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Wednesday, April 20, 2011

What Works and What Doesn't?

c2011Shalako

After not selling a book in about eight days, it is nice to discover that I sold a book, on Amazon, which for my present purposes is the only platform that matters in terms of statistics.

The question, when we are engaged across so many social platforms, using a multitude of tools, techniques, tactics and strategies, is the age-old question:

What worked? What exactly did I do correctly, in what place, at what time, and in what 'context,' did I sell that book? Who did I sell it to? Why did they buy it? How did it come to their attention?

Whether you are cracking jokes on Twitter, mining for followers, signing up for a new social platform, whether it's Library Thing or Orkut, the sad truth is that it all works.

It all works. That's hard to understand, when you haven't sold a book in a week.

What the hell are you talking about, Lou?

It all works. The one key element that so many of us overlook is time.

We are in a hurry. We want success, we want money, we want recognition. We want a pat on the back. We want someone we respect to tell us we're 'a good writer.'

When nothing much seems to be happening, to just stop is an insidiously compelling notion.

Don't do it.

Keep going.

Most of the really great writers in the world are older than I am. And some of them are a lot older.

Heh-heh-heh.

While my place in literary history is by no means secure, we can always sign up for Wikipedia and enter our own profile data. Because we really don't expect anyone else to do it for us!

As a former journalism instructor once told me, "Attitude is Everything."

Clear, lucid minds.

c2011Shalako


I have thrown out about two hundred fifty pounds of books over the last while, only keeping a few. I kept the ones I would be willing to carry up three flights of stairs. That doesn't leave much choice. After two years on the internet, in a house with a pile of well-thumbed books, I ended up reading a lot of non-fiction, and short pieces rather than actual books.

This evening I read an article or two in French. In Canada, all the packaging is labeled in French and English, so it should come as no surprise that I can get a fair bit out of it without an actual translation. This is because major words have common roots, and English and French share many words of common ancestry.

I also read a couple of articles in either Spanish or Portuguese, I'm not entirely sure which. The funny thing is, I again got quite a lot out of it, enough to understand what the article was about, and it was only when trying to sum up exactly what was being said that I ran into trouble. The real problem is of course not the major words like 'revista,' (magazine,) but the grammar, genders, inflections, etc. The translations are not too good sometimes, and both French and Portuguese translations into English left so much to be desired; that all the Portuguese one did was to confirm the subject under discussion, and gave me the gist of it.

The French one was better, and perhaps also 'easier' for the computer. But it did leave a lot to be desired, especially since I am kind of interested in the subject of hyper-text, and exploring and exploiting the full potential of the electronic book; insofar as it relates to the novel, the short story, or the collection. It relates to non-fiction, in that a reader can go deeper and deeper into a subject, by following links to relevant sources, (including pictures and video, not just text,) other than the author. That was what he was talking about, (more or less,) I can say that with some degree of confidence. I could decipher that much.

But after all of that, it was a kind of relief to read Edward Gibbon's editor, J. Bury, in the preface to 'The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.'

It is nice to meet a clear mind with a lucid style, and to hear them speak across the centuries. Like an old friend, the warmth and the intelligence are there and there is no mistaking it for anything else. It is interesting to remind myself that Gibbon didn't have all the skills in classic languages that one might have expected in those times. It was a labour of love, and he spent the best years of his life doing it.

His gift will be with us through the ages, and you can't do much better than that, ladies and gentlemen. It's also a tough act to follow. I'm not willing to spend five years writing a biography, and most of us will not spend twenty years writing a history of anything particularly important.

The e-book revolution will not destroy the book, nor will it save scholarship. My old fake leather-bound books aren't worth a penny, and would not impress a 'true bibliophile,' a polite term for literary snob. They have corners bent over, the spine is broken on Volume Five, and there are chocolate stains on some of the pages. My brother might find space for these books at his place. His boys, my nephews, will never read them...I know that for a fact.

And so, I am tempted to throw them away as well.

The only constant in the universe is change. Gibbon's book is 'a history of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.'

The only thing I can add is, 'plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.'

The more things change, the more they stay the same, and in the end, all is vanity.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Excerpt: 'Time-Storm on A-5' (working title.)

c2011Shalako

Note: This is an excerpt from something I wrote in the autumn of 2008. I did re-write it just a little bit, but the whole manuscript needs to be gone over 10-12 times. I'm looking to break some bad habits more than anything. I might want to get some glasses before I start that, and I wouldn't mind some decent cover art for a change.

***

Tom wandered in the desert for what seemed like eternity. Having made the decision, it wasn't easy to change his mind and go back. To admit that he might have been wrong. And he wasn’t sure he was wrong; it was probably just random bad luck. Hot sand dragged at his feet, the heat of the suns searing at the exposed side of his neck. His legs felt heavy already, and he’d only been going a couple of hours.

“Rahr, rahr, grrrrrr…” it wasn't a happy greeting.

He could see and hear and deduce that much. The irrational thought, 'I wonder how long he’s been doing that…' hit him.

An ugly black beast confronted him, spines rising up in a ring about its neck. Slavering jaws, white with teeth, gnashed and growled viciously.

The icy hand of fear clutched at his chest, making it hard to breathe. Not for the first time he marveled just how out of shape he’d become, quite unsuspected. He’d always considered himself something of a jock. Stock still, Tom’s guts quivered inside. The animal bowed its head down low, staring at Tom’s form, and it growled deep in the throat. Its dark and indeterminate hulk, sodden from the morning’s dewfall, lurked there with its backside glued to a cluster of boulders. The beast had four legs, a predator protecting a recent kill.

He saw the thing's dinner laying there all bloody.

Tom backed up in haste, risking a glance rearward to ensure he didn’t go sprawling over a dead tree or a cluster of shrubs, a boulder or just a hole. The thing growled again. It stayed where it was, so he kept going. A certain light nausea could be felt down in the guts. Deep, cold breaths of air seemed to help.

“Holy, Jesus!” he said, wanting to talk to it, to somehow reassure the thing that he wasn’t a threat.

Whatever it was, it was easily big enough to eat him! He stared, as it bared fifty or seventy-five millimetre canines, big, flat, chisel-like incisors showing the creature was totally omnivorous. He risked turning his back, and strode away down the trail, turning from time to time to see if it was stalking him. He jumped over tangles of dried, fallen creepers and prayed not to trip on anything. Tom paused to catch his breath, heart pounding. All was quiet again.

That was a very close call.

***