DOUG CHAMBERS: ZOMBIE! (1.)

I decided Doug would be an Amazon exclusive, in the end, once transferred to the Kindle. So, with that in mind, he leaves the pages of this blog far behind.
   But I wanted something to sit here on this blog post, as a reminder of dusty days long-gone. Also, there might be hyperlinks out there, pointing the way to this blog entry. And it's a pain to sift through those if I just delete the post in its entirety.
   I'll blog when I publish Doug's misadventures, and link through to that.

ON THE RUN.

Final blog post in this latest cycle. Now I’m on the run. Foolish in my attempt at optimism, I ended a post by stating the next event would be…

   Whatever that event was. Publication of a particular item.

   When I published to a strict schedule, I made my deadlines. Then my deadlines switched to a looser format and I managed to publish entries in my FICTION FACTORY line with minimal fuss and negligible bother.

   You publish when it is right to. WEREWOLVES was delayed by a week. All these soft deadlines were flexible. Bloody good job, too, as life got in the way. Some days, I may have pushed too hard. But you have to try, to find out what you can do.

   Pacing is important. When I started out with my fixed deadlines, I made sure I could hit those nails on the head. Even if I took a mad detour one night to talk to a fear-filled author in Michigan. I still don’t know what possessed me to do that.

   Helping other authors is an avenue of exploration marked on Google as a two-way street.

   Strict deadlines. Loose ones. Everything came together, roughly or smoothly. This hasn’t quite been the case with collected versions of REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE. I learned, the usual hard way, that I had to set up a different production-line for those. Technical considerations and publishing decisions multiplied, swamping me.

   Yes, I still generated (or reformatted) a million words of material in that first year of self-publishing. But I didn’t publish everything I wanted to. Newsflash. I never will. There’s always going to be something simmering away on every ring of that stove.

   Irons in the fire. Fish to fry. You know the drill. I looked at a list of things I planned to write, expand, edit, and format over summer. Too ambitious. Still, I compiled that list anyway. And I’ll get back to most of that stuff before the end of the century.

   This year, the list is twice as ambitious. After all, the first list still haunts me.

   What now? Or…what next? More of the same. Plans. A few of those will run a-gley. I’ll adapt. Survive. Continue. Never give up writing. That’s code for never give up reading. It’s also code for never give up writing.

   I may write fiction in my next run of blog posts. Short queasy zombie stories. Who knows. I have one Zombie Apocalypse to be getting on with as things stand. Hey. Why not add another, just for the hell of it…

   An experiment. In writing. Maybe I’ll scribble about an incident in a lab. An experiment that goes horribly right and cures heavy traffic – the hard way. For now, I’ll stick to the general format. Blog repeatedly. Bundle the blogs with fiction to create an e-book running at least 100,000 words.

   Which reminds me. I have to put those REPORTS out. Finally. The first volume went over the proposed word-count. That’s no bad thing. I feel as if I’ve been learning how to run faster than the wind. Self-publishing is an event. Even if nothing seems to happen, pots are on stoves. Fish are frying. Irons glow in the fire.

   Optimism. I’ll end this post with the news that another volume of REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE is published. And it will be. Not immediately. But it will be. In a pessimistic world, it’s good to have some optimism in that near-empty cracked glass.

   And any announcement that you’ll publish…

   Must be backed up. Each proclamation serves as a goad. I spent a night mapping out hyperlinks for files. Straightforward stuff. Until I uncovered an unintentional glitch. My REPORT series has to be the most gremlin-infested thing I’ve worked on so far.

   I feel that I learn formatting afresh every time I come to it. That’s okay. I feel the same when I write a story. Anything is possible. Much is plausible. There’s a hefty dose of the downright silly. Hell, that’s no crime. Blank space must be filled.

   Ever see a movie? Watch a play? Catch a show on TV? Listen to dramatic action on the radio? Someone wrote it.

