It's funny, reading my last post (which I'm ashamed to admit I posted too long ago) discussing the difficulty I was having pushing through narrative. "Past-Me" may have been stumbling a tad, but I can happily report that "Present-Me" is holding a fully complete, edited manuscript. It lives, it breathes, and it left its claw marks in me, but I'm damn proud of it.

That is, however, only the beginning. Having self-published The Footsteps of Cain, I'm diving into the traditional publishing space with the new book. I'm ready to ride that thorny road, to enter that new, larger dimension, to weather flame and flood and see what I can see. Each evolution on this enlightening journey expands my understanding of its twists and turns. It might occasionally prick and scratch, but it remains one of the most personally rewarding enterprises I've undertaken. (Fatherhood does beat it like a rug, however. :) )

For those unfamiliar with the traditional route, it very closely resembles a job application process. Authors tend to go for representation--agents--first, because they can offer a whole world of aid in procuring a much-coveted publishing contract. They understand the industry, know what it is looking for, and have the resources to sculpt an author's book baby into an attractive package for publishers. To obtain an agent to represent you, you submit something called a query letter, which is essentially a cover letter to pitch your book and tell them something about you as an author. It has to be punchy, compelling, and brief enough for them to get through quickly as they have sometimes hundreds of other submissions to wade through. We must be respectful of their time, for shockingly there are a FEW other writers out there pursing agents.

So, my queries are going out, with the hopes that there will be interest and requests to see more from me, whether it be a synopsis, a partial or even full manuscript to review. They're going out in batches, because it is customary to receive many more rejections than further interest. This rejection rate is the reason there are thousands of authors on the floors of their livings rooms, RIGHT NOW, curled around their coffee tables and suffering existential crises.

I've come to accept the process of writing and sharing novels as one that exposes my soft, squishy flanks to the larger world. And yet, writers must write and story-tellers must tell their stories. If we don't, our heads would assuredly suffer a fatal rupture or combust or something. (I may not have done any proper medical analysis of such an event, but I remain an ardent believer nonetheless.) What's more, if we have the opportunity, or even better the more fortune-infused serendipity to deploy our strengths and chase down our dreams, then we owe it to ourselves to try...right? Write. (groanI'msosorry)

Whatever. Come what may, come the dragons of rejection and the ghouls of self-doubt, I've got my pokey-stick ready to defend myself. I've got chops, and grit, and the kung-fu of persistence on my side. I've got my bazooka of determination and my howitzer of a can-do attitude. I'm outfitted for mayhem, poised to bulldoze, and...uh...I may have gone too far. Which is good, because going too far is better than standing still! Yar!

And so, larger world, consider this MY job application. I toil on, scanning the skies for the magic carpet while idly pecking at this humble keyboard, spinning the tales I hope you'll want to hear. I smile, for I know I win either way. I work, for working catalyzes change, and change can come with one hell of an engine under the hood.

Speaking of work...back TO it.

Okay, book, you're pissing me off. Which means I'm pissing me off. And that pisses me off even more.

I'm in a slump. I recognize it, I know I'll surpass it, but right now it's the wet blanket that's weighing me down when all I want to do is run. I've built a world and painted it with 45,000 words so far, but now I'm at a fork...nay, a multitudinous, hydra-headed, writhing-mass-of-parallel-universes decision tree that is waiting for me to pick...one...way. My characters are frozen in place, staring...too polite to outright scream at me (for now), but still heaving these great, gusty sighs of impatience. And I'm all like "take five, you guys", but that doesn't work because they're not tired. They're antsy, and they have nothing to do. And that's on me.

That's the rub, right there. Any frustration, any irk or poke or irritation that authors feel about the work they do...it can never be tied to anybody or anything else than themselves. I suppose that's where all the artsy self-loathing comes from. It's the other side of one of the things that I really love about doing this...the autonomy. It's just me...through and through. Nobody else. So sometimes, when you're looking around for help, that thorny loneliness that you forgot existed can be a painful thing to reacquaint yourself with.

Side note...I've always had this loner outlook when it comes to accomplishing things, which has given gifts to me just as it has robbed me of them. It's rewarding, because when I've broken down walls that threaten to box me in, I know I did it, under my own power, and that charges me up. Of course, in those moments where the tools I possess fall short of piercing the tougher aspects of my endeavors, it makes me stubbornly reluctant to ask for help, which limits me.

