R.C. Kinkaid's Blog

Hail to the…Wait.

I didn’t wake up this morning with the intention of writing this. There is lettuce in the garden that needs pulling and leaves that must be cleansed of their aphid-ness. […]

Sabbatical Spent

After a much needed break from a lot of things (writing, blogging, thinking in general), I’m back. Old blog is gone, old posts are gone, and everything is fresh again. […]

It begins again

So it’s spring again–sort of.  Spring, which lasts for maybe a month in Northern VA and  if we’re lucky, is a time for rebirth, for renewal, and for finally using that thing you bought that time at that place that one time years ago or getting rid of it.  I’ve reached that point with this blog.

I don’t quite remember why I started this thing to begin with.  Given my pursuits as a writer, I suppose I initially felt an obligation to house and display certain works, promote this and that, and fill in the gaps with various insights I would somehow obtain while being chained to a cube 40 hours a week and scrawling on the side.  It didn’t happen.

Time passed. Dust collected.

I got further along with a few novels, finished a some short stories, and even had three flash fiction pieces published in an annual compilation I’m not sure anyone has ever read.  So I thought, “Hey, why not rekindle that dusty rag over there in the corner of the internet and fill it with the trials and tribulations of a writer breaking through.”  Then I realized how dull that would be:

Dear Blog,

Today I submitted a story.  Now I get to wait.

Sure, I could have weaved the thing in a more dramatic way (My pulse quickened as my trembling hand glided the cursor towards ‘Submit‘) but that seemed forced.  And contrived.  And, not me.

More time passed, but less than before so the dust was hardly noticeable.

The more driven members of my writing circle finished their novels, landed agents, launched blogs, and moved on.  Left to my own devices, I progressed slower and slower.  The webs I wove grew tattered and strained at their weakest points, absently swaying in my mind.  I noticed the trend among newbies on the writing circuit, some of which were in my writing group, was to interview more established writers, guest feature on blogs, etc.  I’m not a fan of crowds and herds, but I still liked the idea.

So I decided to spin it, focus on up-and-coming artists in other fields searching for the elusive Big Break.  How cool would it be to follow the similar paths of a soon-to-be Bestselling Author, a future Rockstar, and potential Hollywood Starlet?   So I reached out to an actress friend in LA, talented and forever on the cusp of her big moment, a musician friend, who finally decided to moved to Nashville and pursue his dream, and a few others in related fields.  Questions were crafted, responses were given, and right when I was ready to start the project, I didn’t.  Part of it was hesitation, part of it was not wanting to do a disservice to aforementioned friends who would be potentially wasting their time for a blog no one reads.

About a year passed and here we are.

Maybe this will be the year, maybe it won’t.  I procrastinate.  I’m lazy.  I’m introverted and have a tendency to withdrawal for extended periods of time after great bursts of creativity.  But, I think I might have it.  As started above, I started this because I felt I had to.  I then tried to do other things that writers are supposed to do according “people who know.”   I never really did what I wanted, which resulted in a fine demonstration of half-assing.  Basically, I never let me be me.

Starting today, use this to write what I want, when I want.  Maybe you’ll laugh.  Maybe you’ll call the grammar police.  Maybe I’ll use a word or a phrase that irks you, maybe even offend you.  But it will be me, which means I’ll do it (’cause if you won’t do yourself, who will?).  That’s what really matters.

 

That’s not a word?

I was revising a novella this morning when a red squiggly line caught my eye.  Typos are the norm for me—she becomes He, that becomes hat and so forth.  But as I honed in with my less than keen sight, I nearly stained my paints with feces.

Frowned.

How the @^#$^^@$@E&%&$##@#!!! is frowned not a word?  It’s something I’ve used my whole life, a word I’ve heard others use my whole life.  A word i’m pretty sure I’ve read countless times.  I right click.

“Suggestion:  Fronde.”

Seriously?  What the hell is a fronde?  Some strange past participle of frown, maybe?  (Well, according to Google, Fronde was a series of French Civil Wars.)  Scrivener, and by association, my Mac, are joining causes to suggest “He had a series of French Civil Wars.”  How he could have had multiple internal strifes that resulted in both sides rolling over and hoisting the white flag each time is beyond me.

Anyway—again, turning to Google—’frowned’ is indeed a word (Webster and Priceton both concur most agreeably).

So my question:  when was the last time you came across a word that your word processor claimed didn’t exist?

That's not a word?

I was revising a novella this morning when a red squiggly line caught my eye.  Typos are the norm for me—she becomes He, that becomes hat and so forth.  But as I honed in with my less than keen sight, I nearly stained my paints with feces.

Frowned.

How the @^#$^^@$@E&%&$##@#!!! is frowned not a word?  It's something I've used my whole life, a word I've heard others use my whole life.  A word i'm pretty sure I've read countless times.  I right click.

"Suggestion:  Fronde."

Seriously?  What the hell is a fronde?  Some strange past participle of frown, maybe?  (Well, according to Google, Fronde was a series of French Civil Wars.)  Scrivener, and by association, my Mac, are joining causes to suggest "He had a series of French Civil Wars."  How he could have had multiple internal strifes that resulted in both sides rolling over and hoisting the white flag each time is beyond me.

Anyway—again, turning to Google—'frowned' is indeed a word (Webster and Priceton both concur most agreeably).

So my question:  when was the last time you came across a word that your word processor claimed didn't exist?

Slight delay

Due to a death in the family and some other unexpected issues, I'm pushing back the self-pub investigation.  I hope to get it kicked off next week.

