Category: Thoughts

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Formatting, and All That Jazz

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I cross-posted this article at ChroniclerSaga.com.

I am completely OCD about quality. Sometimes, that can be a bad thing. I have trouble releasing things I’m working on, especially artistic works. I’m fairly positive that this trait is what pulled me away from being an illustrator; I was never, ever satisfied with things I’d draw, and couldn’t accept the flaws in my work. When writing CONSTRUCT, this manifested itself in seven full drafts comprised of a ton of interim revisions. Had to be done.

Typos, bad formatting, terrible covers… ugh. Seeing that an author or a publisher has put absolutely minimal effort into their book’s aesthetic is off-putting, to say the least. A bit more can be forgiven in the case of self-published authors; it’s hard enough just jumping through the hoops to get the book released. But to see a minimally-formatted, slap-dash eBook from a major publisher is in-fucking-furiating.

kindle_screenshot_01The various distributors of eBooks have built systems that make it extremely easy to release your prose to the world. In developing a system centered on ease, however, they’ve sacrificed aesthetics. For the vast majority of self-published authors – and, for that matter, most big publishers translating physical copy to digital – that doesn’t matter. Ease is all that counts, and as long as the text is readable, who gives a damn how it looks?

I DO.

First and foremost, I wanted a traditional cover for my novel. The rise of Photoshopped stock images on book covers makes me die inside a little, especially for fantasy novels. I grew up on covers by Vallejo and the Hildebrandts, so I knew I’d never be satisfied with a $30 stock cover design or a Photoshop disaster. As you can see in the cover reveal I posted a couple of weeks ago, my cover artist Carmen absolutely nailed the artwork for this book, and I couldn’t be happier.

Like I said, I’m a quality nut. Once I’d made the decision to self-pub, I did a ton of research on eBook formatting, and how your formatting is affected by the various processing software provided by Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and others. The almost-universal opinion of the output of these services hovers somewhere around “Meh. It works, I guess.” But even with that feedback, many self-published authors see the output of those processors and just throw up their hands, giving in to whatever minor victories they can eke out of a shitty system.

kindle_screenshot_02I didn’t want to be hamstrung by what those companies could provide, so I delved into the process of doing the formatting myself. Details, details, details. I learned how to convert a manuscript on my own, using an open source eBook management program called Calibre. Even the output from Calibre was mediocre, mostly because it requires a ton of in-depth knowledge of Calibre’s settings and features, and how they interact with the input file. I was able to get a passable result, but nothing special. I began looking for a way to do my own tweaks. I have a reasonable knowledge of HTML and CSS, and eBooks are pretty much just self-contained HTML files. I found an eBook WYSIWYG editor called Sigil, and I was off to the races.

Sigil allowed me to alter the book at the code level, and I was in heaven. I was able to futz with every single little detail, burying myself in the minutia. Everything from the placement of chapter headings to indents to line spacing to the horizontal rule at the beginning of every chapter. I refined and tinkered the living shit out of the code for this book, and I think it shows in the finished product. On top of satisfying my OCD, it was just plain fun.

How a book looks when you’re reading is important. Typos and bad formatting detract from the reading experience. Everything about a book should melt into the background except for the words on the page, and every time you run across a misspelled word or an awkward paragraph break, it pulls you out of the immersion. Even if readers don’t actively notice the work I put into the formatting, I’ll be happy if they just don’t notice the formatting at all.

If it’s invisible, I’ve done my job.

CONSTRUCT, Book I of The Chronicler Saga, releases on September 18th for Kindle, Nook, and Kobo.

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Uggghhh… BOOK… Fgngn

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I… wow. I am… ffffff… In… jesus… I have a… UUUUUUUUUU…

That’s about how I feel right now. For the last year and a half, I’ve been single-mindedly occupied with pulling together my first novel, CONSTRUCT. I finished writing it in 2013, finished revising it later that year, and have spent the last 6 months working with two editors and a cover artist to bring the whole thing to fruition.

During that process I’ve also been building a website, setting up publishing accounts on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords, registering ISBNs, setting up a bank account, and pulling together the business side of getting it released into readers’ hands.

And it’s finally all coming together.

Tomorrow – August 12th, 2014 – I’ll be launching the website with my release date announcement and cover reveal. It’s a real thing now. It’s not just a time-sink, or a hobby, or a diversion anymore. It’s a full-fledged novel. A real, live book that people can read and review and shit all over on the internet. And I’m still having trouble believing that it’s anything other than a stupid personal project that’ll never see the light of day.

But tomorrow’s the day that I commit to making it real.

I just… I mean… fuguuugugug… It’s… hnnnnnnnh… I can’t…

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Text Is Locked on Construct

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Well, it’s finally done. Back in 2013, I wrote a post about how I finished writing a whole book. Today, after seven full drafts encompassing numerous major revisions and a pruning of over 18,000 words, the text for my debut novel CONSTRUCT is locked down. Finalized. Gone Gold. Finito. DONE.

I started writing CONSTRUCT in December of 2010, about a year after the death of my father. The death of my parents within three years of one another was a rough reminder of how quickly our time on earth can come to an end. After spending many years with the core idea of CONSTRUCT bouncing around in my brain, I decided to finally get it out of my head and down on paper. Well, into Word, anyway.

I only had about 8,000 words into it before things stalled in 2011. I was still motivated to continue, but wasn’t making the proper time to get it out the door. After seeing several people I know participating in that year’s NaNoWriMo, I decided to use their writing sprint rules to force myself into adding on to it, fleshing out my ideas.

It was a success. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000 word novel, front to back, entirely within the month of November. I didn’t quite follow the rules – I was adding on to a longer piece instead of creating a standalone – but the “competition” did drive me to add over 48,000 words that month, and put myself in a position where I could no longer reasonably just give up. I’d come too far.

It took me quite a while to finish the book. At about 70,000 words, I found I’d written myself into a corner, which forced a pretty major re-write. I eliminated a character, changed another, and killed an entire potential plotline. It was a rough re-write but it put me back on track, and I was moving forward again in no time.

I spent the better part of 2012 writing at a pretty languid pace, writing when inspiration came to me and when time permitted rather than forcing myself into a schedule. While it was a leisurely way to get it done, it didn’t force any discipline on me, and I let other things intrude on thought-space I should have been applying to the novel.

