

For any advice. I’ll try my best to help you, but remember, I can only go by observation and experience.

Until then, have fun writing and be careful… 

Devil’s advocate; Fat Cats vs. the People

It came to my attention whilst I was cruising along Twitter that I came across some news that Kobo had indeed pulled all their books written by self-published writers. But after a little digging, it was not Kobo to pull the first book…Amazon pulled titles from their catalogue.   

(More info on this can be found on the BBC website; http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-24491723)

 Kobo, it seems went to greater lengths with further reaching complications without regard to whom it would affect.

 

Back for the rest…?

 

I’m a traditionally published writer, so it could be argued that it does not affect me, but it does I suppose…because I feel sorry for those who have been pulled into this unfairly.  There has been a few writers out there, who want to make a quick buck by writing about sex. Not even good sex, the kind that perverts need to sleep at night. Increase this with pressure from the government to crack down on decency within the written form, perhaps harkens back to the crusading days of Mary Whitehouse during the Thatcher years and her suggestions on what people should and should not consume as entertainment. The decency police if you will. To a degree, I agree with some of it, i.e. the creepy smutty stuff, (but to ban everyone outright for daring to self-publish. Perhaps a knee jerk reaction if you ask me), has snowballed into what is now referred to as Kobogedden! Where the government and big chain stores believe that the “Indies” (self-published writers) can no longer govern themselves out there in the wild west of writing.

So a few renegades slipped the gates…it also happens in traditional publishing and trust me I could mention names, but I am too professional to mention names, but they are out there, along with the rest of them. They perpetuate the problems that an everyday writer has to endure until they (the common decent writer) can earn “Kiss my ass money”…or otherwise, make enough not to care about the politics of the underdogs, we do not live in an ideal world though do we?

At this time, I have no idea if other companies will take note and follow suit, but if they do, could this spell the end of the self-published writer? Doubtful. Very doubtful. The self-published writer was here far before the digital age began, and if it ever did happen and the Ebook passed, much like the VHS tape, then Indies would still go with the flow as they have always done.

 

It could be argued that certain laws and guidelines could be put in place; perhaps it should just to make sure that the spoilt few couldn’t ruin it for the true free spirits. There are those who see this as a shackle to tie down the independent spirit, and this is sometimes taken out of context and seen as outright oppression.

Kobo took the most extreme measure; they took down every self-published title in their catalogue. Considering that some self-published writers, write full time, just as some traditionally published writers, after all we all have mouths to feed don’t we?

It means that (at least in my mind) is a potential loss of earnings, especially since they have taken down titles from every genre (and not just erotica). In addition, there has been the price fixing scandal between certain companies that have tarnished the publishing world. It is just self-publishers that are affected by politics, it happens to all of us, from the lofty perches to the trenches. It’s all there if you look deep enough, there is more to this writing game than just wanting to tell a tale, sadly the reality of the world has to intrude. Another thing, I have seen some folk point the finger at the traditionally published writers and ask “Well, why not them? Why not look into what they are writing?” Answer is very simple and not the one you may be looking for… like it or not, we are governed by what is considered good taste and decency, just as every writer in the world is regardless of route taken. Difference is, when we go wrong, we just get a tap on the shoulder with a gentle warning from the editor. An advanced warning when we may go that step to far…no safety net for the self-published writer….

So, as writers I think we should band together and help our fellow writer, after all are we not in the same company of dreamers? I think we are. Personally, the people who are suffering from this overzealous panic have my deepest sympathy.  I can only imagine that Kobo have accidentally crippled the gentle spirits of those just making those first anxious steps in the publishing world. This goes far beyond a campaign on porno stories (otherwise, why attack other genre? Perhaps a complete lack of trust and only gone this far because profit was to be made), this delves so much deeper having a negative effect on both sides, but we cannot see for the red tape. 

Which begs the question, why didn’t Kobo/Amazon/Barnes and Noble etc… begin the screening process of all books from the beginning, because if there is anything we have learnt about people, regardless of which medium they use, a perverse few will turn the good into the bad, let’s just call it THE PANDORA EFFECT. However, there was profit to be had, money to gain and a big fat pat on the back for seemingly being there for the common man, trying to say the big business cares about the little guys.

Bollocks.

As always, money will always speak louder than any human voice.

BUT! Not every voice is silenced; there are traditionally published writers like me, who lack ego and that draconian sense of hierarchy within writers and who seems more important to listen to. Something else, we need to work on in the future and that at the time of writing seems so uncertain as far as the digital revolution goes. Kobo, it seems have shut down all operations, perhaps to clean out shop and begin again, or perhaps they are just closing the door and leaving it to invitation for the elite….only time will tell…there may well be a great deal more to this yet, so please stay tuned….

