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Monday, June 12, 2017

Find What You Love, and Let it Kill You

Yeah, that's about what's happening with me right now...let's just have a little preface, which will lead you along in this business...

That should pretty much tell you everything. While I do not intend to sink into an alcohol and drug-fueled end (I did that in the past, not to mention the psychosis), I will tell you that there are things that lead us there, whether we want this or not.

Case in point: I am THIS FUCKING CLOSE to having everything in for my next book, Live from the Cafe, but it does seem something is holding us up. If not one thing, only serves to fuel my own weirdness, and if there is not enough stress in my life at this point, I didn't need more of it.

The big issue is: Sunbury Press has a release date planned for July 11th. I want to hit that. In fact, I've done all that I can do from my end. The final edits were sent in early this morning...we hit that date, I'm alright.

My cover artist, Mitch Bentley, delivered another gobsmacking cover, which is now off into the hands of the publisher for the lettering, and I've sent the boilerplate, the legal stuff, the backflap, all that shit.

We hit that date. That's the killer. The date. We gotta hit it.

Now, I am not pointing any fingers insinuations, or accusations, because who knows what hits us next, both the big things and little things.

...shit happens, I accept that shit happens, and that we can work through the shit that happens, and we make shit happen.

I don't fucking quit. Have you noticed that yet?

Mitch is now off at hopefully he runs into the Boys from Oklahoma who know how to roll their joints and he has a blast.

Such is the business, any business. These things happen, and I assume they happen for a reason.

Such as raising my blood pressure higher than fuck. 

Oh, here's a sneak peak at the clean cover...

Is that cool or what? Mitch paints vivid shots that open things up, and I hope once this also makes you want to drop in on the cafe In the Middle of Nowhere, Quebec.

Imagine a one-stop-light town, where everything seems old and out of time, but for a few things. There's one convenience store, a Chinese takeout joint, and all the life seems to revolve around this odd, rustic, massively uncorporate coffee place called Le Cafe.

Life in a small Northern Town, where the people are strong, the coffee stronger, and you never know who will show up to hang out, drink and play music.

You step back (I hope) into your own life. You remember change, resistance to change, what it was like to be young, and to stay young, and the people around you that you trusted, not just liked a little bit.

It's a weird place in our own lives but there it is. 

Not exactly a bucolic existence, and I have made it anything but. Some of this will make you uncomfortable because I am anything but comfy.

But I digress...

...I got into reading Bukowski's really gritty, nasty, down in the dirt poetry, his womanzing, drinking, horseplaying self, to the point you are on the bar crawls with this guy, the voyeur watching some of this stuff, and wondering how the fuck you got here.

It's life. We've all been there, or are there.

I am a bit more fortunate than others. I try not to judge, though I do admit to joking a lot. You have to have some kind of humor to get through this.

I am seeing things that are reflected in the book, but they come back in the alternative universe. Friends being torn to shit by stupid things like politics, the subtle difference between people is enough to unfriend them from Facebook, and then life itself.

Were any of us really friends?

Do we have friends?

I hate it when people bitch that so and so went off the rails because he/she didn't have "real" friends, and surrounded themselves with people who only did what they wanted 'em to do, enabled them, blah fucking blah.


Go to the mirror, have no more right than I do.

Now, friends...

It's sometimes...a chance meeting or a discussion will open the door to that person, the one you have not even met face to face, and you are presented with a really, genuinely nice, person. A kind that is that cool with who they are, and does not give a shit about what anyone else thinks.

They are rare.

I won't say who she is, but this is someone I knew over a year ago (still have not met), and we reconnected. Her actual recollection of this insignificant interviewer was heartening to me, and that she remembered what I was working on, above the amazing project she is now engaged in.

She asked, "How do you do it?"

My writing? I didn't answer right away, because I didn't know. I guess I rambled one off...but the time, energy and effort put into her project is the same as mine.

You give all of it, at that given moment.

Live from the Cafe is the current give. It's actually a pretty fair one, I think. I'll be shamelessly plugging away at that.