   I write these blog posts for collection alongside fiction. Writing regularly for an unseen audience, I play the sedulous scribe. There’s no way to emulate Alistair Cooke, but I can nod in his general direction.

   So what about you?

   You want to publish. Do it. What’s holding you back? Fear. An illusory fear.

   Write a few stories. Plan a book. Rattle off poetry. Don’t forget to read. Anything. Everything. Fact. Fiction. Opinion. Outright rant. Read.

   Learn what you have to deal with, to publish. Look at the Amazon site and scroll down to that obscure line inviting you to self-publish. Check it out. Hunt for articles on formatting for Kindle. Read copyright law. Be aware of legal obligations to noted libraries, be they the British Library in London or the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. To name but two.

   Think about book covers. If you can design your own, great. And if you can’t, ask yourself if you can. Have a go anyway. Yes, there’s much to learn. That’s the fun of it. Be patient. Long-haul. Invest time. Make mistakes. Learn from them.

   Persist.

   Advance your cause every day. Learn something. Even if all you did that day was tie off a loose end or return from a dead one. Write. Read and write crap. Then read the good stuff. Write better. Make sure that what works for you actually works for you.

   Endure.

   Change plans. Shift goals. Be fluid without being wishy-washy. I feel as though I’m in a martial art movie, dishing out advice. Never turn your back on your opponent. Unless he’s really big and you can run faster than him.

   I don’t mind admitting mistakes in a writing blog. It’s important to fail. To rise again and try a second time. A third time. Countless times. It’s important to let other would-be writers know this. Even if you fail, and doubt as a result, you LEARN. And you can always RECYCLE what you attempted.

   If you chase a medal at the Olympics, you don’t just walk into the stadium and take up position. The crowd never saw all the private failure that led you to that public starting-point.

   Survive.

   I think of all the failed stories I attempted. And every failure shows you something. You learn structure. And learn, sometimes, to dispense with structure. Suddenly, it’s all at your fingertips. You remember the trudging you did to get that far. Progress isn’t always enjoyable. But when it is, progress is effing amazing.

   Research. That is to say, search and search again. Try to get it right. I’m not here to place undue emphasis on mistakes. No. The emphasis is on learning from them.

   You mean there weren’t Daleks in Hitler’s bunker? Pearl Harbour wasn’t a stripper? Ghostbusters are all fictional with the exception of Abraham Lincoln? That man behind the curtain is the Wizard of Oz? What do you mean, George Michael is gay? Not Sir Elton too. He was married. (And will be again.)

   I hated myself every time I spotted an obvious typo. At times I marvelled at how good a short piece of writing was – wondering who the eff wrote it. (Then realised that was me. Can’t have been me.) I could soar as a writer, but I don’t. Gravity claims me, every time.

   Oh, I have my moments.

   You’ll have your moments too.

*

Office routine washes over me. I think my printer is destined to have one book sitting on top. It’s a different book every time I mention this in a blog post. You knew that.

   I was learning how to run faster than the wind. At first, the wind obliged me by moving at five lowly miles per hour. Things picked up. I had to learn how to go on the run.

   There’s always the chance that I’ll pull the pin on the blog and cut dead so that I can write more stuff. I like having that pin there. It’s my unsafety-pin. We should all have one.

   Play safe. Sound advice. Here’s sounder…

   Scrape your knees. Learn the pain of flames. Bleed a little. Note the sharpness of vinegar in that cut. Go on the run. Type like a maniac. Race to the summit with a flaming brand and throw it on the bonfire. No one is there to cheer you on. Only the wind witnesses your quiet gasping triumph.

   Try writing a story. Fail writing a story. Recycle the ideas. Arrange a next time and do better. Listen to advice. Go with your gut. Educate yourself. Help others. Feel numb. Ignore the numbness. Keep moving. Try harder.

   Storm the beach. Take the castle. Invent the cure. Save the day. Blow it all up. Put it back together. Run. Then walk. Crawl. Get back up. Walk. Then run. Win by participating. Enjoy reading.