 

R.D. Teun.

P.S. If you do not have Facebook, I can be found in Twitter to answer all questions you may have, here is the link; https://twitter.com/RDTEUN follow me and I’ll show you the mind of an open minded traditionally published author, we are all dreamers of the same company….

let us continue to keep the dream we all chase… 

So I have been away….I was supposed to be dead…

Yep, you read that right, I was supposed to be dead. I am writing this from my hospital bed, in the respiratory investigation unit, it’s late (12:52 a.m. to be exact) and a few days ago, I was rushed to the hospital from my home because my breathing had stopped for the third time at around 7:30 a.m.

The doctors had me in a section of the hospital to begin with (a section I still don’t know what it was, but from what I can gather, it’s a place where life and death hangs on a wire by one hand and a prayer). The doctors told me in no uncertain terms that I was not expected to live to see the night and frankly, this pissed me off at the time. Not to say that I was scared, because on some level maybe I was, but when someone tells you that…

“Hey, you could be dead within a matter of hours” at the young age of 31, your mind goes to a lot of places, dark places, which all pretty much head towards those almost cliché seven stages of mourning, anger (for me at least, being the first stage as it always is when it comes to death). Since then I’ve been forced to reflect on a lot of things, rethink a lot of the philosophies I thought I had. I don’t know when I can leave/discharged from the hospital, so I am going to just spew my thoughts into words and let’s see this rabbit hole leads us….

 

It’s not the first time I’ve nearly died, shit… I’ll doubt it will be the last, you see, Death and me have had a few waltzes before. And I think he likes to drop by every now and again for a dance, just to remind me that he is there, waiting in the shadows for me for that final dance, but until then I suppose he’s testing to see if my footwork is right. Until then, I am going to stick to my writing, so much than before, because I need to now.  I thought I wrote because I just enjoyed spinning a yarn, but now (especially with the next book, as you will see, there is a great deal more to it.)

I write because I am trying to make sense of everything. I mean Life. Its mystery troubles us, it is as though God gave us a beginning and left the rest of the story untold. Some of us ignore this grand mystery that has been presented to us; some of us spend our lives trying to make sense of it with our own envious imitations and hope by some chance that we stumble upon the answer and perhaps come to understand why we were born?  

I think beneath it all that is why I write, that is why I am writing this right now, I am trying to exorcize those troubled thoughts and as I sit here late at night as my mind churns, and by sharing with you, by bringing you deeper into my life, perhaps together we’ll make sense of it all. because we let’s face it, God or whatever deity/force/science whatever the fuck placed us all here, on this big blue planet and I am pretty sure we are doomed to never discover and are destined to forge and form our own beliefs, yet again, trying to answer the BIG questions. Till then, I suppose the human race is going to argue over who is right and who is wrong…

When truly, if we are brutally honest and really examined everything in detail and scrutiny, none of us really has a fucking clue, BUT with that being said, faith is still one of the most important things of the unrepeatable experience called life.  It is one great paradox.    

I may never find the answer to the biggest mystery ever presented to us, maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but I know this much, I know I have discovered the true reason why I write.

In addition, I have come to one other conclusion, and it is this: if we as a human race or even as individuals could cast our egos to one side and leave them there forever, with the anger. The hate and let’s face it, the cruelty we impose upon each other that we could progress ever closer to that one little thing that unites all…

Until then, if you see this blog posted up, you can take safe knowledge (if you’re not too pissed off with me, faith, religion, etc. are prickly subjects at best…) that I am alive and well, and keeping you all close to my thoughts and my heart, where you belong. Just one more thing…for fuck’s sake, love each and every day, live it to the fullest, even if it is a Monday, you never know… until then, take from this what you will and just remember that I am merely human and I need to make life into something I can understand, in my own way. I’d like to thank those men and women who saved my life, my family as well both parties, which put up with my insane fear of needles, bad jokes, and sometime outbursts of rage. But remember if there was rage, it was because I was raging against the dying of the light and I refuse to go gently into that good night, forgive me and thank you for being there.

I love you all.

R.D.T

 

 

Controversy vs. the people

Controversy vs. the people

(In three parts)

Part one; the fictionalisation of a true event

The cast;

A. Professional

E.A.

