‘Tis the Month of No Mercy.

And so it is time to tackle the subject of…

REJECTION.

*crash of thunder*

1. As Ineluctable As The Tides

If you’re a writer, a writer who writes, a writer who puts her work out there, you’re going to face rejection. It’s like saying, “Eventually you’re going to have to fistfight a bear,” except here it’s not one bear but a countless parade of bears, from Kodiaks to Koalas, all ready to go toe-to-toe with you. Rejection, like shit, happens. Rejection, like shit, washes off. Get used to it.

2. Penmonkey Darwinism In Action

Rejection has value. It teaches us when our work or our skillset is not good enough and must be made better. This is a powerful revelation, like the burning UFO wheel seen by the prophet Ezekiel, or like the McRib sandwich shaped like the Virgin Mary seen by the prophet Steve Jenkins. Rejection refines us. Those who fall prey to its enervating soul-sucking tentacles are doomed. Those who persist past it are survivors. Best ask yourself the question: what kind of writer are you? The kind who survives? Or the kind who gets asphyxiated by the tentacles of woe?

3. This, Then, Is The Value Of The Gatekeeper

Hate the autocracy of the kept gates all you like, but the forge of rejection purifies us (provided it doesn’t burn us down to a fluffy pile of cinder). The writer learns so much from rejection about himself, his work, the market, the business. Even authors who choose to self-publish should, from time to time, submit themselves to the scraping talons and biting beaks of the raptors of rejection. Writers who have never experienced rejection are no different than children who get awards for everything they do: they have already found themselves tap-dancing at the top of the “I’m-So-Special” mountain, never having to climb through snow and karate chop leopards to get there.

4. It Always Stings

Rejection always stings. It stings me, you, everybody. Nobody likes to be rejected. A writer who likes being rejected is a writer who is secretly a robot and must be smelted down into slag before he tries to kill us all because he hates our meat. Pain is instructive. And it’s not permanent. Not if you don’t let it be. Some writers savor misery like a hard candy endlessly sucked in the pocket of one’s cheek, but fuck that.

5. Five Stages Of Grief

Rejection leads to a swiftly-experienced version of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It’s key to get to that last step as quickly as you can reckon. I actually have two additional steps in my personal process: “liquor” and “ice cream.” Your mileage may vary.

6. It’s Never Personal

It’s not about you. It’s about the work. I mean, unless it is about you. I guess it could be personal. If you send a story off to an editor, and you once shat in that editor’s fishtank, well. That might be personal.

7. Decipher The Code, Translate The “No”

Different rejections say different things. Not every “no” is equal. Hell, they can’t be — if I get 200 no’s and one yes, then that single yes invalidates all the no’s. One rejection might say there’s something wrong with the story. Another with the writing. A third likes the story, hates its role (or lack of role) in the market. A fourth rejection is upset at you — something about blah blah blah, bowel movements and fish-tanks.

8. The Truth Hides In The Pattern

Stare at a Cosby sweater long enough and it’s like a Magic Eye painting. Eventually you’ll start to see dolphins and Jell-O pudding cups and the secret Gnostic gospels of Doctor Huxtable. What were we talking about again? Right. Rejections. One rejection is not as meaningful as a basket of them. All the rejections around a single project become meaningful — a picture emerges. You can start decoding commonalities, sussing out the reasons for being rejected.

9. Some Rejections Are Worthless As A Short-Sleeved Straitjacket

Not every rejection — or every person wielding the big red “NUH-UH” stamp — is a quality one. Form rejections won’t teach you anything other than the fact that the editor didn’t have time. Rejections that never come — a “no” by proxy — are even less valuable. Sometimes you’ll receive a rejection that just doesn’t add up, leaving you scratching your pink parts in slack-jawed bewilderment. Recognize that some — not all, not even most, but some — rejections are as fruitful as a shoebox full of dead mice.

