Where We Last Left Off

Sounds like I’m coming back from a cliffhanger of an episode, doesn’t it?

In many way publishing is episodic, and can turn into high drama when you least expect things to go sideways.  My experience has been very minimal to this point, as there are only two stories in my collection, but with Her Demonic Majesty being such an endeavor  it was bound to hit some snags.

Snag One:  the novel loaded to Amazon Kindle Direct without issues, and late Sunday night I was told it was live and ready for download.  Only one problem:  every time I tried to go to the novel page, I was getting a 404 message, saying the page didn’t exist.  I let that go for Monday, but by Tuesday the situation was the same, and I was having a not-so-good feeling taking hold in the pit of my stomach.

Snag Two then showed:  all of my work on Smashwords was rejected for Premium submission.  Going Premium on Smashwords means getting set up on Barnes & Noble, Sony, Apple, and a few other distributors.  What happened was this:  I’d altered the name on my Smashwords account to reflect the name on my new cover, but that was a no-no, because the cover names on my other works didn’t match, and all hell broke loose.

So I switched the account name back, and therein appeared Snag Three:  Her Demonic Majesty was rejected for Premium submission because, it would seem, my Table of Contents links were bad.  Could be they were pointing at the wrong thing, could be they were formatted wrong, could be there were hidden bookmarks–  Oops.  Yeah, I remembered that I did that during the creation.

With that in mind, I set about getting things right.

First, I created new accounts on both Smashwords and Amazon for Cassidy.  Then, I pulled up the Smashwords version of the uploaded document, removed all the bookmarks and hyperlinks, and started over, making sure there were no hidden bookmarks this time.  Put them in, linked them, checked the links–everything was super.

Then I uploaded again.

The novel processed in two minutes, because I watched as it ran through the meat grinder.  Everything came out fine, and the novel was at a new home with a new ISBN–yes, I couldn’t use the old one, because that one was assigned to my other name.  Another thing to keep in mind.  Right now the novel is going through review for Premium submission, and I’m hoping that all is well this time though.

What next?  Tonight I’ll pull up the Kindle version of the novel and redo the Table of Contents as I did with the Smashwords version.  Then, once that’s done, I’ll upload it to the next Amazon account, wait for the word that it’s been published, and look to see if it is, indeed, ready for selling.

Then I’ll get the world out.

Of course I could end up with errors I haven’t anticipated, but I’m hopeful that the current snafu came about because of the accounts, and not because the book format was sucky.  After all, the meat grinder told me all was well, and why would it lie to me?

I’ll be right here, keeping my fingers crossed.

Goddess Slapping Time

Yes, Cassidy, it is possible to write and do several things at the same time.  You aren’t going to crank out that thousand words in an hour, but then, you weren’t looking to do that.  You were looking to get the words down, and in an order that made sense.

In that effort, I succeeded hugely.  But that wasn’t the full extent of my greatness.  Oh, no.  Pay attention, class . . .

I knocked around this idea of doing something quick and dirty for Camp NaNo in June, because I feel like I have nothing better to do than write stuff.  One of the things I’ve considered is doing a ten thousand word soft core erotica because I’ve been busting on a lot of the stories I’m finding on Smashwords and Amazon, and wondering (1) how the hell this is getting published, and (2) who is buying this stuff?  There is a another component to that, which is (3) are they making money?  Not that money is my driving motivation  but it’s still nice to have for all your hard work.

With me, there is no half-way:  either I dismiss these niggling ideas that take hold in my head, or I hop in the car and drive it like I stole it.  Unfortunately, someone left the keys in a 2005 Lamborghini Murciélago, and I’m damned if I can’t help but get behind the wheel . . .

The idea is crazy, and it’s goofy–but it’s also one I can tie into Camp NaNo in more ways than one.  Plus, I’ve decided to include two of my writing friends as characters in the story, which means I get to do naughty things to them, or with them, or . . . who knows?  I only hope they forgive me when strange things happen . . .

With that, I put this down in my Idea File, and I have it set up with a little notice about what I think will happen, or what I want to happen, or what will happen.  Then when I finish it, I give it a quick polish, another polish, then get a cover (maybe something as cheap as the covers that tend to accompany these stories, because I’m all about fitting in), get it out into the Internet, and watch the money roll in.

And if it does, I’ll be surprised–or will I?  Because if there’s one thing I never underestimate, it’s the kinky tastes of the reading public.

