Category: Writing (page 60 of 81)

The Paths to Self-Publication

Good Luck road sign

So. Self-publication. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately.

If you’re anything like me, though (and if you are you should really think about seeing a professional), you have a habit of catching just a whiff of a new endeavor and throwing yourself at it to the expense of all else. If that’s the case, let me caution you to STOP.

Read this, this and this.

True, Chuck is no self-publishing expert (and he even tells you so) but he likely knows more about it than the average self-publishing wannabe. Which is a category I definitely fall into. My queries are still out in the wild, howling their agent mating calls, waiting for some sort of response even if it’s just a shoe getting tossed at them so they’ll get off the agent’s fence. It’s not the novel I’m thinking of self-publishing.

As I continue working on my Free Fiction entries, spinning new ideas and laying out words, I see a pattern forming between some of the stories, things that readers can latch onto. As much as the anthology is a hated article of fiction, and combining that with self-publication means I’d be infecting my work with the literary equivalent of the Black Plague, an anthology of myths re-cast into different settings may still have an audience.

I don’t think you’ll be seeing it available any time soon, because I have a few things I need to do.

First, I need to write more.

No-brainer here. Right now I’ve got two solid stories and one that may be more a continuation of the first than a stand-alone narrative. I’ve got a new one in the works and ideas for at least three more. And I don’t want to just dash them off and slap them into a PDF for sale. There will need to be edits, revisions, cuts and fusions, all that good stuff that makes decent ideas into great stories. You’ll still get Free Fiction on a (semi) regular basis, but mostly I’ll be posting the raw stuff.

Next, I’ll need a cover artist.

Somehow I’ll have to find room in my budget to pay somebody for this. Considering I want this to be a product I’m proud of, willing to show to others as evidence of my style, inspiration and ability to produce, I don’t want it to look like something a fifth-grade drew in MS Paint or a photoshopped image with kitschy filters and lens flares all over the place. This should look professional, even if I’m a complete and total amateur.

Finally, it’ll come time to market the thing.

I’m not a marketing guy. I tend not to be inclined to schmooze. It makes me an inadequate salesman, even when I’m trying to sell myself. In social situations I always fear talking about myself too much, artificially redirecting conversations to make them about me, basically wishing to avoid behavior that’d get me branded as a self-centered douchecopter.

Yet that’s a good chunk of what will get a self-published work in a position to earn its keep.

Once it’s up on the Intertubes, it’ll sit there unless acted upon by an outside force. Newton’s First Law of Internet or something. And since I created the thing, I’ll have to be that outside force. I honestly have no idea what the best or most efficient way of doing so is going to be, but I’m willing to give it a try.

It’s something that could go any number of ways. Hopefully I don’t pursue one of the ways that pitches me head-first into an unforeseen pit filled with red-hot magma.

In other news, it’s entirely possible I’ve been playing Minecraft a bit much lately.

Writers Gotta Write

Bard by BlueInkAlchemist, on Flickr

I think one of the worst things you can do as a writer is sit idle.

I don’t mean physically, though that probably comes into it. The remote control, the take-out menu, the bottle of booze – they’re all comforts we reach for in general. Writers in particular can feel affected, even exhausted, by what they do. You finish a project, a novel, a round of pitches, and you feel absolutely spent. You just want to take a moment to get away from the pen, the word processor, the outline and the query.

So you pour yourself some sweet succor and kick back. But what then?

Intellectually, we know writers have to write. It’s nothing short of a moral imperative. It’s in our blood, and once it’s taken hold it’s not going to let go. We can do our level best to ignore it, of course, but the longer we do that, the more it’ll gnaw at us.

We might keep a journal, maintain a blog, post on forums. But these are little more than stopgap measures. They hold off the beast in our brains for another day or so. Then the ideas start popping up in our heads again. Square-jawed heroes with jet packs and ray guns. Werewolf fiends with viscera dripping from their jaws. Good-looking girls who also happen to be tough as coffin nails. Fairies that giggle as they turn innocent travellers into twitsed abominations. Flying cats.

