Beem Weeks's Blog, page 8

Short Stories: How Long Should They Be?

Short Story: noun: a story with a fully developed theme but significantly shorter and less elaborate than a novel.

That definition comes from The Oxford American College Dictionary circa 2001. With that definition in mind, what exactly constitutes a short story in today’s literary world? I mean length-wise. Is a short story 500 words or less? Can a shorty run at, say, 1000 words? How about 2000? It’s a difficult notion, this idea of imposing word limits on a creative writer’s work.

When I write, the word count is the last thing on my mind. I am too busy writing the story, constructing scenes, fleshing out the characters.

Recently, one of the sites on which I post short stories announced that they would no longer accept work for their home page if this work exceeded a certain word count. They’d continue to allow the longer pieces to be posted, sure, but just not on the main page, which is where many more eyes see these stories.

I have a problem with that. I’ve never sat down to write a story with a set word count in mind. Some stories might find a good telling within 500 words. I’ve written a few of those. They arrive at that lower count through a natural unfolding of description, narration, and dialogue.

However, many are the stories that take longer to germinate. I have some short stories that run in excess of 3000 words. Stephen King, Clive Barker, Daniel Woodrell, and T.C. Boyle are some of my favorite writers when it comes to the short story form. Some of their work stretches well beyond even that mark. Who in their right mind is going to tell Mr. King his latest piece is just too darn long?

I’m not in Stephen King’s league. But I am a writer. I write and the story unfolds. It’s as simple as that. If the story clocks in at 500 words or less, that just means the tale found a beginning, a middle, and an end in a quicker fashion. Will more people read it because it runs on the shorter side—as that other site suggests? Perhaps. But I am confident that intelligent readers will read a story—so long as it’s well-written and entertaining—regardless of length. These readers that supposedly prefer 500 words or less, do they not also read longer works, like novels? Is their attention span so guided by today’s ten-second sound-bite era that writers must adapt their style to this way of thinking? I certainly hope not!

And just for the record: this piece here clocks in at a mere 439 words.

The Chicken or the Egg? A Writer's Dilemma

What comes first: the title or the story? Until recently I figured this to be a silly question. You know, a rhetorical thing meant to mock the foolish. Of course the story comes first, Goofus! Nobody writes a story based on a title.

Or do they?

I discovered recently that there are authors who do indeed come up with a title first, adding the story afterward. I happened to be snooping around in a writers’ chat room the other day; you know, one of those internet sites where people group together to discuss whatever may be the topic. Anyway, the question was asked: When do you come up with the title, before or after the story is written?

Okay, so call me old fashioned. I’ve always written the story before deciding on a title. It just makes sense to me. I write a story, get the rewrites out of the way, develop a feel for the content, and decide on what to call the work. I’ve never considered starting with a title and crafting a tale according to it. That very idea seems so foreign to my way of thinking.

But here’s the kicker: nearly half of those commenting on that thread claim to start with a title first. How does this work? I mean, do these authors sit around dreaming up titles to turn into stories? I can see this as a practical means in the case of a low-budget film.

“Hey Bob,” Danny said, speaking over the drone of silliness filling the room. “I have a great idea for a movie called Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.” The title is self-explanatory. There’s little need to plot out something so ridiculous. Just write the script and surely somebody in Hollywood will green light the project.

Books and short stories are different, though. Novels take time in plotting, outlining, and writing. Certainly the title wouldn’t reveal itself until everything is in place, right?

The title for my debut novel Jazz Baby didn’t come about until the week I sent the manuscript to the publisher. Even then it came down to a pair of titles—the loser being the moniker In the Time of Jazz.

The way I see it, until the story is written, nobody, not even the author, fully realizes the personality of the work. Once the story is finished, the plot and all those characters—the story’s personality—shines through, giving the author a clear understanding of what the story is truly about. This is why so many people get nicknames in life. Personality traits that weren’t recognizable at birth take time to show up.

But the thing is, starting with the title apparently works for some authors. So who am I to disparage another writer’s means to an end? Just write. That’s what we authors do, isn’t it? It’s the end result that counts.

And just for the record, the title of my work-in-progress, The Secret Collector, came about at the fifth chapter. Certainly not the beginning, sure, but not the end either.

Just write. A productive writer is a happy writer.

