Saturday, November 16, 2019
1. Title your series on the cover. This isn't a difficult thing to do. What's the overriding theme? Or maybe it's about a specific group of characters. Some authors have fifty or sixty books with multiple series and there's no clue to say which books go together. I'm too short on time to try to sort it out. There are so many others out there to read.
2. Number your books on the cover. Instead of scrolling through pages and pages of book covers on Amazon or Kobo or...well, I'm sure you get the idea...and then having to read every synopsis to figure out where it belongs in which series, just do this simple thing. If you normally write series, even if you're not sure every book will end up being part of a series, slap a number on the cover. If the book never makes it to a series, it will always be book #1, so that's no lie.
3. If possible--and if you're an Indie writer, you make the ultimate choice--try to settle on a specific 'look' (font, color, cover art) for your series. A few notable series authors do this and it makes it so much easier to group the books together at a glance.
The point is sales, folks. I have a busy life and if it's too hard to find your books, or figure out which ones go together, then I'll lose interest and move on. And that would be a shame.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Language is a living, changing thing. Every day we add new words and discard others. Behold is one of those losses and that saddens me. What if we woke every morning with the word? This elegant word promises excitement and new beginnings and grabs our consciousness, urging us to seek out the future.
Behold! Seize the opportunities and possibilities!
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
In a couple weeks I'll roll out of bed on my 70th birthday to visit the morning vamps at 8 AM. Mostly, it's normal stuff, but one test to determine if high cortisol is why I'm sprouting a handsome beard has to be done early, early in the morning.
Sometimes I feel like Lucy in the candy factory episode--never quite getting all the pieces sorted. The creator seems to have speeded up the line so whenever I get one thing under control, something else pops out.
Never the less, I persist! That's what life is about. Keep on going.
I have to go for x-rays on the spine. The hunk 'mentioned' I don't do stuff because my back hurts. So, of course we had to have a discussion about that. The doc explained--very patiently--that the back, my back, was not going to get better or improve or magically be alright. It is what it is, but I'll be seeing the specialist about better pain management. Won't that be fun. However, he also told the hunk to lay off...since I'd no doubt spent the better part of our marriage doing the stuff.
Apparently, I have more new experiences in front of me. When I look back and remember how terrified I was at the prospect of insulin injections, I have to laugh. I do them everyday without a thought. If I can do that, then I can do the next thing, whatever it is.
My friend, Amarinda, assures me age is just a number. I believe I'll call it a level. Level 70 sounds more positive.
Saturday, October 26, 2019
I've spent a couple years mully-grubbing about what to do with it. A couple days ago I finally started working on it. The book was supposed to tell Traveller and Wrenna's story. Instead it was an awful mish-mash of everyone else with very little left over for the primary couple.
I wrote an entirely new beginning, took the time to type it in the book file and then edited that short piece. This morning I sat at my desk with scissors, sticky notes, and a stapler. After a couple deep breaths, a short interlude where I checked my e-mail, and quick cup of coffee, I dove in.
On the first pass, I literally cut everything out of the story that didn't apply to Trav or Wrenna. With scissors. That was about a quarter of the book. Then I arranged what was left in chronological order. Next I did a quick pass with my pad of stickies, making notes of things to change, check, or add to the story.
Hah. I never felt so great! Finally, I think this book will have a chance. It won't be today or next week, or even possibly next month, but when it's finished, it will finally be the book I should have written in the first place. And it will give Trav and Wrenna their story at last.
Sometimes, do-overs are the best thing!
Monday, September 16, 2019
I used to think it was because I had fuzzy brain syndrome. Sure, you know what that is...when your brain refuses to work due to meds or some other weird condition.
Then I thought maybe it's because I don't have any faith in my story-telling skills anymore. One too many savage reviews or something. Or an edit that just makes me tired. Or maybe it's the total lack of sales.
Perhaps it's the absence of ambition. Ill health. Fatigue. Depression.
But this! This is it! I'm simply overwhelmed by my genius. Excellent!
Who's with me?
Friday, August 30, 2019
I'm not talking about a Pollyanna attitude, but the willingness to be prepared for the worst while living every single day to the utmost. Folks in the past didn't expect winters with so much snow they were trapped for days or weeks, but they were prepared just in case with adequate water, food, and blankets/wood for warmth.
