Dog Ear
A kindle up your nook (DOG EAR) PDF Print E-mail
Written by Administrator   
Thursday, 26 July 2012 00:00

At dinner the other night, a friend was flashing his reader at me, showing me his "stack". Well, first, don't wave your toy at me at the table. Adults talk books, they don't thrust ePuds under their companion's noses.

Second, I have stacks. I have 30 feet of books (four shelves deep) in my Florida room. I've got hardbacks over my sofa, a huge shelf groaning with historical references in the living room, and piles along the side of the bed, my "next reads". I've got stacks.

You, you have folders. Big difference.

I was thinking about this piece, my usual snooty anti-E bit, and something else hit me. Two weeks ago I got nailed with a cluster of viruses that I had a devil of a time removing (all the drama HERE). Then, three nights ago, I pulled down a special reader and got the Babylon malware (not only did it pop 40 bots all over my system, it altered my browser to point through a click-though marketing group). And that took a few hours to set right.

While there is a special, crackly-warm place in hell for virus malingers, there is a consideration to be gained from all this.

Right now, all over the world, people are hunched over kindles and nooks, looking for vulnerabilities. Think about the volume of submissions for these tools. Think about all those unchecked, unscanned files. Someone's going to figure out a way to sneak in code in a book - they could even submit it under a trusted literary title like Fahrenheit 451. You download it and suddenly they have you. Perhaps they spiteful nihilists who rub out your entire stack. Perhaps they are playful bastards who knock out some of your command keys. Perhaps they are neo-capitalists, and will flash pop-up adds in front of your Lady Chatterley's Lover.

Or maybe its just the Russian mob, who will steal your VISA information.

And if you don't think that's happening in a sense, now, think again. Do you think Amazon and B&N don't track your purchases? That you won't get some message next time you buy something, a blurb about "People who purchased Fifty shades of gray also have ordered..."

With my old paper friends, it's just me and my book. With your Epud, it's you, an unvetted writer/encoder, corporate marketing boards, and hackers the world over.

Something to think about.


Last Updated on Thursday, 26 July 2012 18:11
Augean stables (DOG EAR) PDF Print E-mail
Written by Administrator   
Thursday, 19 July 2012 00:00

Was in the Dale Carnegie course the other week and there was an exercise concerning putting enthusiasm to work.

Now what, thinks I, could I possibly be more enthusiastic about?

Cover letters.


I have a pretty nice cover letter for Indigo. It’s clever, interesting and to the point. It’s got a great hook (“Indigo, where Watership Down meets Top Gun”). But if you’ve ever looked at some of these agency requirements, you’ll realize that they are often specific in their demands. And sure, a book about semi-sentient crows is not really science fiction, not fantasy, not quite. And this book could easily be overhauled for young adults (I think there are two crow-on-crow sex scenes, an easy thing to drop). I know this but am expecting my potential agents to read between the lines and see this.

Outlining their needs shouldn’t be a tack-on – they’d see through that in a minute. It’s got to be in the body of the thing. What was needed, I decided, was a “flavor” of cover letter, one angled towards an agency’s interests. Further, as I find new requirements (”…this agency focuses on lesbian astrology issues, no science fiction please…”) then I should have a process to convert an existing cover letter to their needs and methodically save it off for next time. In other words, I need a stable of cover letters, one I can keep organized for use in any and all circumstances. Of course, I’m not going to post to agents who’s target base wildly deviates from my story type (like, seriously, lesbian astrology issues). I need something in place, ready to go, not fly-by-night.

So now, under my Indigo folder, there is actually an Agents folder. And in there, I have “Agent” (my standard pitch) and “Agent-YA” (young adult) and “Agent-noSFF” (no science fiction and fantasy). More will be added as I find further genre-types.

It’s nothing more that applying my creativity now, when I’ve got a tap on the thing, then later when I’m trying to get bond paper and stamps and pick three new agencies out.

Once again, organization is the key. That and a whole lot of luck.


Last Updated on Tuesday, 17 July 2012 20:00
Ash cloud (DOG EAR) PDF Print E-mail
Written by Administrator   
Thursday, 12 July 2012 00:00

My writing instructor from long ago told us this would happen, that true writers are morose, suffering bouts of depression that could even lead to suicide. I knew this going in. But then again, it wasn’t the writing that brought the darkness, it was the darkness that brought the writing.

But in the last 24 hours, everything went into the crapper.

I got a rejection letter from an agent who said she couldn’t get into Indigo , that it didn't catch her (well, then get your nose out of Harry Potter and seek things fresh and new). At work, the usual feuds. On the cycle-trip home, harassment from kids from behind the smoked windows of their fart-can car. And even though it’s after July 4th, some defiant straggler was launching rockets, one after the other, at 10pm. Just as a rain washed out his siege gun detonations, I discover an important tax document buried under composting junk mail (and I’d just sent out my sales taxes for the quarter). And while I’m pondering this, the cat gets on the layout and breaks stuff. I run to fetch the squirt bottle and end up in a discipline fight with the wife, who seeks mercy for that fuzzy dumbass like the Chinese backing Syria.

