Now Available!

Now Available on Smashwords.com, KoboBooks.com and Diesel-Ebooks.com: Conservation, my first ebook!

It's pretty exciting to see something I created for sale at ebook stores.  No sales so far, but I'm hopeful.  :)

One Good Night

Six ounces of Highland Park,
Two Quorum Conneticut Shade,
A dash of JLH, Café au Go-Go,
Equals one good night. :)

Forward Progress: "Cool Water" Excerpt

For those of you who may have started reading "Cool Water" and are wondering about the next update, I give you this excerpt that I worked on last night.  I can't set a firm date for the next release, but it may come around 17 September.  Keep reading and thanks for your support!

Something hard jabbed Charlotte twice in the back.  Her eyes flew open and she twisted onto her back, her body uncurling like a whip.  Her gun was already in her hand but she didn’t remember picking it up.  It was trained on the startled face of a grubby seven year old boy.  He dropped his stick and darted behind a waif in a white and yellow polka dot dress, his skinny arms wrapped around her legs.  

The thin woman regarded her with a cocked eyebrow and a wry grin.

“You can relax.  It’s just us.”

Charlotte’s mind caught up with her body.  She lowered the gun an inch and suddenly recognized the woman’s wind-worn face.  Dark, deep set eyes smiled at her from Relief mixed with embarrassment.

“Shit, Rita.  I almost shot Caleb,” she said, climbing to her feet.  

Sharp pains and dull aches complained from her hip and shoulder and half a dozen other places. She winced as she straightened her right arm.  Curled up under her head all night, it had seized up like a rusty hinge.  

“What are you doing out here?”

Rita waved her stick-thin arm at the smouldering char under the desert.

“We got raided last night, same as you.  Came to check on you before we leave.”

Rita swatted at the boy clinging to her.  

“Child, get away from my legs!  Miss Charlotte is sorry.”

Caleb shook his head and watched Charlotte warily.  It hurt her how much he looked like her brother Charlie.

“Make her say it,” he mumbled then he looked right at her and said accusingly, “Say you’re sorry.”

Rita shrugged apologetically.

Charlotte squatted down in front of him and slowly laid the pistol on the ground beside her.

“Caleb, sweetie,” she said, showing the boy her empty hands.  “I’m sorry I scared you.  I didn’t mean to.  Do you forgive me?”

Caleb ignored the question.  He pointed at the ruins of her burrow.

“Did the bad guys come here, too?” he asked.

Charlotte nodded.  “They did.  They burned my house and took away my stuff.”

Caleb sighed loudly.

“Me, too.”  

He edged closer, asked, “Did you shoot any of them?”

“I did.”

“With that gun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How many?”

“Two.  The other two got away.”

Caleb’s tiny brow furrowed in deep thought then he nodded.  He wrapped his thin little arms around her neck and squeezed.

“It’s okay, Miss Charlotte,” he said into her neck.  “Half’s good.”

Second Story up on Wattpad.com

I just posted another story on Wattpad.com.  Look for it here.  I hope you enjoy and feel free to send me feedback.

The Blind Leap

I can sometimes be impulsive.  To people who haven't known me for very long this can come as a surprise because I maintain a thick matte coat of pragmatism.  But underneath all the "wait-and-see" and "let's-think-about-this" kindles a spark of spontaneity, as evidenced by my joining Wattpad.

Sometimes leaping before you look can end badly.  I was afraid that might have been the case with joining the online writer's community, especially when I realized that a big proportion of their members are below the age of 25.  One member was looking for feedback for his work from "older" writers--"19ish or older".

Oh my.  What have I gotten myself into? 

But then I did some more internet research on the site and discovered, to my delight, a news article from the Guardian out of the UK written by none other than Margaret Atwood.  "Why Wattpad Works" gave me reason to believe that this blind leap will turn out all right.  I mean, if someone of her clout and renown in Canadian literary circles thinks such a venture is a good idea--and actually uses it herself--then someone like me, a virtual unknown, can only benefit from using it.

Monologue

This was a slow night for writing. More like a stopped night. I got groceries, came home, made supper then set down to work, but I couldn't put it into gear. I had wanted to revise "Conservation" some more, but nothing that came to mind sounded any good so I took the liberty of reading some Zamyatin and then some Doyle. Woke up about twenty minutes ago. I think perhaps my brain needs a break.

