From December 1 to January 1, my 2013 anthology The Night is Starry will be $12.00 (plus shipping if you want it shipped).
They make great gifts for grandmothers and bookworms in general, and if you’re interested in supporting a local, self-publishing, university-student author, this is your chance! If you want them signed with a personal message, well, that’s pretty easy for me to do, and your grandma might find it cool she has a signed book.
This is the last batch of hard copies of this anthology I plan on having printed, and there are about 20 copies left. I would love to have them sold by the end of 2014 so I can move onto my next hard copy writing project.
Profit from these last copies of The Night is Starry will be going towards my trip to the UK in 2015 and towards the printing of my next publication.
If you’re interested in buying a copy (or more than one!) you can email me at email@example.com and we can arrange either a pick-up location if you live in the area, or have it shipped to you. 🙂
The leaves have turned, and whenever I have the opportunity to be outside, I take especial satisfaction in hearing the crunch of them beneath my boots. Boots! Sweaters! Scarves!
Well, yes. But no.
I read Laura Best’s Flying With a Broken Wing last week — or the week before? — and I adored it. I had planned on doing a full review, but, you know, time. Cammie is a wise and witty protagonist, and the community is a stunning setting for Cammie’s story. I didn’t want the book to end. Sequel? Laura? I would love to know what happens to Cammie. My sister, to whom I lent the book, came storming up to me with the words, “I hate Aunt Millie. And I love Laura’s book! It’s SO good! But Aunt Millie. Eugh.”
Novel writing. Sort of. I found my lost brainstorming notebook and am doing a lot of brainstorming — mostly in my brain, though, and as notes in my phone during my transit time.
Tea. Definitely. It was a key player in getting over my annual September/October cold. And comforting me.
Life decisions. Yes. See above line.
Back to writing. The Night is Starry should be published as an ebook sooner than later, hopefully, and I’m selling print copies a la “from my car.” Another anthology, yet untitled, should be published this summer, this time a series of interrelated short stories based around a university art project and the students involved.
Pumpkin spiced latte. I need to try one, but haven’t yet.
What else am I reading? Right now I’m reading Cibou by Susan Young Biagi upon near-forced request from a friend. She literally put it in my hand and said, “Read.” That was in June…but hey, I’m reading it, and loving it. I feel bad for putting it off this long.
I actually have blog posts planned, in which I will actually share actual ideas and they will not be me blathering on about how busy and uncreative I’m being. But for now, what are you reading? Have any recommendations?
If you’re interested in keeping update to date with some of my smaller musings and rambles (which I promise are at the least as amusing as a bathtub with clawed feet and at the most as amusing as Benedict Cumberbatch talking in his sleep), follow me on Twitter!
Short stories were not normally something I could find enjoyment in or share a connection with. Often they appeared to have no meaning or leave me feeling confused about what had happened and why.
Short stories need to be quick and profound.
The tone and topic in which you write a short story should be, in my eyes, dozens of times more powerful than a piece of 80 000+ words. It might not have a plot line at all, but simply be describing something: an emotion, an event, a person, some nameless thing that the reader never even gets to identify with. Short stories are supposed to make you think, question aspects of life that were previously thought to be established or unsettle concepts that need to be unsettled again. Many short stories are 500 words of dialogue attached to a character in a specific moment in his or her life. I can read novels for that and get their whole story. Give me a short story. Make me think.
I used to hate writing short stories. I loathed it. I never understood how you could get a beginning, middle, and end in so few words. How can you get action? Romance? Villainy? Betrayal? You have only a few hundred, or a few thousand, words to use to portray these things that so often make or break a plot and draw readers in.
But I’ve written my fair share of short stories over the years, little blips of characters or scenes that had no place in a novel but found their way into my head nonetheless. I’ve come to love writing short stories. It’s a bit like having a string of lovers. I can love each one, learn a bit about them, have my way with them, and move along to the next without feeling guilty I abandoned them in pursuit of something new and interesting. I don’t worry about what’s going to happen to them 25 years from now. I don’t feel bad about what happens to them because, frankly, I don’t know them well enough to care that much. They’re one-night stands. Exciting, pleasurable, non-committal.
In my recent anthology (of which you can buy a print copy by emailing me at firstname.lastname@example.org, or wait for the ebook edition later this season), I have a couple handfuls of short stories. I love them. They’re so fun. They’re dangerous. I can skip a beginning, an introduction to a cast. I don’t have to introduce anyone if I don’t want to. Anonymity is great. I can dive into the middle. The middle most likely isn’t the climax of the person’s life, or even their day, but it’s the middle of a moment that for whatever reason is worth writing about, and hopefully, reading.
My attention span isn’t the greatest. I get bored and distracted and look for something shiny to play with like a crow rooting through a pile of garbage. I’ve only completed one novel (I refuse to count the novel I wrote at age 13 because it’s shameful to read). I’m supposed to rewrite it within the year. It hasn’t happened yet, though I did do the majority of the outline. I started two novels this year. One made it to the 10 000 word mark and I’m still chipping away it — but slowly, slowly.
I just get so distracted. By books, by the internet, by writing short stories, by editing photos and reading blogs and sketching and sewing and and and —
See? I’m even distracted within this post.
But back to short stories.
I decided to start another anthology (to be released around this time next year if all goes well), this time a series of short stories all related to each other. I’ve written three of the pieces so far, and hope to write fifteen or so more. Fifteen more fleeting pleasures to be had. Fifteen more delicious and sinfully delightful one-night stands to experience.
Here I go, to a place where distraction can happen and loves abandoned. A world of short stories. A world of one-night stands.
I mean, it’ll get lonely after awhile. But I have my WIP novels. They are the strong relationships in my life, the ones that keep me together and challenge me, the ones I have to work out problems with. I can have fun with them, too, but…it doesn’t feel as naughty. 😉
Well, my face-to-face advertising skills aren’t the best, but it’s true. I did write a book. And I happen to be of the opinion that is pretty.
It must be working, too, because with the “official” release of The Night is Starry yesterday (though I’ve been selling books to friends and family since last week) I’ve sold 13 copies and have orders for 22 more.
I only had 32 copies printed.
Should I get 30 more printed?
These are the questions that plague me.
But the day is beautiful and fall is coming and it’s an excellent time of day to go lay under a tree and read Emma. Or perhaps write a short story for my next anthology. Or sew a dress. And make some tea.