Black days like this.

So every year I point out that I don't think Black Friday deals are all the much better than what you can get before, during and after the holidays.  I mean, there are some extreme deals, but waiting in line for five hours seems kind of crazy to get them...

But you know what?  People like the 'event' of it.  They like to shop.  That's why I don't think brick and mortars will ever become obsolete.

People like to shop. 

**********

I felt like a real writer yesterday.

I took two chapters that were all right, o.k., and I made them better.  Through working on it, and at the same time keeping my creative side in the mix.   Can't explain it.  I felt I was "crafting" the improvements.

Hey, maybe in another dozen years I can do that on a consistent basis...

**********

I've been in a Walmart twice in my life, tagging along with another, and didn't spend money either time.  I've never been in Target.

So...I'm better then you, face it.  ;)

I think Black THURSDAY is crazy!

But you know what?  It may end up helping us small retailers by getting the big rush over earlier.  My theory is that people rush the big boxes first, and then when they get tired of the spectacle, think about the smaller stores.

Combined with "Small Business Saturday" or whatever they're calling it, we may actually be able to snag some of this holiday loot.

**********

Going to beat last year -- but last year was really horrible which makes by shudder about the year before which must have been ever more horrible.  What happened to November?

Anyway, I doubt I'll beat last Christmas, which came in huge for us.  I'm going with full inventory, not "extra" inventory, so I'm expecting lower sales but higher profits this year. 

I'm hoping.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 8.

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Freedy's enormous neighbor sauntered up the path and went around to the side window, where Freedy soon poked his head out.  The big man handed over a wad of bills.  I watched the illicit transaction from a distance.

As soon as Freedy's head scooted back into his house, the big guy walked away.  He turned the corner and pulled out an even bigger wad of bills and guffawed.  Yes, guffawed was exactly what he did.  Shook his head and guffawed.  Ho, ho ho.

He jumped over Freedy's little white picket fence and descended to the little hovel at the bottom of the hill.  What neither of these benighted fellows knew was that their families had been inexplicably and inextricably linked in just such a way for generations.  The Filkins in their ludicrously pompous ways, and the Ganders in their parasitic ways.

Fortunately for both families, every few generations a Filkins would show up with some spunk.

I waited until Stu Gander had lit a cigarette and plopped down in the rickety frayed lawn chair outside his door, before approaching.

"How fortunate for you," I said, without preamble.  "Freedy isn't very worldly, is he?"

The man sprang to his feet, and he was a terribly beefy figure -- red face, a thatch of thinning blond hair, ham fists and -- I laughed to myself -- tiny little feet.  Wouldn't take much to tip this fellow over.

He was a half a head taller than me, and I'm not small.  About six foot four or so.  He glowered over me.

I didn't back up an inch and his bluster started to fade.

"What's it to you, old man?"

Now I'm not actually old, but I've found my long gray flowing beard and hair to be an asset.   People tend to underestimate me.  They especially underestimate my cane, which I was an expert at wielding.

Stu Gander barely got my temperature rising. All bombast and no bombs.

"Why do you take only some of it, when you could have it all?" I asked, mildly.

Stu shut down in front of me.  His face went blank.  That's how I knew he'd been thinking the same thing.  He was trying desperately not to show it.

"Well, you know..." he ventured.  "I kind of like the little fellow."

"Really," I said, as dryly as I could muster.

He flushed again, his hams curling in a fist.  "Well, why should I --- take it" (felons never steal, they only take) "when I get the lion's share without doing nuttin' wrong?"

Other than charging an enormous surcharge, I thought.  Still, the guy was a little craftier than I'd expected.

"He's down to his last few rocks, you know."

He slouched.  No doubt he'd been suspecting as much.

"Tell you what, my good fellow.   Why don't I tell you where he hides them, and I'll buy them from you for 80% of market value?"

His eyes lit up.  He was crafty, but not terribly bright.  I knew he'd been getting about 50% of value.

"Well, you know -- I like Freedy..."

