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Even the great Napoleon finds himself at the mercy of the cruel publishing industry. I hear his ghost is doing a Kindle memoir :
**
If you want to play the video a 2nd time hit your cursor UNDER the video.
***
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
HOW TO BE THE NEXT J K ROWLING!
Ghost of Samuel Clemens here.
That Rowling gal! Watching over Roland as he sleeps like a soggy log, having driven 300 miles, I read what she said to the question : "How can a writer get published today?"
Her answer? Lord, if she didn't have such pretty legs, I'd strangle her!
"Why, they should write something that the publishers wish to publish."
"You think?!"
That reporter might as well have asked a man hit by lightning how to predict the rain.
I was a reporter long before I was a writer, and a reporter learns : don't pay no mind to what they say, study on what they do.
So let's study on the 4 things that Rowling gal did write, ah, I mean right :
1.) Planning
This is by far the most underrated of the steps in the writing process. And in the final wash up it is absolutely the most important.
It was 1990 and Jo Rowling was on a train between Manchester and London. Harry literally strolled fully formed into her mind while she was gazing out the train window at a field full of cows. (I am too much a gentleman to use the line that occurs to me.)
She spent the next four hours (the train was delayed) imagining Harry, the world he inhabited, the friends and enemies he had there and the dangers and joys he may encounter there. She had nothing to write on so had to be content to play this all out in her imagination. By the time she got off the train in London, the central cast of characters were already cemented in her mind.
But did she go home and immediately begin scribbling a story with these characters?
No, she didn’t.
She spent five years, yes that’s right FIVE YEARS creating and developing every last detail of the wizarding world, including government and education systems, how the wizarding world stood shoulder to shoulder with the muggle world, and she devised a highly sophisticated system of magic that would eventually form the backbone of her own special brand of writing magic.
On top of this she sculpted out the entire story, planning the details and events of all the seven books, before she put pen to paper to begin writing the first.
Would you set sail on the seas without a compass? Well, children, writing is as rough a sea as I've traversed!
JK Rowling planned the Harry Potter series for five years before she put pen to paper on the first book She wrote the entire first book, and felt as though she were “carving it out of this mass of notes”.
All the planning was worth it. She was able to devote herself to the actual task of writing, knowing that all the story and character elements she needed were covered.
2.) Writing
When you are writing, you are just writing. You are not planning, you are not editing. You are writing. Once you have planned your story, it is time to sit down and write it.
JK Rowling planned the Harry Potter series for five years before she put pen to paper on the first book She wrote the entire first book, and felt as though she were “carving it out of this mass of notes”.
All the planning was worth it. She was able to devote herself to the actual task of writing, knowing that all the story and character elements she needed were covered. When you do that, children, the words just flow.
3.) Rewriting
Jo Rowling rewrote the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone a total of 15 times.
Her mother died just 6 months after her first attempt at Chapter One of that book, and that sent her into a frenzy of rewriting, essentially changing everything.
The Potter books are about death, there is no doubt about that, and they are driven particularly by the death of Harry’s parents and his miraculous survival.
When Jo Rowling experienced such a major turning point in her own life, she rewrote the story to reflect and process her own pain.
Ernest Hemingway keeps telling me that you only write to rewrite. DH Lawrence even said that he wrote his entire first draft, threw it away and then started again from scratch.
4.) Editing
Editing is the process of refining and polishing your manuscript. This part of the process may be done by you, or by a professional editor. It is often wise to have an editor look over your work before submitting it for publication as it is extremely difficult to get the distance you need from your own work to see where it can be improved.
Writing a book is a process, never forget that, fellow dreamers. Each step in the process is unique but necessary. Don’t mix 'em, and certainly don’t attempt to skip any steps. Do that at your own peril.
J K Rowling, bless her heart, meant well with that reporter. But before you attempt your next novel, don't listen to the little lady. Follow the four steps she took in her own writing process:
planning, writing, rewriting and editing, and be sure you give each step its due.
Who knows? The lightning may strike you!
