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E-PUBBING, NOT FOR THE TIMID
I experimented with e-pubbing a bunch of short stories. I happened to have seven short, short and flash fantasy stories hanging around with nothing to do and I put them to work.
Writing them was the easy part.
My group informed me that I was now the expert in case any of them wanted to e-pub. I have news: I have no idea how it’s done or how to do it.
I went through Smashwords since it sits on my dashboard looking interesting. No other site clamored for my stories and really, it must be five years since that icon of a hand smashing closed a book has tried to get me to notice it.
So, I sent Smashwords my collection of short, shorts. They immediately answered back that yes, they wanted me. I was thrilled. I had passed their initial look-see but now the stories needed to get formatted.
I read the instructions on formatting and wanted to weep. I had no clue to what they were talking about. No problem, they said, here’s a list of independent formatters who will fix it for you. It needed fixing? Why?
I chose a formatter at random from their list. He was very nice and formatted it the way they liked. I have no idea what he did. But one thing that gave me no end of joy was the fact that he hyperlinked my ToC (Table of Contents) to the correct pages. I had read the how to’s on hyperlinking and wanted to beat my head against a wall. But, to be hyperlinked? Oh joy.
You need to have a profile, they said. Okay, I can write a profile. I am supposed to be a writer. I wrote a profile and successfully sent it to them. I was a genius. I went up a couple of notches in my own estimation.
Now you need a picture of yourself. I had a photo that was enough years old to be flattering. It was a distance shot. I found it on file and tried to crop it and save it to send. Well, I saved the outside border that I thought I’d cropped off. No idea where the center of the picture went. My son sent them a different pic.
Cover picture. Well, something indicative of one of the stories, right? I tried to get a stock photo from the internet of a cute little goldfish. One that looked intelligent. Goldfish have attention spans of 3 seconds. It’s impossible for them not to have a ‘duh’ expression. I asked my husband to give me a hand. Paint me an intelligent looking goldfish, please. I was so reminded of the part in “The Little Prince” by Saint Exupery where the prince asks the pilot to draw him a sheep. And the pilot did, over and over. Well, we finally did get an intelligent, in that it’s inquisitive looking, goldfish. But it’s not enough just to paint it and photograph it and superimpose the lettering on it, there was something to do with pixels, for crying out loud. I wanted to forget the whole thing. Writers are not meant for this kind of work. My son fixed the pixels.
These different critical pieces of an e-pubbed book were sent to Smashwords over the course of a month. They never got impatient with me, oh no. They didn’t need my book, they have published in e-reader format almost a half million books.
Did I need them? I didn’t need the aggravation, but now that it’s done I look back at it as a different form of child-birth, one that I wasn’t quite ready for.
Will be available for purchase on November 7, 2017.
A BAKER’S HALF DOZEN is a new collection of flash and short, short fantasy tales for all ages. Seven stories, including three award winners, deal with life in the weird lane. Often humorous, sometimes poignant, but all odd. Something not quite right this way cometh.
After three consecutive years of winning NaNoWriMo, I’ve decided to take a break this year. And I’m already missing it.
You may recall that November is the only month during the year that I produce a measureable amount of writing. Is this really a wise decision?
It’s not because I won’t have time for it–there’s never enough time for it–but I’ve always managed to squeeze it in.
The problem is that I have numerous fifty thousand word drafts of novels floating around, begging to be revised and completed. Why would I want to add one more draft to those haunting me?
In 2014 my NaNoWriMo novel was It Takes a Village Store. I couldn’t remember what it was about so I quickly scanned it. Ahhh…Anne, Olivia, Christian, Emily, George, Mae. I remember them. In 2015 my NaNoWriMo was Full Circle. Anne, Olivia, Christian, Emily, George, Mae. In 1986 (I kid you not) I started Anne, which remains a work in progress. Anne, Olivia, Christian, Jeff, George, Mae.
As they are populated by the (mostly) same cast of characters, what if I eliminate all of the unnecessary stuff from each of them and create one complete novel? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that’s all I had to do? Wouldn’t I feel like a real author if I spent November doing that instead of writing a new story with a new cast of characters?
