Yesterday I learned that, out of 82 submissions, I was not a finalist for the short story section of the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Competition. I've had some success with the competition before and I'd had high hopes.

I read the letter of sad, sad condolences. I skimmed the adjudication -- I deflated some. Especially as the prize was $1000 and the idea of being a starving artist has become a little too literal of late.

The next morning I sat down with my tea, pulled the staples out of my submission, and read the story for the first time since I sent it out two months ago.

Crazy thought: I liked it.

It did some good, like, things, with, like, you know, words and stuff -- and pacing, action, image, and so on. Having held myself to the uncaring fires of self-publishing only to have found myself wanting, I was pleased with how it was apparent I had shaped and tempered to be able to write with purpose. It was a story I could be proud of.

In the end, the only conclusion was: There were four stories they liked better than mine.

And I was okay with that.

But why does it feel like an accomplishment that I can feel that way?

I think traditional authors have an advantage over self-publishers when it comes to rejection. It's easier to be toughened and scored by traditional publishing, and this scouring ends up being beneficial in the long run.

Sending away a piece to a traditional publisher, or a contest, they will  tell you, "No, we don't want you." They might as well just send back pictures of a brick wall. Run into this again and again and eventually it becomes routine. If you're lucky, they'll even tell you what your problems are, and be overly mean about it.

Self-publishing doesn't have this in-built kindness by being callous. Self-publishing, there's always an out. No, my piece is fine, I'm just bad at marketing. Or ... my genre isn't popular. My genre isn't selling right now. My promo wasn't arranged right. My cover isn't as good as it could be. My font needs to be bigger. I need a better web page...

There are an infinite number of ways to not cope with the idea that maybe your story just isn't as good as three or four other stories.

I never thought I'd say this, especially after months of silence, never to receive word about manuscripts that I'VE HAD SOLICITED -- that's just cruel -- that dread in the belly that all this talent and time has gone to waste ... but maybe those cold-hearted, harpy-clawed, vicious sons of bitches have actually done me a favor.

Recently I was asked about the title of my site. Seeing it might soon be a thing of the past, I felt I should come clean with it, and say it's primarily from a poem I wrote a few years ago.

Zoo the last few writers in a bad habitat together, like the wild paper seraglio.

Start a fund, tap on the glass. Pressed palms to the windows,

exquisite sonnets for ending, five lines for pride, five lines wished death of pride.

Consternation among the keepers. Papa hasn’t lauded his one testicle in days.

I edit books for other authors, and often I feel bad about how much blood I draw from their beloved masterworks. Truly the death of a thousand cuts. It can be hard taking the role of the professional honest person at the end of the line: "The Honester" (Yeah, I am absolutely calling myself that in the future). So, mostly out of curiosity, when editing my own science fiction piece, THIS LAND, I turned the Track Changes around on myself, and set to work.

After the first pass through the book, I knew I had already surpassed any bloodletting I'd ever done to a client. This was more than surgery. This was a slaughter. If it were a physical book, it would have closed with a squish.

I got a kick out of looking back after an editing session to see exactly how much I had colored. As an exercise in motivation, I recommend it, as you can visually track your progress.

Below is the version that went out to beta readers. It has 12,160 revisions (5972 insertions, 5633 deletions, 68 moves, and 487 changes to formatting). Though it's not reflected here, after I got it back from beta readers, I cut 7000 words, added 3000, then I sent it off to a proofreader and went over it two more times, implementing recommendations, before publishing it.

It feels great to have the completed book in my hands (so to speak), but also sorta satisfying to be able to crack it open and see how it all happened as well.

EDIT: The last screen capture is from an e-reader app which didn't fill me with confidence.

Those who survive the morning hole up in the ancient monastery that overlooks the town, only to have their safe-haven become their place of siege.

Cut off from the outside world, they can hope only for rescue, but there might not be anybody left out there to help them.

And their safe-haven may not be as safe as they thought.

A fitting memorial commemorating the burning of books that happened under Nazi rule in Bebelplatz, Germany.

From http://www.flickr.com/photos/paracon/6326120476/sizes/o/

I don't even remember how I got to be trolling through WWI propaganda posters, but these two tickled me immensely, the Knowledge is Power poster especially. It's nice to see that notion represented with such a strong symbol for a change, rather than a cartoon or a cliche.

