Tag: publishing

Clackety-clack.

G. Derek Adams6 Comments

There’s something nice about typing. The comforting clack of the keys and the black words sliding across the white empty box.

At my day job – I type a lot. A LOT. 100 emails is an average day. And when I sit down in the morning, I actually feel a dim sort of muscle-pleasure at the prospect of typing. On weekends, or days away from a keyboard I feel an odd sort of regret.

I’m also particular about keyboards — I miss the giant, tall-button clacky ones from older PC’s ..and typewriters! Man, typewriters were awesome.

So, the eternal question – why do you write?

Because I like to type, apparently.

Story on Demand: A humble plea.

G. Derek Adams9 Comments

I’ve had a great time doing these every weekend — you guys are nefarious idea-mancers, flinging white-hot bolts of creative inspiration at me, which I’ve done a yeoman’s job lobbing back over the net.

[TENNIS METAPHOR. BAM.]

This week, could I humbly request — well, something a little more vague? The past few weeks people have given me extremely specific prompts, and I’ve had to sort of push it around my plate with a fork for a while.

One of the best prompts I’ve received was “music as weapon” and I had a freaking blast with that one, and am quite proud of the results. [Thanks again, HTBS!]

Glass Dogs. [ Go ahead — read it again!]

So, I think what I’m asking for is for you to give me an idea — not a plot.  Make with the vague!

Forgive the presumption! FORGIVE IT, OR THE WEASELS.

[The weasels are bad.]

Drop your lovely ideas in the comments, and I’ll churn out a story for the shiniest.

 

Strange words.

G. Derek Adams5 Comments

I was looking for something else in my notes, when I stumbled across the piece I put up this morning – The Umbra.

Apparently, I wrote this.

Do you ever have that happen? You read something in your notebook, or Google Docs — and it’s clear that your brain and hands produced it — but you have no memory of actually writing it. It’s like reading something that your doppelganger from another dimension wrote.

It’s a neat feeling, honestly — approaching your work as a reader only, without any context of the process.

I’m sure this is the goal, when sages suggest you let your first draft sit for a month or two before giving it the first read  — it helps with objectivity — and wouldn’t it be amazing to read your novel as a stranger? That Thing occupies a sizable portion of my psyche — how cool would it be to read it that way?

So get on it, doppelganger!

Any of you guys have stuff like that on your blog? I’d love to read it — hear your anecdotes!

This line is bold for no reason.

The Umbra

G. Derek Adams1 Comment

Or Various Thoughts and Extrapolation Fantastical upon the Theoretical “Shadow Plane”.

By Kellean Turbspik

There are many of my colleagues and antagonists in the academic press who claim that I have lost control of my mental faculties – some even going so far as to insinuate that I have gone insane.

They are correct.

For to grasp the true nature of reality, the frail mold of the mortal mind is too shallow and constricting – only a consciousness thoroughly shattered could have any possible chance to conceive its wonder.

My colleagues – or “dabblers” as they should more honestly be called – worship a quaint and comforting view of reality, and the various planes thereof. I have seen learned scholars wag their gray beards confidently over various maps and charts of the Outer Planes, laying out the various demesnes as confidently as a bricklayer mortars a wall. The Corporeal Plane [commonly, Material Plane] in the center, with the other planes neatly arrayed around it, first the Elemental Planes evenly spaced at the cardinal directions – then the planes of Chaos and Order slotted between, along with the planes of Altruism and Malevolence, all strung together like a child’s bracelet.  Some even go so far as to draw connecting lines, showing easy locations where the planes may be bridged.

All of this is nonsense. Mythology masquerading as science.  Reality does not conform to your pretty scribblings, gentlemen, no matter how carefully you select the proper ochre shade for the Plane of Fire, or how expensive a scrivener you hire to depict fanciful drawings of the demons in Abaddon. Had I time or inclination I could pierce your simple theses like wet tissue paper thrown before an oncoming lance.

Suffice it to say that everything you have ever read, or been taught about the Planes of Reality is wrong.

This is not the subject of my research, however. My research is into the plane of reality that my colleagues claim does not exist. A glaring omission on their precious maps, as they lack the cognitive capacity to even grasp its existence. Perhaps it is because they view the other planes as physical spaces, like rooms in a house – easily traversable and susceptible to cartography, planned by some divine architect perhaps.

They are incorrect.

The planes overlap and shift, a Cosmic Wind whirls them endlessly. And this is doubly certain for the Umbral Plane – or as my detractors have dubbed it, the “shadow plane”.

The Umbral Plane overlaps the material plane – we walk through it every day. Multiple planes using the same physical space – this is what most cannot grasp.

Throughout this treatise, I will prove beyond any argument that the Umbral Plane is the most important of all the planes of reality.  The Lesser Planes, including the Corporeal Plane follow certain natural laws and internal consistencies – the Plane of Shadow follows none of these.  It seems to permeate all of the other planes, comprising the same physical space – but kept disparate.  I theorize that all of reality is but a crude echo of the Umbral Plane – how else could one explain its prevalence throughout the other realms? It is we who are the shadows of that greater reality, the Master Plane – a greater Candle burning that produces our weaker, ephemeral reality.

As my colleagues refuse to admit the Umbral Plane exists, so has research been exceedingly slow to prove my hypothesis. But even from the smallest grain of sand, a true Scholar can glean some knowledge of the desert. Those of you who seek the true knowledge of Reality, read on – but be prepared to leave the comforting confines of sanity behind.

Jumpers jump, painters paint.

