David R. Michael's Blog, page 49

Writing Progress Report

 
Writing progress report for the week starting Monday, September 27, 2010.
 








Writing Project


Words




Monday


"Insanity" brainstorming.







Tuesday


"Insanity" brainstorming.
Edited "Baptism".







Wednesday


"Insanity"


1555




Thursday


"Insanity"


394




Friday


"Insanity" (first draft completed)


1207




Saturday


Edited "The Puppets Take a Bath".
Edited "Serene Morning".
Edited "Like a Ghost".
Edited "A Bedtime Story".
Edited "The Dragon Hunts".
Edited "Trikes and Aliens".







Sunday


Edited "The Puppets Take a Bath".

















Total








 








Marketing/Submission




Monday


Posted "Nostalgia Part 2″ to Guns & Magic.




Tuesday


Announced the release of The Summoning Fire on Guns & Magic, Facebook, and Kindle Boards.
Posted Nasty, Brutish & Short Short to Amazon DTP.
Posted Nasty, Brutish & Short Short to Smashwords.
Sent "Baptism" to first readers.




Wednesday


Sent a review copy (.mobi) of The Summoning Fire to candysraves.com (accepted for review).
Sent a review copy (.pdf) of The Summoning Fire to redadeptreviews.com.




Thursday


Announced the release of Nasty, Brutish & Short Short to Guns & Magic, Facebook, and Kindle Boards.




Friday


Sent a review request for The Summoning Fire to E-Finds.
Sent a review request for The Summoning Fire to Motherload (Gracekrispy) (accepted for review).
Announced The Summoning Fire and Nasty, Brutish & Short Short on mobilereads.




Saturday





Sunday





 
Reading List

The Translated Man by Chris Braak.
Wizard in Waiting by Mark Fassett.

 

For Those of You New to Indie Web-Based Retail…

 
…I would like to share a few bits of my experience. I've learned these lessons from 14 years of selling indie software and video games. From what I've seen, so far, they apply to indie fiction, as well.
 
1. Outdoor Holidays are Not Your Friend – "Outdoor Holidays" is my name for such (USA) holidays as the 4th of July, Memorial Day and Labor Day. These are holidays where people are much more likely to be outside having fun than they are to be inside browsing the Web or checking FB or anything else that requires more thought than a beer and a burger.
 
2. Conversely, Indoor Holidays are Your BFF's – "Indoor Holidays", however, are the best thing since…well…the Web. On holidays like New Years Day (not New Years Eve, that qualifies as an Outdoor Holiday), Xmas, and most of the summer vacation, though, people are indoors. And usually bored and looking for something to entertain them.
 
3. Welcome to the Fall Meltdown – The Fall Meltdown starts with the opening of public schools in mid- to late-August and runs through the end of September. A lot of retail businesses suffer in this stretch between "Back to School" and "Oh, look, the Xmas decorations are out already."
 
4. Every Day Starts from $0 – No matter how good yesterday was, today starts from $0. And today can, and will, take all 24 hours to go from $0 to some other, more useful number. Some days, you see great sales right at the starting gun on midnight–and then nothing the rest of the day. Some days are the polar opposite. Some days will be incredible. Some days will send you into fits of depression. The best way around the manic-depressive emotional swings is to limit how often you check. And keep a larger perspective, like the sales for the last 7 days or the last 30 days. There's less extreme variation in those figures.
 
Have one of your own? Does it have a pithy, slogan-like sound to it? Feel free to share it in the comments.
 
-David
 

Yeah, What She Said…

 
Fellow indie Mark Fassett pointed me to Zoe Winter's latest blog post:
I Want to Read a Zoe Winters Book
 
Ms. Winter's post is somewhat complementary to my post from yesterday:
What I Need are … Readers
 
From her post:
 
Indie authors have to learn to build demand and interest in their name and the books they specifically are offering. We would do well to figure out ways to reach our intended demographic without relying solely on price. Price is a crutch, and it's becoming less effective. So if you don't figure out how to get your NAME to be what's in demand with readers, it won't matter what you price it. You're screwed. There are just too many other people doing this shit now. You have to differentiate yourself somehow to rise above the noise. 99 cents has become "just more noise."
 
Click here to read the whole post. (If you didn't do that earlier, above.)
 
-David
 

I Think Too Much…

 
…about what kind of fiction I write. Do I write horror? Do I write slipstream or magical realism? Do I write contemporary fantasy? Do I write science fiction? To which the answer is… Yes. All of those.
 