Anyway...yeah, yeah. Whine whine. It's bootstrap time. Nothing really great ever came to anyone without a hefty price tag attached to it. I'll pay the toll, ask the nice lady in the booth if she can hold my wet blanket for me, and zip away until the next go-around. Come on, Derek...wake up, and let's get this thing Willie-emandeffing-Nelson on the road again. Yee haw, whip crack, spur-to-flank, light up that bottle rocket, and punch it, Chewie.

Once more into the breach!

(Ahem)

Back to work. Before these characters go full mutiny and find a nice, moldy place in the brig to stick me.

So, I'm staring at the first line. Palms are sweaty. Yes, that IS gross. I feel like I'm perched on something, looking out into a whole shitful of empty space that I'm tasking myself to fill with gravity. And when I'm done...when there's enough, I'm gonna suck the whole world in.

That's the goal, anyway.

I'm starting a new book today. I've been preparing for the past few months, doing the preparatory stuff...the window gazing, staring off into space, work-that-people-who-"WORK work"-would-probably-call-bullshit stuff that I need to bring me the comfort I need to start. And I'm excited. And afraid. And I'm despairing that this might be what it feels like to start a new novel EVERY DAMN TIME.

​I'm flopping around in a frying pan.

But I'm building a world. And it's SO fun. And I have characters, villains, and a central tension. I have complexity. I have a historical timeline that has given this new place a measure of depth that will only increase as we go along. I have secrets. I have tragedy. I have triumph.

Now to add a little blood, sweat, and tears. Simmer. Stir.

I know it's the right time because when I was explaining the general plot to my daughter the other day, I had a hard time shutting up. That only happens when I don't want to stop talking about things that my brain can't unglue itself from. It's the right time because I've had enough "ah ha" moments to fill up my tank, and I can feel the fire coming. This rocket's gonna ignite...I have no choice in the matter. I might as well get on.

From a writer's perspective, the first line of a new book is the most important one. Not because of the "hook". It doesn't hold any real substance in relation to the narrative. For me, it's the most important, most significant sentence because it means I've STARTED. I have something to say, or more accurately, I have many things to say and so do all the characters in my head. And they simply will NOT STOP bothering me until I've passed their statements and stories on to you good people. It's like a kind of exorcism. Write it out or let it burn you up.

And so, first sentence, I pause briefly to honor and give you proper acknowledgement. May we both prosper in this partnership, and never give thought to letting one another down. May we trust one another, and persevere. May we suck the whole world in.

​Back to work.

Today's the day!  The Footsteps of Cain will be FREE in the Amazon Kindle store starting today, March 2nd, and running through Monday, March 6th!  Let the shameless pandering commence!

I'm learning more and more about self-promotion, despite these pesky reflexes that keep telling me not to bother anybody.  So, I'm forging ahead with this "um...hi...here's my book if you're interested...if not, um, okay" approach.  I'm not trying to say that I'm being tentative...I'm becoming more and more convinced that this book is worth it.  Just a few days ago I had a reviewer tell me that it's the best indie book that he's reviewed in seven years!  That hit me in the best way, in the best spot possible.  All my happy places are gurgling.  (GROSS, Derek.  GROSS.)

So I've been spending the past month setting up promotional schedules and registering the book on promotional sites, and spending that marketing money, baby.  Thankfully you don't have to pay EVERYWHERE to have your book featured, or else this ship might sink before it got out of dry-dock.  (I have no idea how that analogy is physically possible, but...sure.)  And boy, this internet thing is really handy when you want to get some information out about something you believe in!  It's SO much better than my first consideration; hiring some pilots and literally bombing the country with physical copies.  (I mean, I'm still thinking about it.  I might still do it...we'll see how this week goes.)

I'm excited, I'm optimistic, and most importantly, I'm having fun.  So you know what?  Today, I'm one of the lucky ones.

My family and I just got home from Finding Dory. I don’t know if you know this, but Dory is perpetually forgetful, scattered, distracted, and happy-go-lucky. As I drove the car home, I became forlorn to realize that...I am Dory. It was a much more personal and serious realization that I was hoping for from a fun fish movie. Well played, Pixar. Well. Played.

