Edward Lorn's Blog, page 106

Ruminating On: Reviews

First and foremost, if you have a problem with lower-starred reviews of your work, you need to get over yourself. To complain about someone else’s subjective opinion when you have no control over what they like and don’t like, only serves to make you a narcissistic douchenozzle. So what if they didn’t like your work? Is that going to change whether or not you publish anything else? I sure hope not. Same goes for grander, four and five star reviews. Just because someone loves your work doesn’t mean you’re Tom Cruise’s gift to all things written and wordy. It simply means someone liked what you had to say. Yay you! Don’t get me wrong, as I love a five star review just as much as the next author, but I also like the lower-starred reviews as well. The first thought that should go through your head after reading any review should be, “At least they bothered with me in the first place.” Think about it, chum. How many authors reside in this world of ours? Next, how many books have those writers completed and published? Stephen King and Dean Koontz alone have more than fifty novels each to their credit, so if you write in the thriller and horror genres you should feel ecstatic that anyone even found your work, much less read the damn thing. You are not entitled to good reviews. Get that thought out of your head right away. You are not even entitled to a person’s opinion. It is up to the reader as to whether or not you get their attention after they finish with your work, not you.

So, how do you deal with one and two star reviews? You don’t. Sorry to burst your fragile little bubble, but you don’t “deal with them.” You let them be. If the reviewer offers some insight as to what you did wrong in their eyes, take a step back, apply duct tape to your ego’s mouth, and wonder if the critic could be right. Some of the lower star reviews on Bay’s End deal with the foul language and whether or not I could have written the same book without the crassness. I’ve thought about it, came to my decision, and pressed forward. Two points: One, the review is perfect. It helps keep those readers that abhor foul language away from the book, but allows those that don’t mind cussing to still purchase the book. Secondly, I completely respect the fact that the reviewer doesn’t like curse words, or moreover, the amount of curse words available in Bay’s End, because I will admit, I overdid it in some spots.

Middle of the road reviews are some of the best you will find. Okay, so someone gave you three stars because they loved your writing but couldn’t dig one or two of the scenes you put in the novel for whatever reasons. They still loved your writing, and I would bet you money that they might try your work again. Also, I love these reviews because people really pay attention to them. I don’t bother reading five and four star reviews because I know those people liked the book. I read the three stars and below reviews to see if they cover anything I might not enjoy. Some threes come with spoilers, and that’s okay, to a point. You really can’t expect someone not to mention a key moment in the plot if it bothered them, so I tend to let these slide. Once again, there’s not much you can do about it even if you wanted to, other than contacting the bookseller and reporting the review as being spoiler-y. But you can learn from three star reviews. Take notes as to what they didn’t like, pay attention, and again, see if it’s something you would want to change.

Reviews that challenge editing are harder to ignore, meaning you shouldn’t ignore them. If someone bashes you over the head with the amount of typos you left in the book, maybe you should rethink whether or not selling that book is the right thing to do. If you did procure an editor, maybe try a different one. Nobody’s perfect and not even the most seasoned editor will catch everything. And if you didn’t bother with an editor before selling your work, well… shame on you. If you went to McDonald’s and were served an under-cooked hamburger, you’d complain, wouldn’t you? After all, you spent your time and money there, so you have every right to complain about real problems, especially unfinished content. And if your book is free, that does not give you the right to complain about people who are complaining about your grammatical ineptitude. You still wasted their time, even if you didn’t waste their money. Quit trying to give away raw products for consumption. You’re going to make someone sick.

Finally, if you simply cannot help yourself, do your bitching and whining in private. No matter whether you’re right or wrong, attacking a reviewer gets you nowhere. You’re telling them that how they felt is invalid just because you don’t agree with them. In the end, you look like a douchenozzle. Even when you’re right, and have facts to prove yourself correct, don’t do it. There are very few people in this world that want to hear they are wrong. Reviewers are people, just like you. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, be respectful, but I warn you, the internet is a funny place and one cannot expect to be taken a certain way just because you meant to be taken a certain way. Even saying something as simple as “Thank you!” can be taken sarcastically. I always stick to saying nothing at all, unless I’m contacted in private or I’m on a blog tour, where my presence is expected.

As with all things in life, live and let live.

E.

Ruminating On: Does Size Matter?

Be it thick or thin, long or short, size is a subjective thing. Some like to get deep, and that’s all right. Others don’t mind if it barely scratches the surface, as long as they feel something. For many, it’s more about the connection than the proportions. But, once again, let me say, size is subjective. In my experience, (and I’ve tried all sizes) I’ve found myself enjoying the gargantuan along with the minuscule  I’ve had some say I’m too short, that they want more, but I can only give what I have. That doesn’t mean I’m bad at it, it simply means I’m not for everyone.

Of course, I’m talking about books.

If we judged literature solely on length, than no one would consider John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men to be a classic, same with Hemmingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. On the other hand, when I read both books, I wanted more from Steinbeck and less from Hemingway  Could Steinbeck have lengthened the piece? I’m sure he could have. Had he filled the book with useless info, though, I don’t think readers would have held it in such high regard. Now, I’m not saying I’m Steinbeck, but I am trying to make a point. Of Mice and Men didn’t need anything else added for the story to be told, and that’s where I think we all get confused when it comes to the size of our stories versus the quality therein.

