Too Much Free Time

Sometimes free time can be the best of times. Other times, too much free time can trick you into turning out turduckens like this little treasure!

My darling bride remains in NJ, although rumor has it she’s soon to wing her way back to the West, and none too soon, if this video is any gauge of what I’ve been doing in her absence!

What am I doing making videos like this? You tell me, bub, ’cause I ain’t got no idea!

We’re back to Shakespeare’s time, my friend. All the world’s a stage, and we are but mere players upon it.

Instead of displaying my deep dismay over the direction of our democracy, or horrifiedly hollering about the impending Alien Armageddon, I’ve decided to use the soapbox on my busy streetcorner to make a jolly jape, a gentle jest, a minute minute of merriment.

I truly hope you enjoy it, and breathlessly await your feedback!

Okay, so as not to waste this entire opportunity, wouldn’t you know this also a shameless marketing stunt? See, I’m tying my empire together – first WordPress, then YouTube, and even Instagram – bwah-hahahahaha!

Just as soon as someone visits one, I mean ANY, of my sights, I’m in like Flynn, my friend. In it to win it this minute! You gotta risk it for the biscuit!

Gorilla Marketing LIVES!!!

I can’t Afford to Drown

Once upon a time, in what could only have been a former life, I drowned.  I don’t think it was this life, because, well…

My wife and I went sailing with my college-graduate daughter today. She teaches at a city-run sailing and kayaking camp and has weekend access to the sailboats they use during the week.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have a great love for the exploits of Horatio Hornblower, Captain Aubrey, and my secret man-crush, Captain Bolitho.

C.S. Forester based his fictional Hornblower on the exploits of Thomas Cochrane and Horatio Nelson. O’Brien uses those same logs, plus others he’s researched, for Captain “Goldilocks” Aubrey. And Alexander Kent, the pen name of the well-established author Douglas Reeman, carried a lot of those same stories forward for Captain Richard Bolitho.

All of these fellows sailed for the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars, chasing and capturing and sinking French and Spanish ships whenever the plot line needed it.

It’s hard to imagine that strangely elite brutality – packing 700 sailors into a ship of the line, sailing the seas to find a similarly-sized enemy, and then to fire iron balls at it until either he or you could fight no more. Victory is ours! Or theirs…

But, it calls to me. And I’ve written a book called Marigold’s End that predates Napoleon, but features that same kind of brutal combat. I love that book.

If you read it, you will love it, too. Or you might merely like it. Or perhaps even dislike it. Hate it. Loathe it. This isn’t going well.

Anyway, today we took a tiny 14-foot sailboat out into the frothing waves beyond the breakwater. Green waves that blotted out the horizon, lifted us way up so that we could see far down the coast, and then dropped us back into the deep trench again.

My daughter told us that last week one of her 9-year-old campers wasn’t dealing with the rise and fall very well. He leaned over the side for a moment, and then sat back up, much relieved.

“There goes my sausage!” he cheerfully announced.

We felt that the wind had gotten up a bit, so we circled around the 1-mile buoy, and then headed back to port.

I must tell you, I was absolutely panicked. I did my best to hide it, but, in a 14-footer, you are right on the water – like, it’s right there. And those waves were green and huge and omnipresent, and I could feel myself drowning right out there. That boat was surely going to tip over, and I would drown.

She turned the boat so that the waves came under our counter, pushing us back into the safety of the breakwater.

But I was in the water, holding onto a rope slung around the quarter of a large sailing ship, plunging under the wave each time a roller happened by. I can see it this moment. I can feel the cold and the panic and the sense of futility. This moment.

The image stayed with me all the way back to the dock, and rides with me here.

I dusted off my old model of the Black Falcon – oh, no need to be nice. It’s a dreadful model, I know – trying to see if I could shake this drowning feeling. No luck.

Now I know I have to write about it seriously. Deal with the story that’s literally dying to be told. I think I actually drowned while hanging onto that rope.

I’m pretty sure the image pops up in Marigold’s End. Now I have to reread it.

I want to rewrite it, but all rewrite projects are on hold for the next few weeks while I concentrate on selling Sawdust Man.

You see, it occurred to me, and this applies to you, that no one will sell your book for you. You have no representative, no agency, other than yourself.

If you don’t represent your book, it will remain unread. If you don’t sell it, it will never sell, and your story will remain untold.

So, I am actively beating the bushes until I find an agent to represent my current offering, Adventures of a Sawdust Man.

Once that is sold, well, maybe then I can afford to drown.

I can’t Afford to Drown

Once upon a time, in what could only have been a former life, I drowned.  I don’t think it was this life, because, well…

My wife and I went sailing with my college-graduate daughter today. She teaches at a city-run sailing and kayaking camp and has weekend access to the sailboats they use during the week.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have a great love for the exploits of Horatio Hornblower, Captain Aubrey, and my secret man-crush, Captain Bolitho.

C.S. Forester based his fictional Hornblower on the exploits of Thomas Cochrane and Horatio Nelson. O’Brien uses those same logs, plus others he’s researched, for Captain “Goldilocks” Aubrey. And Alexander Kent, the pen name of the well-established author Douglas Reeman, carried a lot of those same stories forward for Captain Richard Bolitho.

All of these fellows sailed for the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars, chasing and capturing and sinking French and Spanish ships whenever the plot line needed it.

It’s hard to imagine that strangely elite brutality – packing 700 sailors into a ship of the line, sailing the seas to find a similarly-sized enemy, and then to fire iron balls at it until either he or you could fight no more. Victory is ours! Or theirs…

But, it calls to me. And I’ve written a book called Marigold’s End that predates Napoleon, but features that same kind of brutal combat. I love that book.

If you read it, you will love it, too. Or you might merely like it. Or perhaps even dislike it. Hate it. Loathe it. This isn’t going well.

Anyway, today we took a tiny 14-foot sailboat out into the frothing waves beyond the breakwater. Green waves that blotted out the horizon, lifted us way up so that we could see far down the coast, and then dropped us back into the deep trench again.

My daughter told us that last week one of her 9-year-old campers wasn’t dealing with the rise and fall very well. He leaned over the side for a moment, and then sat back up, much relieved.

