Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Just over 12 months ago I decided to attempt the game of publishing a book, and today that decision was fully realized. "Dream State" is now available for purchase via my author site setup by the publisher.
I have found in my life that anytime an event or decision is finalized that I should reflect back on that particular journey, for in any transaction I take on there are always lessons. Each thing I do provides me the opportunity to define and re-define what it is I want, how I want to behave, and what I want to give to others.
The lessons learned through this last year are so numerous I sigh at the prospect of having to count them all. Publishing in the traditional sense is a tough business is the first lesson I learned. Having never tried it before, I went in with the standard bull in a china shop approach. Ok maybe it was more of the shotgun method of marriage. Regardless, I did it unaware of the politics involved and completely naïve as to the proper process.
Lesson two, read the flippin' instructions.
With as many resources available on the wonderful world wide inter-web nets, I should have educated myself better. But I took the Fire, Ready, Aim route. In the end it turned out like I wanted it to; I have more control over my destiny than I would have had if I had used a more traditional method. The trade for control was more work from me to market and advertise. Still, worth every ounce of energy I have put forth and will in the future.
Lesson three. Not everyone gives a shit I wrote a book.
My conversations became consumed with the story line, the process of writing, editing, polishing, etc. All those steps along the way fueled my want to be published, drove me to accept certain things, and helped me to draw the line of the acceptable when necessary. I found myself monopolizing conversations after that first innocent question was asked, "So what are you doing in your spare time?" That was a damning question for the uninitiated. I could and would spend hours talking of the premise, specifics about this character or that. Initially it was a lot of fun, but I fear my poor friends and acquaintances would be far less enthusiastic if they were to be asked.
Lesson four. Good things come to those that wait.
My view on that is "Patience my ass I wanna kill something, NOW!" Patience of a general nature has never been my forte by any stretch of the imagination. I like decisions to be made and action to take place. Needless to say, I am a much more capable person today, because I understand the importance of patience.
Lesson five. People are generally awesome.
This lesson could be in direct conflict with lesson three, however, the folks I refer to here are those that share the love of the process of writing. The wanna be authors, those that have made it, those that are trying, those that support us, and those that have failed. I have been fortunate enough to have found a wonderful crew of people I can say are more than casual acquaintances, many are friends. Claude Bouchard is an awesome PR man, fearless in his support. Luke Romyn has provided me more laughs than I should have had in public. CK Webb and DJ Weaver single handedly made me feel like a real author from nearly the first time we met on twitter. There are many others from the twitterverse that have quasi-adopted me and to all of you I appreciate the support and friendship. My twitter mentions however, would not be complete without a mention for my very good friend Winslow Eliot. She read "Dream State" against her better judgment you see as she is not a sicko like yours truly. She gave me awesome feed back, great criticisms, and made suggestions that will make the next book that much better. From her I learned to pull back, just a little. J
Appreciations extend beyond twitter or any of the other online applications. Chaz McEntire for his editing, what an awesome exercise that was. Owen Hall helped me learn a new way of stringing words together. And Selena Kong allowed me room to stretch out some thoughts that will appear in the next book.
Tam, Rob, Lisa, Elizabeth, and Don all coached, cheered, and bitched at me to get to the finish line. To them I will always be grateful.
Thanks every body.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
I was accompanied by my wife Tammy for this interview to round out a solid five women to one man. If that doesn't scare you men out there then I guess you are more fearless than I am. :-)
Tammy and I had gotten a room at the Tuscaloosa Hilton Garden Inn and the ladies were going to meet us there. We thought and talked about video recording the interview, and then tossed that to the side as we all thought we would lock up with the added pressure of the video camera running. Instead we captured the audio portion of the interview, which turned out to be an excellent plan. Before the sit down interview, the ladies sent me a series of questions that I returned to them. We did not revisit those questions in the interview.
My heartfelt thanks go out to all the participants, and those that provided write in questions to WebbWeaver before hand.
I appreciate everyone that participates in this journey as it unfolds. Specifically though, I would like to thank Claude Bouchard, Luke Romyn, Winslow Eliot, and Mike Cole along with CK and DJ. These folks all represent the new found friends from Twitter and I appreciate all the encouragement, support, and care each of them give me.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The words have come when I didn't know from where,
They seemed to be right there in the air.