Random Replier

Judge Causal observer

N.P. (otherwise known as nonprofessional)

 

We sit in a nondescript room from the comfort of our glowing screens as a jury of observers, not by obligation, but by choice. In the same manner that we pass a motor accident, we see the carnage and we know we should pass on by, but a part of us feels compelled to observe the unfolding drama and even though it lacks finesse, it is a fine drama indeed…

(The spectacle is in full swing, years in fact have passed since the first fateful words had passed and still the fires of hate and discussion burn.)

Judge Causal Observer: Do you believe that this how a professional should act Mr Nonprofessional?

N.P. turns to face Judge Causal Observer with his head cocked upwards and a smug grin upon his features.

N.P: I write better than the literary greats! In fact, I am the best writer alive! My track record is proof by my appearances on various websites and even in magazines! I write the sickest stuff around and it is damn fine.

Judge casual observer: That doesn’t answer my question…

E.A.: For the record, that is not what is on trial here. I’d like to know why you act in the way that you do. Why the hate? Why the compulsive need to hurt everyone? You’re meant to be a professional after all. Please, for your own sake, act like one.

N.P: F**k you. Go F**k a giraffe you feminazi! I’ve seen you on the social networks talking about me. So what if I hate gays, you’re a woman, you don’t matter.

(E.A. sighs, and yet, remains calm.)

E.A.: There really is no need for that is there? Why did you feel the need to be so rude to other professionals, such as A. Professional ? All he tried to do was help point you in the right direction.

(With a flourish that would shame an illusionist, he appears from thin air)

A. Professional; Someone mention my name? Sorry, I was reading this letter from the Devil; apparently, my stories are scaring him too much before his bedtime…

(A. Professional turns his head and notices N.P.)

A. Professional: Ah, it is you…

N.P; what ‘sup pro.

A. Professional : I’ve said before; let’s keep it formal shall we? If I have tried to teach you anything, acting professional should be top of your list. I am beginning to tire of this…

Random Replier: Dear me. Nonprofessional…please show some respect. It’s bad enough we have to listen to your hate.

N.P: Well, f**k you an’ all. You don’t have to listen do you? Why don’t ya turn ya prissy little ears away if I’m too real for ya and Pro, you’re a good writer but you’ve got leave me alone with my talent. Stop being a critic.

Random Replier: Has anyone ever told you that you sound just like Daffy Duck…?

(Before Mr Nonprofessional can reply, A. Professional interjects)

A. Professional: T’waddle, ‘tis that all you ever speak?

N.P: Did you just call me a tw*t?

(Shaking his head in dismay, A. Professional pauses before replying)

A. Professional: No. Not at all, you seem to be suffering from an acute case of selective hearing…

End of part one.

Part two; a nugget of fact

Sadly, here is what really happened (read the comments, there is where the juice is)…just click on the link and then return for the third and final part: my thoughts on this

Link; http://unclefossil.wordpress.com/2013/08/09/those-of-you-badmouthing-my-submission-calls/

Part three: my opinion.

The whole point of this blog post is about acting like a professional and how not to act. You see, we write and it is damn hard work and there is even more struggle after the book is written when we seek exposure and how we seek it. It could be said by writing this is under minding my entire argument about professionalism, but I hope the means justifies the end, if it does, then great. If not, then I am sorry. I tried to make the publishing world a little better and failed, but in my defence, I tried to do some good at least.

Being or acting controversial may work for the likes of Eminem and Taylor Monson, but for writers it just does not pay. In fact, it is more than likely publishers will tend to treat you with a barge pole…

There is a code of conduct we should all follow (mostly common sense) but maybe there should be a written source for those who do not and perhaps one day, those Mr Nonprofessional’s will learn from it. Here is a few things to bear in mind and I hope you’ll agree with me when I say this is how we should be.

Humble: No one likes an ego monster.
Respectful: as it is only right that we should, even if we disagree with our peers and contemporaries, we should remain so.
Students, never teachers: our art is a constant flow of learning; we should not poison it by assuming we are the best that has ever put pen to paper. (Only Dickens and Shakespeare etc. can say that)

I hope by reading this we can all learn a little something. Perhaps someday (in an ideal world) we will all treat each other right and respect one and other regardless of sexuality, colour, or creed. Beneath it all, strip away the ego, the hate, we are all human, and we all deserve to be loved regardless. Beneath it all, we are all dreamers chasing the end of the rainbow; let’s not make it harder than it already is.