“There goes my sausage!” he cheerfully announced.

We felt that the wind had gotten up a bit, so we circled around the 1-mile buoy, and then headed back to port.

I must tell you, I was absolutely panicked. I did my best to hide it, but, in a 14-footer, you are right on the water – like, it’s right there. And those waves were green and huge and omnipresent, and I could feel myself drowning right out there. That boat was surely going to tip over, and I would drown.

She turned the boat so that the waves came under our counter, pushing us back into the safety of the breakwater.

But I was in the water, holding onto a rope slung around the quarter of a large sailing ship, plunging under the wave each time a roller happened by. I can see it this moment. I can feel the cold and the panic and the sense of futility. This moment.

The image stayed with me all the way back to the dock, and rides with me here.

I dusted off my old model of the Black Falcon – oh, no need to be nice. It’s a dreadful model, I know – trying to see if I could shake this drowning feeling. No luck.

Now I know I have to write about it seriously. Deal with the story that’s literally dying to be told. I think I actually drowned while hanging onto that rope.

I’m pretty sure the image pops up in Marigold’s End. Now I have to reread it.

I want to rewrite it, but all rewrite projects are on hold for the next few weeks while I concentrate on selling Sawdust Man.

You see, it occurred to me, and this applies to you, that no one will sell your book for you. You have no representative, no agency, other than yourself.

If you don’t represent your book, it will remain unread. If you don’t sell it, it will never sell, and your story will remain untold.

So, I am actively beating the bushes until I find an agent to represent my current offering, Adventures of a Sawdust Man.

Once that is sold, well, maybe then I can afford to drown.

It’s Published!

What’s published, you ask? And by whom? Why, it, and by me!

So, I’ve been slogging through the demeaning task of writing query letters to literary agents. OMG, that IS a slog!

Acquiring a literary agent is a sisyphean task on a good day.

Okay, I had to go look up sisyphean because I’ve only ever heard it said. Sisyphus got condemned to roll a boulder up a hill, see, only to have it come tumbling back down, each and every day for all of eternity. One assumes getting it up the hill was a somewhat arduous task, sooooo…

Here’s a good literary put down:

Knock, knock

Who’s there?

To

To who?

It’s to whom, actually

None of this is the point! Here’s the point:

My newest novel, The Adventures of a Sawdust Man, is PUBLISHED!!!

Yes, I published it myself. No, it’s not Random House, or Penguin, or Disney.

Yet.

I’ve already sold three copies – and it’s only been up for two days. If you do the math… lemme see, carry the one… uh huh, yep. By my calculations, at this rate, I’ll have sold at least two dozen by the end of the year!

But of course, it’s not about making money.

Yet.

The thing is, even as I was writing those insipid query letters, I could see that no agent would touch my book.

It’s a fairy tale without any fairies. It’s a romance without any love scenes. It’s a tale of unrequited love that never quite gets resolved.

Who wants to publish that?

So, for my book to see the light of day, for it to get discovered as a valuable piece of the Canon of human literature, I had to publish it myself.

And I am so excited to share it with you! Here’s the link. Don’t pay the five bucks – set the price to $0 and have at it. And lemme know whatcha think!

Another reason that I’ve published the book is because I seem to have gone mad over the sound of my own voice, and my best friend and darling wife have both suggested it would make a good audio book.

Can you spell Podcast?

Thank you for traveling along with me on this wild adventure. Maybe, by publishing my work, you might be encouraged to publish yours? I truly hope so.

I wish you every success!

On Ruins and Wreckage

I’m sitting in my kitchen on a terribly uncomfortable chair. We replaced the frumpy chair pads with nifty red ones for Christmas. Alas, the holiday ended, and the pads are packed away. O, how I long for those frumpy chair pads…

I hope your holiday was glorious and that your new year holds  nothing but grand promise.

My holiday ended finally just this last weekend, with the return of my daughter’s stuff to her college dorm. She’s officially ensconced in her small liberal arts school in what is right now the frigid wasteland of Central Oregon.

Oh come now, a frigid wasteland? you say with that subtle tone of parental correction, surely it cannot be as bad as that.

Listen, mister, or sister, I know what I know, and saw what I saw, see?

Actually, the ice storm was really quite beautiful, the trees, the fences, even the blades of grass perfectly outlined in ice.

We were stopped long enough on the freeway that I got to mess around with the quarter-inch thick sheet of ice on the K-rail divider. What was so amazing to me was that the vertical surfaces were just as coated as the flats and tops. How could this be?

My fingers are still cold.

We met some lovely people while stranded in Grant’s Pass – a guy from Hawaii and a girl from Denver, both of whom used to be in the oil business, but who now run a farm and sell pies. A guy from Baltimore who works at one of only four biodynamic wineries in the whole world.

Wait, where’s the writer’s story in this, you ask with that tone that really moans are you ever going to land this plane?

Okay, okay, okay, here we go…

Because of that mega ice storm that laid flat Central Oregon, why, I haven’t scheduled a fourth shoot for the California Air Museums project.

…crickets…

Yeah, see, we were both so wiped out from battling the ice storm (oh please, you moan) that I haven’t even turned on my computer since getting home Monday night.

…crickets…

And I haven’t put out a single query letter on my novel this entire year!

…yawns…

Well, there it is, isn’t it?

Central Oregon in ruins, my hosting career at a standstill, my novel in the dumpster.

…sad violin music…

Marketing-wise, I did plant a link to the California Air Museums site in this post. That’s pretty cool.

And, like my mom used to say, “Life ain’t beer and skittles, you know.”

Although I still don’t know what that means, let us remind ourselves that out of calamity comes creativity, out of ruin comes rebirth, and it ain’t over ’til it’s over.

Or until the fat lady sings, although I don’t quite get that one, either…

The Ship is Launched

You’re a writer – you know how it is. You think about a project, and dream about it, and you wonder and wonder how it will turn out, all before you actually start it. And then, one day, you start it. And it’s entirely different than what you thought.

The first episode of California Air Museums is on the, well, air. Actually, it’s on YouTube, but YouTube is as much the new TV as 60 is the new 40, and orange is the new, well, it was the…

Anyway, you can view the first episode here.