Of course I would. But. For me, there’s something magical about NaNoWriMo. It’s more than thirty days of focusing just on word count. It’s thirty days of creating lives, places, relationships, action. Without anyone criticizing my sentence structure, my choice of words, my story arc. It’s the freedom to get swept away by my characters, to ride the wave of my story, to float back to shore at midnight on November thirtieth, fifty thousand words richer.
If you’ve been following my posts, you might be wondering what happened to the murder mystery trilogy I bragged about recently. Oh, that trilogy, using the same rough drafts listed above. And adding Gabby, my 2016 NaNo winner, and Claire, my loser.
Confused?? Yeah, me, too. Maybe the best of use of November is figuring out what I am going to do with all of those drafts I have spent years crafting. With any luck, that might include producing one completed novel.
Finally, in a 2015 post, this is what I had to say about what I learned from NaNoWriMo that year: …I am able to write regardless of the circumstances. I don’t need the perfect chair…or to be in the mood to write. I can even write while indulging in (gulp) Hallmark holiday movies…Another lesson has been that it isn’t that hard to whip out a lot of words if I’m prepared to also whip out a lot of revising. In the future. Revising that I’m actually looking forward to doing. Not lying.
Stay tuned for the big reveal: to NaNo or not?
Who doesn’t love a Woolly Mammoth? I’m so glad they’re coming back. Hope I live long enough to see one.
(What started me off on this? An article that visited my in-box this morning. Don’t they have a way of doing that, these off-the-wall emails that send your day into a curve you never dreamed of?)
Anyway, these lovable creatures roamed over all the world at one time. They stood up to 12 feet at the shoulder and ate lots. In frozen Siberia there are ice caves that have been transformed into laboratories to study mammoths dug from the permafrost. In not so nice times in the Russian past, inhabitants of gulags got to eat the frozen mammoths they unearthed. I wonder what they taste like?
In the first book of Jean M. Auel’s Earth’s Children series, ‘The Clan of the Cave Bear’, I learned that Neanderthals hunted mammoths and roasted their meat over open fires. Then they smoked quantities of left-overs to carry home to their families. What rollicking times they must have had back then. Jean M. Auel did extensive research for this book and for the whole series. She joined a survival class and learned to construct an ice cave, make a fire using primitive methods, tan leather and knap stones (flint) for knives. She was also a member of Mensa, that elite club for super smarties. You have to stand back for a moment and imagine putting a member of Mensa in a Neanderthal world. That is mind boggling.
But that, unfortunately, was the only book in the series that I’ve read. Next time I get a cold I’ll curl up with her next in the series. ‘The Valley of Horses’ I think it is. What fun.
Another mention of mammoths I’ve read and enjoyed is Thomas Pierce’s short story called ‘Shirley Temple Three’. It’s found in his collection of short stories called Hall of Small Animals. In the story, Mawmaw’s son Tommy; “works as the host of a popular show called ‘Back from Extinction’. On each episode they actually bring back long-dead, forgotten creatures – saber-toothed tigers, dodo birds, and all the rest. The show is a a little controversial, but people seem to enjoy it. Tommy always looks so handsome in his khaki safari vest”. So, guess what? In this story Tommy brings home a baby mammoth to Mawmaw in order to save it from certain death.
Which brings us full circle; bringing back the woolly Mammoth. Not as crazy as it sounds, apparently. Researchers are studying a frozen male mammoth from Northern Siberia hoping to either use his DNA, or sperm, to fertilize an Asian elephant’s egg. The Asian elephant has the closest DNA to the Mammoth’s, of all the elephants. Only a five percent difference.
All Europeans and Asians have maybe 3-4 percent Neanderthal genes in their DNA make-up. Makes you think; will we revert to our ancestor’s predilection for Mammoth meat in the future?
Jean M. Auel, you would get a kick out of this. Maybe you’re already on the team to bring back this luscious animal.
HAVE I GOT A CONTEST FOR YOU
Searching the internet for new and different venues for a short story I came across this gem:
Christopher Fielden’s Annual Short Story Competition
“To Hull And Back”
A Humorous Writing Contest
August 2017 sees the launch of the fifth To Hull And Back Short Story Competition, an annual short story contest with a humorous twist that celebrates the most imaginative and amazing short stories from writers all over the world.