***
Oh, children, this here is a movie so bad, even a ghost like me laughed til tears came to my eyes. But my humor always was a tad on the cruel side :
That Rowling gal! Watching over Roland as he sleeps like a soggy log, having driven 300 miles, I read what she said to the question : "How can a writer get published today?"
Her answer? Lord, if she didn't have such pretty legs, I'd strangle her!
"Why, they should write something that the publishers wish to publish."
"You think?!"
That reporter might as well have asked a man hit by lightning how to predict the rain.
I was a reporter long before I was a writer, and a reporter learns : don't pay no mind to what they say, study on what they do.
So let's study on the 4 things that Rowling gal did write, ah, I mean right :
1.) Planning
This is by far the most underrated of the steps in the writing process. And in the final wash up it is absolutely the most important.
It was 1990 and Jo Rowling was on a train between Manchester and London. Harry literally strolled fully formed into her mind while she was gazing out the train window at a field full of cows. (I am too much a gentleman to use the line that occurs to me.)
She spent the next four hours (the train was delayed) imagining Harry, the world he inhabited, the friends and enemies he had there and the dangers and joys he may encounter there. She had nothing to write on so had to be content to play this all out in her imagination. By the time she got off the train in London, the central cast of characters were already cemented in her mind.
But did she go home and immediately begin scribbling a story with these characters?
No, she didn’t.
She spent five years, yes that’s right FIVE YEARS creating and developing every last detail of the wizarding world, including government and education systems, how the wizarding world stood shoulder to shoulder with the muggle world, and she devised a highly sophisticated system of magic that would eventually form the backbone of her own special brand of writing magic.
On top of this she sculpted out the entire story, planning the details and events of all the seven books, before she put pen to paper to begin writing the first.
Would you set sail on the seas without a compass? Well, children, writing is as rough a sea as I've traversed!
JK Rowling planned the Harry Potter series for five years before she put pen to paper on the first book She wrote the entire first book, and felt as though she were “carving it out of this mass of notes”.
All the planning was worth it. She was able to devote herself to the actual task of writing, knowing that all the story and character elements she needed were covered.
2.) Writing
When you are writing, you are just writing. You are not planning, you are not editing. You are writing. Once you have planned your story, it is time to sit down and write it.
JK Rowling planned the Harry Potter series for five years before she put pen to paper on the first book She wrote the entire first book, and felt as though she were “carving it out of this mass of notes”.
All the planning was worth it. She was able to devote herself to the actual task of writing, knowing that all the story and character elements she needed were covered. When you do that, children, the words just flow.
3.) Rewriting
Jo Rowling rewrote the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone a total of 15 times.
Her mother died just 6 months after her first attempt at Chapter One of that book, and that sent her into a frenzy of rewriting, essentially changing everything.
The Potter books are about death, there is no doubt about that, and they are driven particularly by the death of Harry’s parents and his miraculous survival.
When Jo Rowling experienced such a major turning point in her own life, she rewrote the story to reflect and process her own pain.
Ernest Hemingway keeps telling me that you only write to rewrite. DH Lawrence even said that he wrote his entire first draft, threw it away and then started again from scratch.
4.) Editing
Editing is the process of refining and polishing your manuscript. This part of the process may be done by you, or by a professional editor. It is often wise to have an editor look over your work before submitting it for publication as it is extremely difficult to get the distance you need from your own work to see where it can be improved.
Writing a book is a process, never forget that, fellow dreamers. Each step in the process is unique but necessary. Don’t mix 'em, and certainly don’t attempt to skip any steps. Do that at your own peril.
J K Rowling, bless her heart, meant well with that reporter. But before you attempt your next novel, don't listen to the little lady. Follow the four steps she took in her own writing process:
planning, writing, rewriting and editing, and be sure you give each step its due.
Who knows? The lightning may strike you!