Koobug.com Now Offers Reviews/Interviews

I am thrilled to announce Koobug.com is now offering book reviews and author interviews. I am truly honored and sincerely humbled to be the first interview and review on this wonderful indie author site. With a pre-interview request for a personal bio, they were able to tailor the questions to the author specifically. I want to thank the team at Koobug.com for making this a memorable experience. I invite everybody over for a read.

http://koobug.com/discover/interview-...

http://koobug.com/discover/review-jaz...

The Amazing Koobug

I first posted on Koobug back on 12 December 2012. I discovered the site quite by accident, having clicked on a link in a random tweet that found its way in front of my eyes. Back then there were just a handful of bloggers on this site, each looking for ways to better communicate with the world of authors and readers. Koobug offered an on-ramp to the highway that could carry us as far as we’d dare travel.

In less than a year, I have watched as Koobug has grown into a formidable force in online writers’ communities. There are nearly 80 bloggers on this amazing site, and this is only the beginning. This growth spurt can be attributed to those who keep the site up and running. What Koobug has become over the last year is nothing short of fantastic. The upgrades have knocked down walls and opened doors, creating a true community of writers and readers, presenting new ways to reach one another.

It is because of Koobug that I, an American author, have a larger fan base in the United Kingdom than I have in my own country. Prior to my involvement with Koobug, I hadn’t sold more than a single ebook copy of Jazz Baby in the entire U.K. Now, it’s all of you wonderful Brits who have been my biggest and best supporters. And I thank each and every one of you.

I believe in using any and every tool available when promoting our work. That means using many different websites. But I can honestly say that Koobug is far and away the best site with which I have been involved. It’s FREE. They don’t charge silly fees to “upgrade” your “membership.” I’ve gone that route and have seen greater results from good old FREE Koobug.

It’s all about the interaction between readers and writers on this site. Have a publishing or writing question? Post it in a blog and you’ll receive responses offering a variety of paths toward the answer. Looking for a new author to read? There’s plenty to choose from on Koobug. I’ve discovered a few new favorites right here on this site. Just peruse the line of books flowing across the bottom of the screen, choose one, read it, and see that this is truly the indie way. Have you created a new short story or poem or chapter from your latest novel? Post it on Koobug and the world will read it.

So tell your friends about the amazing Koobug; tweet links to the latest posts or share a link to an old favorite. The wider the reach, the greater the opportunities. Koobug is truly the indie way.

http://koobug.com/

Daily Word Counts

I see it on many sites, in chat rooms, and posted on message boards all across the internet: Authors boasting of daily word counts. "I force myself to write at least a thousand words per day," one claims. Another swears by two thousand words per day—even if the mood has all but vanished! Other writers attempt something within reach, like perhaps a daily word count closer to two hundred—no need in pushing too hard.

Word counts are fine for motivational purposes. I have no problem with daily a limit—so long as it inspires.

But inspiration is often the casualty of daily word counts. Just because an author has forced him- or herself to post two thousand words on Microsoft Word doesn’t mean all of those words are worth another person’s time (or money) in reading.

I speak from experience. I, long ago, had placed a daily count on my writing. I decided that if I had any real hope of being a legitimate author, I needed to complete at least five pages of text each day—whether I felt up to the challenge or not. As a result, I ended up wasting time, effort, and paper. (Yeah, I wrote all of my original work on paper until just the last couple of years.) I’d spend hours pouring “great” ideas onto paper, certain that my first novel was writing itself. Of course, later in the day, just before bedtime, I’d snatch up the day’s five pages and have a proofread. Horror would fill my blood, polluting my sense of being an author, as I’d read awful tripe I’d been proud of only hours earlier. Don’t get me wrong; this wasn’t a daily occurrence. Terror would only strike on those days I wasn’t motivated to write—those forced moments of “creativity!”

Any author will tell you that creativity can’t be forced. I learned years ago that if I am not motivated to write at any particular time, then there’s no sense in going through the motions. It took many years to comprehend this situation. My ego and my confidence took a serious beating during those moments of forced writing. I’d read that garbage and become convinced I would never write anything worth reading. I mean, if I couldn’t stomach my own writing, how could I expect intelligent readers to part with their hard earned money in purchasing my work?

But here’s the thing: Word counts actually work for some people. There are writers out there who, the moment they sit down to create, find immediate inspiration. I’m just not one of them. And neither are many other authors. So don’t feel pressured to write just for the sake of writing. Don’t get sucked into the notion that just because a favorite author demands two thousand words a day from himself that you have to match that count. Quality is always better than quantity.