…about whether I write "enough".
 
…about marketing and sales. Is the cover good (so far, the answer has always been "Yes"; my covers aren't my problem)? Are the short descriptions compelling? Why aren't I selling more? Should I concentrate on only writing in one genre or style? To which the answer is… Take a deep breath and calm down. I've only been in the ebook market for not even 2 weeks now.
 
…about whether I will have time to do what I need to do each day: writing, marketing, customer support for The Journal, new development for The Journal, family time. How many hours are there in the day?
 
…about almost everything else. I can and will chase a thought round and round in my brain.
 
OK. Calming down now. Some.
 
-David
 

What I Need are … Readers

 
WARNING: This post contains crass commercial stream-of-consciousness and cynical profiteering ponderings. And some strong language. I leave it to you to decide which is more offensive.
 
What I need are … readers.
 
Which has a certain Duh Factor to it.
 
Without readers, this whole blog and ebook thing is largely wasted. Sure, I get some benefit (kinda like masturbation), but it's a hollow, limited benefit (kinda like masturbation).
 
Readers should be the focus of my marketing efforts.
 
A question I face, though, is do I focus on Readers Uber Alles? That is, do I focus on the acquisition of eyeballs first and foremost, and let the revenue take care of itself?
 
There's a temptation to do exactly that. Give away the ebooks. Do lots of deep discount sales. Do whatever it takes to create a volume of sales–even if the "sales" aren't really, you know, sales because you gave the product away or took a loss getting the ebook to the reader.
 
But that flies in the face of the Lessons of the Dot Com Bust:

Eyeballs are important, but …
Revenue is more important than eyeballs, but even then …
Profit is more important than revenue.

 
Which means I need to find ways to turn a profit from revenue generated by attracting readers. By which I mean: a profit for me and not Google Ad Sense. I hate ads.
 
Unless … and this is a thought related to something I wrote on Joe Indie yesterday … unless the real point of this blog and my ebooks is to sell copies of The Journal. (I'm not saying that selling The Journal is the real point, only "what if …")
 
If that is the case, then there is less of an emphasis on revenue and profit from the blog and ebooks and more of an emphasis on converting blog and ebook readers into buyers of The Journal. Which removes the pressure from the blog and ebooks to show a profit–except it then ads the need to convert readers to software users. And that emphasis on conversion would cause a change in the content of the blog and ebooks. In other words, I'd stop writing stories and start writing ad copy.
 
I hate writing ad copy. So fuck that.
 
Which means that the blogs and ebooks will remain my particular strain of fiction (however it's defined), and that I will probably continue with my current pricing scheme for ebooks.
 
Offering free or heavily discounted ebooks, BTW, only works if people notice. Which again requires readers. It's OK to do these things, but pointless to do them in a vacuum.
 
Readers are the key. An audience. People who actually care enough about what you have to say to offer you a bit of their limited finances in return.
 
What I need are … readers.
 
Duh.
 
Except that "readers" is too general a term. There are billions of readers in the world. What I need to do–what I must do–is narrow down the huge ocean of "all readers in the world" into that lake (or sea) of readers who would actually like what I write.
 
And then figure out how to get their attention.
 
-David
 

Nasty, Brutish & Short Short – Now Available

A collection of violent horror flash fiction and short short stories by David Michael.
 
The Call of the Hunter Moon – Violence is easy. You just let go. Your hands become claws for ripping. Your teeth bare, you snap, you grab, you tear. You smell the fear, savor the screams, taste the blood…
 
Tucker – When I arrived, the boy stood there surveying the chaos he had wrought, gloating over it all–except for her. He wouldn't look at her. She knelt by the body she had once inhabited, her physical face now unrecognizable in the gore…
 
Crowfeeder – At our arrival, the closest of the black carrion birds startled. A ripple like a wave in a black ocean flowed across the field as the birds flapped into the air, reconsidered once they saw how few we were, and settled back to continue gorging…
 
And 10 more!
 




Nasty, Brutish & Short Short Edition


Price




Kindle edition (Amazon)


$0.99




Ebook (Smashwords)


$0.99




 
Cover painting, Ornery Streak, and layout by Don Michael, Jr.
 

The Summoning Fire – Now Available

 

Welcome to Hell on Earth!
 
All Reese Howard has left is pain. Pain and a pump-action shotgun.
 
