Archives (page 449 of 454)

January 31, 2011 / 18 Comments

The Trials And Tribulations Of A Self-Published DIY Penmonkey

Caveat: I am no self-publishing expert. I am not claiming to be any manner of self-publishing guru, Sherpa, wizard, shaman, or swami. I am just a guy with a self-published book asking you to love him. Uhh. No, wait, that’s not it. I’m a guy who’s had a self-published digital short story collection out for like, three weeks.

And, I figure, why not talk about it?

I wouldn’t call any of this “insight.”

I’d instead think of it as, “Shit I happened to notice that may be accurate, or I might just be drunk.”

Let my gibbering and wailing commence.

It’s Hard Out There For A Pimp

Right now, I suspect one of the biggest challenges for the self-published author is promotion. If I go with a traditional publisher, I have a fairly wide array of options in regards to getting my Please Buy My Awesome Book It Is Not Shitty And You Might Dig It message out into the world, and a lot of those options are not options I personally have to enact. I mean, yes, the traditionally published author still has to get blisters signing books and still has to drag her ass to the far-flung corners of Fuckbucket, Indiana to do a convention or a speaking engagement or whatever. But at least those options exist.

The self-published author has…

I mean, seriously, what? The Internet? Pretty much just that. The Internet. A traditionally published author might get a review in a magazine or a newspaper. Might get an interview in the same. Might get on NPR. Will likely get her book in bookstores and maybe get herself in bookstores. Will have posters and blurbs and all that good stuff.

The self-published author has the Internet. Right? Am I missing something?

Further, it’s just me and my audience, an audience who pimps the book out of genuine interest or loyalty or pity or payola. But for the most part, it’s me thinking about how to create a message online somehow that convinces people, “Hey, you need to lay down your hard-earned three bucks for nine short stories of dubious quality. Please take a risk and throw your money at my word-spew.”

There exists the trouble of discoverability — sure, someone could be surfing around Amazon and find my book. And they might click the magic button and procure the collection. But I don’t suspect that’s likely. Amazon is home to (beware: incoming fake number) one fuzzillion books. Minimal filter exists. I went looking specifically for my book just by searching around — it wasn’t easy.

Now, again, I recognize that it’s hard for a traditionally-published dude, too. But I’m a lot likelier to stumble on a book on a shelf than I am by clicking around Amazon. Further, again those writers have other vectors of discovery: reviews, interviews, ads, what-have-you.

Thing is, if I want my book to sell, I have to sling it. I have to work that ass. I have to shake it. And I worry that it crosses over into “annoying” territory. (By the way, if you feel like I have officially crossed into that territory, then you need to tell me. Please be nice about it, but tell me. Honesty + tact = a wonderful thing.) I’m not even sure what the best way of getting the message out there happens to be.

Slow And Steady Might Just Win The Race

If I earned no more sales from this point forward, I’d be okay with that, but I also wouldn’t be rolling in dough. Hell, I couldn’t even make a living wage. To earn the low end of my freelancing rate, I’d need to make over $2,000 on this collection.

At present, I’ve gotten over $500.

And that’s only across a three-week period.

Assuming (which yes, makes an ass out of you and Ming the Merciless) that I am able to quadruple that over the remaining 49 weeks of the year, that means the collection will earn out.

Should I go beyond that, it moves slowly and steadily toward a living wage. And, for the record, it’s hard for the traditionally-published author to make a living wage on their own creative endeavors. So, it is a little heartening to see a glimmer of financial possibility here.

This isn’t even a novel we’re talking about. It’s a measly piddly poo-poo short story collection. Nobody likes those. Those are the pariahs of the reading world. I’ve seen homeless men spit on short story collections. True story! Ahem.

So, considering the possibility of earning more on a novel is, admittedly, intriguing. It means that a qualified and capable self-published author could actually not starve to death. Conceivably. No promises.

Sales Farming (How Different Fertilizer Yields Bigger Sales Crop)

One thing I do like: seeing sales. I’ve been a freelancer for a dozen years and I had my first short story published when I was 18, and for the most part, I don’t have access to any sales numbers or how well my work is “doing” out there within the wordmonkey jungle. But hey, now I know.

A remaining tricky bit: knowing where sales come from. I did this contest last week, and to be honest, it didn’t pull a lot of participants. Nobody’s fault but mine (it was likely a shitty contest, but I thought I’d try something a little different).Now, to be fair, this last week did really well overall in sales, so… again, hard to see if there’s any correlation between “contest” and “people buying my nonsense flying cat stories.”