***
Oh, children, this here is a movie so bad, even a ghost like me laughed til tears came to my eyes. But my humor always was a tad on the cruel side :
Thursday, July 28, 2011
LOVE ALWAYS WEARS A MASK_Friday's ROMANTIC CHALLENGE
It is time again for Friday’s ROMANTIC CHALLENGE.
This time Francine and Denise have given us : SHE LOVES ME/SHE LOVES ME NOT.
http://fridaynightwriters.blogspot.com/
My 400 word entry {early to hopefully spark more entries from others}
This time Francine and Denise have given us : SHE LOVES ME/SHE LOVES ME NOT.
http://fridaynightwriters.blogspot.com/
My 400 word entry {early to hopefully spark more entries from others}
is from THE PATH BACK TO DAWN.
Hone Heke, the famous Maori warrior, Kirika, escaped Ningyo princess, and Blake Adamson are fleeing their enemies aboard the cursed Junk, THE BLADELESS SAMURAI.
They have just entered the stormy Sea of Fate. Hone grabs Blake to help him secure the rigging :
Hone grumbled something biologically impossible and tugged me after him and headed to the back of the Junk. The wind was picking up, smelling of lightning and rain.
We staggered against it. He motioned at some ropes. He made a tugging gesture towards his chest and nodded to me.
I got the idea and started cinching them up. He bent down close to my head and yelled above the storm.
“Are you crazy, Blake?”
“People keep asking me that. But why you?”
“Why me? Why the hell Kirika, of all pretty monsters?”
“M-Monster?”
“Yeah, that’s right, monster. Succubus.”
“Suck my what?”
He rolled his eyes and looked like he wanted to strangle me. “You do know what Ningyo’s are, don’t you, son?”
I nodded sadly. “Something like a soul vampire, aren’t they?”
This time he did grab my throat and gave me a shake. “Succubus, idiot. Succubus, as in ‘poke me while I leech you.’ I know she’s beautiful, but so is a coral snake. And you don’t go to bed with either one.”
He balled up his right fist, looking like he was deciding whether to break my jaw or my head. “Do you really have a death wish?”
“You said it yourself, sir. Idun’s Apple freed her from the need to feed.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“From the need, yes. But not from the desire, son. I know she looks like a beautiful sixteen year old girl. But she’s not, Blake. She’s not even human. She’s a Ningyo, a being hundreds of years old.”
His eyes grew hollow. “Worse, she’s in love with you, son.”
“Worse? How can being in love with me be worse?”
"Because that means she's not thinking straight. She's gonna expect you to act like a centuries old Ningyo male. And when you don't, she's going to feel betrayed. And a betrayed Ningyo is a demon let loose from Hell."
His hand squeezed harder on my shoulder. "You're walking with your eyes wide shut into suicide."
His eyes flicked past my head. My heart sank. I turned around. Kirika.
She was standing stiff, her fingers coiling and uncoiling. Her once lovely face did seem a demon's. How could I unhurt her?
I couldn't. She had heard me being told she was a monster. There was only one thing I could think of that would balance the scales. Balance them and screw up my life.
***
Don't miss the great two sentence pitch contest at BEYOND WORDS :
http://chanellegray.blogspot.com/2011/07/pitch-contest-with-victoria-marini.html
***
***
Hone Heke, the famous Maori warrior, Kirika, escaped Ningyo princess, and Blake Adamson are fleeing their enemies aboard the cursed Junk, THE BLADELESS SAMURAI.
They have just entered the stormy Sea of Fate. Hone grabs Blake to help him secure the rigging :
Hone grumbled something biologically impossible and tugged me after him and headed to the back of the Junk. The wind was picking up, smelling of lightning and rain.
We staggered against it. He motioned at some ropes. He made a tugging gesture towards his chest and nodded to me.
I got the idea and started cinching them up. He bent down close to my head and yelled above the storm.
“Are you crazy, Blake?”
“People keep asking me that. But why you?”
“Why me? Why the hell Kirika, of all pretty monsters?”
“M-Monster?”
“Yeah, that’s right, monster. Succubus.”
“Suck my what?”