   Ever read a story?

   Someone wrote it.

   Be that someone.

NEXT EVENT: REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE (VOLUME 3) IS PUBLISHED.

*

Update. I scrapped the collected blog posts. The blogs exist on the internet, but not as collected volumes. HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT.

SELF-PUBLISH AND SELF-PUBLISH AGAIN.

Do what you want in your writing life – but don’t become a Shameless Literary Narcissist™. Publish, and publish again. You’ll have difficulty doing that if you keep checking your fiction in the mirror. Checking for signs of fame.

   Of course there’s such a thing as a Shameful Literary Narcissist. It’s just that the other type is more common. Hush, no names now. From a list of so-called famous writers, draw your own conclusions. How do they sleep at night? On rose-bedecked satin sheets.

WICKED QUEEN: Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the bookiest of them all?

MAGIC MIRROR: Famed is thy booky, Majesty, but hold…a literary maid I see. Dull covers cannot hide her lovely prose. Alas, she’s more booky than thee.

WICKED QUEEN: Pah! Alas for her. Well. Speak her name.

MAGIC MIRROR: Lips, red as the prose. Print as black as ebony. Skin as write as…

WICKED QUEEN: Snow Write. If it weren’t for her and that Rapunzel bitch, I’d be the bookiest of them all. Does Snow Write like apples?

MAGIC MIRROR: Yes, oh Queen. She favours many gadgets promoted by the sorcerer Steve Jobs.

WICKED QUEEN: Insert Evil Cackle™ here. And while we’re at it, this other one. The one with an aversion to needles. Does she like spinning a yarn…

   Writing, unfortunately, attracts the fame-hungry. I say unfortunately as a few of those people are, gasp, actually good at writing. Some are born clichéd, while others have clichés thrust upon them. No, I must resist the sordid temptation to name names.

   Well. There was XXXXXX XXXXXX and XXXX XXXXXXX. Some of you’d be surprised if I mentioned XXXX XXXXXXXXX. Others wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. XXXXXX XXXX and XXXXXX XXXXXXX. Am I just typing random configurations to keep you guessing? I’ll keep you guessing.

   How could I dissuade the fame-hungry from becoming Shameless Literary Narcissists™…

   Can’t be done. If you are on that path already, you are stuck to it. You’re so vain. I bet you think this blog is about you. No, I must not mention names. One of those listed earlier, one of the very dead ones, was an appalling writer. On the make.

   He admitted as much.

   Just a thought. All those semi-mentioned were male. I’ll have to add a few on the female side, for balance. Are there any female offenders as bad as the male perpetrators listed? Ah, the hell with balance.

   Let us suppose that you are worried about turning into a fame-hungry shell of a writer. Perhaps it’s not too late to be saved. What are the signs?

   You talk to a magic mirror. Dead giveaway. The literary equivalent of holding a hairbrush and pretending it’s a microphone as you dazzle everyone in that talent show. From the seclusion of the bathroom.

   Rule one for avoiding Shameless Literary Narcissism™ – no magic mirrors.

   That’s also rule two.

   And rule three.

*

I couldn’t take much more of that, and have no advice to give. My use of Twitter is less than basic. Yes, I’ve plugged my work. I may do that again. Non-warning. I don’t ask people to like my books on Facebook. For Facebook, as I’ve observed, is for stalkers and the cat-centric. I may be mispronouncing the words networkers and eccentric. There’s nothing wrong with cat-lovers.

   Just keep it legal, folks.

   This is old terrain. Build me no statues. If I were writing for the fame, I’d be a writer/serial killer. Hey, it’s good to have a hobby away from scribbling. Though the fame-thing would pretty much end the serial killer side of things.

   Unless I became so famous a serial killer that people just let me carry on with it. Or botched trial after botched trial allowed me to wriggle off a rather dull judicial hook. Must invent a list. Ten ways to spot a Literary Narcissist™.