Happy writing!

Bigfoot Was My Father

The word had spread like locusts in Moses’s neighborhood. It even made the local news. A few seemingly normal individuals made claims of having actually glimpsed the mythical, the strange, the other-worldly. A farmer stood before television cameras telling the community that he’d seen it with his own two eyes, wandering a worn path near his cornfield. A school teacher followed a week later, assuring all who’d listen that she, too, had a run-in with this forgotten relic of evolution. Others came forward as well; respectable people, each and every one, claiming their own encounter with the beast of many names. Sasquatch. Yeti. The Abominable Snowman. But back in the summer of 1977, we all took to calling the legend Bigfoot.

Some witnesses even carried plaster castings to their all-important news conferences. These plaster castings of massive footprints put a fear in those of us who were young enough to believe such a creature could—and probably did—exist in the woods near our homes. And there was little doubt these beasts had a taste for human flesh and blood.

A walk through the back forty now promised carnage to those too slow to outrun an almost-certain encounter. Dares were issued. Goosebumps mingled with adrenaline as the brave ones took up the challenge.

Finally, the day came; I saw the beastly devil with my own two eyes. It hid among the tall grass, crouching low to the ground, doing its absolute best to go undetected, expecting a quick and easy snack.

What I actually saw, though, turned out to be nothing more than a tree stump. But in my ten-year-old mind, that tree stump had long hairy arms and legs, black soulless eyes filled with hunger and hatred, and a notion for tasting blood.

My blood!

I bolted toward the house, every so often tossing glances over my shoulder, certain I’d see the tell-tale loping gait of a monster in fast pursuit.

I saw nothing, though—nothing but trees and weeds and clear blue sky.

Breathless and filled with the rush of having just cheated death, I told my tale of facing the Devil himself to my sister, my brothers, and to a few friends. Eventually the story made its way to my father’s ears.

“No such thing, son,” Dad assured me, certain in his pronouncement.

We wandered back to the scene of my epic showdown with the hairy vision from hell, discovering in its place the afore-mentioned tree stump. The lack of footprints or any other form of irrefutable evidence gave weight to my father’s assumption that Bigfoot does not exist—at least not in our woods.

Then it showed itself, that sparkle of mischief in Dad’s eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a little fun with this.”

We wandered back to the house, excited at the possibilities of what dad had in mind.

A quick search of the closet produced a fur coat; a brown, long-haired thing that ran the length of a person’s body.

Dad slipped into the coat, hunched beneath it, his head hidden. “This will work,” he announced.

Work for what? we kids all wondered.

Dad grabbed his Polaroid camera and the fur coat, and made for the back forty again with us kids in tow.

Just around the bend, near where I swore I’d seen the real monster, my dad donned the coat, drifted into the tall grass and brush, and crouched low to the ground. Two pictures were produced that day; pictures illustrating a large brown hairy thing hiding in the grass.

“Oh my gosh!” my sister’s friend Susan exclaimed upon viewing the evidence. “I am never going out there again.”

We let her believe the lie for a day or two—if I remember correctly.

Others saw the pictures, too, and were given varying versions of how Bigfoot happened to be captured on film.

We always revealed the truth of the matter; we never left a soul to believe the hoax. It was Candid Camera or MTV’s Punk’d on a smaller scale. To us kids, it smacked of pure genius!

The story faded over the years, recalled from time to time with a laugh, a shake of the head, and a fond smile.

My father passed away in May 2012 after suffering a massive heart attack. Since his passing, I find myself pondering those long-forgotten memories with greater frequency. I guess there’s some truth to the idea that a person never truly dies as long as there’s somebody around to remember the little things.

Thanks for the memories, Dad.

Who Is My Neighbor?

Sure, that title is a line from a parable Jesus used in teaching his disciples a lesson in treating even strangers with dignity and respect. But this blog piece isn't really a religious lesson. It's just an observation.

In today's world, do we really know who our neighbors are? I'm not talking about the strange guy up the street, the one who talks to himself while sweeping the front walk. I'm talking about those people we cross paths with every day while going about our lives. You know the ones, like the little old lady in front of you in the grocery store check-out; or the young man walking along the side of the road, heading to who knows where. With the popularity of internet sites like Facebook and Twitter, we can connect with people all over the world. We can log on and learn that Reggie in West London ate crab cakes for dinner tonight, Tanya is Los Angeles broke up with her long-time boyfriend, and Danny in Sydney recently had his first novel published. We friend them on Facebook, follow them on Twitter, and make a connection on LinkedIn, but we never really meet these wonderful people.

