Let's Argue Shall We?

First, I apologize. I'm a horrible blogger. That's probably why no one reads this thing and really, the only reason I'm writing something now is because I think it's a good exercise for my writer's brain.

Now that that's out of the way, here's my paltry contribution to the internet wisdom pool, which amounts to pissing in the ocean.

I'm sure there's more than one raging debate going on over at AW, the writer's forum. But one in particular sucked me in the other day and I had to get involved. Now I know it's a fool's errand to argue with people over the internet. One: People who post their opinions behind the shield of online forums quite often are there for one purpose; to be disagreeable. Certain internet posters will argue about anything. If you tell them the sky is blue and the grass is green they'll try to make some grand academic proclamation about how insensitive you're being toward people who are color blind. Granted, I've participated in some perfectly proper discussions with perfectly reasonable, logical, intelligent people on internet forums so I know it's possible. But like any club that has no criteria for membership, you're going to run into some attention depraved loons.

Which brings me to the "discussion" that reeled me in on traditional publishing vs. self publishing; one of those hot point topics among writers that many find devoid of middle ground. You're either in one camp or the other. Choose a side. Except that's absolutely ridiculous. This debate, like just about anything else concerning the craft of writing, has more shades of gray than a pickup truck in a trailer park. Immediately, some frustrated erotic novelist chick, who claims she's from Ireland, jumps in and makes it sound like self publishing is only for those who flunked out of seventh grade and that she would rather preform lewd acts with a donkey before even considering debasing herself by self publishing. Then she goes on about all the checques (regardless of the spelling I still suspect this person is holed up in some New Jersey Starbucks) her publisher is filling her mailbox with, like she's some hugely successful author, which makes her an authority on everything. Let me tell you, the first lesson I learned when I attempted to present a logical contribution to this discussion by making the point that the more avenues of getting one's writing into the hands of readers the better. But it's pointless to try and talk sense to idiots. Idiots will counter logic with illogical statements and never look back. They will always be convinced they are winning a debate even when the foundation of their position is made out of Dixie cups. So getting into an argument with these types is not only pointless, it only leads in one direction - Frustrationville. Lesson learned. Stay away. But for those of you who aren't entrenched in one side or the other of this topic, those who are curious about the revolution underway in the book publishing world, along with several other creative mediums like music, art, and theater, here's what we're looking at:

Self publishers, small presses, niche writers, and the like should be hopeful. The alternative road to publishing is in no way shape or form indicative of a writer's level of talent, and it's growing. The reality of today's traditional publishing industry is that regardless of a work's brilliance, it is still possible for it to be overlooked. This is due to a multitude of reasons. Maybe you're a great writer but aren't great at composing a compelling query letter. For those of you who don't know, writing a query letter is like sticking hot pokers in your eyes. Making your intricate, multidimensional, 300-page novel sound intriguing in 250 words or less is about as much fun as puking up spoiled macaroni salad. The process of snaring an agent or editor makes even less sense than American politics. (And don't even begin to tell me that our political system isn't broken.) Unfortunately it's the only process we've got and honestly, I'm not sure if a better way exists (the publishing process I mean, not American politics). Certainly it's not going away any time soon.

Then there are trends. Publishers need to make money. And with their profits shrinking, they're more skittish than ever to gamble on a new, innovative author. For over a decade now, the percentage of dollars spent on unknown commodities by publishers has shrunk down to practically nothing. I'm not saying this is wrong, it's the reality of the business. With so much competition for the shrinking entertainment dollar, the safe bets are on the proven best sellers - Koontz, King, Grisham, Evanovich, and the like. Couple that with the number of people writing books and the odds of getting traditionally published turns into a crap shoot similar to today's job market. Good isn't good enough. To take a cue from the Occupy movement, there's the one percent, then there's the rest of us.

But here's the good news. Technology is opening up a whole new world to writers just as it has already done for musicians. It used to be unimaginable for a band to produce a professional quality recording in their home studio unless the bass player had a rich father (which was usually the criteria for hiring a bass player in the first place). Now, for less than the price of a '95 Buick you can build a home studio and crank out quality recordings even though, following an afternoon of smoking weed in the park, you dropped out of high school and decided to become a rock star. In fact, for writers it's even easier and less expensive. Sure, this opens the doors to every hack that ever thought it sounded cool to be referred to as a novelist. And yes, there will always be steaming piles of poo to wade through in search of those self-published gems. But at least the option is there. And just because a book resides in those steaming piles of poo, don't automatically assume that it's not just as good as something published by say, Random House or Simon and Schuster. It's a simple case of supply and demand. Something any idiot can understand, right?