I've been thinking about what else I can do with this blog, instead of just filling it up with idle chit chat (which no one reads; so sad!)  I see a lot of people using their blogs for book reviews, which is great for them, but I'm not such a fan of them myself.  Then it occurred to me that I could write discussions (more like monologues, 'cause again, no readers) that look at themes or ideas within the story. 

I guess I don't have to restrict myself to fiction; there are tons of tech and science articles written each year, any one of which could act as the jumping off point for a monologue.  Maybe even a new story...

Hello, World! First Post on Wattpad.com

The opening movement of "Conservation" is now available on Wattpad.  You can find my excerpt here.

Hired Guns

Here's some interesting reading: The Best Reviews Money Can Buy.  Read this before you proceed any further with this post.

______________________________________
Welcome back.  How do you feel after reading that article?  Are you for or against hired guns reviewing an an ebook, your own or someone else's.  Whether you agree with the practice of paid reviews is neither here nor there.  I have my opinion and you have yours.  The point is that we have started (or perhaps joined) a very interesting debate.

For my part, here is my pledge as an independent writer: I promise to never pay for nor solicit, from friends or family, reviews of any kind.  Any reviews that appear on any ebook retail site will be from genuine, flesh and blood readers.

When an independent author pays for or solicits reviews, favourable or otherwise, he or she does the work a  great disservice and discredits whatever innate talent he or she possesses.  Such authors put themselves in the same category as performance-enhanced athletes.  I understand the fear independent authors feel when they put their work "out there".  They are taking a huge risk that the piece of writing they worked so hard on will be poorly received and people will criticize it harshly and result in poor sales.  I'm afraid of that, too, but you have to accept the risk.

Final verdict: Paying for positive reviews to drum up sales?  Cheap.  

Harrison Ford on "It"

The whole idea of it--"it" being acting--was to try and establish an emotional relationship with the audience, to give them someone on stage that they could feel along with, feel the story through.  I wanted fear to be an element.  I wanted vulnerability.  I thought it was more interesting.  I also thought it would allow for more fun, that there would be humour in it.
-- Harrison Ford, from an appearance on "Inside the Actor's Studio"

The Nobility of Starting at the Bottom

When I was young, my ambitions were very modest. I thought, “If only I could play at the battle of the bands at the Y, that would be the culmination of existence!” And then the roller rink, and you work your way up branch by branch. Whereas if you’re [thinking], “I want to be a rock star”—those kind of people just want to know how they can start at the top, and they’re doomed not even to get to the bottom.
-- Neil Peart

I take a lot of inspiration from successful writers, artists, and musicians--really, anyone in the creative arts.   This quote from Neil Peart from a recent MacLean's magazine article perfectly encapsulates my internal struggle as a writer to grow my career slowly and deliberately versus the irrational desire to "have it all now".  It's "irrational" because nothing worthwhile is instantaneous.  There is no "become a published author in 8 easy steps" formula.

A fully grown oak, majestic and strong, does not just suddenly appear.  It starts from an acorn dropped from it's parent.  It finds purchase in a patch of soil somewhere and when the conditions are right, it begins to germinate.  Roots develop along with a supple stem and tender shoots.  If it isn't trampled or eaten, it strengthens and grows.  The stem becomes a trunk, the shoots become leaves.  Years pass and the  sapling becomes a tree, growing in height and girth and crown.  The same is true of a writing career.

I grew up in an age that suffered keenly from "instant gratification".  I used to pity those fools who suffered so sharply, never once thinking that the affliction was in me in some way or another.

Take, for instance, a recent discovery about online publishing.  I learned this morning that any sales I make on Smashwords or Amazon will take time to get paid out.  More than that, it will take time to get my work distributed to online retailers--days or even weeks!  I have found myself chafing at that disappointing news.  I had expected immediate results.  (Secretly, I had expected my work to be instantly popular and it would garner me tens of thousands of dollars.)

I have to laugh sadly at such misguided notions.  I mean, really, let's start at square one and get a story finished before I start worrying about what to wear at my first book signing.  Before you can win the race, you have to jump a few hurdles.  Before that you have to get out of the blocks without falling on your face.

I must make mental allowances for the Universe's natural unfolding process because success doesn't come overnight--only through putting in the hours at the keyboard, running the paces.  More than anything it is a process of commitment and re-commitment turning on itself over and over.