The Old Man killed Reese's lover right in front of her, a blood sacrifice for whatever twisted powerplay he has in mind. She hopes the Old Man made a mistake, leaving her alive and armed. But she doubts it.
 
He knows she's coming. The bastard has to know.
 
Whatever the Old Man knows or doesn't know, Reese plans to make him pay.
 
And she plans to die trying.
 
 
 
 
 
The Summoning Fire
 
Now available in trade paperback and ebook!
 




The Summoning Fire Edition


Price




Trade paperback (Amazon)


$9.99




Kindle edition (Amazon)


$3.99




Ebook (Smashwords)


$3.99




 
Cover painting, End of Days, and layout by Don Michael, Jr.
 

A Story in "Zombiepalooza"

 
I was told today that my story, "Until Death Do Us Part", will be in this year's month-long celebration of zombies, "Zombiepalooza". Zombiepalooza will run the entire month of October, and will be hosted by Amanda Hocking, on her blog, My Blood Approves. "Until Death Do Us Part" is scheduled to appear on 24 October.
 

 
More news (and links) as I get them.
 
-David
 

Nostalgia (Part 2 of 2)

 
by David Michael
 
NOTE: Part 1 of "Nostalgia" was posted on Monday, 20 September, 2010.
 
4
 
Sharon held Finn's hand as they stood there, her looking at the spinning carousel with its stampede of carved horses leading an improbable parade of other animals–giraffes and leopards and roosters and dolphins–and him looking at her. Other people passing by, she noticed, looked at the two of them, and she wondered how much she had ruined her makeup. Did she look like a melting racoon? Or a weepy Goth chick? Some of the passers-by threw dark looks at Finn, as if he must have done something truly awful to make her cry like that.
 
Those were only her surface thoughts, though, as most of her was concentrated on Her Horse. Her Black Stallion. With his silver mane, and white and silver saddle and tack. With his legs before and after stretched out in mid-gallop. She had picked him when she was five, because he seemed to be racing. Unlike so many of the other horses and animals, he looked straight ahead. He had no time for prancing ponies, nor the people standing beside the carousel. He had somewhere to be, and he was going there. He had a race to win, and he was running it. But, if you were going his way, he would take you with him.
 
If she had to, little Shari waited in line until she could claim Her Horse. She wouldn't ride any other horse or any other animal. Only Her Black Stallion would do.
 
The first time she had come to the fair after Daddy's death, two years after their last ride together, she had been dragged to the carousel, because Mom had insisted that Randal–or was it Steve? probably not Tod, but she wasn't sure any more–take her there and make her ride.
 
"You simply must take her to the merry-go-round," Mom told Randal-or-Steve before they left for the fair, ignoring Shari's betrayed look. "She just loves the black horse. It's her favorite."
 
Steve-or-Randal had dragged her to the carousel, and refused to listen when she said she didn't want to ride. "Just get on, will you?" he said, pushing her forward. "I'll wait for you over by the exit."


Not wanting Randal-or-Tod angry at her–he had already spanked her once that week, while Mom watched, ignoring her screams and protests–Shari rode the carousel. She touched the shoulder of Her Black Stallion, but she didn't ride him. He understood, she thought, and he missed Daddy too. Instead, she sat in one of the chariot seats like the adults with their toddlers, arms crossed, refusing to cry.


When the ride ended, she walked up to Tod-or-Whoever and told him, "I don't want to ride the carousel ever again."


He shrugged. "Whatever." He tried to take her hand, but she didn't let him. He shrugged again, and she followed him away from the Black Stallion and the happy days before Daddy died.
 
"Here," Finn said, and pushed something into her hand.
 
Sharon looked down and saw he had given her a wad of napkins. "Thank you," she said. She wondered when he had left her to get the napkins. How long had she been standing there?
 
He smiled. "I was tired of people glaring at me."
 
She wiped at her eyes, wondering if she was making it better or worse.
 
"I saw there is a corkboard over there," Finn added. "By the line. Looks like the guy who runs the ride likes to take pictures of the kids who ride."
 
"Maybe he sells them," Sharon said.
 
"Maybe. But some of the pictures are really old. Polaroids even. Don't see those much anymore."
 
The carousel came to a stop and a tide of children and parents washed past them. Sharon, holding Finn's hand again, let the movement of the crowd take them toward the glass-covered corkboard with its array of white squares. She didn't know what she was expecting–hoping?–to see.
 