Speaking of ideas . . .

I did get my thousand words in last night, with the final total being just short of eleven hundred words.  In the course of working on my chapter, I did something that I hadn’t thought of when I was working this story out in my head.  After I wrote the scene in, I thought about what had happened, and went, “Damn, I just figured out how to make the next chapter work.”

That’s how my stories go.  As far as people saying I plot everything out–in a way, yes, I knew something was going to happen in Chapter Sixteen that will effect the last two chapters, but I didn’t completely understand the mechanism that would make something happen that I need to happen.  Now I have it, and I can go into the next chapter with an understanding of how to set up the scene.

Yeah, imagination is a great thing.

I should use mine more often.

Voyages Among the Dreamscapes

It is done.  Her Demonic Majesty went out to Harper Voyager last night, about 8:15 PM.  Now all that remains is the wait.  Harper Voyager states that if you haven’t heard anything after ninety days, then you didn’t get the brass ring.  So, I figure, if nothing has come through by 5 January, 2013, then the novel was not deemed fit for their ebook section.

No matter.  Should that happen, I’ll send it out again–or self publish.  Who can say?  I can.  Ultimately, I decide what happens.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed, though.

With everything that’s happened over the last few weeks, I have suffered from a singular lack of sleep.  Yesterday I took a two-and-a-half hour nap after returning from breakfast.  Last night I went to bed about 11 PM, and didn’t crawl out of bed until a little after eight in the morning.  That’s nine hours of sleep, plus the nap, and that’s more sleep than I’ve had in a long time.

During the night I had some really vivid dreams–vivid enough that it almost felt like they bordered on lucid.  It isn’t often I get that deep into my REM, but last night it actually felt as if I was directing myself in several instances.

It was a bit strange as well, but then, those are my dreams.  If they weren’t strange, they wouldn’t be mine, would they?

First off, I was seeing everything from point of view.  It was as if I was there, and not looking over my shoulder, or seeing this from a third-person perspective.  Second, this was a Cassidy dream.  I know this because ever so often curly red hair would fall into my line of sight, and I’d need to brush it away.  And lastly:  I was a mutant.  I know this because I was told several times I was.  Though I didn’t seem to have any cool X-Men like powers, unless I could do something like throw sparkles and dress like a fashion victim–which would mean my name was Jubilee, not Cassidy.

Everything seemed to take place in a Crapsack World.  Everything exude an air of extended entropy; things were shabby and run down.  Everyday items looked as if they were makeshift and ready to fall apart.  Trash was in the streets, and every building looked run down.  All we needed were hookers on every corner and constant rain, and the environment would have been complete.

For some reason I was looking for an item for someone.  I found what I was looking for:  a TARDIS model.  Seriously.  That constituted a huge part of the dream.  I went from building to building searching for a present, and that present happened to be a TARDIS model.  I finally found one among a very cluttered dump that reminded me of an antique store where I once worked.  The model wasn’t that great, either, but I found it, and I took it–without paying, I believe.  Hard to say.

One last thing:  I ran into someone who told me that everyone in the world, save mutants, had disappeared for thirty days, and we now had the run of the joint.  Also, I needed to spend those thirty days finding my soul mate.  Yep, not only was the world reduced to a million or so mutants, but my soul mate was out there, and I needed to find them.

I know where some of that was coming from–an idea I have for a story.  Not to go into details, but it’s one I’ve thought about off and on for a few weeks, and I’m wondering what to do with it–besides write.  I’ll get around to that eventually.  For now, it’s just an idea.

As for the soul mate . . . well, one can never tell, right?  I might turn a corner and find them tomorrow.

Or they could already be here–

Right?

Slumber of the Aware

Back to the hole, back to work.  The week lay ahead, and there are plenty of things to do.

But first, lying in bed, in the darkness.  And enjoying it.  Yes, I was.  It was something I was told to do; if I wake up, and it’s dark, and I’m not sleeping, just lay there in bed and relax.  Don’t get up; don’t start making coffee; don’t start writing.

It was one of those half-awake, half-asleep moments I used to have a lot last year, but haven’t had a lot of this year.  2012 has been the year when a lot of things have changed for me, and that was one of them.  I used to love those moments when I’d be in a state of slumber, somewhat aware of what was happening around me, but never certain if what I was seeing and feeling was real, or a dream.