Like an onion...

I can't help but use writing as a metaphor for life. So it's understandable that in the process of creating a publishable manuscript, you find that the work you're doing on your draft is similar to what's going on inside you at that moment in time. To be more specific, I'm trimming the fat in my first draft as well as how I perceive the world around me. No more bloated, long-winded diatribes. Lean and mean is the catch-phrase of the day. It's so easy to get caught up in the gazillion distractions surrounding us, which makes it easy to get side-tracked from the task at hand. In fiction writing, all that bullshit I spew onto the page in the first draft clouds the actual story, making it oh so easy for the reader to set the book down and forget about it.

Same with this blog.

Hee Haw

Time for a Change

First change: new template for the blog. Yeah, it's still rather boring looking. No loud bells and whistles here. Just books. Because that's what this is supposed to be all about now isn't it?

Second change: Apparently I've got a new focus for my writing. This is actually work-related, and by work-related I mean having to do with the day job and not the work that I do for little to no pay in my spare time. But that's cool. Writing is writing and without the luxury of that solid reputation some writers have acquired, allowing the option to write about pretty much anything that strikes their fancy even if it's a detailed analysis of how many gold rings one might fit on a monkeys wiener, I will gladly take whatever opportunities float my way.

No, it's not writing sappy little notes for a greeting card company if that's what you're thinking. And even if it was, is there really anything wrong with that? In fact, that might be a pretty sweet gig.

In case you aren't aware, I'm a small player in a very well-respected, highly effective research center here at Indiana University, and research around major universities like IU, place high on the academic respect chart.

Strike one!

But the research that goes on around here - here being the office I cheerfully drag my ass to every day - while interesting and worthy of huge accolades, is barely within the grasp of my tiny little artist's brain. My good fortune to be part of the Workshop in Political Theory is only eclipsed by the miracle that six years into this gig I haven't been tossed out on my ear (or rear depending on how fast you read that last sentence). But that's the way this place is. Very understanding, encouraging, and forgiving, and thankfully that's probably that mindset that won the professor who started this gig a Nobel prize. Let me tell you, aside from having a winning football team, a Nobel prize attracts a lot of the right kind of attention in a college town.

At any rate, one of the Workshop's current projects of which we're seeking funding is to develop a "Consumer-driven Health Information Website Based on Hot-to-Cold Empathy Gaps." Huh? What the heck does that mean? you may ask. I'll let you know when I figure it out myself. But apparently the writing part of this needs to be dumbed-down to a non-academic level. In other words, it needs to be made simple enough for someone with minimal education. Now perhaps I should have felt a little put-off when they thought of me as a possible writer for this project. I don't know about that. In fact, who cares? I could lay claim to the argument that it takes a unique skill set to write in a manner that's understandable to those lacking the capacity or attention span needed to comprehend anything more taxing than one line sentences containing words bigger than cat. But if that's the case, I will embrace the role fully and I will own my reputation as a simple story teller.

Especially if it means mo money, mo money, mo money...

Hee Haw

Where to?

So here's the results of my little foray into the nanowrimo. I finished. Yep, at just before 10:00 pm on November 30, I submitted my 50,063 word completed manuscript to the nanowrimo website for verification and apparently their jacked up system disagreed with the almighty Bill Gates and Microsoft. 49,933 words is what they claimed I had copied and pasted into their little program. "Okay," I thought, "that's not a problem. It's not even 11:00 yet." I figured I had plenty of time to write 67 words.

Did that and more. Now I had a completed manuscript of 50,250 words and it was only 11:01. Select all. Copy. Got back to the nano site. Nanowrimo 2010 is closed!

Huh? "But it's not midnight yet," I exclaimed. "Since when does the day end at 11:00?"
"Dad, it's time for bed." My boy Danny apparently doesn't understand his father's need to set the Universe in order.
"Not now, son. I think I just got screwed."
"Turn the computer off, Dad, and step away. It is what it is."
I stopped myself from randomly clicking things on the nano website that obviously weren't going to solve my dilemma. He was right. I knew from the get go this whole venture was going to end badly. This was just the icing on the cake. A 50k word meandering exhibition of how NOT to write a book. Lesson learned...I guess. It was time to move on.