I've been pondering the increase in mental health issues we face as a species. And part of it, I believe, might come from our eagerness to embrace the worst possibility instead of the best. Think about it. I'll wait.
When the doctor sends you for a test do you immediately assume the most catastrophic news? Or do you adopt a wait-and-see attitude. Do you expect disaster? Or do you calmly prepare while moving on with your life? Do you celebrate all the benchmarks of life, enjoy every bit of happiness, even as you respect the difficulties life brings to all of us?
A popular phrase from my early adulthood was "Life is to be lived." I didn't quite understand it until the last couple years when my life has been fraught with illness and pain...when "I can't" seems so much easier than "I will". For every day I get out of bed, get dressed, and go out to do battle with whatever is on my schedule, I am grateful. And while I'm out there, I try to be as observant and alert as possible because some day I might not have that privilege and I earnestly horde every memory.
I often contemplate the joy my memories will bring. And when I do, I smile.
Sunday, August 4, 2019
Uncle Bill raised a few sheep for their wool. And he had a horse. There was a tumbledown shed he called a barn. And off about a quarter mile away was a pond with scummy water where the animals--wild and tame--would come to drink.
It was hot. Too hot to wander around outside. I was used to going to the park near our apartment in Chicago and sprawling out on a blanket to read beneath a shade tree. With little to see or do, I soon became bored.
One afternoon, my father grabbed Uncle Bill's shotgun and asked me if I would like to learn to shoot it. That perked me up right away so I eagerly followed him out to the pond, anxious to shoot something...anything, as long as I could actually hold the gun.
After a far too extensive overview of all the parts of the shotgun, he finally allowed me to shoot. The first time I ended up on my butt. That didn't stop me. Determined to learn how to use it, I crawled to my feet and went at it again. My initial excitement soon wore off as I wanted something to actually shoot. Just shooting into the pond was boring.
So my father pointed out a prickly-pear and suggested that as a target. I think he was surprised when I hit it...and the branch of the mesquite he pointed to next. He found a couple old bottles I popped on my first try. Oddly enough, I was proving to be an excellent shot.
Then I spied some tiny frogs at the edge of the pond and without much thought, popped one of them. Naturally, it disintegrated in an explosion of frog bits and blood and sand. The little group of frogs had disappeared.
I handed the shotgun to my father and went to look at the carnage. My father propped the gun over his shoulder and said, "Never point at something you don't want to kill."
I walked away, appalled and sick.
On this terrible day of mourning, I look back at that sunny afternoon and think about how I felt and how I learned a never forgotten lesson. It was personal and required an acknowledgement of the deed, the guilt never went away because it was wanton, without reason or need.
I understand hunting for food. I understand target shooting at a range. I understand sanctioned shooting in the military or law enforcement. All of those have their place. But once you take a life, wherever it might be in the scheme of things, you are never the same.
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
They are storytellers. Whether they're ever actually published isn't the most important aspect of their writing, though sharing the story is an additional element. But the very action of sitting down and composing a story is the essence of who they are. They write because they have a passion for writing. Technicalities, grammar, punctuation, even spelling aren't allowed to get in the way of the story. They are the writers who sit day after day at their computer or with pen and paper, enthralled by their characters and worlds. They're the ones who can't wait for formal writing time or space and spend their time scribbling scenes and notes on bits of scrap paper or napkins.
Writing is life.
Then disaster hits. It might be family chaos or medical issues, discouragement or depression. That glorious passion and exhilaration disappears, leaving a writer husk behind. When you've been a writer most of your life, the loss is like going mentally blind. You don't just lose your stories. You lose the interest in them. And there isn't anything to take their place.
I think I'm on the edge of this lonely, lonely place...this desert where there are no characters and no worlds to explore. I used to wonder how a writer could just close up shop and walk away, but I think I know now. I'm stubborn and hate giving up on a project once I begin. I suspect that stubbornness is all that's between me and taking that walk away.
I wonder if there are no more stories for me to write. Maybe. Only time will tell.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
At that time, such an event was relatively rare, but any individual who spends time on the Internet now knows it isn't rare anymore. It's a daily event for total strangers to drown someone they don't even know in the vicious, burning acid of their unwanted, unsolicited opinions. After my experience so long ago, I have refused to allow myself to be drawn into such muck.
But I know just how easy it is.
