200 BLOG POSTS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Yes, I noticed I'd (more or less) done 200 blog posts.
   Is this true? No. I have posted more than 200 times. On a few occasions I posted a blog ahead of time by mistake, removed it, and installed the creature later.
   Phantom blogging aside, I've given writing advice, published fiction samples, used the word fuck, promoted other writers, and waffled enough nonsense to open my own nonsense stand. Or waffle stand.
   I'm going to thank people.

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K. Woodward told me to blog. The other week, she came and asked me to look over a story of hers. So I am still repaying that favour she did me.
   These are the usual suspects.
   Many a post revolved around Kacey Vanderkarr. I shouted at encouraged her to go and publish books. She's doing that, still. Hell, she'll be teaching a writing-course soon. (Secretly proud. Didn't hear that from me.)
   For reasons of the plot, Missy Biozarre's obituary remains one of the best blog posts I wrote for authors - for I was trying to reach writers who are scared to set words down.
   Commemorating Missy's demise was secondary to that mission. She's still out there, Cheshire Catting her way through the dark, with that befanged smile.
   There are those who offer humorous support to the beleaguered writer, and all of my friends are of that stripe: quick with a quip and a hefty dose of mockery that is a common trait in those who befriend me.
   These names may mean nothing, or little, to those reading this scribble. So I'll turn all abstract and speak of the writing game and those who aid the wordsmithery on display.

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One day, this blog will close. I made that decision before I wrote a post. And I fought the urge to close the blog almost every single time I posted something.
   It was easier to battle that notion, this time out. Anniversary, and all.
   I support writers. Maybe I don't care for your style, but you get my vote. I don't have to like a writer's scribbling at all. Hell, I don't have to like the writer behind said scribbling.
   But if you do as I have done, you are supported. I filled blank pages. If you do that, you do well. And you are welcome at my door.
   Your opinions may be obnoxious, your fetish for the word whom untenable, your politics unconscionable, your trews laughable, and your plot-twists unphotographable...
   Yes. Those who aid the wordsmithery on display are writers. For there are no rivals here. There. I said it yet again. And I'll go on saying that, until the end.

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Has much changed, since I started the blog? Well, I still occasionally crack a knee off my main desk. The secondary desk was dismantled to make room for some room. That's a technical thing.
   When I started the blog, I was a would-be Kindle author without a Kindle. Within weeks, I had a Kindle. And then, sticking to my deadline, I was a Kindle author.
   Kacey Vanderkarr thought it amusing that, to celebrate publication, I had a rather fancy chocolate éclair. No cheese and whine partying. A dip in the sea, rather than a launch.

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Interruption. A heating engineer is seeing to the pipes. Does that signify anything? Yes. I officially opened my blog on Hallowe'en. It was a dark and stormy night...
   And, not having the internet at home (except on my phone), I went into town and blogged via the public library.
   So, news of the heating engineer signals a shift on the tech front. It's easier to publish blogs with the internet steaming through valves at home.
   And it is easier to publish e-books that way, of course. I have published from my phone. But I wouldn't recommend that. Go and use your own.
   Tired humour is the best.

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Well, another interruption. I don't know if the water heater is fixed, but I managed to clear up a moment of ambiguity concerning the career of one William Shatner. An episode of the Twilight Zone.
   The heating engineer is now satisfied.

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I am happy to report on the hotness of the water.

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No, this was never going to be the epic blog post demanded of a 200th edition. I had to keep the heating engineer entertained. An ice cream van went past, and he rather excitedly gave the impression that he was off for some ice cream.
   A convenient call from a colleague carried the engineer back to his own van for a consultation on spare parts. I suspect that casual diversion allowed for the purchasing of confections.

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Fractured blog posts are okay. I've now survived a massive thunderstorm. How? I stayed indoors, obviously. Torrential rain invaded when the storm broke. I survived that too, simply by being in a bed that was above the level of puddles.
   This blog post was brought to you via veiled allusions to Chet Baker, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, and veiled allusions to veiled allusions.
   I must away, for something in the oven has an appointment in space-time with BURNING. This is an appointment I feel that I must interrupt.

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On the matter of ice cream: CHECK THIS OUT.