My wonderful wife stood in as camera operator, and the Mojave Air Museum stood in as the museum. It was a ton of fun!

We got there around 2 in the afternoon and spent a good ten minutes wandering around the Mojave Air and Space Port looking for it, only to discover we’d driven right past it at the entrance. Oops.

No one was there, which made it a great place to try out our video production process. Even though I wore a lavalier microphone, the stiff wind obliterated, like, 90% of what I said. Luckily, I tend to babble, so we didn’t miss anything.

You know how it goes – most of what you shoot goes on the cutting room floor anyway. Of course, with video, there IS no cuttong room anymore…

We shot about 35 gigabytes of footage over the span of an hour and a half, and I have to tell you: this video business is a gas!

And the airplanes themselves were terrific. If you’re an aviation geek, or, like me, not too bright but like the airplanes, you will love this little musuem!

What this video does is formally launch California Air Museums as a thing. The site is revamped, and now holds slots for the many museum visits to come.

Zoom!

you see what I did there by writing zoom – kind of like saying we’re having fun and at the same time making a kind of airplane hand gesture sort of thing  – oh, yeah. you caught that…

A New Venue

My wife is a remarkable woman. Beautiful, brilliant, willing to put up with me, and just full of genius-level ideas.

If you visit JohnDReinhart.com – it’s pretty easy: just click on the name up there in the upper left-hand corner. Go ahead and try it… we’ll wait.

Did you see it? No? It’s something different. Take another look. Dum-de-doo-de-dum, black seven goes on the red six… Did you find it?

(Aggravated sigh) Do I have to do everything around here? The name, down there in the middle – the name. John D Reinhart Creative.

Okay, maybe you haven’t been to my site before, so, okay, I get it.

Now my site is called John D Reinhart Creative – kind of flows off the tongue, doesn’t it? Maybe?

You see, the California Air Museums project has taken on a new life. In addition to visiting the museums, my wife suggested that I do video visits, interviewing the curator, or director, or an otherwise interested person. And, the interview will end up on the California Air Museums site, and on a California Air Museums channel on YouTube.

So, I’ve got this cool Galaxy Z4 fold phone that has an awesome, awesome camera in it and 500 gigs of storage, and I’ve got a pair of wireless lavalier mikes, and I’ve got the newest version of DaVinci Resolve to edit it all together. What are we waiting for?

Well, I kinda sorta needed business cards to hand to the person when I say, like, drop me a line or something, because that’s what savvy businesspeople do.

So, here I am in Adobe Illustrator, making this epically long list of all the creative things I do, trying to squeeze it onto this itty-bitty, 2.5×3 inch business card in, like, 3pt type, when the very love of my life says “You’re an idiot. Just give yourself a name that covers all that stuff.”

And, viola, an industrial giant is born. A nice set of 100 Vistaprint business cards for, like, 28 bucks, due to arrive in, like, two weeks. Like, wow. Business cards? For me? It’s so… creative!

What is curious is that I’ve always been creative, but had never given myself the title. Now that I have it, everything just seems to drop right into place.

The key finally fit, and the door finally opened.

And it’s nice to be home. I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. All I needed was to wear a dead lady’s shoes.

Plus, I got cool business cards!

Mursey, Mursey Me

We’re trendsetters, you and I. We’re writers, creators, pavers of the road forward. We gotta try stuff out and see if it works.

Take, for instance, the murse. The man purse. The European man-bag. Like the line from Madagascar 2: carry your stuff and still look tough.

Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe carried purses. So did the Three Musketeers. They were all fashionable gentlemen of their day.

I work with a bunch of engineers – eggheads the lot of ’em. Not one, zero, not even a percent of one, would ever be caught DEAD with a single-strap backpack. Because it’s a cross-body bag, like ladies wear. Eeeew, icky. Lookit me, I’m a girl!

That’s the mentality that keeps society stalled. The kind of thinking that drives us backwards.

But we’re writers, you and I. Our job is to move the world forward. We can’t leave it to the homophobic eggheads to do it.

In truth, it’s the fold-phone from Samsung that has driven me to the murse. I absolutely love the phone – in fact, I’m writing this post with it.

But it’s heavy – like two cellphones glued together! So heavy that my pants fall down when it’s in the pocket. So I have to carry it.

But the murse carries the phone, and my wallet, and my keys, and some gum, and a couple Granola bars… you know, critical stuff.

I got it from Amazon at a net cost after discounts of about $8. So, for the price of a Happy Meal, I get to be fashion-forward!

I took it with us on our trip up to the trendy beach town of Cambria. While my wife and daughter went tidepooling, the dogs and I sat down and enjoyed a cookie, pulled from the back pocket of my handy-dandy, Uber useful murse!

Icky indeed…

All Right, Something Else…

Hey, here’s another idea. Something New, Totally New, and it won’t cost a dime and it’ll make big bucks and, hey, where’re you going?

If you’ve been following the Saga of Me, you know I’m still waiiiiiiting for my beloved editor wife to read my lovely novel. It’s been three months. Come on. I wrote it in less time… just kidding. She’s been arduously studying for, and actually passed, some big human resources qualification dealio, and I am in fact super impressed and super proud of her. I’d be even more so if she read my book…

Whilst waiting, I’ve come up with a number of ideas, most dumb, some good, of how to further my writing career whilst waiting. Because waiting is what I do. A lot of. Wait. Like a Disney movie: wait, what?

So, this is it: California Air Museums. Wait, what?

I have a keen interest in aviation, don’t you know. So, who wouldn’t be interested in a website wherein the author (mois), visits and reviews the aircraft in the aviation museums here in the Golden State?

But wait, there’s more. Howzabout said author writes a touristy sort of review for the local tourist magazine, like The 805 Eats, or something, in the town of which is where the museum is. In. And makes a nickel for the review, thank you very much.

Wait, what? Makes a nickel?

Howzabout this: said author also writes a review with a more aviationary feel for the aviation-minded magazines, like Me and My Airplane, or something. And makes another nickel for that piece.