It was like that this morning.  I could sense things happening, I could hear things being said, but I’m not sure if I was thinking it, or dreaming it.

Maybe it was Cassidy speaking to me, since she seems to be with me a lot these days.  Maybe it was my Muse, who is also always with me, even when I don’t see her there next to me.  But whomever it was, the message was the same:

Remember Jim Butcher.

Allow me to explain:

A while back, Jim–whom some of you might recognize as the author of The Dresden Files series–wrote a blog post where he said, “If your dream is to be a writer, and you stop writing, you only have yourself to blame.  Only you can kill your dream.”

Which is right on.  No one else is going to take your dreams away from you.  Not your parents; not your siblings; your significant other; not your friends; not you cat–okay, maybe the cat.  If you throw up your hands and go, “Fuck it, I’m not getting anywhere with this, I’m going to chuck it,” then you have killed what you wanted.  You killed your dreams, and there’s no way you can point fingers at anyone else, because you know what “they” say about pointing fingers . . .

Yesterday I made a comment to someone that I was starting to feel as if I wasn’t getting anywhere, that it seemed like I was doing a hell of a lot of writing, but getting very little in return.  I’m not talking money here:  I’m talking about response.  It was getting me down just a little.

But the person I was speaking to said, “Don’t feel like that.  You’re one of my inspirations.”

Something like that stays with you, and it has, even to this morning.

Giving up is very easy; millions of people do it every day.  Being creative is hard; everyone who’s ever sat down with the intention of creating something, be it a painting, a story, a play, a movie, has found it to be something of a solitary affair.  You work in a vacuum, and never know if your effort is going to produce something that will make you proud, or make you want to put a bag over your head.

But you create because you want to do so.  You want to make something.  You want to live your dreams.

Do it.  Don’t stop.  Push on forward, and keep going.  Because the opposite is also true:  the only one who can keep your dreams alive are you.

Okay, maybe the cat can help . . .

Songs in the Key of Fantasy

In terms of the week I’ve had, yesterday wasn’t that bad.  Yes, I felt like I was dragging a little, but I was writing.  Between blogging and my WiP, I managed about two thousand words.  Oh, and I wrote another two thousand word guest post that should be up later on another blog.

Considering I feel like I have the Chest Buster roaming around inside me, that’s not too bad.

I finally finished Part Eleven of Diners at the Memory’s End.  It was helpful to get some of what I was feeling out, but unlike my, Cytheria is very cool under fire.  She just blows things up and doesn’t get all that worked up over it.  Well, she did upset a bit:  just ask the exploding dummy at the end.  But she knew it was take it out on something inanimate, or you might end up smoking someone close to you.  Or you could break down a building.  Decisions, decisions.

So now I can move on to Part Twelve, and that means there are only six more parts remaining to write.  At least two of those are going to be big, and those will likely be the parts that kick this story up over fifty thousand words.  Me, wordy?  Surely you jest!  But this is going to hit the short novel limit once more, and I don’t have a problem with that.  Hey, where else can you get the most bang for your $2.99?  If and when it gets published, that is . . .

In the meantime, I let my mind drift last night.  Because that’s what I do when I need to do something that doesn’t involve thinking.

I got to thinking about Kerry.

I’ve written about Kerry more than a few times, but of late he’s been missing in action.  A lot of that is because I’ve been so busy with my other writing, and trying to publish things, that he took a back seat to the action.  Plus, I’ve been feeling sort of sad about him, because there are things I would love to say about him and his lovely girlfriend, Annie, but I can’t seem to find the voice for these things.  It’s one of those things where I want to say something in words, but I can’t find the words.

And for a while, I assumed I might not ever.  There are tales here, but I’m not sure I can ever tell them.  But one never knows, so it doesn’t do to think about them.

But last night he was on my mind.  I was listening to music . . . see, one of the covens supports an annual talent show around Ostara, and while Kerry can’t sing all that well–autotuning is the way to go, even if it’s magical–but he loves to perform.  He loves being on the stage and put it out there for all to see.  Yes, he’s not a very assuming person:  in fact, if he could, he’d stay in the background all the time.

And the stage is where he does one of his craziest things every . . . but that’s another story.

I miss all that.  It was a good trip down memory lane last night.  I really need more of those, because when we can’t remember our past, we can’t ever see where we are going.

I need to see a lot in the months to come.