G. Derek Adams9 Comments

Here’s one of the ways I feel like a fraud.

I follow a lot of writers — here on WordPress, and across several platforms and internet spaces — and I have a handful of friends and relations that are writers as well.  All of them have one unifying statement, when asked “How do you know you’re a writer?”.

They say, “I have to write.”

Then they crush brick with their bare hands, and it turns into a glimmering red jewel.  They place it on their brow, and a diadem of pure light and awesomeness appears.

[Okay, that only happened once.]

You know what I mean — the type of artist that knows in their bones, that they will continue to make their art regardless of any discouragement, regardless of outside factors. Steven King is a good example — that man has retired, what – eight times now? Then a few months pass, and another 1200 page tome appears on bookshelves across the globe. The man literally can’t stop.

Since starting the blog — and for better or worse, publicly defining myself as a writer – it’s something that I’ve grappled with a little bit.

Because I can stop. Because I don’t have to write.

I’m a slacker by nature — I just turned 32 recently, and this blog, Lodestar, and THAT THING are the longest sustained creative projects of my life. I’ve always been more comfortable with art that had a clear expiration date. You finish the painting, you close the show, you crack the joke.

I think that’s why I’m so focused on my weekly deadlines for page counts on That Thing — I have a deep sinking sensation that if I miss a deadline — It’ll be that much easier to miss the last one, then I won’t be even a faux-writer anymore. The endless minutiae of life — plus abundant other creative projects would pull me away, and I’d never come back — never finish.

So if you have a compulsion in your bones to write — I envy you. But if you’re like me — if you have to continually crack the whip, and keep yourself on task — if you’re more than a little scared that you’re not going to make it to the end — I know your pain.

 

Haiku on Demand?

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The beard of pain falls.

A meteor ends the foul

bug-eyed shinobi.

 

 

The famous  red can

is my soul’s mate and lusty

metal sin. Chomp chomp!

 

 

 

 

 

[Kind of a cop-out, I know — but they’re haiku!  You have to like them, or you are disrespecting thousands of years of Japanese culture. With regrets for H.N. and Jeremy.]

Sticking to the schedule.

G. Derek Adams9 Comments

Hit my word count mark for the week –despite the negativity and pressure from all directions. JUST LET ME WORK PEOPLE.

Ha — it’s fun channeling your inner angsty tween. [Is there any other kind of tween?]

I’m getting into a bad habit of waiting until Friday to do the bulk of my week’s allotment. It’s mostly been other work/life factors that have contributed to this — but still. STILL. Putting myself on notice — for all the good that will do.

The pages I wrote this week, were something of an experiment. I decided to write a side chapter/villain interlude — then go back and plug it in somewhere earlier in That Thing. A little nerve-wracking, honestly. I’ve been so focused on keeping forward momentum with the plot – that it felt very much like leaving my security blanket at home for my first Big Boy sleepover.

I’m pleased with the results — and after some constructive criticism from my beloved, the villain interlude improved markedly.

Two more villain interludes – then back to the fray with …oh wait, you don’t know the names of my protagonists.

AND ITS GONNA STAY THAT WAY, NOSY. GET OUT OF MY ROOM, DAD.

Can I just say that I hate you?

G. Derek Adams11 Comments
The face of pure hatred.

All of the lovely writer blogs that I follow, posting up your daily/weekly/hourly/minutely word count – making my draw drop.

It looks like this!

“Oh, I just wrote 10,000 words this afternoon — still plenty of time to go work at the homeless shelter before dinner!”

“Hmm, stuck in the elevator — better crank out three chapters…..”

“3 minutes for the popcorn? Great! I can do that 30,000 word backstory for my second protagonist.”

Consider me very jealous – and full to the brim with green-colored Envy Bile.

 

The Mountain

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We all write in the shadow of the mountain.  At the peak — success. Whatever you think of as the goal of your writing — but I imagine most of us here on WP are all thinking along similar lines.

Writing as day job. Paying the bills with your writing, and your stupid, silly ideas.

Having someone read your writing — and say, “This stuff? This stuff right here? This is good stuff. The best stuff. I want to give up some space in my brain, and put your stuff in it.”

You know what I mean — they way that all of us make room in our heads for other creator’s characters, places, and ideas. For me, there can be no higher honor.

If you just think about the base of the mountain, it’s kind of exciting. There are many simple, easy, satisfying things you can do to prepare yourself for the climb.  Like starting a blog, or making a writing schedule, or trying out different styles of writing, or just finding a really comfortable pencil.

And the simple magic of putting your head down and just writing.

But, sometimes you accidentally glance up — and take a long look towards the summit.

“How the hell am I going to get up there?”

There are so many pilgrims battling their way up the slopes, many never reaching the peak despite skill, luck and endless determination. And, let’s face it, there are many successful writers up on the peak who certainly don’t deserve it.

It’s freaking daunting, is what I’m saying.

As a logical, sane human you have to accept that even if you finish your work, even if it’s really, really good — there are still so many pitfalls, crevasses, and awful things that can happen in between that and reaching the peak.

So,  yeah — this is the part where I’m supposed to have some advice, or say something supportive.

How about this?

Those moments you’re looking up at the top of the mountain, and feeling small, depressed and defeated — look over to the left, where I’m sitting. You can look at me, and I’ll look at you — and then I’ll shrug, and make a farty noise.

It’s not much, but it’s on the table.

And accept that the doubt is part of the gig, and get back to climbing. No use to worrying about the trolls in the heights, until you’ve made your way out of base camp.