Like Finn had said, there were a lot of photos. As they walked up, a man about her age opened the glass case and started adding a new set of freshly printed photos, pinning them in neat rows with white thumbtacks. The man glanced at her, and seemed to do a double-take. Then he went back to his work.
 
On the opposite side of the display case, Sharon could hear the elderly ride operator talking to the new riders as he took their tickets. Three times Sharon heard the operator say, "One second, if you please." Just before a camera flashed. After a few minutes, the operator said, "Johan, are you not finished yet? These good people are waiting for their adventure to begin."
 
The man pinned the last of the new pictures, closed the glass doors, and stepped around out of sight. There was a ratcheting sound, then the calliope music came to life, covering up the sounds of straining metal and large gears being pushed by electric motors.
 
The photos in the case were lit with faint lights recessed along the top and bottom. The new pictures the man had just added were on the right side of the case, which was just now past half full. The left side of the case, though, was full of older pictures, even Polaroids, like Finn had said. The pictures were children, boys and girls both, from toddlers held in the arms of their parents up to tweens and even a few obvious teenagers, most of them smiling in anticipation of their "adventure", showing off missing teeth and orthodontic work in varying stages of completeness. The few looking sad or wary stood out, and Sharon wondered why those pictures had been included. Why not only the happy ones?
 
"Look at this one," Finn said, tapping the glass. "She looks like you."
 
Sharon looked where he pointed. A Polaroid snapshot of a girl with a faceless man behind her. "What?" she asked. "Brown hair and sullen? Is that what you think I looked like as a kid?"
 
Finn shrugged. "Your Mom has several pictures of you that look very similar. Framed and mounted even."
 
"My mom would frame every picture of me ever made. Even the blurry ones with my mouth hanging open. She has no … restraint." Sharon leaned closer. The man behind the little girl in the picture had no head, the picture ending just below his shoulders. But something about the man's shirt caught her eye. A nondescript pullover Polo-knockoff. Just like Steve used to wear. Or Randal. And she could almost smell the overwhelming scent of his Chaps cologne on the hand that she could almost feel resting on her shoulder.
 
"I thought you liked the merry-go-round," Steve-or-Randal said, looking down at Shari, irritation visible on his face and obvious in his voice. The two of them stood at the front of the line, with other children and adults behind them trying to hand over tickets and get on the ride.


"One second, sir, if you please." Shari turned to see who had spoken, and to twist her shoulder out of Randal-or-Steve's grip. The ride operator, a dark-haired man with salt-and-pepper scruff across his chin and cheeks knelt down so his face was level with Shari's. He raised a camera to his eye. Randal-or-Tod put his hand on her shoulder again. His idea, Shari supposed, of posing as father and daughter. The ride operator seemed to pause, as if he expected her to smile. She didn't.


The flash made Shari blink. The the white square of Polaroid film whirred out of the camera. She remembered, vaguely, that someone had taken her picture two years ago, just before she rode … with Daddy … She pushed the memory–and the sadness–down. She wasn't going to cry.


"I'm not paying for any pictures," Steve-or-Tod told the ride operator. Then he put his hand on her back and pushed her forward. "Just get on, will you? I'll wait for you over by the exit."


She had forgotten about the picture.
 
"It is you, isn't it?" Finn asked.
 
Sharon nodded. She could barely make out the eyes of the little girl–her eyes. But she recognized the expression she had worn like a mask, hiding behind it, through junior high and high school.
 
"Who is that with you?"
 
"I don't know," she said. "Just one of Mom's … I don't care."
 
Finn's hand touched her back. She knew he was trying to be supportive, but it was all too much. The fair, the heat, the noise, the smells. The memories. She had tried. For Finn. For herself. She didn't want to try any more.
 
"I want to go," she said. She turned to walk away from the carousel. She felt Finn's hand slip down her back and fall away.
 
"Wait," Finn said.
 
She stopped a step away. She turned around, but she didn't step back toward him. "I want to go home," she said.
 
"Not like this," Finn said. "If we go home now, I've ruined your birthday."
 
"It won't get any better if we stay."
 
"You don't know that."
 
"I do know that. I know that every time I've come to the fair since … since Daddy died, they have all sucked."
 
Finn shifted and stood up a bit straighter. "I'm not those guys," he said.
 
"What?"
 
"I'm not your Mom's boyfriends or her ex-husbands. I didn't bring you here because your Mom forced me too–"
 
"You brought me here because you listened to my Mom. If you want to know what I want, you don't ask Mom. She's– Nevermind. You ask me."
 