Princess in the Glen

Today is going to be another one of those really busy Saturdays.  How busy?  Here it is, 5:45 AM, and I’ve just finished up editing an article I was asked to write for a new online magazine that’s starting up in the UK, and I had to cut out 500 words because I’m, well, wordy.  So five minutes ago I finished my edit, cut it down to 996 words, and shipped it off to the editor who’s submitting it for me.

Did I mention I wrote the article while my eyes were closing on me last night, and didn’t finished up until about 11 PM?  Damn, this is all crazy stuff, let me tell you.

The main reason it’s going to be so busy is that we are off to the movies once more.  Later in the morning, after my daughter has kicked butt at her martial arts class, we are going to see Brave, the new Pixar film.  My daughter, just turned thirteen, has been talking about it for weeks now, and I’ve been following the movie since the first teaser art came out a year ago.  After the movie is over, I’m seriously considering kidding her about the fact that she, Miss Anime, Miss Anti-Disney, has been bugging me to go see a movie about a . . . Disney Princess.  Which the character what Merida, the main character in the movie, is.

I’ve written about Merida before–sort of.  She reminds me of Cassidy, who is, pretty much, my alter ego.  One of the, but she’s sort of the main one.  She’s been quiet of late, the little red haired lass who was bothering me in my dreams back in April, bugging me about getting my butt in gear when it came to writing.  Which I’ve been doing–

I mean, finished up a couple, three novels; sent two out for consideration, of which one is, I think, going to be bought, I just haven’t heard anything; working on another story; getting my idea for my NaNo Novel . . . Oi.  It’s all there.  Busy, busy, busy.

You happy now, Cassidy?

Actually, she probably isn’t.

Just like Merida, she’s a pushy little girl.  She keeps telling me, “It’s not enough, you know.  You gotta keep working.  You gotta get your name out there, honey.  You gotta make people see you–”

See what I mean?  Pain in the butt, she is.

It’s one of the reasons I wrote this article.  The last week I’ve felt like I’m going to fall asleep at any moment.  Not much sleep at night, and getting up early every day, is starting to drive me a little batty.  This morning, here I am, up at 5:10 AM.  What do I do once the computer is up?

You’re reading it.

I started wondering yesterday if I’m loosing my enthusiasm for writing, because the last few nights, when I started in on my current story, I didn’t feel all that much like doing anything.  Last night I didn’t write, because I was, to be honest, exhausted.

But I’m not loosing enthusiasm; I’m just tired.  If I had started writing last night, I’d have written crap.  When I get to the Y for my daughter’s class in about 45 minutes, I’m going to work on the story.  I’m going to go for a thousand words.  And I’ll get it, ’cause that’s how I roll.

Pipe down, Cassidy.  I know what I’m doing.

Just enjoy the ride, will ya?

The Mean Girls Club

Cassidy was being mean to me the other night.

I know that statement makes no sense without a conventional framework in which to place the comment, so as they say on The Mary Sue, allow me to explain:

Thursday night was just another night for me:  come home from work, chat a little–which I did–write, then sleep.  Pretty much what I do every day at The Undisclosed Location.  Sometimes my dreams are boring; sometimes they are very vivid and they stand out enough that remember then until the next day.

And then there are times when some of my dreams stay with me for a very long time.

I awoke during the night, which isn’t unusual for me.  I got up and checked the time on my phone, which is something I always do as well.  I normally get up about 5:15 every morning so I can get ready for work, but if it’s like 4:30, or 4:45, or even 5:00 AM, I just start the coffee and fire up the computer, ’cause I know there’s no point in going back to bed.

That wasn’t the case.  It was about 2:10 or there about, so I went to the bathroom, then headed back to bed for a few hours.

That was when she came to me in a state of high pissed off.

I’ve blogged about Cassidy before.  After the explanation of gave of her origin, some people might believe she is sort of an alter-ego of my character Kerry.  She’s not; she’s him.  She’s Kerry as another gender.  She’s a very cute girl:  sort of short, freckles, and–being she takes after her Irish mother–she has long, curly, red hair.  If she were a animated character, she’d probably look a lot like Merida, who is the main character in the upcoming movie, Brave.  Just replace the bow and arrow with a wand, and the dress with a school uniform, and she’s be pretty close to how I’ve seen her in my mind.

Oh, and don’t forget the stylish black and pink rimmed glasses . . .