That’s two nickels plus a website post from just one visit. And California has 65 museums! Wait, what? That’s, like, maybe fifteen bucks in nickels!

All of this reviewing, etc., however, is aimed at what said author is really working on, which is a coffee-table book called… wait for it… wait a little longer… pause for effect… California Air Museums! Huh? Right? Ya with me?

My camera takes pretty good pics, so I’ve got that part covered.

And I’m building a database of the kinds of airplanes one might find in said museums, so it’s kind of like the website will be a resource. Yeah? High-five! Down low…

Wait, what?

This is not a project – it’s a career! All of this, all, to sell my book. Well, actually to get my name out there into the larger world at large so that, when my book finally gets approved by my lovely editor wife, publishers will be clamoring to get the rights.

Wake up, you’re dreaming again! Wait, what?

Best Not to Visualize

Whilst waiting and waiting for my notes to arrive on the new book, I took to 3D modeling the cast of characters. Big mistake.

You’re a writer – you know how it goes. You work so hard at creating a mental image of your characters, you always wonder what it would be like to actually see them.

I’ve got this goofy software that lets you create 3D models. Actually, it creates the model, starting with a base figure, and lets you customize the physical attributes.

Whilst a’waitin’ for mah notes, I thought I might just sorta mock up a book cover that has the whole cast in it. Ehhhh. Bad choice.

In the mind’s eye, the big guy is a giant – he’s huge, like a bear. When you go to cast a person like that, however… that’s a different story. He’s the guy on the right.

One of my characters is perpetually drunk – it’s not his fault. He is having a rough night in the tavern. Having drunk too much ale and run out of money, he gambles away a grimoire, a book of magic spells. Throughout the rest of the story, whenever anyone opens the book, it calls this poor fellow straight from his table at the tavern to wherever the book is in space and time. Worse, when the book’s done with him, he get put back, right there in the tavern, until the it’s opened again.

The other characters have this big adventure with the grimoire, but for him, it’s just one long, inebriated night. He’s the guy on the left. He looks like a little kid!

The old wizard, Shelburne, looks like a Martian in this image.

And let us not discuss the pants on Penrose, my main character, there in the center. I chose them because they’re knickers, and seem vaguely Elizabethan. But they’re meant to fit a huntress, and simply look… go ahead and say it… stupid with two o’s.

The kid and the girl came out all right, and the fellow in front of the giant is supposed to be a 10th Century prince – he looks okay. The girl is from that same time, but looks more like you’d meet her at the mall.

Emminy-way… you know who loses the argument, right? The first one to say “anyway…”

Anyway, I rendered these super quickly – so quickly that you can see the green-screen around the prince and princess. eh.

When the book is published, oh, this shall be a lovely cover, for certain.

For now? Best not to visualize…

When to Write

I just saw a post on LinkedIn that said, “a writer writes every day – what have you written today?” Whatta buncha malarkey!

The only person who should be telling you when to write is your boss, if you’re a professional, your editor if you’re published, or you,  if you’re like the rest of us.

Or your wife, if you’re like me.

We live in sunny Southern California, but in the northern part, which is separated from Central California by just a mountain range. If I drew you a map you’d get the picture.

It’s really nice here. Lots of beaches and mountains, and not nearly as crowded as LA, which is just on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains. Yep, Los Angeles is just an hour to the east, the snowy mountains an hour to the north, and Central California just an hour to the west.

Central California is the home to the Santa Barbara County wine region, and the bazillion or so wineries with tasting rooms that cater to those with the means and the free time to go a’wine-tastin’. It’s a big deal up there. And not really all that expensive. And kinda fun…

Actually, wine tasting is kinda fun. You visit these beautiful wine estates, are seated at a nice table that overlooks the vines or the fermenting vats or the parking lot, and a wine server pours you a stingy little glass of wine, and explains that this wine comes from the owner’s private reserve stock featuring grapes that were pollinated by bees that have PhDs in oenology and tastes of honey and oak with a hint of marmalade and a nice finish of cheese, figs, and asparagus.

And you sip it and say oh, that is good. It takes about two sips to finish off the stingy little glass, and then the server comes back with a different bottle and a different story, and so it goes for five different wines. You don’t really want to go to more than two wineries on your trip because you lose your palate – a wine-tasting term meaning your ability to taste the wine – and you’ll also get sorta crocked.

And at $35 per person for a flight – a wine-taster’s term for the group of five wines – you want to taste that wine!

Out of the blue my wife says get off your can and go write about these tasting rooms. Somebody’s sure to publish that.

Two days later she says get off your can and let’s rent e-bikes so that you can write about our adventures doing that. Somebody’s sure to publish that, too.

Suddenly, my author’s to-do list is very full!  Pirates over here, wineries over there! E-bikes? Where does she come up with this stuff? And why can’t I sit on my can?

Because, she reminds me, the chances of getting my book published are muuuuch greater if I myself have been published.

Her point is well made.

Plus it gives me something more to do whilst waiting and waiting and waiting for her to read my manuscript to get the final official nod to go forward with seeking an agent and keeping peace here in the valley on account of she would get so mad if I said “skip it I’m gonna submit this book anyway” and she would be like “what? You couldn’t wait five minutes for me to read it?” and then she’d be all upset and I’d be all upset and she would hate the book and even if I did score an agent she would be like OMG I hate that book.

So, I guess I’ll get off my can and go to a winery.

In truth, I’m much harder on my lovely, elegant, and infinetly supportive wife than she deserves. She is a truly wonderful person and partner who actually knows a lot about the publishing industry. And she has the patience of a saint. And she knows a ton about wine, too.

That being said, no one should ever tell you when to write. You write when you’re ready to write. And don’t let anyone push you around, got it?

Got it?

Now leave me alone while get off my can and do l as I’m told…

Golden Treasure Island Archipelago

My car is so old that my mechanic took off the gas cap and handed it to me. His advice? Replace everything else.

You’re a writer, you know how it goes. You write the first draft, and then you rewrite, and then you rewrite it some more, and then it’s almost close to right. So you keep rewriting…

So riddle me this, Batperson: let’s say you have a house. It’s very nice, but you think maybe it’s time to remodel the kitchen, and maybe the bathroom. So you start changing things, you know. What if we did this, and put that room over there, and made a master suite, and an office, and a wet bar… and pretty soon, the only wall that isn’t changed is that one in the kitchen.

