Jay Royston's Blog, page 7

My Personal Curse of Pestilence

Part 1 of Many

Artistic Therapy.Pestilence; The Spaghetti Incident Edition One of the few remaining transitional stills
I photoshopped for the movie.
I made a new friend recently. I told him I once made a movie. He wanted to see it so I gave him the DVD to watch. He called later to say there was no DVD in the cover. I laughed and said something to the extent of 'oh, that sucks'. I haven't bothered to look for the actual movie yet and that was three months ago. Just another big chunk of my life gone with no souvenir to show for it. Even all my publicity work for is stuck in one of my old hard-drives from some old computer tower, waiting for me to see if I can mine it out.


Everybody has their skeletons in their closet. My biggest on, in terms of my artistic aspirations, was a movie with the working title of Pestilence. This is that story.

I've lost track of many of the people involved over the years; some became Facebook friends for this story pre-dates Facebook. For their own privacy, if they read this, they can feel comfort in knowing I have not used their real names. Except for Trey, cuz Trey was a jerk.

Now, I've always fought a personal philosophical battle of 'going with the flow' or 'fighting to make it happen'. Many of my jobs came because of personal connections, not necessarily because I was the one best suited for the job. I've often taken a passive role in my life and sometimes I am surprised I am still alive. In truth, I wouldn't be if it weren't for many of the friends I've made along my way that have encouraged me, made me laugh, and made me believe in being able to attempt my dreams. Not that it was always the best thing for me but often, we choose who we want to hear.

I pitched a movie idea to John Henson (of Muppets fame) because a fellow PA said I was 100% guaranteed to not have it happen if I didn't at least try. I met him half-way, mailed him my pitch instead of telling him in person. I'm still here...

So this is a story about 'Going with The Flow' vs. 'Making It Happen'.


Quick background, all of this which led me on the path towards Pestilence.

Many, many decades ago, riding the wave of Clerks angst and enthusiasm, I attended film school. Then I did a film magazine. Then I went bankrupt and returned to my hometown, where I rode out my bankruptcy in melancholy grace. I volunteered at the cable TV station, which led to me producing a children's TV show. That ended with a dispute with the children's performer which I might talk about later. But that show led me to a girl, whom I started dating a year later. I will call her 'Winnie'. She thought I had it in me to also be something bigger, like a private detective or someone who wrote greeting cards. She made me laugh and made me feel I could do anything. She once dared/encouraged me to go on a blind date after a girl mistakenly called me so I did.

Seriously. A girl like that doesn't come along too often. For the record, my blind date was loopy and by the end of the night had invited two other guys to join us. Perhaps it was me but I wasn't really interested in being there anyways.

Winnie and I talked of making a movie, she was interested in my past. She entered a short commercial into a beer contest but said she didn't want my help as she wanted to do it on her own. I respected that, although I found it a little strange and was a little hurt.

We shared a similar passion for wanting to do something more with our lives. So we did. And it ended in a battle of wills, with nobody coming out victorious. I don't know what happened to her, but here it is, fifteen years later and I'm working it out.

On to my therapy...



The Red Flags of Pestilence
Pre-Production Actual Pre-production meeting:
-Okay, here's all the roles we need to fill on a film set.
-How many crew can we afford to pay?
-Um...two, if you and I work for free.
Let's start with pre-production. I went into this with the whole 'Kevin Smith' idealization that we could do a semi-successful low-budget movie, enter it in a few festivals and get 'discovered'.

As mentioned, I had some great people in my corner, encouraging me to do it. One I was dating, the other my best friend. My producer was a beautiful, gregarious go-getter with a mean independent streak in her. She didn't know the minutiae of filming but that's where I came in. I would explain it to her as we went. I worked for an airline in a different town. Due to the circumstances, that airline kept our relationship together and enabled me one great benefit; cheap tickets for flying my own golden Triangle between work, home and Vancouver, the heart of the film industry in my province.

So I wrote a script and we set a deadline. The plan was to do a campy horror movie, something like Evil Dead but with a Native angle, as I have always been interested in the myths of First Nations and thought they were tragically under-represented in terms of cinematic story-telling.

Our 6 protagonists would find themselves being slowly picked off one by one by an unseen force in the woods. My 'Ash' hero would have that weak-to-strong character arc as he battled to survive and also figure out what was going on. Nothing ground-breaking, but low-budget doable.

I was to be in charge of the creative, she'd do the business side of things, with help from me, as I had experience from low-budget shoots during and after film school. I created a media kit for her to show investors. It explained the plot of the movie, but more importantly, explained the business side of things, how they'd earn their money back, plus more. Once we shot the movie, we'd edit and then enter it into festivals and such. I envisioned some small sale to a distributor, maybe roll that into bigger and better things. Together we would move to Vancouver or Toronto and get into the 'Biz', officially.

Ambitious and delusional, we entered Autumn, hoping to start filming in the Spring. She found an abandoned cabin 30 minutes out of town. She tracked down the owner by going through some garbage in the cabin. We offered to fix up the cabin, remove a fallen tree and fix the roof of another cabin on the property which was to become our cast cabin. He said go ahead and before the snow fell, we fixed the roof of the cabin, received permission from the nearest neighbor to run electricity from their place and brought up a film school friend of mine to do a locations/camera test. He said he was willing to be my cinematographer and cameraman. I will call him 'Mel'.

When we got our first investor, we sent him a check to start putting down deposits on the equipment we needed to rent but I will get to that in a minute.

Now our first investor didn't happen until deadline day, the day I told 'Winnie' if we didn't have any money by then, we should forget about it. I was having second thoughts but again... maybe, just maybe if I had as much faith as her...

As the day came, I recall thinking perhaps it was for the best. It was just not meant to happen. Then she called and said she got someone on board for $5000. So I shrugged and thought maybe this was meant to happen after all.

She wound up getting two other investors after that and the excitement and bank account started to build, as well as the realization of what we (I) needed to do.



Winnie organized a casting call in our hometown. We needed at least six people; preferably ones who were unemployed or had adaptable schedules, could act and were willing to be outside a lot. I insisted on my best friend to be the American asshole, as he was often considered to already have half of that description down pat. For the record, I loved the guy.

We needed a 'nice guy', and we cast a young man who was up working on a Big Budget movie. He has since gone on to have a steady career in film and has become my 'I knew him when' story.

The third guy was someone we needed to be the hero, the weak, unassuming guy who would live to the end, to be Ash using the Evil Dead analogy. We cast someone based on strong recommendations and honestly wasn't that memorable during casting. Perfect.

For the women we selected a high school theater major to be the independent, strong one who could stand up to the Asshole.

We selected the Trophy Girlfriend, beautiful and willing to be fashion-forward and pretend to like the American Asshole.

Lastly, the First Nations girl. She was to also survive until the end, to help explain the native aspects of the story. She was a tiny woman and I honestly forget how we found her. I can't recall if she was at the auditions either but she was willing and enthusiastic.

There was also another guy I really liked at the auditions and selected him for one small part with no dialogue. He was really talented and hilarious but I saw one of the problems directors must face when you see someone who'd be perfect 'for something else'.

Anyways, all good so far. We had a cast, I had Mel down south, gathering equipment and finding a small crew, perhaps another cameraman and sound guy. I had another friend, interested in the behind the scenes and I asked him to be my Assistant Director, which is basically the one who handles more of the logistics of the shooting and a living band-aid for everything. I'd been one and found it is a thankless job if a shoot goes bad and a forgotten job if a shoot goes well.

I went back to work, had my AD do some table reads with the cast. I worked on a shooting script and storyboards.

We met a 'special effects' person from the local theater and asked him to create two props, a head for my decapitation victim and a totem pole made out of victim's body parts. The head would be the top.

And Cut.