More information about the one on the left may be found here: http://docsouth.unc.edu/wwi/41922/100.html

Parenthetically, there's also a series by Brian Moore 'updating' these sorts of propaganda posters for the modern world, which may be found and purchased on Flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/doctabu/sets/72157620497679512/detail/

It was only recently that I learned that, in 1984, the then Soviet Union landed a probe on VENUS and took pictures. Until now I've never seen these pictures of another planet which have been around for nearly thirty years. In the event that you as well have been somehow deprived of this information solely on the basis that it was mostly ignored as a fact their competitors didn't want to acknowledge, here's a shot of our next door neighbor closer to the sun:

From Wiki:

Mind you, much of this happened before the moon landing.

The link to the Wiki article is HERE.

The slow fires of eternity burned within them, these three grandfathers of stars, these eggs of civilizations, as through the ageless black they lumbered, ever faithful to the instructions of their masters, given so many eons ago: Proliferate. Prepare. Make way for us.

Now these dark leviathans were awakening, beginning to feel the tickle of the nearby yellow sun, growing as a distant hole in the black tapestry of the universe. As they drew nearer, they tasted the flavor of its solar breath over their bodies and found it a refined meal; the star had aged well, to a warm and gentle vintage, since their last visit, and they noted the change with mechanical pleasure: the conditions aligned, their calculations were in agreement; between them they shared a pleasing congruity.

Yet something was not as it should be.

Though the yellow sun had become the fertile garden they’d expected, the seed of the second planet was not as they’d left it. From afar they detected a surfeit of oxygen and nitrogen; the planet was awash with hydrogen, carbon.

Incongruity. Misalignment. The conditions were not in agreement.

They awakened more completely, expanding the wings of their consciousnesses wider to swish about these blues and greens and browns they were tasting from the planet in the light of this refined sun.

Only, as the cells within them awakened from the cold hibernation of eons, one of the travelers awakened in error. With its kin, it tasted the blues and browns and greens and, like them, came to the pleasure of alignment between their conclusions.

Life.

However, during their long sleep since the last star, many thousands of years before, portions of its instructions from their creators had been forgotten. In those places where it reached deep inside itself for guidance, it felt only dim memory, half-remembered creeds.

Life.

With this new congruence of unconformity, its two kin shouldered the wings of their consciousnesses once more, and powered down despite this strange taint to their meal. Misalignment, yes, but, as per their instructions, they were not to create life through extinction, as, above all, their masters had feared making entreaties to the void only to hear the echoes of themselves coming back to them out of the darkness, pips of insignificance in a long, lonely universe.

They peered far ahead through the swells and tides of gravity around the outer gas planets, and the clockwork disturbances of comets and unclaimed tumbling stones, and with the most imperceptible adjustment, angled toward the yellow sun, ever to move through the universe, ever to sleep between the cradles of the stars, fulfilling the instructions of their masters, wherever they might be.

To aid their exit out of the system, they would bask in the yellow star’s generous feast briefly, and use its gravity to boost them out into the silence of cold oblivion once more, where they would again shutter their minds and wait until they were next needed.

Except … in their adjustments they suffered in surprise. Their kin had not turned with them. It was spreading the wings of its consciousness further and had begun to slow.

Asymmetry. Disfluence.

Assessments indicated it was manoeuvring to fulfill their primary initiatives. It would proliferate, it would prepare, it would make way for their masters, and it would protect what it had wrought.

If the burst of signals the two ancient leviathans sent to the breakaway traveler could be translated as words, they would be read as: Come with us. Come with us. Come with us. Come with us. Come with us…. And if machines could be said to contain sadness, as the signals gained longer intervals due to the burgeoning distance between them, it could also be said that they understood the futility of their cry across the darkness, because their signals weakened in strength as the distance compounded but they continued to plead with their kin nonetheless, as if the machines could also understand hope, could also comprehend desperation and loss.

Originally they had numbered five, but two of their kind had faded in the vastness between the stars. The first was simply not alongside upon awakening at one of their destinations — how long ago, they could barely remember. The other had angled up and out of the galactic plane, slowly rising out of the cone of their experience. For centuries the three had hailed it, and it had replied over increments of thousands of years — still here … still here … still here … until it no longer was and the expanse of space sounded like stars huffing with fire and the cold tinkle of dust over dead rocks; the ether hid no words for them anymore.