10. Beware Snark, Reject Cruelty

Every once in a while you’ll get a mean rejection. I don’t mean a rejection that takes you to task — that’s what rejections should do. I mean a rejection that is destructive over constructive. That insults aggressively (or passive-aggressively). Maybe the editor was having a bad day. Or maybe the editor’s just a sack of dicks. Rare, but it happens. When it does: ignore and discard. You’re expected to be professional. So are they.

11. Cherish Opportunistic Rejections

Cherish them the way you would a child, or a lost love, or the misery of an enemy as you slowly feed him into a growling wood chipper. By “opportunistic rejection” I mean, a rejection that aims to help you, not just reject you. A handwritten rejection, for instance, one that features an honest critique of your work, is fucking gold. Equally awesome are rejections that help you understand the good things about your story and, further, offer opportunity for future submission. Best of all are rejections that encourage you to resubmit — not other stories, but that story. My first short story on submission got one of those. I played ball. Resubmitted. Was published. Got paid. Freeze-frame high-five.

12. Like It Or Not, It’s Largely Subjective

Storytelling isn’t math. And neither is literary criticism. Any rejection is going to be largely subjective: it’s opinion. Doesn’t mean it’s bad or wrong or has no value, but it helps to know going in that you’re dealing with a subset of opinions — informed opinions, most likely, but opinions just the same. Some rejections are objective, based on harder criteria. What I mean is…

13. Sometimes, It’s Totally Your Fault, Dummy

Objective rejections will take you to task for two primary things: one, you didn’t follow the submission guidelines. (Can I just say: always follow the goddamn submission guidelines? Even if the submission guidelines are like, “Each corner of the manuscript must be dabbed with the urine of an incontinent civet cat and the writer must write his name backwards for the magic to take hold,” you do that shit because you’re not a pretty pretty unicorn, you’re a horse like the rest of us, goddamnit.) Or two, your technical writing ability is for shit, at least in that story. If you can’t put a period on the right place or learn the difference between “lose” and “loose,” then you’re going to earn that objective rejection.

14. “It’s Just Not For Me”

You can read that kind of rejection one of two ways: one, your story was good, but just not for that market/editor/moon phase; two, the editor is uncomfortable with truth or doesn’t want to offend anybody and so is gently limping away from saying anything even remotely offensive or controversial.

15. “I Can’t Sell This”

This is a variant version of the above — but it speaks specifically to market. It doesn’t mean your book or story or article is bad, and hell, it may even be brilliant. That’s not the worst place to be, by the way.

16. Know The Signal To Self-Publish

Rejection as a whole is not a great reason to run out and self-publish. I mean, think about it: “Everyone else hates it, so why not punish readers with it? To the Resentmentmobile!” But — but! — sometimes, the overall pattern of rejection does indicate value in self-publishing. Getting a lot of those “it’s good, but I can’t do anything with it” rejections tells you that the risk-averse industry isn’t willing to, duh, take a risk. So, you can absorb the risk and self-publish. (Or you can continue to hope that good rejections will lead to an eventual patient acceptance — that’s what I did with Blackbirds.)

17. The Power In “Just Not Good Enough”

It’s sad at first. You wrench handfuls of hair from your head. You punch mirrors. You soak your pillow through with the tears of rage and regret. But then comes the realization: this story just isn’t up to snuff. It’s a powerful and freeing moment — freeing because, making a story better is entirely within your power. You can’t change market forces. But you can change the quality of your work. So do that.

18. Criticism Is A Conversation, But Rejection Is Not

Do not respond to an editor or agent and try to “re-convince them” to buy your work. At best it’s fruitless, at worst it’s completely deluded. The desperation wafts off you like dog’s breath. The door is closed, for better or worse, for right or wrong. Trying to kick it down does nobody any favors. Oh! And it’s unprofessional.

19. Just To Clarify: Don’t Be A Raging Dickheaded Moon-Unit

Further, don’t go writing said editor or agent with the desire to rant and rave at them. OMG YOU DONT GET MY BRILIANCE letters will out you as a crazy-headed Martian and will earn you mockery and scorn. Your best recourse to any rejection is to write a politely worded “thank you,” and then move on with your life. Put down the megaphone. Put on some pants. Squeegee the froth from your computer monitor.