Some highly prestigious writing contests offer huge cash prizes – the BBC award £15,000 and the Sunday Times give a whopping £30,000 to their winner. What can you win by entering this competition that contends with these short story prize giving heavyweights? THE most amazing, innovative and sought after writing prize on the planet. Forget the Pulitzer. THIS is the badger*.
If you’re selected as a winner:
You Will Win Cash
1st Prize: £1,000
2nd Prize: £500
3rd Prize: £250
3 x Highly Commended: £50
14 x Shortlisted: £25
But it doesn’t end there, my fine writing friends, oh no, not by a LONG shot.
You Will Be Published
All winners and short listed entries will be published in the To Hull And Back Short Story Anthology. This will be available as a professionally published, printed book and as a Kindle download. The book will have an ISBN number.
If you’re published in the book, a writer’s profile will appear alongside your story and on my website. This will consist of a delightful picture of you, a short bio telling readers all about how amazing you are and details of your website, if you have one.
In addition to this, an author interview with the winner will be published alongside their story.
And there’s more…
You Will Win the Most Awesomely Awesome in its Awesomeness Writing Prize in the Known Macrocosm
This is the bit that will send tingles down your spine. Joy will ravage your very being and you will feel compelled to dance naked for no reason, no matter where you might be. I guarantee it**.
The winner will be taken to Hell Hull and back.
Allow me to explain.
The winner’s face will appear on the front cover of the To Hull And Back Anthology. They will be depicted riding a flaming motorcycle and holding a quill of wrath. The covers from previous competitions can be seen below. Each year, the cover will be unique and created by a different artist.
That was my favorite contest for weirdness. Other contests of interest refused to be cut and pasted here, no matter how hard I tried. My fellow Thursday Night Writers know how I struggle with computer skills. Here’s a couple more:
THE SIXTH ANNUAL MOGFORD FOOD AND DRINK SHORT STORY COMPETITION
Any genre but food and drink must be at the heart of the winning tale.
Prize- 10,000 British pounds.
Limit of 2500 words
Due by Jan. 3, 2018
This is a fantastic website to visit. In fact you must visit it, it’s beautiful
THE SUNDAY TIMES
The British Sunday Times. Past winners have been Junot Diaz and Anthony Doerr.
Their first prize is $40,000 (American!). Highest purse for a short story in the world!
Do check this one out also.
I actually found one on Craigslist yesterday which offered a phenomenal people’s choice prize of something like $160,000. Of course, being Craigslist, it was gone today. Maybe someone bought it.
Keep slogging through the internet for just the right contest for your short story. As for me, I’m going to HULL AND BACK.
Recently I took my mother to the local hospital’s Emergency Department for evaluation for a possible heart attack. We remained briefly in a packed waiting room where we overheard a mumbling man grumbling because they wouldn’t let him into the treatment area. Something was going on in there and they were keeping him from it.
As soon as a nurse escorted us through the closed door into the treatment area, I sensed a tension in the air, as before a hurricane hits. The hysterical wales and shrieks of a female that erupted throughout the ED indicated it had hit.
Someone had died. Right then and there. I just knew it.
Certainly she would be escorted out of the curtained area of the ED and into a private area where she could grieve. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone. Maybe the man in the waiting room was a relative. Why wouldn’t they let him in?
The nurse guided us into a private room at the far end of the ED and a team of medical professionals swooped in and drew blood, hooked up monitors, inserted an IV, and wheeled in a portable x-ray machine. Suddenly it was just my mother and me. Bloody gauze littered the floor. The monitor blazed green, yellow and blue squiggles, its beeps a reassurance that life went on.
A methodic pounding now accompanied the howling. Even my hard of hearing mother heard it. We looked at each other and started laughing.
I stood near the open door of my mother’s room, hoping to glimpse a clue as to the tragedy that had struck. A male voice—the man from the waiting room, perhaps—loud, firm, annoyed. “If you don’t stop this right now, I’m going to lay down the law.”
For just a moment my mother and I relaxed into the quiet. When the howling started again a nurse closed our door, the noise muffled but not stopped.
We never learned what had happened to the young lady, we knew only what our minds could conjure, though I’m pretty sure no one had died.