And what of that little old lady in the checkout line in front of us? Chances are we won't get beyond a polite smile or an insincere "Have a nice day." The young man walking along the side of the road? We'll ignore him. He could be dangerous.

Don't misunderstand me. I believe social media is vital to those of us looking to promote our work while building an audience. It's a great way to meet interesting people in corners of the world we're not likely to ever visit in person. But the cost of this technology seems to have had a negative effect on how we treat the people around us. We don't have an instant profile to pull up telling us that the young man walking along the side of the road is a father on his way to work so he can support his wife/girlfriend and their newborn baby; or that his car no longer runs so he has to make that 5 mile trek both ways each day. We couldn't possibly know the little old lady in front of us in the checkout line is struggling to make ends meet since her husband of 56 years passed away last fall. Without that profile, we won't bother finding this out the way we as social human beings once did--before the internet.

One of my favorite episodes of the classic American television show Taxi has character Elaine Nardo receiving an invitation to a high-class party. She needs an escort. The obvious choice would be her co-worker and friend Alex Rieger. He's a level-headed guy, understands proper behavior and good manners in these situations. But, for reasons I've forgotten, Alex is unable to attend with Elaine. So, after failing to secure a proper substitute, Elaine finds herself saddled with Jim Ignatowski, played brilliantly by Christopher Lloyd. Jim had once been a bright and near-genius young man--until LSD trips during college left him slow and somewhat addled. The Reverend Jim (he was ordained through a mail-order school) was prone to goofy observations and embarrassing behavior at times.

The thought of attending this high-class shindig with the likes of Jim proved too much for Elaine, so she lied and told the man she wasn't going to attend. Jim eventually caught on and, despite having his feelings hurt, suggested Elaine attend alone. In the end, Elaine brought Jim along, having discovered a true fondness for her fellow cab driver.

When the entertainment fails to show up for the party, Jim volunteers to fill in on the piano. Imagine Elaine's shock and horror over what is surely to be an embarrassing moment, most likely barring her from future invites.

Jim sits at the piano and immediately begins playing "Chopsticks." The room full of snobs begins murmuring complaints. Jim stops playing, says "What the hell!" and launches into some beautiful classical playing that soothes the room. He stops again and says, "I must have had lessons!" before continuing his solo concert.

Elaine worked with the man and had no idea he was so much more than the college dropout with a fried brain. We're all guilty of this on some level. We know more about the guy on the other side of the world than we know about those in our own neighborhood. While social media might bring the world together, it can also contribute to pushing people apart.

So take the time to get to know those who are closest to you. You're bound to learn something.

Hard Way Back (A Book Review)

Hard Way Back by Kent Kaiser

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


When a government no longer represents the interests of its people, but rather seeks to protect its own interests at the expense of law and constitutional rights, the very people of that nation often suffer with little or no recourse. This is the dark and true story Kent Kaiser shares in his personal memoir Hard Way Back. Kaiser’s story is one of corrupt governments lacking compassion, truth, and common sense.

Hard Way Back is one of those riveting tales that will make most readers’ blood boil. The author delves into a years-long odyssey involving both American and New Zealand government officials bent on putting the man away on trumped up charges. Ken is a man who stands his ground, though; taking the fight to these sinister forces intent on bringing misery to those citizens they view with contempt.

But this isn’t just a book about governments gone astray of doing what is right. In vivid detail, Kent Kaiser takes readers with him on treks through such places of breathtaking natural beauty as Alaska and New Zealand, sharing the scenic milieu in wonderfully descriptive narrations that often lead to places and scenes most of us may never get to experience in our own lives. This is a must-read book for anybody who enjoys hunting, conservation, and world travel. If these issues can arise for one person, they can arise for all.



View all my reviews

Genres

Genre: (noun) a category of artistic composition, as in music or literature, characterized by similarities in form, style, or subject matter.

That's how The Oxford American College Dictionary defines the word Genre. There are dozens of genres and sub-genres in the marketplace these days. There's mainstream and indie fiction, paranormal romance, science fiction, western, historical fiction, coming-of-age, erotica, chick-lit, dude-lit, dog-lit, monkey-lit, and a hundred others! It seems new genres are coined every other week. But are so many of these labels even necessary?