   One. Owns a magic mirror. And talks to it, expecting and receiving replies.

*

No more. To fill out the rest of that list, repeat the first item until done.

   An earlier comment prompted a thought. Publish, and publish again. Different kind of thought, though. Originally, I meant publish then publish more stuff. Something else occurred…

   The world changed. Paper publishing stopped being the only game in town. There used to be writers who would pen their stories and then never lay eyes on those tales again.

   That type of writer still exists. Forward-looking, you might say. In the Digital Age, however, it pays and repays to look back upon that lonesome road. This is necessary if you are writing a series. You really need to know your work down to the last particle if book two is not to fly in the face of book one. (And book three. Oh, and book four. I’m just sayin’. Stay tuned. I’ll get there.)

   In the electronic publishing world, I’d advise looking back at your work periodically – series or no series. There may be a formatting glitch that you’ve struggled to solve for longer than you care to mention. Then, one cold January night, you decide you’ve had enough.

   Tonight, I’m going to solve that bloody problem.

   Solve it I did. The item in question was, according to Amazon, a known issue. I returned to the problem more times than Joan Rivers went back to her facelift surgeon. At some point, it becomes cheaper to lower the surrounding streets than to lift the face. In the unlikely event that Joan is reading this, hey, what the fuck was The Swimmer about anyway?

   In fixing the formatting glitch, I had a moment of genius. It took two days to realise this. After two days I thought my solution inelegant, and tried to tidy it up. This screwed everything. So I backtracked to the moment of genius. Scrappy as hell, but inspired.

   So. Electronic self-publishers on Amazon and other places. Return to your work. Earlier in this blog I’d stated that I spent around two months formatting my first e-book. The basics came to me quite quickly. But I knew quirks must exist inside the system. So I invested several weeks in attacking the problem from all sides. And from a few places that weren’t even sides.

   Two months to format a book. Not long after that, I’d format in a day. After I solved my recent formatting glitch, I had to reformat all the books I’d published. Yes, I returned to my work. Publish, and publish again. That doesn’t just mean keep writing stories.

   It means revisit the material you’ve already published. I had to format each book from stem to stern, to account for my moment of genius. Time-consuming. I had the bulk of the work done in a little over two hours. Then I spent the rest of the night checking the work I’d fixed.

   From two months for the first book to a night’s work for all six publications. That’s what learning and experimenting will get you. Invest time. Never consider it time ill-spent.

*

Looking back at an earlier post on this blog, I remembered a gem.

One of my DVD drives refuses to open on the first use of the ejector. A second stab at the button does the trick.

   That was an indicator. What did I learn? Well, when the defective DVD drive blew the circuitry on my computer, I didn’t pick up any information at all. When I transferred that evil kidney of a device from the old computer to the new computer and more circuits fried…

   There was nothing much to learn.

   I had intended to write an entire blog on the matter of shamelessness connected to narcissism of a literary nature. But I’d said all I wanted to say in my spoof at the start. As this cycle of the blog winds down, I thought I’d go back and join a few dots for regular readers.

   Evil kidney.

   Glitches and gremlins popped up as I tried to republish my Kindle tomes. Four went through on a rather impersonal personal computer. Not for the last time, I had to go in and publish via my creaky old phone. At least it worked.

   People read books on their phones. And people are writing them on phones, too, so I hear. So it isn’t strange at all to be publishing books by phone. It’s becoming normal. Hardly worth mentioning.

   If you struggle with formatting a book for Kindle, keep struggling until you exhaust every avenue. At that point, you may experience a delayed-action moment of genius. Revisit your work now and again. Just to make sure.

   What was wrong with my formatting for Kindle? A trip to a chapter via the table of contents threw off the chapter title’s centred text. The title slotted left. Moving back or forward one page and returning to the chapter heading slotted the title in the centre again.

