The blog’s been quiet this week — mainly just me pushing my friends’ projects on you. If you’ll notice the sidebar, I’ve actually been getting some writing done — I’m in the last leg of the “book” and can see the finish line in sight.
So…yeah…….deal with it?
Can’t claim credit for that. Really. I want to, but obiwannabe is the guilty party. Go check out his blog and remember to inundate his comment section when he asks you to. I dare you.
What is it that grips a completely normal person and turns them into a hideous recluse spouting at imaginary people who run around slicing off Kings’ heads and spearing babes?
Well, it’s their third nipple, of course.
You see, some of us are born with an extra one. As obiwannabe explains, it is normally not talked about in polite conversation so many of us who have one are not even aware we got an extra nipple running around on our torso, even though we’ve had them all our lives.
I found mine last week. It peeked out at me from under my armpit.
I said to it, “What are you doing there, Third Nipple?…
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Hey — I want to write something faux-Shakespearean. Give me an idea!
[No, I will not worry about the meter — because I’m super lazy.]
When you break through to some good writing.
Plodding and plodding, lazy and don’t wanna — and then you hit a good stretch.
Well — a decent stretch.
THE STRETCH WAS OKAY.
Quintus, Gorton, Quick and Mara put their fallen comrade on their shoulders, and moved solemnly through the fields of corn to the north. Tetch floated close behind, followed by Linus and the stone elf.
The blind man spoke the ancient words.
“Time and wave
sun and wind
night and fire
moons and stone.
We walk through the world only once.
Only one life is given by the Nameless.
It is a gift, a burden.
A challenge, a duty.
To not waste it.
To serve the Highest.
To the end of the Path, with our honor intact.
This path has ended.
We return our brother to the earth,
in trust that his soul kneels now at the feet of our Lord.
His gift returned.
His burden set down.
His challenge answered.
His duty fulfilled.
By the Swords of Faith, in respect and honor we stand for Elijah Croft.”
The hunter’s words led them to the broken stone road that ran east to west. Mara and Quintus spotted a grove of willows, and nodded in unison. They lay Elijah’s form down, and took great pains folding his arms carefully around his weapon — straightening each piece of armor, and buffing clean any mark of ash or dirt. Elijah’s plain face was still, his red hair seemed darker under the shadows of the willow branches.
Hitting the 40,000 word mark on That Thing by the end of this week. I think I’ll celebrate by upgrading its title from ‘That Thing” to “That Long Thing I’m Writing That More Well-Adjusted People Would Call A Book.”
There’s a difference between writing a good book, and writing a marketable book.
A marketable book is designed to make you money, get you out of your day job, pay back that Manticore that loaned you 40 gold pieces to open your inn.
A good book is written for itself. For no other reason than to exist. They are the linchpins of the cosmos, just like any 
piece of art. Little thumbtacks constructed of human energy, that keep us from spinning out into oblivion.
I’m not saying that a good book can’t be marketable, or that a marketable book can’t be damn good.
I’m saying — think about who you’re writing for. Quit beating yourself up trying to match the current trends, or make your story fit into the YA framework, or the paranormal romance, or the corporate thriller — just so it can one day sell some copies on Amazon.
Because here’s the truth — we’ve all got stories inside of us. No one can tell that story but you — stop chopping off pieces, or grafting on new ones to make your unique contribution to the human race easier to sell. I read so many posts here on WP of people agonizing about making their books more marketable, or suiting this market, that market.
You are not going to sell any books.
Accept it — you are not going to sell any books.
So, why write for the extremely small probability of selling something? Write for the much larger probability of actually producing a piece of art that is a benefit to the human experience.
And, yes, I realize the irony of this statement — coming from an author who’s first novel includes a fight against a brachiosaur.
It’s a human failing to gauge success by money — I’m just as guilty as anyone else, sitting in the tub dreaming about the book-money, the me-money, the my job is to write-money.
Make your art. Make it.
Don’t let anyone else tell you how, or why, or when. Worry about selling it later, or never sell it at all.
The creation is the reward.
And trust me — I have to keep reminding myself of that, every time a check bounces.
Make better art, that’s the goal. That’s what keeps you going — not dreaming about publisher advances.
So make your art — make it!
When you’ve made your art — when you’ve made it the best you possibly can. Then you can worry about selling it.
[Sorry for the rant — this is directed mostly at myself.]
Expect this blog to be fairly quiet this week.
Make your opinion heard — please contact your local congressman and burn their ear about it for at least 35 minutes.
No other post today.
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