SUICIDE PREVENTION: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

If you have suicidal thoughts, type SUICIDE PREVENTION into your search engine and follow every link. Every link.

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Okay. I'm going to talk about banning someone from suicide. Yes. I did that the other day, a week ago. Blogging ahead by a week, time's funny that way.
   I banned someone from suicide. The YouTube mental health activist Melissa C. Water. She's been having a rough time of it lately with Tourette's.
   Basically, she traded in her old Tourette's for a new Menthol-flavoured Tourette's - with that added kick. What did she gain from this, besides more stress, extra pain, and a Secret Agent Decoder Wristband?

Images (c) Melissa C. Water 2014, used by kind persimmons.

   That Spy Decoder also doubles as an alarm. If Melissa suffers a Tourette's-based tic attack, she hits the button and summons aid. The main danger is suffering a head-injury or spinal damage from a fall, and being left unattended.
   Tic as a descriptor simply doesn't cover the experience. Try crossing an epileptic attack with a failure of gravity and reason. You are getting close.
   By kind persimmons. Haven't used that mangled phrase in a long time.
   Here's the specific link for Melissa's video on Tourette's: SECRET AGENT DECODER WRISTBAND. In the video, she mentioned her overall sense of worthlessness and recent suicidal feelings.
   That was enough for me. I contacted her. Sure, I made it plain that she was obviously an inspiration to a whole load of people out there in YouTube land. But anyone could say that sort of thing. So I arranged the other item.
   I banned her from suicide. It's a lifetime ban, in the sense that it is a lifelong one. Into, you know, wrinkly age. She'll die one day. But not today. So while she is here on the planet, she should be here on the planet.
   Did you read that first blog on suicide? I took that text to Melissa and asked for help with the finer points. And she excelled. I decided I would repay the favour somehow.
   How?

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She is an author. I saw she had a memoir sitting there. My curiosity turned to anger. HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT. I'll wait for you.

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Anger in publishing serves but one purpose: the generation of good deeds. That's if you can change the thing that makes you angry. If you can't change the thing, let it go. Find another way to deal with the problem.
   I am doing more than working up a blog post to repay Melissa for the assistance she gave on my earlier SUICIDE chat. Though this isn't certain yet, it's likely that once Melissa is out of her old publishing contract...
   She'll be free to publish on Amazon. For that, she'll need an editor. And that would be me. She can't afford an editor. Being miserly, grumpy, evil, curmudgeonly, and a bit of a misanthropic snarler...
   I'll charge Melissa $0.00 Canadian for the task.
   In recent times, accusations were hurled at me. I was reported as nice, a do-gooder, a good guy, charming, awesome, brilliant,  kind, thoughtful...
   (Also, I totally and utterly rocked. Pardon my disbelief.)
   This is an outrageous state of affairs. I have a complete lack of a reputation to live down to. These vile slurs of niceness cannot go unchallenged.
   I may be forced to dust down my Darth Sinister robes, and deep-fry some Ewoks while I am about it.

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DARTH SINISTER: The Dark Side of Publishing is a pathway to many abilities, some considered to be unnatural.

DARTH VANDERKARR: Formatting. Tell me about it.

DARTH SINISTER: How goes your plan to spread propaganda that I am not, in fact, evil?

DARTH VANDERKARR: Those fools have taken the bait, and soon many will fall into the clutches of my Empire.

DARTH SINISTER: What's that?

DARTH VANDERKARR: Our Empire.

DARTH SINISTER: Didn't quite catch your drift...

DARTH VANDERKARR: Your Empire. I'll inherit that, though. Through backstabbing.

DARTH SINISTER: Leave me. I must contemplate plans for my new Kryptonite-powered DEATH STAR. Having trouble with a component for the main laser beam. This...precious...gold ring.

DARTH VANDERKARR: Ooh, can I see that?

DARTH SINISTER: No.

DARTH VANDERKARR: Why not? Looks shiny. Stylish. Ringy. Kind of thing a Dark Lord Princess would have. Gimme.

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Anyway. I banned Melissa from suicide. For who would talk to me about her book, her intentions, her meanings, if she weren't there to collaborate on the editing process?