So, I’m asleep.  And I start dreaming.  It doesn’t seem like much at first.  I remember this landscape, long and green and pretty flat, with hills way off in the distance.  At first I was sort of seeing it through a monitor, so I wasn’t really there.  But, just like that, I was–that’s the way dreams are, you know that.

I was there a few moments alone–and mind you, I knew it was me–then suddenly, she was there, standing no more than six feet away.

Cassidy was wearing a white blouse, and a short gray skirt with matching jacket, and black knee high boots.  She looked really nice, but then–hey, I created her, and in my mind she always looks nice.  While she looked nice, though, there was something in her eyes . . . they weren’t happy.  They were disapproving.  They were sort of . . . mean.

I knew that whatever was coming wasn’t going to be nice.

She glared for a few moments, then spoke.  ”What are you doing?” she asked.  There was just a hint of something in her voice that matched the look in her eyes.  ”What do you think you’re doing?  Why aren’t you doing what you said you were going to do, huh?”  Then the hands went onto the hips, and the venom really started.

“You’re disappointing me,” she said.  ”You’re not living up to your own promises, and I don’t like that!”  She pretty much spat out that last.  But she saved the worst for last:  ”You don’t do these things, and I feel it.  I feel it, and you know why!  So stop it!  Oi!  Get your ass in gear and stop being lazy!”

And then it was over.

I can’t really say how long that dream went on, because what is time in a dream.  All I know is I got up a little after five, started the coffee and computer, and did my post for Friday.  Got ready; went to work; came back to the apartment; packed; drove home; wrote tired as hell . . . then drifted off to sweet, sweet, merciful sleep.  Sans any memorable dreams.

Cassidy is still with me, however.  I can’t get her out of my mind.  Because I know what she’s say, I know what she’s implying–and I truly understand her last statement.

After I finished Transporting I said I’d get to finding publishers.  I indicated that I could start in on that and find places to send out work while I did an edit on one of my other works–that work currently being Couples Dance.  That was, of course, my plan–

We know plans fall apart, don’t we?

The editing part I’ve been doing, but the “Looking for people to whom I can sell my stuff,” part–yeah, not so good.  In fact, not so doing at all.  The thing is, I know this, and so do others.  I was chatting with Trusty Editor^tm Thursday night, and she made a comment about exposure.  She said, “You, more than others, need to put yourself out there.  You need to be seen.”

Sure, I know what she means.  I have my Facebook, and I have my Author’s Page, and my Smashwords page, and this blog . . . but that’s not all enough.  No, it isn’t.  Not at all.

See, to make this writing thing work, I have to push on to get people to read me.  It’s like being a singer:  doesn’t matter if you have the greatest voice in the world, if all you do is sing in the shower, it’s not helping you if your dream is to do it for a living.  Maybe you’re never going to be famous–or infamous, if that’s what you’re shooting for–but if you want to be known, you need exposure.

Writers are the same way.  Sure, you can post stuff on the Internet these days, but is that what I want?  I’ve done that.  It felt good to have fans of my work, but in the end what did it get me?  Well . . . it got me fans who are no longer with me, because I don’t write that sort of stuff any more.

If I want to sell my novels, if I want to sell my stories, I gotta do some leg work and find people crazy enough to not only like my work, but who want to pay me for the privileged of printing it.

So why was Cassidy saying I was hurting her?  Why did she say I know why she’s upset?

Damn, it’s really simple if you think about it.

A writer puts a lot of themselves into their characters.  I’ve done that with a couple of my characters, so much so that when it came time to do something bad to them, I felt it.  I’ve stated on a few occasions how much my character Kerry means to me; it’s no BS when I say there is a big part of my own feelings and emotions inside that kid.

So, logically, if a large part of me is inside Kerry, and Cassidy is Kerry, it goes without saying . . . I’m Cassidy.

Her words leave one with the understanding–it’s not her that I’m hurting a lot, in as much as I’m really hurting myself.

She my little Welsh/Irish-American conscience that wants the best for me, but isn’t afraid to get into my ass when I’m slacking.  That’s what she was doing Friday morning; it was time for Ray to get slapped around for being a slacker, and she isn’t afraid to do it–

Not to mention, if Cassidy is there, it’s a good bet Annie was nearby watching this all happen.  And I know exactly how Annie feels about me . . .

Damn.  All these women in my life.

It appears they wont remain content with the idea of me becoming a failure.