It’s not always what you think, is it? Not so different from what happens with a murder mystery. As an author, I insert clues to mislead my fictional characters as well as my readers, who make assumptions based on the meager information I’ve doled out to them. The all-powerful author controls what the reader learns and when she learns it. The reader controls what assumptions and conclusions she makes. In the end, the author has the last word when she ends the suspense and reveals the murderer. What author doesn’t revel in that power?
Prayers for those impacted by Hurricane Irma.
A few blogs ago, I was whining and complaining about the decline of all things literate: cursive script gone from the schools, editing that goes no further than spellcheck, and above all, letter writing that has dwindled to email.
But why mope? We’re all writers here; hence, we’re all readers; hence, we have access to the written treasures of the centuries. I went to my bookshelves and within minutes pulled down an armload of books likely to contain the kind of letters no one writes any more. Here is a sample to brighten your day.
In the parlance of his own day (the reign of Charles II of England) John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester was a rakehell. Not the man you would expect to write this letter to his new bride:
I know not well who has the worst on’t, you, who love but a little, or I, who doat to an extravagance; sure, to be half kind is as bad as to be half witted; and madness, both in love and reason, bears a better character than a moderate state of either.
Full disclosure #1: Rochester was an earl, but an impoverished one. His bride, with whom he eloped, was very, very rich.
Full disclosure #2: After a lifetime of drinking, whoring and brawling, Rochester repented on his deathbed and died in the odor of sanctity. On the other hand, we have only his friends’ word for this.
In Sense and Sensibility, Lady Middleton is wary of the Dashwood sisters, fearing that they may be “satirical” of mind. Wonder who Jane Austen was thinking of? Jane to her sister Cassandra:
Another stupid party last night…. I cannot anyhow continue to find people agreeable; I respect Mrs. Chamberlayne for doing her hair well, but cannot feel a more tender sentiment. Miss Langley is like any other short girl with a broad nose & wide mouth, fashionable dress & exposed bosom. Adm: Stanhope is a gentlemanlike Man, but then his legs are too short, & his tail too long.
E.B. White and his wife hobnobbed with the literati of The New Yorker. It didn’t go to their heads. White to his brother:
The summer reached a sort of peak the day we went to the Blue Hill Fair and K [White’s wife] tried to take a leak in the bushes just as the trap-shoot started. She came out with only a minor flesh wound, but she might as well have been through Anzio. We all thought it was very comical, and one shooter (I heard later) got 25 pigeons out of a possible 25.
Helene Hanff, author of 84 Charing Cross Road, in New York, to her supplier of out-of-print classics, Marks & Co. of 84, Charing Cross Rd., London:
De Tocqueville’s compliments and he begs to announce his safe arrival in America. He sits around looking smug because everything he said was true, especially about lawyers running the country….
Did I tell you I finally found the perfect page cutter? It’s a pearl-handled fruit knife. My mother left me a dozen of them…. Maybe I go with the wrong kind of people but I’m just not likely to have twelve guests all sitting around simultaneously eating fruit.
While we’re on politics, you needn’t depend on cable news for furious denunciations of partisanship. John Adams to Thomas Jefferson, explaining why the excellent law codes of antiquity have been lost:
Why are those Laws lost? I say the Spirit of Party has destroyed them, civil, political and ecclesiastical Bigotry. Despotical, monarchical Aristocratical and democratical Fury, have all been employed in this Work of destruction of every Thing that could give us true light and a clear insight of Antiquity. For every One of these Parties, when possessed of Power, or when they have been Undermost and Struggling to get Uppermost, has been equally prone to every Species of fraud and Violence, and Usurpation.
And while we’re on the Adamses, a final love letter from one of the great love stories of history. Abigail Adams, in Braintree, Massachusetts, to John Adams, in France representing the newly independent United States, 1778:
How insupportable the Idea that 3000 leagues, and the vast ocean now divide us – but divide only our persons for the Heart of my Friend is in the Bosom of his partner. More than half a score years has so riveted it there, that the Fabrick which contains it must crumble into Dust, e’er the particles can be separated.
Now please sit down, think of your brightest, funniest, most verbal friend, and write him or her a letter. On paper, with a pen, in script. Just to keep Tinkerbelle alive.