But this friend...yeah, she is one. I hope to meet her one day and say thank you for reminding me that you can open yourself up and be rewarded for it.

Not shredded for it.

There's too much shredding right now, internally and outwardly. 

We gotta stop shredding each other. Put aside the bullshit differences, and take each person as they are.

As much as some people will not believe it...despite my views on things, I don't give a fuck what yours are. 

You make it an issue. I try NOT to. Not always good at it, but I'm doing my best.

I hope you are.

So yeah...we have to dive into the morass every now and then, get covered in it, roll around in it, and be reminded where we are.

I get up and out of it and say, "Psych! I'm still here! Get used to it!"

And I hope you can put my madness aside enough to see what I've offered, and I hope it does some good.

There's a reason I don't blog much anymore...I want to put all my energy, the positive, good energy into the story, the words, the phrases, those fucked-up dysfunctional characters that travel 'round and 'round in my brain.

'Cause they're a little bit me...and a little bit you (sorry to Neil Diamond).

Anyway, to borrow from Bukowski...there, I feel better.

Pour me another.

Peace, Out.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

The Other Roads Club, Reconsidered

Well, here's a look at an old manuscript...I began writing "The Other Roads Club" trilogy back in 2008 or '09...after a number of years of edits, and fooling around with it, I realize it's got a long way to go. But I wanted to play around with it stands up pretty well. I can see where my style has changed over the years. I wonder what you think...this is the introduction from Book 1, "Take Another Road." Let's meet a new/old heroine, Aimi, and her interesting friends...