"100% of market value."

"... but I don't like him that much!"

We shook hands on the deal.


Freedy Filkins, Intern. Jewel Thief, 7.

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Freedy impatiently paced the hallways of Filk's End, his huge feet noisily slapping down on the carpet and tile.

Plop, plop, plop, plop  -- turn -- plop, plop, plop, plop -- turn...

Where was that damnable fellow?  What was taking him so long?

Every time he nervously, jerkily dropped one of his precious inheritance into Stu's enormously threatening hands,  he half expected the rotter to head for Mexico.  But so far he'd always come back with his cocky smile, and hand Freedy the money as if he was doing him a favor.

Had to be done.  Just that morning, he'd gotten a call from a bill collector, dunning him.  Dunning Freedy Filkins of Filk's End!

A momentary stab of fear passed through him.  He didn't do math.  He didn't think about the future.  Enjoy the now, he always said.  But the bag of gems was getting lighter and lighter and if he was honest with himself, it was more than half empty after just a few years and he was, if not young, he was not old.

At first, he'd tried to hock one of his jewels by himself, and they'd offered him a pittance and laughed at the look in his face.  He'd backed out of there, his face bright red, wanting to throw his coat over his head like a common criminal in fear that someone would recognize him.

On that horrid day, Stu was sitting at his stoop at the bottom of the hill as always, and the opportunistic fellow had coaxed the story out of Freedy.

"I tried to cash in one of my family heirlooms," Freedy told him, holding the bright blue sapphire up, where it caught a ray of sunlight and flashed.

Stu gasped and for a moment, Freedy was afraid he snag it out of his hand and start running.  Maybe smash him in the head first.  All he had to do was stand up and hammer his hands down on poor little Freedy.  He backed up with a huff.

"An heirloom, eh?" he'd said, giving Freedy a knowing look.  Everyone in the neighborhood had heard the story of the disgraceful Tessie and her ill-gotten riches.  "Let me give it a go, what do you say?  Hows about 10% for me troubles?"

So every few months, Stu would amble off to whatever sources he had and return a few hours later, looking as if he'd just eaten and been laid and consumed drugs -- all of which he probably had.  But Freedy had to admit the ruffian got more money than he'd been offered.  He also suspected that Stu was taking more than 10%.  Hell, it could have been 50% for all Freedy knew.

The alternative of being laughed at was just too shameful, and Freedy took whatever Stu offered.

He also put a great deal of thought into how to hide his stash.

He'd been as clever, put more thought into the hiding place, than he'd ever been about anything.

So it begins...

I sent my book proposal off to an agent today.  Got her name from a writer who is a friend of a friend, and was very nice about letting his agent know about me.

This is very nerve-wracking.  More than writing itself is.

But necessary.  I'm sure I'll get better at it as I proceed.

I think the book is ready, except a little tidying up here and there.  I suspect that even if they choose to look at my work, they'll check out a few chapters first.  Otherwise, I would just take whatever time I needed to get it exactly right.

So wish me luck.

Maybe they'll laugh me off, I don't know.  Thank god I had some indication that I'm not totally hopeless by being published before, otherwise how do you know?  I mean really know?

I'm going to give this process a few months, and if I succeed in getting an agent, give that a few years I suppose.

ebooks is always there, and may end up being what I do.

Freedy Filkins, Inter. Jewel Thief, 6.

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6.)

"Here, what's this about now?" Stu exclaimed.  Freedy's neighbor always seemed available, living as he did at the bottom of Filk End as if waiting for the wealth to roll down to him.

"Simple," Freedy said.  "I need you to hock another of my little baubles for me."

He'd scrounged the smallest and dullest of the gemstones out of his stash.  All morning long he'd walked around his home with the red stone in his hand, occasionally holding it up to the light of the windows and sighing loudly.  He shook his head in regret at the necessity of selling it off.

"Well, are you going to hand it over or aren't you?" Stu said, his hands still held out.  He'd come to the side window as usual.  Freedy had a reputation to protect.  An unfriendly reputation, perhaps, but his reputation nevertheless. It kept the riffraff away.