Love and peace,

R.D. TEUN

Blood in the water…

 

When we write anything whether it is a blog, a short story, or even a novel, we run a risk at every step once we send it out into the big wide world. Once out in those choppy waters, out in the middle of the oceans of the internet, the sharks circle and swim. Even if you are fortunate enough to avoid the sharks you also have pirates to contend with, (we’ll come to that later). Let’s stick with the sharks for now. So you have written your story, gotten that dreaded editing out of the way and now you feel confident enough to post it off to a publisher. First, congrats on actually completing a novel in the first place, this is no easy task when you consider most just think about it and never actually finish or even begin. So kudos. Now, there are more than just sneaky publishers that stab you in the back quicker than a senate for Julius Caesar, not trying to put you off, just saying please be wary of those ‘over friendly’ publishers. There are many other warning signs, but too many to note here. The best way to find out anything about a publisher is to do your homework, find the ones that act professional and that do not allow personal life to spill over into their professional lives, also stay away from feuding publishers. This only indicates a total lack of professionalism. Agents, the same pretty much goes for them. I’d highly recommend you pick up a copy of the writers and artist’s yearbook for information that you are not so sure about. Then we come those more insidious forms of writers: the plagiarists. There is a fine line between an homage and a blatant rip off. Now, this is a very grey area. An idea cannot be copyrighted, but the way it is expressed can be. Remember that for future reference, it goes much deeper than that, but I find it’s a good guideline to follow. Please bear in mind that I am

(1)   Not a lawyer nor am I a legal expert.

(2)    Too lazy to go into this in great depth and in today’s world some information is taken as gospel.

(3)   Just a very helpful chap who is trying to help.

And always, always, try your upmost to seek permission to use anything and keep records of your efforts if it ever (lord forbid) comes to bite you in the arse.

All that pretty much can be applied to the sharks, all we can do is remain as professionals and this does not mean that even if we are a self-published, published by a small publisher or otherwise that we should act any different from those at the very top of the food chain. I hear you say, “I am professional!” now, I’m not saying that you’re not, just that I have seen a lot of it in the past. Hell, this even goes with bloggers, interviewers and in fact anyone who deals in the written word, paid or unpaid, the same rules apply.

SHIVER ME TIMBERS!

Now onto the pirates….what can we do about them?

Short answer – nothing.

It sounds harsh as hell right. It is. The truth of the matter that for every one that is taken down, another ship load (yes, I kept it clean) of them will soon take their place. It has happened to me, my work has appeared on a few of those dastardly sites and when it first happened, I hit the roof! I went on a witch-hunt! Baying dogs, going in mob handed and burning torches an all! Imagine my reaction when I found a group on a certain social networking site that even went to lengths to celebrate their ill-gotten gains and even directed each other to sites of the ilk. Let’s just say I turned the air bluer than any sky found above. Yet, I found all that effort was in vain. I just had to deal with it…that was until someone gave me some comfort in this simple phrase “At least you’re popular enough to be pirated” and with that, I must say my ego was boosted. I walked away a much happier man. By the way…one more thing…if you ever publish anything onto the internet that is purely yours, remember to place the © sign, your name and the year after the piece. It’s just one more little way we can protect what is ours. Thus ending this very short edition of this blog. Remember, show no weakness and try not to let any blood drip into the water…they can smell it from miles away. Aside from that, the writing world is a very rewarding but tough one. So do not let this put you off, its intention is just a reminder to remain vigilant.

Paper sky…

So in lieu of a rant/blog I thought I would show you the first chapter from a novella I am working on at the moment. Little excerpts have been seen before on my Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/R.D.TEUN) before now but never before has this particular version been online…so please enjoy… (Not for the easily offended)

PAPER SKY

Chapter one; Laments

“Take the pills.”

“No.”

“Look, this way we can go… peacefully…in our sleep.”

“No!”

“Please. I’m begging you.”

Kevin felt the clutches of his father’s embrace for the first time since he was a child. He returned the hug and held it for as long as his heart would allow. The end of all times had fallen upon them as difficult as it was to imagine them experiencing what they had only seen in Hollywood blockbusters. They first learned of the news from a bewildered newsreader whose words came out in choked sobs. It was the world’s first televised suicide as the moment the newsreader finished his report. He took a gun from beneath his desk and placed it under his jaw. He muttered prayers between quickening breaths and chocked sobs. He knew it was coming, with the right ear placed to the ground a man could hear things coming from miles away but this was far from a secret. The warning signs had been there, but as with disasters, it happened to other people. Always. Meteorites struck Russia, India, & Japan obliterating them into dust but never did Kevin and his family never thought it would hit them nor did James Cartwright. Most of the studio had already abandoned the studio to be with their families. James Cartwright the anchorman of thirty years’ service to the channel six station had no family to go home too. Nor did what remained of the skeleton crew making this last broadcast. They were a ragtag family of lost souls clinging to each other for comfort.