20. The Common Bonds Of Weepy Wordmonkeys

Every writer, from the tippity-top of the industry to its sludge-slick nadir, has experienced rejection. Every book, movie, or story you love? It’s been rejected. Probably not once. But dozens, maybe even hundreds of times. It’s part of the writer’s career tapestry, part of our blood and genetic memory. Rejection is part of who we are as creative beings. Might as well commiserate.

21. Bumper Sticker: “Real Writers Get Rejected”

I’ll just leave that there for you to discuss amongst yourselves.

22. Put Your Rejections On Display

Build a wall. A shrine. A goddamn memorial display of all your rejections. Writers need to gain emotional power over their rejections. By embracing them and putting them up for all to see, you claim that power. Show it to others. Laugh at it. Find ways to surpass it. Stephen King reportedly collected all of his on a nail. I might stuff mine in a giant wicker man. When I die, I will be burned alive inside the rejectionist’s pyre.

23. Harden The Fuck Up, Care Bear

Any creative person has to be a little bit hard of heart — how can you not be? You can’t go sobbing into a potted plant every time you get a bad review. Just because someone told you “no, I can’t rep this, can’t publish this” doesn’t mean it’s time to head to the bell tower with a .300 Weatherby and start taking out anybody carrying a book or a fucking Barnes & Noble rewards card. Rejections toughen you up. Step to it. Suck it up. Lean into the punch. We all get knocked down. This is your chance to get back up again with your rolled-up manuscript in your hand and start swinging like a ninja.

24. Once Again, Time To Poll Your Intestinal Flora

The writer’s gut is his best friend — over time, the chorus of colonic bacteria that secretly control us begin to work in concert and soon start to get a grasp of what the best course of action is. As the parliament of micro-organisms attunes to your way of doing things and the world’s response, you start to get a clearer picture of how to handle individual rejections and how to move forward. I don’t know that every writer should trust his or her gut from the outset, but over time, you’ll have to. It’ll be that polling of your gutty-works that tells you how to judge individual rejections or rejections as a whole: it’ll tell you if it’s time to put the story in a dark hole, time to improve it, time to be patient and keep submitting or time to find a better and more independent path to publication.

25. Rejections Are Proof You’ve Been To Thunderdome

Fighters know one another because they look a certain way: busted-ass knuckles, a crooked nose, a scar on the lip, the suspicious gaps where teeth once grew. These are the signs of being a crazy motherfucking bad-ass. You see a guy whose body is a network of scars you don’t think, “Hey, he sure gets beat-up a lot,” you think, “Holy fucksnacks, that guy looks like he got thrown into a dumpster full of broken glass and he came out meaner than ever.” That’s how you need to see rejection. You need to see rejection as bad-ass Viking Warrior battle scars, as a roadmap of pain that makes you stronger, faster, smarter, and stranger. A writer without rejections under his belt is the same as a farmer with soft hands; you shake that dude’s hand and you know, he’s not a worker, not a fighter, and wouldn’t know the value of his efforts if they came up and stuck a Garden Weasel up his ass. Rejections are proof of your efforts. Be proud to have ’em.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

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 tucked beneath some god-fucked overpass. It’s easy in the chase for story and the race for readers to accidentally sell our own best interests up the river.

Screw that, cats and kittens.

It’s time to trepan some business sense, meager as it may be, into your brainpans.

Please stare into the whirring drill-bit.

Welcome to the month of no mercy.

1. Deadlines? What Deadlines?

Deadlines are invisible and intangible but no less real than a brick wall — if you’re not paying attention you’ll crash into one lickety-split. How is this a financial fuck-up? Well, beyond the fact that dicking up a deadline is just bad business, it’s also problematic because some contracts stipulate lost revenue if you overshoot your timeline. “Hi, I’m turning in my work a year late.” “Thanks! Here’s your payment.” “This is a jar of buttons.” “Dirty buttons. You’d have a jar of clean buttons if you turned in the work weeks ago.”