Also not certain how well reviews contribute overall.

The one time I can see sales jump up is also the simplest:

I tweet about it.

I say, “Hey, short stories, evil vaginas, $2.99,” and bwip, my sales bump up by a couple-few. Like, within 10, 15 minutes. Yesterday, Sunday, I hadn’t earned a single sale. So I tweeted about that. My briny tears apparently soaked through the screen and into the fingertips of my Twitter followers, and within ten minutes I had four sales. Half-hour later, two more. Pretty neat.

Twitter offers the plainest glimpse of “action –> reaction” in terms of sales.

Don’t Judge A Book By It’s Cover, Except When It’s Supremely Shitty

I’m sorry, self-published authors, but here’s the poop.

You want respect. I want it, too. I’m a good writer. I know other DIY writers who are good, too (hell, some are even great) and damnit if they don’t deserve respect.

But the reality is, self-publishing does not command a great deal of respect.

And, frankly, the practice doesn’t deserve it. Not yet, at least. Go on. Poke around the self-pub books on Amazon, on Smashwords. Download some samples. Gaze at the covers.

You’re going to see a lot of dreck. Dross. Muck. Swill. Filth. Sewage. Crap-burgers. Stink-blossoms. Shit machines, jizz sandwiches, temples built out of garbage and other assorted nonsense.

It’s not good! You’re pumping a lot of bad juju into the ecosystem. And because it’s a big fat-mouthed pipe open to public access, anybody can contribute their own individual streams of effluence.

Okay, I get it, this is by design. But by the same token, it’s because of that utterly forgiving filter-free sewage pipe that the very practice of self-publishing gets a cruddy rap. Gatekeepers get a lot of guff, but sometimes, we don’t want everybody running through the gate, you dig? Right now, publishing could damn well stand to let some new talent through the gates. They could open the gates wider.

But that doesn’t translate to blasting them off their hinges with C4 and letting any crazy cat lady or tinfoil-helmet dude into the party. Bouncers need to keep out the riff-raff.

You want respect, self-publishing community? Then it is time to earn it.

Up your game. Learn to write a hook. Learn how to sell your book. Hire a cover designer. Hire an editor. Edit! Rewrite! Be a writer. Do all the things that being a writer entails. Don’t just vomit forth endless searing gouts of word-bile and story-puke. You’re making a mess in here.

I know that if I decide to do this again, I intend to up my game as well. Hey, my shit stinks, too.

(But, c’mon, look at that cover. My shit doesn’t stink that bad.)

I Still Want My Books In Bookstores, Goddamnit

No matter what happens, I still have that old-fashioned knee-jerk reaction of — “I really want to see my book on a bookshelf somewhere. Preferably in a bookstore. Licked by a stripper with knife scars on her midriff.” All right, fine, ignore that last part, but the lingering sentiment still stands: I want a hard copy of my book, and I want that book sold by places that aren’t Chuck Wendig, Incorporated.

I’m a practical guy. Pragmatic to a fault. I know that money is important.

But as a practical guy, I’m also a guy who likes brick-and-mortar reality. I don’t want everything to live on the magical “cloud.” I want a book in my hands, and not just in my hands, but out there, in the world, where my mother could accidentally find it in the wild and point to that and say, “Hey, that’s my son’s book.”

Self-publishing just isn’t to that point, yet. It may never be, I dunno.

All In All, Would I Rather Be Writing?

I would rather be writing.

I wish I wasn’t my own publisher. I wish I didn’t have to figure out layout and how to convert to ePub (which, far as I can tell, involves sacrificing a white stag on a pyre of burning willow-bark at just the right moment of the vernal equinox — otherwise, the output will look like a burlap sack of mashed assholes), I wish I didn’t have to think about sales numbers and pimping the work and all that.

I would rather be writing.

Now, to pull back a minute, this is a naive wish. It really is. We can spout that old platitude all we like — “Writers Write” — but the truth is, writers always do more than write. At least, they do if they don’t want to be dilettantes. Writers edit, writers market, writers talk, writers build their audiences, writers work the business. Writers don’t just sit in the dark and write brilliant words. Same way that carpenters are more than “dudes who can hammer nails.”

Writing should always be primary, however.

And being your own publisher dings that a little bit. Not a lot. But just enough where it means I’m wearing yet another hat in addition to all the ones the writer must normally wear.

It doesn’t mean that self-publishing is a no-no. Or that it’s splashing around in the gutter. But it does mean that it comes with complications that must be considered. Would I do it again? Maybe. I’m noodling it. I’d like to continue the experiment and put a novel and a non-fiction piece “out there” just to see.

But I still want my books on shelves. That may make be vain. It may mean I need to molest my quivering self-esteem. But it’s true just the same.

January 30, 2011 / 16 Comments

Search Term Bingo Is Your Secret Daddy

Time again for SEARCH TERM BINGO, little babies.

If you don’t know how this works, here it is: people discover this website via some of the strangest search terms one could imagine. I pluck these search terms out of obscurity and dissect them for gits and shiggles.

This is distinctly NSFW.

Please to enjoy.

descriptive words that describe a baboon

No, no, I got this. I’m a writer. This is my job. Ready? Here goes.

“Baboony.” “Baboon-esque.” “Baboonariffic.” “Baboon-flavored.” “Quasi-baboonery.” “Baboonish.” “Baboonic Plague.” “Baboondocks.” Also, the collective noun used to describe a gathering or family of baboons is a “platoon.” So, in a sentence, you might say, “I was driven from my village by a surly platoon of knife-wielding baboons — also known as the baboonic plague.”

Related: writing “baboon” over and over again drives you slowly insane, certain that words no longer make sense, assured that language is both a nonsense construct and a troublesome idea virus!

remember a gentleman always grows a beard

That is accurate. That is the test to determine the truth of a gentleman: a beard. You know how in John Carpenter’s The Thing they test everybody’s blood in those petri dishes to confirm whether or not they’re actually the titular (titter!) “thing?” Right. This is like that, except with less blood and fewer petri dishes.

All gentlemen grow beards. It is part of the Nobleman’s Edict of 1578.

However, do not make the logical fallacy and assume that beard automatically equals gent. Consider: a Tijuana donkey show is always a fun vacation-time activity, but not all fun vacation-time activities involve Tijuana donkey shows. Right? Anybody who voted for Michelle Bachmann is a jackass, but not all jackasses are Michelle Bachmann voters. See?

All gentlemen wear beards, but not all who wear beards are gentlemen.

hey fuck it its college

Dude. Bro. Right. Fuck it! It’s college. You won’t get college back. I mean, unless you’re one of those people who just can’t stop going to college — it’s like, every time you see them they’re always, “Oh, I’m going back to school to get my Doctorate in Aeronautical Caribou Design,” and then you notice the stench of Cheeto dust, cheap wine and overall poorness and it’s like, “Hey, look, a Perpetual Student.”

But seriously, that’s not the point. The point is — hey, fuck it, it’s college! You need to embrace this time. You need to go for the brass ring. Girl you like? Go for it. Internship? Take the plunge! Want to play an awesome prank and put that shiznit on Youtube? Do it up! Feel like you need to dress in the skins of prostitutes and take part in the cosmic battle of good versus evil — angels versus demons — by attacking woodland creatures in the dorm quad with that wobbly ornamental Braveheart sword you bought at the dirt mall? Hey, fuck it. It’s college! (And also possibly schizophrenia.)

vintage crazy human

Those are my favorite kind of crazy humans! Vintage whackjobs and retro lunatics. A jaunty serial killer in a top hat! A blood-covered choromaniac endlessly waltzing in his seersucker suit! A corseted hausfrau standing by her collection of fossilized dinosaur penises! Sepia-toned nutballs. Good times.

how to keep your bearded heated

Let’s assume you mean “beard” and not “bearded.”

Here’s how I keep my beard heated — I warm a tray of milk squeezed from the supple teats of an antelope, and then I hover my face over the warm tray, letting the milky steam soften my beard. But see, I’m old school. You might go high-tech and instead sew a set of handwarmers or toaster coils into your facial hair.

fat guy with short short testicles

I’m admittedly stuck on the use of the descriptor “short” to describe a testicle. Are there tall testicles? Like, do some guys have testicles as tall as, say, a pint glass? Now I’m all panicked about my possibly dwarven testes. I mean, I thought they were normal. A plenty good size. But now I’m freaked out. Should they be grippable? Like the hand-grips on a Huffy bicycle?

different types of goatees

The face can be home to a nearly infinite number of goatee-styles — consider the number of hairs that could grace one’s chin (or chinnish) area, and then consider the endless arrangements of said whiskers.

Still, I can give you a few if you’re looking for ideas:

The Amelia Earhart: Goatee shaped like an airplane. Branches of mustache form the wings. Connector bit is the fuselage. Chin whiskers are then shaped into the airplane’s tail. Bonus points if you disappear suddenly while shaving, never to return.

The Turkish Scimitar (aka the Kalij): Goatee long enough to conceal a blade. Popular in Turkish prisons. Variation includes “The Randy Shank,” which is a goatee lacquered for months with some combination of motor oil, llama spit, and fry-o-later grease. Then the goatee becomes the blade.

The Hamster Party (aka the Habitrail): Similar to the Kalij, this goatee is long, but also hollow in the center to support the obsessive-compulsive laps a hamster must run. Variation includes “The Hollow Earth,” but that’s an entire beard that’s been hollowed out, not a goatee. Also, the hollow beard must be home to dinosaurs.

The Dead Man’s Party: A goatee stolen from a dead man and glued onto your face.

The Precious (based on the goatee “Bush” by Beardfire): A single hair, at least six inches of length, must thrust from the center of one’s chin. It should smell of pomade and strawberry jam.

motivational black cock

Oh, yeah, this is the new “thing” in terms of motivational posters. I bought one that shows a giant black cock — like, bigger than a fat baby’s arm — thrusting out through a bathroom glory hole, and hanging from it is a little orange tabby kitty, and the kitty’s digging his claws in and the caption reads: Hang In There!

But I’ve also seen versions that say, Don’t Cock It Up!

white rooster fucks chicken game

Wh…? What?

what do writers do after finishing a novel?

Here’s what every novelist does after finishing a book:

1.) Drink Scotch. Half-bottle.

2.) Karate kick invisible book critics.

3.) Feel sudden shame.

4.) Weep uncontrollably.

5.) Drink rest of Scotch.

6.) Throw up on a cop.

7.) Break things.

8.) Feel surge of triumph.

9.) Throw up.

10.) Fall asleep in one’s own sick.

Repeat for like, two, three weeks.

if not yet published what do I put in my bibliography?

Draw a picture! Options include: a pirate’s parrot; a smiley face; a pot leaf; a map to secret treasure; pedobear; the Led Zeppelin logo; a motivational black cock.

clit wobble

The hot new dance that all the kids are doing based on the hot new techno song to come out of Serbia? All the cool kids are doing the “clit wobble” on the dance floor!

freelancers are hot

I know I’m a sexy beast. I mean, shit, just check me out:

I know? So hot, right? That’s clit wobble material, right there.

metaphor about karate poem

I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about metaphors that are not in poems but rather, represent poems. Also: what the fuck is a karate poem? Is that a new form of poetry? Are all the cool kids doing it? Did it come out of Serbia? These days, all the awesome shit comes out of Serbia. I’m so behind. Thank Jeebus I’m one sexy freelancer. It’s my only talent: being hot. What were we talking about? Karate poems? Yeah.

van dyke beard looks like the devil

Yep. The beard itself looks like the devil. My Van Dyke used to carry around a pitchfork and prod screaming sinners wading in a pool of pitch.

laphroaig risotto

*vomits*

I mean, umm, mmmm, that sounds delicious.

It also sounds like the name of my new band.

tree tells you to kill yourself

Okay, humor aside, that is a terrifying idea. A fucking suicide tree? That tells you to kill yourself? That is the stuff of horror fiction, my friend. I’m stealing that idea from you, whoever you may be.

kenneth motherfucking arrow

YEAAAAH! Kenneth Motherfucking Arr —

Wait. Kenneth Arrow?

Like, the Nobel Prize-winning economist?

You know what? Yes. Yeah. I support this. Let’s start a new trend. Let’s be the cool kids on this one. We need to exalt smart people in this country instead of putting dipshits up on pedestals (see: Snooki, Sarah Palin). And one way to do that is to place “motherfucking” in the middle of their names.

Here’s your job. Pick a person you admire, a person of some notable intelligence and/or accomplishment, then put that person’s name in the comments below but put “Motherfucking” (or some triumphant profanity) as their middle name.

You have your task. Go.

my beard doesn’t grow on my bottom lip

That’s because you need your lip to form a seal with your upper lip. And I don’t mean like, a fish-eating flipper-clapping seal. Dumbass, beards do not grow on lips. Because, ew. Gross.

squirrel put your nuts up

Yeah, squirrel! Put your nuts up! Put ’em up good!

This is what I say to any squirrel when I point a gun at him.

Also, it’s the debut album of my new band, Laphroaig Risotto.

legos that you build with

As opposed to LEGOs that you dance with?

lady gaga smallpox

She is the infection vector, but really, we’re not surprised, are we?

piss upload mobile ferret

Poop download stationary ermine!

Whaddya gonna say to that? Huh? Huh?

*drops mic, walks off stage*

*trips on a tangle of folding chairs, breaks ankle*

*howls in pain*

January 29, 2011 / 38 Comments

Blog Needs Blog Juice!

Blog.

Blog.

BLOG.

Man, I hate that word.

Blog blog blog bloggity blog. It’s an awful-sounding word. At least, “tweet” is cute. But blog? Uck. I say that word, I forever envision some kind of fat-bellied toad-creature, some slick-bellied beast sitting in a pile of effluence, and sometimes the beast opens its greasy maw and crassly belches forth a noxious cloud, a cloud that smells like someone filled a balloon with diarrhea and then threw it into a campfire.

So, basically, I envision Snooki.

Still, this is irrelevant to the discussion. It is irregardless, if you care to use words that are made up.

I need blog squeezin’s.

What I’m saying is, this is a one dude operation over here at terribleminds. It’s just me here in my subterranean bunker. I’ve got my lava moat, my hungry CHUD army, my many levers and switches. But all of it is just a hollow exercise if I don’t have something to talk to you fine, fine people about.

My peeps. My tweeps. My tmeeps.

Point being, Daddy needs some topics over here. I’ve got some coming up, yes — I want to talk more about Minecraft, I have a Search Term Bingo ready to roll, I definitely want to do a few more posts about self-publishing. I’ve got the ready-steady writing advice locked and loaded, with next month talking all about the art and craft of whup-ass storytelling.

But even still — my torches, they sputter. The flames, they gutter. And so I drop my drawbridge across my lava moat (beware the lava-sharks, the magma-pus, and the volcano-gator), and I invite you into my creepy bunker to have some scones and orange pekoe tea. By which I really mean, Ritz crackers and rye whiskey.

I invite you in and I ask you:

What else do you want me to talk about here at Ye Olde Terryblemynds? Throw some topics at my head. Help me refill my blog tanks with blog juice. I can’t promise I’ll write about everything everybody wants — if you write a comment that asks me to discuss the subversive nature of the Wienerschnitzel in German history, then I got nothing. I mean, except, “Heh, wiener, or weiner, or whatever. Heh.”

But still.

Throw me a bone here.

I’m begging you. I’m just a lonely fool lurking beneath a volcano.

So, blog topics you want me to talk about? Questions you want me to answer?

Anything at all. Pitch it at my head, we’ll see if it strikes brain.

(This is, for the record, an excellent time for lurkers to delurk.)

January 28, 2011 / 15 Comments

Painting With Shotguns #65

I know, I know. Didn’t I say something about not doing Painting With Shotguns every week? Well, uhh. Shut up. Who said I’m back to doing it every week? Huh? Who told you that? Was it the dwarf who hangs out at the bottom of my driveway, peddling his dwarf drugs to all the neighborhood kids? He keeps selling them little baggies of elf-cap, of brinestone dust, of brimcrack. That dwarf is causing all kinds of trouble. He’s got all the kids zoned out of their gourds. This neighborhood is going to hell in a handbasket.

Irregular Creatures: Steady As She Goes

IRREGULAR CREATURES — which has a contest going where I give away a flying cat and an Amazon gift certificate — is still jogging along. Now up to 232 sales. We’re still looking at about 2/3rds of those being with Amazon, and the remaining third coming directly from this site.

My sales at Smashwords are, well, statistically insignificant. I have sold — drum roll please — two copies over there. So, that’s nice. Not really excited by my experience there. Actually, not all that excited by their site in general. Kind of ehhh, meh, pbbt, far as a shopping experience goes.

I am also woefully unhappy with the way my ePub version looks. I haven’t seen it on a Nook — some who have it there say it looks fine. I’ve checked it out on the iPad, and to me, it looks kind of like baked ass. Not happy with Smashwords’ conversion. Played with Caliber (Calibre?) — didn’t like that, either. Now toying with Sigil, which is maybe the way to go, but it’s a slow process.

I will say this, though — I am totally digging on the “direct sale” method here at the site. I know this isn’t a long-term big business solution, but let me tell you what I like about it. If you buy the PDF from me? I put your name in a spreadsheet with your email address. And as I do updates to that PDF — which I’ve done once already — I can resend it to the entire list (which I’ve done). I can immediately push the newest version back out. I see a lot of value in selling without a mediator or distributor. Again, you can’t do big numbers that way, but it’s the closest you get to a face-to-face transaction.

Did I mention there’s a contest?

Next week, I think I’ll talk a little more about self-publishing.

I also might just get drunk and fall asleep in a bowl of Captain Crunch. So, there’s that.

A Storytelling Pandemic

This week saw the end of the “Pandemic 1.0” story experience over at Sundance (the film’s still playing). I wouldn’t count this as a post-mortem or anything, but I’m happy to toss off a couple casual thoughts:

First, yeah, I know, the opening day (and some moments throughout) saw some technical goblins and boogaboos. But even still, it was crazy to see the scripted stories and the roleplayed stories come together, and in the middle of those you had people not in Sundance coordinating with people who were at Sundance. Word from Park City was that the event was a blast there — lots of people running around and checking it out. Plus, got great press attention, too. Philly Inquirer, Wall Street Journal, Wired, and so forth. (No, I don’t know the end tallies or results yet.) And also: Kid Koala. I mean, c’mon. Kid Koala rocks.

Second, it was both a storytelling experience and experiment — it comes with an unholy host of challenges. Me, I think it played well. I got lots of comments and compliments, and I’m proud of the way the Pandemic team implemented everything. If you didn’t dig it, I am seriously sorry. But I hope you did. It was fun (if challenging) to put together. And it’s not over. This was, truly, just the opening volley.

Third, speaking of the Pandemic team — kick-ass bunch of people. From the writers (who I listed last week) to people like Zak Forsman, Janine Saunders, Mark Harris, and Nick Childs. And, obviously, Lance Weiler for being the visionary madman storytelling architect behind the whole thing. And Ted Hope (our feature producer) for writing a kick-ass blog post about the whole enchilada.

It was pretty awesome what the team was able to accomplish.

Naked Golden Dudes

So, I guess the Oscars got announced. And, I guess as a movie dude, I should comment.

The Oscars are always kind of a mixed bag, right? On the one hand, I’m excited that it’s a night to celebrate film. It’s my version of the Superbowl. I’ll watch the whole thing. And, like the Superbowl, I’ll marvel that there’s too many goddamn commercials and the whole thing is taking way too long. The night also often opens people’s eyes to films they might not have seen otherwise (like, say, last year’s Hurt Locker).

On the other hand, I also know it’s at least a little bit silly. Lots of great movies won’t ever get the attention they deserve from the Oscars. Little movies and big movies alike will find only ignorance from the Academy and its arcane practices of nominating and voting.

Regardless, hey, here’s my thoughts. I’m not going to do one of those Should Win / Will Win breakdowns, because, well, you see those everywhere. Every film blogger does it. Hell, you should go check your own blog right now. You might have, in some kind of catatonic fugue state, done your own insidious list. They’re like roaches, these lists. I saw this homeless guy the other day, and he had a sign that broke down the Should Win / Will Win Oscar predictions. My dogs have their own prognostications. (The big dog wants Pauly Shore to win Best Director. For what, I dunno. He’s a dog. He’s not very smart.)

Instead, here’s a random smattering of Oscar-flavored feelings.

I loved the shit out of Black Swan, so I’m happy that’s getting some love. I would love to see Natalie Portman secure best actress. Her descent into madness (from a starting point of obsession) was superb.

Still, though, if you gave it to Jennifer Lawrence from Winter’s Bone, I wouldn’t fault you. In fact, two of the year’s best crime films — Winter’s Bone and Animal Kingdom — are getting a little love this year. If you’ve not seen either, then you will live a doomed, cursed existence until you rectify that. I’ve just cast a hex on you. A cinematic mojo hex. That shit just happened. You better get to stepping.

John Hawkes. Oscar nomination. Fuck yes.

I agree more or less with Marty Henley (aka MC Henley, aka MC Scat Cat, aka one half of the world’s biggest black man) that Toy Story 3 won’t possibly win Best Picture but it’s a shoe-in for Animated which kind of belabors the reason to even have animated. I’d argue somewhat the opposite, though, where I’d actually like to see Oscar have categories for Best Comedy, Best Drama, etc. to widen the field and allow room for some films that might never make it to the vaunted Best Picture category.

Also, I’ll agree that Toy Story 3 is sometimes really creepy. I liked it, but it’s my least favorite of the three Toy Story films. Gives off a distinct nihilistic Requiem For A Dream vibe. For reals.

How To Train Your Dragon is probably the inferior film. That said, it’s also the one I prefer — like, by a thousand miles. That flick, along with Easy-A, snuck up on me and became a fast favorite.

The lack of Christopher Nolan in the Best Director category stinks of moldy vagina.

I never thought I’d see Trent Reznor get an Oscar nod.

That is all.

Whiskey Fiction

I am, at present, drinking Balvenie Doublewood.

And in my slightly goofy Scotchy haze, I am convinced that if I were to write a series of short stories while drunk on whiskey, it would be the best thing ever and I would sell millions.

This is pure whimsy.

This is the Scotch talking.

Which makes me think that whiskey is a parasite that controls brain chemistry.

A delicious, wonderful, warm and caramelly brain parasite.

Mmmmm. Brain parasites.

And Then There’s This

January 27, 2011 / 46 Comments

Point Me In The Direction Of Self-Published Awesomeness

Let’s not beat around the bush.

I’ve got IRREGULAR CREATURES up at Amazon, and I’ve got it here and at Smashwords and a few other places. And I am, in some cases, amongst some damn good company. Anthony Neil Smith’s CHOKE ON YOUR LIES? Chris Holm’s 8 POUNDS? The TERMINAL DAMAGE collection?

Great stuff. And just the tip of the iceberg.

But c’mon. C’mon.

For every one piece of awesome “indie publishing,” you get ten, twenty, maybe even a hundred pieces of nonsense floating around. For every satchel of diamonds you get ten poop-encrusted toilet seats. For every Geoffrey Chaucer you get a hundred brain-sick spider monkeys.

The ratio isn’t yet what you’d find in traditional publishing.

Further, I’m learning more and more that the self-published author doesn’t have the same vectors of promotion. It is, by and large, up to the author (and the author’s incredibly generous audience) to get the word out about one’s own work. The normal channels of marketing and visibility and promotion (read: whoring) just don’t exist yet for the self-published dude.

Should we continue to call it self-publishing, by the way? Can we just lose the “self?” “Indie” works, I suppose, but for me, maybe “DIY publishing” has a bit more of a workmanlike ethos.

Or maybe “punk publishing.” Pubpunk? Wordpunk? Inkpunk?

Eh, whatever. I’m stumbling off the path, here.

What I’m saying is, since those normal channels don’t really exist for the self-indie-DIY-pubbed penmonkey, it helps if the penmonkey’s audience spreads the word.

So, spread the word. Here, now. Tell me about some high quality indie fiction out there. Digital, if you please. Stuff that’s on par with work that has come out through the traditional system.

And hell, if you are just such an author, and you think your work is of that quality, pimp away.

Give links where appropriate.

January 26, 2011 / 18 Comments

On The Subject Of Writing Advice

I see it from time to time: this sense of flipped-up middle-fingers, this iconoclastic anti-establishment vibe, this sentiment of, “Fuck writing advice, the only way to learn writing is to write, only those who can’t do teach, blah blah blah, suck my butt-pucker, pen-puppet.” I dig it. I get it. Once in a while I feel like gesturing at ideas and notions with my scrotum held firmly in my grip, too. “Grr! Look at my balls. My balls.”

Except, obviously, I spend a lot of time here as the dispenser of dubious writing wisdom. You may find that this practice is some mixture of awe-inspiring, helpful, irritating, or so infuriating you crack your molars gritting your teeth. Regardless, whenever I see an attack on the practice of giving out writing advice, I can’t help it: I find my hackles raised. I get a little twitchy. I taste this coppery taste on the back of my tongue, I hear this high-pitched whine, and next thing I know I wake up in the snow surrounded by 13 bodies. Always 13. No, I don’t know why. I only know that it’s getting troublesome digging all these goddamn graves.

Anywho, I figured I’d talk a little bit about writing advice from a personal perspective. Why do I do it? What does it mean to me? What do I think about it at the end of the day? Why do I keep gesturing at people with my testicles? And so on, and so forth.

I Like Writing Advice

I have long appreciated writing advice.

I don’t like all of it. I’ve never responded much to the hippy-dippy memoir vibe you get from some advisors — I prefer a look at writing and the writer’s life from on the ground. I like the pragmatic, reality-level approach (and presumably that shows in my own dispensed pseudo-wisdom).

However, there’s often a complaint that writing advice is tantamount to masturbation: the giver of advice as well as its receivers are basically just diddling themselves, and accomplishing nothing for it.

I think this can be true. Like Eddy Webb talks about at his site (“My Advice? Stop Listening To Advice“), I know full well you have those writers out there who’d much rather spend time talking about writing than they would spend time actually writing. For them it’s just a hollow intellectual exercise, or worse, a way to feel like a “real” writer without actually putting in the work.

Advice is worthless if you don’t put it into practice.

Me, I always tried to put it into practice. I’ve read a number of writing books over my years as a Rare Bearded Penmonkey — advice from Lawrence Block, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury. Now I read a lot of books on screenwriting (Blake Snyder, Alex Epstein being two favorites).

All of it’s useful. I don’t believe you can just “write your way” into being a good writer. A lot of it is reading (or in terms of film, watching). But it helps to have that information framed by those who practice their craft. You can learn stuff from writing advice. I know I have.

It’s For Me More Than It Is You

I am a selfish jerk.

I write things on this site that interest me. Things I think are funny, or interesting, or most of all, topics that challenge me. I think, “Okay, I want to take a look at this idea or problem and kick its ass.” I only talk about things that have affected me in one way or another. I try to be honest. I try to be forthright.

And I am always selfish. The advice is for me before it’s for you.

This site is a lovely sounding board.

Tools For Your Toolbox

This is how I view writing advice:

Each piece is a tool for your toolbox. You pick each tool up. You hold it in your hand. You implement it or at least imagine its implementation — whanging it against a spaceplane propeller, ratcheting up a unicorn’s horn, neutering a slumbering god — and then you either put it into your toolbox to use again or you discard it with the understanding of, “I will never need a Victorian-era cervical dilator.”

When I sit down read advice from other writers, that’s how I take it. I don’t take every piece of advice and immediately think “I’ve found the answer!” I use some. I throw away the rest. And I become better just by thinking about and tweaking my craft.

No Inviolable “One True Way”

Anybody who tells you they have The One True Oh My God Answer To Writing is full of shit. Not just regular shit, either, but some bizarre equine-cattle hybrid of bullhorseshit or horseybullshit.

Nothing I tell you here at terribleminds will be the One True Way. Hell, I won’t even suggest that it’s the One True Way for me. I change up my game from time to time. I never outlined before — I am a “pantser” at heart (which also translates to: I do not like to be constrained by pants). But, once I incorporated outlining (because I had to, not because I wanted to), it became a change-up in the way I do things.

Now, I outline. It made my job easier, and my output stronger.

Still — you don’t outline? You don’t write queries like I do? You make sweet public love to adverbs? Awesome. That’s your business. Plenty of very successful writers violate supposedly inviolable rules.

So, no, there exists no One True Way.

Ahhh, but here’s the caveat: that’s a two-way street, hombre. Many of those who loudly exclaim that there is no One True Way then cling white-knuckled to their own personal One True Way. And to that, I say: loosen your grip. Let go! Just a little. Just as the guy giving advice doesn’t have The Divine Answer, accept that you don’t have it, either. Accept that your way could always be improved. Always. Always! Nobody has a perfect process. Nobody is the best writer on the block. You can always up your game.

You don’t up your game by doing more of the same.

I don’t have the One True Way.

But that also means: nobody else does, either.

Writing Advice Is Neither Good Nor Bad

You’ll often see comments — “This is good advice,” or, “This advice sucks.”

No. Nope, nuh-uh, nichts, nah, nooooo. Well, okay, fine, you’ll probably find some truly terrible advice (“When submitting to an agent, don’t forget to prematurely insult her for rejecting your glorious manuscript. Also, use lots of misplaced commas. It’s considered ‘arty’ and will ensure that they know you are a serious auteur“). But for the most part, writing doesn’t break down into “good” or “bad.”

It breaks down to: “works for me” and “doesn’t work for me.”

Like I said earlier: every tool has its purpose. You may just not find that a given tool suits you. And that’s okay. But it may suit someone else. And that’s not only okay: that’s pretty awesome.

Duh, It’s All Bullshit

Of course it’s all bullshit. Writing advice is always YMMV. Writing advice is just like writing itself: it’s speculative, it’s fictional, it’s made-up, it’s squawking into the void. Hell, I look back at advice I gave last year and some of it sounds great. Other parts? Not so much. Opinions change. Styles change. Advice shifts. The more we know, the more we change, and the more we change, the less we know.

Which makes no sense. Shut up. No, you’re stupidfaced! What?

Writing advice is all just made-up.

But that doesn’t mean it’s useless. And it doesn’t mean you should take a dump on the practice, either — don’t like it? No problem. Don’t read it. Avoid it. Nobody would be upset with you for that. I don’t find much value in reading yarn blogs, so I don’t go and visit yarn blogs or even think twice about them. It doesn’t mean I’m going to write an angry froth-mouthed fecal screed titled, “Fuck Yarn.”

…but now I just might.

Yeah. Fuck Yarn. Right in its Yarn Hole!

*middle fingers*

*gestures with scrotum*

*urine everywhere*