"I wanted it to be a surprise–"
 
"I'm not going to fight about this here." Sharon turned to walk away.
 
"Sharon–"
 
She didn't reply, she didn't turn around, and she didn't wait for him. She walked. She remembered where they had parked. Finn could find her there.
 
She heard footsteps coming up behind her. "Excuse me," a man's voice, but not Finn's. She didn't stop.
 
A hand touched her right arm. "Excuse me. Ma'am."
 
Sharon looked over her shoulder to see a man, late twenties or early thirties, disheveled and scruffy from a long day's work, walking alongside her. He looked familiar, but she didn't know him. "What?" she asked, but didn't stop walking.
 
"My boss," the man said, "he wanted you to have this." He held out his right hand, which had a Polaroid picture in it. He held the picture by one corner, his fingers not touching the actual image.
 
Now she remembered him. He was the man who had been putting the new pictures in the display by the carousel. She caught an impression of a little girl's face in the picture, but refused to look at it. "I don't want that picture," she said.
 
"It's not that picture, ma'am. Take it, please."
 
Sharon stopped walking and faced the man. It's not that picture. That wasn't what she had expected him to say. But she didn't take the picture he still held in front of him. She didn't look at the picture either. "I'm not paying for any picture," she said.
 
"It's not– It's a gift, ma'am. My boss says it belongs to you." The man–his blue work shirt had "Johan" embroidered on his left breast pocket–kept his eyes on hers, even when Finn stepped up beside him.
 
"What's going on?" Finn asked.
 
"Take the picture, ma'am. Please."
 
She kept her voice level. "I don't want any more pictures of me at the fair."
 
"It's not just a picture, ma'am," Johan said. His eyes became slightly unfocused as he went on, as if he was looking past her or thinking of something else. "I don't know how he does it–I mean, he's teaching me, but it's– I don't know how to describe it." His eyes focused on hers again. "Take the picture. Please."
 
"Just take the picture, Sharon," Finn said. "And then we can go."
 
Sharon started to reach with her right hand, but then something came over her and she took the picture with both hands, thumbs and index fingers on the corners. And she saw that Johan had given it to her properly oriented, so she could see it.
 
Daddy's face smiled back at her. Slightly lopsided, because he had to bend over to be in the shot with her.
 
"You are a happy girl, are you not?" said the man who took her tickets for the carousel. He held a camera in his right hand. He smiled at her, and Shari smiled back. "Would you like your picture taken?"


"Yes!"


Behind her, Daddy laughed. "That's my Shari. She never misses a chance to say 'cheese'."


Shari looked up at Dad with an expression of mock outrage. "Did you just call me vain?"


"You know I did," Daddy said, smiling.
 
"I'm not vain. I just love my Daddy." She leaped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Or tried to. Daddy was too tall. Her fingertips barely touched as she grabbed his neck and tried to pull him down with her weight. "You have to be in the picture with me."


"Oomph!" Daddy said, and laughed. "OK, OK. I'm bending over."


When he was low enough, Shari wrapped her arms around Daddy's neck and pressed her cheek against his. The stubble of his five o'clock shadow rubbed against her skin as it always did, the way she always wanted it to.
 
They stood there, Daddy on one knee, Shari wrapped around his neck, holding him close, both of them smiling when the flash popped.
 
Sharon found she was touching her right cheek with her fingertips, remembering the rough scrub of Daddy's stubble, her skin tingling as if it had just happened. That was one of her most persistent memories of Daddy, the feel of his cheek on hers when she hugged him after he got home from work, along with the smell of coffee on his breath when he kissed her good-bye in the mornings. Those had been the bookends of her days as a child, mornings and evenings.
 
She looked up from the photo and saw the man, Johan, was no longer there. Finn stood in front of her. She held the picture so he could see it.
 
"That's me," she said. "And Daddy. Here at the fair."
 
Finn looked at the picture, and nodded. She moved the picture to her heart as Finn pulled her close and put his arms around her.
 
She cried. She didn't know how long. She cried for Daddy, and for herself. And even for Mom.
 
Finn was still there, holding her, when she heard someone ask, "Is everything OK?"
 
She felt Finn nod, and the voice didn't ask again.
 
When she looked up again, Sharon saw they still stood where the man had caught up to her, in the middle of a busy path. Families and couples and children moved around them, stirring the liquid heat with their passing.
 
"Do you want to go now?" Finn asked.
 
She looked up at him and kissed him. "No, not yet. There's something I need to do first."
 
