Muses, Caer Ibormeith, Dispersi
About two years ago an author / artist who has won awards (hybrid {TP/SP} published) asked me why I didn't traditionally publish because my work was certainly good enough to be deemed commercially viable. The truth is long ago I did consider it. My last submission left a sour taste due to a manuscript rejected more for length than quality of the story -- unknowns have to keep the word count at 130,000 words or less in order to be considered.
That last rejection was actually a favor done to me as I have assiduously avoided fame and fortune this long, there won't be many people asking me to attend book signings or pontificate on how to write something others enjoy. It's nice being Cellophane Man, ignored for the most part and left to do those things that matter to me.
The fact is I have never attended a creative writing class other than my high school English / Literature classes -- I honestly can't tell anyone how to write a story. Writing is something I do, much like woodwork or metalwork, it's an innate talent like smelling a soiled diaper across the room; as far as doing it's something you either can or can't.
Luckily for me, Her Grace is allowing me more time to write paragraphs here and there, and as soon as I can get a new computer set so I can use my old Word 97 with Linux I'll be making progress again.
Unfortunately, it looks like we may be moving in several months, so I'll be out playing with a chainsaw and a pick to open up[ a piece of driveway, then packing up and going through schtuff. Yes Wife and I got rid of just about all the disposable junk a few years ago but there are things that need to be reboxed.
Being out where we can breathe free, good. Having to get things ready for that day, work. Then again, the muses, Caer Ibormeith, the extimuit sparsa umbrae, whoever will keep feeding me stories. Simply put, the characters tell me what to write to tell their stories.
That last rejection was actually a favor done to me as I have assiduously avoided fame and fortune this long, there won't be many people asking me to attend book signings or pontificate on how to write something others enjoy. It's nice being Cellophane Man, ignored for the most part and left to do those things that matter to me.
The fact is I have never attended a creative writing class other than my high school English / Literature classes -- I honestly can't tell anyone how to write a story. Writing is something I do, much like woodwork or metalwork, it's an innate talent like smelling a soiled diaper across the room; as far as doing it's something you either can or can't.
Luckily for me, Her Grace is allowing me more time to write paragraphs here and there, and as soon as I can get a new computer set so I can use my old Word 97 with Linux I'll be making progress again.
Unfortunately, it looks like we may be moving in several months, so I'll be out playing with a chainsaw and a pick to open up[ a piece of driveway, then packing up and going through schtuff. Yes Wife and I got rid of just about all the disposable junk a few years ago but there are things that need to be reboxed.
Being out where we can breathe free, good. Having to get things ready for that day, work. Then again, the muses, Caer Ibormeith, the extimuit sparsa umbrae, whoever will keep feeding me stories. Simply put, the characters tell me what to write to tell their stories.
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