2. No Contract Can Contain The Power Of My Art!

The contract is the thing that says, “I give you work, you give me money.” It is the paper-thin bulwark separating the lawful writer from the broke and broken anarchist — yes, a contract pins down a writer but it also pins down the entity to whom that writer is contracted. Without a contract, you’ve no recourse if things go south. Get a contract. Always get a contract. Just ask Ryan Macklin.

3. Hire A Sherpa To Guide You Up The Contractual Mountain

Seriously, I open up most new contracts and I zone out. My eyes cross, I pee a little, and I start dreaming of swaying meadow-grasses and frolicking ponies. Contracts are full of language the average human being cannot parse, cobbled together of Lovecraftian legalese that would drive most men mad. But you need to understand it. I’ve seen some squirrely contracts and heard tell of worse — contracts that if you sign them you’ll catch a whiff of brimstone before you realize your advance for that 15-novel fantasy series is a burlap sack of venomous cottonmouth snakes. Get an agent. Or hire a lawyer. Figure out what you’re signing.

4. Signing That Vicious Throat-Kick Of A Contract

Some writers are so eager to be read they’ll sign a bad contract even after they know how bad it is. “Check out these royalties! For every book I sell, I get one stick of that powdery shit-ass bubble gum you used to get in packs of baseball cards! If I sell 10,000 books, then for every book I sell they send a donkey to my house to cave in my chest with his crap-caked hooves! OH MY GOD I’M A WRITER SQUEE.” Stop bending over the nightstand, spreading your cheeks and asking someone to brandish a bramble-wound broomstick and jam it deep up your boot-hole. Don’t sign your work over to the Devil just for a taste of publication.

5. Repeat After Me: “People Die From Exposure”

If you don’t care about getting paid for your writing, ignore this. (And, in fact, ignore this whole list.) But if you do care about having a go at this writing thing as a proper career, do not write for exposure. Exposure cannot be measured, and you might as well write for any number of invisible things: the dreams of sleeping kittens, perhaps, or mystical unicorn turds. You should always be getting something measurable for your writing. Ideally, that “something” is money, but other rewards — tangible rewards! — do exist.

6. Cheap As Chips Of Lead Paint

“Cheap” isn’t a good thing. “Cheap” is toys made in China that exude radon. “Cheap” is a hot dog whose primary component is rat testicles. “Cheap” is a baggy of black tar heroin that’s been cut with pulverized possum bones and drain cleaner. Don’t value you work as “cheap.” You price yourself too low, you do harm to your future contracts and the contracts of other writers. You don’t have to paint yourself as a Lexus, but for fuck’s sake, you’re not a 1991 Geo Tracker with 100,000 miles and a dead hooker in the boot, either.

7. Didn’t I Just Say You Weren’t A Lexus?

Pricing yourself too high from the outset damages your credibility, too. It’s one thing if you’ve a proven track record and you’ve earned your pay rate, but if you slide an obscene number across the table, that person’s going to politely decline, quietly laugh at you, and never call you again. As Gandalf once said to a young William Shatner: “Don’t get cocky, kid.”

8. Writer: Beware

Scams wait like landmines and pit traps everywhere the writer turns, many seeking to exploit a writer’s desperate desire to be published. The Internet is a treasure trove of warning signs and signal flares, but you have to know where to look. (One place to start: Writer Beware.) If something smells like week-old cod in a dead man’s jockstrap, backpedal and turn to Google or social media. A little suspicion is a lot healthy.

9. Vanity Is A Sin, After All

Vanity publishing is not a scam — but it’s also not in a writer’s financial best interests. First, on a practical level, it’s largely outmoded and tends to be needlessly expensive. The Internet has democritized distribution and has opened many new channels for a writer to get material out there if that’s the way the writer wants to go. Second, it reeks of desperation and violates a core tenet of a professional writing career…

10. Failing To Remember “Money In, Not Money Out”

The writer does not pay but, rather, gets paid. Now, I recognize that self-publishing has changed this old nugget of wisdom a bit — you might, say, pay for an editor or a cover designer. Beyond that, however, the flow of money is always to the writer and never away from the writer. You don’t pay to get published. You don’t let someone else capitalize on your hard work and walk away with a paycheck while you still lick dust from ramen noodle flavor packets in a storm drain.

