Archive for December, 2011
I want to hear some myths and legends and gospels of the aforementioned gods of Blackbloom. You’re going to write them. You have free rein as to how you write them. As flash fiction? As an epic poem? As a professor giving a lecture, as a man telling the myth to his children around a fire?
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Internet Ubermeister John Scalzi said, “Hey, come here to parade your traditionally-published books, come here to parade your self-pub works, come here to tell us about your other awesome arts and crafts.” Awesome for him to open his blog that way. Here I’m reminded — hey, I have not done that in a while.
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Listen, desperation is par for the course when you’re a writer — the miasma of flop-sweat surrounds me every day. But you need to transform that desperation from wanting to be published to writing a helluva story. The latter step should come before the former, but self-publishing only further helps to shortcut that.
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Some writers have all the business sense of an oar-whacked snapping turtle — we become so focused on words and pages and the imaginary voodoo of made-up storyworlds that we forget that there’s a whole other side to it, a side where if we’re not careful we’ll end up writing our next bestseller out of the back of a rust-bucket conversion van.
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The hangover I suffered was as such where I felt like a room full of balloons with a floor made of nails; I dared not move for fear of expiring then and there. Every ounce of my body hurt. My brain felt like a caged rat gnawing through rusty hinges in order to escape. I knew if I did anything but sit on my bed and stare at the wall I would cry out, vomit, pee myself, and explode inside my skin.
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