   It was quirky. Minor. Annoying. I wanted the problem gone. Last year, I’d seen the work of another author spout reams of code when moving back through pages of a Kindle book. So there are far worse glitches out there than the stuff I had to deal with. Though deal with it I did.

   A light clicked on overhead. Yes, an energy-saving bulb that took a while to reach full glow.

NEXT BLOG: ON THE RUN.

REVISITING AN AUTHOR’S LIBRARY.

A bajillion years ago, I decided to crack down on unread books bought in bulk during sales. Change of regime. I’d challenge myself to chew through a few unread volumes on a shelf and declare that shelf cleared.

   How fared my simple plan?

   The simple plan went a-gley. Instead of devouring two unread books on a shelf crammed with a further 22 read volumes, I read what I pleased. No shelf was cleared in the making of this blog post. Instead, I enjoyed reading book upon book with no great sense to the order.

   I squeezed some juice out of bookends, and reorganised my shelves for the bajillionth time. Somehow, I swept an entire shelf of tomes into seeming nothingness. Breathing was done, and space grew. I conjured more room for even more books.

   And I have fewer unread works on my shelves.

   The trick is to refrain from purchasing books. Make those gains LAST. Absorb information from pages. Let that data inform my work. The author’s library is no burden. It is a wonderful thing.

   Admittedly, the classic-heavy hardback portion of my library could be packed away into the Kindle with no difficulty. That’s why the collection is no burden – electronically. Physically, I dread to think what the hard stack weighs. The heaviest book in the library checks in at…

   Almost eighteen pounds. Undisputed heavyweight champeen. I try to imagine the number of Kindle units stacking up to that same weight, and the mass of books stored on so many machines. Wisely, I stop imagining after lifting my Kindle and hefting the non-weight of it.

   For a week, I think, I had no books on the floor. That handy storage area has since been reinstated. Tales stack up, as though they are aircraft waiting to land. Land they do. Then they taxi to the final destination. Done. Occasionally dusted.

   The comfortable chair (behind this strict writerly chair) has three books on it. There are seven titles on a piece of furniture to my left. Six books lie on the floor. My seldom-used printer plays host to a single volume. That’s a book I’d read. Sitting there for reference. A work on ghosts.

   Surely I need no research material for a ghost story? I just make it all up. Don’t I? Depends on the type of ghost story I’m writing. A comedy. Oh. Even less reason to reach for research tools? Far from it.

   When I installed two computers, my office became the old office. Here, in my hardback library, my new office came into existence. The old office is just my paperback library now. Through there, a check shows one book on the floor. Seven volumes on one desk, and five on the other. These works are read and unread, living in harmony.

   The paperback library has far more read books in it. Why? Hardbacks were bought in bulk, during sales. That’s the simple, crushing, reason. So there you have a snapshot of my library, slightly updated.

   Snapshot?

   Updated?

   You may take it that this is always the state of things for any writer, no matter the update. I’ll have stacks on the floor, and on chairs. Stories to absorb. Some novels to read again. A few works to flip through for research.

   There’ll be tales of dark and stormy nights read on dark and stormy nights. Stories of high adventure, and hardy adventurers, read in conditions of comfort. Mysteries to be solved, as well as unsolved items reserved for pondering over. History. Biography. The odd bit of poetry.

   Stories ostensibly for children. Reading Victorian and Edwardian fiction for children informs the author of the state of things as was. I may yet write my way down those dusty avenues, with an eye on adding something new. The author’s library is read for enjoyment. And for more than that.

   To write, read.

   If I am unkind to my own writing style, declaring it nineteenth century with a few tawdry postmodern tricks thrown in, that in no way denigrates the works of dead authors on my shelves. To write, be self-critical beyond the point of pain.

   I should say something of maintenance. Occasionally, I check the shelves to see if they’ll hold up to the titanic weight of books stacked upon them. One shelf gives more cause for concern than any other. The high shelf with its worldly weight of tall books arrayed against me, should there be a…

   BOOKALANCHE.