Every one has something that's a trigger. Every one. It's usually a personal experience that resonates, that sets us up, so we jump in with both feet to batter the target. On a daily basis I read posts and comments that could easily draw me in. But after that one incident left me feeling so desolate and ashamed, I made a conscious decision to walk away, to scroll on by.
You might ask why I feel so strongly about this. It's simple. I don't want to ever again have to face the possibility I might have had any part in the destruction of another person's life, career, productivity, talent. It's incredibly easy to destroy with just a few words. Every author out there knows the truth of this statement. Every one of them knows the damage from a bad review or careless opinion can not ever be made better by a hundred fabulous reviews. For all our days we carry that bad review, that meanness in our heart.
The next time you are tempted to jump in and add your voice to the mean chorus of dissenters, think about this...there's a reason our elders taught us, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
Scroll on by.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
And then...the choir moved into the Hallelujah Chorus. Without knowing how--or why--I was on my feet, chills running up my spine, my arms roughened with goosebumps. Why? I don't know. I have discussed my experience with other musicians who were not affected in the same way.
There are other pieces of music who touch me in the same way...The long (20 mins.) piece from Chariots of Fire. Amazing Grace played on the bagpipes.
The young people upstairs play their music non-stop. It's loud, heavy on the drums, and gives me a headache. I would call it rap music. I analyzed why it affects me so negatively, and realized it sounds angry to me. I find confrontation and anger very stressful so this particular music evokes all sorts of negative feelings. I wonder what it makes my neighbors feel? Power? Sex? Anger? Why do they find it so attractive?
In an effort to cancel out the negative effect, I decided to play one of my own CDs and was surprised at the result. First of all, I couldn't 'hear' the music from upstairs, though my music was pretty soft. In some weird way, it blotted it out. And second, an immediate feeling of calm flowed over me.
Certain songs always give me that soul deep sense of peace. Amazing Grace. Abide With Me. Hmm. Many of them are hymns--not surprising when I was brought up in a religious home. Some songs are universal, I think. It wasn't by accident that Amazing Grace was chosen for the funeral scene for Spock. Who can forget the sound of the pipes as his pod was shot out into space?
Music. Melodies for the soul.
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
So...late Monday evening a note was posted on our door notifying us that they would be here Wednesday with exterminators to inspect all the apartments in our building. In order to be ready, we needed to empty every cabinet in the kitchen and bathroom, all the closets so they exterminators will have access to the floors. They will also inspect smoke detectors, replace filters, take pictures of the appliances, floors, etc.
We have no storage except the closets. Yesterday was akin to moving with a twenty-four hour notice. And I'm not sure how they'll take photos of the floors as they are covered with boxes and totes and all the rest of our stuff.
On the upside, I found some stuff I've been looking for. On the downside, we found stuff we need to throw out. A lot of stuff. But not today. Today, we need a shovel to just hold back the tide. And tomorrow we'll have to put it all back. More or less. The hunk has resolved to toss out at least one box per day. At that rate, it will all be done around Thanksgiving...or New Years.
As we age, we discover there are fewer and fewer 'things' we need or want. For the last three years our rule has been 'one item in, one item out'. I suppose we should go to a 'one item in, three items out' rule. Anyone have a shovel?
Thursday, March 28, 2019
Here's the thing...arrest the parents or whatever, fine the schools or whatever, but the kids are supposedly adults, so what are their consequences? They get a free ride in more ways than one? The way I see it is simple--the parents never treat their children as adults, the kids never grow up and learn to be adults. Never.
If the kid went along with the scam, then I believe there should be some sort of consequence. Maybe no admission to college for five years. Maybe not ever. Or maybe all the money paid should go into a special account that covers the college costs for students who would never have a chance otherwise to attend college. Or maybe require the ninnies to work a real job...like digging ditches or picking up trash along the beaches and highways or sorting recyclables, for the same time period they would have taken in school.
While mom and dad are having their careers trashed and their pics flashed all over the media, the kids are living the good life. Is this where we've arrived? It's fine to want better lives for your children, but teaching them the 'anyway to get ahead, legal or not' life plan isn't the way to go. It teaches the kid nothing except entitlement.
All of us learn by making mistakes. Some have the resources to escape the consequences. I'm pretty sure that isn't a good thing for them or our educational system or our country. We no longer know where the high ground is because we're so busy dancing on the low ground.