Our (my) first real problem came with Mel, the guy who was going to film it, disappearing on me with our first big check, the down-payment on our equipment and his services. I didn't tell Winnie about this - as she had already expressed concerns of not hiring 'local'. In my defense, I didn't know anyone up there who had real big-movie camera and lighting experience, like Mel did.

When it came down to it, he was a good friend, with experience, who I trusted.

But he wouldn't return my emails, wouldn't answer the phone when I called. This went on for weeks.

I flew down to Vancouver one morning, rented a car and drove to his place. It was just after 8 when i walked up his street and saw him leaving his house, dressed in shirt and tie, like he was going to a bank appointment. There was little reason for me to expect what was really going on with him, which I will get to. If I was one minute later, I would have missed him so... this was meant to be.

Of course, he was surprised to see me showing up on his walkway so early in the morning. To make a long, uncomfortable meeting short, he apologized to me, said he couldn't do the movie anymore but had someone he'd recommend, a fellow DoP. He'd help him get the equipment and set up a meeting with 'Lester'.  I asked him about the down payment I gave him and he said it would be given to Dave, his referral. I left, dazed.

It was only years later I would learn he'd become a cocaine addict and most likely spent all the money on drugs. I don't know how much he gave to Lester and I never asked.

I barely remember anything about meeting Lester. He was a DJ/filmmaker and had done a couple things himself. He had his own camera and was willing to do it for I believe $1500. We'd pay his airfare and find him a place to stay when he was up there. I never told Winnie about what really happened on that Vancouver trip, simply telling her Mel had to back out but I found an equal replacement who came highly recommended.

I recall Les gave me a couple of books about directing actors. He had done a few things, and to be frank, I didn't feel I had a choice in this anymore. I could cancel the whole thing, disappoint everyone who believed in this, apologize and say we will try it again another time.

I didn't.

That was my first problem. I couldn't admit to my partner I made a huge mistake and kept the problem of my DoP putting the money we gave him up his nose hidden from her...

Sneak Peak; Karmageddon Chicken-style

Karmajuana In The Chicken Coop ABB +93 (93 days After The Big Bangs)



“Let me ask you this. What’s your passion? Because I don’t feel you are passionate about this job.”
Curt Camfield cursed under his breath. The chicken gizzards, guts or whatever you called the inside of a chicken was piling up in the pail beside him. Three months ago, before the bombs hit, he had been a simple financial officer, living a comfortable life in a mid-level bank in a mid-level town in mid-level mediocrity. 
Chester Cloverfield, the semi-geriatric man currently standing across from him on the slaughtering table was waiting for his answer. In one hand he held the carcass of another headless, featherless chicken, the other a butcher knife. He held it more for effect than for efficiency as all he did was bring the headless chickens to Curt from the killing room.
Chester reminded Curt of his former district manager, who asked him the same question four months earlier, one month before the shit really hit the fan, six days before the financial markets collapsed and all the money in all the vaults was efficiently taken away by armed men in armored cars.
His former manager ordered Curt to calmly reassure those who cared too much about their money that their deposit was insured by the federal government, even if it wasn’t there. That was the last he ever heard from the district manager.
As Curt dutifully repeated those words to clients he never met, he had felt a gnawing unease in that part of the brain he assumed was his intuition. Soon someone in the growing mob would stop being vocal and start being physical. Especially when one of them voiced the suspicion Curt shared; there was no more federalized Bank of Canada, much less a working government able to guarantee their deposits. His promise was worth no more than the paper it wasn’t written on.
At that life-evaluating moment, as he looked over many of his employer’s most valued and valuable clients, he reconsidered that question. What was his passion? Was he truly that passionate about his job he was willing to risk his life over someone else’s money? Wasn’t that his superior’s job, the guy who disappeared three days earlier, with a simple ‘Gone fishing’ email, leaving Curt the one with the most seniority in the branch? Was he that passionate about that job he was willing to defend the honor and empty coffers of his employer?
Fuck, no.
So he led them all into the back and pointed to the vault’s open door. They surged in, victims of cinematic shortcuts, envisioning shelves stacked with dollar bills. He relied they would be so anxious to get their life savings they forgot they needed Curt for more than directions to the vault. As the last pushed their way in and the first realized they had no combinations to the vault’s many empty safes, Curt was out the door faster than the stock market crash. He ran to his car, thankful that in the banking industry one made clients, not friends. None of his clients knew where he lived. Still he raced home, told his wife and kids to get their shit in the RV and headed north as quickly as possible.
They drove two days before the back roads and gas ran out. The caravan they inadvertently joined on the highway led them here to Bluenose City, one of the many small city-enclaves survivors had established. It was here, Curt and his family found themselves new-age pioneers, living a simple, non-currency based life. Now it was all about survival and showing your worth to the whole, not to the stock market. But still it was the same crap. Chester was an original resident of Bluenose City, back when it was too far away from anything to remember other than it was a small hamlet carved into the mountain which bore its name.
Chester thought he liked the isolation and solidarity of raising chickens but it took until the refugees coming to realize he enjoyed even more being a head rooster. When the bombs hit and the community grew, he felt he was meant to be a leader and it certainly helped his political aspirations that he owned the biggest chicken coop in the area.
He once confided in Curt weeks ago he dreamed of a moment such as this when he took over the chicken farm. There was a decades-long stigma to the farm due to the infamous, yet rarely discussed, Church Easter Egg Massacre of ’08. But Chester felt he could break the Cloverfield Egg Farm curse with hard work, dedication and by not dabbling in God’s creations, which was whispered to be the reason behind the massacre.   
Now, it was all worth it. Of course, it took an entire societal breakdown but he now controlled the main source of food and eggs, present and future for the entire Bluenose population. And to make matters worse to Curt, Chester was a socialist. He made people work for their food, in a very literal sense of the word. And this week, Curt was on chicken disemboweling duty, in return he would earn two dozen eggs and two quarter chicken chits to be used or bartered with at the Bluenose Co-op.  
“What’s my passion?” Curt repeated, holding up a handful of something that once resided in a chicken, “I can safely say that it isn’t this.”
“Fair enough,” said Chester, “chicken guts aren’t for everyone. But how do you feel about contributing to the best interests of an entire community? Don’t look at it as blood and guts but as the new gold. And for that you need passion. Hard, unselfish work will get you everything you want. Look at me.”
“I was making it fine in the old world, to be honest. And I know you inherited this chicken farm from your father, who inherited it from his father. So I guess I put the question back to you; what is your passion? Because it can’t be here, in your father’s shadow. Every man grows up either wanting to be their father or better their father. And to be honest, as much as I’ve seen you bringing a lot of decapitated chickens in here, I have yet to see you actually putting your hand up one of their asses and pulling out any gold nuggets.”
Chester’s face fell. As did the chicken but at least the chicken made an expected thump on the table. Chester’s face simply whispered of hurt feelings which immediately made Curt feel like an asshole. He knew what the guy was doing; he did it to his kids and wife as well on a daily basis.
He was telling him to not give up.
“So what happened back in ‘O-eight?” Curt asked, changing the subject. He picked up the dead chicken and thrust a hand inside, blocking out the feeling.
“The Massacre?” asked Chester. “Not too many people round here like talking about that.”
“I noticed,” said Curt, “sounds like it was a big deal.”
“Massacres usually are,” admonished Chester, “that’s why it’s called a massacre. You’re not too bright for a big city boy, are you?”
“I wouldn’t say big city, more medium city,” answered Curt, not noticing the insult as he was trying to avoid thinking of what he was holding and not glancing into the gut pail near full beside him.
Chester sat on one of the disemboweling stools on the other side of Curt’s workbench. He picked at some dried blood, guts and feather remnants which had embedded themselves into the bench over the years.
He took a deep breath before starting his story.  
“My pappy was a bit of a back shed scientist,” he started, “when he wasn’t out here tending to the chickens he was in his work shed, tinkering. One day he read that book Frankenstein and got it into his head he could create the perfect chicken. So he started cross-breeding. Did you know when Frankenstein was written, cross-breeding was all the rage back then? It was like, the royal hobby among the elite. That’s where the Westminster Dog Show came from; from royals wanting to show their latest creations. Anyways, Dad got the idea he would do the same for chickens.”
Curt said nothing, grateful for the break. He peeled off his gloves, grabbed his water bottle and sat down across from Chester.
“So he created this chicken/ostrich thing,” continued Chester, “Truthfully it was awful to look at but not to Pappy. Like, serious nightmares kind of thing. But he was ecstatic. And this chicken thing could lay eggs like nobody’s business, the size of softballs, yolk as sweet as a lover’s kiss. So Pappy takes it down to the 4-H club, and there the shit really hit the fan. Old Tom Armstrong starts it, yelling at him that he’s messing with God, sacrilege and the like. And none of the other farmers cared for the idea of a chicken which could lay a dozen eggs in one shell and had two vaginas.”
“Bad for business,” added Curt, who then tried to visualize a chicken with two vaginas and decided against it.
Chester nodded. “So he thinks a way to win over the locals is to donate some of his new eggs to the church’s annual Easter Egg hunt, a sort of ‘apology defense for messing in Creationism’ thing. He goes down there and donates these beautifully painted giant eggs my mom and sis did up. He even brings down the chicken-ostrich thing to show the locals there is nothing to fear. Offers free rides on it to the little ones.”
“Perfectly logical. What kid wouldn’t want to ride a giant monster chicken?”
“Then Old Tom came in and shot my pappy. The chicken-thing goes berserk, kills Old Tom and a couple of other men. Seven people in all.”
“Wow, that’s awful.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t too bad - Tom and his friends were real racist bastards. Three were government inspectors, up for a surprise inspection. But still the damage was done. Pappy was dead. His chicken disappeared, ran out into the woods and was never seen again.”    
“Wait,” said Curt, “So you are saying out there is a giant mutant chicken in the mountains?”
“Well it was many years ago. It’s probably dead by now.”
“Did anybody ever see it again?” asked Curt, fascinated. He couldn’t wait to tell this story to Courtney.
“Oh sure, lots of people. But you know how it goes - someone says they saw a giant monster chicken and people just make that little circley motion on the side of their head and people start walking the other way. But until her dying day, Mom always left a large pile of grain out near Pappy’s shed. She made me swear that I would continue to put out the grain when she passed.”
“And did you?”
“Hell, no.” Chester scoffed and thumped the workbench with his axe. “Why would I want a monster chicken around the place? Anyways, enough talk. We got work to do. I’ll go get you another chicken. Regular-size.”
He slipped off his stool and went back into the killing room.
Curt finished his water. He put the cup back on the window sill with the others. In his mind thoughts of the Giant Monster Chicken of Bluenose Mountain sprouted the seeds of a new passion.
Actual picture of the Giant Monster Chicken of Bluenose Mountain
in writer's living room