Redrafting "Conservation"

Spent the weekend rewriting sections of Conservation and I'm pretty happy with the results.  I sound ambivalent because there are still things that need to be improved, but I'm filling gaps and fixing problems so that's a step in the right direction.

Some surprising things happened, too, so that can only be good for the reader in the end.  I'm looking forward to a full week of this since I'll be looking after Keith's house while he and the family are in Penetanguishene.  I need the peace and quiet to be productive.  The ideas need stillness within and that won't happen unless there's stillness without.

For now, though, I must focus on my day job.  For writers who are  not supported by grants or patronages or that mythical siren, "the publisher's advance", focussing on a day job can be very difficult when they are finally getting some traction on a story.  Ideas intrude on the mind all day long like new puppies that want to play.  Every hour spent in front of a computer not writing is an hour lost.

...but one must satisfy obligations; one must eat; one must pay the rent and fill the tank with gas.  And so I scratch those ideas behind the ear and send them off into the backyard of my mind with a promise:  "Soon, little buddies.  I'll be out to play soon and we'll run each other ragged."

The (Fake) Reviews Are In! First Look at "Conservation"

"Terrible.  He should not quit his day job." -- George St. John, National Post Books

"My brain is crying.  Someone stop this man." -- Carol Barnes, New York Book Review

"I had to stop reading when I gouged my eyes out." -- Phil Larkin, Chicago Tribune literary critic

Nothing brings you back to a sense of your own inadequacy than reading the first draft of a story you wrote. I had this experience very recently with a Harvey Cook short story called Conservation.  I am beginning to experiment with FeedBooks.com and Conservation will be one of the first pieces to go up.  I pasted all the contents into their interface, generated the ebook, added the cover and gave a copy to one of my buddies to read.

Then I started reading it myself.  

The story is about Dr. Harvey Cook, a former government xeno-biologist, who attempts to steal back his own research on an invading extra-terrestrial plant life from a private corporation to prevent it from being used as a basis for bio-weapons.  As first drafts (or as I like to call them "shit drafts") go, it was pretty terrible.  There's a huge gap in the action about a third of the way in, the style is bad, the characters don't seem to know what they're doing.  A reflection on me, of course.  I hope Adam reads it with a sense of charity.

To give you a sense of the problems I saw, here's an example from the third movement of the story.  Harvey Cook and his young research assistant arrive by stealth at their old lab, break in and make it all the way to their work stations only to realize that all their computers have been removed.  They sneak back out and get away without being detected.  All of this after Cook had been warned by Anna Royse, the story's antagonist, at the very beginning that XenoCon had learned about their plans.

So you see what I'm facing.  It doesn't make sense for Cook to attempt the infiltration after Royse tells him that they know what he's up to.  It's like a cop telling a bank robber, "We know what you're up to." and the robber breaking into the bank anyway, having second thoughts and then leaving--all without the cops who would be lying in wait for him--not arresting him.  Dumb.

What can I say about this travesty?  In my defense, I wrote the tale in haste at a weekend writing retreat that my other buddy slash writing partner and I held about a month ago and my writing style lends itself to slower, careful plodding.  At any rate, I'm sure Faulkner's Absalom! Absalom! wasn't a gem in its rough form either.

I am taking a break from my other project, The Dead Shark, so I can focus on improving Conservation.  I started rewriting the entire third movement yesterday and so far I like what I've come up with.

All is not doom and gloom, though.  I've started learning how to use Gimp to create ebook covers.  Here's the cover I made for Conservation. I think, for a novice, I did a pretty good job.

...now if only I could whip the story into shape. :)

Easter Weekend

Easter weekend at my parent's house.  I have come to write and to work with wood.  There is a table that I am building, but like so often happens to whatever story I happen to be writing, my interest in it waned for months on end.  I came back to it last weekend, determined to make some progress.  I had chosen to make it out of solid maple, which is not an inexpensive wood, only to find when I pulled it out of storage that the top had bowed and warped and split.  Woe! 

Thankfully the legs and the trim, which are also made of solid maple, did not split or warp.  My father, who is the better craftsman, picked up some Russian birch plywood on Tuesday and we are going to use that for the new top.  We spent the last couple of days ripping the table top to size and routing grooves in the trim for the table top.  We have a bit more work to do before we mitre the corners of the trip and glue the whole thing together.