Self-Pub Game plan

The planets have aligned, the stars are in beneficial houses, and the inspection of self-publication and all that goes with it should start rolling out this week (barring a potential family situation).  I haven't decided the exact order of things, but the topics of choice will be presented in four different categories:

Website stuff (an inspection of blogs, pitfalls, and the almighty [or overhyped?] SEO).
Public Relations.
Social Media.
Grass Roots Marketing (which encompasses all of the above).

I've got some great interviews lined up for additional perspective, including an up and coming actress in LA, a savvy advertiser who is employed by a large marketing firm in California, and a couple of potential wild cards (possibly—fingers crossed—a PR company, an up and coming author, and a musician who will be heading off to Nashville this year in search of eternal glory).  I know that music and acting are not writing, but their road to success mirrors the path of a writer a lot more than you think.

Stay tuned.

Where There Is A Will

Earlier today, I fear I may have inadvertently drawn blood when I criticized a close writer friend of mine and her publisher.  The criticism was meant as an observation and was inquirious (not a word, but it does sound like it should be) in nature, but came off a bit rough.  The author, and her publisher, will remain unnamed.  It did get me thinking about the state of affairs for the 99% of authors lucky enough to find someone who believe enough in the work to put it in print.

The complaint revolved about PR—or the lack there of—provided to the authors by the publisher.  The author, we'll call her Beatrice, has been hard at work blogging, tweeting, and generally getting involved as her first published novel(la) is birthed.  She's had interviews with other authors, been interviewed by other authors, and had more than a few guest posts.  As I traveled to blogs of these other authors, I discovered they too had been conducting interviews, been the focus of interviews, and welcomed the odd guest or two.  I was piqued.  Was this the new method of unknown authors?  The latest in self-PR technology?  Then, as I delved deeper into the murky waters of the blogosphere, I realized they all had one thing in common:  the publisher.

I suppose I should disclose that I've never had anything other than flash fiction published (which you can find here and here).  I don't have an agent, a publisher, or even a completely manuscript, for that matter.  So why should you care what I think?  Honestly, I have no clue, but, as I am human, I have an opinion.  I also earned BSM—mostly though BS-ing—so I'd like to think I may have some insight or something I can pretend comes off as intelligible.

The publishing world is a cake walk for the likes of Stephen King and JK Rowling because they are established.  When the press gets the slightest of whispers, they appear in ravenous hordes, demanding interviews, blogging, tweeting, etc, which drums up hype and intrigue for something that may not even exist.  But what about the rest of us?  What about the authors who haven't landed that star agent or dream contract because the world has never heard of them?  What do they do so their book reaches the audience it's intended for?

Over the next few weeks, I hope to answer that question.  Please join me as I dive head first into the world of self-publishing, mom-n- pop presses, and the gigantic task of being a self-PR machine most writers will have to metamorphosis into if they wish to have success.  It should be an interesting ride.

May Past Resolutions Be Forgot

I meant to write an elaborate post lamenting my 2011 Resolutions that never came to be.  Really, I did.  But then I got busy.  I wanted to write an inspirational entry about what I aspire to get done in 2012, but other things just seemed more important.  Before that, I went to Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Garden's Christman Town and a great blog entry blossomed in my mind, but Christmas was right around the corner.  And before that, a friend of mine had a blog entry about ghosts, which reminded me about my own experiences.  I thought they would make a rather excellent blog post, but then I decided no, better not; Halloween is over anyway.

If you didn't know already, my name is Chris, and I'm a Procrastinator.

I choose to use a capital 'P' because Procrastinating isn't being lazy, as some might suggest; it's an art form.  Ask any artist, be they a Painter, a Writer, or Actor, and they will tell you that you must embrace your work; take it and make it your own.  And so, I have.  True, there are people out there who claim to be Procrastinators.  You know the type.  They put off studying for a test till the last minute or stay up till 3am to write an essay.   Please.  It's people like this that give Procrastinators a bad name.  A real Procrastinator would put off studying for the Bar until the morning of the exam…and pass.  A true Procrastinator would stay up late at a club, take a shower, churn their doctoral thesis in under three hours, email it, and then go to IHOP to mingle with the other weekend zombies.

Oh, I haven't always been a Procrastinator.  There were times in my youth where I was actually a productive individual, doing my homework, practicing baseball, and a general participator in all things timely.  When I think back to those naive years, I can't help but get a little misty eyed.  Being a Procrastinator is a burden, Gotham City to my Batman, the Sith to my Jedi, the Somewhat-Disproportionate-Yet-Still-Oddly-Attractive Contestant to my Beauty Pageant Judge.  When you become a Procrastinator, there is this weight that presses down in the back of your mind, small at first but growing ever larger.  It continues to grow at stuttered pace—some days by leaps and bounds and others by just a hair or two—until the day it overwhelms you.  The day it's due.

I have tried to rid myself of this curse.  I thought about joining a Procrastinator Anonymous group where I could share my pain with others, but I never got around to looking for one.  There are a number of interesting titles promising all sorts of quick fixes for my gift, but I didn't think budgeting for those books was all that important—some had really great covers, though.  One day, by sheer chance, The Force guided me to the almighty altar of Google, which brought me a bountiful return in exchange for a few sacrificial keywords, including Structured Procrastination

The man is a genius.

John Perry, a professor at Stanford, has deduced that Procrastinators don't put things off because they are too busy, they put things off because they are too important.  The key then, is to find something ridiculously important, like inventing a better spoon or curing Diarrhea of the Mouth, and, magically, everything else will get finished because they frivolous in comparison, provided the unrealistic uber important task has a wholly unrealistic deadline.  Brilliant!

I'm jumping into this with both feet—just as soon as I can find the time to put my shoes on.

Well, that was fast…

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