11. Not Following The Trail Of Financial Breadcrumbs

You need to track income and expenses as robustly as your creative writer’s brain can manage. I know, I know, every time you open up a spreadsheet it’s like someone is shooting holes in your brain with a pellet rifle — OW NUMBERS NOT WORDS WRITER NEED ICE CREAM. I’m just saying, you’re going to be a lot happier knowing where your money is coming in and going out.

12. Floating Lazily Along The Timestream

Track your time. Track your time. Let me say it again, in all caps: TRACK YOUR TIME. Knowing your time — and how much you earn for that time spent — helps a professional writer gain a clearer picture of his abilities as a writer and how those abilities can pay off in terms of hourly, monthly, and annual performance. After all, time is money. And money helps you buy liquor and e-books.

13. Spending Too Much On Liquor And E-Books

Hey, I get it. E-books are so light! So airy! So cheap! And liquor is so — well. It’s liquor. Let’s just go with so necessary and leave it at that? Prudent expenditure of penmonkey funds is essential!

14. Failing To Take Advantage Of Tax Deductions

As a paid writer, you can deduct a wealth of useful things — pens, software, computers. I deducted a goddamn coffee maker because, hey, it’s an office expense. Money you spend in pursuit of your career is not only something to track, but something that should be seen through the “potential tax deduction” lens. For the record, that also means you may want to hire an accountant or tax prep person.

15. You Do Know You Have To Pay Taxes Quarterly, Right?

You do. You really do. Otherwise, you’ll get nut-kicked and teat-slapped by penalties. True story.

16. Ditching The Day Job Before It’s Time

There comes a point when many pro writers think that it’s time to transition from “part-time penmonkey” to “full-time inkslinger,” but do not be hasty. Have savings built up. Rock a budget. Get a cushion going. Stock up the liquor cabinet. Know when the air is clear and it’s safe to step out of your rocketship into this brand new atmosphere. If you do start the ball rolling where you plan to ditch the day-job, consider segueing into a part time job first. Offers an adjustment period.

17. Staying In The Day Job Well Past Its Due

Staying too long at your day job can be just as toxic. Writers are surfers and must know how to take advantage of the right wave — miss it, and the wave passes you by and cascades toward shore. Working a dead-end day-job takes crucial time away from the writing life. You know it’s time because you reach the conclusion, “If I didn’t have this 40-hour-a-week job hanging like a colostomy bag around my hip, I could be earning out with my wordsmithy. And I’d also not have poop in a bag, which is pretty gross.”

18. Self-Publishing When You Should’ve Gone Traditional

Self-publishing is not a magical panacea, nor is it a treasure chest of gold doubloons automagically dumped over your head. Self-publishing strategically and intelligently can provide a significant portion of your writerly gold hoard, yes. To DIY smartly, you need to understand more than just how to upload your book to the Lords of Kindle and have those robots distribute it to the Kindlemaschine masses. Self-publish poorly or choose that path when a better path is available and you give up opportunity. And by “opportunity” I mean, “hard cash, motherfucker.” Kapow, kaching, coo-coo-ka-choo. I dunno. Shut up.

19. Going Traditional When You Should’ve Self-Published

A pro-writer’s life is a tightrope walk and on that side are lions and on that side are bears and you tippy-toe your way between them best as you can. So here the opposite is true of that last thing I just said: choosing to traditionally publish when you’ve got a great possibility for a successful self-published book may indeed be throwing your time and energy into a dank, dark hole — like, say, a golem’s vagina. Yes, all golems have vaginas. And yes, my next self-published book will be either a Dan Brown homage or an epic fantasy novel, but either way, that sonofabitch will be titled, THE GOLEM’S VAGINA. Get on board or get out of the way, because that train is leaving the station. What were we talking about? Ah. Right. Some books suit the self-publishing realm — they fit like a hand in a soft glove. Which books? That’s a post for another time.