As to the writing...well, I've made a little progress.  I daresay my confidence in my writing as an adult is not as surefooted as it was when I was a boy.  I find myself stopping and starting constantly, worrying that what I'm putting down sounds puerile and trite.  I guess the only way to improve is to move forward and keep on writing.

When did I ever love this?

I don't know exactly when I wandered away from writing as a regular exercise, but for the last few years (decade?) I've employed it for the purely functional purpose of conveying dry technical details in my job.  I used to love writing.  As a kid I would forego doing my homework to create imaginary people and places and create situations for them to explore and crises to escape.  I didn't mind if what I wrote didn't come out quite right and I had to rework it over and over again, but now I do and it's frustrating as hell.

I've been working on the same "short story" for the last three or four days and I've only gotten to the second part of the outline.  I keep writing and rewriting only do discover that what I had written is too wordy for the tight, fast-paced mode of the short story or that I am putting the setback event in the wrong location or that I'm telling not showing.  I wondered last night, "When did I ever love this?"

But I find that I still do.

I've been playing at this all my life, but never having truly devoted myself to the art, I'm still an unpracticed amateur.  I have to keep going, keep working, keep writing so that everything in my head will come out right on paper.

Cool Water

Between driving my sister around town and helping her get her place ready for the delivery of a new bed, I spent a lot of time over the weekend working on a story called Cool Water.  It features Charlotte and a small cast of characters I had never worked with before.  The plot outline complete in ten parts and now I'm working on writing the story.  While I'm still not 100% satisfied with the entire plot I am going ahead with it as is and work on rewrites when the rough draft is complete.  I have to break the bad habit of getting mired down in the details before getting anything done.

The story revolves around a scheme by TranSolar Private Inquiries to lure Charlotte away from the relative safety of Cool Water, New Mexico under the pretext of acting as a wilderness guide for a government water diviner.  The town's greedy mayor, Gillingham, is bribed into facilitating an introduction.  Agents who have been pursuing Charlotte for many years without success are waiting in the desert to take her into custody and return her to the xeno-biology laboratory where she was created, but they themselves have been infiltrated by a darker force that has a greater motive to see Charlotte utterly destroyed.

Changing Tack

The net will tell you what you want to know (most of the time), but there is no guarantee it will be what you want to hear.  The same can be said of tarot readers and fortune cookies, but I put a bit more stock in the former.  This morning I searched for "sci-fi agents" and the net suggested a page from Robert J. Sawyer's website.  There was a brief line of advice there that depressed me a bit.

It's very hard to get a good literary agent to represent your first novel unless you have substantial short-fiction or other relevant credentials. And a bad agent can be worse than no agent at all. Most authors sell their first novel by submitting it to publishers (one at a time) themselves; once they've got an offer in hand, they call up an agent.

 "It's very hard to get a good literary agent to represent your first novel unless you have substantial short-fiction or other relevant credentials."  Not the kind of news a frustrated young(ish) man wants to hear.  It would seem I have been making all the wrong choices with my writing career lo these many years.  Instead of heeding that inner voice and establishing my name with short fiction I have been working in obscurity on the long fiction (or wasting my time perfecting my various character flaws).  It seems I need to switch gears and try to come up with some shorter stuff to sell.  In a hurry like.

A former co-worker of mine, long since gone, once suggested that I write short fiction based around the various major characters in the long fiction I want to publish.  That's not such a bad idea and I have some general concepts in mind.  If only those concepts would germinate and grow into some compelling ideas.  One such concept is to write a collection of stories about Charlotte Hudson, Colbrit Niemeier and Henny Rodale that tells their backstory. 

For a number of years I've had an image in my mind of Charlotte in her early twenties living in a post-apocalyptic city somewhere in the American Empire.  I've had it for a number of years, but I've never done anything with it, never tried to flesh it out, never asked the question "Why is she here?".  I had always assumed she was hiding, but from what?  From whom?  What did that time in the city teach her that she uses in her work for Praecognita?  What relationships did she foster?  What memories, good or bad, does she carry with her of that time?  What kind of time was it for her?  What kind of person did it make her?  Is there any part of that person left in her?

I could try to come up with some stories for Colbrit as a rookie cop.  I could also write about his relationship with his older brother and his father.  What about his mother?  This could go a long way to figuring out who Colbrit is as a man.  Same goes for Henny Rodale.