Freedy's head barely topped the window sill, but Stu's huge torso blocked the light.

Speaking of riffraff.  "The usual 10%?" Stu asked.  He was gruff, insulting.

Freedy shuddered.  "Yeah, yeah.  On your way back pick up a bag of yeast for me."

"Out of your share not mine."

"Of course!"  Well!  He'd been about to offer the ruffian a few pints of finished brew, but there was no way he'd share it now!

No one had believed Aunt Tessie's outrageous tales -- but there was no denying she'd returned filthy rich.  Of all the Filkins, only Freedy was willing to sit at her feet (big and hairy and groody) long enough to hear all the stories -- though in truth, it hadn't been out of the goodness of his nugget of a heart.  The old biddy had served the best muffins, and her tea had a strange kick.

Still, he'd been amazed when Aunt Tessie left him a small bag of shiny minerals on her death.

He'd been living off the little nest of rocks ever since.







Freedy Filkins, Inter. Jewel Thief, 5.

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5.)

I'm going to have a hard time convincing the rest of the crew that Freedy Filkins is the man for the job.

An unprepossessing fellow, to say the least.  A round mound of pounds.  Rudely unaware of anyone but himself.  A shallow inlet in a shallow sea.

But he has the right genes.

I remember Tessie with a fondness and a stirring in regions that hadn't been stirred in some time.  Oh, yes.  Tessie was enough to bring back black hairs to my gray beard.  Magnificent woman.  (I have a bit of foot fetish, and her tooties had been the grandest I've ever seen.)

Yes, a grand dame of a woman.  She hadn't always been so, though.  I remembered the mousy woman who'd first asked me for a job.  If I hadn't seen her filch the paperweight off my desk on her way out, I'd never have given her a chance.

No, Freedy Filkins will work out just fine.  He can't help himself.  Larceny runs in the family.

Freedy Filkins, Inter. Jewel Thief, 4.


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4.)  

Not that Freedy didn't love adventure.

Every nook and cranny of his comfortable little hole under the hill was packed with books.  A substantial library was only the beginning.  Books lined the hallways and the backs of closets, and even infested the bathrooms and kitchen.

He loved sitting on his desk and drawing maps and imagining adventures.

But that's all it was -- imagination.  Personally he hated any disruption to his routines.

Routines are what made a man civilized.  Predictable and reliable and comfortable, that was the life!

No, he'd rather stay enjoy his adventures in the comfort of his home at Filk End.

He hated strangers knocking at his door.  His flaps were still ruffled, askew.  Forge Corporation?  What was that?  Who was that annoyingly bearded fellow?

But somehow, as he sat back with his sore feet and contemplated the day, he just knew he was going to be spammed by that fellow again.

Freedy Filkins, Intern. Jewel Thief, 3.


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3.)

Freedy dove back into his mid morning repast.  Sausages and eggs and taters.  Strawberries drenched in cream, pancakes and syrup, and blueberry muffins.

He propped his big hairy feet on the table and burped.

His feet hurt.  Shoes never fit him -- all the Filkins owned overlarge feet and hairy to boot.  Around the house he always went barefoot. He'd tried buying shoes locally, online and even custom made. They all hurt, none of them fit.

That's why he was a homebody.  Not because he was lazy.  His feet hurt.  His father and mother before him had also been the type to hide behind the curtains and play and sleep and otherwise goof off . Big feet and soft carpets, that was the only answer.   Only Aunt Tessie had ever been anywhere and she'd come back and tried to tell them an obvious whopper of a tale that absolutely no one believed.  Hussy was the word Freedy had heard his mother whisper.

Freedy sorta kinda missed Aunt Tessie and her purple hats and gypsy scarves.

He reached up and rubbed his feet.  Maybe he'd skip raking leaves today, call old Stu up from from the base of the hill and give him a smidgen of the next batch of brew if he'd go fetch the yeast.

