Driving the Bandwagon vs. Hitching a Ride

“Hey Mister, where you headed?
Are you in a hurry?” –Green Day Hitchin’ a Ride

The thing I hated about trying to break into the world of traditional publishing was the time it took to do everything. You live and breathe on someone else’s schedule, and you wouldn’t be human if it didn’t start wearing you down.

These are troubling times in the publishing world. The lines have been firmly drawn, and each side has loudly declared the other the loser.

They seem to hate each other right now, but one day I think traditional publishing and self/indie publishing are going to need each other.

POPOSTEROUS you say! Well lets think about this shall we.

If sweet little Mary Sue, has her book published by Random House; how did that come about? Assuming she started her novel writing career as a nobody it likely went like this.

Mary Sue writes a book---> Revises and edits a book---> Submits a query letter an lit agent (or thirty lit agents)---> Is picked out of the slush pile.

Lets stop right there. WHY was she picked out the slush pile? Probably because of one or all of these reasons:
1.) Good story
2.) Good writing
3.) Agents personal preference
4.) The chance that it will be sold based off of Market trends as the agent interprets them.

So many decisions in the publishing world are based purely on speculation. What an agent thinks will sell to a publisher. What a publisher thinks will sell to a particular audience. So I guess the million dollar question is, do they really know?

Sort of.

Publishers aren’t really reinventing the wheel these days as far as content goes, and when they decide it’s out, it’s out.*

So what if we could take speculation out of the publishing equation?

IMPOSSIBLE! You scream.

Just shut up for a minute and let me connect some dots for you. As I am sure you have read all over the internet, amazon e-book darling Amanda Hocking scored a SWEEEEEEET traditional publishing contract earlier this year.

Do you think she followed the same formula Mary Sue did? Of course not she is Amanda Hocking! There was a HUGE bidding war, you know why? Because no one had to speculate on whether or not she would sell books. She has a ginormous fan base, of course she is going to sell books. Personally I LOVE Amanda Hocking, I love everything I have convinced myself she stands for (which is probably not at all what you think she stands for)

So what if it could always be that way? What if they always knew who would sell and who wouldn’t. The answer is, they could, they just don’t want to change their business model.

I have some vary simplistic beliefs when it comes to self or indie publishing. I believe if you were destined to be great you will be great, if you were destined for mediocrity you will be mediocre, if you were doomed to failure—which likely has more to do with your worth ethic than anything else—you will fail.

The path no longer needs to define an author. You don’t have to be driving the bandwagon, you just have to learn to be alright with hitching a ride. Sometimes it’s smarter to take the wheel and drive, and sometimes it’s smarter to fly, this is one of those few instances in life where the destination will mater more than the journey.

Where do you want to end up?

*More on this in my Vlog at the end of the month. Vampire Money Coming June 29th

It’s not your IMAGINATION. Updates & Secrets to Book Cover Success!

Yesterday I was asked about finding art, or artists for book cover designs. I told Mr. Fetched that today I would blog about it! We will get into that but first updates:

PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION is currently going through it’s last bit of final editing, and formatting. It’s already been edited of course, and re-edited, you get the picture… but I do this thing with commas… should probably be calling this the final proof read.

And don’t forget! PIGMENTS will also included an excerpt of SKELETON LAKE a dark YA paranormal romance.

Now on to book covers!

Q: Why judge a book by it’s cover?

A: Because everyone else does.

I have actually written a couple of blogs on book covers, have a refresher course:

I solded this book 2 my mothre & so can u!
Judge a Book by it’s Cover

Now lets say, for the sake of time, that you already know to *really* sell your book you need a professional looking book cover. So THEN what do you do?

A) Learn Photoshop
B) Google how to make a book cover in Microsoft paint
C) Consult Angela WRITE Now so she can tell you why A and B are horrid ideas.

Obviously the answer is C) Let me tell you why!

Answer A) Learn Photoshop: Chances are, if you don’t have Photoshop skills already, you aren’t going to be whipping out a professional cover any time soon. Also, have you priced Photoshop? You can commission a real artist to do real custom covers—a couple of them for the price of just that program.

Answer B) Google how to make a book cover in Microsoft paint. I once Googled ‘how to book covers’ and one of the top sites had a a tutorial for doing this. NO! I remember screaming!

NO
NO

Nooooo!