He rolled his eyes and looked like he wanted to strangle me. “You do know what Ningyo’s are, don’t you, son?”
I nodded sadly. “Something like a soul vampire, aren’t they?”
This time he did grab my throat and gave me a shake. “Succubus, idiot. Succubus, as in ‘poke me while I leech you.’ I know she’s beautiful, but so is a coral snake. And you don’t go to bed with either one.”
He balled up his right fist, looking like he was deciding whether to break my jaw or my head. “Do you really have a death wish?”
“You said it yourself, sir. Idun’s Apple freed her from the need to feed.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“From the need, yes. But not from the desire, son. I know she looks like a beautiful sixteen year old girl. But she’s not, Blake. She’s not even human. She’s a Ningyo, a being hundreds of years old.”
His eyes grew hollow. “Worse, she’s in love with you, son.”
“Worse? How can being in love with me be worse?”
"Because that means she's not thinking straight. She's gonna expect you to act like a centuries old Ningyo male. And when you don't, she's going to feel betrayed. And a betrayed Ningyo is a demon let loose from Hell."
His hand squeezed harder on my shoulder. "You're walking with your eyes wide shut into suicide."
His eyes flicked past my head. My heart sank. I turned around. Kirika.
She was standing stiff, her fingers coiling and uncoiling. Her once lovely face did seem a demon's. How could I unhurt her?
I couldn't. She had heard me being told she was a monster. There was only one thing I could think of that would balance the scales. Balance them and screw up my life.
***
Don't miss the great two sentence pitch contest at BEYOND WORDS :
http://chanellegray.blogspot.com/2011/07/pitch-contest-with-victoria-marini.html
***
***
IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
Samuel Clemens, ghost, here.
So there I was, regaling Roland with my wit in my ghost chair
while he was muttering on his air mattress
something about 3 O'Clock in the morning.
"Why, so it," I laughed. "We ghosts are at our best this time of night, don't you know?"
"That makes one of us," Roland sighed.
"I hate a man who goes to sleep at once; there is a sort of indefinable something about it which is not exactly an insult,
and yet is an insolence. I get to feeling very lonely, with no company but an undigested dinner.
"Ghosts can't eat, sir."
"But I remember some fine meals, son.
Why you are frittering your life away just sleeping like a log. I don't mean a brisk, fresh, green log, but an old dead, soggy rotten one, that never turns over or gives a yelp."
"I was a happy, soggy log."
"You know, young fella, there are reams of culture-starved souls who would kill to get the gems of wisdom I am heaping upon you here.
Why, I bet you didn't get onto Chandler about his "the meaning of words" article he wrote for you!"
"He let me sleep."
"I am wounded I say. Wounded! Ah, hi there, Gertrude."
I whispered down to Roland. "Mind your P's and Q's. Gerdy is always a mite raw-boned on the anniversary of her death."
To prove my point, she glared at me. "That is MISS Stein to you, buffoon."
"That's Mr. Buffon to you, gal."
She just upped and ignored me, pinning poor Roland to the carpet with those steely blues of hers.
"I read Chandler's drivel of last night."
She wiped her mouth as if the memory tasted bad. "Clarity is of no importance because nobody listens
and nobody knows what you mean no matter what you mean, nor how clearly you mean what you mean.
But if you have vitality enough of knowing enough of what you mean, somebody and sometime and sometimes a great many will have to realize that you know what you mean
and so they will agree that you mean what you know, what you know you mean, which is as near as anybody can come to understanding any one."
I looked at Roland with a raised eyebrow, "Suddenly, I am very afraid, son."
"Why?," he asked.
"I actually understood that."
***
So there I was, regaling Roland with my wit in my ghost chair
while he was muttering on his air mattress
something about 3 O'Clock in the morning.
"Why, so it," I laughed. "We ghosts are at our best this time of night, don't you know?"
"That makes one of us," Roland sighed.
"I hate a man who goes to sleep at once; there is a sort of indefinable something about it which is not exactly an insult,
and yet is an insolence. I get to feeling very lonely, with no company but an undigested dinner.