When it’s all done, is it the same house? It has the same address, I suppose, and sits on the same foundation. But is it the same joint that was built back in 1973?

The reason we’re here with this wearisome query is clear: I’m lost.

In putting cake under the icing, adding steak to go with the sizzle, I have somehow fundamentally changed the story.

“What?!? How could this be?” you ask. “I haven’t read the original, but I’m sure it was so good!”

The first draft was rather a madcap page-turning adventure story. Very fluffy and fun to write. And, according to my wife, the first 19 pages were the best I’ve written.

But everything from page 20 on is now new. Oh, they’re the same characters, but each now has more depth and solidity and backstories and stuff like that. And now there’s a clear plot and everything.

So, I ask you. Is it the same story? The same book?

This is a double conundrum because this book is actually a rewrite of my already self-published novel Droppington Place. If you haven’t read that one, well, there it is.

Sooooo, I’m thinking that I need to get out of the rewriting business and let this be a new book. The primary character is named Winchester Penrose. Maybe the new book will be called The Sawdust Man, a Winchester Penrose Story.

God, that sounds presumptuous, doesn’t it? Right out of the box, you’re launched into a series.

Shoot, I can’t even think of a sequel!

The Island of Lost Brains

Oh, I used to have one, I promise. And it worked pretty good. But it’s gone now, that brain o’ mine. Been thinking about putting up posters on the light posts: Lost Brain, pinkish gray in color, answers to “hey, moron…”

Continue reading “The Island of Lost Brains”

Twinklings of the Past

You’re a writer. You know how it goes. You work your keester off writing something that you just think is the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the Maharajah’s… uh, well, you get the idea.

But life happens and stuff happens and somehow it just doesn’t seem to be the big hit you expected. And then, one day…

Continue reading “Twinklings of the Past”

Networking Fool

That’s me. Look, Mom, I made a post! It’s vaguely stupid, and wouldn’t put it on my resume, but, hey, I made a post!

If you’re like me, you’re a busy person, with lots of interest. I know I am – you know, like me… whatever.

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On Giving Up

When is giving up really giving up?

You’re a writer. You know how it goes. You work your keester off to create what you think is a great piece of art – and it is a great piece of art because you put your heart and soul and God knows how many hours of mindbending labor into it. And then you burned a gazillion more hours rewriting it – getting the characters just right, moving scenes so that it flows just as smooth as butter on a hot bun.

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Branding Yourself

Despite the danger of flaming rainwear, I think I’d rather burn my logo into an umbrella than into a cow.

Lately I’ve been trying to nail down my brand. Unlike cattle ranchers that burn their mark into the hide of their cows, our branding isn’t quite so easy.

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Facing Your Inner Fred

Do you think Fred Flintstone ever made it big? Do you think he owned an expansive place in the Hollyrock Hills, up next to the sign, and hung out with the likes of Dash Riprock, Stoney Curtis, and Ann Margrock?

And, do you think he ever expected to? That’s the big question.

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Moaning in the Myniverse

Doing what in the wha…?

So, you know how the multiple dimensions available in the quantum realm open the door to multiverses, right? Didn’t you see Antman and The Wasp? The quantum realm – you know, the land of the itty-itty-itty-bitty?

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Take Your Day

First, admissions: I’m sitting on a folding chair in a gym in Anaheim, CA, surrounded by at least a hundred screaming, volleyball-playing teenage girls. I have not had enough sleep, and I’m terrifically annoyed by the itty-bitty keyboard on this phone that keeps recommending words I don’t want to use.

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Smelling Like a Duck

If it looks like a duck, and floats like a duck, but doesn’t smell like a duck, is it a duck? Or is it a decoy? A fake duck? Perhaps a wannabe duck.

You’re a writer – you know how it goes. You pour your heart and soul into your work, you polish every single word, and then you launch it out into the world. But… how?

Once I was in a restaurant and the waitress asked me what I wanted. I told  her I’d been thinking about the turkey sandwich, to which she replied “and what did you decide?”

I used to think that the difference between writers and folks who thought they’d like to take a stab at writing is that writers write. I still believe that to be true, but perhaps not as thoroughly true as I once thought.

Suppose you wrote your brains out, but shoved all your work into the furnace and sent it up in flames? If no one reads it, did it have meaning?

Obviously it did to you, but only to you. You’re a writer – you have a story to tell. If you don’t tell it, or if you tell it only to yourself, well, are you a writer?

It’s  a long way to get to the point that we must publish. My books are at Smashwords – yes, that was a shameless plug, but it illustrates a point.

Once upon a time we would hawk our words to agents who would hawk our words to publishers who would bring our words to the world at large. In Shakespeare’s time, Will had to hawk his words to his publisher – there was no agent – and together they hawked his words to the world.

I’m thinking that Mr. Shakespeare’s paradigm has returned, now that the writer’s world has turned into a Wild West of Self Publishing.

I found this great website, run by Joanna Penn, called the Creative Penn.  Her site is full of good ideas and great tools and is generally a lot of fun to wander about. While I don’t know Ms. Penn, and only recently discovered her site, I believe there is a lesson there for us all.

You, my writer friend, and I, unless we are to be mistaken for decoys, or wannabe ducks, must actively, and intensely, pursue the task of hawking our words to the world. It’s up to you and me.

Unless we do that, I believe that we are deceiving ourselves into thinking that we are somehow successful authors for having published ourselves. While that is truth, it an incomplete and rather shallow truth.

You, my friend, and I, must embrace the fact that if we do not actively market our work, we do not, in fact, smell like a duck.

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#writersofinstagram #bookworm #bookstagram #writing #booklover

Five Years to Independence: Year Three – The Year of Accomplishment

Welcome to year three of the Five Years to Independence program. Or system, or scheme, or deal… what it’s called isn’t as important as what it is. What’s in a name?

Name notwithstanding, this is not a self-help program, or a get rich quick scheme. This is just a different way to view the road you’ve traveled, and to adjust your thinking to find success in the way ahead.