Chapter 1--Letters, and the Golden Pair
Dear Kira-chan: I have only a short time before breakfast, so I must make this note a quick one. I was up late into the night reading The Bonesetter’s Daughter. Amy Tan is a wondrous writer; the story was at times sad, but one that really made you think. I will see if I can find more of her stories in the library.
So yes, I still read a great deal. It helps in these days, but I am well, and I hope you are the same. I miss you very much, yet each day I do my best to move forward.
Kaz will be meeting up with Kaldera today, and I just might get to meet this other boy who has been taking lessons from him. Kaz says he is very different, but someone he’s sure I’d like. He too likes to read and is very much into the western classics.
Mother is calling me; I must go. I love you, Kira-chan, as always…Aimi.
Aimi Okuda set her writing aside and cast a brief glance at the framed photograph that looked down from the top shelf of her desk. Smoothing back her long black hair, she turned and stood before the mirror above the dresser. Aimi clipped two metal barrettes in place, adjusted the collar and matching blue neck ribbon of her school uniform and the waist of the short, pleated skirt; she then made sure the level of her blue legwarmers matched at the knees. Aimi then picked up her book bag and stepped out the sliding door into the narrow hallway.
Moving past her parents’ bedroom, Aimi looked out into the front of her home. To her right was the small, threadbare living room. To her left in the kitchen, a woman had just finished packing lunches for the family.
“Good morning, Mom,” Aimi said as she slid past the breakfast table behind her mother.
“Good morning.” Madoka returned her daughter’s greeting and closed the three wooden bento boxes before setting them on the counter next to the stove. “Aimi,” she asked, “would you shout down the basement to your father? Breakfast is ready, and we’ve got to leave soon.”
“Okay.” Footsteps clumped up the steps now, so Aimi took her place at the low table. Tucking her long pigtail securely inside her red morning robe, Madoka sat beside her daughter, and the two began to serve three plates of rice rolled in seaweed, setting them beside small bowls of soy sauce, along with last night’s leftover baked fish.
“Here I am, no need to yell for me.” Aimi’s father, Goro squeezed himself through the tiny door that led to the cellar and slid it shut behind him. Dressed in blue jeans and a dark blue work shirt, he entered the kitchen and sat down across from his wife. Goro was in his early forties, short but strongly built. He ran his hand through his black hair, which had a few grey streaks in it and picked up his coffee cup. “The new flutes are packed and ready,” he said before taking a sip of the black brew. “They should go over well today.”
The Okuda family owned and operated a small shop in the Ameyoko section of Tokyo. The area was once the source of black market goods following World War II, but had since evolved into a colorful, bustling place of business. Their shop specialized in traditional and modern Japanese artwork. The more popular items were prints of certain scenes the tourists favored, but Goro’s handmade flutes or shakuhachi were popular, as were Madoka’s calligraphy paintings.
As the three began to eat, Aimi told them, “I will be over after school to help.” She related to her parents of the meeting that was scheduled to take place.
“Good.” Goro nodded approvingly and said, “Tell Kaldera if you see him that I may have some money for him. I believe a buyer is coming for that guitar of his.”
“I will.” The family discussed the upcoming day’s work at the shop, and the activities at Aimi’s school. “The class trip to Koga is next weekend,” she commented, “it’s all anyone’s been talking about.”
Madoka looked with sympathy at her daughter. “I’m sorry we couldn’t afford for you to go, Aimi. It would have been good for you.”
Aimi shrugged. “It’s okay,” she replied, her expression and voice sincere. “Kaz and Mei aren’t going, either. Besides,” she went on, “I have a feeling something else is going to happen that will beat going to see the Ninja Museum!”
All three laughed as a knock came on the door, which slid back a moment later. “Morning, all,” a female voice called.
The Okudas welcomed in the new arrivals, a uniformed boy and girl. “Hello, Kaz, Mei,” Aimi returned.            
“Come sit,” Goro told the pair, and the two removed their shoes and took up spaces on either side of Aimi.
“Yes, and help yourselves,” Madoka told them. She motioned to the plates on the table, “there’s plenty.”
“Oh no, thank you,” the one called Kaz returned politely. “I’m well-fed.” Kazuhiro Ogawa was tall and thin; his black hair was worn long, but not so much to become a concern for the school district’s regulations. He lived next door to Aimi, as he had all their lives.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mei said as she helped herself to a piece of the nori and dipped it into Aimi’s bowl. Meiho Maeda was another neighbor on the street, the most outgoing of the group. Mei was thickset in her build, the product of years of martial arts training. The uniform showed off her musculature, in particular her well-defined thighs and calves.