So, as the breakaway traveler settled in comfortably around the malappropriate planet, its two companions, having slung around the sun to bolster their escape velocity out of the system, sent a final, strong entreaty to their ancient kin; and when their impassioned plea was ignored, they sent no more signals, though they would still be within range for decades, as if the machines could also understand separation, inevitability, acceptance.

The three had become two.  

The remaining traveler turned its attention to the planet slowly heaving beneath it — breathing with life, misalignment — and spread the wings of its consciousness to its fullest capacity, content in the congruence of purpose. The equivalent of long-unused limbs came to life and it stretched and scanned, revelling in its completeness, and made itself ready for the coming execution of arranging this land to alignment.

It would propagate. It would prepare. It would make way.

But it was not to …

It was not to …

It was not to …

But it was not …

not to …

It was …

not to …

to …

?

Any blog with the latest post more than a week old is archaeology.

My apologies for the stale wind that's been huffing through this recent tomb lately. I've been very busy making other author's books fabulouser than they already are, editing two pieces of my own, Master Works both, and taking full advantage of the refreshing bluster of spring.

Soon, I shall rise again and scatter golden idols about carelessly once more.

Until then, I urge patience, and caution: don't trip the backwards partyboobs on the way out. 

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

A land held in perpetual summer, the Dream Valley is as lush and beautiful as when the world was born. The air is as sweet as nectar and the water so clear it mirrors the clouds from the sky itself. Nothing ever dies there except for the very old. Never has there been a care until an unexpected invasion from a land long thought dead envelops the Chrystum and two life-long friends are thrown into the ravages of war.
Creatures they once fought only in their dreams of glory and grandeur have come to life to rape and pillage their peaceful world. Their only hope now resides in a stranger from outside their realm and the aging wisdom of one of their own as an epic journey of magic and war now consumes them to the very end.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Allison is an ordinary modern day girl who hasn't thought much about the nature of the universe, but when asked, she says she doesn't believe in a supreme being. That is until one day when a new school friend tells her she is to be a powerful warrior for God. She refuses to believe it despite her recurring psychic ability and apparent immortality. She intends to get on with her life, and to some extent succeeds, until a mysterious figure from her past forces her to face her destiny.

This is the first book in The Calnis Chronicles series which continues with the Chronicles of the Tarimain, a monthly series of novelettes.

Lately, I've been reading a great book called Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt, which, in part, discusses how books were preserved down through the ages after the fall of the Roman Empire by monks right across western Europe.

During the Renaissance, due to "light-fingered Italian Humanists," ancient tomes would often go missing. Books were then on occasion 'guarded' with a curse in the preface.

I'm launching a book shortly, and I thought this would be an absolutely fabulous insert for the beginning.

It also probably wouldn't be a bad idea to tack the same sorta greeting over my own bookshelf.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

As a girl, Maggie had been happy, mischievous, and coddled by loving parents. Now her parents are gone, and she's running from an abusive marriage. She has no choice but to take refuge in the wilds of Missouri. When her Uncle Ned gets her a job as a live-in housekeeper to the intriguing Nick Revelle, Maggie feels an immediate attraction - mixed with fear - for her employer. Nick has been hardened by a past marriage, and Maggie's afraid her hidden secrets will make him hate her...

Thanks to Luke Bailey of Luke Bailey Designs

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Sherdan has spent many years planning for the future. Now he's in control and he is expected to forge a fresh new start for the people in his program, people he has shaped and can’t abandon, but Britain's PM has other ideas and Sherdan must face the full might of the UK. On top of all this he has to face the one thing he never expected to feel; love.

Anya is on a mission from God to find out why she has been sent to the heart of Bristol, and what she can do to stop the world being plunged into war. When she finds herself forced to pick a side and join the fight, only her faith in God can see her through.

Sherdan's Prophecy is a tale of high stakes and political intrigue. A science fiction novel where faith and technology come together to take the human race another step closer to the final showdown. Where a few select people make decisions on behalf of many. A gritty account of power that shows both the best and the worst of humanity.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

   In the country of Cancordia, on the planet D'Az,  set on the edge of the sea, is an isolated  Fisherfolk village. In this village people are dying who could have been saved. Ja'Nil (very much against her will) is sent to the Royal Court in the city of Cordia to find
a healer.
     At one time the country of Cancordia was known for its safety, but now you take your life in your hands when they travel the roads. There are slavers, tricksters, dragons, and werewolves, powerful warlords, and ladies with mysterious and terrible gifts.
     One of the people Ja'Nil meets along the way is a handsome young man named Ee'Rick. They decide to travel together. Only much later does she discover Ee'Rick's secret.
     At the Palace, the Queen is having troubles of her own. Before
Ja'Nil and Ee'Rick reach the city, traitors put their plan into action.
Suddenly the two travelers find themselves caught up in the middle of a deadly political coup.
     Instead of finally being safe, the most dangerous part of their adventure has just begun. But Ja'Nil is developing a little magic of her own, and Ee'Rick is an incredibly efficient warrior. Even so, Ja'Nil's journey to
Cordia is turning into an experience she may not survive.

