As those of you who read this very irregular blog will know, I don’t plan what I write. I put my fingers on the keyboard and out comes a whole heap of stuff, some of which is hopefully interesting – although I’m prepared to concede there’s just as likely to be a certain percentage of shit that makes its way onto the page. I love to waffle (as in ‘talk a lot.’)
My grim humorless Russian editor has taught me that precision is everything. Say what needs to be said and not one jot more. If there’s fault with a lot of the self published authors (and boy is there ever), it is this absence of perspective on their own work. I can remember a time when I was dumb enough to think my every sentence dripped perfection, my words glistened like diamonds, and who dared spoil the riches of my paragraphs? Now I know better, primarily thanks to my editor. Most self published scribblers don’t appear to have picked up this simple lesson, because they don’t have anyone in their lives willing and able to tell them how dire their writing is.
But this is not the focus of this blog post. Its headed ‘In the Wilderness.’ And before you think its a euphemism for depression, it actually serves a two-fold purpose: to describe my stumbling into strange new territory as I write, as well as hint at some of the narrative I’m concocting.
So, yes, I’ve started something new. I have a form letter that I’ll be firing off to my agent soon, seeing as normal office hours have returned, inquiring about various completed projects I’ve passed him. But now I’m 50 or more pages into something else, which has the feeling of a ‘book’ to it. My editor is tied up in a teaching project, which means the 1200 page saga I’ve been sitting on, isn’t going to get edited anytime soon. Perfect time to strike out blindly in a direction and see what kind of story emerges from me.
I started selling work on Amazon in March last year and have seen a gradual growth in sales. Nothing stupendous, but definitely enough to keep me in the basic necessities. Of course this requires cutting and pasting adverts in Amazon’s ‘meet the authors’ forum on a regular basis. It must be pleasant to be able to just concentrate on writing and not pay attention to online threads (as I determine whether my last ad was too recent to post another one.) Forum life is interesting: it reveals the best and worst of people, or specifically ‘writers.’ (Readers, too) I’m sure a sociologist would have a field day with how people present themselves to others. My favorite are seeing adverts for books where the writer hasn’t bothered to proofread their own ad, or, in the heat of discussion, mixes up ‘their’ and ‘there.’ The proverbial kiss of death waits on many fronts, along with the usual embittered and desperate folk that also happen to make up the mob on the internet. Whenever it gets too much for me, I focus on getting work to my agent, in hopes of that day when something I write will be picked up by a traditional publisher.
We’ve allegedly just come through some sort of ‘holiday’ season called Christmas by some. Thankfully, I’ve been too busy working on the new book to pay any attention to it. From the glimpses I’ve caught of the concept, it appears to be about conspicuous consumption and false bonhomie; a blur of purchasing gifts and handing over money to corporations in exchange for ‘presents’ to buy the temporary good will of friends and family. I’ve never been a consumer so the whole period has passed me by, mostly untouched. I’m more concerned with watching my characters move about on the page as I wonder what’s going to happen to them next.
After all, there are only so many heartbeats in a life. Do I want to waste time craving then playing with some shiny gadget made in Chinese sweatshops for pennies, or focus on writing a good story? Its not a tough choice, believe me.
Depending on the response I get from my agent on the twin-novellas I’ve sent his way, either they’ll start getting pitched at editors – or else Amazon will have to endure yet another upload from me, and there’ll be one more product to sell to readers.
And the beat goes on…