Speaking of serious and personal things, the OMINOUS LIFE CLOCK on my brain reads that there are only 4 days until the 30th. 4 days until I become something that I can never back away from. 4 days until I accept that I’ll have to be at least PARTLY a shameless self-promoter if I want to be a fully fledged, honest to goodness author. The final week leading up to the book release is full of panicked, irrational self-assurances that I’ve forgotten something absolutely crucial and easily exposed to be poked at by the well-prepared spears of public criticism. I swear, one of these times I crack open a copy the book, I’m certain that there will be nothing but 394 blank, stark-white pages staring back at me, blaming me for their lack of substance. “Why didn’t you finish us,” they’ll accuse. “Why wasn’t there more?”

So that’s half my day, freaking out about the stuff that could ruin me before I’ve begun. The other half of the day my brain is circling the opposite pole, because no matter how many times I DO crack open that book to make sure of this or that, when I read through the end for the nth time I always get the chills I felt when I first wrote it. Those same nerve fibers still practically sing when I take in those last words.

Now, that’s me. Others may read it and discard it as readily and conveniently as anything can be discarded these days. But, I’m an appreciator of this story as much as I am the one who wrote it out. I almost bemoan the fact that I’m the author, because I get excited about it when I talk to others, and I don’t want that to come across to anybody as a guy beating his own chest. I’m legitimately intrigued by the story, and I find new things in it every day to appreciate—increased depth in the characters, as well as a haunting appreciation of the ruined world they inhabit. I feel sorry for them, just as much as I celebrate the adversity they face. I wish I could have given them more after the pages ran dry but, sadly, my time with them is largely done. They’ll have to be okay on their own.

RELEASE DAY LOOMS. I am at the mercy of it, and it me, and so for now we’ll remain tidally locked until the dice go the way they will. Have at you, June 30th!

Back to work.

OH MY GOD I’M PUBLISHING MY FIRST BOOK IN TWO WEEKS HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP HOLY CR--

(clears throat)

Hi there. It seems you’ve walked in on me freaking out a little, there, and so I want to assure you that everything is just FINE with me, mentally speaking. No nervous breakdowns or anything like that. Heh heh. Yup...just hunky dory, over here. Oh, all that flop sweat? I normally sweat this much. Yeah. Just an overactive exocrine system. It’s certainly not because I’m about to embark on a brand new journey that will lay bare my vulnerable gooey areas to the potential abuse of the entire world. That would be silly.

*clasps hands behind back and whistles*

Yup. So...alright then.

Oh, speaking of that, I release a book in TWO WEEKS. Last August, after I dropped my daughter off at school for her first full day, came home, and sat down at my desk with that big blank whiteness of my word processor staring at me, I don’t think I ever could have envisioned this moment. I had a plan to complete THE NOVEL, but I think that only most of me was convinced that I could actually do it. Thankfully, I think I’m decent at closing up the roof to block off the glaring, mostly ethereal impossibilities that I conjure for myself. I can mostly just stick my fingers in my ears and “la la la” the specter of failure right out of my head. Denial, right? It’s not just a river in my brain.

So yeah...being here is pretty surreal. I certainly have developed a healthy respect for the editorial process, considering how many mistakes that I and others have found over the past month. But little by little, those have been ironed out, and unless I’ve missed something massive I think the book’s looking pretty good. I have to send out BIG, BIG thanks so my advance copy readers, who have ensured that the quality of the typographical packaging of this thing is so much greater than I could have ever assured, by myself. They are a truly awesome group of people, and I’ll never forget the help and support they’ve given me!

What’s more, by and large they like the book! I’ve had a lot of positive comments, which has given me a ton of confidence going into the launch. Now, granted, a “good book” doesn’t necessarily ensure a torrent of book sales...but, it doesn’t hurt either, now does it? Whatever happens, I think I can walk away from this first effort a pretty happy guy. Smiley-winky face. #crushingfailureismydayjob

Coming up on it. Gathering myself for the wave. Boy, don’t time just fly by?

Back to work.

​I just got back from a family trip to Florida, and I'll have you know that while paddle-boarding off the Gulf coast I saw a manatee and two dolphins. They all swam up, popped their flippers out of the water for a round of enthusiastic, pro-mammalian high-fives, and then swam off to their salty homes. As they vanished from sight, they turned and saluted me one last, tear-filled time. Yup...some of this is DEFINITELY true.

Okay, then. Moving on.