Recently a fellow writer from Thursday Night Writes and I were chatting remotely about things, many and diverse. She mentioned that she didn’t “understand higher anything. Math, grammar, economics, electronics.” My immediate response? “To write we don’t need to understand higher anything. We need to feel and be able to convey what we feel. That’s it.”
Brilliant. Honest. At that exact moment, that is what I believed. I feel therefore I can write. Four days later, I still believe it.
And yet…At our weekly meeting of the Thursday Night Writes group, another member, who is on her third or tenth revision of her current (and almost perfect and so close to publishable) novel, submitted a rewrite of her next chapter for our review.
Did her submission meet my criteria for conveying what she feels? Most definitely. Did we expect her to understand “higher anything”? Why yes, as a matter of fact, we did.
Last night we quizzed her on contract law, injunctions, town government, and zoning permits. Her lawyer character is a crackerjack of an attorney and naturally we expect her to possess the same legal knowledge that she has attributed to this character.
We moved on to building construction and architecture. A discussion of whether the curvature of the building is tight or more gradual led to conjecture regarding curved-glass windows vs. regular windows placed into the curvature of the wall. I don’t even understand what I am trying to say and I was there. And how could we overlook the intricacies of contractor penalties for missed deadlines?
I have to give her credit, she did not get up and walk out, she did not raise her voice and emit words learned from Anthony Scaramucci, she did not shut down and pretend to record our comments—all things I have done or wanted to do while I was being quizzed on my writing. Instead, the author pointed out our misinterpretations and said she would consider all comments. That’s the author’s prerogative and absolutely the correct response.
So maybe I was wrong. As authors, maybe we do need to do more than feel. Maybe we do need to have an understanding of the “higher anything” that we write about. And maybe we do need an inordinate amount of patience dealing with our writing group members who don’t have the same understanding.
MAKING THINGS UP
It’s nice to know that there are judges out there who enjoy nonsense as well as I do. Who actually give prizes to writers of light fantasy. Writers who enjoy a little strangeness. Not a lot, mind you, just that wee bit of weird, that soupcon of screwiness, those bites of bizarre that flavor ordinary life with unordinary happenstances. Not talking creepy or spooky here, just a little quirky.
The Bethlehem Writers Group (Bethlehem, Pennsylvania that is, not Bethlehem, New Hampshire, Israel, or any other place), honored me with a prize this year in their paranormal contest. I took third place, but I placed, and that’s all it takes to make me happy.
Here’s the link:
You’ll also be able to read the second place story but the first place winner will be published in their collection in 2018.
I wouldn’t have been able to wait until 2018 to see my story in print had I taken first place, third place gave me instant gratification. If I was an adept at the computer I’d be able to show you my certificate giving me even more gratification, but enough about me.
The September issue of WRITER’S DIGEST arrived last week and I’m enjoying the articles, as always, but not the fact that it’s the SEPTEMBER issue! I want more summer.
Anyway, I learned about the “the uninterrupted fictional dream,” a phrase coined by John Gardner. The following paragraph comes from Tess Callahan’s column, Train Your Eye for Better Writing in the Sept. issue.
“As readers, the most important thing to notice is often what we don’t notice – that is, how the writer keeps us immersed in what John Gardner in The Art of Fiction famously called “the uninterrupted fictional dream.” When we fall into that blissful dream as readers, it appears seamless on the part of the author. It’s not, of course.”
How I would love to have my readers fall into uninterrupted fictional dreams. It’s not only enjoyable for the reader but obviously fulfilling for the writer to know that not only do they have readers but these readers are falling into uninterrupted fictional dreams.
Here’s something else from Tess Callahan. She relates writing a story to a painter working on a canvas.
“Most visual artists don’t start on a big canvas without doing countless thumbnail sketches that help sharpen their skills and drive their vision. Writers can benefit from the same.
“What I’m suggesting here is not outlining, which comes from the rational brain and works for some writers, but rather quick, loose drafts that spring from the subconscious like dreams and proceed image by image.
To write this way means you must be working on the whole canvas at once, relating one image to another across distances. To get stuck in one corner of the canvas risks losing the thread that connects it to the whole living organism of the story.”