That's just a cool little set of words. And I have no idea where they came from. I was trying to write a post on the things I am grateful for. What a post that would be! Maybe later.
Bit of an update to start off Twofer Tuesday…
I was in shock and awe last night when I came home from running some errands with my bride. The proof copy of Dream State was delivered while we were out. Three years of story telling, polishing, editing, polishing, editing, reading, editing, and a year of that tied up in getting that parcel package sitting on my kitchen island to sit there. Three years of off and on writing, showing to friends the latest prose, trying poetry, three surgeries, a real death, doubt, frustration, and acceptance.
I looked at the plane cardboard cover and felt a lump build in my throat. What was inside represented in reality the proof of three years worth of effort. I say effort purposefully, because it certainly wasn't work. I experienced more than I care to admit during that time frame, and regret not a second of it. I handed the package to my wife and asked her to open it, which she did.
The cover was astounding. My son designed that for me one night from a couple stock images I had found that I wanted used. He built the concept, the publisher did the fades on the font and wa la we have what will be released. I'm very proud of the work he did with it. I am in process now of reading word for word to make sure it's as close to perfect as this bald headed chicken fornicator can make it.
Twofer Part Deux
Let's call it an experiment, or you can call it me pimping my work by asking obvious questions that people have to read because they can't believe someone would actually ask that.
A bit of back story… and this gets weird and I won't be able to make every point in this post. Trust though that I will come back to it over and over again.
So here goes.
We as humans define ourselves by how much high and low we are willing to declare as acceptable. The examples of this concept are everywhere. Look at Einstein or Edison. Both men had to be able to face severe frustration, and failure to make the advancements they made. I'm not preaching religion, but regardless of your belief in Christ look at the pain he endured for as long as he endured it. What was the opposite of that? How grand must his reward have been. Edison left a legacy that literally changed the world, Christ left a legacy that is still worshiped to this day.
On another side of this look at addiction. Addicts exchange their life for the feeling of an altered state, one they decided they could not live without. Some make a different choice, some want to know more than that, experience the reality in all its stark contrasts rather than live in an altered state any longer.
So here's the experiment, and you are the only one to know if it's a success. Challenge yourself to find that one thing in your life you wish was more, whether its materialistic, mental or spiritual. Try something small. Probably not best to try something big first. Easing into this concept is best done slowly. Maybe you want more heat in romance, the opposite of that heat could be any number of things but for conversation let's say that it's tension. How much tension are you willing to experience to have your socks rocked off in the sack? What about fame? How much of your personal space are you willing to lose? If you want peace, how much strife are you willing to accept to know just as much peace.
To quote Forrest Gump "…momma said…"
Bonnie used to tell me "Bobby Gene, that shit that don't kill ya will only make ya stronger!" and I'll be damned if she wasn't right.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Good Morning Crew. I know its been awhile since I left a Dream State update, bad part is I had to look at the post to see which version we are on.
My apologies for not providing more info, but to be honest the process was driving me nuts. Reminds me of a joke…
Pirate walks in a bar with a ships wheel sticking out of his pants.
Bartender – Evening Mate, you know you have a ships wheel in your pants.
Pirate – Arrrrrrrrrr, and its driven me NUTS.
Anyway, back to the reason for the post.
I was notified that the proof copy of Dream State is being printed, and that I should expect it in the next two weeks. So whats a proof copy, it is the product of all the piece parts of the process. It has the full cover, the text blocking, all the text pieces included. Basically it's the first time I get to see the final product.
Upon approval the book migrates from production to sales and marketing and the real fun starts.
Thanks to you all for being a part of the journey. Your riding along has made it much more enjoyable.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
I was talking with a friend of mine and we were discussing whether or not I should try to publish my collection of poems. Based on something I had read from one of the self-publish houses, I would need another 8 poems to have a collection large enough to publish. One thing led to another and I said I thought I could write 8 poems before I went to bed for the day. Immediately after agreeing to this, I took a nap. An hour and a half later, I churned out six poems by 9:00pm.