James considered this his last noble act. He had covered every major tragedy and every errant step of the country and the rest of the world. He did so over the past thirty years with empathy but at the back of his mind in a place he could never vocalize, he was glad to be away from the ugliness. The times he had covered the news on location in foreign countries, stepping over bloodstained sheets covering bodies, bullets, and hungry children. All because someone had the fucking temerity to draw a line in the sand and say that, it was theirs and theirs alone. Woes betide that another human being from a diverse culture or different shade of skin that crosses that border. Each one taking land no one had a right to. Bloodshed passed down from one generation to the next, just hate bred with abhorrence and the original cause forgotten. He was glad to be away from the futile efforts to help dig a country out of its hell, donating money that the needy would never see; instead, it went to the occupying warlord’s coffers and his rebel army. He decided that he was going to run the fucking show with brute force, starvation, and rape. All control with violence and fear, fuck the hungry, without food they would lack the energy to fight back. It all boiled down to power that meant nothing once the end came. How one person could do this to another was beyond James’s comprehension. Even away from the global stage, upon the doorstep where he lived, he had witnessed the same in the streets and in the cities that he loved. This supposed civilized western world. The race riots, the gangs and in the corruption that lay within the forces that were meant to protect. In the end, we were all flesh and bone. What defined us was not the skin we wore but the actions that burned within. The quicker they realized that, the better the world would have been. Perhaps humanity had grown cancerous to a point where a small incision would no longer do. He would greet the darkness with open arms and peace in his heart.

Fuck it. Thought James. It was too late for them now anyway.  At least in death, everyone was equal…

Click.

Bang.

Thud.

His suffering ended.

Silence.

Moments later came the panicked screams of the studio team cutting through the deafening silence and echoing into every living room in the country as the camera rolled and the world ran awry. At that moment, Kevin’s father decided to end it all in the most peaceful way he knew and he thanked his lucky stars that his adult years were plagued by stolen nights of restless sleep. He had left the living room, upstairs to the bathroom and back down again where Kevin was waiting for him. There he had conspired to give his family peace.

“Please?” His father asked once more. His eyes as raw as open wounds.

“Okay.” Whispered Kevin.

Kevin had never seen his father break down before but then he had never been a part of the unthinkable either. He looked to his right a little further down the hallway, the world beyond lay in wait. Just beyond the door with what little time, it had left beckoning him with promises of becoming the master of his own destiny. His father had chosen the way he had lived for the past seventeen years, so why could he not choose the way he died?  So much that he still wanted to do with the time that he had left. He was under no illusions of seeing the world or much beyond the next town. Yet there was still so much here, so much to say and so many things he needed to do with the motivation that the dread had given him. It was amazing how the mind and body reacted once it knew the light was fading away forever. Kevin followed his father into the living room where his mother sat rocking back and forth gently with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms cradling them together. His mother’s eyes glazed over and wide. The woman who once had an answer for everything said nothing. His father sat a seat away from his mother, leaving a place for Kevin in between them both. Kevin wiped his clammy palms down the sides of his trousers and seated himself between them both. Nestled deeply between his parents, his mind drifted like a ship lost at sea with no lighthouse for guidance to safer shores. As each continent of solid thought that came into view, Kevin found his attention pulled away by the currents of confusion into the opposite direction to another part of his mind. From anger to melancholy, he drifted. From madness to sanity. Something brushed past his wrist and then sat idle upon the inside of his palm. Breaking him from his wavering thoughts.

“We love you Kevin. We always have done and we always will.” His father said as he let the pills slip into his son’s trembling palm as he looked away into the distance. Kevin watched his father’s shoulders convulse.

Kevin knew the words to be true; there was a strange tone in his father’s voice. He was a man known for keeping his own counsel and emotions under lock and key, many wandered if he had lost the key and if he had, it was lost a long time ago. Kevin’s father had everything in place ready for their final moments before the final curtain was drawn. Kevin tilted his head upward.

“I thought suicide was a sin?”

“When I was a boy I believed it, I was taught that god had created a paradise. If he had…why would he let this happen? Why destroy your greatest creation?”

There was an answer in the world somewhere, but it was not going to come to Kevin’s lips. Not today, even if the world continued without incident, the answer would not come to him in his lifetime.

Kevin’s father drew his wife closer, she resisted at first. With a few gentle tugs, she came loose and entered into the fold of his embrace. He whispered something into her ear, something Kevin did not catch or even wanted to hear. He assured himself that they were words only shared between sorrowful lovers sharing those last moments they thought would never come. Not like this. They always assumed the end would be in the warmth of their bed hand in hand after a lifetime’s journey that is the unrepeatable human experience. Kevin felt the embrace of his family for the last time, the beating of their hearts and the warmth of their bodies would be a lasting memory despite the fleeting time of the world. Kevin’s father shifted up the chair.