It was 2012, and the writing done within it, that solidified my desire to keep writing; the realization of my potential to make a real go at getting this story into the hands of readers, and extending it into the series I always knew I wanted it to be. I wanted to devote myself to it. My job very kindly obliged my desires by wearing on me, becoming more frustration than fun. So, after some long discussions with my wife and hand wringing and anxiety, I left my long-time posting at Nintendo to pursue writing full-time at the end of February, 2013.

On March 13th, I finished the first draft.

Looking back on it now, it’s pretty fucking terrible. But that’s what revisions are for. By August I had finished the 3rd draft, and after a few months in the hands of beta readers, I pumped out a 4th draft in January of this year. I shopped around for editors and, upon finding one within my price range, spent two weeks fixing up the 5th draft before sending it off. Which, I know, is kind of like cleaning up your house before the maid service shows up, but that’s just the way I roll.

The 5th draft went into the hands of Annetta Ribken, an independent developmental editor over at Wordwebbing.com. She took some hard swipes at the story I’d written, and helped hack into the bits where I’d faltered. There were so many places where I’d been vague, or just stupid, or worse: lazy. She never let me be lazy. Annetta helped me to clarify the bits that needed clarification, and forced me to re-work areas that I should never have let go. Places where I’d said “Bah, whatever. This’ll be fine.” were the exact spots she pointed out, saying “Come on. You can do better.” And, with her help, I think I really did.

After four passes with Annetta, the story locked in place, the book went to Jennifer Wingard at TheIndependentPen.com for the copyedit. I learned more about the technical bits of this craft from her editing pass than I think I did over the entire two previous years of actual writing. I finally learned how passive voice manifests itself in my writing, and I learned how that and was are crutch words for me that I need to burn with fire. More clarifying, more trimming, a few more re-writes.

These two women have had a humongous impact on my first novel. The first draft is hard for me to read now. It’s hard for me to imagine that at one point, those words came through my keyboard and I thought they were good. Annetta and Jennifer not only showed me where I was wrong in that assessment, but showed me that I’m capable of doing better, and for that I can’t thank them enough.

And now, it’s done. Almost four years and seven drafts later, my debut novel is a wrap.

Now the real work begins.

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Image Comics’ Perfect Hardcovers

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revival_cover_inlineI just received my copy of the Revival Deluxe Edition hardcover in the mail, and it has let me to this major conclusion: this is the perfect way to read comics.

Now, when I say “perfect”, of course I mean “perfect for me”. Other people have other tastes, like floppies or digital or Absolute editions. But for me, Image Comics has pretty much hit the nail on the head with their standard hardcover book design. What are the elements that make these books perfect?

Ten to twelve Issues. This is a perfect number. Most modern comic books run in 5-6 issue story arcs nowadays, especially at non-Big-2 companies like Image and Oni. A 12-issue hardcover trade usually covers two story arcs, roughly a year of the book. It’s a perfect slice for a day or two of reading, and makes it easy to have an annual release schedule for hardcovers. Image’s books bear this out with long-running series like The Walking Dead and Invincible.

No dustjackets. I’m an outspoken opponent of dustjackets on pretty much any book. Ostensibly, they’re designed to “protect” the underlying book by taking damage in lieu of the actual cover. That’s totally fine if I’m in 5th grade and my dustjackets are hand-made from a grocery bag. But from a collector’s standpoint, the dustjackets are just another component that contributes to the overall condition and can become damaged, and much more easily than the actual hardcover of a trade. On top of that, it they’re awkward and cumbersome when trying to read, so I end up just taking them off when reading anyway. If the dustjacket was supposed to protect against fingerprints, the purpose is already defeated. TL;DR version: fuck dustjackets.

Consistent spine and cover design. I cannot stress enough how important this is for OCD comic book collectors like me. When I’ve shelved a long-running series, I absolutely Can. Not. Stand. when the spine design changes. It looks so damned sloppy. Marvel and DC are terrible culprits in the inconsistent spine design arena. Image, on the other hand, has kept the cover design and spine design for long-running series identical, even if it might not be the best (as is the case with Invincible). And that’s all that matters to me. I don’t give a flying fuck if the newer covers are more appealing to focus groups or fit some change of theme – just keep them the same.

$30 to $35 cover price. What a spectacular price for what you get. The overall price of the trade ends up being cheaper than floppies, and in return you get (in my opinion) more value in a sturdy, looks-awesome-on-a-bookshelf hardcover. I don’t have to bag-and-board it, and they’re more durable than most softcover trades (I find a lot of softcovers to have less-than-stellar quality control). Most hardcovers of this size fall into this price point, with a few exceptions like the 100 Bullets Deluxe Editions, which clocked in at $50 a pop. Marvel seems to have moved toward releasing 5-6 issue hardcovers (like All-New X-Men) for $25. Half the content for 85% of the price? Yeowch. And yes, I know they’re cheaper on Amazon, but we’re discussing SRP’s here.

fear_agent_cover_inlineAll of these factors lead to my perfect reading conditions. Twelve issue hardcovers are easy to handle and read, unlike Absolute editions or Omnibi. While I absolutely LOVE the production design on books like my Fear Agent Library Editions or The Sixth Gun Gunslinger Edition, their sheer size does make them a bit hard to handle. The lack of dustjackets means I get a beautifully designed cover (the cover on this Revival book is *fantastic*) without the pain-in-the-ass of having to fumble with or outright remove an annoying wrapper. And at these prices, why would I want to pay $40 to $48 for the floppies, or even similar prices for softcovers, especially when even my comic shop gives a decent discount off of cover on trades?

Image just nails it. Other companies have followed suit in design, but not in price: IDW’s collection of The Cape looked spectacular, but was $50; the same goes for Icon’s Criminal collections. I wish that everyone would adopt the same size, style, and price as Image’s hardcover collections, because if they did, I would never read comics any other way.

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Comic Conventions and ECCC

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My first experience at a comic book convention was in Portland, Oregon, within a few weeks of the launch of Image Comics. The show took place in a gutted department store at one end of a mall, and five of the six Image founders were in attendance (they were sans Erik Larsen). I can trace my hardcore comic fandom directly to that show, and to my overwhelmingly positive experiences meeting Jim Lee, Todd McFarlane, and Marc Silvestri. Spawn #1 had not yet released but I was a huge fan of McFarlane’s Spider-Man, and when 13-year-old me got to tell him so, he actually pulled me behind his signing table and talked with me for 15 minutes about comics, the Blazers, and Spidey. It was a formative moment for me.