It’s too late for them, but it’s not too late for you! Step one, find an artist. I tromped through sites like deviant art. I will admit to searching for things like “Hot Emo Boys” and “dark underground lairs” for future releases. Search for something relevant to your book, find and artist you like and ask them if they will do a commission. MANY of the artists there also have this information already displayed on their page. It’s best to work with people who have done commissions before, but don’t be turned away from them if they have not done book covers. MAKE SURE YOU ARRANGE TO HAVE ALL THE RIGHTS, and ask them if they can do word art (or typography etc) for the title. Don’t worry if they can’t, you can find some one else to do this via the same site, or TWITTER. BTW I have seen people quote me a low as $15 for original digital art on DEVIANT.

I use Twitter for everything, I tweeted “need an artist who is good at typography.” Tons of people RT it, and people started coming to me. I got to CHOOSE. I chose @JenBrookman because she is the best. She did the PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION cover and she will be doing many more for me I am sure.

 

I hope I helped you on your quest Fetched! If not, feel free to hunt me down. I’d gladly do some of the leg work for you if you tell me what you want.

I’ve Got a List & You’re On It

I have a list for practically everything, and if you follow me around the internet enough, chances are, you’re on one. Whole notebooks full of lists, piles of stray sticky notes that litter my desk but better not dare to end up on the floor. I have a stack of notebooks filled with nothing but book ideas I don’t have time to write for at least the next three, almost four years.

To me, lists are a good good thing, but there are some lists you do not want to end up on.

The first of such lists is quite a pretty thing to behold. It’s all written in purple girlie swirls on pale pink cardstock. The title of the top of this list reads:

The Wrong List

It always gets a look from people who dare to venture into my batcave office. “Why is it the wrong list?” they ask.

The thing is, there isn’t a right list. This list just contains people who have been in my opinion notably wrong. Usually on the internet. Now I know what you are thinking.

People are always WRONG on the internet, including myself. I know, I am not going to start a crusade against everyone who has ever tweeted an inaccurate fact EVER. The Wrong List is reserved for big time capital offenders. People who say things like, 99 cent e-books are RUINING American Literature and Twitter doesn’t help you sell books. Also there is a special place on the back for every author I have ever caught saying they make no money selling e-books so they don’t see how anyone else can or what the big fuss is.

Here is a hint, YOUR EBOOK COSTS ELEVEN DOLLARS. Which is like twice as much as some of their mass market paperbacks.

Yes people did actually say those things, and now they are on my list! See how it works?

The next list is my own personal HIT LIST. While I don’t actually plot anyone's demise, I do keep a detailed list of every writer I hope to one day do something better than.Some of these things are silly. Like I hope to sell more books than @XXXXXXXXXX wait you actually thought I was going to name names! No way baby, I don’t have a career death wish. (OK I do just not for this alright?) A lot of those goals are smaller, and I even managed to cross some things off my list like have more twitter followers than so and so,get it?

If I didn’t have a list, I would never be able to keep up with all those life goals.

Other lists currently on my desk: A rough draft of tomorrows to do list. Yes I do a RD! I tend to over extend myself and I like to make sure its possible before moving it over to the dry erase board.

I also have a list of people who are going to kill me if I don’t mail out the PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION posters (me and @geovalentine) and no less than half a dozen shopping lists that never made it to the grocery store.

Ahh to see inside my head!

Ut-oh some NYT best selling author just got added to THE WRONG LIST!

The Writing Process Demystified #1

If you have spent anytime crawling through the trenches of the World Wide Web, looking for information on how to become a more better writer/blogger/rejectee then my new Sunday special is for you. Likely, you have discovered by now that no two writers have the exact same method of getting those font sized twelve, double spaced, nuggets of pure lust down on the page.

The key to any amount of measureable success (in the form of completion- and not that other kind of success which we will discuss later) is knowing what you need to function at peak performance. If I had the power to make, and leave for you all, your very own fortune cookie saying “To write is to know thine self.” I would, but since they would be expensive and entirely unpractical, this blog can be like the fortune cookie for your soul. Or whatever other bad food metaphor you would like to substitute.

The Writing Process Demystified #1: REM for your writing.

The time I like to write, and the time I am best at it refuse to line up. When I was a young kid (think Junior High) I used to write every day after school. I did it almost every day for three whole years of my life. Some overly writer types will tell you, that you should write every day, and while I will for the sake of this blog refuse to agree or disagree I will tell you this: 15 years later and my body is still programmed to sit down and do nothing but write for that exact same time, in that same time zone, every day without fail.