Here’s something I hadn’t considered but is true: although this program is meant to help you if you know you’re talented, have spent your life hiding from it, but now realize you must become who you are,  this scheme actually works if you’re living on your talents, but want to move up to a higher plateau. I know this because I developed this thing to turn my own life around, and am now using it again to further my products (the novels Droppington Place and Marigold’s End). You marketers: did you see this shameless plug? Shameless.

Year one, as we recall, was the Year of No Regrets, in which you stopped whacking yourself upside the head for not having explored your talents when you were younger. You changed the way you looked at the past, recognizing that the road you took led you to this new road.

Year two was the Year of Confidence, in which you viewed yourself as the creative talent you know yourself to be. If you dance, in this year you become a dancer, or a writer, or a painter, or a videographer. The Year of Confidence is the year in which you stop hiding behind the ordinary to finally be the extraordinary person that you are.

The secret behind these two years of mind-changing is that you were also practicing your art: working on your talent, albeit behind closed doors. You did this so that, when you announce to the cosmos that you ARE a singer, you’ve been singing for at least as year.  That’s the keystone to this whole project: stop hiding from your talent, stop regretting that you’ve waited so long, and USE IT!

If we do a bit of math… let’s see, carry the one… that brings us to Year Three: The Year of Accomplishment.

Here is where the chicken hits the road. In this year, we move our art from inside ourselves out into the world. Yes, into the world.

Years ago I worked for a major international bank, helping people find solutions to their mortgage problems. The management catchphrase in use there was “if you didn’t document it, it never happened.”  Essentially, if no one saw the transaction, it never took place.

In my revision of myself, I realized that a writer who thinks about writing but doesn’t do it is not a writer – he’s a thinker. A writer writes.

But that’s not quite right, is it? If I wrote beautiful poems every day, but kept them hidden in a closet, or burned them, is that writing? A writer’s work needs to be read, just as a painting needs to be seen and a song needs to be heard. A song sung to one’s self may be beautiful, but does not further one’s career.

So, this year, we stop singing to ourselves, and we put our talent out there. Out there on the world stage, come what may.

The glory of this age in which we live is that you now, finally, have a world stage at your fingertips. Now you can do your stand-up before a world audience – every nation in the world can see you dance, hear your song, read your words.

That’s an accomplishment, to get your work out there into the world. I’ve advocated doing that throughout the previous two years, if you’re brave enough. If you haven’t been brave enough to do it before, then this is the year you overcome that fear and let ‘er rip.

So, here’s how I faced my fear of the  World Stage: It’s a busy place, with a hundred million voices all clamoring for their moment in the sun. Being one in a hundred million is a pretty safe, anonymous place to be. (For example, my books (see the shameless plug, above) are out there, waiting to be read. and have only sold 17 copies so far).  That’s a nice comfort. On the other hand, I’ve sold 17 books so far, which means that a shaft of sunlight DID shine on my work, at least 17 times.

So, that’s your job this year. Put yourself out there, either in the safe and comfortable way of YouTube or Instagram, or, as I did, pushing my online published work to literary agents (can you spell “rejection letter?”).

Do it. Don’t hide from it. If no one sees your dance, how can you become known to the world as a dancer?  Don’t forget, that’s the point of this whole exercise.

You’re a talented individual who has hidden from that talent all your life. You can keep hiding, or you can become who you really are.

“Be brave, little Piglet.” Owl’s stentorian tone emboldens little Piglet to hold on and endure the flood of the Hundred Acre Wood, according to A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh.

You and I, we must be brave. What is talent, except the bravery to do the unusual, isn’t it? The talented have a vision, a world view, that needs to be shared.

You’re talented. Let’s get out there and share it!

This is really long-winded, I realize, but it’s important.

Ideally, by the end of the Year of Accomplishment, you’ve exhibited your talent in a place that will get you noticed. Ideally, that shaft of sunlight will illuminate your work, and you’re on your way.

The first time I ran this program, my Year of Accomplishment took two years, at the end of which I made the leap from under-employed customer service rep/novelist to technical writer/novelist.  I became a writer.

I’m in another round of the program, with the goal of accomplishing the title change from technical writer/novelist to novelist/technical writer.  I’m in year two of that accomplishment.  The accomplishment will be to get seriously published: that’s a big one.

Like the speed limit on the freeway, the five-year structure of this program is just a suggestion: it may take you seven years, or six months.

Thanks for staying with me. Two more years to go!

Oh, and, visit my Smashwords page, or my online home.

What Tiggers do Best

You’re a writer. You know how it is. You eat, sleep, and dream with other people’s minds. What would it be like to an inch tall, you muse, or in command of a shoe? For a writer, the world is full of little what-ifs and I-wonders.

But what happens when all your questions are answered for you?  When your quest to sort the world out is brought to an end.

My best friend, whom I subsequently married, and I used to puzzle over who was happier: man in his quest for answers, or the cow in the field who has no questions?

She thought that perhaps the questionless state might be a form of heaven. I argued that it seemed more likely a form of hell.

Heaven or hell, it recently presented itself to me in the form of the ultimate job. For a moment I hung up my writer’s spurs and thought I might settle in for the long haul, might hitch my horse to this wagon instead of my own.

It is hell. Might just as well shovel dirt onto my face, because there’s nothing deader than a creative that doesn’t create. Take these pencils from my hands – I don’t need them anymore.

As you’ll recall, Tigger searched the Hundred Acre Wood trying to find “what Tiggers lke best.”

What I found is that a writer is a writer is a writer, and perhaps that’s what this Tigger does best. Tiddily pom.

Ah, Camp Stupid

You’re a writer, you know how it goes.  Every moment you draw a breath is a moment to promote your book.

Well, say, I have a moment with nothing to do, and my super-smart cell phone right here.  What if I take this moment to submit a query about my book, DROPPINGTON PLACE,  to a literary agent.

Wait, I don’t have the manuscript… it’s parked on my Google drive, but an agent only wants the first ten pages. Hmm, how to edit it…

Wait! I sent a query to a different agent… that was a perfect letter! Alls I gotta do is find that letter and change the names and stuff…

It didn’t take long to take out the refeeencea to my dog and stuff, and change the names. That agent, the first recipient, had sent me a nice autoreply of no, thanks. I edited out references to that, too. 