"Ghosts can't eat, sir."
"But I remember some fine meals, son.
Why you are frittering your life away just sleeping like a log. I don't mean a brisk, fresh, green log, but an old dead, soggy rotten one, that never turns over or gives a yelp."
"I was a happy, soggy log."
"You know, young fella, there are reams of culture-starved souls who would kill to get the gems of wisdom I am heaping upon you here.
Why, I bet you didn't get onto Chandler about his "the meaning of words" article he wrote for you!"
"He let me sleep."
"I am wounded I say. Wounded! Ah, hi there, Gertrude."
I whispered down to Roland. "Mind your P's and Q's. Gerdy is always a mite raw-boned on the anniversary of her death."
To prove my point, she glared at me. "That is MISS Stein to you, buffoon."
"That's Mr. Buffon to you, gal."
She just upped and ignored me, pinning poor Roland to the carpet with those steely blues of hers.
"I read Chandler's drivel of last night."
She wiped her mouth as if the memory tasted bad. "Clarity is of no importance because nobody listens
and nobody knows what you mean no matter what you mean, nor how clearly you mean what you mean.
But if you have vitality enough of knowing enough of what you mean, somebody and sometime and sometimes a great many will have to realize that you know what you mean
and so they will agree that you mean what you know, what you know you mean, which is as near as anybody can come to understanding any one."
I looked at Roland with a raised eyebrow, "Suddenly, I am very afraid, son."
"Why?," he asked.
"I actually understood that."
***
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
WE WRITE AS WE LIVE ... ALONE
Ghost of RAYMOND CHANDLER here
WE WRITE
WE WRITE
AS WE LIVE …
ALONE.
Roland is still sleeping on the floor in the cool vacant apartment lent him. I have snatched his electronic gadget and come here to his stifling apartment to talk of writing.
I’ve just finished a book I took down from his shelf, POINT OF NO RETURN by John P. Marquand. Strange that such good writing should leave me with so little feeling of having read anything of any importance.
A man has no right to write that well and in the end say so little.
Who cares about the people who always say, do, think, and wear the right thing … and yet are vaguely conscious that it is only the right thing because people of money say it is.
So many modern books are like that :
sad but not too sad, romantic in a lifeless way, beautifully detailed observations ... and the total effect of a steel engraving with no color at all. I guess God must have made such writers on a wet Sunday.
I look at such books and ask, ‘Where is the heart, the soul, the marrow in the bone?’
Certainly, not in the dialogue of those books.
The dialogue. That is where they usually go wrong.
If the dialogue is not peppered with the profanity of truth, of life as it is truly felt, then you paint in grays.
Take out the real in a novel, and you neuter Chekov into the artificiality of Mansfield. Better to drink water than near-beer. So many authors know the lyrics but not the music.
Dialogue done well renders life to a novel. In Dostoyevsky, there is such a burning trueness to the prose that it changes you as you read.
We write to express ourselves, to record the reactions of our personalities to the world in which we live. Every writer dips his brush into his own soul and paints his own nature into his prose.
We look into the mirror, but we do not see the person others see. No. To others we are not ourselves but an actor in their lives cast for a part we do not even know we are playing.
In like manner, so is our prose. Others read into the mirror of our words what they know of themselves. Only if our words strike the tuning fork of their souls will they keep on turning the pages.
How do each of you try to make each page in your novel real enough to strike that tuning fork? Tell me. I am a curious ghost.
Yours most sincerely,
Raymond Chandler
Roland is still sleeping on the floor in the cool vacant apartment lent him. I have snatched his electronic gadget and come here to his stifling apartment to talk of writing.
I’ve just finished a book I took down from his shelf, POINT OF NO RETURN by John P. Marquand. Strange that such good writing should leave me with so little feeling of having read anything of any importance.
A man has no right to write that well and in the end say so little.
Who cares about the people who always say, do, think, and wear the right thing … and yet are vaguely conscious that it is only the right thing because people of money say it is.
