Thursday, March 19, 2015

Well, This Failed

Woaw Nelly. This morning I woke up to an email from a bona fide vanity press offering me the opportunity to publish with them, presuming that my manuscript is something they feel fits with their interests. At first glance, it seemed as though I had been contacted by a real publishing house, which was strange because they mentioned a Library of Congress registration. I have yet to do this with She Sees Metaphors, mostly because the book is still a few feet away from publication and doesn’t even have an ISBN code attached to it. I took the liberty of contacting my former publisher (I feel so legit as a writer being able to say that) and asking them if they had undertaken this responsibility. I can’t help but feel curious and cautious in regards to how people are hearing about my baby. If it’s from word of mouth or my current Facebook promotions that’s one thing. But if my former publisher has muddled things up, well… I’m glad I copyrighted my baby. [Note: SPB got back to me. They did not have any play in this and they gave me some copyright tips, which was kind of them.]

Jesus, it’s almost strange to be blogging again. How long has it been? Two weeks? Almost three? I haven’t had interest access in the last few weeks. The hippy and I have been settling into our new place which only just two days ago joined the world online. I could have gone to a coffee shop or something, but where there’s no internet, reading and writing thrive like disease in a confined place full of sorry bastards with open wounds and no sanitary standards.

I finished reading The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins by Irvine Welsh, which was fantastic until the end, where he gave his vile protagonist the sort of ending he never would have given Roy Strang or Bruce Robertson. It was a disappointment, to say the least. Welsh crafted a female protagonist that recalls Francis Begbie, which nearly made her one of the greatest written females of our time. It’s good to see a smart and calculated female in literature that isn’t some sort of Katniss Everdeen, but rather a cold hearted sociopath with all of the entitlement issues you can expect from a millennial born and raised in the Untied States. It was refreshing to read Sex Lives… and not hear all about another young teenager who becomes a pawn to every older male ever, all the while being paraded as what a young women should be when she grows up. That, or a needy, nagging little shit with no self respect.

My current reading venture is Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King. This was a Christmas gift from my mother, who is currently on a life mission to fill my library with every Stephen King book ever. Well, every book but the Dark Tower series, but whatevs, it’s all good. I can get them on my own. So far the book has been a blast to read. It’s short for Stephen King, so a lot of his usual filler is missing. But that’s good. I appreciate a good story that just gives you the meat and potatoes of the story. It’s how I try to write my own material. If I can justify removing something from my manuscript, then I sure as hell am going to get rid of it.

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And…. Shit. There goes all train of thought on wherever I wanted to take that. (I think something about how the show Luther has it down solid when it comes to writing that isn’t full of nonsense.) I got up to make some breakfast and a cup of coffee because I was fucking hungry. Then I sat down to eat and watch the Flash, which was a fine way to spend the early hours of the day. I was bothered though that they waited to kill off the one character that I can’t stand until after they showed they might be okay and that the actor can actually act. Then I started working on the dishes because I told the hippy I would do that… I should probably start a second load now that I think about it. Fuck. This blog post on writing has turned into an abortion of sorts. Well, fuck it. It’s not meant to be literature. I guess I’ll wrap this up and start working on the She Sees Metaphors edits, which should be all highlighted and noted by the end of today. So as for blogs, another day, another time. Deuces, motha fuckas.


Hank Moody. My spirit animal. 


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