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Writing is meant to be about whatever it is meant to be about. This blog post is about preparing for things you might not be prepared to prepare for.
   How are you going to handle shit, if someone suddenly announces suicidal thoughts? I've had a few suicidal-themed comments from people, across the internet, and I've dealt with those in different ways.
   So how did I help Melissa? Surely banning her from suicide wasn't good enough...
   No. I prepared a plan of action for her, should...
   ...she escape her publishing contract.
   ...we begin work on editing her book.
   ...I contact her through Skype to arrange spontaneous chatter about themes, structure, and major editing decisions.
   And...
   ...should she then collapse with an attack while talking on the phone.
   You thought writing was about telling stories? Well, it is. But there's so much more going on. Authors are supplied with special wristbands. How else are we meant to decode these secret agents?
   I made the effort to prepare for things I might not be prepared to prepare for. Editing, across Skype. The sound of a body clattering to the floor...
   Then not much sound. Time passes. No doors opening, no shoes clumping in, no one to assist in shielding Melissa's head...
   So I'd be the only person in the world aware of the situation. She can't reach the big red button to summon help.
   I made a plan.
   Yes, I am a do-gooder. Not the only one. How many puppies must be slaughtered before I convince you all that I am evil? (No puppies, real or imagined, were slaughtered in the writing of this scene.)

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Change what you can. Prepare for the pumpkin. And the unexpected. Prepare for the expected pumpkin, as preparing for the unexpected pumpkin is a half-measure at best.

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So this is my update on the topic of SUICIDE. The woman who helped me with the original blog post? I banned her from suicide. Just like that.

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YouTube link: idranktheseawater.
   Link to MELISSA'S HAT VIDEO: HAT'S ALL, FOLKS.

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And, supposing you missed this…

If you have suicidal thoughts, type SUICIDE PREVENTION into your search engine and follow every link. Every link.

KINDLE BOOKS ARE REAL: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Comments reach across the reality of cyberspace. People read real books and e-books.
   By the time this post reaches readers who are embryonic or unthought-of as I type, that statement is bound to have less meaning than it has now.
   As I type, the phrase has little meaning.
   What's unreal about an e-book? Was it not written by a real author? If you chainsaw us, do we not bleed? E-books are as real as the pain I feel in my stomach.
   I say that, knowing what's coming next for supper. And I dread the collision of food with gut. Couldn't I eat something else? Something mild? I'm in deep, digestively, as things stand.
   Damn.

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There are some points in publishing that make my head fucking spin.
   If a man does it, why this writing business is of great import. Yet if a woman does it, why, 'tis no more than a hobby.
   Fuck off. Just fuck off if you think that. Fuck the fuck off back to wherever you fucked off from in the first place, so the people who told you to fuck off the first time can tell you to fuck off all over again - and rightly fucking so.
   E-books aren't books.
   Fuck off. Just fuck off if you think that. Fuck the fuck off back to wherever you fucked off from in the first place, so the people who told you to fuck off the first time can tell you to fuck off all over again - and rightly fucking so.
   I could go on. So I will. Since time out of mind, paper has given legitimacy to the written word. Times and minds change. E-readers have been around for a long time. No, longer than that.
   They didn't take off immediately.
   The advent of the Kindle, with its massive internet support base in place, changed the landscape. But still, in this first decade of Kindling, audiences are reluctant to think legitimate thoughts of e-books, and, by extension, e-publishers.
   Paper book technology is great. It's no longer the only game in town. If you are desperate, you can use a book as toilet-roll. That's a mite trickier with a Kindle.
   There is a myth that paper publishers are the worthy curators of books. They look after books in ways that indie self-publishers never could. To go along with that is to go along with the view that there is a war between paper and e-print.
   Nonsense. Paper publishers are not the curators of books. Readers are. And paper publishers somehow manage to e-publish too. There are some points in publishing that make my head fucking spin...
   Shenanigans engaged in by large paper publishers would see indie e-publishers crucified for indulging in same. No, I won't give examples. I'm thinking of awarding myself another million advance for writing an e-book.
   HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT.

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I was waiting for you. Just in case you tapped the link and found a further link inside that blog post leading deeper into a hole marked RABBIT.
   There's no war of paper versus e-print, so I decided not to catalogue a nasty list of vices of which I do not partake. Besides, such a long list would lie outwith the scope and design-limitations of this blog.