Indie Author Tips #5 -Rehash Old Material - Zombies!

Indie Author Tips #5 -Rehash Old Material - Zombies!{click on the title}

Indie Author Tips #4 Behind the Typing

Indie Author Tips #4 Behind the Typing


Every once in awhile I read on my writer forums someone who is interested in reading a W.I.P (work in progress). Specifically they are interested in seeing how a book 'changes' between drafts. 

As I grow as a writer, I can see two problems with this request. First, I don't really want someone to read something I'm not proud of, nor have finished. Second, a lot of changes in editing are typos, some grammar mistakes, maybe a name change or two. Nothing you'd really notice unless you laid each page side by side. 
It's not like you are going to care I broke a long paragraph into two so as to make it easier to read, or that I added 'so as' between that two and to just so you aren't reading tu-tu in the middle of a sentence. 
However, sometimes there are big changes I make. The reasons vary but mostly it is because I feel the first draft doesn't read well. Perhaps it is slightly boring or there is too much exposition going on. Of course, I don't feel it at the time I'm writing - when it's going well, I'm just trying to keep my fingers at the same speed as my brain. 
So that said, I'm going to show a large change I did for a forthcoming novel from 1st to 2nd draft .
Context; this is a stand-alone chapter about Matt The Drug Dealer, who has found his sales plummeting since Karmajuana (you've read Enter a Fistful, yes?) has been legalized. He is one of a very few people that are not directly affected by Karmajuana's brainwashing abilities. Ironically, a lot of his chronics aren't either; turns out 1% of the population isn't affected by Karma.  
This is the first draft; (1400 words)
T-5 Matt the Drug Dealer
It was just past two pm when Matt heard the doorbell. He believed he jumped from his third-hand couch to his particle board door in record time. However, he didn’t exactly jump nor was it in record time as he was quite stoned. What he really did was slide off the couch like a half-full water balloon onto the floor and waited for his legs to catch up to the rest of his body.
It was only with supreme effort he was able to stand and focus on where the door was this time. The doorbell rarely rang anymore. As a businessman, the doorbell was a big part of his life in being a reputable and reliable pot dealer.
He peaked out the window before opening; another middle-aged man, not one of his regulars. Matt cursed. This guy would have the same request as all the other noobs who came ringing his doorbell like he was a goddamn McDonald’s; Karmajuana.
Matt had plenty of Karma. However, just because he didn’t like it, didn’t mean he wouldn’t sell it. He sold coke and hash and on occasion meth but he didn’t care for that clientele. The problem for him was he also had a lot of other shit that wasn’t moving and if it wasn’t moving, he wasn’t making money.
This new Karma shit was flooding the market and Matt was pretty experienced in the varieties of marijuana out there, knew his homegrown from his factory grown. This stuff was going gangbusters. People wanted it and people were getting it. He had made sure to try it himself, especially when it was becoming all the rage but he couldn’t see what the big demand was. It was a good buzz, nothing more. He had way more powerful shit sitting in his stash box than Karma but nobody cared. It was all they wanted. Karma, karma, karma. 
And he wasn’t the only one to notice. A couple of his chronics also mentioned their curiosity over what the big attraction was.
At first it was pretty exciting when Karma came out. After all, Matt was still a businessman who liked to listen to cold, hard cash. And everyone was buying. And by everyone, it was everyone.
Then it started getting weird. First, the neighbours came over and asked if he carried any of this Karmajuana they heard about. Then it was the moms. Trophy moms pushing strollers came right up to his door, looking straight out of a school board meeting, asking if he could set them up. Lastly, it was the cops. Cops actually coming to his door, ringing his goddamn doorbell and having the unusual audacity to ASK if he could score them some Karma. AND they did it politely. Fearing a set-up, he played ignorant. Then they just…left. No good cop, bad cop. No search warrants, no mind games. They just left.
His fellow dealers he was on speaking terms with had similar stories of being harassed by the Man in all shapes and forms, but not aggressively, not the ‘get-out-of-my-neighbourhood’ type way, just asking if they had any of this Karmajuana going around. Then everyone stopped asking because frankly, everyone was giving. It was a Karmajuana Christmas out there, every day. The very same cops who asked to get hooked up came by the next day and gave him a pack of nicely rolled Karma cigarettes then left. It was the strangest conversation ever and speaking as someone who has had plenty of odd conversations under the influence, that was saying something. 
The doorbell rang again but because he had muscle memory and still knew where the door was, it didn’t take him so long to get there from the couch. He checked the peephole, sighed happily and opened the door.
“What’s up, James?” Matt asked.“Nothing, man. Just chilling. What’s up with you?” said James. Matt easily could smell the Karma on him. “Want to come in?”
“Uh, yeah.” And while that was James’ opinion on the matter, he didn’t move. Matt looked up the street, noticed for the first time it was a pretty decent day outside and decided to sit down on the front steps. James sat down beside him. They both sat there doing nothing. James pulled out a Karma, lit it and handed it to Matt. They smoked in silence until there was nothing left.“Hey James?” asked Matt.“Yeah?”“Have you noticed that things are, like, different lately?”“Sorta. I was just at the 7/11. There’s nobody there.”“You mean it’s closed?” asked Mike. The store was open 24/7 - he sent and received a lot of business to the convenience store for customers in search of munchies at 1am or drugs at 12am. He never knew it to be closed.  “No. Like abandoned. It was still open but nobody was in there.”“Someone must have been there. Maybe they were just in the shitter.”“Well, there was this guy, Abed or Ammad or whatever. He said he worked there but he was smoking weed outside. Told me to go in and help myself to anything.”
Matt frowned. He knew Amed. He was a good guy but never smoked the bud. Never. He was the only clerk there whom Matt knew who would also ban shoplifters, as if he had a share in the profits the store made. If it was one of Matt’s customers, Amed would tell him so Matt would relay the message. Often Matt covered the losses with his own money or if Matt knew the thief, would personally bring them back to apologize to Amed and make them promise not to do it again. Matt respected Amed’s minimum wage honesty and business ethics, much like Amed respected his. He couldn’t match the vision of the Amed he knew with the Karma-smoking, apathetic Amed James described.
“And it’s not just him, there are a lot of open smokers out there now. Have you heard of these Karmafarians?”“Karmafarians?” asked Matt, who was proud to never be up on current events, as was evident by his PS2 game system. “Never heard of them.”“Yeah, it’s like, some type of cult or gang or something. They give away Karmajuana, for free.”“Free? That doesn’t make any sense. Where’s the profit in that?”“And everyone is just…chilling. Downtown is so quiet. Not quiet in people, lots of people, but more quiet in like no traffic. No cars. There’s just people sitting everywhere, chilling.” James said chilling way more than was necessary. If Matt was in a pissy mood he called him on it. However, today was not one of those days. “Weird,” Matt thought for a moment before admitting his experiences with the cops, “you know there is something really strange about that shit.”“Yeah, I guess. It’s good, but it’s not like put-you-in-a-wheelchair and orgasm type good. It just makes everyone massively chill.”“That’s what I thought too,” exclaimed Matt, happy to finally have someone on the same wavelength, “I don’t get it.”
“I heard that some of the chronics down at the skate shop also don’t get the big deal. Some say it’s the reason why marijuana was legalized. Somebody got it onto Parliament Hill and got everyone high, even the Prime Minister.”
“Fuck. Could you imagine? Getting high with the PM? What if everyone just stops doing shit and it’s up to the chronics to get shit done?”“That would be awful,” said James, passing his Karma over to Matt.“Yeah. I don’t even know where we would start. I guess we could get these Karmafarians to stop giving away free weed. My business is dying here.”“Isn’t that more a job for the cops? Or for you know… your guys?”Matt knew James was referring to his suppliers, rumoured to be part of the toughest motorcycle gang in North America.“I haven’t heard from them in weeks. I don’t know what the hell is going on.”“I don’t want to become a Narc. I mean, if it is a choice between free Karma and snitching, I’m on their side. I mean, free weed? Why not, right?”“Well, in theory. Maybe we should ask around, see if the other guys feel the same about these Karmafarians, find out who they are.”  
But instead Matt and James sat on the front porch and watched the clouds and people go by. They began to notice the neighbours, many of them doing the same thing; just sitting on their front porches, chilling. The smell of Karma was heavy in the air.
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So I wrote that more than a year ago. Didn't think about it too much as it was simply only one character idea of many. Then I started getting serious of doing an Enter a Fistful sequel and I found I had all these short stories but no order to them. I had recurring characters, new characters, time-travelling characters (from a Nanowrimo challenge), political manifestos, hockey pool commentaries, a Dr. Strangelove tribute, etc. Basically I created a 'Frankenstein's Monster' of a story. It was overwhelming. I created some order in the chaos; a count-down of sorts. I separated characters into before/after/during on a timeline. I separated finished and unfinished chapters, did summaries of about 50+ individual short stories.I chose Matt's story because if/when weed becomes legalized, it will affect people like Matt, who rely on the underground economy. He is Day #5 before all shit breaks loose. The goal of this was to show how quickly Karmajuana had spread across society. 
Now, onto the 2nd draft. 
The hard part is admitting when you don't like something you've done. I liked parts of Matt's story, didn't care for others. Some of it was a rehash of themes I'd already done. There's a lot of exposition there. What happened with the original guy who rang the doorbell? There's that paragraph on Abed and why Matt respected him. Is that needed? How is this advancing the storyline? So one night in bed I decided to change it. It then became this; 