Channeling this creative energy in a productive direction can be a daunting task. It means stepping away from those comforts. We have to put away the snacks, turn off the television, stay off the tweets and bulletin boards. When you get right down to it, writing is work, and after work is done for the day the prospect of more work just isn’t all that appealing.

But writers gotta write. We set goals for ourselves. An outline in an hour. A thousand words a day. A story every fortnight. We try to structure our time in such a way that we can better focus the energies that tease the edges of our imagination when our minds come to something resembling a halt and we might consider distracting ourselves in some way, shape or form.

Art is creative chaos, and writing is an art. Imposing order on chaos is something that sounds good in practice but tends to suffer in execution. The trick is not to overdo it. You can say that you’ll spend the hours between X and Y writing Z words, but the truth is the chaos will rebel against it in the form of the way we seek excuses to stop writing. The dog will need to be walked. We’ll remember the trash needs gathering. We’ll catch a glimpse of the pile of dishes in the sink (and did that one just move?) and resolve to scrub a few. I could go on.

In those situations, remember how far you’ve come towards your goal and how much is left. It’ll be easy to forget in the process of tending to those outside influences, and say “Well, I wrote something at least. Time for more fun! Fire up the tweets! Ale and whores for all!” Stop. Think. You have a goal to meet and you haven’t met it yet. Chances are it’s closer than you think, and if you can get on a roll you might even exceed it. But the only way you’ll find out is if you keep your focus on the words and continue to let them flow. They want to come out, arrange on the page, thrive within the story. We just have to let them hitch a ride down our neurons from our brainpans to our fingertips. That takes time, focus and energy, and we may be disinclined to expend those things on a task that is less fun than the many distractions that tempt and tease us.

Just remember. You’re a writer. And writers gotta write.

Magpie Management

Magpie

I apologize for yesterday’s oddness. I’ve been meaning to adjust the schedule of my blogging. Not on this end, mind you: posts will still publish as near to noon as possible. I figure folks on lunch break might want something interesting to read other than the news.

It’s totally a creation-oriented thing. Rather than scrambling for topics at the last minute, which occasionally leads to things like surly Mexican supercops scowling at you, I need to make it a point to jot post ideas down when I have them and write said posts in advance. Tomorrow, for example, will see the return of Into the Nentir Vale, and while I have the funny quotes from my players, making sure the narrative flows in line with the events of the last two sessions would take up most of my lunch hour.

Still, it falls back to making sure I use the free time I have wisely. This includes time on the train, naturally, as well as walks to and from the station. It can be difficult to predict when an idea for a post might hit me, and if I don’t document them they might slip through my fingers the next time a shinier idea passes me by. I’m a bit like a magpie, in that way, which is something I’ve mentioned before.

Creating new habits to replace bad or broken ones can be one of the biggest obstacles a person has to face. It means change. It represents stepping away from the familiar, the comfortable. The edge can be a scary place, and not everybody likes to hang out there. We need to remind ourselves, however, that with risk comes reward.

I’m dangling myself over the edge already, at least a little. Queries are going out. I know most will be met with rejection. But that’s a fact of the writer’s life. It’s not the rejection itself that matters – it’s how we deal with it.

Free Fiction: The Jovian Gambit

Jupiter & Callisto

Continuing experiments in cross-pollination between old myths and newer storytelling genres. They didn’t have spaceships and ray guns in ancient Greece, after all.

As always, you can download the PDF or read the text after the spoiler tags. However you enjoy your fiction, this is how to do it.

Spoiler

Tranquility Base was a misleading name for the installation, at least on the date in question. After a great deal of communication between the Terran government and the Jovian military, a single vessel was authorized to cross the interplanetary void. It docked at Tranquility Base under the watchful remote visual links of the installation’s massive MAC batteries. The turrets turned back towards the infinite emptiness as the docking collar was secured and the ships’ passengers walked to their destination.