“Thank you. I love you both.”

Kevin heard a kiss and then felt one placed upon his head.  Words became inadequate, no matter how eloquent or profound. His words as simple as they were. It was all that needed saying. Kevin felt the stare of his father boring into him making sure he had taken his pills. Kevin hesitated. His hand hovered before his mouth but not taking that final step. Kevin felt a gentle nudge from his father, the incentive into oblivion. Kevin slipped the pills beneath his tongue and with the utmost care. He held them in place.

He fought the urge to swallow, his conscience at odds. The bitter taste bubbled in his mouth as they began to dissolve away.

Should he swallow?

It would be easier that way. However, that would take away his choice. His last moments of independent thought and his last desperate shot at Heather Grace. The same girl he had been in love with since he was able to understand the notion. She never noticed him, well not since she blossomed into womanhood, and became popular within the eyes of their peers. As much as she changed to the rest of the world Kevin still saw the same girl he knew and had always known but he became as featureless as the wind that blew through the halls of their lives of every day. He mattered to her once. Before the social divider known to part friends and unite enemies in a common cause parted their ways. High school was the great architect that manipulated the lives of so many without the concern of consequence. Not that it mattered now, with the walls been torn down, and the playing field leveled. Kevin nestled himself deeper into his father’s sweating armpit and cranked out the pills with his tongue one by one into the nearest crevice of the sofa. From the corner of his eye, he took one last look at his mother. Her breaths had slowed as though she had already fallen deep into the clutches of the long slumber. She was slipping away and fast fading away from the light. Kevin did not need to hear a goodbye or a love you, he knew everything he needed to know.

Kevin reached over, took hold of her wrist, and held his ear placed tightly against his father’s chest. Soon the minutes passed in silence, the bubble they had enclosed themselves in was impenetrable from the outside world. The beats of the heart thumping against his ear and the pulses he felt beneath his fingers slowed and slower still. The sense of despair spread its tendrils from its cold roots in the base of his gut, upwards through his veins, and through every nerve ending in his body. The pulsations and rhythms slowed.

Slower.

Slower still. Until he could no longer feel the pulses of his mother’s veins beneath his fingertips and the beats of his father’s heart stopped beating a tattoo into his ear, it was an absolute silence of the body. Everything had simply ceased.

“Wake up. Wake up. Mum…dad?” Kevin shook them gently. He paused. He shook them harder by the shoulders as though they could wake and everything would be all right. It was too late. A wave of numbness washed over him, so cold and dark he felt as though he was going to drown.

Was this really happening? Was it?

His mind screamed no.

It was all just a terrible nightmare.

Wasn’t it…?

Kevin sat in stillness and silence, only the clocks within the house ticked and tocked. They no longer told time. They became death clocks in Kevin’s mind, counting away the seconds and moments with a cruel indifference. What other use would they have now? Kevin prepared himself the best he could. No matter how much he tried to make sense of it all, the more it drifted away from his grasp. He held them for a few moments, whispering his goodbyes in chocked sobs and begging for their forgiveness. He ran his hand through his father’s tousled hair and hugged him, the bristles of his father’s cheek rubbed against his. His father never will teach him how to shave now. No beer to share as his father would greet him to manhood. All rites of passage closed off as though a broken road. He reached over to his mother and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. A whisper at the back of his mind refused to let go but he had to. He had given them the illusion of the perfect final moment and stole it from them of it in the last seconds of the departing embrace. Nothing felt real, the rousing nightmare he could awake from, the sudden realization of being an orphan in the dying world struck him with a sledgehammer blow to the heart. He reached over and picked up an old photograph of the three of them together, all smiles, and sunshine.

Kevin raised the frame and smashed against the corner of table, tilting his head to one side as he did as the glass exploded and the wood splintered. Sifting through the splinters of the frame, he plucked the picture out, looked at it for a few moments as echoes of memories came to him. Swiftly followed by painful regrets. If only he had given them a bit more of his time, just shared more of his interests with them instead of leading his own private life in the pursuit of discovering what made him and who he was.

At least this way he could carry them with him wherever his journey took him. This way, in a strange sense he could die with them close to his heart as originally planned. Kevin felt his gut grow cold with rage, his face flush with warmth. He cursed the newsreader under his breath. It was his fault. He spilt his guts. He killed his parents with his confession.