Version 2 (1440)
T-5 Matt the Drug DealerIt was just past two pm when Matt heard the doorbell chime.The doorbell rarely rang anymore. As a businessman, the doorbell was a big part of his life in being a reputable and reliable pot dealer.On the other side of the door was yet another middle-aged white guy who looked vaguely like a lost cop. It was someone he didn’t know but he knew this guy would have the same request as all the other noobs who came ringing his doorbell like he was a goddamn McDonald’s; Karmajuana. He opened the door.“Hey, how you doing?” the man asked.“Fine,” replied Matt, looking up and down the street for witnesses.“You want any Karma?”“What?”“You want any Karma?”“Karma? As in Karmajuana?”“Yeah, I have lots.” the guy said, grinning.“How much?” Matt asked, curious as to who this guy thought he was, coming to his door and offering to sell HIM pot. “How much?” “Yeah, how much you charging?”“Charging?” he laughed, “No, man. We don’t sell Karma, we give it away.”“You’re giving away Karma?" Matt was perplexed at the thought, "Who are you?”“I’m a Karmafarian, from the Karmafarian party, three weeks now.” He held up a pin with a bowling pin on it which had nothing to do with anything from Matt’s perspective. “I’m here to spread our message.” “Karmafarian?” asked Matt, who was proud to never be up on current events, as was evident by his PS2 game system. “Never heard of it.”“What’s your message?” asked Matt.“What?”“What’s your message? You’re going door to door, giving away Karma, what’s your message?”“We’re giving away Karma. What’s the confusion here?”“Look, man. You know who I am?”“Yeah, you’re Matt. Abed sent me here.”“Abed? From the 7/11?” He knew Abed quite well. He sent a lot of business to the store in the form of clients in search of munchies at 12 am. In return, Abed sent clients there in search of weed at 11 pm. Abed was a good guy but never known to smoke the bud. Matt respected Abed’s minimum wage honesty and business ethics, much like Abed respected his. “Yeah, he said you’re the guy to see about weed.”“Yeah, but I don’t smoke it. I sell it. I sell all sorts of shit; acalpulco gold, prime Kush, wheelchair, skunk, Triple X, Triple Y. In fact, it is because of your Karma, I’m not selling shit anymore.”“Glad to hear it, Karma is definitely not shit.”“That’s not what I mean.”“You sure you don’t want any? It is free and it’s changing the world.”He held out a pack of cigarettes. There was a stylized K on the cover. “Trust me," he said, "This is changing the world. And it’s completely non-addictive.”“I’ve heard that before.”“No, seriously.”Behind them a cop car pulled up to the curb. “Hey, Ted, hey Matt,” said an officer from the car. Matt recognized Officer Michaels, one of the less friendly cops who always had a bead on for Matt.“Hi Jeff,” called Ted, waving.“Ted, I need more Karma,” said the officer. Matt looked at the two of them, confused. “No problem,” said Ted. He turned to Matt. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”Ted approached the car, give Officer Michaels a pack of K and not be arrested. The officer called out to Matt. “You can trust this guy, Matt. He’s one of the good ones. And this Karma is way better than the shit you peddle.”Matt raised one hand in acknowledgement. “Okay, thanks for the unsolicited advice, officer.”Ted came back up the walk as the police car pulled away. “Here,” he said, giving Matt another pack, “take it. Our toll-free Karma number is in there if you have any questions.”“Free Karma?” asked Matt.Ted laughed again. “Free Karma. Just spread the word.”
An hour later, Matt was on his couch when the doorbell rang again. In the ashtray in front of him was the butt end of a Karma. Since smoking it, Matt had been in blissful contemplation. The doorbell went off again and in his mind he jumped from his third-hand couch to the front door of his rental unit in record time. In truth, it wasn’t in record time nor did he jump. Instead what he really did was slowly slide his legs off the couch like a half-full water balloon onto the floor and waited for the rest of his body to catch up. It was only with supreme effort he stood and focused on where the door was. Part of being a reputable and reliable pot dealer was to never make a transaction while stoned. This state of mind and body was a clear indication of how poorly his business was doing lately, especially since they legalized marijuana. And then Ted came along with this Karmajuana. Matt felt like a candlestick maker when electricity was invented.
Of course he knew of Karma. It was the biggest rage right now. Matt seen this trend many times before when some new drug came out. First it was the kids, then it was the adults. Then it was a new drug and the cycle would continue. So for this month it was Karmajuana. He smoked some and wasn’t overwhelmed by it. It was weed. And he wasn’t the only one who felt confused as to the demand. A couple of his chronic customers also mentioned their curiosity over what the big attraction was. It was weed, nothing to change careers over and that was exactly what seemed to be happening. But all sorts of noobs were trying it, and that made for some pretty exciting paydays.
At first it was pretty exciting. After all, Matt was still a businessman who liked to listen to cold, hard cash. And everyone was buying. And by everyone, it was everyone. First, the neighbours on his left, uptight assholes who kept to themselves, came over and asked if he sold any of this Karmajuana they heard about. Then it was the moms. Trophy moms pushing strollers came right up to his door, looking straight out of a school board meeting, asking if he could set them up.
His fellow dealers he was on speaking terms with had stories of being approached by uniformed police officers, asking if they could BUY Karma off them. Then supply caught up and the demand never decreased. He heard stories of people like Ted, giving it away for free. It made no sense, money-wise.
The doorbell rang again. Because he had decent muscle memory and still knew where the door was, it didn’t take him so long to get there from the couch. He checked the window, sighed happily and opened the door.
“Hey, what’s up, James?” Matt asked to the long-haired skater holding his board in one hand. James was more of a friend than a customer although Matt wasn’t sure if James saw it that way.“Nothing, man. Just bored,” replied James. Matt could smell the Karma on him but said nothing more. “Wanna smoke some Karma? Guy handing it out up at Abed’s.”“Sure.” Matt shrugged. He didn’t say anything about Ted. They sat on the front step and watched the clouds go by as they smoke a Karma in silence. “Hey James?” asked Matt, finally.“Yeah?” drawled James.“This Karma, it’s going to change the world isn’t it?”“Yeah, I think so.”“How?”“I don’t know man, I don’t know. But everyone is just…chill. Downtown is dead. Ike’s, The Skate shop, the Tim’s, Starbuck’s, Value Village; they’ve all closed up. And that’s just this week. But there are tons of people all around, smoking and chilling. Nobody cares. The skate park is packed. Everyone is chilling.”
James said chilling way more than was necessary. If Matt was in a pissy mood he called him on it. However, today was not one of those days.
“Weird,” Matt finally told him of his experience with Ted and the cops earlier. “he said he was spreading a message.”
James leaned in confidentially and said in a lowered voice, “Some say this Karma is the reason why weed was finally legalized. Word is somebody got it onto Parliament Hill and got everyone high, even the Prime Minister; put it in the air conditioning or something.”
 “This shit killed the business,” reflected Matt, stubbing out the Karma on the front step.
Matt and James sat on the front porch and watched the clouds and people go by. They noticed the neighbours, many of them doing the same thing; sitting on their front porches, chilling. The smell of Karma was heavy in the air. James started humming a familiar tune. 
 “The times, they are-a changing.”  <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

   Now as I read that, I can see there is still going to be another edit. But the changes should be relatively minor compared to the big changes I made between the two. I'm still not feeling all that great with James visiting and will probably try to tighten that up a little. But I wanted him to explain how many businesses are closing. As I write this, I'm wondering if it wouldn't be better to have Matt simply see the businesses closing himself, have him go visit Abed...

I like it a bit better as there is more dialogue. I need to make the 2nd half also more dialogue heavy. I thought having someone offer free Karma to a drug dealer was funny and a better example of how prevalent Karma is. Plus having a cop ask for some works better than Matt's exposition in the previous version. 

I also like ending it on the Bob Dylan lyric. 