In the late-80’s and early-90’s, meeting creators from your favorite Marvel and DC books was not an easy endeavor. The guys in charge of some of the most iconic characters of all time were cloistered and egomaniacal (from a fan’s perspective), and experiences like my moment with Todd McFarlane were almost impossible to track down. Back then, when San Diego Comicon was still actually about comics, creators never really seemed to be encouraged to engage their fans on a personal level. Even this experience, I believe, was only possible because the founders of Image were already trying to change how the industry worked.

I began to understand why these experiences were unavailable during a trip to a comic book convention at Seattle Center when I was in high-school, in (I think) 1994. It was a tiny show, occupying only two rooms, with a smattering of artists and writers around the edges signing autographs. I had sketches done by Dan Norton and Joe Benitez, milled around the back issue bins, and finally – after waiting what seemed like forever – got to meet and get a signature from Walt Simonson.

As I neared the front of the line, it was obvious that several of the people in front of me were comics dealers. Every one of them had stacks upon stacks of comics for signing, including multiple copies of the same book, and manners were nonexistent. Mr. Simonson was visibly frustrated. The straw broke the camel’s back with the guy in front of me, who plopped down a stack of easily fifty-plus books, and began smarming at Mr. Simonson as though the two of them were on the golf links together.

In one of the most memorable moments of my life, Walt Simonson stared this guy down as he jabbered, stopped him from talking with a raised hand, and said “Excuse me. When did I give you leave to address me in the familiar?” He then took the top book off of this guy’s stack, signed it, replaced it, slid the entire rest of the stack to the side, and waived me up to get his signature.

This, for me, encapsulated everything that was wrong with the comics industry in the 90’s. At age 16, that moment changed how I looked at the books I bought and read. Over the next couple of months I completely changed my buying habits, shifting my entire mentality away from seeing comics as collectibles, and seeing them now as entertainment media.

At all the comic book conventions I had attended throughout the 90’s, I walked away with maybe 15 signed books. At that time, conventions that weren’t NYCC or SDCC were dealer’s shows, populated entirely by comic book shops and collectors plying their wares, with the occasional small group of creators as a draw for fans to come into a giant comic book flea market. I had very few positive experiences with creators after the one with Todd McFarlane, mostly because the creators I was meeting desperately wanted to be interacting with fans, and most of their interaction ended up being with people trying to make a quick buck.

We’re going to skip a few years, because in 1996 the vast majority of my comic book collection burned up in an apartment fire, and I bailed on comics entirely until the middle of 2002. Once I was back into comics, I found a dearth of local comic book conventions. I’d been to a few smaller ones like the Walt Simonson was at, but nothing really compared in scale to the larger ones in New York, Chicago, or San Diego. Talent didn’t really come up this way, so I pretty much gave up on the idea of getting anything signed again or interacting with my favorite creators in any meaningful way.

Until Emerald City Comicon came along.

I didn’t attend the first few years of the current incarnation of ECCC. They were held at the Qwest Field Event Center, and I didn’t really hold out much hope for them being any different than the shows at Seattle Center had been. The first time I attended was in 2008, the first year they held the show at the Washington State Convention Center, the same venue where PAX Prime is held. They occupied only two halls in the WSCC, and one of those halls was solely for the queue. In spite of the (comparatively) small size, one of the things that struck me about ECCC was the atmosphere.

Around half, if not more, of the space they occupied was dedicated to Artist’s Alley. Yes, there were exhibitors in the hall – all the local comic shops were there, a couple of video game dealers, and small booths for Dark Horse and Image – but the real focus, it seemed, was on small tables where creators could interact with fans. Due to my prior experiences, I was really wary of this setup. I expected a bunch of money-grabbing dealers surfing around tables full of grumpy creators who just wanted to go home. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.

Fans were respectful and engaged, and because of that creators were all in fantastic moods. I met and spoke with Bill Willingham for the first time, having only just begun reading Fables. I had started collecting the Invincible hardcovers, and got to chat with both Ryan Ottley and Robert Kirkman. I was introduced to Greg Rucka’s work at that show. It was the most fantastic comic-book convention experience I’d had since I was 13 years old.

The size of the show worried me at the time. Having seen so many other shows come and go in the Pacific Northwest, I was worried that ECCC just wouldn’t last, and that it was as big as it would ever get. The shows in 2009 and 2010 were about the same size, but the attendance had doubled, and blew my expectations right out of the water. This show was here to stay.

In 2011 I’d been doing the After The Fact podcast for about two years, and decided I wanted to do a comic book podcast using the same format. I cemented the plan after recruiting Andy Podell, whom I worked with at the time, to be the co-host. Andy was already a pretty regular cast member on ATFP, so when I say “recruited” I mean that I walked up and said “Wanna do a comic book p-“ and he’d said yes before I ever finished the sentence.

We recorded Episode 0 of Trade Secrets at ECCC 2011, and the con has been an integral part of our show ever since. After that first year we decided to get a table at the show, an investment that has been paying dividends ever since. I’m not gonna lie – I’d pay for this Artist’s Alley table every single year for the sole purpose of having a designated place to sit at the convention.

Emerald City Comicon has exploded in size since I first attended in 2008. The attendance has grown from 10,000 to almost 70,000 in that time, and the physical floor space has increased from one part of one hall to the entire WCCC and a few surrounding hotels. And yet, in all that growth, the convention has still maintained that amazing atmosphere, a feeling that encourages one-on-one interaction between comic book fans and the creators of the work we love so much. Yeah, there are more exhibitors and media guests, but more than half the show floor is still occupied by simple six-food Artist’s Alley tables where some of the biggest names in the industry still sit down and sign books and take duck-face selfies with people who love their work (I’m lookin’ at you, Kelly Sue).

This convention is directly responsible for our continued devotion to Trade Secrets. We’ve developed relationships with several creators whom we’ve had on the show, mostly at ECCC. Even outside of Trade Secrets, I’ve had the chance to have some absolutely lovely conversations with some of my favorite people in the industry. And you just won’t find that kind of interaction anywhere else (especially not at SDCC).

I know, I know. Now I’m gushing. But let me be frank here for a minute:

Comic book conventions, when I was growing up, were not positive experiences (for the most part). I’ve had terrible run-ins with creators, dealers, and other fans, and some of the shows I attended were downright scummy. With the exception of that one experience with the Image creators, the majority of my con experiences were awful – and even at that show the good was balanced by a terrible run-in with Rob Leifeld that sparked enmity in me that stands to this day.