I’ve received several reviews and communications wherein readers have asked for me to work on something more substantial, that they are waiting on the first real Edward Lorn novel. The problem is, I don’t know if I will ever deliver. I’ve written stories over one hundred thousand words, then ended up cutting them down to sixty thousand. To me, it’s all about what moves the story ahead. Everything else is filler. If I were to leave in the verbose, unimportant information, readers would no doubt catch on pretty quick. I understand what they’re asking for though, and I take that as a compliment. They want more of my characters, more story, and that makes me smile.

With that being said, lets talk about endings for a minute. I have a threshold of fifteen thousand words for open-ended material. In my opinion, anything over the length of a novelette better have a definitive conclusion. Those of you that have read the shorter work I have in my collections, will know that I don’t always end my short stories, but leave them open to interpretation. This can upset some readers, and I can dig that, but that’s why these are short stories and not novellas or novels. If I had more story, it would be there, I promise. If you’re a reader, I consider your time valuable, so I want to give you as much bang for your buck as I can offer. I will say again, this is only my opinion.

Stephen King’s From a Buick 8 doesn’t really end. You spend a significant amount of time with that novel, (my paperback copy is just under four hundred pages) and King just leaves you hanging. But, King says in his memoir/guide to authorship, On Writing, that he saw his novel, Misery, ending with writer Paul Sheldon still missing and a brand new, flesh-bound copy of the final Misery Chastain novel resting upon Annie Wilkes’s mantel. King goes on to say that he didn’t think readers would have wanted to devote so much time rooting for Paul just to find out his hide was used as a dust cover for his final work. So why doesn’t From a Buick 8 have a definitive ending, Mr. King? I think he would say that, to him, there was nothing more to add. And here we are, back at subjectivity. Two people, both whom I respect greatly, have startlingly different views of King’s foray into the world of alien automobiles. One considers the novel one of King’s best works, whereas the other could have done without reading it. For me, the book was… just okay. Ah, I do love the middle ground.

Just because a story is short, doesn’t make it bad, and vice versa. I’ve read thousand-page novels that would be better served as bookends than actual books. In the end, it’s all about the content. What I look for in genre fiction over novelette length is, introduction, conflict, resolution, in that order. In literary fiction, I understand the book is more about the journey than it is about the plot, so I try to turn a blind eye to my three-rule structure… I also tend to ignore literary fiction, so that’s a thing.

In conclusion, no, I don’t think size matters at all. Quality should forever be held above quantity. There should only be one question: Did you enjoy your escape?

Happy V-Day, guys and gals.

E.

To Who or not to Who.

As many of you already know, I’m a Whovian. I nerd-out over all things wibbly, wobbly, and timey, whimey. I fully expect to have my own working Sonic Screwdriver before I die, and a trip to Earth’s final days via TARDIS seems a thing I’d ask my local travel agent about. Be it Rose, Donna, Martha, or the Ponds, I fancy all companions. Man-crush wise, I prefer David to Matt, though I have a soft spot in my heart for Chris. I have filled out the documentation to procure myself an Ood, but have decided against submitting the form, as I abhor slavery. Plus, I’m tired of writing about individuals with only one heart who lack the ability to regenerate.

If none of this makes any sense to you, you may be on your way. If you grinned at at least one reference above, like a child offered a sweet, then please, vote below. My question to you is simple: How would you like to see me do a Doctor Who episode? This would be a bit of fan fiction, I assure you, as I haven’t the rights to any of the properties mentioned above. I’ll remain true to the Doctor’s universe, I promise you that. Don’t expect loads of gore and guts being tossed about, as that’s not the Doctor’s style. I want to do this right, which means the greatest effort imaginable on my part. But, seriously, vote. Don’t leave me hanging.

Take Our Poll

Ruminating On: The Love of My Life.

You are not me, but you are everything good about me. You are bereft of ego because we both know I have enough to fill a stadium with. Though you do not look down on me, you keep me grounded. You haven’t been around all my life, but have become my reason for being. To you, I am not E. or Edward, I am simply yours.

Twelve years isn’t a great deal of time when you think about the universe as a whole, but our time together stretches vast oceans of reality, and every minute we’re apart is an eternity. We’ve had our ups and downs, but mostly you’ve held me up. I make a living by writing, but you render me speechless, hence the reason I can’t string together more than six coherent words into a sentence when I’m alone with you. It’s rather hard to talk when those eyes of yours are staring back at me.

You are the light to my dark, my lighthouse beacon while I traverse stormy seas. You never fail to lead me home. Whenever the bleak shuffles in, you usher it out to make room for the bright. Not everyone has someone like you in their lives, and that, baby, is a tragedy mere words cannot describe. I can’t remember the days when I woke up to an empty bed, nor do I linger, trying to recall them. That would be akin to having won the lottery yet still worrying about the light bill from the prior month.