Just to clarify, it’s not like I walk around like a zombie until I sit down at my laptop, or in my case locate some paper and pen, and hammer out some words without being able to process what is going on in the world around me. It is just that I have never not been able to write at this time, because my body seems to know what it should be doing even if I don’t. (Save for days where the table is too clean, the world has ended etc. etc.)

Since I know not everyone does not have the luxury of having trained themselves to plug along like a high speed train from Las Vegas to fantasy land BEFORE they say--knew how to use most of the truly awesome forms of punctuation. I am going to offer some ideas for how to improve the amount of quality time you spend writing. Just like sleep, you sleep better in REM then when just fall asleep. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if you could just play a song and slip into that deep deep sleep- or you know, your creative mind?

Well the truth is you can.

Some writers are babies, we need routine.

Routine doesn’t have to mean the same time, the same amount of time, or anything like that. After achieving what vaguely resembles a life I can tell you I don’t always have available 4pm CST M-F to write. So I have invented ways of recreating that feeling, tricking my body into thinking it is that time. Even if it’s 8pm or 2:47 AM. The key is, when the time devoted can’t be the same, it helps me if everything else is.

I relate my writing routine to putting on my favorite pair of old pajamas. Comfortable. Warm. It gets me ready for bed like this process gets me ready to write.

Step One: Acquire the tools. Yes I have mad OCD, I like to line up my pencils, and other writing utensils and nicely. And I like to have everything I will need to work i.e. paper, ink, notebook-both kinds, and caffeine (more on this in next weeks Demystified: The Truth About Oral Fixation). Laying out whatever you need to write saves you from getting up, wasting time, and ruining the mood.

AND you NEVER want to RUIN the MOOD. Just saying.

Step Two: Play Music. I am not writing JACK without a playlist about him. But if you ask my critique partner Karen, she would tell you that was a deal breaker; she has to have SILENCE. If you are searching for your own writing process, I recommend my way over hers. Not because it’s MY WAY but because when you live with other people SILENCE is a ridiculous expensive commodity, and there are even FEWER places outside the house where you can achieve it.

Step Three: Hit play. No, not the music you already did that in step two I am talking about the movie in your head. Don’t have a movie in your head? Get one. Some people are ploters, some people are seat of your pantsers, I like to think of myself as a 3D movie in my head film director. The good news is, my way works for both the people with the fifty page outline and the people who make it up as they go along. It sounds so easy when I write it, but really all it is, is this: Think about what you are going to write before you do. But don’t think about the sentence structure; don’t get hung up on the words. Pretend for a minute, you are watching the film of the century and you want to absorb everything. Pretend you are seeing it for you blind best friend/ spouse/ mother sister WHOEVER. Pretend you will make their EXISTANCE if you can just adequately describe the way the sun seems to bounce off the sea, or the way the main character’s eyes shine when she realizes some sort of startling revelation. Now pretend your special someone can’t hear or smell or touch either and include all those senses. (Heh!) If you already have a living, breathing, version of your world and your characters in your head ready to unpause at a moments notice it is considerably easier to write about them.

Now remember, the only ones writing process I am an expert is my own. I even manage to goof up that one from time to time, but I’d love to hear about yours. Leave a comment, let me know, and I might bring it up later.

The Blog of SHAME

SHAMEEEE!!!!!

 

There is something important you should probably know about me. First—I tend to ignore my blog when I am stressed and things don’t seem to be going my way. Second, things are REALLY not going my way right now.

Actually, I shouldn’t say that only select FEW things aren’t going my way but those few things are making life mostly too difficult to blog however. Tell me to shut up I am whining.

I am supposed to be posting chapter three of PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION it really will be here by the end of the weekend, and the book will be following shortly there after. But now that I am jinxing myself I will likely get hit by a bus before then.

Some upcoming things so mark your calendar:

PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION release by 6/25
Vlog “Vampire Money” my 1st writing Vlog ever 6/29
SKELETON LAKE release by 7/31

Also there will be many other promotional things and contests to win. Lot’s of people have already received their PIGMENTS bookmarks. I’d love to send you one too, comment below for your chance to win. I will pick one lucky winner (at least) after I am no longer hopped up on cold medicine.

Am I even making any sense?

