On Introversion and Sci-fi Audiobook Excerpts, Now With Bad British Accent!

I decided to consider it a character-building exercise (pun unintended, but applicable) to act out and record a couple more snippets of my second book. It's an interesting sort of dichotomy I feel about these things. There's that introverted part of me-- the writer who discovers hours have melted away while imaginary worlds sprout up-- that understands the satisfaction is in the ideas and process itself. The something from nothing. The personal challenge.

Then there's the part of me that knows the real tangibility of a creation is not always in one's own head, but when it resides with others, too. As if it becomes More Real with each person it meets.

Now when I write, I read aloud all the time. It's a great tool for flow, for making dialogue sound natural and for figuring out what should be cut. It is also uniquely personal because it means committing characters to a sort of tone. Like illustration, it means offering some sort of guide to the reader of, "This is what I was thinking so-and-so was like."

So as I contemplated doing any readings, I initially hesitated. Did I really want my version of the reading-- my amateur acting, my interpretation and most of all, my bad British accent (for whatever reason, my alien character Rollie has always sounded English)-- out there guiding readers?

But here's the thing I decided. It's genuine. It was the best I can do for this moment. And as a writer, you can only keep those walls up so long before you can't see over them yourself. If I were taking them down, I might as well give it my all and go the whole way.

So at the top of the page, you'll find part one of chapter two. And here you will find the second part of that.

It's not perfect, but it was fun. And the view from over the wall is not bad at all.

Return of the Rewrite

In a way, I understand ol' George Lucas... Okay, maybe not his necessity for gangly, scene-stealing space aliens with Jamaican accents...

And, all right, also not leading men who whine and sulk more the whole cast of Toddlers and Tiaras when the airbrush machine clogs...

And yes, definitely not making the lead female fall in love with said sulky-whiny guy, when we all know she was babysitting him, like, two years before... Wiping his nose when he got Endor Sinus and changing his sheets when they got all Dagobah from too many juice boxes before bed.

I mean, I don't get any of that. But I do I understand George's need to rewrite his own film history.

A couple of years ago, I'd done a short story using two of the characters from my humorous sci-fi series. I wrote it, rewrote it, re-rewrote, ran out of re-'s, took a break, bought more, re-re-rewrote it, put the bag of re-'s away for a rainy day, and finally, I was happy with it.

Then I put it on this blog. I shared it with the masses. And all seemed well in this part of space.

Until... (picture that "Until..." in yellow letters, sailing out into the distant galaxy) I stumbled across the story again and I realized that when it came to the tale's quality, I had been more delusional than Baby Jane dancing on the beach in her frillies.

I mean, my God, I called that a sentence? And what was I doing with adverbs exactly, collecting them for resale like Beanie Babies? Plus, I had more Exposition than Comicon!

I COULD DO BETTER.

It is both wondrous and galling to discover that the one thing that shows true learning and personal growth over time is the same thing you look back on and want to bury in a deep, sandy hole inhabited by a hungry space worm.

So I get you, George. You can't change everything, so you make the little tweaks. And more little tweaks.

But eventually, we all have to to let it go and move on. I spent two days editing to the best of my current skills and now, once again I must let it float with the yellow lettering. (The story is here, if you want to check it out.)

I just hope if I meet it again in twenty years, it's held up all right. And not trying to wear a metal bikini.

The Lightness of Being Not Sued

So the reason for my recent e-silence is I decided to take the bull by the horns-- in a metaphorical way, since I generally prefer to keep a safe distance from muscular, pointy livestock-- and independently publish my novel.

It's been a lot of work but a lot of fun so far, though my brain has not quite been able to balance it with blogging. For that, I apologize. I expect soon I'll be back on a normal posting schedule.

Anyway, the joys associated with self-publishing have been things like getting to choose a book size and seeing my content flowed in there looking all Real, and Grown-Up and Legitimate.

And also finally being freed from carrying around a double-spaced manuscript binder roughly the size of the entire Library of Congress.

The surprises are in going through the text and realizing those questions I'd had, which I'd imagined would be answered by a savvy publisher are now going to have to be answered by YOURS TRULY.

Today, I'm specifically referring to a scary incident with song lyrics.

I had a section-- and I won't give details so I don't ruin the surprise for any future readers-- which really depended on using four lines from a particular song. The section was one that, after editing it a bazillion times over the years, I still actually liked. (Which, any other writers out there will understand, that is huge. I mean, if you don't loathe your own work for a few hours every few days or so, you probably aren't working on it hard enough.)

So I thought I'd do a spot of research and just see how much of any song could be used under Fair Use.

And the answer is.... None. Do not do it. Do not even think about doing it. In fact, do not even think about thinking about doing it because the mighty hammer of the Music Industry will come crashing down on you like a telephone pole-sized drumstick to a tiny toy snare drum.