   Yes. Let’s uncoin that phrase almost immediately. Why the concern? That shelf isn’t the highest shelf. It is the one that hovers over my new office arrangements. The higher shelf, at the back of the room, with books as heavy as the books at the front…

   THAT shelf should cause as much worry. If not more.

   Nonsense. It doesn’t really matter how high those shelves are, or how heavy the books upon the shelves happen to be. No. It’s the combustibility I should fret over.

   I’ve just noticed five works lying on a shelf. They are on their own plank, but were removed from the upright position. More books stacked in the queue, waiting to be devoured. When was the last time I bought a book?

   It came into the house in January and was read in January.

   See. The job can be done. Depends on the book. I suspect that there are two hardbacks on my shelves that I’ll never get around to. For I attempted to tackle both, and had to stop for a break that almost turned into eternal rest.

   It’s rare that I’ll abandon a book – I expect I’ll finish them this century.

   The shelves all seem fine. Random as they are. All shelves are stacked by convenience. Only a single shelf has a loose-fitting collection of tomes. The other shelves are snug with books. Rarely, I see a need to shuffle works around.

   That comes to pass when an awkward volume enters the library. If I remove those two, I can add that one to this shelf. The height is a problem. Now I’ll have to shuffle the other two around, and see what I can do about several of these items grouped by a very general theme…

   And so it goes.

   Public libraries are alphabetised and categorised for public convenience. Private libraries follow private rules governed by the laws of space-time. Height is a factor. Breadth proves of import. Occasionally category rears its head – though seldom.

   The day before I sat to write this blog post, I noticed a book shelved upside-down. A set of riotous, if unreliable, memoirs by Clive James. His Australian nature has no bearing on the upside-down-ness of his book, though some will sneer at so easy a target’s not being hit.

   Setting the book to rights, I had a quick go at the author’s introduction and burst out laughing as I impersonated that wonderful wandering waver in his accent. His words, unsurprisingly, go well with it.

   I’ve now checked the stacks, and I just spotted another upside-downer.

   How can you tell? Of the hundreds of hardbacks on my shelves, 40% of them have upright titles – the words are read with the books stacked spine-up. So it’s very easy to see if a book is upside-down going by spine alone.

   Almost 60% of the books carry titles readable by turning your head on its side – to the right. One book flouts the convention, and a left-hand turn is called for. In truth, no head-twisting is required. We have the capacity to absorb the information at a glance. Clue’s in the title.

   Ow. No more shady wordplay today.

   Why does that one tome carry its author and title from spine-bottom to spine-top? I cannot say. The rest run in the other direction – for ease of use in reading the title if the book lies stacked flat in a face-up pile, rather than upright on a shelf-plank.

   I stack books in a series from right to left. The Jungle Book sits to the right of The Second Jungle Book. If I were to remove the series and lay the books flat, then I’d read them in order from top to bottom. Convenience is handy that way.

   Now I’m staring at spines, wondering why some books carry the author’s name first while others start with the title itself. There are a few examples of the title missing an author. They are world-famous, and need no writerly introduction. The Scarlet Pimpernel and The Scarlet Letter sit side by side, simply for having scarlet in the title. It’s a private library, and the books are stacked as I please – size-permitting.

   Those authorless red-themed books are almost identical in size. Not quite authorless. I found a clipping on Nat Hawthorne sandwiched between the scarlet volumes. Clarification? Neither book is red. Both tomes have been read.

   I hate to puncture an image. There are no cobwebs. Shocking, I know. The shelves, though they should be of deep dark wood, are light and airy. To burst the bubble, there’s half a shelf free. Though I’m quick to point out that the shelf in question is already a half-shelf. A corner plank. I may just be able to store this next year’s gathering of hardbacks there.

   (Nonsense. No more books.)

NEXT BLOG: SELF-PUBLISH AND SELF-PUBLISH AGAIN.