Version 3 (1700 words)
T-5 Matt the Drug DealerIt was just past two pm when Matt heard someone knocking on the door. He opened his eyes, found he was still on the couch, as he had been since last night.
Hardly anyone knocked on his door anymore. As a businessman, every knock on the door was an opportunity he couldn’t miss; such was the life of being a reputable and reliable pot dealer. He rose, stretched and shuffled to the door.
He opened it to yet another middle-aged white guy wearing a crisp white shirt and black tie. Off one shoulder hung a black backpack. He looked like a cop coming off a stake-out or going on vacation.
Matt sighed, knowing this guy would want the same thing all the others who came before him wanted; Karmajuana, the newest craze in drugs.
“Hey, how you doing?” the man asked, grinning as if Matt was already his best friend.“What you want, dude?” Matt asked curtly.“My name’s Ted. I’m going around, seeing if you want any Karma.” “What?” Matt’s brow furrowed. “You want any Karma?” Ted repeated.“Karma? As in Karmajuana?”“Yeah, I have lots,” Ted said, pulling off his backpack.“How much?” Matt asked, for research purposes. After all, it is not every day he could compare prices with new dealers, especially before he broke their legs. He leaned inside his door, fingered the tip of his special Louisville Slugger baseball bat, used primarily for these situations. “How much what?” Ted asked. “How much you charge for say an eighth?”“Charge?” he laughed, “No, man. I’m a Karmafarian. We don’t sell Karma, we give it away.”“Who are you?” Matt was puzzled. He never heard of a Karmafarian. But then again Matt wasn’t one to keep up on current events, as was evident by his PS2 gaming system.“I’m a Karmafarian, three weeks now.” He pointed to a small lapel pin on his breast pocket. It had a bowling pin which had nothing to do with anything from Matt’s perspective.“I don’t get it. Why?” asked Matt.“What?”“Why you giving away Karma?”“Because it’s Karma,” replied Ted, faltering as this wasn’t a script he had experience with, “What’s the confusion, Matt?”“How do you know my name?” asked Matt, one hand grasping the Louisville, still hidden behind the door. “Abed told me. He sent me here.”“Abed? From the 7/11?” Matt knew Abed quite well. Abed sent customers to Matt in search of weed at 11pm. In return, Matt sent him a lot of business in the form of clients in search of munchies at 12am. Matt respected Abed’s minimum wage honesty and business ethics, much like Abed respected his. “Yeah, he said you’re the guy to see about weed.”“Yeah, but I don’t smoke it. I sell it. I sell all sorts of shit; Acapulco gold, prime Kush, wheelchair, skunk, Triple X, Triple Y. In fact, because of your Karma, I’m not selling shit anymore.”“Great,” said Ted, “There you go. Karma isn’t shit.”“That’s not what I meant.”“Please, take some. It’s free. I am sure you know people who want it. It’s changing the world.”He held out something that appeared to be a pack of cigarettes. There was a stylized K on the cover. “Trust me. This will change your world. It’s completely non-addictive.”“I’ve heard that before.”“No seriously.”
Behind them a cop car pulled up to the curb. Matt’s heart started racing. He recognized Officer Davis, one of the less friendly cops who always had a bead on for Matt.“Hey, Ted, hey Matt,” he said, waving at the two of them as if they were all on respectful speaking terms. “Hey Chris,” Ted replied, waving back. Matt took his hand off the Louisville and crossed his arms.“Ted, I need more Karma,” yelled Officer Davis.  “Sure,” said Ted, “No problem.” He turned to Matt and thrust a package the size of a cigarette carton in his hands. “Hold this, I’ll be right back.”
Matt looked down, saw it was a cigarette carton. There was a stylized K on the front, as he expected. It was Karmajuana, all branded and respectful.
Matt let out a deep breath. Shit was too confusing nowadays. He watched Ted approach the cop car, give Officer Davis a similar carton and then not be arrested. Instead, they shook hands. Ted said something to Officer Davis which made him look over at Matt.  
He called out to him, “Trust this guy, Matt. Karma is the way of the future. Way better than the crap you peddle.”
Matt raised one hand in acknowledgement. “Okay, thanks,” he called. He waited until Ted got in the passenger side of the cop car and left. He inspected the carton of Karma again.
He shrugged and tore it open.
An hour later, Matt was back on his couch when there was more knocking on his door. In the ashtray in front of him was the filtered butt end of a Karma. Since smoking it, Matt had been in his own personal state of Zen. Nothing mattered.
More knocking.
I’m coming, Matt thought, believing he had said it out loud.
In Matt’s mind he jumped from his second-hand couch to the front door in record time. However, in truth, it wasn’t in record time nor did he jump. Instead what he really did was slowly slide his legs off the couch like a half-full water balloon onto the floor and waited for the rest of his body to catch up. It was only with supreme effort he stood and focused on where the door should have been and found it wasn’t there. He turned until he found it, right where it was supposed to be the first time. He shook his head. Part of being a reputable and reliable pot dealer was to never make a transaction while stoned.
I shouldn’t answer the door, he thought. I’m stoned out of my tree. But that’s part of being in customer service, he argued. You need to answer the door. Our reputation is on the line.“What reputation?” he said out loud, “Karma is something something…”Good argument, man. This shit has fucked you up. Look at us, we never get stoned on …Matt stopped, unsure what day of the week or what time it was.Anyways, just saying perhaps you shouldn’t answer the door right now. “Nah, man,” Matt said, “it’s all good. Trust me.”
He opened the door and laughed to see it was Jimmy, his best friend in a world of very few best friends to choose from.“Jimmy!” he yelled.Jimmy cocked his head at him, grinned. “You’re fucking stoned, man.” Jimmy said. Matt saw no reason to hide it. “Yep, sure as shit. Karma.”“Me too.” Jimmy held out a pack of Karma. “Got it from some guy handing them out at Abed’s. Free.”“Yeah, Ted.” Matt nodded. “Abed sent him here, gave me a full carton.”“Wow.”“Yeah.”