Why couldn’t have he just kept his mouth shut? It was better to die in ignorance.

For a grim passing moment he wished he were the one who pulled the trigger beneath the newsreaders jaw. Stuffing the photograph into his pocket Kevin made his way to the outside world. He did not look back. Let the dead have their peace. It was a strange sensation knowing that he was about to close the door to his home for what would be perhaps the very last time. Walking away from everything, he had ever known and loved. His heart had come from a slow steady beat to a thundering pace; he could feel it pounding away in his rib cage as though it was trying to break free from its cage of blood and bone. He stopped before with his hand lingering on the door handle. He gripped it tight until his knuckles grew white. His feet refused to cross over the threshold. The sudden freedom scared him, so much more than the impending shadow of death. That was out of his hands, a grim destiny. He knew his time was short, reports had just said the world was ending, but when? They never mentioned when. It was a teasing riddle of self-aware mortality; people knew the darkness awaited for them…when would the lights go away forever? Hidden away and out of mind yet it hung above like a pendulous blade. Kevin was living the remainder of his life through an hourglass of shifting sands. He cursed the memory of the newsreader once again. It was better to be ignorant of his fate than to know. It was just another piece of his providence he could not change. There was a silver lining to this the darkest of clouds. Armed with this knowledge he could achieve, he could fulfill. Kevin’s tumultuous thought process led him to want to live more in these final hours not than he had in his entire lifetime. It was liberating, his only regret was not having the courage of conviction to enact this before. Kevin looked up into the darkness. By the curdled gleam of the moon, all was quiet.

A prosaic night of stars. He could remember what his father used to tell him about the skies as they sat outside the house as his father smoked. He would point upwards and call it the paper sky. A giant canvas where god would paint the next day during the night before and the night during the passing day. Each one different and never once repeated. Since the first sky was painted, man had tried to change his surroundings in an effort to understand the world. Some dark and atmospheric and others bright and full of promise. Each one painted in the hopes that they would catch the eyes of his creations or for those below, they hoped they would catch the gaze of god and then maybe he would give the world an answer.

Everything was different now.

Kevin took in a deep lungful of air. It felt good, better than it had ever had before. Fresh, clean. As he passed down his street, he witnessed his neighbors.  It was a carnival of lost inhabitations.  Kevin could only nervously chuckle to himself as his neighbors reveled in their newfound freedom. Some danced in the street as they celebrated the history of humanity. Others jumped into their cars speeding off into the night to seek their last adventure. Not every neighbor joined in the festivities. Choosing to close the curtains and stoop into a pool of their own sentiment, the attitude shared between his parents.

Even the staunchest atheist dropped to his knees, prayed, and begged for forgiveness. Others ran towards the local church, professed their new found love for god, and prayed for forgiveness. Some cursed the heavens. Kevin stopped in his tracks as a large man came skipping towards him. His gut jutted and wobbled as each foot rose and fell, sweat clung to the follicles of his chest hair. A wide smile spread across his ruddy cheeks. His eyes met with Kevin’s gaze. Above them, the streetlamps flickered in a constant ebb and flow of light. Kevin recoiled at first, the sight of this man, shirtless and skipping was absurd. The man drew closer until he was in front of Kevin. He took a step back as the man grinned at him like a loon.

Kevin recoiled further.

“I’m gay! What a wonderful feeling it is to say that! Forty years I have kept my real self, the real me locked away.” The man reached out, took Kevin by the hands, and swung him round in a short waltz, his eyes wide and happy with tinges of regret hiding behind the joy. It was a bittersweet moment for him.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be free of a living lie! Free!” the man said as he cocked his head towards the heavens. His grip slipped from Kevin’s hands, the waltz halted and the man dropped to his knees, his arms reached for the sky.

“You hear that world? I’m fucking gay!” he screamed to the starlit sky. “I’m proud to be queer!”

For him it was the hammer blow to every snide remark. For every inch, he had to suffer at the hands of denial and at the hands of his tormentors. If the world would not accept him now, then fuck it and them, he was reclaiming what was his. They would not take any more from him. The world was upon its last chapter anyway. He felt complete for the very first time since he was aware that he was different from his friends. He no longer felt lost. His heart rejoiced.

 Kevin smiled; the man’s joy was infectious.

The man turned his attention turned back to Kevin, his smile less jubilant

 “How about you? Are you…”

“No. I’m not gay.”

 “No, no, no. I don’t mean that.” The man chuckled before continuing. What about you, what are you going to do, confess your real self to the world? What is it you’re looking for?”

Kevin gave an honest smile. It was the hour of truth without consequence, so why not spill the soul of its contents.