Rear Admiral Cyprus knew what to expect. He sat behind the carved mahogany desk, his hands resting on the blotter as he monitored the progress of his guests through the polished metal corridors. He reminded himself, as he often did, that this heirloom had required as much fuel to move from Terra to his office as a lightly-armed infiltration squad. He didn’t want to forget that some sacrifices were necessary while others were frivolous.

Next to him stood his adjutant, who kept an ear out for the trod of incoming boots which were somewhat muffled by the carpeted walkways. Their guest had a presence, however, and both men felt it when the doors parted to admit him and his handful of armed escorts.

“Welcome to Luna, General Minos,” Cyprus said cordially. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one?”

“Space travel is a tedious and uncomfortable experience.” Minos of Io was flanked by four of his personal guard, veteran soldiers, killers to a man. “Not to mention I have very little patience for Terrans in general and Terran Command in particular. The politicians and peaceniks may be interested in peace between us, but as far as I’m concerned the Jovian Colonies deserve to be treated as separate, sovereign worlds. But I’m not here to debate our independence. I’m looking for a scientist.”

“You’ve come to the right place. Tranquility Base is one of the Terran Confederacy’s premiere research stations. We have quite a few scientists here.”

“I’m looking for one in particular. Rather than dance around verbally, however, I have a means of discovering if he is here.” The general handed a small data card to the admiral. “Transmit the contents of this data card to your research staff. It contains an algorithm that, I am told, is unsolvable. It was being developed on Callisto before the abduction of the scientist in question, and we believe he might be able to solve it.”

Cyprus nodded, doing as the general asked. The admiral’s adjutant looked on as Cyprus sent the data to the terminals throughout Tranquility Base. Once the transmission was complete, the admiral leaned back to regard his Jovian counterpart.

“Why don’t you take a seat, General? This might take a while.”

“I suspect it won’t.” Minos stroked his mustache. Cyprus made a non-committal noise. Terran tracking stations had been observing Minos’ spacecraft as it made its way through the asteroid belt and stopped on the Martian moons. Both stops had seen the general storming into the commanding officer’s presence, make this same demand and leaving after all of the scientists and mathematicians at both installations had given up. Minos, however, was undeterred. Cyprus knew the Jovian would scour the surface of Terra if he had to.

A soft ping was heard from Cyprus’ terminal. He looked it over for a moment, and then turned the screen to face Minos. The equation staring back at the Jovian general made no sense to him, but the fact that it was a solution caused him to lean across Cyprus’ desk with a snarl.

“I want Professor Daedalus returned to Jovian custody at once.”

“Professor Daedalus is not a prisoner.” Cyprus’ fingers interlaced under his chin as his elbows rested on his blotter. “He is our guest, and if it is his wish to return to Callisto…”

“He was abducted!” Minos roared, pounding the desk with his fist. “An infiltration squad of Terran soldiers came to Callisto, using the storms and gravitational shadow of Jupiter to mask their presence. They navigated our corridors, kidnapped Professor Daedalus, stole or destroyed his research, and killed several of my men, including my base security chief, Colonel Talos. His presence here is all the proof I need. You will release him to my custody, and if you wish to prevent a full-scale interplanetary war, you will hand over the terrorists responsible for this cowardly act!”

Cyprus remained unmoved in expression. After a moment, he addressed his adjutant without looking away from the enraged Jovian.

“Lieutenant Commander Theseus, here, will take you to Daedalus. Commander, if you would.”

“Aye, sir,” Theseus replied, moving to the door. “This way, gentlemen.”

Minos was surprised, but hid his emotions behind his mustache. The Terrans were capitulating too easily. Something was going on that he didn’t like. Was he being deceived? Had they moved Daedalus to another location, or were they perhaps in the process of doing that now?

“You commanded the Taurus division,” Theseus observed as they walked, “which was involved in more exchanges during the war than any other unit on either side.”

“That’s true.” Minos tried to put his frustration and suspicion behind him. “They served with courage and honored us with their sacrifices.”

“I have no doubts about that,” said the younger man, guiding them through the brushed steel corridors, “but I have to wonder why the Martian colonies were so brutally handled. Most of the population there were civilians, and I hear the noxious weapons used on the crop domes fed into the air processors in a way that will take decades to clear up before new colonists can settle there.”