The two said nothing for a few seconds, distracted by a couple of kids skating by. “Hey you want to sit out here and chill?” asked Jimmy. “Totally.” Matt said. They both sat on his front steps. “You know, Jimmy,” began Matt, feeling his mouth form the words as his brain made them. “I don’t get it. I mean, sure this Karma is good but … it’s not special, you know what I mean? It’s just like, this fad, which will be gone next week. I’ve seen it so many times before.”“Yeah,” agreed Jimmy but actually disagreeing, “but this time it is different. I mean, like there is major shit going down everywhere. People are quitting, stores are closing. A lot of people are just giving away their shit, like it means nothing to them anymore.”“See?” That’s fucked up,” said Matt. “Why would you do that?”“I don’t know man, I don’t know. I heard someone say it was because of Karma. Someone got into Parliament when they were discussing legalizing weed, got everyone high and next thing you know, boom - pot is legal.”“Well it’s about fucking time but it’s going to kill off the small businessman, like myself.”“Dude, since pot has legalized, the world has gone nuts. Everyone is just quitting their jobs and smoking weed.”“I know. I have these neighbours who are complete uptight assholes. They’d come over and were always saying I was ruining the neighbourhood. Yesterday, they came over and asked if I could hook them up with some Karma, can you believe that?”Jimmy shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”“I mean, what the fuck is going on? Then there were these trophy moms, pushing strollers. Came right up to my door, looked straight out of a school board meeting. They asked if I could set them up. I mean, it’s just weed. And now there are guys like Ted, these Karmafarians who are just going door to door and giving it away for free? What’s the point in that?” Jimmy shrugged. The two of them sat on the front step and watched the clouds go, both lost in their own thoughts. Jimmy took out a Karma and lit it, took a drag and offered it to Matt.  Matt took it. “Hey Jimmy?” he asked.“Yeah?” drawled Jimmy.“This Karma, it’s going to change the world isn’t it?”“Yeah, I think so. It makes everyone just…chill. Downtown is dead. Ike’s, The Skate shop, the Tim’s, Starbuck’s, Value Village; they all closed. But there are tons of people all around, smoking and chilling. Nobody cares. The skate park is packed. Everyone is chilling.” James said chilling way more than was necessary. If Matt was in a pissy mood he called him on it. However, today was not one of those days. “Weird,” Matt finally said. “I mean, it’s just pot, right?” Matt and Jimmy sat on the front porch and watched the clouds and people go by. They noticed the neighbours, many of them doing the same thing; sitting on their front porches, chilling. The smell of Karma was heavy in the air.
 “The times, they are-a changing.” Jimmy said.  <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

That works even better for me. I cut out most of the exposition and hopefully created a better feel of the environment. I changed third-hand couch to second-hand couch because it was an unusual phrase. I loved the joke/idea of the PM getting high but what with our current PM, I am sure there are plenty of people out there who wouldn't find that all that challenging of an idea, nor as a comment on the status quo. James has been changed to the much more friendly and laid-back Jimmy and the idea of a baseball bat helps round out Matt's character a bit more and have given Ted an out from the conversation. 

The spacing is out of whack but that is more because of the formatting from Word to Blogger. I will format the whole manuscript when I'm done the draft. 

Now I will save this and come back and look at it again when I'm finished the rest and given it time to simmer. Such is the glorifying life of a writer....
So if you read all this, thanks. Hope you took something away from it. -jay

Indie Author Tips #3 Branding Yourself

Indie Author Tips #3 Branding YourselfBranding. When a persona becomes more than the person it represents. Or a company becomes more than a company, a product more than a product. A Toyota isn't just a truck with four wheels and an engine, it is also the last name of over 13,000 people on Japan's largest island. Maybe. I'm not Japanese and don't own a Toyota.


Spoiler alert: Kermit the Frog isn't really an anxious, stressed out frog. He's a puppet made out of green cloth and googly eyes that lives in a plastic bag when it is not on someone's hand.

I'm researching marketing as in indie writer; defining what I am in as little words as possible. I'm to create a persona so potential readers know what I'm about without really knowing anything about me, personally.

In other words, I'm to create an image people expect of me. No surprises. Just predictability. A persona.

What is your persona?

I liken a persona is what you post on Facebook to your friends and family, strangers who knew you once and you have some type of kismet to.

You, as a person, is the one that comes out on Reddit or other semi-anonymous sites. Where you can express feelings, link questionable articles, and type comments without fear of your Aunt Maggie or mother having an opinion of your use of the F or C word.

I'm trying to come up with a persona for my writing. It's a bit difficult considering the medium.

Stephen King's persona is of a man with large glasses, writing semi-horrific stories.

JK Rowling's persona is of a rags-to-riches single mom who hit it big writing of adolescent geek magic.

What the two of them in common? They couldn't get away from their 'personas' and so wrote books under different names (pseudonyms) trying to prove their talent was bigger than their name.

Fortunately for their publishers, low book sales resulted in the disclosure of their 'secret identities' and lo and behold, those books started selling.

So does branding work?

Yes.

Is it healthy for you as a person?

No.

You aren't your job, you aren't what you write, who you wear, what you geek out on. But in these days of social media awareness, what you are is what you've branded yourself, either purposefully or by default.