These, however, weren’t the first things people tended to notice when they saw Mei for the first time. Her face was plain, but bore the bloodlines of Korea as well as Japan. Her hair was black, thick and very long, held in place by several bobby pins and a black plastic hair clip. Her dark eyes were accented by the black eye makeup she wore; this plus her larger than normal girth gave Mei a menacing image. “How is everyone?” She asked, taking care to swallow before speaking.
“Another day,” Goro replied and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “another day poorer,” which again drew laughter.
“How is your mother doing, Mei?” Madoka asked. “I feel sad I’ve not been over to visit in a while.”
Mei nodded. “Mom’s better today,” she replied, “and she says hello to all of you.” Mei’s mother had been ill for some time and was no longer able to work. As a result, Mei looked after her, especially on her more difficult days.
Aimi looked to Kaz. “How are your mom and dad, by the way?” She asked.
Kaz shrugged, and the look on his face showed right away. “They were both out the door before I was up,” he replied, “the usual.” Kaz’s father was lead mechanic at an automotive repair center in the city, while his mother worked in a downtown department store. The Ogawa’s of late were rarely seen, due to their schedules.
Aimi had known that her first question had struck a nerve, and inside she wished she hadn’t asked it. Changing the subject, Aimi then asked, “How about today? Kaldera’s coming over to school, right?”
At the mention of Kaldera, Kaz became more like himself. “Yes, and Minoru’s coming by, too,” he said. “You guys will love him. He’s quite the musician.” Kaz went on to explain that Minoru went to the exclusive public school near theirs.
Seated between her friends, Aimi detected the barely perceptible growl that came from her left, from Mei. She made no reaction to it, and Aimi continued to listen to Kaz. “He’s very good on the shamisen,” Kaz explained, “and he’s been learning guitar like I have from Kaldera. Oh, and another thing: Kaldera wants to take the boat out next weekend. He wanted to know if you would be interested.”
Madoka smiled. “Well, Aimi,” she said, “you just predicted something different might happen.”
“What does Kaldera have in mind?” Goro asked, equally interested.
“I don’t know,” Kaz replied. “He just mentioned it in passing the other day. He’s also planning to play out this week. I hope he’ll let us know more about that, too.”
Aimi then turned to Mei. “What’s up with your Tae Kwon Do?” She asked. “Did you hear about the testing?”
“Yes.” Mei smiled, probably her first broad one of the day. “Matsunaga-Sensei says I’m all but ready for my test, the big one.”
All voiced congratulations. Now sixteen (the same age as her friends), Mei had risen through the junior ranks to the red belt. The aforementioned final test would come soon, and if all went well, Mei would gain the long-sought black belt. “I’ve been waiting for this a long time,” she said, “and I’m hopeful; but I’m not gonna believe it until Sensei says so.”
“Well,” Kaz said, “we’ll be there to see it.”
The group broke up, and Madoka invited the pair over for dinner that evening. A regular occurrence, as Kaz’s parents tended to work long hours, and it gave Mei a break from home.            
The three watched and waved goodbye to Aimi’s parents as they drove down the narrow street in the old white Suzuki mini truck. With the Okudas on their way, the three teenagers headed in the other direction. In addition to his book bag, Kaz also carried his acoustic guitar in its hard case.
“So we’ll finally get to meet Minoru,” Aimi said. “You’ve spoken so well of him; I am anxious to find out what he’s like.”
Mei nodded, but said nothing. Her gaze appeared fixed ahead, but as Aimi was a little shorter, she could note that her friend’s eyes were downcast. Reaching out, she put her hand into Mei’s, the other into Kaz’s.
Aimi noticed that Mei’s smile returned, and Kaz had one as well. That made hers even larger. It will be a good day. I am glad to make my two oldest friends smile. Then I can smile a little more, too.
* * *
The silver Jaguar pulled up to the curb and stopped without a sound. The rear door opened, and the tall girl alighted. Bending from the waist, she leaned into the window and thanked the driver, then stood to watch him drive away.
She turned to look over the main courtyard of Katsuhashi Academy. The fan-shaped yard which led to the main doors of the impressive brick building was populated by numerous uniformed students. Most talked in small groups; a few were seated on the grass or on benches, studying or socializing before homeroom.
The girl checked her face in a compact mirror before walking in, and noted with some satisfaction that the eyes of many of the male students and older passerby were on her lean, athletic body. She ascertained her white and blue uniform blouse was straight, the red scarf and the seams of her short dark blue skirt in line. Shouldering her book bag, she walked into the courtyard and brushed back her long, flowing black hair with careful casualness.