Genre labels exist to point readers toward preferred story content. A person who loves being swept away by romance novels won't likely be interested in reading a work of science fiction--unless, of course, this science fiction story follows the budding love affair between a cyborg warrior princess and KITT, the car from Knight Rider. Then a new genre pops up: Mechanical Romance Fiction.

The truth of the matter is, a good story is just a good story, no matter the genre. I enjoy coming-of-age novels. I find historical fiction that's been well-researched to be quite entertaining. A Clive Barker short horror story is always a treat.

Genre tags and sub-genre labels often turn potential readers away from what just might be an amazing reading experience. Case in point: I'm not a fan of the science fiction genre. It's just not what interests me. So when I'm approached by authors asking me to read and review their work of science fiction, I usually try to find an excuse as to why I won't be able to read said book. But then I came across a copy of a novel entitled Idlewild by Nick Sagan, the son of the late Carl Sagan. I fell headlong into one of the better stories I've read in the last ten years. Now, I won't say it's in my top ten, but it certainly fits somewhere within my top thirty.

My point in this is: Forget the labels. Take a chance on something you might not normally bother reading. And for the record, I've read other science fiction novels that did little to draw me in as a fan of the genre--so don't start inundating me with requests to review this Sci-Fi story or that one.

I'm not a fan of the erotica genre, either. I don't mind sex in a well-told story, mind you; I'm just not interested in reading about it from start to finish. A story based on sex alone exposes the characters as one dimensional, the plot as weak, and the author as limited in creativity. So imagine my surprise when I was asked to read and review a story set in that particular genre, and upon finishing the book, found it to be quite entertaining, well-written, and full of imagination. The same thing happened when I decided to read and review a chick-lit book.

The moral here is: Never judge a book by its genre. How many great stories have you missed just because of a label like paranormal romance, sci-fi, or lesbian-vampire-racecar-drivers-fiction? Don't put so much stock into the ever-growing field of genre labels that you cheat yourself out of great and entertaining reads. Approach with an open mind.

Voice Of Indie

What an amazing time we, as indie authors, find ourselves living in. We have the very world at our fingertips. From our homes we can communicate messages to every part of the world. An author in Los Angeles can alert readers in the U.K. of his/her upcoming ebook giveaway. A brand new short story can be posted on any given website and read by hundreds or thousands of readers by day's end. But all of this can only be beneficial to the author if those who would read this work are aware it exists. This is where Twitter, Facebook, and other social media come into play.

I've read the frustrating laments writers post on their blogs concerning lack of readership. The numbers just aren't there. What can be done? Well, here's what I found to be quite helpful: Use those social media sites you've taken the time to set up. Facebook is fine, but if nobody outside of your circle of friends is aware of your page, few people will know of the work you're promoting.

Twitter, as far as I've seen, is by far the best place to draw attention to your various sites. A short burst of 140 characters, complete with a link, will be seen by anybody following you or following those who generously retweet your message. The potential audience is limitless.

This, however, doesn't necessarily translate into book sales. What it does do is it gets author and book title into the public conscience on a larger scale than a simple blog post would. Because, after all, if your blog is read by just a handful of regulars, how can you expect to grow your brand? Write your blog, post a link to it in your tweets, and watch how your number of views grows.

This brings me to the title of this blog piece. I recently set up a Twitter account using the handle @voiceofindie. Yeah, I know, pretentious, right? The truth is, I wholly expected that handle to be in use already. It wasn't, so I took it. That doesn't mean I'm claiming to be the one true voice of the indie movement. Far from it. I am one small voice among many. But the whole idea behind this @voiceofindie is to support and promote independent creativity of all sorts.

An author will tweet me a message or they'll retweet one of my messages. In return, I'll post a link to their site, their book on Amazon, or I'll retweet some of their previous messages. From there, other of my followers retweet my tweets, reaching an even bigger audience. I'm seeing the results. And it's not just indie authors, either. I have many fantastic indie musicians, photographers, artists, and bloggers following me. As my following grows, the audience potential grows. And I follow everybody who follows me.

The point of @voiceofindie is this: A strong indie movement is good for all of us who are involved in it. So join me in this network of indie promotion and let's build our audiences together.