For me, Emerald City Comicon has turned that all around. In the last few years I’ve managed to get well over a hundred signatures from my favorite creators, and every single one of those came with a personal experience, if not a longer conversation, with that person. It’s one of the most fantastic shows in the industry, and one that has given me experiences I’ll never, ever forget.

Thanks, ECCC. See you next year.

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Cliquety Cliques and Being A Loner

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Yesterday, I had an interesting conversation with a former co-worker. The two of us had worked together for under a year, and quit our company within a few months of one another. We’d found that we worked well together and had very similar personalities, which made for a pretty strong friendship that has extended beyond the borders of our old workplace.

That wasn’t true of everyone I worked with, though. Don’t get me wrong – there are a few people with whom I’m still in contact from several of my old jobs – but they’re not necessarily the people I’d have expected.
It got me to thinking about the nature of cliques in my everyday life. In any large group of people brought together by a common goal – a school, a sport, a workplace – it’s inevitable that cliques will form. Many people define their high-school or college experience by which clique they were a part of, even though they may not phrase it that way.

The same goes for a workplace, only the cliques are now called “teams” or “departments”. In my last job, I technically worked in 3 teams across two departments. The first two teams, being part of the same group, allowed me to maintain ties with the people I worked with when I changed over, so I still had pretty strong relationships with everyone… Until I moved out of the department.

While part of that group I developed friendships that, I had thought, would extend outside the workplace. With the exception of two people – both of whom have been part of podcasts for which I recruited them – I’ve barely spoken to any of those people since leaving that department. Even while I was still part of the company, the moment I changed departments I was an outsider, mired in an unsubtle “us vs. them” attitude.

There are some people with whom I maintain social media contact, but only a few of them I would consider “friends” anymore. The department change came with a hearty dose of ostracizing, which I hadn’t expected at the time. It’s also something I didn’t notice as strongly until I put myself in a situation where I was working on my own, and no longer a part of ANY large, artificially constructed group dynamic.

I’m not going to school. I’m not part of a club (I used to be part of a major national LARP that had – still has – some of the worst internal politics I’ve ever been witness to). I no longer have a framework to define my initial contact with new people, and am – by the nature of my new “loner” status – no longer a part of a clique. Even in high school I was a self-identified “geek”, and had that group around me at all times.

Without that sort of defining framework, my group of friends is now a haphazard conglomeration of disparate interests. A few former co-workers here, some podcast-mates there, some old LARP-mates, my poker buddies, some outliers. The Venn Diagram of my groups of friends would, for the most part, only contain any overlap at me. In some ways, I’m saddened by this thought. Large groups of people with whom I had regular, positive interaction at several of my old jobs and hobbies are no longer a part of my life. On the other hand, it’s shone a light on where those relationships were only held up by the foundation of the cliques to which I used to belong.

The situation has one, major, positive result: I am more grateful now for the friendships I’ve maintained than I was before. Without artificially imposed structure, I have a better grasp on the definition of my relationships and, while it might mean that I need to work harder to maintain them, I feel like they’ll ultimately be more rewarding.

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The Perfect Reading Experience

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Since the inception of ebooks, there has been an ongoing argument about the value of print in the experience of reading. I’ve had many a discussion and even written about my opinions on the matter, so I’m not going to repeat myself.

I read in bed, almost every single night. It’s not the only place I read, but it’s the most frequent. Many times my wife will want to go to sleep before me, so I’ll have to turn off all of the room lights and read in the dark, which isn’t a problem because I read on a Kindle Paperwhite. Over the last few months, I’ve finally realized that this is, without question, my perfect reading experience.

kindle_paperwhite_dark_inlineI’m a huge movie buff. I love seeing movies in theaters, and even now have a theater room in my home. Watching a movie on a huge screen in a darkened room is one of the most immersive entertainment experiences available. That rectangle of light draws you in to tell you a story, the blackness around you blotting out all other stimuli.

And that’s exactly how I feel about my Kindle. With all the lights off and that soft white glow surrounding the words on my Paperwhite’s screen, I feel more immersed in the books I read than I ever have. I don’t have to have a lamp on, or a book light throwing shadows around the whole room. I’m free to darken my surroundings and go into sensory deprivation mode, drawing all of my focus into that little rectangle of light where a story plays out before my eyes.

It’s fucking perfect.

The experience isn’t limited to the Kindle, so please don’t take this as brand-shilling – I just happen to own Amazon’s e-reader rather than a Nook or a Kobo. For any of the front-lit e-readers (or tablets, if that’s the way you go), the experience would be the same. And it’s an experience you can’t get any other way.

External lights have come close – everyone who reads a lot has spent at least one night as a kid under a blanket-tent with a flashlight or book light – but it’s still not quite the same. That complete dampening of surrounding light, and the screen carved out of the darkness in front of you is the absolute finest way to be immersed in a book, eschewing all distraction.

There is just no better way to read.

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Reader Perception And Quality Control

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I recently read a couple of posts on Chuck Wendig’s blog over at TerribleMinds regarding a self-published author’s responsibility for the quality of the work they publish. For your reading pleasure, the whole discussion started with this post on John Scalzi’s blog HERE, where he drew an analogy between the writerly life to that of a baseball player. Wendig furthered the discussion HERE and HERE.

The gist of Wendig’s point is that, while self-publishing is easy and has destroyed the barrier to entry in the publishing industry, each author who self-publishes now holds the responsibility to do right by their readers. He posits that authors should act as their own gatekeepers, and that the moment an author asks someone to pay for something they’ve written they have a responsibility to the reader – their customers – to present a professional and complete product.

I won’t further that particular discussion except to say that I couldn’t agree with him more. While I was reading through these threads another dynamic was brought into sharp focus: readers’ tendencies with regards to association of quality. Here’s what I mean:

For a moment, let’s take self-publishing out of the picture and rewind to the days where traditional publishing was just called “publishing”. If a reader suffered through a bad book – be it poorly written or unprofessionally executed – that reader associated the lack of quality with the author. Rarely (and this is demonstrated in some of the responses to Wendig’s posts, and echoed all over the internet) did a reader associate poor quality with a particular publisher or the industry as a whole. The inverse was also true: read a good book, follow the author. I can’t remember a time that I’ve ever read a fantastic novel and thought to myself “Man, that publisher really knows what they’re doing.”