So what did I get out of my experiment. Well, I have what some would consider an accomplishment to be proud of. I have completed a novel. Big deal. I now have several completed novels and I'm sure before I leave this rock and move on to the next stage of existence, I'll have completed several more. That wasn't the point. I guess if anything I might have polished some skills in the stream of consciousness area. Let it flow, don't look back, just write, baby, write. Over the course of the month I averaged over 1500 words a day, bumping my average up considerably from my normal, pounding out of a first draft, pace. I also added more hours per day to my writing schedule than my usual hour in the morning before I have to get my ass over to the job that pays the bills (or at least some of them). So I guess I could say now I know I can do it. Terrific. I'll be sure to put that in my memoirs that will probably never get written because I've certainly got a lot of rewriting and editing to do.

Which brings me to the big question that I started the month of December off with. Where do I go now? Surprisingly a writing project has presented itself that, while not something I would have ever thought of on my own, has the potential to not only make me some money, but also broaden the scope of my skill set. I'll divulge more on this as it unfolds, but for right now I'll just say the timing is perfect. I have two first drafts to work on rewriting and as we all know, rewriting and writing aren't the same creatures. I always hate getting into rewrites because I feel that as a writer I should be writing something new at all times. But once I start writing something new, the older stuff that needs work usually gets pushed aside. For example, the rough draft I have of my book "Paramount," which has been sitting for almost exactly a year waiting for me to get back to it. It's become somewhat of an elephant in the room when it comes to my file folder where I stick my work. This morning I opened that folder and, for the first time in a year, went through the first couple of pages. Yeah, maybe it has potential.

As for my Nanowrimo novel "Auto Focus" (working title only), it will be there. It's not going anywhere, and neither am I. I already wrote about distractions, well, I'm certainly not lacking any of those. Maybe I'll get back to "Auto Focus" (again, that' just a working title only) before 2012 rears its ominous head.

Hee Haw

Diversions, Distractions, and Other Words that Start with D

Diversions are such occurrences, either created intentionally or encountered by accident, that sidetrack and/or otherwise delay completion of the task at hand.

Distractions are of a smaller scale, although sometimes a distraction can grow to become a full on diversion.

Really, I'm just talking out of my ass right now. I haven't actually looked up any definitions for either of these words (definition being another word that starts with the letter 'd'), so feel free to disagree with my interpretations.

In case you haven't guessed already, today's topic is inspired by my continual need to plow forward on my current project--that being this silly novel I'm trying to write in a month's time. Regarding this, I've checked out a few of the sites floating around the internet where writers talk about writer stuff, to see if anyone really succeeds in this task. I assumed that, like myself, I would find all sorts of folks commiserating on their lack of progress and the feeling that they're churning out nothing but stinky piles of crap, and I would feel okay about being just under where I should be at this point in the game. Instead I find just the opposite. People who have already surpassed the 50k word goal and are working on the sequel to their nano-novel. What? You're going to write a series of books in a month? Plus, some of these people get very offended when it's suggested that what they're writing may not be quite the quality you would find in a work that...well...let's just say some people are convinced that they can write an epic novel in a month and it will come out publishable.

Good for them.

Given this, I can only assume that in these people's lives, they are not plagued with the diversions and distractions I seem to run across every day.

But here's the thing...Isn't that what life is? A series of diversions and distractions to fill the days until you die? I know that sounds pretty fatalistic. But even in the pursuit of higher meaning, aren't you just looking for a way to keep from being bored? I say this with a bit of my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, but still, I can't help but allow that idea to creep in, out, and around my brain from time to time. Is there such a thing as a worthwhile diversion, or a legitimate distraction? Or, when it all comes down to it, is one time-waster just the same as another. If that is true, then maybe it's best to pick a pursuit that truly motivates you and stick to it. You like watching TV? Go for it with all the gusto of Kobe Bryant practicing his jump shot. Do you enjoy crafts? Perfect! Make the most beautiful string of beads or paper mache donkey imaginable. Focus your energy on one thing and one thing only with your goal being sheer perfection. And if that makes sense (and I suppose that's fine if it does), as long as whatever pursuit you obsess over is something that truly inspires you, brings you joy, and positively affects others in the same way, then diversion and distraction lose their negative connotations.

Now perhaps it's just me, but if I try to spread myself around too thin, then the quality of everything I'm doing suffers. I quit writing music to write words. I can't imagine doing both very well at the same time. Maybe some people can, but I can't. That's just me being honest with myself.

Then again, maybe it all comes down to desire. Another "D" word, as is Defeat.

Hee Haw

Numbers update

Only time enough for the numbers...

Okay, okay, maybe I'll post another excerpt as well.

As of 2:23 pm on the 10th day of Nano, here's where I stand.