I'm a writer and I have written comedic (hopefully) stories about existential angst, commentaries on social anxiety and conformity, and the optimism of life, love and the universe.

So what's my brand?

I'm still figuring that out. But in the meantime, define me as you will.


Enter A Fistful of Marijuana, Stoner, Unincorporated and The Midland Mutiny are all available on Createspace, Amazon and Kindle. Or ask your bookseller about them.  

I'm also @metajayroyston on twitter (indie Author Marketing Tip) and currently have 3 followers. Come join the party over there...

Indie Author Tips #2 - Establish Routines by practicing interviews

Or The Ignorance of Being Me
When I whisper to people and my dogs that I'm a writer, I like to pretend they are interviewing me so when that time does come I can distinguish myself from the real writers out there with my well thought-out answers that appear completely spontaneous.

Invariably, one of the questions my future interviewers will ask me is what is my process? They then might barge into my psyche with all the delicacy of a whale in a tuna factory by asking me where my ideas come from.

I imagine I'd lean back all reflectively in my chair and really give this a good mental mulling. I might say something slightly condescending like 'That's a good question'. Then I'd be like BAM! THERE'S YOUR ANSWER! and that answer becomes VIRAL and next summer I am receiving an Nobel Prize for an award they made up especially for that answer which of course is given to me.

...

Anyways, I like to really get my write-on with a good and loud adrenaline song. I crack open TNT by AC/DC, a song which needs some re-introductions in hockey rinks across the nation. I don't know which song it could replace... maybe this one which admittedly is a good song for when the home team gets scored on and is indicative of our kinder, gentler emotionally fragile NHL.



 So once I've got the TNT, oi, oi, oi in my veins, I look around for something else to do - usually I start in the bathroom and list off my unfinished projects that are 95% finished, which coincidentally feels about the same for a lot of the stories. I should look into that correlation.
Then, with an unneeded coffee in hand, I wander back down to my desk and consider what to attack at that moment. For this, a little Queen/David Bowie Under Pressure helps. Often it is a purge of the the Daddy Longleg spiders (fun fact; actually aren't spiders) trying to exist in every corner of my room. Next, I might wonder what it would be like to have some type of debilitating disease. Yesterday, I learned of something called xylophagia which is obsessive eating of paper. So then I might google that or an in-depth analysis of Birdman, a subtle nod to the heading of this post. It's really anyone's guess at that point.

Thankfully, I have Wake-Up Call by Maroon 5 next on my playlist which again reminds me to focus on my original intention, which was doing some productive writing. I refocus and open up some word documents, look into my heart and wonder why I'm not getting any younger. Follow that up with When I Grow Up by Garbage. I regress a little, think Garbage is an awful title for an indie book writer but a ironically great one for a book of poetry. Because art likes that type of irony...

Follow up that song with You're So Vain, the original by Carly Simon. It grounds me once again, reminding me I'm not nearly as good as I think I am so don't get too far ahead of myself by doing fake press interviews for my dogs. This would've been fun to play as the first dance at my wedding. But I'm not that brave and my wife, god (and I) love her, sometimes gets me and sometimes doesn't. With the betting odds of being only 50-50 I think I did the wise thing by not suggesting it. But.

Finally, right before I end this blog post and get back to my true intentions, my fingers nicely warmed up, I plug into Ahead By A Century by the Tragically Hip. This is a reminder, self-consciously deprecating, that while many people might not get the concepts or story lines of a world undone by legalizing marijuana, maybe in a century people will look back and say 'Wow, that jay royston guy, he sure nailed it. The world was actually destroyed because some guy in the Rocky Mountains invented a marijuana that could hypnotize us into mindless drones through the airwaves."

Then some literary critic or crazed super fan will spend too much money on a replica of the Nobel Prize I won a century earlier for the inaugural 'Saw It Coming' award and find this post hidden away in the Internet and all this reading would have been worth it.

not life size.My dogs have now wandered off and fallen asleep. Time to get my Karma on...

PS - Thanks for reading. I'm also now a Twitter virgin looking for someone to teach me what to do  - @metjayroyston

Indie Author Tips #1 - Self-promote on Social Media

I'm supposed to be writing. I'm also supposed to be marketing. I'm supposed to be doing research to qualify to go back to school; show job opportunities, industry growth, etc. I'm supposed to fix up an RESP mess that dates back nearly four years. I'm supposed to clean the house, walk the dogs, just be a good overall person in general. Plus, maintain good hygiene.

None of the above is easy. I'm not about lists. I prefer attainable goals. I prefer staying under the radar but love being in yours. I love writing on my own terms which is painful and slow and counter-productive to be self-sustainable in the craft. If I could (and sometimes I do), I'd concentrate on writing what comes into my head, a self-therapy of why who I am where I am because frankly, I've been confused since high school.

I made choices out of practicality, impulse and convenience, not necessarily out of some overall plan. I've jumped the gun on projects and jobs I never should have started. And under it all, I believed if I only tried hard enough, the planets would align and everything would make sense. And you know what, if I'm being honest, sometimes they did. For a little while.

But to follow a plan, that's tough for me. This post isn't spontaneous, it is part of 'the plan' I should follow according to the 'Indie Authors For Dummies' forums I follow. I'm supposed to create a following, to toss out posts like these on social media to try and remind you who I am and that I write books for you to purchase at selected institutions. Then I hope you like or link this post and your friends will check me out, like what I write and like me and so on and so on. Then they follow my page on Facebook or Twitter and I get a Netflix series deal by Christmas.

I simply don't care for self-promotion and I'm trying to adjust to a world of selling myself.

True story. I published a magazine way back in the 90s. It was hard, hard, underfunded work and I was severely under-educated in the field. I taught my way through it. I juggled house bills to pay my printers, I bought bus tickets to different cities and slept on friends' couches. The next day I'd walk all around these cities doing distribution, trying to build that small readership base. Then we were sort of evicted from our house (long irrelevant story). I started working other jobs to make the bare minimum of payments on my increasing VISA. I was in my mid-twenties and still full of cynical hope.

I remember one crowning moment; a film industry book store that was in Gastown, Vancouver. Biz Books. Owned by two women, one named Patricia. Anyways, I'm at the end of my nut, barely keeping my shit together and I go to drop off the critically panned (in my head) 'Monster Truck Film Issue'. I go in, tell her I have the latest issue and she (god forbid) opens it up and begins to read the inside pages RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

Now that has never happened. And you know what happened next? She laughed at one small, buried little joke in the legalese you find in the header of all magazines. And she noticed another joke and laughed. It was awkward. Then she asked about a letter in Chinese I'd printed. I told her the truth, we didn't know what it said but it came to our address so we included a note with it asking for a Chinese translator. She absolutely loved it and called her partner over so they could enjoy the magazine together, again, right in front of me. It was surreal. 

But in that moment I realized I loved I wrote something which made someone laugh weeks later. It was an odd rush at the time, a brief belief that maybe, with a little more time I could make this work. But as my bank account and self-confidence was stressing, it was too little too late. That was twenty years ago.

Now I'm in my forties and yes, I am still full of cynical hope. Travelling by buses and crashing on couches has been changed by the Internet. I'm still trying to adapt to that. Yet it's still the same thing, spending time away from what I love (writing) to do something I'm not comfortable with (self-promotion).

Next, as part of the 'master plan', I'm going to post this on Facebook and hope that you, dear reader, will like this page so your friends whom I don't know and may never meet will check me out. Maybe they respect your tastes enough they will like my Facebook page, download a free sample of my work here and then maybe buy a bigger sample here.

Full disclosure, I then get a small royalty from that sale - about 30%, paid at the end of the fiscal year.

And if you and they like that sample you all can follow me on my new Twitter account here where I will start posting other entertaining shit because that is what life is all about.

Being entertained.

