Been reading some interesting stuff about e-publishing and self-e-publishing over on BookEnds the last couple of days; learned a few things too. Actually I’m more confused than enlightened.
Give an asshole a keyboard and an enter key and they can be pretty ‘not-nice’. I wanted to say fucking-mean but I’m a lady…no I’m not…they are ‘fucking-not-nice’.
So who do I believe, Jessica or the nay-sayers?
Duh !
I still want the book on the shelf. Again today I was told, “Your book is amazing.” I’m beginning to think maybe it actually is.
Next post?
I think I’m going to post about my book, how I came up with the idea and what it’s about. Not a query, not a synopsis, they are evil, just me talking about it. Right now my brain is fried. Stand by.
Am I ready for 'not-nicers' with a keyboard? Hell yes I am.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Dream Jobs
My daughter has found her dream job and is moving out. Happiness for getting her life started does not express the pride and jubilation I feel for her. So having said that, I got to wondering, what about my ‘dream’ job.
A lifetime ago it was my dream to be an artist, watercolor was my medium, and then a book offer, handed to me through no effort of my own, opened up possibilities so far off my grid, I reinvented myself. Well…I screwed that one up, too young…too soon…too stupid.
So I wrote music and what a kick it was to hear a band play what I had written. Then my future morphed into business, I was going to be a mogul. Then at the less than tender age of past-thirty, I married, had babies and set way back on the shelf, actually it was the top shelf of a hall closet, my typewriter dreams. Until nap time became my time to write.
The typewriter became a word processor, (published essay), became a computer, (published more essays), became another computer, (life took over), and a laptop. This laptop and the new dream of writing fiction has opened up the idea that a twenty year hiatus from clamoring to be published has provided me with wisdom; yes I have something valuable to say and just enough doubt to wonder if anybody is listening.
I took writing classes, joined a writer’s group and have for the first time realized, maybe; just maybe, I can finally get my life started too. My dream?
Ah…it’s the pleasure of doing what I just did in 272 words.
A lifetime ago it was my dream to be an artist, watercolor was my medium, and then a book offer, handed to me through no effort of my own, opened up possibilities so far off my grid, I reinvented myself. Well…I screwed that one up, too young…too soon…too stupid.
So I wrote music and what a kick it was to hear a band play what I had written. Then my future morphed into business, I was going to be a mogul. Then at the less than tender age of past-thirty, I married, had babies and set way back on the shelf, actually it was the top shelf of a hall closet, my typewriter dreams. Until nap time became my time to write.
The typewriter became a word processor, (published essay), became a computer, (published more essays), became another computer, (life took over), and a laptop. This laptop and the new dream of writing fiction has opened up the idea that a twenty year hiatus from clamoring to be published has provided me with wisdom; yes I have something valuable to say and just enough doubt to wonder if anybody is listening.
I took writing classes, joined a writer’s group and have for the first time realized, maybe; just maybe, I can finally get my life started too. My dream?
Ah…it’s the pleasure of doing what I just did in 272 words.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
My poor, poor little query.
What do you do when the query you’ve been sending out is crap? Rewrite, resend, jump?
I read on an agents blog once, that a mentor of the agent once told her and I shall paraphrase, “the writing of the book will never be better than the query.”
Really? I mean really?
My nine-hundred and ninety-ninth time I have rewritten my query has made it a confusing conglomeration of thoughts I assumed the agent would get.
Oh mercy.
I’ve started over, again. I’ve simplified.
Oh well.
I read on an agents blog once, that a mentor of the agent once told her and I shall paraphrase, “the writing of the book will never be better than the query.”
Really? I mean really?
My nine-hundred and ninety-ninth time I have rewritten my query has made it a confusing conglomeration of thoughts I assumed the agent would get.
Oh mercy.
I’ve started over, again. I’ve simplified.
Oh well.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Short End Of The Table
What does it mean to sit at the short end of the table?
Depends on the table.
At a meeting the short-end sitter runs the show, barks orders, assigns the guidelines, and signatures the deals. The face of the company, the voice of the workers, smiles confidence and winks authority. The chairman would not be sitting at the short end if it were not for the mail-room-clerks, secretaries and operators of all things inconsequentially important. Memos of power are delivered by little people. Sitting at the sides the others bask in the glow of power or dress green in envy. In business the seat at the short end is a tenuous one unless, of coarse, toady’s bolster position and protect the leader.
At home, sitting at the short end of the table is the head of the household, the money maker, rule setter, the bill payer and enforcer of all things family. Usually it is the husband, father, the alpha-male, who covets throne sitting, but wait. Sometimes he is cleverly placed at the short end by the real pack-leader, the one who convinces him his place within the society of family is at the head but that is not so. She, who sits at the long side has room to spread her wings in protection of operation within the fold. She lets him think he is the God but she knows the difference between reality and idealism. His position is moot, hers is of purpose, because she realizes tables have two short ends and the other one is hers no matter where she sits.
Depends on the table.
At a meeting the short-end sitter runs the show, barks orders, assigns the guidelines, and signatures the deals. The face of the company, the voice of the workers, smiles confidence and winks authority. The chairman would not be sitting at the short end if it were not for the mail-room-clerks, secretaries and operators of all things inconsequentially important. Memos of power are delivered by little people. Sitting at the sides the others bask in the glow of power or dress green in envy. In business the seat at the short end is a tenuous one unless, of coarse, toady’s bolster position and protect the leader.
At home, sitting at the short end of the table is the head of the household, the money maker, rule setter, the bill payer and enforcer of all things family. Usually it is the husband, father, the alpha-male, who covets throne sitting, but wait. Sometimes he is cleverly placed at the short end by the real pack-leader, the one who convinces him his place within the society of family is at the head but that is not so. She, who sits at the long side has room to spread her wings in protection of operation within the fold. She lets him think he is the God but she knows the difference between reality and idealism. His position is moot, hers is of purpose, because she realizes tables have two short ends and the other one is hers no matter where she sits.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Birth Day
If my mother was still alive she would have been 90 today. Born on Friday the 13th, how perfect. She was one tough broad and a card carrying bitch. I miss her like hell. Happy birthday mom, wherever you are, I know it sure ain't heaven. Not because you didn't deserve eternity on a cloud, you did, it's because you stopped believing. I still do.
When I go I hope I can find your address.
When I go I hope I can find your address.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Today Is A Good Day
I'm putting off paying my bills, cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry. We have dog hair tumbleweeds rolling down the stairs as I sit here writing. I have plenty of K-kups, ink for the printer and a new ream of paper. Power is on, ain't life grand.
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