We're getting down to it, now. Thirty days. Thirty days to make my final corrections (based on some kick-ass feedback), put together the digital format, approve the print proof, and submit both for commercial sale through Amazon. Then, the marketing push. Ads, more blogging, and of course irritatingly shoving my name into as many online spotlights as I can.

As a self-publisher, I've learned just how many disciplines I have to be a master of (“master”, of course, being an optimistically used word in these contexts), and how much preparation goes into the forcible ejection of this heavily nurtured work of fiction into the choppy seas of the commercial market. No matter the result, I feel utterly enriched by the process. The rewards have been plentiful from both sides...the soul-spilling creation of the narrative, as well as the more mechanical preparation and assembly of the consumable package.

Even having only a small bucket of feedback thus far, I can say my confidence of the end product's quality will be high. I don't think I'm wasting anyone's time. Yeah...that was the question I asked myself as I screwed and bolted this thing together: Am I wasting anyone's time? Would I consider MY time wasted if I were to read it without my status as its author?

No. I would not. Regardless of the book's reception, regardless of whether it is savored by the world or spat out, I am proud of what I've created, and will continue to be after its public baptism. My child will be able to hold it in her hands years from now, and possibly let my grandchildren hold it, as well. Maybe its existence will make me more knowable to them and their progeny, when I'm not around to speak for myself. Yes, I know how self-indulgent this sounds. It's perhaps a bit too melodramatic and pretentious. Yet, in writing this book, I feel like I've driven a flag into the temporal bedrock of the year 2016 A.D. Wherever this story finds itself twenty, fifty, a hundred years in the future, it will be a permanent marker of who I am and when I lived, and it will have brought me peace.

Back to work.

I ordered the first printed copy the world will ever see of The Footsteps of Cain, yesterday! It's still not the FINAL version, but I wanted to check the formatting to make sure everything looks ship...er...book-shape. I probably didn't need to, as there will be a few more corrections/revisions that I'll do before I declare it “My Super Almighty, Magical First Edition”, but I'm impulsive and I'm an adult and I can do what I want to, so nyah. I just wanted to hold it in my hands and maybe glue some faux fur to it and sleep with it like a teddy bear, all of which being perfectly natural and healthy impulses. YES, they ARE.

I also wanted to read it (AGAIN) in a physical format, to see if I could catch any more sneaky typos or mechanical issues. I hate those things. It's a helpless feeling, knowing that one's own brain can so easily betray oneself. My brain's all, “Hey, maybe I'll make that pinky finger there spasm a bit and hit the 'A' key instead of the 'Q' key, and completely wipe it from your memory”, or “Hey, maybe I'll make you type that word two times in a row...that would be funny”, or “Hey, I'm a jerk and maybe I'll sprinkle some obvious misspellings in there so everybody will think you're a stupid idiot”. Nothing good can come from this feud, and sadly it appears there won't be a truce between me and my brain anytime soon.

See, it doesn't matter how good your story is...how perfectly you've crafted the narrative or the hours you've slaved away, ironing out all the problems. If a reader finds one that got through, many of them will take that 10 they were about to give your book in their heads and downgrade it to a 9. (That's assuming they were going to give the book a 10 in the first place, which of course in my case is totally a reality...am I right guys? AM I RIGHT?? PLEASE LOVE ME!!)

If I had an editor take a look, I could be better convinced that everything was taken care of, but I don't have the scratch to hire one for this first effort. Maybe for the second, I'll get lucky and find a 6 year old grammarian savant who will do it for a handful of Shopkins. If you don't know what Shopkins are, then you don't have a child, currently, or a secret stash of them in the back or your closet that you would never tell your spouse about. For the latter...you know who you are, and so do I.

(Know, that is, not play with Shopkins in the back of my closet where I keep them in a shoe-box. (What shoe-box?! Nobody said “shoe-box”! You must be hearing and also seeing things.))

I'm also faced with an impending summer that probably won't be gracious enough to give me much writing time. I'll have to make all that day-dreaming count so I'm all set to go with ideas, here come August, when I will again ship my kid into the hands of other, more capable adults who will teach her things like division and multiplication and how to kill a person with only her thumbs. (No, not seriously, even though you KNOW she'd be the cutest little bodyguard!)

Man, I'm all about the parentheses today. (Darn tootin'.)

Back to work.