Just one eye in the flointment…you can’t send a letter you’ve already sent.  Hmmm… no biggy. I’ll just forward it…

Okay, everything looks good…push the send and hope for the best.

Say, here’s an autoresponse from the new agent.  Thank you for your submission, here’s what you sent…

And there, in the inbox of this agent, is my submission letter, followed by my submission letter to the previous agent, and then the rejection letter from the other agent!

OMG!  How stupid can you be?  If I don’t make it as a novelist, I can always be the mascot for Camp Stupid!

“Magic,” She Gasped.

Magic She Gasped Little Black2

“Magic,” she gasped.

Say it again: “Magic,” she gasped.

Tell your friends to say it: “Magic,” she gasped.

It’s a mantra, unless that’s the bat-shaped fish. Whisper it in your sleep.

“Magic,” she gasped.

What is it? What does it mean? Why should you care?

What makes a Subaru a Subaru? Actually, Subaru puts a comma in their statement – a comma with which I have never agreed. Love, it’s what makes a Subaru, a Subaru. What does that second comma do? It makes a clause out of “it’s what makes a Subaru,” which isn’t a clause at all. It equally makes a clause out of “Love a Subaru,” which is a clause, but  is so widely separated by the non-clause that you have to remove the non-clause to see it, by which time you’ve simply beaten the whole darned thing to death…and doesn’t make me what to buy the car because they have trouble with punctuation.

“Magic,” she gasped. It’s a mantra, or manta. Or Banta if you’re into Star Wars.

I was trying to come up with a way to sell my book, and the only catchphrase I could think of was “buy my book.”

Hmmm, lacks a little something.

Hailey, one of the characters in my novel, Droppington Place, has a fascination with magic – just to point out that there, right in that sentence, is the proper use of commas to separate a clause – which causes her to utter the mantra/manta/banta phrase. Several times throughout the story she gasps the word “magic,” in what I sincerely hope is a running joke.

So, you see, sometimes your characters can give you a hint on what’s special in your work.

But, here’s the dealio, the thing, the bomb, the cat’s pajamas: What happens if you Google search “murder, she gasped”? Well, probably nothing yet, because I just loaded the tags.

But eventually, my impatient friend, you’ll go to either Phineas Caswell’s home page at PhineasCaswell.com, or to his Smashwords Droppington Place page.

If you simply Google Phineas Caswell, whose name appears beneath the logo, brings you all manner of Droppington Placey options.

Is this marketing genius? Does Procter and Gamble sell soap?

Or is it simply some degree of self-delusion that I’m making progress in marketing my book? Self-delusional like a fox!!!

Already, the pieces are falling into place…bwahahahahah.

You, because you’re a friend, can actually skip all the marketing hype and get Droppington Place by simply clicking HERE. When you get there, type in this Coupon Code: NJ38D, and you can get the book for free!!!

Why, that seems almost like…

“Magic,” she gasped.

 

 

 

 

Old Friends and New Ideas: A Marketing Ploy

DPCover 11-23A

It’s not good to close doors. I mean, obviously, if there’s a bear out there in the backyard, you probably don’t want to leave the kitchen door hanging open. But, in general, a closed door means something’s wrong.

The gusty winds of life sometimes close doors you meant to leave open. You think things are swimming along fine, and everybody in your life is exactly where they’re supposed to be, but, whammo, out of nowhere, you find a door has been closed.

It could be the gusty winds of life, or the dusty gathering of old age. But, most likely, the doors swing shut through inattention. Yours. Yep. There it is. You have to look in the mirror for that one, and admit, uh oh, you fell asleep.

Uh oh, Mr. Van Winkle, the kids have grown up and moved to Barstow. How did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday we were all so chummy? Now you’re over there, and they’re way over here, and how did you grow so far apart?

It can take a lot of work to open an old door, but it will almost always be worth it. Unless that door leads to a cranky ex to whom you owe money, you’ll usually find a warm and welcome heart, one that is just as surprised as you that the door swung shut.

A door opening to a long-time-ago besty was the inspiration for this bit of news: DROPPINGTON PLACE, Chapter 1, has been rewritten, and is better than ever! Sadly, you won’t find it on this site. But you WILL find it over here, and you can have some fun while there.

The re-opening of a door that was never shut in anger, only through inattention, is a great cause for celebration, and you’re invited to celebrate, too. Enjoy Chapter 1 of Droppington Place.

Did you notice that clever piece of marketing work right there? Dang, that is some fancy voodoo. Your heartstrings are all tied up in little knots about that door thing, and, boom, your right into the novel. You have to admit, that’s the good stuff. Now, if there was just a way to make a nickel from that!

So, here’s your job for today: first, go read Chapter 1 of Droppington Place. It doesn’t have anything to do with opening doors, but will make me feel better. Next, think, think, think about a door you have let swing shut, and go open ‘er up. You’ll be glad you did!

 

Work It Like You Stole It

DPCover 11-23A

 

Some stuff is not really free – like when you buy a used car and they say it’s new to you, or when you swipe the newspaper from some guy’s porch, that paper is free to you. You know, if you discount the black mark on your otherwise spotless soul, and can overlook seeing the guy sobbing over his lost paper – “wh…where is it? I needed those coupons!”, then it’s free.

The same could be said of online piracy. That app that lets you that lets you rip an MP3 from a YouTube video can’t be very legal, although the market for the harmonica version of the Star Wars theme has to be painfully small.

When you donate your junk to the thrift store, though, you offer that stuff up for free. You’re never going to wear those bell-bottom jeans again, are you? That BeeGees Greatest Hits 8-track? So, while those are junk to you, there’s somebody out there shopping in the thrift store that just needs a pair of jeans, and will overlook the funky legs. You gave them away for free, but they had value to somebody.

That’s like this software. It’s so old that it positively creaks when you run it. But it runs. And it’s powerful. And it’s free. That last part’s the most exciting.