She looked over the knots of boys, they in the all-black uniform of the spring semester. The girl listened as well, but not to the chatter of her fellow students. She did not hear that other sound which she expected at this time of the morning
“Asuka-san! Ohayo!” The call of two girls’ voices broke Asuka from her search, and she turned to greet her classmates as they rushed up.
“Ohayo.” Homoka and Masami were two of her closest friends; like Asuka, both were in their second year of high school. The former was Asuka’s teammate in field hockey. She was short and had the classic, thin build of a Japanese girl. Her hair was long and black and styled much like that of Asuka’s. Masami was also thin, but she did not play sports. Her own straight hair hung past her shoulders, and she wore expensive eyeglasses, plus a black beret perched at the correct angle on her head.
The girls walked on either side of Asuka as they passed through the courtyard. Over the typical questions of how her friends were doing plus other matters of the school day, Asuka was paying only scant attention. She continued to search ahead of her; then near the main doors, she saw a boy sitting alone on a bench with a curious musical instrument in his hands.
“Minoru-kun,” she called as she moved quickly to his side. As she did, the boy rose, carefully set down his shamisen, bowed and smiled.
Minoru Higa was a teenager that would stand out in any crowd. He was tall, and looked even thinner than he was in the uniform. His hair was thick and naturally wavy, the ends just a little past his collar. This was actually against regulations at Katsuhashi; but then, Minoru seemed to get away with such things.
“Good morning, Asuka-chan.” Minoru accepted Asuka’s police kiss. He also hailed Homoka and Masami and bowed to them, which pleased the girls much more than a simple greeting should.
“How are you today?” Asuka looked into those dark, almost black eyes.
“I am quite well, thank you,” he quietly replied. “I’m glad I got to see you before school, Asuka. I wanted to ask you about something.”
Longtime friends, Minoru dispensed with the honorific, usually after the initial greeting. That to Asuka was just one of Minoru’s “ways,” of which there were many.
“Of course,” Asuka replied.
As on cue, Asuka’s friends made their excuses and stepped away. Minoru chuckled at this. “They are so tactful,” he joked. “You have them well trained.”
The two laughed as they sat on the bench. As Minoru placed his shamisen in a padded leather shoulder bag, Asuka replied, “They are not trained, I can assure you, Minoru. They are merely kind about giving us our space.”
“Yes, and carrying on with the Camelot-like nature of what they, and everyone else thinks our relationship is.” Setting the bag alongside his books, Minoru said, still smiling (though Asuka could tell its meaning had changed), “I gather you have heard what they’re all saying about us.”
“I care not what others say,” Asuka replied. “It is what we both think that matters.”
“Supposedly,” Minoru went on, “we are the Golden Pair. That perfect couple.” He snorted with barely hidden distaste. “I don’t know about you, Asuka, but frankly I am embarrassed by it.”
Asuka gently laid her hand on Minoru’s shoulder. “No one means anything bad by it,” she said. “Yes, I have heard that too, and it is rather juvenile. Let the others talk; it means nothing to me.”
She watched as Minoru turned slightly and looked into her eyes. They seemed sad and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to put down your friends,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t think that. You are so decent to everyone,” Asuka said. “Don’t worry about them, or me. We have each other; that is what matters, isn’t that right?”
Minoru smiled. “Right,” he replied. “Oh, if I may now ask you about that certain something?”
Asuka smiled and nodded. “You may.”
“Kaldera is going to be over at Masuyo today,” Minoru explained. “I’m meeting up with my good friend Kaz over there, too. Why don’t you come with me? You know Kaldera already, and I think you’d really get along with Kaz and his friends.”
As he spoke, Minoru examined Asuka’s expression. At the mention of the name of the public school, her eyebrows raised and her face, slimmer in its lines than most Japanese, took on a slight change and the smile fell away. Minoru expected this; it was the logical, almost programmed reaction where Asuka was concerned.
“I…don’t know,” Asuka replied, but she looked away and said no more.
“Oh, do come with me, Asuka.” Minoru took her hand, and quickly added, “It is not like we would be exploring a wild world. Kaz is a fine person, and I’m quite excited to meet these friends of his. A few new friends are always a good thing, wouldn’t you say?”
Asuka turned to face him, and her smile returned. “You can talk me into anything, Minoru,” she replied. “Yes, I’ll gladly go with you. The hockey season is over, and the dinner party is not until later in the evening. By the way, you are coming, aren’t you?”
“Indeed.” The two rose, and Minoru shouldered his shamisen. “Your father has become rather a patron of my music, which I am grateful for.”
As he picked up his books with his free hand, Asuka noted the familiar leather-bound volume atop the stack. “Here I stand amid the roar…” she chided.
…of a surf-tormented shore,” Minoru returned with a grin.