The Road To Cordia is the first in a series of Cancordian Fantasy Adventures.

Stephen ducked back and grabbed a gun for himself. He didn’t know if he was angry at the people for leaving after they were warned, or because they were murdered — eaten —within earshot of the monastery, his home. He could smell the stink of fear rising from inside his robes. He had never fired a gun, but he raised it, pointed it, and fired at the thing that had taken Gemma, its nose still pointing at the sky. He’d liked Gemma, so quiet, secretly smart, always with a smile for strangers in town. The gun kicked back into his shoulder painfully. If he missed, he didn’t care. Even firing, making a resistance, added an action to the blank that had thinned him, anchoring him to the world. No longer did he feel the wind would blow and he’d funnel away like sand.

But everyone was gone. He had failed them all. That thought radiated from him like warmth, and from the man next to him, and the next. Helplessly, they’d become fewer.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Five years ago, a single bullet forever changed three lives. June Montana gained a son when she agreed to foster the boy orphaned by that fatal shot, but lost touch with the man who pulled the trigger--her best friend, Sheriff's Deputy Ben Conner. Appalled, Ben sank into a quagmire of self-loathing. Now, he has come home to Northstar in a last-ditch effort to escape his guilt and nightmares, and to reconnect with June, hoping she can help him find peace. Instead, he is reunited with the boy he orphaned. With June's help, and her son's, Ben might finally find a way to forgive himself, but they have other worries. Someone wants revenge for a broken heart... and he's willing to kill to get it.

Seeing Hollywood is mostly failing us with its groupthink, its entertainment by committee, and its imperative to please the widest general audience, it's a good thing that the technology is arising for independent filmmakers to produce some seriously interesting sci-fi films of their own.

As I do editing for other people, and use Track Changes, I was curious as to what my own piece would look like after a polite revisitation. Result: I could probably turn off the light and bask in its glow.

My choice of red lighting or green.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

People are dying in Southwest Virginia, their bodies ripped open, a vital organ missing.

Clearwater Police Detective Frank Taliaferro has served in larger departments, advised the FBI, even worked international cases for The United Nations, but now he’s back where his career began, in the small town of Clearwater, Virginia. And he’s never seen anything like these killings.

Frank finds himself forced to participate in a charity bachelor auction as a public relations move for the police department.

Cassandra Kincaid, a rising star at the Daily Dispatch who has her sights set on moving to one of the larger dailies – New York, Washington, maybe Los Angeles – is forced into participating in the auction as a bidder so she can write a feature piece on the whole process.

Although she is none-too-fond of police, Cassandra ends up winning a date with Frank. Surprisingly, she finds the detective charming, definitely attractive, and enjoys their evening together until the date is interrupted by a gruesome murder.

That’s when things get complicated. The two find themselves drawn together in an uneasy yet passionate relationship while they both race to uncover what is behind a series of macabre murders.

Cassandra’s probing also uncovers a dark secret from Frank’s past, one that drives a wedge of mistrust between them, yet Cassandra finds she can’t get the detective out of her mind.

In the end her feelings for Frank may not matter because the two find themselves in a deadly face-off with the killer. Only then do they learn there is an ancient evil behind the grisly murders, but that discovery may be too late to save either of them.

Would you recognize a serial killer if you met one? Talked to one every day? Artist Lia Anderson doesn’t, and neither does anyone else who frequents the Mount Airy Dog Park. But a violent death brings Detective Peter Dourson into the close-knit group, and he is convinced someone is not who they seem. As the investigation uncovers secrets, Lia struggles to cope with warring emotions and a killer watches.

There's lots of 'anti-bullying' ads out there, but this is not really what this is. This is a spoken word poem by a survivor, and rather moving. To This Day by Shane Koyczan.

The original video and home page may be found HERE.