Yeah,  He'd stay and let his feet recover from all the unexpected door answering.  Besides, lunch was coming up.

Poor Kids

"Poor Kids."  Frontline.  11/20/12.

I hadn't intended to watch it.

Five minutes I told myself.

Five minutes with that cute, spirited little girl in the first segment and I was hooked.

All these kids were impressive -- spirited, curious, hopeful, accepting, defiant.  Tied to the anchor of their parents as they sink into the depths.  Helpless to change or to leave the situation.

All these kids were hungry.  Actually it was the main conversation, how hungry they were.  

41 million kids in poverty.

Time for me to up my charity giving to where it hurts.  This shouldn't be -- the parents made bad decisions, and their kids suffer.  Dammit. 

Share the wealth.  Damn straight we should.  Go ahead -- watch this show -- then argue about the 3%.

Freedy Filkins, Intern. Jewel Thief. 2.

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2.)

Freedy slammed the door.

The annoyingly bearded fellow at the door had interrupted the nap he was taking while he was cooking a nice fat meal.  He was a busy man.  Let's see... He had to rake the leaves today, go and buy some more yeast for his home-brew.

He went to his bedroom, and while passing the dresser, he couldn't help but check on his secret stash.  Yep, it was still there.  He'd sell another bit of it soon, cause finances were getting a little low.

Not so low as to actually work!  No, no.  That old man had offered him a job!  The effrontery of it!

It was good to be independently wealthy.  He was a righteous burgher around this town, a pillar of the community, a fellow to depend on when it came to an social event that needed attendance. 

Working?  He'd never and would never.  Yuck.

Stream of consciousness writing about writing.

Home writing yesterday.

The following was a stream of consciousness I kept going throughout the day, for which 90% of you won't be interested, and 10% won't be interested in 90% of it:


It's noon. Had to close the curtains because the blowing leaves were distracting me.  Opened a bag of white cheddar popcorn to eat a few kernels; two/thirds of the bag later, I close it with a great display of willpower.  I'm staring at the screen.  Shall I bring the book up, and fiddle with it for awhile?  Start with some fresh material?   Do I lean back on the pillows and just let it come to me? What if I fall asleep?   Change rooms?  My bedroom seems to be the most inspirational somehow,  but if I go upstairs Linda will want me to start cleaning.  Besides, her friends are showing up soon.  Check the internet again?  Hmmmm.   I still have some popcorn left.  NO!  I will resist until later!  The wind is shaking the windows.  How am I supposed to write with the wind shaking the windows?  O.K.  Bringing the novel up on screen to tweak.  Get myself in the mood.  Spend the required five minutes...Hey, I've got another bag of popcorn, it wouldn't hurt...NO!  Check watch.  Half hour has gone by and no new words.  Spend ten minutes tinkering.  Going upstairs to lay on the bed and imagine the new scene; but first I need to read a couple of chapters leading up to it. Leave the popcorn behind. Walk by Linda on way to room, busily sweeping and looking stressed.  I'm still ignoring what she isn't saying.  I start warming up my earplugs  because she's watching Judge Judy, Judge Tom, Dick and Harry...whatever, there are dozens of these shouty nasty judges and low lifes in front of them. Linda and I are incompatible.  Hey, I can't write with that shouting going on!  Put in earplugs.  Check watch, 45 minutes gone and all I've done is some tinkering.  O.K. Ready to start thinking about beginning to contemplate some real writing. But first, check the internet. That was a waste. Nothing new.  Stock market went up for once.  It's 1:00 and I haven't really started.

Wrote for an hour in the darkness of the bedroom, earplugs on.  Added a thousand words to a few of the proceeding chapters, to explain what about to happen with the new chapter.  Brought the laptop downstairs -- and the earplugs-- cause I know the ladies upstairs will be laughing loudly.  I'm on a bit of a roll, finally.  Checking the internet.  Nothing new.  Is there ever?  Going to close my eyes for a few moments and try to finally get started on the new chapter.  Hey, I just noticed -- I type so much faster than I used to.