In another article, same issue, Taming the Inner Critic, by David Corbett, I found this bit of profundity:
“Simplicity is the true hallmark of elegance, and over complication is the refuge of the confused.”
That was a somewhat bothersome statement even though I happen to think it’s true. Bothersome because I think that the story I’m working on now is verging on the overcomplicated and if it is I suppose it will fall down in the uninterrupted fictional dream department. And I wouldn’t like that to happen at all.
I’ve been berating myself all week for not being Neil Gaiman.
I’m not bothered that I haven’t written multiple blockbuster fantasies – that’s past praying for. I’m just fed up with my inability to spot all the glorious weirdness I know is out there, just beyond my peripheral vision.
When Gaiman was writing American Gods, he traveled the U.S. by the back roads, stopping in the small towns, eating in the diners, and above all, visiting the “roadside attractions.” Genius that he is, Gaiman realized that in America, the loci of magical forces would not be intersecting ley lines, ruined temples or mysterious Templar manuscripts. They would be found in places like the House on the Rock in Spring Green, Wisconsin.
Now, I had a house in Ithaca, Wisconsin, for 9 years. I was less than 20 miles from Spring Green. For counties around, the sides of barns and old factories were plastered with ads for the House on the Rock. And I never went there.
I never rode the centaur on the “world’s largest indoor carousel.” (None of the mounts on the House on the Rock’s carousel is a horse.)
I never saw the doll collection, thousands of them, arranged on tiered platforms like a wedding cake (if you had a wedding where the guests ate the bride. Brides.) I never walked into the infinity room, suspended without support over the sheer drop below the Rock itself, a 60-foot column of stone atop which no sane person would ever, ever build a House.
Thoughtful people have reflected negatively on the House on the Rock. It contains a dusty collection without rhyme or reason, accumulated, it would seem, for the same reason that Hillary climbed Mt. Everest: it could be done. There was stuff in the world, so one Alex Jordan, Jr. built the House, bought the stuff, hauled it there and… that’s it. That was the point. If there was a point.
Gaiman is not a thoughtful, reflective person, he is a lunatic genius, so he knew what to do with the House on the Rock. In American Gods, the old gods of America’s immigrant peoples gather at the House on the Rock to debate the means of making a comeback. They ride the carousel. They quarrel. They split into factions. And then they are overwhelmed by other gods, who… but I won’t spoil your fun. Buy the book.
It happens that I spent the past week driving across America. Dope that I am, I did it the sensible way. I took the interstates. I ate at the same McDonald’s every day – it followed me around like a jackal. I read the same billboards over and over. The same jerk in the same Minicooper cut across the same three lanes of traffic every seven exits. Every mile of the northeast and the Midwest had exactly the same things on offer.
I tried, I really did. But when I reached my goal in the Rocky Mountains and toted up my score of weird-and-wonderful, it was pitiful. Three. That was my score: three.
Number One: Somewhere in Nebraska, above what looked like a warehouse, a billboard modestly touted its owner and his wares:
MAX I. (SOME-NAME-OR-OTHER).
CAREER APPAREL. FLOOR MATS. TOWELS.
Question: which careers?
Number Two: A woman sitting at a bar, her back to my table. Her heels – the real ones, not the ones on her sandals – are hooked around the legs of her bar stool. They are huge, perfectly spherical and smooth as cue balls. Her Achilles tendons could play a major part in a suspension bridge. If Achilles had built his up to the same proportions, he would have lived to sack Troy.
Number Three: A headline in the local paper. (This shouldn’t count, because when I read it I had already reached my destination. But I’m desperate here, people.)
Locals Become Leading Trout Semen Freezers
“John Riger and Barry Stout said that as far as they knew, they were the only ones preserving fish semen on their scale anywhere in the world.”
This was apparently good news for the Tasmanian rainbow trout.
On the other hand, Riger’s and Stout’s teenage daughters ran away to join a convent the day after the story was printed. And I really shouldn’t claim a point for this find: the accomplishment recorded took place in 1987. The Aspen Times has a regular archival feature. Around here, history is measured in decades, not centuries.
So, readers, help me out here. You aren’t Neil Gaiman, either. What weird-and-wonderful thing has crossed your path lately? And above all, where did you find it?