The outside loudspeakers then emitted the tones for homeroom, and the two entered the building hand in hand, awash in the mass of those wearing the school’s colors.

Friday, January 6, 2017

Ah, here again this way something pretentious comes...the last couple of days, I've seen at least one rant and one reasoned rebuttal (I think), about the evil that pervades the literary world, that terrible, scabrous plague from the pits of "scum and villainry..." (sorry to Mos Eisley residents)...that terrible, terrible beast called...wait for it...

SELF-PUBLISHING! (Insert favored "Holy [Oath]" here)

I won't say who this person was, but a certain author went off in a certain online publication recently about horrid, vulgar things being done to literary community, the English language, and all of Western Civilization by those people who DARE, DARE they say, to put their books out without a "traditional," "brick and mortar," "(whatever the fuck you call them)" agency.

There followed a rebuttal by an author named Adam Dreece (go look for him after you read this). Adam is in the same boat I, and so many are in, and I want to push this more toward what us authors are dealing with, and to see if we can figure some damn way of getting agents and those big-time publishers to get a look at us.

This is the deal here: that author who sniffed and snorted about the "vanity press," and those people who are ruining the fun in the sandbox for him/her(?) and like-contracted buddies, hang the fuck on!

I am pretty sure you were NOT born with the book contract in your tiny little hands when you came out of the womb. And hey, I don't begrudge you one thing you've got: contract, books in stores, signings, adoring fans, and likely a Twitter account with a following the size of all the Mirconesian Islands combined...good for you!

You likely worked your ass off on your writing, had a modicum of talent and imagination, and you made it work. I am not jealous one bit, not at all. I'd bet my work up against yours might have a struggle in a one-on-one match, but if I may say, it might hold its own. I certainly feel it would, but my attitude's biased.

Like yours.

You, gentle author, were once like me. And like so many of my friends.

I may go off on a rant here, and sorry if I do, but there's a bunch of points to make, and those come from my perspective. 

It is true, there are a lot of self-published books out there. There are books about every subject, every genre. There's fan fiction, interpretations of scriptural texts, madhouse conspiracy theories, expansive stories about stuff that only exists in the author's mind...I could go on.

But, guess what? The world has changed.

I'm gonna give you benefit of my experience, and where I am...while we're at it, while we may pound our keyboards in anger, call that established author all kinds of nasty names, there's a small point to be made amidst all the complaining.

Here's what I'm talking about, and let's see if you and I can figure this business together.

I'm that guy in the coffee shop; the one with the laptop, hammering away my keyboard for hours on end, sucking down gallons of coffee, smoking one cig after another (not anymore for me), pretending I'm Ernest Hemingway and downing shots of whiskey (never liked it much) as I go. Sometimes I write like a maniac, ideas coming to my head as fast as this blog goes. Other times? I write not one bit, and let a story burn in my brain for months, while I script out character sketches, outlines, time tables. I interview my characters, I talk with them, find out what drives them, makes them act like they do.

I am that person writing on his/her work break, pounding out a few jotted down ideas before I have to actually do what plays the fucking bills. I'm looking after my kids, taking them to school, to sports, to the doctor. I'm trying to be a good spouse, and do all the shit I don't feel like doing when I get home, but I do it.

I'm struggling with depression/bipolar disorder/anxiety/OCD/ADD/ADHD or some fucking health problem that is not enough to put my ass on disability (and I wouldn't do it anyway, because of that pride thing).

I'm trying not to kill someone/myself...I'm trying to figure all this out w/o benefit of a psychiatrist because my (lack of) insurance don't pay for that.

I'm broke as fuck, got more money than I know what the fuck I'm doing with it, or at least paying the bills, so it's all good.

I live in a row house, a trailer home, an apartment, on my best friend's couch, in my significant other's home, in my parents' basement, in the room I grew up in as a child, or maybe a fucking mansion. Maybe I'm homeless, who knows?

Still with me? Good.

I've got 20 books written, 200 story ideas, 500 poems, who knows how many short pieces, and a lot of ideas. 

I am, "all this and nothing more."

We're fucking authors. Every fucking one of us.

If you write a chapter a day like I try to do, you are a writer...or an author. 

If you spend hours thinking over that storyline, and what is really going on, and you know the direction it is going, you are writing.

If you are watching, listening, and viewing the people around you for ideas, or something hits you and you think, "Hey, I can use that. I can develop that into something." You are writing. that part is done. Let's move to this thing...