Two hours later I've finished up an entire new chapter, rough.  Almost 2000 words.  As I suspected, I still have another new chapter to write, which I'm going to try to do this evening. Then -- I hope to god this is the last new material that is structural. The book is now almost 115,000 words, which is bigger than I wanted it.  I've finished off the bag of popcorn.  Going to take a small break.  Check the internet and lay down for a couple of minutes, and think about the next chapter and what I'm trying to accomplish.  I can't believe how easy this is all coming to me.  The ladies upstairs managed to get through my earplugs once or twice -- whatever are they doing?  Shudder.  The house is creaking from the wind.  Anyway, back to the book.  I know I've made it better -- I've added motivation for all the characters so they're all not just following Cobb around.  In order to do that, I basically had to construct a whole new part of the plot, establishing those characters and then later chapters to complete their stories.  That has added a quarter in size to the book.  So extra material to make the book better, good.  One quarter bigger? Not so good. Certainly means I can cut anything I want and still have enough words.

Finished up the second new chapter, and again I think it works.  The emotional part is hard, but it's better when you know the characters.  I think in the first couple of drafts, the emotions were more clunky because I didn't know who they were and how they fit into the plot.  It's 9:00 so I've been at this for 9 hours -- about 5000 words, or so. So once again, I think I have all the parts in place, but I've thought that a dozen times before.  Remembered one last thing, and added another half page.  NOW I think it's all there.  The question now is, what do I do from here?  I've got another day off tomorrow, so I think I'm going to look for Cobb's voice in the second half of the book.  The whole second half of the book could probably be polished more.  I keep saying I'm finished, but it really does feel like I need to polish this some more -- look for any chance to improve, but more or less go with the book.

I have written a few notes about how I want the next rewrite to go:

1.)  First and foremost.  Look for reactive moments.  Reactive moments are gold, never let one pass with reacting.  Too often I'll do a "this happened, and then this happened"  instead of "this happened and "Holy Cow!  Look what happened!"  Let the characters speak, react to what's going on around them.

2.) Descriptive moments.  Any chance I have to make things clearer -- to show, to have the senses engaged -- what they see, feel, touch, smell, hear...

3.) Natural dialogue.  This is hard for me, really hard.  So I just need to read it out loud and see how it sounds.  One thing I need to do more of is actually let myself have some throwaway sentences.   Just to fill out the conversation with character interaction instead of-- 'here's what I want you all to know.'
I call this being "sloppy" and it doesn't hurt to let the book breath a little  Not make every sentence tight (despite what all the reading manuals tell you.)  I was telling a writer in writer's group that all her sentences were perfect, too perfect.  Everyone looked at me like I was off base, but I stand by it.

4.) Some more mechanical things I want to achieve: ( a.) Make the beginnings and ends of each chapter strong, even if it's just the first and last paragraph.  Don't be afraid of the exclamatory. (b.) Try to find an 'artistic' way to say something every page of the book.  Then do it again. (c.) Go through the entire book and look for active phrasing versus passive.  Trigger words -- past tense, inactive.  "Had been"  All the places where I say someone "heard" "saw" 'looked" etc. instead just coming out straight with it.  Instead of "He heard a moaning sound coming from Sandra," say "Sandra moaned."  Seems obvious.  But it slips in all the time.  (that sounded dirty.) I'm done.



Playing with my fonts again.

Trying to figure out the best font to an ebook.

Everyone assures me that the consumer will decide, but I know some consumers will simply default to what is offered.  Consumers like me.

I like Cambria, but couldn't find anyone else who recommended it.  Prints out to 266 pages.

Ariel doesn't look right. 272 pages.

Courier looks like a typewritten manuscript.  327 pages.

In the end, I decided I can't go too wrong with Times New Roman.  256 pages.

This font is very familiar, like what a lot of books use, and I decided that I would try as best as possible to mimic other books. 