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Writing this post a week ahead of the game, I hope my queasy stomach will have settled by the time these words see daylight. This is another fractured blog post.
   I write for the Kindle. There. A declared interest. Of course e-books are real. Do I really have to say that? Given the comments I encounter on the internet...
   Yes.

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Sometimes, you type with a stomach that's dead-set against your interests as a scribbler. I threw a spicy supper at the problem, and negated the damage somehow.
   Kindle books are real. I didn't walk a long road to tell you that. But I did walk one to write them.

ADVICE FOR WRITERS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

The important point about this blog's title is as follows: I give and receive writing advice.
   You can, too.
   What sort of advice is there, for writers? Good, bad, and indifferent. Only you will know what works for you - so the advice you receive may be no good. And the advice you give might just fall into that category as well.
   Let's have some thoughts...

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Start by thinking of yourself as a writer.
   You should be past that point. If you aren't, start there. Where, exactly? If you are published, you are a writer. Accept it. And if you are unpublished, you are still a writer if you are nailing words to the page.
   I must go a little further into Wonderland at this stage. If you are a writer who isn't writing anything down, but you plan to create stories, then you are a writer.
   Even if you don't type or scribble, you just...merely think...even then?
   Yes. Even so. I'm a writer. Check that blog carousel. Those are my stories. In the misty Jurassic, I sat and thought up tales. But I didn't write them down.
   Keeping ideas in my head was a way of fixing the story there. I'd do all the changes and improvements in my mind. Well, where else was I going to operate? From someone else's mind?
   My Mind Transfer Device trademark is due any day.
   Why was I like this? Typewriter. I wouldn't go to the typewriter unless I had to. You can't chop and change on the printed page as easily as you can in the digital realm of cut and paste.
   Jurassically, all I had was the typewriter.
   So without writing stories, I was engaged in all the standard storytelling activities - minus the pesky writing. I'd read. And research. Concoct plots. Invent characters. Establish twists in tales. Pacing. Description. Lack of description.
   All that stuff and more. It was all good. But it was all in my head. Was I a writer? Of course. Published? Not then, no. Still a writer, though. Published now? Hit the Amazon Kindle store. I'm there.

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So. If you are unpublished, you are still a writer - even if you are the only person in the world who can sit and read your story. More. Even if you can't look at a page. Yes. Even if it is all in your head.
   Advice for writers. Start by thinking you are a writer. That applies most especially if you are already published.

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Writing is not the end result - that is reading. So start there. Read. And if you want to write in a particular area, check out that area. Familiarise yourself with the terrain. And abandon it.
   Read outwith your chosen area. I'm on record here with this, so it is worth repeating...
   Endlessly.
   I was going to write sci-fi and fantasy tales. Of those, I drank. The taste was fine. But I had to swig of other concoctions. Without any advice from anyone, I made a decision.
   If I am to write sci-fi and fantasy tales, I must read crime fiction. And non-fiction. Biography. Art. Science. All these things and more.
   I don't often have these awesome moments of super-enlightenment. Wait. No. Actually. That was my one moment. A few other things came close, but. No. That was it.
   Since then, I've discovered that a lot of writers will tell you this. Read outside your chosen area. The idea came to me early, and on the wings of a mighty wind.
   Maybe some writerly instinct kicks in and tells scribblers this. Well, if you've never felt this way, if no one mentioned it, there's advice for you.
   It's important. I had a real light-bulb moment, so that you don't have to struggle with it.

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Make mistakes, because, hey, you are going to. I won't regale you with my catalogue of sins. Oh, if you insist...
   So far I only risked opening myself up to the torture of litigation once. (Once being enough.) The error was mine. It lay in the way I archived files.
   The wrong file was sent out. Decisions were based on thinking the right file went away. Later, I had my error pointed out to me. In a kindly way. No lawyers required.
   First, I made amends. I did that so well, I was treated heroically. Shouldn't have been. Just happened that way. A little weird, I'll admit. I instituted a change to my archive, so the mistake was designed out of the system.
   My advice on mistakes, therefore, is...
   Make non-fatal mistakes and learn from them. Always preferable to the alternative.