In 2013, I finally (after lots of arm-twisting) realized that a literary agent I was working with could not get me a deal for the creative thing I'd started six years before, "The Sweet Dreams Series." Just wasn't gonna happen. I'd been writing more the whole time, and in the end I realized, my style had changed. It was not ready. here's what happened. "Parasite Girls" became my first release, but before all much more to do. 

And this is where authors get tripped up, hard!



I did some work in the past year for a company that does book reviews. Pay to play, which I'm gonna talk about later. My task was to write a short review of the assignments tasked to me. Thumbs Up/Thumbs Down.

Only one of those few assignments made the cut. Why? No proofreading/No editing.

Painfully obvious. I've been working in journalism for years, where words are at a premium, and you have to get 'em right and make 'em count.

I read good ideas that were destined for the slush pile from the first page, because they were not edited or proofed. I saw the massacre of the English language and grammar. I experienced the idea that had so many facets and details the whole premise was lost. I saw a 400-page manuscript based on an actual event (highly romanticized, but still a good idea) rendered useless, because it was too fucking long. Half of it easily could have been slashed and burned.

You need that editor, that proofer. You need an unbiased view from someone who knows their way around the language, folks. You need to get the smackdown. You need a literary version of Gordon Ramsey/Simon Cowell/Hunter Thompson to smash you into the fucking ground.

Then you go back, edit, fix, repeat. You don't quit. That's all.

Now, I'm gonna warn you...there are pay to play, fly by night publishers that will fuck you. Agents will do the same thing. One simple rule:


NO self-respecting agent will take money. NO legit publisher will take money. If they want money, RUN!

I hear people pimp out about certain pay for play publishers, and I ignore them. I don't know too many people that can lose money, not like that.

Next comes the legwork. 

You do have to hustle. I did "Parasite Girls" through Createspace/Amazon, because it turned out to be the best way to get into print as a starter. I paid nothing...they wanted to charge me $400 for a cheap, knockoff cover.


The cover artist for "Parasite Girls" and my second, "A Moment in the Sun," is Mitch Bentley, of Atomic Fly Productions. Great guy, brilliant work, and a good friend.

If you do not have the skills, find an artist who will make the vision big from your story. Do your own deal. The cost likely won't be that much.

You must remember: you are like an independent record label, one a band sets up when they cut their own record and sell it on Bandcamp, or CD Baby or iTunes. That principle is the same.

How about the indie publishers? You have to look, you have to check them out. You have to submit. You have to take that chance.

"A Moment in the Sun" is put out by Sunbury Press Books. I did a book signing (go find those, too) with Robert Walton a couple years back, and he put me onto the owner of Sunbury, Larry Knorr. I got an offer for this one. 

We will also put out my next book, "Live from the Cafe," in 2017. And...that long-sought "Sweet Dreams Series" may start in '18.

Now, sure...this ain't paying the bills. This is like being the opening act on a six-act bill in some underground bar, and you're lucky you get a free round of beer and gas money. But you pay your dues, and you do it because you love it.

Aim higher. I am.

I see my work improving, getting better, and eventually attaining the status of that unnamed author person up top. A bigger deal, a better one? A real agent? Open doors to graphic novels, films, other stuff?

This is why we go far can we go?

Hunt for that agent, use "Writer's Market" or whatever you choose, and go looking. Make sure your query or cover letter is the best it can be (that's the worst and most difficult thing for me to write, believe me!), but you do it.

Don't worry about those people already there, or complaining that their club is being invaded by Visigoths of the Written Word, grubby hipsters, feminists, gamers turned authors, or crazy old geezers like me.

There's plenty of room in the club, but we just gotta prove it first. 

If you get the big deal, cool. If not, it will arrive in its own way. The smaller steps are best because you find out what you've got, and whether it works or not.

Ignore the bullshit, and remember that they were once where we are now. They just forgot, or they got a pass.

We do it our way, and "straight on till morning."

Peace, Out.