I can always tell when a self-published book comes in the door.  It just feels wrong.  Wrong design, wrong font, wrong paper.

Ebooks aren't quite the same, but I think the same standard of trying to look professional applies.

Still trying these things out. 

Also trying various sizes of text.  Have decided on 12 for main text, 16 for CHAPTER and 14 for titles of chapter.  20 on main title, 16 on subtitle.

**********

Back to writing:

Just when I thought I was finished, I realized that I needed two new chapters.

Once I decided that I needed to flesh out the motivations of characters other than the narrator, then that required that I flesh out the characters themselves.  Once I did that, I needed to add chapters later in the book where I play out their story arcs and hopefully come to a satisfyingly emotional resolution.

The process has added about 25% more words to the book -- but without identifying with the characters I don't have a book, just ideas and plot.

I'm much more pleased with the book now.

Once again, I'm hoping I've satisfied the structural demands of the book -- but as I keep saying, I'm learning to never say finished. 

If nothing else, by now I really have put the work and thought into this effort.  I've tried my best and if it doesn't work, it isn't from being lazy or impatient.

This has been a long slow process of falling back into being a writer.  I can't just dish it out.  It requires all kinds of commitment of time and attention, and I've just had to be dragged into that realization.   As I've said, it was never a mistake that I quit writing 25 years ago -- I was well aware of what it required and what I could commit.

But I'm also glad to be back doing it.

Take bomb threats seriously -- but not reallly.

Everyone gets excited by bomb threats.

Bomb threats are boring.  Hear me media people?  Boring.

I mean, for every bomb threat, the chance of an actual bomb is miniscule and everyone knows it.

If only one out of a million wasn't true, we could all ignore them.

I got so pissed off when I was in the mall about bomb threats, that I finally told them to bug off.

"Look," I said.  "I've got a few hundred square feet to look around in and we're here everyday and we can tell you in about 2 minutes whether anything is out of place.  Come on.  I know it makes all you uniformed security guards feel important and all, but really?"

Anyway, I suppose we have to take bomb threats seriously.

That is, do the safe thing.  By all means.

But we don't really have to take them seriously, you know.

Think of it as a rash.  You deal with it but you don't have to get all excited about it.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief. 1.


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Woke up with this running through my head:

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief.

1.)

The new recruit lived in an earth house, built into the side of a hill.  It was great.  Warm and dry in the winter, cool and dry in the summer.  I knocked on the rounded door and could hear Mr. Filkins rustling about inside, until he finally poked his tousled head out the door.

"What do you want?"

"Good morning, Mr. Filkins.  I'm here to offer you a job with the Lorn Mountain Foundation.  It will require a small adventure.  You would be highly paid for your services."

"Bug off."  He slammed the door.

I shook my head.   Oh, he was going on adventure, he just didn’t know it yet.  He hadn't quite blown his entire inheritance, but his bank balance was quickly diminishing.  I’d just hurry the process along a little.

Chuckling to myself, I marked the door with chalk for the recruitment team.

He'd be the perfect thief:  quiet, timid and unobtrusive."


A little rough, but that's how it came to me.

Strange.  What does this remind me of?  Heh.

**********

Linda has friends coming over this afternoon, so she's bustling around the house while I'm trying to read my morning paper and drink my coffee.  My routine.

"Are you bustling?"

"Yes.  Sorry."

What she really wants to say is, "Get off your butt and start vacuuming."

I'm ignoring what she isn't saying.

***********

Amazing how many people think Bend is a liberal town.

When really it's a mix of white flight and red neck and "I've got mine and I want to keep it."

With a liberal overlay.

**********

How is it possible that there could be 1,326 students homeless in Bend last year?  Yes, I know it's a loose definition, but nevertheless.

There is a rather condescending current article in Der Spiegal, clucking their disapproval of America's willful descent into third world status.

Damn socialists!  With their social networks and all!  With their high taxes and functional infrastructure!

**********

Looking for small advantages in the shopping calendar.