“Much of that is hyperbole and propaganda,” Minos said dismissively. “There were reports of Terran troops hiding among the civilian population. There were civilian casualties on Mars, yes, but the damage done to the fragile and fledgling eco-system was as much the fault of the cretins designing the processing plants as it was any Jovian action.”

Theseus nodded and changed the subject. “I can understand why you want Professor Daedalus returned. He’s been a real asset since his arrival, and has made several key changes to the installation.”

“You’ve been forcing him to work?”

“No, we haven’t. We don’t force people to do anything when they come to us willingly.”

The commander’s words made Minos stop in his tracks. Theseus turned. The Jovians were standing in an intersection of corridors, and when Theseus reached out and touched a spot on the wall, four heavy doors slammed down around them. Each door had a small, thick porthole in it, and Theseus was visible through one of them. There was the hissing sound of a pressure seal, and Minos’ men raised their weapons.

“Put those down!” Minos snapped. “You want to kill us with ricochets, you idiots? Burn us out!” One of his men fumbled with a backpack looking for his torch when a speaker snapped on.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Theseus said coldly into the handset he now held, “Daedalus has made some changes to our installation, such as these heavy blast doors that resist hard vacuum. He prepared them specifically for your arrival. He told us you’d be coming.”

“You coward!”

“I’d save your breath, General. You haven’t got much time left. Do you have a message for your family? You see, I was never given the opportunity to send one to mine. They were colonists on Mars, who were slaughtered on your orders.”

Minos raised his chin. “How does this make you any better than me, Commander?”

Theseus stalked to the porthole, scowling at Minos. The general was taken aback. The man who had appeared as nothing more than a glorified secretary suddenly had a countenance appropriate to the blackest pages of human history, an absolute terror to behold.

“When I kill, Minos, I kill soldiers. I kill those fighting to kill me. I killed Talos because he was about to send me to my family by way of a poisoned dagger at my throat. As for the civilians on Callisto, not a single one was harmed and I doubt most were even aware of our presence. War is an ugly and brutal thing to behold, let alone participate in, and yet you brought it into people’s homes when you had no right. Children and pregnant mothers died choking on their own vomit because of you. Seven thousand souls, and you snuffed out every single one without having the courage to show your face.”

Minos tried to muster a defiant response, to salvage some sort of moral or pyrrhic victory from this. The guard trying to get his torch working finally lit the white hot flame.

“Take a good look at my face, Minos,” Theseus was saying. “This is the face of a murderer who looks his victim in the eye. It’s the last thing Talos saw. Now you two have that in common. Daedalus would tell you to give his regards to his son, but we both know you’re not going the same place he went.”

And with that, Theseus activated the chamber’s upper door. It opened to the blackness of space above Luna. Minos maintained eye contact with the younger man before he was pulled upwards into the void. Without pressure suits, all seven men were dead within minutes. Theseus turned away and adjusted the channel on his handset.

“Get a cleanup crew to junction DA-12, exterior. Have the bodies put back on the Jovian ship per Professor Daedalus’ instructions.”

He walked through the installation and down a flight of stairs, into the very bowels of Luna. He found his quarry sitting at a terminal in the corner of one of the workrooms, indistinguishable from the other desks. The man’s hair had grown along with his beard, but when he looked up his eyes shone with the intelligence and resolve Theseus had seen from the moment he’d found the physicist in the darkness of Minos’ base.

“It’s done,” Theseus said quietly. Daedalus sighed a bit, passing a hand over his eyes.

“My son can rest in peace. Are their bodies being put back on their ship?”

“Just as you asked. It happened just as you said, right down to him using that equation to determine you were here. How did you know he’d do that, by the way?”

“You can’t determine one human biorhythm from another unless you get very close. Using a negrav ship for our escape masked our trail, and he had little else to go on after I deleted my files & backups and you trashed the servers.”

“So why this equation in particular? What is it, exactly?”