Fast forward to the modern era. That dynamic I mentioned still exists with traditional publishers. While the idea of self-publishing has brought publishers in general more into the limelight, readers still don’t tend to associate good or bad quality of traditional books with the publisher or the publishing industry – the quality association still falls squarely on the author. The same cannot be said of self-published work.

When a reader buys a self-published novel and it turns out to be fantastic, that author now has a new fan. The reader associates the quality of the novel directly with the author and that association is more pertinent without a publishing house acting as middle-man. But when a reader gets ahold of a bad self-published book – again, be it poorly written, edited, and/or produced – the mentality no longer defaults to “I’m not going to buy any more of that author’s work.”, it tends to be “Fuck this self-published crap.” The onus of quality now rests on an entire segment of the industry, full of individuals who have nothing to do with one another, the best of which now get dragged down by players whose attitude is simply to dump a block of text onto Amazon without a thought to its quality.

I think that mentality originates from the idea that the traditional publishing industry, with its gatekeepers in place, has developed a reputation for at least upholding a minimum standard of quality. Readers intuitively know that – for the most part – when they pick up a book at Barnes & Noble they can expect it to have run through several editorial passes and have been proofread a few times. Please note that by “quality” I am simply referring to editorial professionalism, not the quality of the actual stories being told.

Of course, the same cannot be said of self-published work. While the barrier to entry has been razed to the ground, so has the expectation of professionalism. Without “gatekeepers” in place, no one is held to any kind of standard at all, which allows any overzealous author to take advantage of the system – of readers – to collect money for sub-par work rather than hone their craft prior to charging for it. Which is exactly Wendig’s point: Without that ingrained expectation of quality that the industry took decades to build in the minds of readers, the responsibility now rests solely on self-published authors’ shoulders to not foist snake-oil onto their customers.

I am never going to be the person to say that a writer shouldn’t be allowed to self-publish (and neither is Wendig, so please don’t assume that as my point). In fact, the ease of self-publishing is likely going to be the reason my book sees the light of day. While I don’t necessarily think that “gatekeepers” – the traditionally difficult standards of entry set by agents, acquisitions editors, and publishers – are healthy in an environment that is beginning to value creator’s rights more than it ever has, I think that publishers will morph their role into that of curators of content rather than locking all the doors and holding all the keys, and in a scenario where self-publishing digitally becomes simple and ubiquitous, it might be time for service providers and device manufacturers to take an active role in building up the quality of self-published work.

In the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s, the emergence of the home video game console experienced a similar issue. Atari created a console that was (comparatively) easy to program for and had almost no barriers to making games for it. Everyone from the big guys like Namco and Activision, down to programming teams of 2 guys in a basement, started making games. The result was an explosion of garbage – sometimes in the form of games that literally did not function. All of a sudden, there was a huge glut of expensive, quasi-functional trash, and no legitimate way to tell the good from the bad. Consumer confidence tanked, Atari went bankrupt, and the video game industry as a whole crashed – hard – and almost didn’t recover until a little Japanese company called Nintendo joined the fray in 1985.

Nintendo set a new standard for video game console manufacturers by providing a system that was easy to use and affordable for consumers, but simultaneously holding their publishers to a standard of quality by running every game through a battery of tests before it could be manufactured for Nintendo’s console. That system is still in place today at all the major console manufacturers, where all of them have a certification department that runs a series of tests on every single game to make sure that it adheres to a set of guidelines for usability and functionality.

These certification departments don’t judge the subjective quality of a game (if they did, we’d be blessed to never see another Petz or Babiez game again) instead simply making sure that a game functions properly, uses the correct terminology, and won’t break the console or hamper the user experience. And, in the face of a huge self-publishing boom in the video game industry, these certification departments aren’t going away – they’re adapting to the boom and working to help small video game developers publish games that never before would’ve seen the light of day.

The same model could be applied to self-published books. A company like Amazon could have a certification department full of proofreaders and copy editors whose jobs were nothing more than to comb over manuscripts and hold them to a certain level of production quality. Like the cert departments at Microsoft, Sony, and Nintendo, they would not comment on the quality of the stories, and they certainly wouldn’t act in a true editorial capacity (just like the cert departments don’t act as bug-testing facilities), but they would be able to identify the mechanical problems with a manuscript and have the power to reject one until it passes muster.

Granted, this would require an investment of people and funds from companies like B&N and Amazon who – at the moment – have exactly zero motivation to do so. Quality isn’t their concern, and they make their 30-70% off of every book sold whether it’s crap or not, so it behooves them to promote high quantity with a low barrier to entry.

Atari once thought the same thing.

We may never see something like that come to pass unless Amazon gets a rude awakening like Atari did, which is unlikely to happen in the modern publishing climate (at least not anytime soon). This, I think, is why publishers as curators will become the next wave of business in the publishing industry. The model that immediately jumps to mind is Image Comics.

Creator-owned comics were mostly unheard-of up until the early ‘90’s. Comic book creators, fed up with the Big 2 paying them a pittance for their work and taking their creations away from them, were looking for a new way to do business. Image Comics was formed with what was, at the time, a revolutionary idea: Let the creators keep the rights to their work. Image acts in a publishing capacity insomuch as they provide editorial support, access to printing and distribution, and a unified logo under which readers can assume a certain level of quality.

Image does, to some degree, act as gatekeepers just like Marvel and DC do, but the trade-off for creators is that they retain the rights to their creations. One of the primary drives, for authors, behind the self-publishing movement is creative control and the preservation of their rights. Image has been successful in this practice, which has been followed by other companies like Boom! Studios and MonkeyBrain, and the model seems ripe for introduction into the publishing industry.

It’s unlikely that any of the major publishers like Tor or Random Penguin would ever concede rights to new properties to their authors. The industry seems ready, however, for publishers to act less like gatekeepers and more, as I said earlier, like curators of content, sifting through the morass of self-published books to offer a middle-ground solution for authors who want to couple the benefits of unified brand clout with the flexibility of creator-ownership.

The publisher can develop a brand identity unheard of in traditional publishing, where mainstream readers can go to find works they like based not solely on the author’s brand, but also the publisher. The author retains the rights to his or her work, and can build a brand of their own with the support of a larger entity. Readers would have a way to parse creator-owned work more than just by author, finding a stable or series of stables of curated content that fits their reading tastes. It seems like a win-win-win proposal, but I’m also not a business major.

I don’t think traditional publishing is going away. Nor do I think that self-publishing is steering the industry toward some inevitable implosion. I do, however, think that new business models will emerge that incorporate the best of both worlds, and maybe with a little bit of quality control on the service-providers’ ends, we could see a more balanced renaissance in the publishing industry that serves the business, the creators, and the consumers alike.

For now, though, all a fledgling author like me can do is ride out the storm, and try desperately not to suck.

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My Imminent Return to Social Media

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I’ve had an interesting relationship with social media over the last month. In December, I made a resolution to take the month of January off of all social media (which, for me, is basically just Facebook and Twitter). There was one caveat: I’d still post links to new blog posts or articles I’d written, as well as announcements for podcasts I post.

I haven’t really followed the resolution to the letter, but it’s been awful close. I’ve stayed well away from Twitter, but some of my real-world interactions with groups of friends have relied on Facebook invites for so long that I’ve spent some time looking there. In turn, I end up reading a few posts and, today, I responded to one. The perception of my resolution was an all-out ban, which has resulted in some gentle ribbing from some of my friends about the few posts I have put up. And while some would see my minimal access to social media as a failure of my resolution, I’ve found it wildly successful.

Before the resolution, I was allowing Facebook and Twitter to dominate my free time. Every time I was watching a movie, or reading a book, or even playing a video game, I was still periodically checking social media. I was letting it distract from my writing, including my novel and my blog, to the point where I’d go a full week or more without writing a damned thing. I was letting it eat me up.

In the time off I’ve accomplished loads more than I had previously. I’m about to finish a full revision of my novel in less than 3 weeks, a task that took me 10 and 16 weeks, respectively, for my last revisions. I’ve written more, and more substantive, blog posts in that time, and have now put my podcast onto a solid production schedule with definitive publication dates. On top of all that, I’ve learned how to find things I want to watch and read on the internet on my own, rather than relying on links to click-bait sites in my social media feeds.

In February, I’m going to go back to posting and reading social media, but not in as much volume, and hopefully with a more discerning eye for what links I will follow and discussions I’ll take part in. It’s given me perspective on what to share and how to share it, as well, which will (hopefully) be beneficial when I start promoting my book.

This is an experiment I’d implore everyone to try, at least for a little while. The rules don’t need to be hard and fast, and ignore the peer pressure of people telling you how you should be doing it. The break from social media reminded me of how to break out of my echo chamber and find information on my own, which will hopefully lead to me being one of the people who is posting more links for others to read rather than clicking on them. It’s helped my productivity and my overall mental state.

But, in truth, I can’t wait for February to come. There are a lot of social interactions I’m really missing right now, and it’ll be good to remind myself how much fun I have on social media. See you guys in a few days.

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Inspiration, Tenacity, and… hoo boy this is a long one…

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I’ve read a lot of blog posts and stories from authors about their journey with writing and the things that led to them becoming a full-time writer. Many of these are couched in the guise of writing advice, seeming attempts to latch onto the same anecdotal feel as one of my favorite writing books, Stephen King’s On Writing.

The stories I’ve read are almost universal in their portrayal of depression, self-loathing, and tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds. As the social media/blogosphere has opened up unprecedented access to the thoughts of our favorite authors, aspiring writers are further besieged by tales of financial hardship and mental degradation.

Don’t take this to mean I’m discounting these stories, saying they’re untrue, or even saying they’re not an accurate portrayal of the average writer’s tribulations. I’m just taken aback by a couple of things: first, how different my path to writing has been from most of the stories I’ve read, and second, the alarming detail with which most writers remember their past.
blog_separatorI don’t remember the first thing I ever wrote. I’m always surprised by the stories of other writers, who can remember with perfect clarity every piece that’s ever come off of their pen or keyboard, and can identify the exact moment in their life that fired their desire to be a writer.

My long-term memory has always been shit. With the exception of a few specific, turn-key moments, my childhood is just a giant blur. I have looked at pictures from my childhood – of my family on road trips, of meeting family friends, of birthdays – and don’t remember any of the events depicted there. There are pictures of my brother and I at Bedrock City – an old Flintstones-themed park in Custer, South Dakota – from the early 80’s that I have no recollection of. Disneyland barely registers in a foggy haze of disconnected images.

So trying to remember the first thing I ever wrote isn’t just a chore, it’s likely impossible. I’m not sure how important it is, though. If I can’t remember the first thing I wrote, then it probably doesn’t have much influence on my current writing life.
blog_separatorWriting has always been a background thing for me. I’ve always been a storyteller (just ask my wife how many times she’s heard the same story of something-or-other), but until recently it was never something I actively *did*. I know that there was writing for many classes throughout high school, but I couldn’t tell you what any of those stories were about.

In high-school, I was way more interested in being an artist. I was always drawing. If it wasn’t doodles in my notebooks during class I was practicing techniques to become a comic book artist. I’ve always been into comics, and at one point thought that was a field I’d enter as an artist. My first attempts to get published took the form of comic book pages.

There was a small – and I mean very small – local press in Bend that created small print-runs of anthology comic books that were hand-delivered to the local Oregon comic shops on a bi-monthly basis. I had met the guy who ran the press a few times and, after showing him some of my art, he agreed to publish a 3-4 page story of mine in one of his books. After churning out a terrible 3-page faux-trailer for a 90’s Image gun-toting super-hero, I handed over the pages for the next issue.

He never produced another issue.

Along the same line, I wrote and drew an eight-page story that ended up in a collection of writing and art that was given to students at my high school. Wow, is it bad. The title character’s name is an acronym spelling F.I.R.E.A.R.M. – because, you know, he has a plasma gun for an arm, ala Mega Man. I’m not even going to talk about what that acronym stands for. The story included the line “The killing has become too easy. Living has become too hard.”

Deep.

I was way behind deadline on it and never inked the pages, but the penciled and lettered pages are forever immortalized in a spiral-bound, title-less collection that most of my high-school classmates have probably thrown away by now. I might still have a copy lying around. Maybe.
blog_separatorAfter high school, I thought I knew what I wanted to do. I moved to Seattle and spent 2½ years at the Art Institute working on a computer animation degree that never materialized into anything. I got an internship-turned-full-time-position at Wizards of the Coast, where I was constantly surrounded by writers and artists more talented and interesting than me.

I would like to say that I never allowed that to discourage me, but upon reflection I realize that’s not the case. For a lot of people that discouragement would’ve been front-and-center in their psyche – the sort of thing that leads one to write a blog post about depression and self-loathing. For me, it was more subtle.

The Art Institute had already burned me out on one creative path in my life, so the creative talent at WotC didn’t inspire me as it would others, instead it just pushed my ideas to the background. I subconsciously allowed myself to set those things aside without a fight, and most of my creative pursuits just faded out of my life.

But I was still writing. I was active in a live-action roleplaying game at the time, and had been using that as an outlet. It’s something I’d been doing long before I started at WotC, but somewhere on the internet there are e-mail groups with post upon post of in-game fiction that I was writing about the characters I and my friends were portraying in the game. Over the course of my time in N.E.R.O., Legacies, and Amtgard, I can’t even calculate the output of shared stories I worked on to help fill in the gaps between meetings.

My first real attempt at a novel is an aborted 25,000 words toward an epic fantasy story based on the characters from Amtgard. Of all the things that I’ve written, I would probably credit that story as the spark that made me want to write more seriously.
blog_separatorSometimes I wonder if my lack of depression or notable mental illness is something that hinders my credibility as a writer. So many authors, of varying degrees of fame, tell those stories and identify their experiences with mental illness as informative of their writing. It’s a widely held belief that authors are prone to emotional issues and substance abuse, and that – as horrible as those things can be – they can sometimes lead to moments or periods of creative brilliance.

I don’t really have that. While I have experienced depression in my life, it’s not in the clinical, chronic sense. I get sad when sad things happen and happy when things go right. And while I used to be a pretty cynical person, and I still tend to be a skeptic in a lot of ways, I found a long time ago that I was generally happier living with optimism.

Does that ruin my writer street cred? Writ Cred?

I don’t mean to be glib about other people’s problems. I only find it interesting that because of these kinds of stories from some of the world’s favorite writers, readers tend to automatically associate the term “author” with “depressed, socially awkward alcoholic”, and allow that association to lend some credibility to their artistic output, which I think is bogus.
blog_separatorI’ve always had ideas in my head for stories. I’ve been a gamer all my life, and have been playing Dungeons & Dragons and other roleplaying games since I was 10… ish (I can’t remember exactly when I started; see above about my memory re: my childhood). Most of my story ideas came out in the form of outlines for gaming sessions, most of which were never run. Some of them morphed into bits and parts of roleplay posts for those live-action games, and some of them just banged around in my head with no purpose or outlet.

Toward the end of my time at WotC, when I was still in the midst of that novel attempt, there was an open call for a new novel based on one of the D&D campaign settings. I’d had this idea for a story swimming around in my brain since college that needed an outlet, so I wrote up a proposal and sent it in as part of the contest. I don’t think I ever even got a rejection letter.

So, that idea still hovered around in my brain, and I just couldn’t get rid of it. And, as life continued to intervene and fuel my utter lack of creative motivation, I wasn’t doing anything to get that idea out of my head. The outlet for it seems so simple, in retrospect.
blog_separatorAfter I was laid off from that job, I bounced around a lot and let financial need take over my brain. My wife and I lived pretty broke for a while, and for the next four years or so I floated inside my own head, trying to figure out what I wanted to do next. I had thought to make a career at Wizards, but should’ve known better, and was dumped back into the world, rudderless, at the ripe old age of 23.

A card game that I co-designed was published by Green Ronin Games, but that was about the extent of my creative work. I had a few articles published in the now-defunct Undefeated Magazine (by Pathfinder’s Paizo Publishing), but when that dried up I never pursued that path for writing. It was fun and I made (piddly) money at it, and to this day, I have absolutely no idea why I didn’t go after that.

The natural progression (as my brain told me) was to fall back on my original plan: become an animator. I worked some temp jobs and did some freelance work, but eventually convinced myself that my original path was correct (even though it didn’t pan out) and took a 5-week immersion course at a tiny school called Mesmer Animation Labs. I spent a ridiculous amount of our waning funds on the course and the materials, only to discover a few months after it was over that I had lost interest in an animation career.

I’m very lucky that my wife didn’t murder me.

There are many writers whose story of persistence and tenacity revolves around the idea of always writing, no matter what, and scraping by doing whatever writing they can to make ends meet. That story isn’t my story. The freelance work I was doing was mostly fun, my temp jobs were usually easy, and by the time I’d been a game tester at Nintendo for a while, I didn’t have a lot of reason to go do a shit job for the sake of money.

Testing wasn’t entirely stable, mind you, but it was simple and fun and my co-workers were nerds just like me. I tried working a couple of call-center jobs during my breaks from Nintendo, and couldn’t do it, so I just kept hovering back to testing. It wasn’t what I wanted to do as a career, but at that time I had no fucking clue what I wanted as a career. I just knew this was something I was good at and it made me decent money, so I stayed.
blog_separatorOnce the money situation stabilized, my creative brain started scratching at my skull again. Especially during long periods the utter boredom that is bug testing GameCube games, my ideas would run roughshod over my concentration. I had ideas for short stories, art projects, game designs, you name it. I designed and wrote and entire rulebook for a live-action roleplaying game called Unification, and even went so far as to run it for several months. I designed other card games (none published, yet), wrote some stories, and – eventually – went on to create several podcasts and Geekerific.com.

I’ve spoken before about how the death of my father spurred much of the creative work I started in 2010, beginning with the creation of the After The Fact podcast. That step – using the creation of the podcast and the website to distract me from grief – began a cascading effect with my artistic drive. In the last four years I’ve been more creatively active than in the ten years prior, which led to the conclusion that maybe it was time to bring that to the forefront.

I learned, over the course of 2010, that the only way to get a creative idea to stop waking me up at night was to actually write it down and work on it. I know, I know – it’s quite possibly the most obvious “revelation” in creative history, and one that writers talk about constantly. It just never clicked before, and that realization has spurred a sort of creative renaissance for me.
blog_separatorIn the annals of my history, from – we’ll say – junior high school forward, there are uncounted ideas that I’ve had and let die, or just lost to my shitty long-term memory. I can’t even imagine how many stories I might have been able to write if I’d just taken the time to write notes on the seeds that wafted through my brain when I was younger.

The advantage, I guess, is that most of those ideas were probably utter shit, and it’s probably fine for them to be lost to time immemorial. On the other hand, there was a brief moment after I’d had this Captain Obvious-worthy revelation that I felt a profound sense of loss over all the things I’d let blow away in the breeze.

The beauty of my crappy long-term memory, though, is that I don’t remember a damned one of them, so I don’t have any real reason to latch onto what was lost and despair over it. I can just move forward, unhindered by history, afresh. Yay me?
blog_separatorAfter successfully launching the podcast I’d wanted to work on for quite some time, I decided it was time to get a story that had been banging around in my brain for a decade out of my head. So, toward the end of 2010 I sat down and wrote the first chapter of my first novel. It was like finally taking a piss after being stuck in a car for – roughly ten years. The catharsis was extraordinary, and it was only the first 3,000 words or so.

And then, it sputtered. It took a year to get the first 17,000 words down, and parts of that were like pulling teeth. I had no direction, no focus, and no discipline. I began reading all the writing advice I could get my hands on – blogs, books, podcasts, you name it – and the message was always the same: If you don’t have the discipline to get it down on paper, you’re not a writer. Get the fucker finished and worry about making it good after it’s done.

That first year was rough, trying to work the discipline to write into my daily routine. And by “trying”, I mean not trying at all and just belching out chapters in a haphazard fashion, right up until the last few months of 2011, when I was introduced to NaNoWriMo. Short description: NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, a contest/organization/workshop/social experiment whereby writers are challenged to write a complete 50,000-word novel entirely within the month of November.

Amongst my circle of friends and acquaintances, NaNoWriMo was a constant presence, usually in the form of “I think I might do NaNoWriMo this year.” Most of the “I think”s turned into “I didn’t have the time”s, but I saw a perfect opportunity to artificially introduce the discipline I’d been needing for the last year.

I sort of participated in NaNoWriMo 2011, not insomuch as writing a novel from scratch, instead using it as an excuse to add 50,000 words to my currently 22,000ish word manuscript. I figured if I could succeed in adding that much meat to the novel, I couldn’t possibly set it aside like I had my first attempt. And I was right. I fell 1300 words short of the 50,000-word goal, but the flip side of that is that I now had two complete acts and 70,000 words actually written down, and I was gonna finish this bitch.
blog_separatorI began keeping a story journal. I have a few, now, actually. I have one specifically dedicated to the series of fantasy novels kicked off by my first book, but my favorite is one that I’ve titled my “One Page Idea Book”. When I think of a story, I start a new page in the journal and write down the idea. I confine myself to one page, just to get it out of my head.

I started this journal because I found myself sputtering again after NaNoWriMo. I worked on the book all throughout 2012, but with nothing like the fervor I had for that month. I found myself constantly distracted not only by life, but by other ideas that kept popping into my head while I was trying to think about where to go next with my “main” story. The One Page Idea Book gave me something I desperately needed – finite control on getting ideas out of my head without letting them ramble.

That big push on my novel opened the floodgates in my head, and creative projects just keep tumbling out. That journal has a ton of new ideas for stories, a few of which are even still lingering in my head like Construct (my current novel) did. 2012 was just idea upon idea upon idea, mostly for books and games, but also resulted in a renewed push on my blog and podcasts.

I was amazed at how much actually working on something creative snowballed into an entirely new creative mindset. My priorities began shifting around without prompting, and before I knew it I was taking a serious look at my life balance and, after many discussions and negotiations with my wife, decided that I wanted to be the guy making something, instead of just working for the people who do.
blog_separatorAside from the distraction of new ideas, the hang up in 2012 was a two-fold problem – I really did (do) lack the appropriate discipline to get shit written down in a reasonable amount of time, and I started doubting my ability. I guess this is the part where I have the traditional lack-of-confidence moment that every author talks about, because WOW, I felt like a fraud.

I spent a good chunk of soul searching questioning my abilities, and marveling at the arrogance it takes to think that anyone would ever want to read the shit that I write. It dumped me in a hole for a little while where I couldn’t motivate myself to open that Word file one more time and finish what I’d started. I look back on that time, now, and realize that those moments are exactly what those other writers are writing about.

You may be disappointed to know that I didn’t descend into an alcohol fueled depressive slump. I frequently call bullshit on myself when I’m feeling down, and that’s exactly what I did this time. I took a hard look at how critical I was being and realized that I was being unfair. I hadn’t even finished the fucking thing yet, and I was already doubting my abilities?

Admittedly, this is where the stories of other writers’ depressive tendencies actually helped. I’ve been an artist of some sort all my life, but I still have problems internalizing the idea that every artist – at one point – feels like their creation is crap. Hell, my own father was a fantastic artist – I have a couple of charcoal still-lifes of his that I love – but he was so critical of his own work that he just gave it up and never drew again.

That wasn’t going to be me. I have stories in my head that I want to tell, and I know that I’m the only one that can tell them. I took to heart the stories I’d read and decided that I was going to tell my own, even if they’re all a giant dumpster fire.
blog_separatorToward the middle of 2012, I half-jokingly mentioned to my wife how awesome it would be for me to leave my job at Nintendo and become a house husband. I told her that, in exchange for not having to work, she wouldn’t have to do hardly any chores. She’d have a live-in house boy, and I’d get to write and work on my creative projects. To my surprise and shock, she didn’t laugh me off. In fact, her reaction was more like “ooooh…. That would be awesome.”

I was FLOORED. Fast forward 7-ish months, and that’s exactly what happened. I left Nintendo after nine years, came home, and got to work finishing my novel. I wrote the last words in the manuscript on March 13th, 41 days after leaving my job. I’ve spent the last 11 months revising (I’m working on the fourth draft), querying and being rejected by agents, and researching my options for publishing. And, a few months ago, I threw down the first two chapters of book two.
blog_separatorEven though my story may not be one of depression and broken relationships and drug abuse, I guess it still does ring with that tenacity vibe. For me, it’s all been a matter of discipline, and simply realizing that my creations are unique to me, in spite of the world trying to tell me that I’ll just be another pebble in the gravel pit.

Have I always wanted to be a writer? I have no fucking clue; I can’t remember that far back. Does it really matter? I’m not so sure. I know that I’ve always wanted to make stuff. I want to build something and put it in front of other people and revel in their enjoyment of it. Or hatred, maybe, I don’t know.

My path to this point seems non-standard, if I’m judging by what I’ve read from other writers. Although the impetus for triggering my creative flood was a tragedy, the creation isn’t an attempt to escape from constant tragedy. I am, in spite of being a writer, a generally happy person, and I still consider myself an optimist.

So, my advice? Oh, no, no, nononono. That’s not what this is about. This is just a story. I neither have the experience nor the background to be offering advice, certainly not on writing. Glean what you can from what I write and if it helps you, great, but don’t call it “advice” because then, instead of occasionally just feeling like a fraud, I actually would be.