This left me in a hot, sweaty panic for a good five minutes or so. I mean, where do you go from there? Do you 1.) remove a scene which is actually important to the plot? Do you 2.) paraphrase, taking all the edge off the funny? Do you 3.) weep a little and dream of what could have been, if only?

Well, for the last day or two (after a shameful minute of option 3 up there), I sat down and started making up my own song lyrics. Song lyrics for a singer who, up until now, did not exist.

With my past experience as part of an equally fake heavy metal band (you may get some laughs from that tale here, if you haven't already read it) thankfully, this has not been as difficult as I had expected.

Plus, there's a certain heady elation in knowing one has dodged the Giant Drumstick of Doom. And I figure if I have prevented one other writer from finding it crash down upon his or her personal drumhead, I will have done my job.

Drafting a Novel: Lessons Learned, Albatrosses Groomed and the First Day of Kindergarten

I finished the full draft of my novel last week-- that loose-leaf albatross that's kept me company for many months, hanging around my neck and weighing heavily on my mind.

And now that I've shed it, and started the serious Albatross Grooming Process we call "Editing Like Ya Mean It," I thought I'd share a few favorite things I learned along the way.


Everyone you know is also writing a book...
Or has a Best-Selling Idea for a book...

Or has been thinking they might think about writing their memoirs of that one wacky time in college with the thing and the stuff.

It's pretty cool to learn that the only thing holding 75% of our populace back from winning the Pulitzer Prize for literature-- or kicking Dan Brown's symbolically-coded butt off the NYTimes list-- is that this material just hasn't been committed to paper yet.

So be prepared that when folks ask where you've been hiding yourself away lately, and you mention the novel, everyone from your cousin to your mail carrier will reveal themselves to be the next Rowlingpalinclancykerouac.

Thankfully, there is room for everyone.


You'll start rewriting history for your characters, like you were PR for a political candidate. With the whole book together, you start to see scenes where your character is saying and doing things he never would have done once you actually got to know him, on page 521. Maybe it was the day you drank too much coffee. Or weren't feeling the motivation. Or you were distracted by... oh... a really noisy SunChip bag.

So you sit your character down and tell him, "No, you didn't say that. You said this. This is more you." He might recall very well having once held strong opinions on migrant workers or a new ketchup bottle, and now it's wiped away.

But like in politics, soon with careful attention, spin, and the Wonders of Word Processing, you'll make him forget-- as if it never was. There might only be some lingering discomfort.


There is a special panicky moment when you realize someone might read what you've written.
Talking about the writing process is always fun. It's safe. It's intangible. "It's a work-in-progress," you say fleet-footedly. "It's too soon."

You can stall so nicely with vagaries to the point your material gains in Fabulousness an amount inversely proportionate to the quantity of people who never, ever see it.

But once the novel's actually done, and all your friends have been hearing the blah-blah about it for years, suddenly they get this idea they might want to...oh, I dunno... read it.

And it turns into the first day of kindergarten for your novel. As in, you know very well the novel might still pick its nose in public and may not always use its Indoor Voice. But you have to let go sometime, right?


You begin creating elaborate scenarios of how people will misread what you've written.
The less you describe, the more readers will grab onto what you did say and try to interpret it their own way. And you start to worry your demure heroine will become rumored to be a crack-smoking Lady of the Evening with narcolepsy. And her dog will suddenly become symbolic of her desperate need for control in a male-dominated society.

You envision your simple childrens book about a squirrel who forgot where he buried his nuts will become your personal treatise about the nation's hoarding problem.

Once it's on paper and before eyeballs, it's out of your control.


You realize you've been on a Manuscript One-Arm Strength Training Program, from carrying 500+ page double-spaced draft everywhere you go.
Fifty pounds of dog kibble will seem like cotton swabs to your mighty physical power now.


You will have to boil down years' worth of blood, sweat, snot and brain oozage into a few heart-pounding, eye-popping, irresistable sentences if any agents or editors are ever going to pay attention to it. The giant stack of manuscript pages will seem like a happy day at the beach compared to this. It's fitting War and Peace on a fortune cookie. And you don't get room for that nifty Chinese Word of the Day either.


No one will understand why it's taken you so long to write the damned thing, because, heck, James Caan only spent a few weeks writing that whole Misery Chastaine novel-- his best one ever-- and he even spent half his day trying to break out of Kathy Bates' house.

The Bureau of Character Complaints is Now Open

Apologies all around... That's what I'd owe them. Long diatribes about how I regretted the pain and anguish I caused them...

Sincere explanations for why I snuffed their parents... Or robbed them 14 times at gunpoint... Or launched them into space without a decent pair of shoes... I'd be moved to deep professions about how I never planned to do it again.

Lies, all of them, of course. Because I'd do it again just the same in an eye-blink.

But they wouldn't need to know that, would they?