“It’s a small program I put into long equation form. A bit of a cypher, really. It expresses the intent and procedure of the program mathematically, like using an encryption key to make a simple text message appear as random characters. I never did get to finish the equation version of the program, however, and without my files…”

“You brought some with you, didn’t you? I mean you’ve been working on a new negrav design…”

“Yes, my boy, but I didn’t save any information on this program. I couldn’t. I didn’t want Minos to have any idea what was in store for him. But now that the equation is complete, I can tease it out into a programming format and use it for its intended purpose. Instead of him going to war to get me back, he used the equation to track me down, when all the while I’ve been here waiting for him. The program he unwittingly helped complete will cause his ship to have an accident on the way back to Callisto. The accident will occur after he reports, in his own voice, that I have been retrieved without incident.”

“I’m sure the Jovians will cry sabotage.”

“They might, they might indeed. But I hope you and I will be far enough from this place that it won’t matter. You mentioned my new design, Theseus, and I’m curious as to your input.”

The physicist called up a schematic of his design, and it sprang to life above the desk, floating in midair, rotating slowly to allow Theseus to take in every angle. He was speechless, and Daedalus smiled for the first time since before his son left Callisto for the last time.

“I’m glad you like it, Commander. I call it the Argo.”

Platformers and Publication

Courtesy GamePlasma.com
Yeah. It’s like this.

Here’s a somewhat strained metaphor for you, inspired by Chuck’s latest list of reasons why that novel you wrote will never get published.

Platform games can be hard. REALLY hard. I mean brain-taxing finger-cramping swear-inducing endeavors. Getting a book published can be similar. It might not seem like an obvious parallel at first, but bear with me. Like a video playthrough or GameFAQs guide, I’ll walk (or jump, or flip) you through it.

Writing the query – VVVVVV

This seems simple enough. Rescue your crew and gather special trinkets. You have one button, which flips your personal gravity. You walk from one side of the screen to the other, flipping to avoid the occasional enemy and lots (and I do mean LOTS) of spikes. Now swap, “flip your gravity to avoid spikes” with “write a query to get your book published.” It seems simple, right?

Any author with dreams of getting ink will tell you it’s not as simple as it sounds. Condensing tens or hundreds of thousands of words into a couple dozen to grab the attention of an agent is no small feat. And all around you are signs that you won’t be able to do it. Take the Veni, Vidi, Vici sequence:

Obtaining one of the trinkets requires you to go through about 6 consecutive screens filled with nothing but spikes, which on it’s own is extremely difficult. Then the game requires you to turn around immediately (or get impaled) and complete the same six screens in reverse order. More than one player has missed the (rather easy) landing at the end, after successfully navigating Hell itself…
Lampshaded in that there is a message at the beginning stating “Ha! Nobody will ever get this one.”

Submitting queries – Super Meat Boy

Once you get the query done, you start sending it out to agents. Let’s be honest, though. You might as well be sending tangible bits of your soul through a meat grinder. Over and over again.

Hence, Super Meat Boy.

I’ve discussed the trials and tribulations of this game at length before, and the querying process is a lot like this. You send your letters, you wait, you get rejections. At least in Super Meat Boy, you get the results right away, in all their bloody gory glory.

Speaking of which…

Submitting more queries – I Wanna Be The Guy

Straight out of Platform Hell, this tough-as-iron-coffin-nails indy platformer casts you as The Kid. The Kid wants to be the Guy. He’s got a cape that makes him double jump, a gun and infinite lives. Which is a good thing, because everything and its mother is trying to kill you. And they will succeed.

The more queries you send, the more rejections you’ll get. It’s really a matter of how many times you can send more queries, like hitting the R button to try again in I Wanna Be The Guy. Once you get past the sting of one agency’s rejection, like successfully navigating one screen of this game, another is waiting – gleefully, it might seem – to make you feel that pain all over again. In other words, trying to get your book published successfully is like trying to play a ROM hack of BattleToads.

And if you understand that metaphor, you have both my praise and my sympathy.

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