There is more to the challenge, though. It had to be based on a single word, and the poem had to embody the selected word. The six poems vary in length, but I tried to cut straight to the point of my interpretation of what the word invoked for me.
Leave comments if you're inclined.
We are two,
Though still relevant.
Our growth lies,
In our closeness to one.
Pure as the driven snow.
We seek our love,
That really understand.
The covers are so cold,
Save that one spot,
Where your foot stay,
Keeping me from running astray.
With the innocence,
Knowing the warmth was,
From you relaxed.
Regardless the day,
Troubles that may,
You make me relax,
Until they melt away.
Shut out the world,
Up with the crows,
Staring at the coffee,
Planning the next no show.
A job well done,
Used to be all that was required,
To enjoy the rising of the sun.
Meeting to meeting,
Something always gets spilled,
The pace is so quick,
I have not yet become,
A master of the trick.
The trick you see,
Is to know,
The intended actions,
Of the seeds that we sow.
Forget the job,
For all it provides in truth,
Of you being a slob.
Work the magic around you,
Grab what is near,
Create for you the next grandest view.
If we look deep,
Only in the places we sleep,
We will find a vast collection.
Our eyes see all,
Nothing escapes our view,
Our minds filter what it doesn't understand,
Keeps it all stored for later review.
Our past experience tells us,
What is within reason,
Where the lines are drawn,
Defines our mental season.
We make the choice,
Where the bounds get stretched,
Truth be told its as easy,
As a dog playing fetch.
Face the unreasonable,
With love not fear,
Watch as the obstacles,
Fade to shear.
Minutes tick by,
Hours stack up,
Then bleed into days.
Of the event,
Is not like,
Sleeping outside in a tent.
Of a new meeting,
Always seem at the end
To be so fleeting.
Judge not right or wrong,
You will know them all,
Before you reach your prime,
Savor your time.
Noise from the dark,
Red eyes of evil,
Skin as rough as bark.
The sound of the voice,
Makes my courage wither.
I'm drawn in smooth.
Closer I come,
To seeing the terror,
Closer I come,
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Your comments below will be my proof if you chose to play along in this little game.
If so Thank you, If not, Thanks for considering it.
Almost like Einstein,
Out of control,
Wild with Idea.
Grab the clipper,
Run it across my head,
Shave it as close as a zipper.
Paint brush will work,
To remove the clippings,
Just an example,
Of a garage hair cut perk.
To the shower,
Soap to the scalp,
Water flows like rain.
But for the stubble,
Just a little gel,
And that too,
Will be rubble.
No more twisting,
I’ll just have to settle,
To rub the five o’clock shadow.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dear Yadda to Whom it May Yadda,
I yadda yadda'd this to you yadda afternoon concerning yadda and yadda, yet still have not heard yadda yadda from you.
Please yadda as soon as possible, or I will be forced to yadda your yadda yadda
Yadda yadda, have a nice day.
PS: Yadda yadda yadda.
Does any one feel the same level of apathy when trying to talk to publishers or tell the story of your latest work to agents?
I commented to her post the day after. It took me some time to determine what I wanted to say, how I was going to react. Now two days after and ensuing reviews of those written words, plus one bodaciously climatic conversation with my bride, I have come to my conclusions. (SPOILER ALERT This view will change over time)
Heres a the back story. In Spring of 2000 I decided I wanted to try my hand at drawing. Nothing earth shattering, I didnt want to paint the ceilings of great churches, just manipulate the pencil and shapes until the thing was recognizable.
Quite simple beginnings really. In a two year time span I obsessed over the venture, I created enough drawings to share. One thing led to another and I found myself a featured artist in three shows around my home of Atlanta. Hell, I even sold some of the works. I even let my baby go, my first large scale drawing, a 24x36 canvas that took over 300 hours to draw.
That was it, I haven’t really drawn anything sense. The paper quit telling me what it wanted to see, what it wanted to show to the world, and without that conversation before a drawing started, my muse drifted away.