You came into my life while I was stable, but unhappy. You stayed when I became free, but chaotic. You loved me not for money or material things, but for me. Even though I was broken, you let me mend on my own time. There were plenty of situations where I was sure I’d lost you, but you remained.

You gave me two wonderful, intelligent children who never cease to amaze me. You care for them (and me at times) with an unshaken durability. If you can crack, you have yet to show anyone your weakness. You delight me with wonder. How can one person be so strong and so caring all at the same time?

I love to see you laugh until you cry. Moreover, I love being the one to make you do so. Your happiness is like a bauble at the bottom of a coin-operated claw machine, and I’m the one shoveling quarters in just to reach it. Though I might fail and fall flat on my face, it’s still a blast trying. And when I do lock onto that treasure, I feel as though I’ve conquered the world. Luckily, I beat the machine more often than not.

We’ve seen many places in our time together, but, as long as you’re around, I’m home. A dozen years is far too short a time to spend with you, so would you mind a dozen more? How about fifty? You’re still the one I want to find myself next to on the sofa when I’m ninety. I want to see you there, old and worn out just like me, but no less beautiful in the eyes of your husband.

We’ve stolen kisses in movie theaters until we couldn’t give a shit about Johnny Depp and his Secret Window, nor the other patrons in attendance; spoken ill of large ladies in neon green shirts who shuffled into alleyways never to be seen again; kept each other strong after surgeries; saw a star made of lights and wires upon a mountain in Virginia that seemed to float on the night sky, as if it too were a complex ball of gas; we had a child, lost the second, but had another; but mostly, we’ve lived. I wouldn’t give up a day I’ve spent with you, not for heavens real or imagined.

Know this above all else, for everything you are and are not, you are always you. And I love all that is you, baby. If my ride’s over before yours, I’d cut my way back to the beginning of the line, fighting tooth and nail, just to have one more go around with you.

Orange!

Amnesia: Part Four – Coming Out of the Closet

Daniel and I spend some time in a closet.

Amnesia: Part Three – Invisible Monsters Suck

RUN!

Amnesia: Part Two – Acid Trip

Welcome back! I recommend 720p and headphones for your added enjoyment.

Amnesia: The Dark Descent

Part One: A Slow Beginning

Ruminating On: Sex Crimes

I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that those of you reading today’s blog think pedophiles and rapists are the lowest lifeforms known to man. I share your opinion, of course, but I want to take this discussion one step further and ask a sensitive question. Why don’t we execute serial sex offenders?

If you are against capitol punishment, this blog is not meant for you, so you can see yourself to the door. You won’t hurt my feelings. I want to delve into a double standard of sorts, and give my thoughts on why we should alleiviate the world of serial sex offenders based on the same reasoning behind executing mass murderers and serial killers.

First and foremost, for some odd reason mental health is always brought to the table in a discussion such as this.  ”We shouldn’t kill the mentally ill, E!” But I would say that all serial killers have a loose wire, that none are sane. We still execute them. Their brains do not work the same way as ours. They find gratification in their actions, bask in the control they have. In my eyes, these people are no different than pedophiles and rapists. I would go on to surmise that sexual abuse is far more tragic than murder. The dead are gone, they no longer suffer, but the victims of rape and molestation must live out their lives trying to cope with the ordeals they’ve suffered.

If you can execute someone like Ted Bundy because of his crimes, surely you can see the reasoning behind killing someone who’s stripped away an adult’s or a child’s humanity. Rape, incest and child abuse should be judged with the same weight and dealt similar consequences. We execute serial killers because we’ve deemed them broken beyond repair, because we believe they will be a constant threat to the outside world. We also do it as a deterrent to future killers. Juice a pedophile every now and then and maybe the next sick bastard thinks twice about touching a child or forcing themselves on another human being. I’m not saying this will end sexual assaults, as executing murderers hasn’t completely dissuaded future serial killers, but if the penalty for scarring a human being for life were the same as taking a life, we might see a decline.

I’ve heard the argument of castration, both chemical and physical, as a way of punishing serial sex offenders or to quell their urges, but I don’t fully believe that would stem their appetites. You see, it’s not all about the climax for these individuals, but moreover, about control. Their genitals are simply the tool they use to preform their tasks. If you take a knife out of a killer’s hand, that doesn’t mean they’re going to stop trying to kill people. They’ll just find another way of doing it. And if you think sex offenders don’t use their hands like some serial killers do, you’re grossly mistaken.

If we are going to continue executing murderers in parts of this country, then we should get rid of this double standard. Sexual abuse is just as tragic and the offenders are just as broken. I’m not for thoughts such as, “The punishment should fit the crime.” We shouldn’t rape them back. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that these shitty souls shouldn’t be allowed to breathe our air.

Both serial killers and serial sex offenders ruin and end lives. They should not be treated any differently.

But forget about my opinion. Tell me what you think. Should we kill ‘em or let ‘em rot in prison. Post your response in the comment section below.

E.

You Wrote About What?

You Wrote About What?

Last week I popped on over to Bryan Alaspa’s blog and spilled some words out of my brain bucket. The moral of the story? What I write does not dictate who I am. 

E.