So many modern books are like that :
sad but not too sad, romantic in a lifeless way, beautifully detailed observations ... and the total effect of a steel engraving with no color at all. I guess God must have made such writers on a wet Sunday.
I look at such books and ask, ‘Where is the heart, the soul, the marrow in the bone?’
Certainly, not in the dialogue of those books.
The dialogue. That is where they usually go wrong.
If the dialogue is not peppered with the profanity of truth, of life as it is truly felt, then you paint in grays.
Take out the real in a novel, and you neuter Chekov into the artificiality of Mansfield. Better to drink water than near-beer. So many authors know the lyrics but not the music.
Dialogue done well renders life to a novel. In Dostoyevsky, there is such a burning trueness to the prose that it changes you as you read.
We write to express ourselves, to record the reactions of our personalities to the world in which we live. Every writer dips his brush into his own soul and paints his own nature into his prose.
We look into the mirror, but we do not see the person others see. No. To others we are not ourselves but an actor in their lives cast for a part we do not even know we are playing.
In like manner, so is our prose. Others read into the mirror of our words what they know of themselves. Only if our words strike the tuning fork of their souls will they keep on turning the pages.
How do each of you try to make each page in your novel real enough to strike that tuning fork? Tell me. I am a curious ghost.
Yours most sincerely,
Raymond Chandler
***
As I read Roland's adventures of Victor Standish, it occurred to me that he could be played by that Taylor Lautner young man. See? Even ghosts can dream :
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A DOMINATRIX WET DREAM
"A DOMINATRIX WET DREAM"
is one term Donna Hole uses to describe my novel, LOVE LIKE DEATH.
The entire review of my novel and our email interview is scheduled
to appear in the Tuesday edition of her blog :
http://donnahole.blogspot.com/
Or you can see for yourself :
http://www.amazon.com/LOVE-LIKE-DEATH-ebook/dp/B00560LYHC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1311658166&sr=1-1
Check out Donna's review/interview. You won't be bored. I certainly wasn't. Have a great new week, everyone! Roland
is one term Donna Hole uses to describe my novel, LOVE LIKE DEATH.
The entire review of my novel and our email interview is scheduled
to appear in the Tuesday edition of her blog :
http://donnahole.blogspot.com/
Or you can see for yourself :
http://www.amazon.com/LOVE-LIKE-DEATH-ebook/dp/B00560LYHC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1311658166&sr=1-1
Check out Donna's review/interview. You won't be bored. I certainly wasn't. Have a great new week, everyone! Roland
Sunday, July 24, 2011
THE PATH BACK TO DAWN!
When we last left Blake Adamson in LOVE LIKE DEATH, he was surrounded by the vicious living shadows, the Amal.
Follow Blake as he is reunited with Kirika, sails the mysterious Sea of Fate, wanders lost down the Halls of Hells, and finally finds Fallen once again in Victorian London --
in the lethal brothel, The Princess Alice, whose only customers are those madmen who have killed as Jack the Ripper.
Worse, the dreaded Sennacherib is coming to fulfil his threat to rape the last fae. Can Blake save himself, much less the fae of his dreams?
If we live long enough, there comes that night when the darkness is more within than without, when we realize things have gone terribly wrong, and when we realize the answers we thought we knew have no more substance than the cardboard fronts of a movie set.
What do we do then?
What if all myths are true? What if believing can make it so, if enough believe? What if, like unwanted children, once born the myths cannot be unborn? Would a critical mass of myths one day be reached?
Only in the eclipse of myth can a young man have both the Moon and Sun as his brides. The Last Fae and The Lost Sun have both fallen in love with Blake Adamson -- and he with them.
If their crossed loves do not them kill them, their enemies surely will. Unless Blake Adamson can become the legend he is believed to be.
***
The lovely twin muses of my novels, Wendy Tyler Ryan and Orietta Rossi {artist extraordinaire}, have made this novel possible.
***
I just love this trailer whose hero and heroine remind me of Sam and Meilori :
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