Stuff and Junk Monday
Since I'm drawing a blank for a cohesive post today, here goes nothin'.
Today, Dying Embers' ad went up at Indie Author News. It's in the right sidebar about 6 ads down. It'll be up for a week.
No news yet on the ad I'm supposed to have at a place called Every Writer Resource. I got their name off a list of advertising site at Galleycat, so I expect they're legit. Maybe they're just jammed. We'll see.
I got a direct Twitter message from another advertising place. Looks legit. I'll check them out and let y'all know.
Some author somewhere was waxing poetic about what novels mean to him. Something about pieces of his soul and wood pulp. My first thought was 'oh how precious is he'. Because I'm more down to earth and let's face it, I'm kind of mean sometimes. I'm reminded of something I read in James Cagney's biography about how he approached acting. It's a job. He didn't try to get in touch with the character, he didn't emote, he just acted. Because that's what he loved and that's what he was paid to do. I love writing and I love getting paid to do it (finally), but I'm not leaving bits of my soul on the pages. They're stories, folks. I made them up in my imagination and put them down on paper. I didn't open a vein and bleed on the page. (As some other famous author said.) Sure, I pull from my own experiences. Sometimes the writing is more personal than others. Sometimes it feels like I put blood, sweat, tears and other bodily fluids into the writing of it. But I didn't. I'm not going to hold a reader hostage with my body bits. I hope you read my stuff and enjoy it. If not, you won't be trampling my inner being.
As I said on Twitter this morning: "Ever notice when squirrels eat, they look like they're praying? My backyard looks like a cult of furry corn worshipers." (Yes, if you read it there, I forgot the question mark. Dammit.)
And that's all this sleep-deprived, coffee junkie has this morning. Any questions? What's up in your world?
Today, Dying Embers' ad went up at Indie Author News. It's in the right sidebar about 6 ads down. It'll be up for a week.
No news yet on the ad I'm supposed to have at a place called Every Writer Resource. I got their name off a list of advertising site at Galleycat, so I expect they're legit. Maybe they're just jammed. We'll see.
I got a direct Twitter message from another advertising place. Looks legit. I'll check them out and let y'all know.
Some author somewhere was waxing poetic about what novels mean to him. Something about pieces of his soul and wood pulp. My first thought was 'oh how precious is he'. Because I'm more down to earth and let's face it, I'm kind of mean sometimes. I'm reminded of something I read in James Cagney's biography about how he approached acting. It's a job. He didn't try to get in touch with the character, he didn't emote, he just acted. Because that's what he loved and that's what he was paid to do. I love writing and I love getting paid to do it (finally), but I'm not leaving bits of my soul on the pages. They're stories, folks. I made them up in my imagination and put them down on paper. I didn't open a vein and bleed on the page. (As some other famous author said.) Sure, I pull from my own experiences. Sometimes the writing is more personal than others. Sometimes it feels like I put blood, sweat, tears and other bodily fluids into the writing of it. But I didn't. I'm not going to hold a reader hostage with my body bits. I hope you read my stuff and enjoy it. If not, you won't be trampling my inner being.
As I said on Twitter this morning: "Ever notice when squirrels eat, they look like they're praying? My backyard looks like a cult of furry corn worshipers." (Yes, if you read it there, I forgot the question mark. Dammit.)
And that's all this sleep-deprived, coffee junkie has this morning. Any questions? What's up in your world?
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