Thanksgiving coming so early:  Maybe a small advantage, though just as likely that people will take a shopping hiatus longer than the usual.

Tuesday Christmas and New Years:

Would think people would shop through Monday.  I'm thinking Wednesday is a good kickoff to after Christmas.

Also, with New Years on Tuesday, I'd be thinking they wouldn't start school again until the 7th.  (Not confirmed.)

Probably averages out in the end -- but having more valid shopping days can't hurt.

**********

So I'm thinking I have the basic plot of the book finished.

Then last night, while writing notes, I realize that I'm missing a very obvious scene late in the book, that might turn into two scenes.

This book just keeps growing.

Once I decided to develop the characters more fully in the first third of the book, it necessitates my bringing them back into the story in the last third of the book to have a satisfying emotional resolution.

I've just got to stop thinking I'm finished.  I even printed out two full manuscripts last Monday, using up 500 pages and an ink cartridge and a half, only to get my brilliant new idea that afternoon which made the printed copies obsolete.

I just started this book off on the wrong foot.  It was going to be all snarky and clever and short and snappy.   Maybe it should be.  But it didn't feel like a book.

A book has a story arc -- a story arc has characters and plot.

At first, I didn't put sufficient thought into plot and character.

Loosey, goosey from now on.


Good thing I can compartmentalize!

Look!  Another Bend "home-building Uptick"!  Bulletin, 11/18/12.

Hey, probably so. Once the bottom was reached, it probably had to happen and then keep happening.

Notice, however, that employment and wages are at their lowest point.  Significantly.

So what we end up with is another house (I'm still skeptical about the need -- I still believe there are lots of houses yet to come on the market).

But fewer employees are being paid less to build them.

Sort of reminds me of the story of giving a man a fish, or teaching a man to fish.

Here's a fish for you.

************

Hey, a bonus to restaurants being non-smoking establishments.

Losing the Pine Tavern would have been a tragedy.

They don't blow up if there's a gas leak!

**********

The Bulletin is making the best case they can for their retrenchment.

I recognize the signs.  Make less look like more, by consolidating.

It's a healthy strategy.  I really expect and hope them to survive -- hopefully not being reduced the Crescent City newspaper size...

**********

Honey Boo Boo Palin?

Ouch.

**********

Asked Linda straight out:  Agent or online?

"Online," she said without hesitation.

She writing even more than I am, believe it or not.  Transferring an old manuscript to Word and adding a whole bunch and enjoying herself.

**********

Thanksgiving -- and therefore the Holiday Season -- is approaching with unseemly haste.

I've already stocked up on games -- and I'll be making a book order today, so I'll have the inventory.  It just seems different this year, for some reason.

**********

Here's a thought.  The books I wrote (STAR AXE, SNOWCASTLES, ICETOWERS) were published 30 years ago.

With the old media, by now, they'd be mostly gone.  Gathering dust in a few used bookstores here and there.

In fact, about 15 to 20 years ago, that's exactly where they were.

Then...the Internet.  If I Google my books, I get hundreds of listings all over the world.  The mostly bad reviews (very, very few reviews of any kind --  almost none at first) from decades ago are now overlaid by a few good reviews as time gives the old books a rosy glow.  I get my first fan letter! (e-mail.)

I remember the first time I realized that someone was digitally offering my books for free.  I had a momentary qualm, and then I realized, "HELL, yeah.  Someone might read my books.  See -- money isn't the thing anymore at this point. You can't take it with you.

Put it online and daydream that a hundred years from now they discover a forgotten master.  Heh.

So I'm in this weird position.

My writer self LOVES Amazon and all the other sites offering e-books.

My bookstore self HATES Amazon and all the other sites offering e-books.

Good thing I can compartmentalize!



Sat. sanguinistas.

So people are serving time in jail for what was voted legal in two states?

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Is there going to be a run on Hostess Twinkies and Cupcakes?  Hard to believe someone wouldn't buy the brands.

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I'm watching two  new shows this year; The Last Resort and Revolution.  Oh, and Elementary.