 “Love” Kevin said simply.

 Overjoyed the man sprung from his knees and onto his feet, his arms wrapped around Kevin and bear hugged him.

“Me too…I need a love I have never had but always wanted. This is it though. The time is now. If we don’t do it now, we never will!”

Kevin felt the swell of the man’s gut peel away from his own as the man held him at arm’s length.

 “Go on then. Go, go find the one who makes you happiest!”

 The man hugged Kevin once more, whispered thank you and skipped down the street proclaiming his revelation.

 “I’m Melvin Lander and I’m gay!”

 Kevin watched on in wonderment as the man continued to skip and grab every person he passed within arm’s length, waltzing with them for a round or two before continuing onto the next. Kevin was about to turn and continue on his journey before he caught a last glimpse of Melvin taking hold of another man, waltzing around before they hugged. The embrace lingered as they spoke, their gaze deepened before their faces drew closer to each other for an inevitable kiss. Kevin turned away leaving them in privacy to their beautiful moment of the first and last experience. It occurred to Kevin that even in the darkest of days, the bleakest of hours that love and true happiness awaiting discovery as it nestled deeply in the black heart of fear.

©r.d.teun 2013

So you want to be a writer…?

“Andy Dufresne, the man who crawled through 500 yards of shit and came out clean the other end.” – Ellis Boy “Red” Redding

So if you want to write a book there are a few things to remember, including crawling through the mires of rejection letters, lack of faith from others and more dangerously; self – doubt.

I’m not trying to put you off (promise) remember that there is a light at the end of the tunnel for those that can withstand the stenches that will drift beneath your nose from time to time, some more often than others. Now, I’m going to sit down and share some of the knowledge I have gained from my time upon the writing scene. Granted, not been around too long (a few years) but I’ve around long enough to make some keen observations that I hope you can take something from. Let’s assume you have your idea, you’ve began to put pen to paper…but you feel a little lost…you may have family and friends that doubt you. Fine. Because, the one thing you will need more than anything is a tough hide and I mean damn near impenetrable. You will also need a ‘fuck you’ attitude.  That sounds harsh doesn’t it? At the end of the day, you may only live once. It’s your dream, and if you don’t pursue it, you may regret it later. Many will try to put a wet blanket over the burning passion of your dreams but there are writers out there who will help you but remember from time to time that they may need your help, so help each other! Here is an excellent group for just the thing; http://www.facebook.com/groups/BooksUntamed

Now onto publishers…which way do you want to express your ideas? Do you want to self-publish? Go through a small publisher or go for one of the bigger houses? Now each of these has major pros and cons…too many to go into detail here but we can touch upon them.

Self-publishing : some love the thrill of going it alone, having a hand in every step of the process. Rewarding but very, very hard work.

Small publisher:  Often owned/ran by a writer and reaching a wide audience can be difficult. On the plus side, they are more interested in you as a person/writer and do not treat you as a cash cow. However, word of warning: There is a small minority, that are slick conmen and very unethical. Watch out for the ones that are always saying you are the greatest writer that ever lived and that are too eager to accept your work.

The large publisher: Hard to get into, require an agent a great deal of the time (which can be difficult in itself.) they also work to formulas that they look for in novels I.E. certain criteria that the book must meet, be it a budding romance in a horror tale and so forth.

On the plus side, you get into these guys. You get an advance (something you don’t get with a small publisher) and very decent exposure.

Then finally, it comes to you and here is some tough love that you need to take on board as a writer (and some seasoned ones could benefit from this)

DROP THE EGO!

Unless you are Stephen King or James Patterson, you have no right to tell a publisher what’s what. All publishers (so I hear, I could be wrong) have a blacklist of writers that no one will deal with. On the flip side of this, publishers worth their salt will treat you with respect but there are others, which will treat their writers like crap with the mantra; there’s always more where they come from…watch out for them, choose wisely.

After all, one cannot live without the other…

Also, don’t be a needy writer bugging them every ten minutes about your baby. Don’t worry it’s in safe hands and a publisher does not have any desire to babysit you (honestly would you want to when you are so incredibly busy?)

Do you want to be a writer still? Yes. Good.  If you ever want more advice or just need to reach those from all walks of the publishing industry just drop me a line at; https://www.facebook.com/R.D.TEUN

When I think back to when I wanted to be a writer to where I am now I think of this every time…

  “I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more grey.”  - Ellis Boy “Red” Redding

Don’t be confined to a cage, spread the wings of your expression and be free. You can do it, I believe in you. I hope you have enjoyed this post and I hope to see you again.