I am having a twitter follower contests as well.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH

Can I tell you how not excited I am to write this blog? There are very few things I would rather be doing than writing this specific blog and they go like this:

1.) Die
2.) Contract and incurable disease (see one)

So that’s that, now on to the drama. The new official release date for PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION is, no later than June 25th… That is worst. case. scenario. There were quite a few reasons this happened. The first is, I got sick. I work outrageous numbers of hours a day on writing, editing, and everything that goes with that—and it’s not conducive to getting sick when I am at the wire. The second reason is, the only person who could have potentially gotten through me that and on schedule had a death in the family. My #1 does so much for me, including holding my hand. There are also a dozen other reasons I’d list but I’d burn the steaks I am cooking on the grill.

ANYWAY I hate talking about that sort of thing, now on to the good stuff.

*GOOD* Chapter 3 will be available for your viewing pleasure early this week. Soon.

*GOOD* THERE WILL BE AN EXCERPT OF SKELETON LAKE at the end PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION

SKELETON LAKE is a dark young adult paranormal romance. It will be available July 2011 (the end of July)

Chapter Two of PIGMENTS & Other Free Things

No matter how many times I post my work on the internet I am still flood with the brief feeling that I am going to vomit. I must be in to that sort of thing, because I like doing it.

Want an easy way to score yourself a PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION bookmark? Tweet about the book and one is yours! Comment here and one is yours!*

*Now here are the stipulations. I will mail internationally with the understanding it will take me longer to get it out. I hate the post office and it hates me, I have stamps and envelopes standing by for US addresses. Since something INSANE could happen, people like free I am going to put an outrageous cap on the number of bookmarks I can give away. This time we will say 100

Until the book is released at the end of the month, I am also running a blog follower contest! If you invite someone here and they become a blog follower comment and let me know it was all your doing. (Honor system) and I will send you something else also very awesome.

PS- If you won a poster bare with me, the mailer tubes I ordered for them ended up being the wrong size.

CHAPTER TWO
WILLIAM

     As far as dark underground lairs went, the basement of the Chateau De Mont was crowded and typical. The micro windows that lined half the walls of this coffin were shut and covered in a thick brown slime. They let in little light and were likely killing the soul of William Blake. His shoulders hunched so far over that they nearly touched his knees when he sighed. At nineteen he was far too old for this sort of thing. He was also the youngest person in the room by nearly twenty years.

He wondered idly, lips pursed in a thin line as he sketched the faces of the few men he had never seen before, why The Illusionists didn't spring for classier digs. They were rich enough. They were also evil, and this was likely as close to a dungeon as they were going to find in Galveston, Texas. As it was, he didn’t know how they got a basement this deep on an island at all, but it was always best to avoid asking questions.

Michael, who stood before the room, composed, benevolent, was less William's father and more of a tyrannical overlord. With his hair the color of a panther's and his deep set eyes, he certainly looked the part.

Wistfully, William dreamed of castles with drawbridges and moats, but his fingers never stopped their hurried slide across the paper before him. His mouth twitched upwards as his blond bangs fell further into his eyes. Then he caught himself and chomped down so hard on the inside of his cheek that blood pooled in his molars.

He couldn't laugh, he couldn't even smile. If William even looked like he had enough time to daydream his father would further pile on his assignments then demand even more, and he was almost positive that would be the end of him.

 William just wanted to think of castles in peace. He could almost smell the murky stone hallways, but that was probably just the basement. He hadn't thought of castles since he had drawn one when he was six, which was sadly one of the first memories he had. William had copied a stone fortress he had found in a book with uncanny accuracy and far more skill than a child twice his age should have. It had a red door and a tower. He had been more proud of that painting than anything in his life, and William would recall forever the face Michael had made as he put his fist through it.

A waste of time, his father had called it. Because William's only subject should be people, he should only do portraits, for then and for the rest of his life--or the rest of Michael's life, but William was starting to suspect his father was far too evil to just die.

There was no air conditioning in the basement, but it was cold and William didn't think he was sweating. So when the face below his charcoal pencil blurred as something dripped between its eyes, William assumed he had made an unfortunate error. His light eyebrows knitted together as he wiped his hands across his pants. His jeans already bore half a dozen other smudge marks.

When another drop landed mid-thigh William knew it wasn't him. His head shot up, and the ceiling sagged beneath him, bulging and dripping from its center. Swearing, he lunged for his notebook on the table in front of him. He managed to save it, but he wasn't quick enough to keep himself from being completely soaked.