If you know Adobe InDesign, you know it’s a fantastic layout program, for anything from greeting cards to websites. This is version CS2, which was popular with the Flintstones, but it has all the functionality that was available away back then.

Adobe Illustrator is great, no matter what version you run. That has to be said first, because this is version CS2. No, it doesn’t feature paste-in-place, which, if you are the graphic artist type, is God’s gift to software. But it does have Duplicate, which is almost the same thing.

And Adobe PhotoShop. For Free? Hello? McFly? PhotoShop is so ubiquitous (which, it turns out, is not another word for a biscuit mix) as to be a verb on its own, as in that picture was clearly photoshopped.

In fact, the marvelously free Illustrator software was used to create the illustration for this post – yes, that’s right. The children in the lower left were hand drawn, but were image-traced into the drawing.

Oh, the things you can do!

So, free? Yes, f-r-e-e that spells free. There’s an adage that says if the product is free, you are the product, but in this case it doesn’t apply. In this case, someone found a link to software that is no value to its maker, like that groovy BeeGees tape, but still has value in the world.

Here’s the caveat – if there wasn’t a caveat, you’d need to suspicious – the software will ask you to register it. Don’t do that. It’s old, old software, and there is no registration available for it: the commands are embedded in the code, that’s all. Don’t register it, but use the heck out of it. Get this: it’s FREE!

Here’s the link: http://techspot.com/ . This will get you started with PhotoShop. Search for “Illustrator CS2” and “InDesign CS2”, and you’ll find them.

Happy softwaring!

 

The End of an Adventure Begets Another

PC ScreenCap

Well, my friend, we’ve sailed over the horizon, haven’t we? I mean you, and me, and my novel, MARIGOLD’S END, the final chapter of which is now posted on this site, right here.

Yes, the final chapter, the au reservoir to our friend Phineas, and the Kathryn B, and all those cool nautical cats. If you’ve been keeping up, and I know you have, you’ll know we left young Phineas leaping for his life from a stricken ship, the crack of a pistol ringing out behind him. This book literally ends with a bang.

If you been keeping up with this blog,  you’ll know that this book writing business is a twofold affair: there’s the art of writing the book, and the science of getting someone to buy it. That’s probably art, too, because, in science, you’re supposed to be able to repeat experiments and get the same results. Good luck with that in marketing!

So, you ask, what’s next?

Well, I can tell you that gorilla marketing, for all its flashy allure and exciting verbiage, is a rather slow-and-go proposition, with lots of slow and very little of anything else. The line of people lined up around the block to read my book is sort of a line of one, and my feet are complaining about standing here.

In Field of Dreams the guy says “if you build it, they will come,” which is very catchy and enigmatic. He left out the time component: they will come tomorrow, or next week, or when the moon shines bright on my old Kentucky home. Or, and this is the one we all dread, they will come one at a time, quietly, unannounced, and go away. I’m a major sucker for jingoism, but I might just have to let this one go.

If you build it, and your work your keester off to grab their attention and you give them something in return for their visit, then they will come. Writing your book and telling the world about your book isn’t enough.

You got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and BELLOW to the world about your book. If you’re a good bellower, you can convince the world to bellow on your behalf, but you have to be bellower number 1.

I’m bellowing over here, with yet another of my sneaky, hey, are you trying to confuse me?, get-rich-quick, zero effort marketing schemes. It’s a site called Phineas Caswell.com – and has an interesting premise: Phineas Caswell is the author. Well, interesting to me, perhaps. You’re a writer, you now how it goes.

What if there was this curious site to which the curious reader could travel?

I agree, the site is snoresville today, but it will change, my friend. Ohhhh, yessss, changes, they are a comin’.

So, to accommodate the change in authorship, Phineas Caswell, the nautical hero in MARIGOLD’S END, has generously agreed to change his name to Benjamin Dilbeck. Not Ben, not Benny, Benjamin. Whaaaat? You cry, aghast. Trust me, Obi Wan, you’re the only one who can… it will work.

Say, this is quite the post, eh what? A chapter released over here, a new website over there… goodness, will it ever end?

Tales of Steel

JRSuper

It just can’t be that hard to be Superman. Yes, your home planet blew up. Yes, you have to hide behind those dorky Clark Kent glasses in a world that thinks you really can’t be recognized behind your Ray Bans. But you can knock the crackers out of anyone who disagrees with you.

More importantly, as a Super Person, you can approach every new situation with the knowledge that there is no one stronger, faster, smarter, yada-yada-yada. That must be a pretty cool something to have in your pocket. Say what you want, evil-doer, for I have all these nifty super powers.

But you and I, we’re writers. For us, publishing our work is like Superman going up against a bad guy. I don’t know about you, but when I look in my back pocket, I only see last week’s tissue and an empty wallet. Maybe a little lint.

Every piece we publish, even dopey pieces like this, put us out on that line of pass/fail, succeed/fail, survive/fail. Out here it’s just you and me, kid, and I’m not so sure about me.

With that cheerful thought, I formally announce to you, my writer friend, that Chapter 15 of MARIGOLD’S END is now on this site.

If you’ve been reading along, and I know you have, you’d know that Phineas, Louise, and Taylor have stowed away on the Marigold, only to find the ship in pursuit of their own Kathryn B. The weather has turned foul, and Captain Jaffrey’s a demon possessed, and things can’t possibly end well for the smaller ship. Phineas has to quickly piece together a very big, very serious puzzle, and despite a horrific loss, figure out what he’s made of.

I can’t give away the ending, but I can tell you that I recently read an account of an American frigate during the revolution that experienced almost exactly what happens in this story. It’s always nice to know I got the history right.

So, Super Person, dust off your cape, get out your Krypton Reading Glasses, and peruse Chapter 15 of MARIGOLD’S END. If you haven’t read the previous, that’s okay – you’ll enjoy this one. If you have, bless you child. Thank you for your generosity.

Is it paradoxical that the guys who started all those superheroes, back in the early days of the comics, took the same chances you and I, as writers, did? Edgar Rice Burroughs had paved the character road for them a little bit, and the newspapers carried comics, but you have to applaud the courage to publish an entire graphic magazine.

I wonder if those guys wore glasses…