The introduction to Dream State tells the story of how the book came to be. It was never intended, the original thought was to play around with words FOR MYSELF to relieve some stress, try to get rid of all the shit that had piled into my brain. Eventually it took on a life of its own, the words started to flow under their own fruition. About two years into playing, I decided to throw it out there to see if there was interest in the creation. That decision made, I finished the story on one of the highest notes of my life. The ending floored me and I had no idea where it came from.
Then came the research into how to publish a book. What a cluster that industry is. I understand now why many of the great authors wound up killing themselves. They weren’t crazy, they were frustrated. Six months ticked away and no response from the agents. Sorry, lots of response, none favorable. Then I got an offer from a joint venture firm, and I took it. I decided when I went out for this first one that I would go as far as to self publish just to get the book into hands.
Here I am now almost six months after that original contact with the firm and I am still waiting for the proof copy. Soon, I keep telling myself. Just a couple more days and they will notify me that it's in the mail. It’s almost as bad as waiting for the call. Let’s face it, when it is available is anybody gonna buy it? Will it be as big as I think it can be? Will the public like it? I have turned into the Head Cheerleader in high school, overly obsessed with people thinking I am attractive and talented. It’s amazing.
To the point, Bobby, damn you’re long winded.
In all the events, the transactions of getting published and released, I made a mistake. I forgot what I was doing. I was supposed to be having fun, creating something for the pure enjoyment of creating. In the beginning I didn’t care what others thought. In the beginning I just wanted to see if I could tell a story.
Then my motivation changed when I decided to publish. I wanted to illicit conversation, I wanted to talk about the characters, I wanted reactions, I wanted to feed my ego. (There I said it)
I started writing little snippets of poems, (never done it before) and I got quick reactions, my ego got stroked. I sat and pounded out two and three poems a night for about three weeks. Then it was gone. I have tried to write poetry recently, only to look at it and say Really? You’re kidding right?
Back to the point. I have been struggling with what’s next, what’s the next premise, the next idea? And just as surely as my ego drove me to write more and more, it has turned against me. My ego or its evil twin, had filled my head with all the self doubt, loathing, and rational reasons why I should not try again.
Why mess up a good thing? You did it now go try something else.
Problem is I’m hooked. The feeling I got when the story came together, when that last piece fell into place, seeing the reactions on people’s faces, all mind blowing.
I wrote a little a couple weeks ago when the day job had turned into a 24 hour a day job, the secret to life is acceptance. And in that acceptance of self we can find freedom and peace.
To close this long winded post, I will continue writing. I will continue creating, for at the core of who I am, that is what I do. But, I will change how I do it, I will gag the back seat driver in my head and write for the moment, in the moment, with no preconceived expectation of the results. I will write without a goal, or a direction, and let the stories tell themselves. As Dave Matthews said about “Corn Bread” on “Live at Peidmont Park,” “…If you don’t like it, what I’m s’possed to do!”
I can quit the exhausting worry about the call.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
That wasn't it either I decided.
Then I saw this from @novelhelp "Husband snoring. Dog snoring. Cat stalking. It must be Friday night!!!." That was it, I would write a short story about that from @novelhelp's perspective or at least the imaginings of mine when trying to imagine her perspective.
So here it goes….
She sat at the corner of the sofa, curled with her knees under her. The woman sat with her book in her lap, and her ever present laptop on her left. She had positioned a tall glass of tea on the glass covered round table on the right of the couch earlier. Now she was ready to read, whether it be the book of the moment or the stream of tweets that kept her often entertained.
Focusing on the old style of reading words printed on paper, she looked down and began to read. As she focused on the words from the page, she noticed the sound of her husbands deep breathing as he had fallen asleep in the recliner. He had a low comfortable snore happening that made her grin a bit as she felt good in the comfort of her home. Looking up to admire the relaxation on her husbands face, she noticed too that the dog had fallen asleep on the floor.
The end of a stress filled week of work related issues that fed on themselves until they became all consuming. The quiet of the house, the relaxation in comfort, and the sounds of sleep caused a warmth to flow outward to meet her skin.
It was perfect she thought as the cat stalked across the room in pursuit of whatever it is that cats pursue.