With his black t-shirt now clinging to him awkwardly, William did his best to right himself. He kept his sketches at arm’s length, water sliding down no further than his wrists in wayward little rivers. The sound of the water hitting the linoleum floor with eerie little splashes was almost deafening.

Every set of eyes in the room, all of which had previously been avoiding him, were now turned his direction. All but Michael’s, who slammed his book closed and abruptly ended the meeting. Even though the leak was in no way William's fault, he knew he was only an empty room away from being blamed for it anyway.

He hung his head and desperately wished he had the power to disappear. Unfortunately, he never met anyone with that specific gift. Cold water still dripped from his neck and arms as he realized that his day had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. William hated complicated. Complicated meant bad things for him as far as Michael was concerned. Most children didn't tread through each day hoping to avoid even one conversation with their father, but for William it was best to be quiet, do as he was told, and avoid Michael's gaze at all cost.

He knew Michael was glaring at him right now. Though the basement could have doubled as a meat locker and he was still drenched, William could feel the fire that threatened to burn him to cinder. He felt it across every bit of flesh, deep into his bones.

There were flames behind Michael's eyes that smoldered like no man’s eyes should. What Michael did with those eyes was evil. So many horrific deeds has been done with that power, so many that William had lost count, and all he could remember was a lifetime of terrible, terrible things. Things all done with nothing but a thought and a glance.

William knew that what he could do was not as inherently bad as what Michael could do, but he still used it to do awful things. He had convinced himself that was worse. He had a choice between being good and being what he was, he told himself. Even if Michael gave him no choice at all, he liked to believe it was true. He hated himself for it, but he refused to admit he had no free will because no one could live without it for long, and the years under his father’s control were starting to eat away at him.

Most of the attending members of The Illusionists had immediately fled the room. They, like William, knew that even if they were innocent they would likely still feel the fire. Though it had been weeks since anyone had been completely burned alive, no one believed Michael would change, and they knew it was only a matter of time.

William flung himself back into his wet chair and waited for the inevitable. His skin still felt hot, but he knew it was unlikely he would ever totally feel Michael's special form of damnation. After all, if Michael hadn't needed him, he would have done away with him before he was born. Sometimes William thought death might be easier; it would surely be less painful.

As Michael stomped closer, William tensed. He could feel his middle starting to kindle. He tried to look away. The moldy gaping ceiling, the slime covered window slits, the blue lint on his shirt, anything was better than Michael's red eyes. Even if they didn't show scarlet in a way that most people could see, William knew what they really looked like. He could see plainly what was truly there.

William counted the seconds until words began to fly from his father's mouth, stinging words to match scorched skin and his scorched soul. He waited, but the hate and pain never came, and in a moment the heat was gone.

It felt as though the ceiling had collapsed upon him all over again. As the fire had burned him, he had easily forgotten he was still wet. But the fire had only been real in his mind, as it always was until it destroyed you. It had done nothing to dry him.

Oliver Buchanan had intercepted his father, and William loved him for it. Oliver had always been more of what William thought a father should be. He was kind, encouraging, and as a senior member of The Illusionists, he managed to redirect a fair amount of Michael’s anger. Just as he was doing right now. William suspected Oliver always knew the right things to ask.

Oliver had gentle gray eyes, and a matching gray beard. He never looked like he should belong here among the wicked, but with his easy smile, William was sure he could belong almost anywhere he wanted.

Not daring to spare another moment on the two men, William snatched up the rest of his belongings. Quickly and soundlessly he ran through the basement doors and up the narrow stairs to the ground floor. He could smell the fresh air as soon as he reached the lobby.

William knew he should be heading home. Michael, who never let him attend a real school, was many things, including a merciless headmaster. The sun beckoned now, through large and pristine windows, and William craved the company of living things. A clicking noise escaped his mouth as he weighed his decision. The hotel staff didn't even look up as he strolled by the front desk.

The revolving door whooshed with his mind as he made his final exit. The sun was even warmer than he had imagined, summer refusing to relinquish its hold to fall, as it was still weeks away. Mature elm trees lined the sidewalks in front of the hotel, their leaves a luxe green that William desperately wanted to paint. He wished that he had brought his watercolors and that the color reminded him of things besides the pigment of lying eyes.