Good times.
-jay

Breaking Dad #3

Breaking Dad 3


A friend of mine has a six week old boy, his second child. His daughter is two years old. Dad is always tired. So is Mom. Neither child is sleeping through the night. In an effort to soothe his older child, he tries to sleep with her on her baby bed but he doesn’t fit. If he leaves, she starts up again. And if she is sleeping, his baby is awake. It’s a nightmare of quick naps, thin patience and long cries. I can’t speak for the babies. 
He told me this with bags under his eyes and I laughed in sympathy.  Memories of warming bottles at 4am, of falling asleep on the couch with our first baby on my chest rose. If there was a peep out of the baby monitor, one of us would be ready. Honestly, it was usually Mom.  But there were occasions when Mom was simply too tired and it was up to me to step up to give Mom’s breasts and mind that little extra rest she so desperately needed. Sometimes we would play ‘rock, paper, scissors’ of who was going to get up. Other times, we’d both lie in bed pretending not to hear the baby monitor. We waited, hoped the baby would go back to sleep or the other would give up first and go feed the baby.
In the days it was not much better. Both the babies had troubles falling into a sleep routine, as did we. And they cried. Oh boy, did they cry. Bottles didn’t help, burping, changing, extra blankets, less blankets, pacifiers, rarely seemed to help. I’m sure every Dad and Mom can relate to that frustrated feeling of having done everything you can think of to quiet a screaming child and still the crying continues.
And then we found something miraculous… Baby Einstein DVDs.
Seriously, I don’t know the magic behind it but I believe those DVDs are the reason why many parents today are still together. Once we put a Baby Einstein DVD on and the little sheep or lion sock puppet appeared, it was library quiet. The kids would be memorized. There was no plot, no dialogue, just pictures of toys and shiny, happy people. For added serenity and sanity, the music is mostly classical music, from Beethoven to Mozart and those other guys... anyways, it's baby whisperer magic. Try it, get some sleep. 
Now some parents out there might be skeptical, they might be on the ‘no babies should watch TV’ train and think that I am simply bad parenting. However, this anecdote isn’t for those people. This is for those Dads (and Moms) who are at the end of their sanity, who are still trying to figure out how to make their babies stop crying. Do what you have to do. 
Admittedly, this is only one story of what worked for us. But for those Dads trying to quiet a baby at 4am and simply want some quiet, what do you have to lose? Go to the thrift store or youtube and find Baby Einstein. You're already not sleeping. 

Breaking Dad 2 - Road Tripping

Breaking Dad 2- Road Tripping
-jay royston


Road Trip.
Very few words bring a clenching to my chest like ‘road trip’ does. Family road trips are a fundamental right of parental passage, a litmus test of patience, dedication and perseverance.
Years ago, I spent many hours driving here and there across Western Canada. I was young and lacked career ambitions which made me a perfect customer to gas stations and roadside coffee diners across this great land of ours. I saw cities and mountains, lakes and oceans. It was a great time to feel alive, to feel free as a bird as the song goes.
And then I became a parent and I now have about as much free time as a lone rooster in a hen house. Many times I have considered what it would be like to just go ‘for a drive’ without having to remember to pick up milk or tomorrow is garbage day or worry about what time I should be home so I can enjoy some moments with the kids before they fall asleep because frankly, I love to hate those moments I secretly love.
Now instead of it being simply me and the highway, it’s me and my wolf pack. And instead of my one bag of essentials it is now eight bags of essentials, divided into really essentials and the not-so-essential-that-it-needs-to-be-in-the-front bags of essentials. 
Plus my wife insists on cleaning the car before every trip. I always argue it is a pointless endeavor as by the time we stop for our first break, it looks like we have lived in it for three months. That is because the kids pull out every activity we have packed for the eight hour drive and are then bored with them before the first gas station fill up. It doesn’t matter - road trip.
And while I used to spend lucid moments driving, admiring and contemplating how amazing this country is, I now contemplate what my daughter means when she says behind me that she ‘got some weird stuff in her underpants’. Music which I would play for hours on end now barely makes it through two songs without me having to turn it down to answer some random question directed at me from the back seat from one of my baby wolves.
But these are the moments future memories are made of. I have to remember road trips are a right of passage for parents and children alike. Children are supposed to complain about it being too hot/too cold/too far. Parents are supposed to tell them too bad/not long/and make them play ‘look at that’.
My father really enjoyed playing ‘look at that’. He would say it without explaining what it was we were supposed to look at, as if it was blatantly obvious that mountain in the distance was any different than the other mountains in the distance. All we usually saw was the tops of the trees along the highway. If we were really lucky, he would point out a dead animal on the side of the road; ‘look at that, a dead bear,’ he would say as he drove slowly by it, allowing us a close-up view of nature in all it's gory glory.
I don’t point out animal fatalities to my kids though. There are things we learn from our parents; they were our number one teachers, just as we are to ours. Hopefully, we remember those things we didn’t like from our youth such as staring at broken, dead animals on the side of the highway. And we remember not to tell our kids to ‘look at that’ as if it was the reason why we are on a road trip in the first place.
We go on road trips because we are family and we must all suffer adventures together. At least that is what I tell my kids.

Breaking Dad 1 -Baby Dragons

Baby Dragons.

Netflix had been on long enough. I told my eight year old daughter to shut off her show that long ago stopped teaching how to train your dragon and do something else. In her typical child-like summer boredom, she said there was nothing else to do.
“Fine,” I said, in full-on Dad mode. “I’d like you to go to your room and write a story.”
 To make this part short, she went to her room and found something else to do as I made dinner.Over some classic Dad cooking, I asked if she wanted to do anything for her day camp talent show happening the next day. She said her talent was going to be ‘audience participant’ and simply sit and watch the other kids perform.
I asked how her story was going and she said she didn’t have any ideas for one so she had played with her dragons.
“I have an idea,” I prompted, “what about a story about how one of your dragons tried to bite off your Dad’s foot which is why I am in this cast?”
She looked at me funny, mainly because she knew I really sprained my ankle in a freak trampoline fight accident with a ball that more safety-conscious Dads would probably have said "get that off there before someone gets hurt.". 
“Uh, I don’t think so,” she said in the same voice her mother would use, “you stepped on a ball.”
“Well, I want to read your story before bedtime, so you better get on it.”
At bedtime, I hobbled into her room and read her short story. It was good; there was a beginning, middle and end. It was about dragons but no mention of me or my ankle cast. I could live with that.
“You know,” I said, as an idea came to me along with the thought I may be the greatest Dad in the world “you could read this to your day camp for the talent show.”
“I can’t do that, Dad,” she said, shaking her head. “Writing isn’t a talent.”
I went immediate poker face. We all know kids have this way of really cutting deep into someone’s psyche, but they can hide their social rudeness behind their age and innocence. “How come you are so fat?” I’ve heard younger children ask, “Why are you so old?” another question to a relative. It happens.
Writing isn’t a talent?
I saw her side; talent shows tend to focus on active performances; singing, dancing, gymnastics. There aren’t many popular shows for the many other sides of culture; writing, drawing, painting.  I believe my daughter has lots of talents. Parents should notice the natural talents their children have and encourage it.
“Writing is a talent,” I told her, trying to hide the hurt in my thoughts because I am obviously biased. “Creating is a talent. I’m sure a lot of kids would like to hear your story. And you know what? I bet it would make some of them want to write their own as well.”
I wish I could end this story with how I wanted it to end. I want to say she went to that Talent Show, stood up in front of her classmates after they sang and danced. I wished I could say she told her simple story of a dragon bullied by other dragons until she was helped by a girl who made her brave enough to scare away the other dragons.
But she didn’t stand up and read that story for her talent show.
Maybe next time she will. All I can do as a father is to remind her anything she creates is a talent be it writing, painting, or building. 
It doesn’t have to be what all the other dragons are doing.