The elderly man who took her tickets smiled at her, but she hardly noticed him. Her Black Stallion was waiting for her. His coat and mane still had their glossy, gleaming polish, reflecting the incandescent lights of the carousel and the neon sparkles of the fair around them, though she could see he had picked up a few nicks and gouges in his travels. She was too big to ride him now, so she simply held his neck as they raced round and round through the night.
 
Finn was waiting for her when she stepped off the carousel. She held out her right hand to him. She still held the picture in her left, pressed to her heart.
 
5
 
Udo watched the woman walk away, feeling a faint smile on his lips.
 
Johan stepped up beside him. "She didn't even say thank you," Johan said.
 
Udo shrugged. "All we do, Johan, is keep the pictures."
 
"She could at least have said thank you."
 
"It was her picture, Johan. We were only keeping it safe for her."
 
"But it was more than a picture–"
 
Udo held up a hand, interrupting his apprentice. "We will talk of this later. After," he added when it looked like Johan was going to say something more. Udo said nothing, waiting.
 
Finally, Johan nodded.
 
"Very good," Udo said.
 
While Johan checked the carousel and mounts for discarded trash and possible mechanical issues, Udo moved to the head of the queue of children and parents that had formed. Near the middle of the queue, he spotted a boy of about six years old. The boy stood there, refusing to hold the hand of the woman he was with, just as he would soon–next year, maybe–be refusing to ride the carousel because it was "too sissy". To Udo, the relationship of mother and son could be read like a purple neon sign. What drew his eye, though, was the umbra of an impending doom that surrounded them, an extra edge of darkness lurking in the shadows around them, building up to the inevitable.
 
Udo stood at the turnstile, taking tickets while Johan helped the younger children with their mounts, waiting until the mother and son were at the head of the line.
 
The boy held up the tickets. "One please," he said.
 
Udo smiled, but he didn't take the tickets. Not yet. He bent down so he was eye level with the boy, then held up the camera. "Say, 'cheese'."
 
The boy put the hand with the tickets to his temple so the tickets hung down beside his face. He then crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
 
"Very good," Udo said, and snapped the picture. He felt the flutter in his heart, as he always did, as the camera recorded the image, and as a bit of the happiness, cockiness, and growing independence of the boy was preserved with the image.
 
"Markus!" the mother said, looking more indulgent than indignant. "I can't believe you did that."
 
"I want to see it," the boy said.
 
Udo held the camera so the picture could be seen. The boy laughed. "That's great. Can I get a copy?"
 
"Tickets, please," Udo said, taking back the camera and holding out his left hand.
 
"Oh, right." The boy handed Udo the tickets, and then pushed through to get on the carousel.
 
Udo smiled, knowing that both he and the picture had already been forgotten. Whether it was the magic, the Fates, or simply the excitement of the ride, he didn't know, but they never came back for their pictures. Not right away. Eventually, though, when they needed to remember, when they needed to reconnect with when they had been happy, they would find their way back. Most would forget him then too. But that was OK.
 
That was how he would know when he could accept Johan's offers for the Bowlus trailer and the repro Dentzel carousel and retire. When Johan understood that children–and the memories of children–almost never said, "Thank you." And he loved them anyway.
 
THE END
 
Inspired by the painting, "Nostalgia", by Don Michael, Jr.
 

"Nostalgia"
 







When her boyfriend's "birthday surprise" turns out to be a date at the state fair, Sharon finds herself face to face with the childhood she's tried to forget.
 
>>> Purchase "Nostalgia" for the Kindle.
 
>>> Purchase "Nostalgia" for other ebook readers.




 

Writing Progress Report

 
Writing progress report for the week starting Monday, September 20, 2010.
 








Writing Project


Words




Monday


"Afterimage"


997




Tuesday


"Afterimage"


1560




Wednesday


"Afterimage"
Edited "Inferno".


1595




Thursday








Friday


"Afterimage" (first draft completed)


968




Saturday








Sunday


















Total



5120




 








Marketing/Submission




Monday


Posted "Nostalgia" Part 1 to the blog.
Ordered proof copies of The Summoning Fire.




Tuesday


Announced "Nostalgia" on the Kindle Boards Book Bazaar.




Wednesday





Thursday


Approved proofs of The Summoning Fire.




Friday





Saturday


Published The Summoning Fire on Smashwords.




Sunday


Published The Summoning Fire on Amazon DTP.




 
Reading List

On My Way to Paradise by David Farland.