Still... Yesterday, as I laughed manically, plonking down yet another barrier to peace in my main character's way, I thought:

What if, as writers, we really did have to answer to the people we created, for the choices we made in their lives?

Why, one of my friends' heroes has been stuck on a Wild West desert plateau for years.

I think he'd have some interesting things to say about that.

"Ya murdered my family. You put my gal in jeopardy. Then you killed ma horse and left me on a narrow precipice with no food 'n water...

"Did you know about my inner ear problem? Did think about ma fear o' heights? Did you know I was allergic to prairie grass and gopher dander? Did you ever bother to ask me about that? Did ya? DID YA?!

"NAW! You were too busy gittin' all distracted with fact checkin' and Feelin' the Muse and creatin' historical credibility and atmosphere way th' hell back again in Chapter One! Chapter One, fer Pete's Sake! Them's is done in Chapter One, Lady! Find closure and let it go!

"So now, my equilibrium's been off for five years, my sinuses are a-killin' me and I've been balancing on a six-inch ledge while the buzzards peck my head. Goldurn it, woman-- git me offa this rock!"

I imagine there'd have to be a Bureau of Character Complaints to handle it all.

And I can see it now. There'd be a reception room just filled with impatient, surly and world-weary fictional characters. Some suffering from gunshot wounds. Some in mourning clothes. Some undead. Some just really pissed.

A little girl with a doll would step into the room.

Little Girl: "Hello. I'm Sara Crewe. I'd like to register a complaint. My father got amnesia in World War I and forgot all about me. So I was left penniless and forced to work as a servant girl in a cold attic and nearly died of mistreatment. Things worked out for the best at the end, but I would like to get an apology from Frances Hodgson Burnett for the middle of the book."

Receptionist: (sighing) "Sign in here and take a seat."

After a lot of rubber stamping of paperwork, the receptionist would finally stand up and announce to the collective before her:

Receptionist: "Okay-- in the interest of efficiency, we're going to break you into groups. Abused orphans over here...

(And half the cast from Dickens' books would move that direction, along with Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket's Baudelaire children, and young Miss Crewe)

Receptionist: "White hat cowboys over here... Misunderstood black hat cowboys over there...

"Native Americans treated as cannon fodder? Here are some towels and you follow Dr. Green, please...

"Characters with unsatisfying endings looking for rewrites, that room...

"If you committed murder and feel it was out of character, or you have a more believable alibi than your author gave you credit for, that room there..."

"Unless you're a Butler.... Then you need to go to Cliched Killers in room 12b...

"No, not you, Mr. Jeeves. You go to Overintelligent Servants Purposefully Stationed Far Below Their Capabilities Yet Illogically Content with Lack of Upward Mobility. Just follow those Shakespearean court jesters-- yes, they'll show you where to go."

Ah, yes. We would all have a lot to answer for, wouldn't we?

Do you know a character with a complaint-- or do you have a character who needs some closure? Send 'em along!

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Literary Beer Goggling -or- Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon

Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon: the mysterious principle by which any piece of prose or poetry, fiction or non-fiction-- which appears coherent, insightful and well-written one evening-- changes into a giant bubbling puddle of ectoplasmic goo and poop when you look at it the next morning.

How does this happen? I was thinking about this over the weekend as I rummaged through some boxes of aged creative writing. I was searching for the final draft of a humor book I'd written right after college.

I recall liking this novel. I recall feeling good about it.

I even recall proudly asking my friends Scoobie, Austin and Rhet to read some of it. (The poor dears. How they have suffered!)

Now, I didn't yet locate the final draft. Which I understand from Scoobie was a lot better than the steaming pile of equine excrement I seem to have stepped in.

But honestly, I don't have much hope for it. Based on what I've seen so far, I think Scoobie was simply trying keep me from setting fire to my entire body of work then and there-- in one massive smoldering flame-o-rama. She was probably trying to save her eyebrows from singing.

Who can blame her?

Because it's very clear Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon has hit, big-time.

So, again, I ask you: how does it happen?

What chemical of delusion courses through a writer's brain during the act of writing that makes us misinterpret hideously malformed plot-lines... bloodless dialogue... and clammy satire... as something even remotely safe to see under the golden light of dawn?

As I've grown older, I've become more aware of this phenomenon. I've tempered my enthusiasm for new projects with a more guarded attitude. Sort of like you would each time you send your toddler up to bat in T-ball. You cheer the kid on with a: "Hey, do your best, little guy!" With some knowledge that no matter how much you love him, he could wet himself in front of everybody, or run entirely the wrong way around the bases.

But it makes me fearful for past blog posts, I have to say. How can we trust what will hold up to time, if the writing process makes us blind and brain-dead to the truth-- if only for a euphoric fleeting moment?

It's the writing equivalent of beer goggling, some might say. And I'd love to know, how can we face ourselves that morning after, when what we see just really ain't purty?

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