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Typos? Nail them. Mistakes...in business, in plotting, in a spot of DIY on a shaky ladder as you fix up the house between chapters...
   See the mistake or have it pointed out to you. Assess the problem. Fix what you can. Learn what you can.
   Don't eat the yellow snow twice. I wouldn't eat it the first time, either.

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Just be yourself. And if you are a really shitty person, be a better person.

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We write the stories we are meant to write. Even if we hate them as we write them down. Especially if we hate them after we are done. The writing mood doesn't matter.
   I can be in a foul mood and turn in a great scene that's full of sunny and light. And I might enjoy writing a cracking sequence that, on further examination, falls flatter than the prize-winning entry in a pancake competition.
   So understand this. Reach a point in writing your story. Done. Let it go. You wrote it that way for a reason. Cut loose of it. Moods change. The story is the story.
   If you aren't happy with it, write another one. And another one. Keep going.
   Write your story. Edit your story. Publish your story.
   That's better advice than this: dither, chop and change, muck around endlessly, shit up the walls.

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I speak to all kinds of writers. We share thoughts, exchange views, and laugh at the insanity of it all. Advice comes to me with goodwill, and it leaves my office with a hope of being useful.
   Sometimes you go looking for assistance. At other times, you have to step away from help and take a breather. Occasionally, someone rushes in asking for advice.
   Help is good, or it wouldn't be helpful. Know when to give it, when to accept it, and also remember to take that breather.
   At the end of all this advice-giving and advice-receiving, you sit alone in front of a keyboard and do your own thing. There's room for you at the typeface.

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Worth repeating. I don't have a single rival in the writing game. We're all in this together, alone at the keyboard. It is saddening to hear that some writers look on others with an unholy shade of green filtering into the gaze.
   Did you make a sale? I don't have time in my schedule for envy. And I didn't lose a sale because you made one. That's absurd.
   You might find yourself wanting what other writers have. That's okay. But don't hate.
   Oh, you can moan about a writer's style or lack thereof. But don't go on a quest to turn jealousy into your big thing. There's a bigger thing worth spending time on. Writing. And coffee.

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Yes, this blog advice is non-advice. It's for the beginner. And for the veteran who lost the plot, maybe.

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Make copies of your work. Eventually, even with stories in your head, you must write those stories down. The safest form of back-up is still publication.
   Publish.

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Put the time in. Spend the hours. Productively or unproductively, walk the walk. There is drudgery in writing: accept it. You are not following this path to become famous. This is about writing. Telling stories.
   I must divert into mention of writing non-fiction. Different area of work. But there is still drudgery, you'll have writer colleagues, back-up files are vital, envy is counterproductive, be yourself...
   That stuff applies to non-fiction, just the same. Maybe you'll need more coffee.

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Read copyright law. There's solid advice for you.

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Were you looking for advice on how to start a tale? Never open a story with a vomiting wombat. It's been done to death. Eighteen mid-Victorian novels begin in this fashion. Only three are what I'd call readable.

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Have a sense of humour. It need not be conventional, or understandable. If your friends mock you while you mock yourself, all is well with the world. You'll get by. (Maybe that situation only applies to me.)

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Coffee.

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Learn. Always learn. Unfortunately, I always seem to learn the hard way. Maybe putting triple the effort in gives me bonus points at the end. I'd like to fucking think so, though those points are never there when I cross the bloody finish.
   Try stuff. Fail at it. Throw yourself at the wall again. If you can't climb it, tunnel under it, or stagger around it, knock it flat.

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Keep going. Help out where you can. Don't help out where you can't. And don't be a writer who murders hope. Healthy cynicism is useful. Getting it wrong is okay. Venting steam in a blog is handy. We all have different tastes. I don't take sugar in coffee.
   True defeatism, shock-horror, will defeat you. It's okay to blog about the ups and downs of writing. You might feel all you can talk about is the negativity when scribbling.
   Okay, shrug the weight off your shoulders that way if you must. Don't be a writer who murders hope. For then, you won't be a writer.
   Keep going.

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Some of you may have struggled with the concept that coffee constitutes writing advice. You'll come to that, in your own time.

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Read copyright law. Nationally and internationally.

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I fucking meant what I said about the wombat. Now get out of here. I have marsupial vomit to scrub.