Very open question don't you think? I think the reasons we write are many, but at the core it always comes back to the fact that we want to make people feel something. Claude Bouchard in Vigilante tells us of ultimate greed from a disturbed mind, while Luke Romyn tells us a tale of a dark man saved by care in The Dark Path. Claude's book made me feel that his main character was justified, and Luke took me into the soul of a man that likes his work and is destroying himself with it. I felt for both those people. I wanted to understand why they thought the way they did.
I wrote Dream State to elicit a response. I wanted to hook people in a scene and then change directions so quickly that they would visibly shake their head at what was just read. I write the way that I do in the hopes that my readers will "see" the images that are described in words. Most importantly though, I write to prove to myself that I can describe the imagery that I see in my head during little snippets of time. I like to describe the transactions that are so often glazed over in real life. I guess it's my way of slowing things down to see it, stopping to smell the roses.
So I say to you all, let's go make our readers feel if just for a little while.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Dave Matthews Band released the Live at Mile High Stadium CD sometime last year. It was during that time that I was putting some finishing touches on my first novel Dream State. I would spend hours reading through the text and not see a way to either improve or embellish the story line. I normal start a review session with the first track of the disc then start reading. At whatever point, I was at when #41 came on, I would stop. The smooth lyrical opening sets you up for an easy, slow ride. Soon after the conclusion of the lyrics a crescendo takes you over the top for the first of three musical waves. The song continues to build through the second wave with blistering guitar courtesy of Tim Reynolds. Rashown Ross and Jeff Coffin take the role of mellowing out the crowd before one of the beginning of the third wave. The third wave is the strongest, most fantastic improv sax solo's I have ever heard. The dong ends with the band slowing the tempo, pace and volume to the point the crowd screams "Every Day."
It's after my nearly 15 minute break that the words pop out of the screen. I saw new levels of detail, new conversations to be added. I am listening to #41 as I write this post and I have been through the song twice. Just can't get enough.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thin and cold,
Hard against the white of my skin.
Pressure is my slave,
Control my master.
And the game is over,
I beat my master.
The depth of human hair,
No stitches needed,
Let it heal in the air.
Those are the effects of control,
On a good day I only need the air,
Control then is my master,
And my master is fair.
When there is more shadow,
And my control runs low,
The pain is like a gun,
Hot and deep,
But still my master wins,
As I instruct my slave,
To save me for later,
His we can not save.
When its' wrong,
When I can't draw the blade,
I cut wide swaths,
Through my minds glade.
Leaving the pain,
To be healed,
As though I had,
Stripped from myself a peel.
The wonderful pain of the first cut,
Through the pain of healing,
The illusion of the pain,
Is my way of feeling.
This is one of my favorite poems from a couple years ago. To me it shows the depth some people will go to be able to experience a feeling. The one question I have not been able to answer though is what events in their lives took them to the place that the only thing they could feel was pain? Mental or physical? A friend of mine read this and several day later took me aside and told me that I had captured the way she felt at the time to a tee. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. It was the fact that the words I had put together from my mind had accurately described something that I had no personal knowledge of. It was then that I knew the words were true. Absolutely Amazing!! Robert E
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Drew positioned his hand in the small of Kim’s back; she could feel the intensity of his fingers and his grip. She visualized those hands running over her naked body and a low moan escaped her lips.
“You alright?” he asked her.
Kim was mortified that the moan had been aloud. “Yes, I’m fine thank you.” She did her best to recover from the recklessness and cleared her throat. She was unsure if it was the scotch or the relative proximity of Drew that had made her moan. Either way, she thought, she would be feeding a need that she often left to wither in the recesses of her mind.
When the traffic cleared, they crossed Eads Street and made their way down the ramp into the walking tunnel under Jefferson Davis Highway. The tunnel smelled of old rotted leaves that had blown there during the fall and were decaying in piles. There was also an overwhelming stench of urine and feces mixed with the rotten mold of the leaves and general dampness of the tunnel. The further they walked into the tunnel, the stronger the odors became.
Kim and Drew saw people that lie on the ground covered with newspapers or old cardboard. The clothing they wore was so tattered they could see through to the skin in spots not covered by the makeshift blankets. The homeless had ratty hair and yellowing teeth, when teeth existed to show. The stench from bodily excrement mixed with dirt, filth, and body odor was enough to make a sewage worker gag. Yet these folks lay there with little to no concern for anything going on outside the small space they occupied and called their own.
Kim and Drew made their way through the tunnel, breathing only when necessary, and stepping around the pallets of cardboard and newspaper. A sense of dread came over Kim as they walked, seeing those poor people sleeping in a tunnel, living in filth, sleeping in their own shit.
Something had to be done! Someone should help these people, she thought as they walked through the tunnel. These souls were at a place of complete personal defeat, and she wanted, in that moment, to help.
She pushed the feeling from her head as they came to the other side of the tunnel, and fresh air. She could not do anything for them tonight and released the thoughts from her mind as Drew reached up and touched the small of her back again, making her remember the dirty little thoughts she was having about what she was going to do to him in the here and now.
They got to the corner of Jefferson Davis Highway and 23rd and took a left on the access road leading toward the Crystal Mall area and the Crystal City Marriott. They walked two blocks down the concrete and paver-stone sidewalk past condominiums that covered an underworld of retail shops, parking garages, eateries, and the homeless.
Angling in front of the bronze-tinted glass building, they took a left into the brass-framed revolving door of the Marriott. Once inside, they veered left on the polished marble floor, and diagonally across the lobby to the gleaming brass doors of the elevators in front of a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. A mirror-walled elevator car with open doors awaited them. They entered and selected the seventh floor. During the ride, Kim leaned into Drew and gave him a slow sensuous kiss. He allowed his hands to roam to the small of her back, the top of her buttocks, and the curve of her waist. She leaned in closer to him as she thought again of the possibilities and found that she was looking forward to the intimacy waiting on the other side of her hotel room door.
As they stepped off the elevator, Kim felt a sharp pain in her lower back.
Oh, that’s odd, I wonder what is going on with my back. She had not had back troubles or pain before.
The pain began to subside as they walked the thirty feet to the door of her room. Kim began to feel an unnatural calm come over her and as it did her mind returned to thoughts of sex. She placed her key card in the slot and slowly slumped to the floor.
Drew carefully picked her up and carried her into the room. He closed the door with his foot, walked to the bed, and laid her on the king-sized bed. He stood to straighten his jacket, then took a seat next to her.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Drew Sovern is the main character of Dream State. He lives a life without consequence, a life of unchecked ego.
We start following him in his mid teens and experience the growth of an ego run amuck. Through the story, we get the opportunity to learn what really makes him tick, what his motivations are, and how he deals with his relationships.
Drew is a man that is conflicted by the thoughts he has of his childhood, and the events of his life that shaped him into the person he is today.
Dream State is in preparation for production and will have a release date assigned soon. Stay tuned here for updates on pre-order reservations and online availability.
What a ride!
Anybody that says being published is easy must have a higher activity tolerance than I do. But, I am loving every minute of it.
All the free time I could steal away from the day job was spent polishing the text, which is complete. (Following this post, I will leave an excerpt for you)
What else? Most everything is ready and now it is just a matter of time waiting for Eloquent to get their parts to a stage that I can review and approve the next iteration in the process.
What's next? A break! I want to take a little time to not be in writing/editing mode and enjoy life for a bit.
Thanks for following, and thanks for the support.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A friend of mine dropped by the house today and we began talking of Dream State. We were supposed to have a taped Q/A to be aired on YouTube. Something happened to the plans and we came up with this idea as an alternative.
If after reading this, you would like to ask your own question, please feel free to leave me a comment.
Tell me about Dream State
A whirlwind of short stories combined into one narrative that will leave you perversely aroused.
What inspired you to write it
I started writing the different scenes as short stories during a time when I was in pain. While I was recovering I found that there might be a way to thread the stories together. The main character was then developed as a mechanism to weave the stories into a fabric.
What process did you use
The short stories were the easiest to write. Most of them only took a couple days each. Trying to bring a sense of realism to the narration behind and between the scenes was much more difficult. I must have read parts of the text 100 times before I decided to embellish it to a higher level of importance. Some of the background story detail was added while I was trying to bring the story to an acceptable length to be considered more than a short story.
Is this your first published novel
Yes. I have what I consider a very good contract with AEG and Eloquent books. From the time I decided to pursue publishing the story, I was willing to pursue any route necessary to put the story in the public. The offer from AEG came and I was more than willing to sign-up.
Tell me about Drew
What a fun guy to write. The introduction brings some of Drew's best features to light. His character is questionable to say the very least. The situation that he finds himself in allows him to be a very devious person.
What is your favorite scene in the book and why
I can't tell you the specifics of the scene or what happens in it, but what I can say is that the last scene is my favorite. There are so many loose ends that come together, many levels of emotion, and a very wicked little twist.
In what time frame does this story take place
The time is current day. There are however, multiple timelines on different levels happening simultaneously.
How were the characters developed
Each of the scenes were written in short story format, so that they could stand on their own. Drew came about as a way to weave all the scenes together. The longer I wove Drew into the plot the deeper he became. The stars of each scene were developed from snippets of how I perceive portions of personalities from people I know mixed all together with a lot of imagination.
Are any of the scenes based in reality
Most are really. The bar in DC is real, the tunnel exists, as does the Marriott. The Eden Roc really is in Miami, and it does have a glass walled tower. The picnic scene is from my memory of a little park in the town where I grew up in Indiana. As for the scene with the cedar trees, that layer of needles was from what I remember from a kid at my aunt's house, and my imagination.
What authors inspired you
Three. Stephen R. Donaldson, Dan Brown, and Nora Roberts writing as JD Robb.
Donaldson for his ability to describe despair and suck me into an environment.
Brown for his ability to make me see exactly what he saw when he looked at the architecture of Rome.
Roberts for her ability to make me believe in the ideal life.
What type of reader do you hope to attract
That's very interesting. The open minded fiction based thrill seekers that like a little violence with their sex.
What would you like the reader to get out of this book
These questions just keep surprising me. Primarily, I want the reader to ask "What?" I want them to wonder what caused the things that happened to happen, then to remember the reality of the situation. Secondly, I want them to talk about it with each other. It's a lot of fun. And third, but just as importantly, physical reaction.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The breath she pulled through parted lips caused her ragged throat to rasp in harshness; since it had known nothing of moisture in longer than she could remember. The pit of hunger in her stomach ached in spasms with the beating of her heart. The cramps in her stomach set a rhythm of their own against the back drop of nausea.
Her mind had gone numb in an attempt to hide from the incessant pain of the red ants feeding on her scalp. The instantly infected bites caused venom filled, hardened blisters of puss to create a landscape of ever expanding mountains of oozing sores. The acid like fluid ran from the sores into her left ear to eat away at the tender membrane of her eardrum.
More damaging to her mind than the pain were the thoughts she had of the last thing she could remember. She had watched her father close and lock the door of the small building in the front yard of their house that housed the water pump. He had locked her away after she had seen him in the process of dismembering the body of a woman with an electric chainsaw. Up to the moment she witnessed his actions, she thought her father had hung the moon.
It was in that moment she realized her father had been nothing but a lie. The sweet man that had tucked her in at night and gave her tender sugar kisses at the first morning light, was a brutal monster capable of taking from her the other most important person in her life, her mother.
She was now more alone than anyone would ever be in the future or could have been in the past. The cold reality of life without the most nurturing woman known to man, and the lie of her illusion perfect father was more than her four-year-old mind could reason through. The deafness caused by the puss collecting in the vessel of her ear canal, and the collection of dead ants in her right ear prevented her from hearing anything other than the white noise hum of a broken mind.
In the moment of her last remembrance, she felt the infected sick blanket of cold wrap her so tightly that she would later say it had warmed her to the bone. The blackness closed in from the edge of her vision to create the illusion of walking backwards into a tunnel.
She sat up, startled by the pain that engulfed her body, and scrubbed her head with her hands to get the ants off her, but there was nothing there. The infected sores were gone now, replaced with her long black well taken care of hair. The light in the room helped bring her back to reality, and she found that she was sitting on a bed.
The linens of the bed were soaked in sweat and were bundled around her naked waist. She saw the light from the windows creep through the windows to create boxes of illumination across the floor of the darkened room. The realization of her location sank into her mind and her breathing slowed to a normal pace.
Victoria Able sat in the middle of the bed and pulled the covers up around her throat in an attempt to hide from the dream. She wanted to forget what had happened and in many ways had forgotten. She knew that the little girl in those images was her, but now it seemed as though she could watch the events in a disconnected way, not allowing them to fully capture her. The last thirty-two years had helped soften the effects of the damage done to her when she was a child.
All the edits came back in from Chaz and writing the original 83,000 words was easier. I didn't have to think nearly as much. Any way, the comments have been addressed (even the snide remarks you made) (The sensation associated with the ... Ha)
I got extra comments from Sheila and Dave that were also incorporated along with the Publishers QA review. Jesus I'm tired.
Tammy got her motorcycle back this weekend and HAD to go for a ride. Well I took the "down time" to think through the dedications and acknowledgements. Right in the middle of gettin into a groove about it she damn near runs over me... I know right... Yesterday being her birthday, we did our normal b'day dinner and had a super meal at Marietta Fish Market with Jolie.
After all the afternoon and early evening fun we came home and I was able to get both the dedications and the drafted out. Woo Hoo... I really sweat over those two items.
So where are we you may be wondering.
The text is final final. Done Done. I really mean it this time. Well maybe not. I want Rob to blast through it one last time to make sure its format is correct. Then it will be done Done.
So then it goes to the publisher for layout. We will be selecting the internal layout to best represent the multiple conversations, and shifts in time frame.
A few fun facts.
When I finished the first round of writing the text was 198 pages of double spaced lines. After edits, rewrites, edit, correction, formatting we finished up at an astounding 396 pages and just under 83,000 words.
The art director contacted me and we should be getting the dust cover designs finalized by end of week. Yup you guessed it, its being released in hard cover first. We'll get to trade publications in the next release (that's just a size 6x9 soft cover).
I wish I could give you an exact release time frame or better a date, but there are an incredible number of moving targets for me to be able to realistically predict the release.
Again thanks for coming along.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
She forced herself to keep her eyes closed in hopes that she would drift back off into a much needed deep sleep. Anne Marie lay there steeped in her own thoughts and listened to the white noise that filled the room. As she listened to the forced air escape the register in the ceiling, she tried to focus on how the situation she was in could be remedied. Opening her eyes she saw the dim glow of the LED lights from the various electronic devices that perched on the flat surfaces of the room.
The blue-green readout of the alarm clock on the dresser, the standby light of the DVD player above the TV set mixed with the street lights. The light intruded the darkness around the edges of the blinds covering the windows causing a late dusk effect in the room.
Anne Marie opened her eyes and felt the comfort and security of sleep rush away from her so quickly that it felt like a vacuum had been created in her soul. She lay flat on her back with her eyes open and stared at the tray ceiling. She was covered with seven hundred thread count cream colored Egyptian cotton sheets and a down filled comforter wrapped in a two tone white duvet. The ensemble was the perfect weight for sleeping regardless of the season.
She blinked multiple times in an effort to clear the slime that covered her eyes thanks to an overly active allergy. As her vision began to clear, her thinking returned to how to solve the impending crisis that was brewing in her mind. The abandonment she felt grow with each berating diatribe from her husband had to stop.
He had taken to talking down to her in times of discord. It seemed as though the diatribes got worse the more successful he became. The successful accomplishment of eliminating the ever increasing more difficult levels of transaction in his job. His walk up the staircase of success had been both a boon and a bane for Anne Marie.
He provided her a lifestyle that was at least as successful as the one her father had given her growing up, and that was saying something. The life the man lying next to her had pursued had changed him. The level of difficulty in his job had taken its toll on him. It had made him the perfect product of his own ego.
She thought of how at one time he had been an attentive lover; careful when necessary but always ready to set the care to the side and enjoy her in ways she had not known before him. The last three years though had left her barren of the feeling of connectedness, void of returned emotions.
Anne Marie was sure of one thing, she could not continue to live in the same house as him. She knew that something had to change and she was certain it would not be him. If anything were going to change it would have to be her that did the changing she thought.