20. Negotiation Tactics Of A Sleepy Koala

Sometimes, you have to negotiate. Royalties, advances, rock star riders (“I need seven Junior Mints in a porcelain dish and those Junior Mints must first be suckled gently by Nicholas Sparks and — and — if the chocolate is in any way melted, I get to Taser the aforementioned Mister Sparks in his smiling, choco-smeared mouth”), whatever. And there you are, clinging to your tree, snoozing against the hard bark. If you don’t want to negotiate, once again: find an agent. This is what they do and what they’re good at.

21. Repeat After Me: “Budget. Surplus. Budget. Surplus.”

Unless you’re part of a pre-existing corporate ecosystem, writers are not paid in a steady, measured financial stream. You don’t get a check every week. Your money comes erratically, like random unexpected orgasms separated by long and listless lulls of joyless wondering. That means two things: first, you need to budget. You can’t get your money and blow it all on donkey porn and video games. You’re going to need food at some point. Second, you need to build up a surplus. Line your coffers with pillowy money just in case you need to take a fall. Life is not kind. You’ll be following along your budget with blissful ignorance, and then a jet engine will fall out of the sky onto your car. UH OH SPAGHETTIOS.

22. Do You Really Need That Helper Monkey?

You don’t need a whole lot as a writer. You need a computer (yes, as a professional writer, you do; you can wing it with a notebook and a pen all you like but there will come a time when someone will be like, “Oh, e-mail that to me, motherfucker,” and the best you can do is wad up the paper and throw it at them), you need some kind of word processing software, you need Internet access, whatever. But some writers spend into a big and needless toolbox — expensive computer, huge monitor, a costly software suite, an 8-ball of coke, a robot built around Hemingway’s brain, fingerless typing gloves lined with dodo feathers, and so forth. I’m not saying you can’t buy these things at some point; but you damn sure don’t start out your writing career by tossing yourself into a financial oubliette. Fuck debt.

23. Your Body Needn’t Be A Temple, But Don’t Treat It Like The Bathroom Floor At A New Jersey Arby’s, Am I Right?

Keep healthy, and even better, get health insurance. No, no, I know, health insurance is expensive. And many healthcare providers will work so hard to wriggle out of covering certain things you’d think they have collapsible bones and slime-slick skin that sloughs off any time you grab for them. Do your research. Budget for the cost. What’s expensive now pales in comparison to what you’ll pay without it. “Oh, I have a cold? And to procure this one bottle of Amoxycillin I have to bring you the still-screaming head of the Medusa?”

24. Letting Financial Stress Get A Choke Hold On Your Wordsmithy

Stress — and I don’t mean that good clean motivational stress, I mean the “I can smell my hair burning” stress — does not do a writer well. Sometimes, so-called “writer’s block” is just stress getting to a writer. And one of the greatest sources of stress for the average everyday penmonkey is financial stress. From this, you must insulate yourself. Sometimes protecting yourself means being smart and not fucking up — sometimes it’s just a Zen thing and it means shutting the noise out and forming a plan and realizing that as long as it’s not going to kill you then you just need to breathe and move past it. If stress stops you from writing and you need writing to get past the stress — well. You see how that’s a sticky wicket, don’t you? What the fuck is a sticky wicket, anyway? I picture some kind of giant insect exuding something that looks like strawberry jam from all its exoskeletonic joints. It hugs you and it just won’t let go. Then it injects an ovipositor into your colon and plants its larvae and a healthy dose of toxoplasmosis!

25. Writing And Publishing With Zero Strategy

You need a strategy. Not just a budget, but a full-bore plan for your penmonkey future. You know that bullshit question they ask at interviews, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” It’s not bullshit. You should have an idea, a real idea, of what you’re planning on doing year-after-year. It’ll help you do more than tread water, which is what many professional writers end up doing (or worse, they end up sinking down, their screams lost in a flurry of bubbles). Perhaps the best present a writer can get himself is a strategy for her career going forward. Well, that and a pony. Because ponies make everybody happy.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF