A ducking good time

zacharysteele 1 Comment

 

 

This is a guest post from Ducky Thomas®, duck extraordinaire. He likes to have adventures, loves even more so to talk about them, and hopes that, some day, he will be able to fly around the world all by himself. He’s a very excitable duck, so try to keep up.

 

 

Hi everybody!  It’s hard to believe that it’s been two weeks since I wrote about going to the Richmond, but golly, time sure has, as Zach likes to say, ‘flown by.’  He says that some day I’ll be able to fly as fast as time, but I just don’t know.  So far I can only fly off the bed, and I don’t make it very far.  Most times, I just kind of fall.  But I’m pretty sure that the last time I tried, I fell a lot slower!  Maybe it won’t be too long now, and I’ll just be zooming all over the place!

Ha ha, Quack!

Sorry, I got a little carried away.

Well, anyway, I may not be able to fly just yet, but I have been very busy making new friends, and also going to something Zach called a, “Fall Festavil,” which I thought would be a very good place for a duck trying to learn how to fly to go to.  It was in a great big park, with trees, and grass, and a playground too (but only the Big Ducks get to play there, Zach said, which made me sad, but I guess someday I’ll be a Big Duck, and then I can play all day long!), but not really too many places where a duck could learn to fly.  It appeared, though, that by the time we got there, most of the people had already fallen, because they were all sitting on the grass listening to music.  I don’t know what the music was, but I’m pretty sure it made everyone feel better about falling, because they all seemed pretty happy.

Oh! But I forgot to tell you the super duper best part! I got to go with my new friend, Henrietta!  She’s a hippo, a really fun, and neat hippo, and pretty much my best friend in the whole wide world!

Henrietta and I got to ride together to the park. She sure is a silly hippo!

At first I wanted her to go, but I couldn’t find her anywhere, and I got really upset.  But then, wouldn’t you know?  That silly little hippo had asked Zach to hide her in our traveling bag as a really neat surprise, and I was so excited when I got there that I quacked for about five minutes! Boy was that embarrassing!

We didn’t go to the park right away, and had to wait in the car while Zach, and his friend Katie (boy she sure is quite pretty, but I’m too shy to tell her!), went to an ATM, I think, where he says all the money is kept, which I don’t know…it seemed kind of small.  I guess money isn’t that big.  Well, while we were waiting, Henrietta kept telling me that it would be really funny if I drove us away while Zach and Katie were gone, which seemed a little crazy to me, but she kept giggling so much that I started giggling too, and then, before I knew it, I had crawled out the bag and was pretending to drive! And let me tell you, it’s a lot harder to do than I thought!

VROOM VROOM!

I don't know what this thing is, but it sometimes makes the car bounce.

I couldn’t make the car go, but, honest as I can be, I didn’t want to.  I like making Henrietta laugh, and boy did she, but I was more than ready to get back in the traveling bag and get the park, so I could fall with everyone.  And, sure enough, we arrived just a few minutes later–though I guess it could have been longer, I don’t know.  Henrietta snorted when I got back in the bag, because she said I made a really funny face, and then I quacked for so long that I don’t really know how much time passed.  But it was so funny!

Well, as I said before, everyone had already fallen when we got there, and I didn’t see any other people falling, although there were some children playing with sticks, and one of them seemed to be really curious to me.  I mean, I know I’m just a duck, but he sure danced silly with that stick.  Zach said he looked like a Jedi with parking son’s disease.  I don’t know what that is, but, as I said, I don’t know how to drive.

Anyway, the boy went away, and just in time too!  Zach and Katie had food, and Henrietta and I got to try some!  The first thing we tried was a hamburger, but I think it wasn’t made too good, because it didn’t taste like ham at all.

It tasted like ketchup.

But the really best thing we tried, that was so super good, I thought I really was going to fly.  It was called a funner cake, and even though it didn’t look much like a cake at all, it sure was fun!  It had some kind of white, powdery stuff on it–I think that was the funner part!–that made my head feel all happy, and caused Henrietta to snort for three straight minutes!  I thought my beak was gonna explode from quacking so hard!

IT WAS SOOO GOOD!

After a while,  it was time to go, which was okay with Henrietta and me because we were ready for a nap.  And even though Henrietta and I aren’t Big enough to go to the playground, we did get to sit together on a bench for a little bit, and watch the other kids.  I tell you, it sure looks like a lot of fun.

Henrietta is a super neat hippo.

It sure was a lot of fun, but boy was I tired.  I was really happy that Henrietta got to go too, and that I got to eat some yummy food, and even though I didn’t fall at the park, I sure did when I got home!

This was the best fall I've ever made!


Cross Fudginating

zacharysteele Leave a comment

My latest post on the Southern Author’s Blog, A Good Blog is Hard to Find:

“My biggest problem is my brother, Farley Drexel Hatcher. He’s two-and-a-half years old. Everybody calls him Fudge.”

That was all it took.  Twenty words.  Three sentences.  And from that point on, I knew I wanted to have books in my life, and that someday I would write books that made people feel the way I felt at that moment.  It wasn’t so much that Judy Blume had launched into the introduction of a character I would fall in love with, nor was it that I knew, right then and there, that no book would ever be as thoroughly awesome as Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing.  Rather, it was that it took less than five seconds to accomplish it.  It was that my life’s path could be so irrevocably altered in the span of a breath.  I might have only been seven, but I knew that was a power I wanted to have.  To have and to master.  Jedi style.

This was my face when I read the line, as it happened.

I began to pour through books, looking for more examples of this power to influence, this directional wind vane of literary might.  I wanted to know if this was a gift that was solitary, handed but to the great mastery of Judy Blume, or if there was a community pool of creation that all authors could simply dip into when they were ready.  When they reached that point in the book, wherever it might have been, where they could lean back in the chair, crack their knuckles, say, “This is about as good a spot as there can be!” and dip into that basin of beautiful phrasing, and monumental simplicity.

Turns out that doesn’t exist, just in case you were wondering.  I looked.  Ponce de Leon had nothing on that search.

Which meant, quite simply, that it was a matter of skill, rather than fortune.  That was good.  After all, I could learn skill.  It’s much harder to learn fortune.  Most often, you’re kind of left standing out in the open, your arms wide, waiting for something pleasant to hit you.  Which is a funny thought, because I’ve never been hit by anything pleasantly.  It usually hurts.  Quite a lot.  So, I snapped out a pencil, grabbed a notepad, threw away the broken bits of the pencil that didn’t care for the “fortunate” hit it took while waiting to be grabbed, gently picked up another pencil, and began writing.  I wrote a story about a young boy, walking his way to a Little League baseball game.  He was nervous, distracted, lost in thought about how the game would play out, and what his ultimate hand in it would be.  He hoped his team won.  It was the championship, after all.  As luck would have it, though, he was so engrossed in thought, that he stepped in a hole, and twisted his ankle.  It was tragic.  It was catastrophic.  It likely meant he would have to sit the game out, if he could even make it to the field.  Somehow, our young hero found the strength to hobble his way, and then the courage to take the field late in the game, when his team needed a hero.  He got the hit that won the game.  All was well.  My pencil, and I, were very happy with what we had created.  I was a writer.

Of course, it didn’t have a Fudg-errific line, or series of lines, but it was mine.  It was breathtaking.  It was, well, it was horrible mostly, but it was the beginning of a great career, I was sure of it.

I discovered, some time later, that not only can this power be utilized in the story, but it can also kick you in the seat of the pants as soon as you open the book.  Kate DiCamillio demonstrated this, as well as any writer can, in her book, Because of Winn Dixie. Behold:

“My name is India Opal Buloni, and last summer, my daddy, the preacher, sent me to the store for a box of macaroni-and-cheese, some white rice, and two tomatoes, and I came back with a dog.”

It was this opening that educated me fully on the power, and importance, of an opening sentence.  In the beginning, just wasn’t going to cut it anymore.  Hence, when the day finally arrived that some crazy person boldly decided to pay actual money to put my work into print, they did so even after I threw everything I had into my first sentence, and managed, in that moment, to completely miss the point.  Instead I re-created the opening line of a rather old joke.

“When the Anti-Christ and Satan entered the bar, nobody took notice.”

That was it.  There it was.  My Fudgey Winn Dixie moment.  It wasn’t horrible.  But it wasn’t Judy Blume.  It wasn’t anywhere in the pool of really cool things that authors write when their brains are on fire.  It was…good, but not necessarily great.  So, I kept at it.  I keep at it still, I should say.  And I continue to tell myself that I can do this.  I can write that memorable, life-altering line.  I can change lives with twenty words, and five seconds.

Or I could try stand-up.

You should always keep your options open.  Just don’t stand out in the middle of everything and wait for them to hit you.  That hurts.

Ducky Thomas Goes to Richmond

zacharysteele 7 Comments

This is Ducky Thomas:

 

This is Ducky Thomas. He is a duck named Thomas.

 

Recently, Ducky Thomas had an adventure.  He went to Richmond, Virginia on a trip.  It wasn’t the grandest of trips, but it was exciting all the same.  He went on this journey with me, as I took to the town as a speaker at the James River Writers Conference.  Unfortunately, however, he did not attend the conference, as it cost quite a bit of money to pay the way for an attendee, and, well, ducks are just not allowed in the library.  So, while I was away, he manned—er, ducked–the hotel room where he…well, I suppose I should let his words speak for themself:

“I’ve never gone on a trip before.  For that matter, I’ve never gone anywhere before.  Before this weekend, I had only been out of the bedroom, where I stay, just once to sit on Zach’s desk.  He said he wanted to take my picture, which was okay with me, but ducks aren’t much on make-up, and don’t often pose for pictures, so I was a bit nervous about it all.  And that was just for a picture!  Imagine how I felt when he asked me if I wanted to go to Richmond! ‘Golly!’ I had exclaimed.  ‘I don’t even know what a Richmond is, but I sure do want to see it!’  So, sure enough, he told me I could go, and went to something called, ‘Target’–which I believe is not far away, but must be a magical place, seeing as how he returned quickly with a wonderful black traveling house with wheels for me to ride in.  Who knew there were such things in the world!  It had plenty of room for me to rest comfortably, and I was able to keep all of Zach’s belongings safe during the trip–though I do have to admit that the darkness made me sleepy, and aside from some bumpy moments, I slept quite a lot.  Fortunately, no one tried to open the house, and before I knew it, Zach was opening the door and I opened my sleepy eyes to see something amazing!  It was a brand new place, much bigger than the bedroom I’m usually in!  And, it had a really big window that let me see one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen!  Ever ever!

 

This is what a Richmond looks like!

 

 

There were lots of what Zach called, 'outtomobeels.' That's the rolling things over there!

 

 

Whoa. Richmond.

 

Well, boy, was I excited!  I just sat in that window ALL day long!  And when it got dark, everything got all sprinkled in little lights everywhere.  It sure was incredible!  Zach was gone most of the time, where he said he was spending time with the Righter people, who like to talk about the Righter things.  Apparently, Zach knows something of this Righting, because he was very excited about all that he had done while he was there.  He was almost as excited as I was about seeing the Richmond all day!  Well, anyway, he told me that he sat on a panel about religion, which does sound kind of unpleasant, and maybe a little painful, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all, so I guess it’s not that bad.  I listened as he talked about his adventures that day, and then the next day too.  He spent an awful lot of time with the Righters, where they talked about the Right way to do things, I suppose.  It’s good that people try to be Right, I’ve been told, so it’s even better that they have conferences to discuss it.  Zach said that the people there liked him so much that they bought all of the books that were for sale!  Yay for Zach!  He said that there were more panels that he sat on (I still don’t know why he sat on them, but, I’m just a duck, and will not understand, I guess).  There was one on Fan Tah See, which is, according to Zach, about make-believe stuff that is in stories, and sometimes has dragons, magic, and shallow vampire characters that only little girls like.  And then there was the one on Die A Log, which is a funny name to me.  I mean, from what I could tell from my perch over the Richmond, it seems to me that logs–which I know from a television show that I watched with Zach, come from trees–are very pretty, and very helpful to things.  I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill one.  But Zach made it sound kind of delightful, and said that the Righter people asked a lot of really neat questions about Die A Log that he, and two other Righters by the names of David L. Robbins, and Lauren Oliver, answered.  I don’t know them, but they sound neat!

Well, he just seemed to really enjoy his time, which was wonderful to hear, because I was beginning to worry that I might be having too much fun looking at the Richmond–more fun than Zach–and that made me feel bad.  I didn’t want Zach to miss out on the fun, either.  He did sit with me for a while watching the sun rise one morning, which was really neat!  I had never seen that before either!  I was glad he got to see it too, though he had to leave before I could tell him that.  But I think he already knew.  So, I guess that was pretty much it, after that.  Zach said he met lots of new people, and that there was something funny about something he said the Righters called a, ‘humanzee.’  I don’t know what that is, but as I’ve said, I’m a duck, and I don’t really know too much about things. Zach told me, as he was putting me back in the black, boxy house, with wheels that he hoped that he could keep in contact with his new friends, and that some of them were really nice, and pretty good Righters that needed to simply believe in themselves a bit more.  I liked the way that sounded, and so I just smiled at Zach, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.  The next thing I knew, we were home again.

I don’t have to stay in the bedroom anymore.  Now I get to spend time on Zach’s desk while he does his Righting.  It makes me happy. But not as happy as knowing that Zach has promised to take me to other new places too!  I can’t wait!

 

It's a big world for such a small duck.

 

Once upon a time…

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(note: this is from a post I wrote for the Southern Authors Blog)

…there was a first sentence that killed any chance I ever had to find an agent.

It’s an undeniable truth.  For all the work you put into that manuscript, for all the effort you pour into character, story, plot devices, twists, graphical oddities, and the like, you won’t get a solid read without a strong opening.  You may feel, as you package that manuscript in a manilla envelope, and drop it off at the Post Office (hey, please allow me these simple rememberences, and don’t remind me that my email inbox is the post office of the future…I’m not ready yet.), that you are a solitary voice on the way to a private meeting with the agent–or agents–of your choosing, but the truth is, you are but a shallow echo in the cavernous cacophony of potential suitors.  The agent simply does not have the time to meander, and suffer their way through every manuscript that arrives on their desk.  It boils down to what you present when the assumed Once upon a time is out of the way.  Hook them, or you’re in the slush pile.

Seems a bit harsh, right?  Seems like they’ll miss some true quality simply by stopping a few paragraphs into a manuscript.  And they do.  They miss quite a few.  They miss quite a lot.  They miss them all, and stamp them with, “Not.”  Which is the reason why you have to invest so much into that intro.  You have to make them want to read on.  Sure, they might push forward if you display talent, and the potential to even things up as the book goes along.  That’s the kind of work that can be molded.  But if you offer a generic peek into your world, or hand them a limp stick to walk through your path, they’ll just toss you aside, and forget your name before they’ve properly let go.  They don’t have the time for writers who won’t invest the time in a few paragraphs that make their time worthwhile.  SEE?

You don’t have to blow something up, or kill someone, in the first paragraph (though it never hurts, right?), but you do have to offer something.  Think of any time in your childhood when you had to ask mom, or dad, or grandpa, or whomever, for that big favor. That big request. That biggest of the big things that you wanted, or places that you wanted to go.  How did you present it?  Did you just run up screaming, “OHMYGODMOMIHAVETOHAVEIT!”  And if you did, it probably didn’t get you too far.  Surely, some explanation would be necessary to woo her/him/them.  Or, instead, did you take some time to plan out the intro to that conversation, so that you calmly presented yourself more in the, “So, you remember that time you said I should broaden my spiritual horizons?  Well guess where Randy, and his family are going?” frame? A place in which the question was intriguing, and the answer was left dangling ever so slightly out of reach?  Well, your manuscript is what you want published, and the agent is your mom–far too busy to invest in lengthy discussion for something she’s not likely to let you do/have, and unwilling to take your word for it simply because you’re screaming at her about it.

Take the time.  Plan it out.  If your manuscript is solid, if it is strong, it will stand on its own (or can be worked through edits) if you offer a door worth walking through.  Work on the intro.  Find the interest.  Make it move in your hands, draw your reader (and, naturally, the agent) to the pages beyond.  It’s the kickstart to the engine.  Make it purr.

Keep it reigned in, and don’t let it get away from you.

The agent will love you for it.

And Now Here’s Something We Hope You Really Like!

zacharysteele 1 Comment

I was a huge fan of Rocky & Bullwinkle.  I still am, even if I’ve forgotten just about every episode, or clip, I’ve ever seen.  But what I do remember, and what I will always remember, is the opening sequence, and the theme music that goes with it.

A flying squirrel?  Are you kidding me?  How awesome is that?  Only slightly less awesome than a clumsy, but witty, moose, that much I’m certain of!

Hey, as a side note, I had a flying squirrel once.  His name was Quirkus. 

 He was awesome.  And he liked grapes.  And pockets.  And urinating on my shoulder.

But anyway, Rocky the Flying Squirrel got me to thinking about openings.  And squirrels.  And it occurred to me that, just perhaps, there’s a lesson in there for aspiring writers.  As always, there’s a story, albeit a short one.

The fact of the matter is that a story–any story–requires a handle for the reader/viewer to grab hold of.  Something to ensure that they grip that opening, and hang on until you reveal what all meant.  What that opening sequence had to do with anything.  And don’t fool yourself, it has everything to do with your story, and its ultimate end point.  Watch any movie, and in the first ten minutes, if it doesn’t give you something to grab onto, you’re done.  You don’t want to invest yourself in it, but in all likelihood, you spent the money to watch it, so, well, you endure it, and offer it a tepid, “Meh,” when the end credits roll.

In a book, you have the first few pages to hook the reader, if not less than that.  For the prospective agent, or editor, you have as little as the first paragraph.  You want to tell a story to begin your story.  You want to give the reader the feeling that they just unwittingly jumped into a car on the most exhilarating/frightening/horrifying roller coaster they will ever know. 

I journey to Richmond, almost every year, in October to attend the James River Writers Conference, where I have yet to fail to leave wiser than I arrived.  They have, for the past few years, opened the conference with something they call, “First Pages,” which is nothing more than a critique that is as much Sumo wrestling, as it is Pie in the Face.  As a writer, you anonymously submit the first page of your manuscript, or story, and two extremely talented readers perform your work before the 150 attendees, and a panel that usually consists of an editor, an agent, an established writer, and a roll of the dice.  I boldly submitted the first page of Anointed at one of these sessions, leaned back in my chair, and awaited the praise that was sure to come.

M-hm.

I was butchered, and justifiably so.  My opening was droll, rambling, and nothing happened.  It was a horrible opening.  It was a serviceable third chapter, but it did nothing to offer hope that it would be anything but what it appeared.  Who really wants to endure 336 pages of rambling?  Of course, the book isn’t 336 pages of rambling, but that opening that I offered left the impression that everything to follow was precisely that.  So, that weekend, motivated by the crudely horrible things that they panel said of my opening (not the work itself, but the opening), I wrote a scene in which Satan, and the Anti-Christ walked into a bar.  There was dialogue, there was some idle rambling (as it is a great tool of humor I employ), but there was also action, as the characters worked through the scene, and there was intrigue.  There were characters that immediately offered questions, and a story within the story; a story that played out through the entire work, and resolved itself in the end.

It was like stepping into the car of the roller coaster, and anticipating what was to come, rather than the feeling that the ride was over before it ever really began.  Give your reader a moment to look forward to the ride, give them a glimpse of the rails, the precipitous climb to that first drop, and perhaps even a few twists, and turns, beyond.  But don’t drop them in the car along the way, somewhere on a flat plain, where the only thing they can possibly feel is apathy for the ride.

A Haunting in God’s Office

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A few days ago, I announced that Flutter: An Epic of Mass Distraction, had been given the release date of October 1, 2010.  I also promised some material from that forthcoming work.  So, today we’ll take a peek into one of the more bizarre, and unfocused, locations in the whole of the scope of Heaven: God’s Office.  Yes, even God has an office.  And he has a picture of you in it.  Well, you, and another few billion people.  Also, his office is haunted, though the spirit in question isn’t much of a menace.  A whiny, moody, ghost, true, but not menacing.  This scene also included the arch-angel of dreams, Morpheus, who has a lot to live up to, given that his identity was, in effect, swiped and utilized in the Matrix.  So, anyway, here  you go, with no further set up.  Enjoy and feel free to comment!

God’s office was infinite.

            This was as much a product of His love for a spacious workspace, something tolerable to His love for plastic plants, and pictures of loved ones—and there were billions of those—as it was a universal necessity.  To say that a limited, defined, space would produce an undesirable amount of clutter on His desk would be a gross understatement.  It would, in fact, produce nothing short of Armageddon.

            The prospect of the utter obliteration of humanity aside, God also had a fascination with aesthetics.  Further, He had a fascination with structure.  And though He was still working to understand the finer nuances of Feng Shui, and how to best apply such principles to an infinite space, He was quite fond of His space, and had plopped in a few million bookcases, end tables, chairs, and trinkets for good measure. 

It was good, as He might say.

            With the exception of Morpheus, the only angel to have earned visitation rights, no spirit—human or angel—had ever stepped foot in God’s Office.  The only company He kept, and the only soul that had ever occupied this luxurious space at the same time on a regular basis, was a fraction of His being—a splinter of Self created purely as a means to combat His galactic boredom—known as the Holy Ghost.  This was as much a product of His affinity for the Holy Ghost, as it was that it simply could not go anywhere else.  Ever.  In a way, the Holy Ghost was God’s personal pet, imprisoned in an infinite office, bound to amuse its creator, and as complicated a being as a jello mold encased in a blanket, providing the jello was bitter and reeked of teenage angst. 

            WHAT DO YOU THINK?

            The Holy Ghost, contemplated God.  “Woooo?” it asked.

            God looked at Himself, and balled tiny fists.  WHY SHOULDN’T I BE?  MORPHEUS THINKS THIS BEST, AND I RATHER AGREE WITH HIM.

            Though it lacked a defined shape, and form, to any degree, it did sparkle quite a lot, if only dully.  And though any action in which it partook was typically not entirely visible to any eyes short of God’s unless it wore the Holy Sheet, the Holy Ghost shrugged.  It liked to shrug.  Being in God’s presence had cemented the need for a quality shrug.  “Woo, wooo, wooo,” it replied.

            PLEASE STOP THAT, said God.  IT’S NOT VERY BECOMING.  FRANKLY IT’S ENTIRLY UNECESSARY, AND MORPHEUS HAS NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

            “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Morpheus smiled dimly at the Holy Ghost.  “I’ve no desire to be a bother.  But, for the record, I think You look absolutely adorable.  Though I do admit to simply being happy just to be able to see you, for a change.”

            God stretched his tiny arms outward, eyebrows raised to the translucent specter in His seat.  “SEE?  ADORABLE.”

            The Holy Ghost sighed somewhere from the depths of the fourth level of Heaven, and slumped further into the seat.  “Fine.  Whatever.  I just don’t get why you can’t be the old man with the beard, and all, you know?  It’s like you’re more You that way, and stuff,” it moaned.

            I’VE BEEN THE OLD MAN WITH THE BEARD BEFORE.  HUMANS DISREGARD ANYTHING THAT PLAYS TO A STEREOTYPE.  THEY HAD ME COMMITTED.  RUINED A PERFECTLY GOOD SABBATICAL.  I’VE NEVER FELT SO SHORT-CHANGED.

            “That’s what she said.”

            WHAT?

            “I believe,” Morpheus interjected, “that our transparent friend was curious as to how long you stayed, during that unfortunate time?”

            The Holy Ghost shrugged.  “Whatever.”

            WELL, I LEFT IMMEDIATELY, OF COURSE.  WHY DO YOU ASK? 

            “Well, it’s, like, you forget who you are, and all, when you’re there too long, you know?”

            God snorted, allowing a simple laugh.  I MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT FORGET WHO I WAS.  I SIMPLY NEGLECTED TO REMEMBER EVERY FACET OF MY BEING.  A CAVERNOUS DIFFERENCE OF INEVTIBLE RESULTS THERE.  SUCH THINGS CAN HAPPEN WHEN YOU DABBLE IN HUMANITY.  FILL AN EMPTY GLASS WITH WATER, AND SEE HOW LONG IT TAKES TO FORGET THAT IT WAS ONCE EMPTY.  HUMANITY IS NO DIFFERENT.  THE TRICK IS NOT TO STAY TOO LONG.  OR TO FILL THE GLASS TOO MUCH.  I’VE TRIED TO GET HUMANS TO UNDERSTAND THIS, BUT IT SEEMS THEY ARE FAR TOO BUSY DEBATING THE ORIGINS OF THE EGG TO SEE THAT THE CHICKEN WAS NEVER INTENDED TO BE SEPARATE FROM IT AT ALL.  EITHER WAY, I’LL BE FINE.  He nodded to Morpheus.  I’LL BE FINE, he repeated.

            “You’re so blind!  You deserved to be accused of insanity!  Jeez!”  The Holy Ghost triumphantly crossed its arms, and, if possible, slumped further into the chair.

            I DID NOT DESERVE TO BE ACCUSED OF INSANITY.  IT WAS SIMPLY THE RESULT OF A POOR CHOICE IN WARDROBE, AND A LACK OF SELF-AWARENESS.  THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT.  YOU WILL SEE.  THEY WILL NOT DENY A CHILD HIS VOICE.

            The Holy Ghost rolled its eyes, and, being short on further, more visible, dramatics, offered a huffed, “Whatever.”

            God considered the Holy Ghost, and placed His small hands on His small hips.  DON’T SAY, ‘WHATEVER,’ TO ME.  I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.  THIS IS A VERY DELICATE SITUATION, AND IT REQUIRES A DELICATE VOICE.  IT WILL ALL WORK OUT FINE, YOU’LL SEE.  ONCE I’VE MET WITH IZZY, AND LOCATED OUR WAYWARD SOUL, I CAN RETURN AND DEAL WITH THE OTHER PROBLEMS AT HAND FROM HERE.  IT’S SHORT WORK.  MORPHEUS, YOU WILL CARE FOR THINGS WHILE I’M AWAY.  Morpheus offered a dramatic bow.  I WILL BE SET UP SOON ENOUGH TO MONITOR MATTERS FROM EARTH. 

            “That should be awesome for us all, I’m sure,” muttered the Holy Ghost.

            THINGS WILL BE FINE, AND I’LL RETURN AS PLANNED.  YOU’LL SEE.  DON’T WORRY.  I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.

            “Of course you do,” replied Morpheus, remaining prostrate.  “You are God.  God knows all.”

            In response, God simply nodded.  He was not often prone to doubt, at least none that the universe at large could be made aware of, but He had to admit that this situation was a difficult one, and had already proven itself to be tricky to set in motion precisely the way He desired.  INDEED I DO.  NOW, He said to the Holy Ghost, YOU WILL REMEMBER TO DO YOUR JOB AS INSTRUCTED?  IT IS VITAL THAT YOU DO.

            The Holy Ghost shrugged.  “Whatever.”

            God raised His eyebrows. 

            “Yeah,” shot the Holy Ghost, “I said, ‘whatever,’ didn’t I?  We’ve only been over it a bajillion times.”

            After a moment, God nodded, raised a small hand, and waived a farewell to the Holy Ghost, and to the nearly doubled-over form of Morpheus, feeling slightly at odds with the feeling of physicality.  It had been close to a hundred years since He had last taken a trip to earth.  Even for God, that was a lengthy bit of rope.  BE WELL, THE BOTH OF YOU.  I SHALL RETURN WHEN TIME IS IN MY FAVOR. 

            In a physical sense, God turned to a nearby wall, stepped into an open tubular portal, and shot out of sight in a whoosh of air.  In the infinite expanse of the quite unphysical realm of God’s Office, however, He simply vanished in a trickle of rippled light.

The Holy Ghost looked at the now empty space where God had stood, shrugged, and began a search through God’s desk for a crossword puzzle to keep it occupied. 

“This is all very exciting.  He left you a job, did He?”

“Yeah,” said the Holy Ghost.  “Some letter I have to give to some angel when he gets here, or whatever.”

“Truly?  How wonderful.  A message of grand importance I gather?”

“Not really.  Just a stupid message that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense at all.  Typical.  You wanna see it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t presume to corrupt the job left to you, but, maybe for the sheer fun of exploration, let’s give it a look, yes?”  The Holy Ghost pulled a folded letter out of a top drawer, and slid it across the desk.  “Well,” said Morpheus, reading the short note.  “Now the fun truly begins, doesn’t it?”

“Whatever.”

The Electronic Age Doesn’t Care if You Have Pages

zacharysteele 1 Comment

The other day, I wrote a blog on the Mercury Retrograde Press site about the advent of technology, and what it means to the book buying world.  In a blatant display of laziness, and continued promotion of ME, I offer it here as well (though I highly recommend a trip to the MRP site!!!).

Here it be:

So, I’m a reader, just like you, and I’ve spent the better part of my life collecting books, selling them to used book stores when I have too many, and then investing the better part of the next few years desperately trying to buy them back.  I like being able to peruse my shelves, touch the spines, journey through the tactile memories of when I first read them.  I enjoy the feel of the page against my fingers, love the process of turning my way through another world (gently…do not bend!), and will never tire of falling asleep with the solid weight of a tome against my chest.

I cannot fathom a life without books.

But the Electronic Age can.  It can imagine a world in which paper is rendered irrelevant, and bookshelves are replete in unwatered plants, and pictures of loved ones, with nary a book to set them apart.  It can imagine a world in which an epic is downloaded, where heroes battle nemeses not across a page, but through the pixelated kaleidoscope of a computer screen.  It wants your books, and no amount of kicking and screaming will turn it away.

And you are kicking and screaming, aren’t you?

Just ask any book aficionado, and you will receive a diatribe against the Machine, unlike any this side of John Connor’s rebellion.  “No way,” they will say, just shy of screaming.  “The book will always exist.  People like to hold a book, to bend a book, to flip pages, and remove dust jackets!  This whole e-publishing thing is a fad, meant to placate the lazy, techno-geeks amongst us.  Just a fad, that’s all.”

Mhm.

To a degree, though, they are right; and to a greater degree they are drowning in a shallow pool of denial.  Motoko Rich of The New York Times recently wrote a splendid article about the rise of the e-book, in which he spends a very short amount of time extolling a very large amount of readable information, all of which is meant to help us understand the financial ramifications of the e-book vs. the traditional paper-bound.  It’s a fantastic read, and is quite the enlightening journey through the numbers involved.  And, in the end, it’s difficult to argue to point he makes.  The current economic downturn has everyone thinking cheap, lean, and efficient.  The publishing industry has been hammered over the past two years, and is reeling in one direction, or another, hungry for any means by which to gain a better foothold on the future.  The truth is–whether we like it or not–e-books are a more cost-effective process.

Here is the crux of his cost-based argument for e-books:

On a typical hardcover, the publisher sets a suggested retail price. Let’s say it is $26. The bookseller will generally pay the publisher $13. Out of that gross revenue, the publisher pays about $3.25 to print, store and ship the book, including unsold copies returned to the publisher by booksellers.

For cover design, typesetting and copy-editing, the publisher pays about 80 cents. Marketing costs average around $1 but may go higher or lower depending on the title. Most of these costs will deline on a per-unit basis as a book sells more copies.

Let’s not forget the author, who is generally paid a 15 percent royalty on the hardcover price, which on a $26 book works out to $3.90. For big best-selling authors — and even occasionally first-time writers whose publishers have taken a risk — the author’s advance may be so large that the author effectively gets a higher slice of the gross revenue. Publishers generally assume they will write off a portion of many authors’ advances because they are not earned back in sales.

Without accounting for such write-offs, the publisher is left with $4.05, out of which it must pay overhead for editors, cover art designers, office space and electricity before taking a profit.

Now let’s look at an e-book. Under the agreements with Apple, the publishers will set the consumer price and the retailer will act as an agent, earning a 30 percent commission on each sale. So on a $12.99 e-book, the publisher takes in $9.09. Out of that gross revenue, the publisher pays about 50 cents to convert the text to a digital file, typeset it in digital form and copy-edit it. Marketing is about 78 cents.

The author’s royalty — a subject of fierce debate between literary agents and publishing executives — is calculated among some of the large trade publishers as 25 percent of the gross revenue, while others are calculating it off the consumer price. So on a $12.99 e-book, the royalty could be anywhere from $2.27 to $3.25.

All that leaves the publisher with something ranging from $4.56 to $5.54, before paying overhead costs or writing off unearned advances.

But that’s not the only reason that we, as the book buying populace, need to come to understand, and even to a degree, appreciate the reality of electronic publishing.  Just look around you.  We live on the computer.  We’re on Facebook, or Twitter, playing computer games, writing, or reading documents for work, getting our news, watching videos on You Tube, or catching up on shows on Hulu.  We have the I-phone, blackberry, the I-Pad (that still hurts to say), and various other mobile devices that have essentially become mini-mobile-pc’s that dominate our days.  How many times have you gotten stuck playing that ridiculously awesome paper ball in the waste basket game?  Generations of children are being raised on this as a normal facet of society, and no amount of reminiscing about rotary phones will change what the future holds.  Computers–the Electronic Age–is here, and it stands to reason that books will follow.  Actually, books must follow.  If we want people to read, then we have to give in to the conveniences they so desperately seek, and allow that books won’t exist if publishers aren’t around to print them.

Me?  I still want to sprawl out on a lawn chair at the beach with a paperback.  I still want to stick my nose in a book, and smell the scent of paper.  And I still want my dream library, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, replete with as many cobwebs as they can build.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go flop on the bed, with my copy of The Magicians, and read until I fall asleep.

Fluttering Your Way This October

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I killed a man.

Well, actually I killed several people, but to keep to the point, I killed a man by the name of Timothy Webb.  I thought this would be enough to keep him forever out of MY life, but, alas, I was mistaken.  Apparently, God took quite a fancy to him, and his actions as Christ, and CEO, at The Christ Corporation, and decided to make him an angel.  He gave Timothy his metaphorical wings, granted him the gift of a Key that supposedly held the power of Jesus, patted him on the back, and sent him on his way.

His first act was to show up on the doorstep of MY imagination, and demand that I do something about it.  I just kind of stared at him, in terrible disbelief, and shrugged.  This did nothing to satisfy him, so he invited himself in, began rambling about being ill-equipped to be an angel, and something about Natasha–the maligned angel known as Satan in our world–recovering well from her temporary bout of humanity.  So, for the next few hours we sat, until it became apparent to ME that the only way I would get rid of Timothy would be to write another story for him.  I proposed the idea, made up a completely fabricated storyline, waived him on, and then proceeded to forge onward with a plot that, in no way resembled the idea I had discussed with Timothy.  From this was born, Flutter: An Epic of Mass Distraction.

It now has a release date: October 1, 2010.

What is Flutter?  Well, it’s more devil fiction than Anointed, has significantly more explosions, plenty of characters who don’t survive to see the end, and an angelic system of social networking that is eerily familiar to Twitter.  But that’s not much of a description.  Kind of leaves you wanting, I admit.  So, instead, I offer you a brief look at some of what I wrote for my publisher, when I turned over the reigns of my baby:

In my eyes, it carries the same voice, and some of the feel, but none of the story structure of Anointed.  I wanted to write something, on the heels of a book that was philosophical, and, at times, rambling, with something a little more adventurous, a little more off the wall, and a lot more explodey (I really like that word all of a sudden)…I have included references, or creatures, as follows: Quantum Leap, Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Back to the Future, The Matrix, a dragon, a vampire (tee hee…I like him!), a bobsledding monkey, a wizard/piano duel , zombies, and a chocolate hot tub.  Ok, the last may not be fantasy in terms of the genre, but you find me anybody who doesn’t like everything listed before it, that isn’t as fond of the hot tub, and I’ll quit writing.  Oh, also, there’s a reference to swine flu, and to Google Buzz (which is mistakenly called Fuzz).  That, along with Natasha in a bikini, a porch made of cheese (it’s Gouda than you think!  Ugh…), a God who thinks he’s a child, a video game of explosive proportions, ugly angels, an escalator in the sky, a prison in Heaven, the rebirth of Jesus, and a very unfortunate moment for the masters of The Christ Corporation…there’s so much activity, and no break to sit in a restaurant to discuss the history of Satan, or in an office to discuss the history of Christ.  What I hope I have created is a book that you really just can’t put down, and one that makes you both want to read its predecessor, and anxiously await what is to come.

I like that I can be a complete tard when I write to her.  Granted, she published the first book, so it’s not like I’m going to fool her at this point.  It’s not quite back copy material (that bit you might read on the back of a book that summarizes the story), but it covers most of what I consider to be cool about Flutter.  I’ve been asked what this book is meant to lampoon, given the generalized lampoon of Christianity in Anointed, to which I say it’s predominantly a lampoon of social media, and how easily distracted the world has become by it, and to technology in general.  I’d like to think that I can wield this tale like a weapon, and waggle it in the face of all those who have fallen prey to its mighty grip, but, well, I’m one of them.  Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Goodreads, email, blogging, texting, computer games, anything and everything that occurs on the cell phone, and so forth–I’m there.  Or, at least, mostly there.  So are you, most likely.  Be warned: The angels know, and they’re about to do something rash.  Ish.  Rash-ish.  More in the vein of rash, but less rash than rash might be.  Kind of, severe, in that, “Don’t make me come down there,” kind of way.

So, I’ll keep it at that for now.  I hope to offer a few snippets in the coming weeks.  The first will likely be a scene that takes place in God’s Office, as He prepares for a trip to Earth, with the ever-present moan of the Holy Ghost guiding the way.

Until then, I need to go lock the door.  I’m sure Timothy wants to know what to do now.

Visiting the Elves of the Underworld

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(from a blog on the Southern Authors Blog)

Creativity is an instrument of great torment.  Not always is the torment self-inflicted, but generally speaking it’s swung about like a screeching cat at the end of a rope, taking out any and everyone in its path with the razor sharp precision of an unclipped claw.  It doesn’t come easily, and in the particular case of writing, it isn’t often absolved from a clumsy hand.  In fact, creativity itself doesn’t ensure much more than the ability to tell really fantastic stories, that often take the breath from strangers minutes before they beat you over the head for lying so badly, and wasting their time in the process.

In the end, that’s what writing is: The ability to tell creative, and sometimes fantastical, lies that stand to belief long enough to keep people from beating the hell out of you.  The best make it through a career with nary a bump on the noggin’, while the remaining bunch range from generally bloodied, to horrible stumps of pulverized humanity (or semi-humanity for some).  To be in the latter, well, let’s simply say that a career is the last thing on your mind.  Generally, you’re more diligent with your insurance premiums than your skills as a writer, since only one of those guarantees that your bills are mostly paid, or that your loved ones have some sense of financial gain from your death.

I learned this many years ago, after a number of failed attempts to crack the publishing brotherhood, and decided instead to take the necessary steps to ensure that I took as few lumps as possible on the trek to writering stardydom.  It wasn’t an easy journey, and ultimately it cost me dearly, but it brought my writing to a new level of exuberant glee that I, myself, could never even reach.  And though it doesn’t behoove me to share this, nor will it enhance my opportunity at fame, or glory, I will tell you the secret–the terrible secret–of how I altered the path of my writing life forever.  How I turned the stacks of moldy writing cheese into a glittering bath of gold (and honey, though I have yet to use that).

I bought it, outright, from the Elvin Wordsmiths of the Underworld.

It didn’t cost much, actually.  You’d be surprised how cheaply these guys grant such skill.  The greater cost was my cat Rocky, whom they fancied mightily, and insisted I leave in their care.  It was heartbreaking, but ultimately worth it.  I mean, I loved that cat, don’t get me wrong.  There aren’t too many guys who will wander into the Underworld with a cat sprouting from his backpack like a fuzzy, chattering, well, cat in a sack I guess, but I did it.  Granted, I only took Rocky with me because I had read that the Elves were terribly frightened of cats, especially the ones with the ability to hiss a river, like my Rocky.  That turned out to be a crock.  See?  There’s an example of a creative liar who’s gonna get his head kicked in.  You don’t tell people they can take their cat to the Underworld, as a means of protection!  Surely he had to know that someone would do this, at some point.

Ugh.

Anyway, they were really nice creatures, and knew an awful lot about the craft.  Of course, if I had simply wanted to learn how to be a better writer I would have just taken a class, or read a book, or gone to a conference, or a seminar.  Then I’d still have Rocky.

Crap.

Um, hm.  Did I really give my cat (and cash, don’t forget the cash!) up for this?  Wow.  That kinda makes me look bad.  I mean, it’s pretty cool to be able to say that Elves magicked up some skill for me, and that I got published because of it.  And it was a fantastic journey deep into the mountains of (not gonna tell you).  Not to mention the cavernous waterfalls, and ancient riddles that moved walls, and opened channels of water that flushed me under the mountains like… 

I miss my cat. 

You know, it might have been worth it if I had seen a dragon. Anything is worth it, if you get to see a dragon.  But, well, nope.  Just some stupid elves that stole my cat, and gave me the ability to lie in an entertaining fashion that may, or may not, result in my head getting bashed in some day.  So, well, hey, this has been fun.  

Well, I’m gonna go now.  I want to see if I can find pictures of Rocky.  Maybe I can sell enough books to fund another expedition to the Underworld.  Then I can get my cat back, and blow the Elves to hell. 

After I go beat the hell out of the writer that told me I could take my cat.

Rejecting Rejection

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(this blog first appeared on A Good Blog is Hard to Find)

I made it through the entirety of high school without having to endure the potential tragedy of a date.

Now, in that, it might seem as though I celebrate that I escaped the awkwardness of a staggered and indecisive conversation over a delightful dinner at Taco Bell, or that I rejoice in the passing of another dance without collapsing in a heap atop the punch bowl by way of two very clumsy, and inexperienced steps, or even that I am proud that I never had to answer that terrifying throttle of Ahab’s harpoon to the nerves, “Should I use my tongue, or would she slap ME?” But that would imply a choice in the matter. Sure, I was the shy kid that would blush if someone next to ME sneezed, but for the most part I gave gallant, if not altogether misguided, attempts at finding a girl who, “got ME.” The problem–the ultimate failing in this course–was that I spent those years of my life chasing after every single girl in the school that would rather have structured their weekends around delightfully dull dinners with their parents and younger siblings, than to have succumbed to MY cherubic charm (absent the charm). It made for quite a run of rejection, to be honest. The kind that, more often than not, left me standing bewildered in a hallway of students, a mere bumper to the course, a potential ramp of skateboarding delight, wondering why it was that a slap to the face could make MY feet hurt so badly.

The pure fact of it all is that rejection sucks. Sure, you can pick yourself up, you can tell yourself that they just didn’t get you, and that someday you’ll find someone to flaunt in front of the line of people that rejected you, and take the high road, give a simple raise of the brow, and maybe a knowing smile (which always works best with the tongue out, if you ask ME), and you’ll revel in your triumph, hand in hand with acceptance. But those words…those god-awful words, just never leave you.

“No, you’re just really not cool enough for me.”

“Yeah, um, I’m just not looking for you right now. Check back with me in a couple of years.”

“You’re a really great guy, and you have great potential as a companion, but I don’t think you fully understand what dating is all about. Maybe you should be looking for someone with lower standards.”

“You know, I might have gotten those messages, but I haven’t really had a chance to listen to them. How about you call me in a few weeks, and, if I’ve had a chance to review your proposal, we’ll talk then?”

“See, the problem is your pitch. If you had begun with the most important part–where you ask me out–I might not have lost interest so quickly. The whole, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about what to say,’ bit is a horribly cliche start. It’s the way these things work, though. I get so many offers each week, and I only have so much time to listen.”

It’s a tired, tired, um, tired…thing, but you carry on. You carry on because you’re stubborn. You carry on because you just couldn’t imagine another day without a companion by your side. You carry on because, well, because you’re just plain lonely, and really want someone to share your time with. Mostly, you carry on because you refuse to be denied, and know that someday the right girl is going to come around, and that you will utterly, absolutely, and undeniably rock her world. You do this because the failure to do so, would mean the end of your dating life, which is something you just cannot allow.

But never mind that, we’re here to talk about writing, which has nothing at all to do with anything I have thus far said. After all, people will always appreciate you for spilling your guts out on the computer tremendously more than they do if you do so in person. You need thick skin in any area of life that presents the possibility for rejection, but writing is pretty straightforward, and is unlikely to ever cause you pain, or grief, or to feel like your brains have just been sucked out through your nose.

For example, I was on the verge of snagging a literary agent once at the William Morris Agency, but was declined, after a thorough reading, not due to poorly written material, but due to problematic scheduling, and an untimely submission. See for yourself: “Though we appreciate, and value, your talent as a writer, we feel that your manuscript is just not right for our agency, or for the market at this time. Please consider us for future projects, however.”

See? That’s not a rejection at all, and sounds nothing like the rejections posted above! They clearly wanted to represent ME, but were unable to because of the market. They just couldn’t wait to read the rest of MY work!

Earlier that same year, I had sent sample writings to the wonderfully compassionate, and caring, people at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. They were so very considerate in their attempts to encourage MY writing skills, that they sent me a letter to MY request that included the following: “Writing is a skill that we wish to harness, and cultivate, in each, and every, writer. We feel, though you do show great potential, that you would be best served to improve your skill further before applying again for Bread Loaf. Please consider sending us more material in a couple of years.”

Again, such a willingness to lead ME in the right direction! How can I feel anything but complete acceptance of MY skill, and ability? Goodness knows, I might very well have languished in a perpetual state of un-improvement for years to come! Now I’m a published author! Thank you, Bread Loaf!

Sometimes–yes, even in the publishing industry!–the level of acceptance you receive from publishers, or agents, or editors, or the like, can be twinged ever so slightly with a heavy, yet suggestive, hand. You might even feel a bit put off by the words they have chosen, but rest assured that they only have your best interests at heart, and want nothing more than to see you in their fold, successful and happy! They try so hard to offer you their acceptance that they will chance to wake you from your blissful rest with a most carefully aimed bomb. For example, I sent a manuscript to Harper Collins many years ago, offering them the glorious chance to view a book I knew they would trip over themselves to purchase. What I received was a carefully worded letter, indicating that my work was such a stellar piece of art, that they wanted to ensure I knew how elated they were that such a young man (I was 18 at the time, and fresh off a new branch of female-induced rejection) had, “taken up writing as a hobby.” Wow! What kind words! I mean, I’m sure that spell-check missed the, “hobby,” part of that. Obviously, they meant, “career,” but such are the follies of the computer age!

So, rest assured, dear friends of the craft, that rejection is not something you will ever have to deal with. Your best interests, and the cultivation of your art, will be coddled by those in your midst: by your friends, fellow writers, agents, editors, the kindly old lady in the cafe that threatened to beat you with her walker if you talked about your writing just once more, and so on. They want only to see you succeed. All you have to do is smile, and wait for the offers to pour in.

Just don’t ask ME for dating advice.