The Last Resort was pretty good, except for some very strange plots -- the basis being, "If you attack us, we will nuke you." 

They then get attacked each and every week. Plus the really really bad guy on the island really needs to just be taken out in back and shot.

Anyway, I was enjoying it.

It just got cancelled.


Elementary is very erratic in quality.  The plots aren't great, but the characters are really starting to get some good chemistry going.  Lucy Liu is one sexy lady.


Revolution is pretty damn mediocre.  Linda likes it.

Her absolute favorite show is Grimm, and I'm enjoying it too.  She just likes that it shows Portland, and particularly the neighborhood where Todd lives. 

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Benghazi.

There is no there there.

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Thanksgiving seems to just falling down on us.  It's about the earliest in the year that the Holiday can fall.  Yes, I pay attention to a few days.

As I said, Black Friday just isn't what it used to be, because the Big Box stores have managed to take it over.

Small Business Saturday is an interesting idea, though.

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Reading the PayPer.

Well, that just proves it.

I like the paper Bulletin so much more than the online version.  I just like kicking back with a  paper in the morning.  You know...a "PayPer."  (Hey, did I just coin a word?)

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Meanwhile, both Marvel and DC are playing games with their release dates on a e-comics.  It's gone from, "You retailers get it first." to "You retailers get it at the same time." to "You retailers get it a day later."

Not good.

There's an uproar in the retailer community so maybe they'll back off -- for now.

I'm relying somewhat on my customers still wanting to read "PayPer" comics.

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My friends Sunrise and Martha brought back The Reluctant Wizard, and they really seemed to like it.  So that was really encouraging.  It's almost the first time I've had readers actually seem enthused by what I wrote.

Anyway, Martha sent me an e-mail with critique, and it was all good.  But one line really stood out:

 "I think the language definitely needs to be more vibrant, evoking the senses and imagination; make it like a book Lore could get totally lost in on a summer day."

So I wrote back:

"No small thing. Care to elaborate?"

She answered:

"Maybe keep the senses (sight, hearing, smell, touch) in mind and ask yourself if there are ways to describe things so clearly that it's like the reader is there? Maybe make descriptions kinda in-your-face at first, then bring them back to a realistic but still dynamic medium?
The writing isn't bad or boring by far―I just feel like in general it could have a brighter spark."

So there you go.  See, if I don't have that, I don't have it.  So it's back to the drawing board with her comments in mind.

This is a tough gig.  Writing.

I must say, I'm showing way more patience in the process than I used to....

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I keep going back on forth on what book to put forward first, and in what format.

I suppose as long as I haven't finished them, I can keep putting the decision off.



Thurs. Thuds.

This was from a couple of days ago:  Bend Community Center, KTVZ. Still trying to figure out how being audited translates into being a "fiscal rebound."  Sounds rather worser than betterer.

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I think I've improved my book, but I don't know how to find out.  I can't ask the same people to read it again, and whoever I give it to, won't have read the other version.

Really, when it comes to writing, in the end you're on your own.

Anyway,  Like I said yesterday, I was ready to set it aside, when I think I got the inspiration for the big step up on the 'third' version.

Rewrote the first chapter, which I had read last week at writer's group so they were all familiar, and they all thought it was a real improvement.

So now all I have to do is do that to the rest of the book.

Yeah, that's all.
 

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I also keep going back and forth as to whether I want to try to get an agent, or simply published online.

Immediate gratification is probably not the best of reasons.


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The big change is basically putting the snark back into the voice of the main, first person character.  I think it works.  Make him a little crazy, unpredicatable.

I can do that.

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Petraeus affair seems so high school.

Who would've thunk that the 'reporter-er' would turn out to be even more of a loon than the 'reporter-ee.'

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Actually, what country is MORE conservative than the U.S.A?  Anybody in Europe, Canada, Mexico?

No?

How about Africa.

Maybe some dictatorships, and countries in the middle east?

Not wait.  Don't . Please.  Go.