Cumulative word count = 14,870
Average words per day = 1,487
Suggested daily word count = 1,667
Days remaining = 20
Words remaining = 35,130
Words per Day to Finish on Time = 1,757

Okay, so I'm lagging behind a little, but the day isn't over yet. Still, I went to the nano forum over at Absolute Write and found the thread where people post their nano word count. I tell you, this thing is insane. There are people already over the 50k word mark. How in all that is holy does anyone write that fast without it being complete gibberish?

Okay, here's the excerpt I promised.

Something about the mornings these days seems darker than mornings are supposed to be. I take that as a bad sign—a sign that the world is actually growing darker, and if I were to guess, I’m the only one on the whole entire planet who’s noticing.
Not to sound like a parrot, but again, this comes back to the camera. Through the lens of this device, I can see things. Things no one else can. Things, like those old Chinese people trying to imagine the internet, no one could ever wrap their heads around. And if you’re reading this, then you won’t be able to wrap your head around it either unless I go into some big old long explanation.
So here goes.
As long as I can remember, I’ve never been what most people would call normal. Yeah, I know everyone thinks they’re something different, or special, or weird. People, I’ve figured out from reading books on psychology and junk, have a need to think of themselves as individuals. But when it all comes down to it, most people are all pretty much alike. Take the kids at my school. They all try to dress the same, watch the same TV shows, eat the same food, listen to the same kind of music. And sure, I try to do all those things too. But I’m a victim of circumstances. I mean how many kids do I know who are piano prodigies?
If you guessed zero, then you’d win something. Except I’ve got nothing to give you, unless you want me to play a Chopin etude, or a Bach fugue. Or maybe you’d like to take a shot at keeping the world safe from the powers of darkness.

Excerpt

So I've been telling you all about this Nanowrimo thing I've been doing and questioning why in god's name I picked this year to jump into it. I had a light bulb moment last night where I realized that events currently dragging on my life have created a need for me to look for distractions. This is a survival mechanism, one I developed at a very young age, and which I can attribute to all those hours I would spend at the piano perfecting what I now consider to be a mediocre but serviceable talent. Believe me, I would like nothing more than to live in reality but honestly, sometimes it's just too damn hard.

Anyway, before I expend any more words, I thought for today I'd give anyone interested a peek at what will certainly be the world's worst novel. Keep in mind this is raw, unedited material that has none of the benefits of thought and or care as to quality or redeeming value. So here you go. I can feel myself getting dumber every day.

BTW, this is intended to be a middle grade paranormal piece. Something of which I'm sure is over-saturated in today's book market.

Chapter 1

For me it all started with that stupid camera. Now I know that’s being a little self-absorbed and all, since the fate of humanity is hinging on the brink of extinction, but since I somehow seem to be at the center of this whole mess I think I have every right to allow myself a little me time every once in awhile, in between trying to save the world.
Now before you get lost in all this cryptic talk about the end of all things as we know it and some strange camera thing, maybe I’d better back up because I want to make this as clear as possible. None of this is my fault. I swear. I’m not just saying that because in the past I’ve notoriously tried to shift blame for my actions in any direction but the one that leads directly to me, but because it is the honest to god’s truth. I mean how can I be blamed for something I had no control over? As in apparently this was my destiny from before I was born, which sounds a little egotistical, but I swear it’s true. If this was like a movie there’d probably be some sort of Oracle or something who could verify this after a lot of misdirection and life-tests and guidance by a wise older master leading me along my chosen path and all that other righteous nonsense. Believe me it’s not like this story hasn’t been told over and over before because it has. Just not with me as the main character.
So since this isn’t a movie, and as far as I know there isn’t an oracle, at least not that I’ve met, how, you might ask, do I know I’m so special. Well, the thing that iced it for me was the dreams. Sure, everyone has dreams, and for the most part mine had never been all that extraordinary. Just the usual fare, like giant spiders, and trying to run with feet that feel like they were made of concrete. Maybe at some point even those will end up coming into play when the time is right. But this, like all things in my life lately, comes back to the camera. The one I inherited from my grandpa. The one given to him by an old Chinese guy back when cameras didn’t fit in your pocket and Facebook and Twitter and all that other internet stuff was way beyond anyone’s imagination. No, this device doesn’t produce pictures of all those fun things going on in my life that I can put on the internet to impress my friends. Friends, by the way, of which in my case are admittedly few and far between. Oh, there’s Jimbo, and Cleo…
I can’t really talk about them right now. It’s just too hard. Maybe later.