So I’ve had it. I seal myself in the train room and work on the layout damage, winching at each defilement to my art. The wife goes to bed, I don’t care. I just stay in there, deciding to sleep in the desk chair. I finally drop off, only to have next-door fireman-hero turn on his stereo a little too loud at 1am. Then he and his latest tramp have a quick glass-breaking fight on their driveway at 2am, ten feet from where I’m propped up.

And it goes on the next day, with tailgating BMWs and my work team splitting an apple pie without even inviting me.

And there is that depression, erupting into the upper atmosphere like a large volcano, throwing ash and darkness over everything. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to do anything, I am not in the mood to suffer the fools that surround me.

I don’t even ride the bike in. Let the world flash-fire in its greenhouse hell. I wash my hands of it.

Lunchtime. I’ve got the tinytop with me and I really don’t feel like doing much. I don’t want to write or edit anything. That reptilian agent really curdled my enthusiasm.

But still, I don’t want company and I don’t want to hang around, so I jump in my car and degrade the world’s climate a tiny bit more to go to a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint with an outdoor sulking area. Automatically I fire up the laptop. No signal.

What to do?

I write under assumed names on the web, just fun little stories unconnected to my true effort, some racy laughable stuff that is a kick to write. And some of the readers have been asking for more, and you know, it’s been a while. There was that one idea I had.

So I sit for a bit and think about it. And the ideas click into place like puzzle-pieces. I pick up the saga where I’d left off, a whole new story with all my established characters. And as I write, my friends, my true friends – the characters that I write, join me. It’s too muggy for anyone to bring their kids out, the waitress keeps me in cokes, and I’m okay.

Oh, there is still volcanic smoke and the plains are ruined hellscapes. But I’m not alone.


Last Updated on Sunday, 08 July 2012 07:15
The Irony of Irony (DOG EAR) PDF Print E-mail
Written by Administrator   
Thursday, 05 July 2012 17:24

Eric Frank Russell once wrote a wonderful science fiction piece where a scout ship discovers a planet, green with fields and ripe with cities. The crew emerges after their fiery (and highly visible) descent to find… nobody coming to see them. Finally they head towards the nearest town, only to discover the inhabitants “racing” in their vehicles towards the landing site, but because of a difference in time scale, they are barely moving at all. The crew returns to their ship, going about their business and ignoring the forest of “statues” that slowly gather around their landing field. Finally an army arrives and charges, only to be picked up and moved backwards hundreds of yards by the bemused crew.

In the end, the commander is writing up his report and notes that we should take care, for if there are races operating on a much slower time scale than us, perhaps there are those running at far higher ones. Having drafted this, he leaves his desk but turns to consider something, only to see that his report has vanished.

When I speak of irony here, I am referring to the more common usage, that of mockery of an earlier time and playing off of (or using) its imageries. Our culture is rich with “ironic” uses of the fifties: the red-baiting buzz-cut military commander, the desperately unhappy housewife, the hair-oiled, train-chasing company man. Most children’s cartoons set their stories in worlds of 50’s and 60’s suburbia, with parents artificially chipper and ignorant to the exaggerated adventures of their offspring.

And that’s fine – it’s a tool writers can use to convey an image quickly. I remember reading Sabatini’s Scaramouch and discovering that traveling companies of actors would rely on established character types (Scaramouch, Harlequin, Pierrot, and others), typecasting them in roles so that the audience would quickly identify their personalities and traits – no backfill needed. We use such characters and concepts ourselves, populating in our tales with the already-known, and perhaps also gently mocking the world of the past.

I did it myself in Early ReTyrement. To establish his commercial supremacy in the ancient world, Mason uses every marketing trick he can imagine to sell average grain at remarkable markups. Part of this involves him spewing a long litany of ‘50’s advertising slogans, the jingles and advertisments that tickled the wallets of our ancestors. And I focused selectively and precisely on that time, as advertisers operated in a verbal market (such as radio), and had to appeal to the ideal of conformity and slight superiority that their products would supposedly bring. So Mason sells his grain and we all get a double laugh, both at the ‘50s and also at the 330ADs, who are even more “naive”.

The danger in doing this is that, aside from appearing condescending, our typecasting can become obvious, even tired, as time moves on. I’m reading a fantasy book right now that starts with a dwarf with his magical axe (of course) and magical armor (of course) who kills a dragon (of course). Ten pages in and I’m drowning in cultural references. Even everyone’s beloved Harry Potter books, with wands and wizards and broom-riding, really doesn’t add anything new to our story-worlds.

And that’s the danger of relying on cheap imagery and established norms. You are locking yourself into a story-telling reference. Time moves on. Think about my earlier reference to that scifi book I opened with. Sure, from our point of view, we are more imaginative and clever and ironic than those stiff, conformist people of the fifties. But is our writing different enough, unique enough, and true enough to stand on its own when scanned by future eyeballs? Or will they shake their head sadly and laugh in bemusement at those still and lifeless ideas that filled the novels of the early twenty-first century?



Last Updated on Thursday, 05 July 2012 17:30

Page 81 of 85