Netflix continues to make better shows than anything on the networks or cable. They’re killing it with the Marvel series, the Voltron reboot was excellent, and Stranger Things is just straight up amazing. They continue this winning streak with Baz Lurhmann’s new project, The Get Down.
Pardon my absence. I recently started writing the third novel in the Watchmage Chronicles, not to mention my daily excursions hunting the elusive pokemon (my calves are killing me). Every time I want to blog, I end up working on the novel.
So where’s the second book? I decided that I acted in a rash manner when I eschewed an agent and self-published. I was angry at the way my publisher was treating my first novel, and the “agents” that came forward to represent me were obvious scams. Not to mention the pervasive fear that keeps coming back: I will die before I finish my stories. I know that has to do with Valerie’s death, but it’s a part of me now. You never know when the end is coming, so spend every day as if it’s your last. If it’s my last, I’ll keep writing.
Not that I regret self-publishing–I like the personal control–but I live too close to the buck, and I don’t write fast enough to make a solid living with it. A novel a year is about all that I can manage.
Instead of releasing the next book right away, I am querying agents, hoping that they will overlook the fact that it’s already out there. I dug myself into a hole, but I want to climb out.
Even if no one bites on Watchmage, I have ideas for new stories. Worst case scenario is that I keep Watchmage self published and go for an agent with that one.
Anyway, I’ll try to blog here more often. I have an idea for a new article on writing, that I think will go over well.
Have a super awesome happy fun time day.
Craig
As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve become mildly obsessed with Pokemon Go. It’s my new Geocaching. I’m walking for at least two hours every day now, and usually covering 5K. The thing is, I feel like it’s time that I can spend doing something more worthwhile to the community. I think that I’ve found it.
Like the rest of the universe, I’m obsessed with Pokemon Go. This should not be a surprise to anyone that knows me. What not everyone knows is that I am (or used to be) a geocacher. Most of you don’t know what geocaching is, and that’s okay. But there might not be Pokemon Go without it.
Since Thursday, I’ve been playing Pokemon Go to the point where very little writing is getting done. It’s a ridiculous amount of fun, and great exercise. But more than that, it’s bringing people together.
Everytime I go out hunting, I see tons of other people doing the same, people that I’d never interact with in my life. Now we’re chatting, giving each other advice, and just chatting. Again, PEOPLE I’D NEVER INTERACT WITH. I suddenly know the people in my neighborhood and in the parks I go to. It’s amazing. Pokemon Go is bringing people together. No arguments about religion or politics. If anything, a little mild trash talk about taking over gyms.
I think that Pokemon Go might be the secret to harmony and good will. All ages, all races, all religions: we all play.
It makes me happy.
Don’t forget to pick up my 2nd novel, The Watchmage of Old New York. If you like history, fantasy, mystery, or weirdness, it’s the book for you. No pokemon in it, but lots of magic and faerie races.
I went for an echocardiogram yesterday for my heart issues. They also hooked me up with an 24 hour take home ekg machine. I hate this thing, the wires keep snagging, and I can’t shower 😦
But there’s a bright side. I looked in the mirror this morning and saw all the wires and electrodes attached to me. The first thing I thought was “this looks awful.” The second thing:
This look would make a great story character.
Boom.
BTW: In honor of summer and summertime reading, I have lowered the price of The Watchmage of Old New York to 99 cents. This is only until July first, so hop on the watchtrain (there is no actual watchtrain, but it’s still a purdy damn book. Awards and shit.
Happy Friday. Get your wiggle on.
I’ve decided that it’s time to look for an agent again.
When I first looked for one back in 2012 (for Song of Simon) I got a few bites and requests for more. Mostly what I got was disappointment. Of course, SoS eventually got picked up by a publisher, so I thought that I didn’t need an agent anyway.
I was wrong. After immersion into the publishing industry, I realized that I had no idea what I’m doing. I rewrote and self published The Watchmage of Old New York after its long, popular stint at JukepopSerials. I’m proud of it. It’s a great story, and I plan on spending many years writing sequels (The second is in beta mode, and I’m plotting the 3rd right now).
The thing is: I can’t make a career out of self publishing. I’m not so prolific that I can write a book every three months (my planning, writing, and editing routine is purposefully long and arduous. A good book takes time). If I want to make this a real career, I need someone that knows what they’re doing, someone that knows the business. I was arrogant to believe that I can do this alone.
I have confidence that I can attract an agent for Watchmage, but I know that everyone says that. More to the point, I have confidence that this is what I need.
The downside is that I will probably have to take Watchmage off of the market if I get an agent, but it’s worth it in the long run.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a health post. Although I’m still worried about the heart issues, I don’t think i’m gonna croak any time soon.
Ever since college, I’ve been keeping a journal. That’s pretty common, a lot of people do. Not many people keep it in the bathroom.
Yes, I have a bathroom journal. No, I do not log my shit in there. I just find that the bathroom is a good place to write. I was originally inspired by my friends in college, who kept one. It was a communal book, and they all wrote in it. Sometimes they had conversations through it, other times just random entries about their lives. I did the same with my roommates, and anyone that graced the porcelain god in my apartment was encouraged to do the same. What i ended up with was a record of mine and my friends lives from college on.
We finished the first book my last year in college (it’s in my bookcase), and I started a second, thicker book. Since I lived alone for most of my adult life, it was mostly me that wrote in it. These days it can be weeks or months between entries. But i love it. Sometimes I’ll look back and see snapshots of my life, remembering all that happened, and where I came from.
And so we come to the end.
I am on my last pages of the journal. By the end of the month, it will be filled. Of course I’ll start another one, but I’ve been using this one for 15 years. 15 years of my life, my loves, my failures, the roller coaster of my crazy life, now archived in my bookcase. Maybe some day I’ll take it out to read again, but I don’t do that with the first book. Maybe when I die, someone will find the books and think “why is this guy writing while he shits?” I’ll have no answer (cause I’ll be dead).
The journal is dead. Long live the journal.
Because of my recent medical troubles, I’ve been stuck at home. It’s killing me. Usually I love to be at home. I do my writing and editing here. It’s comfortable. My easy chair fits my ass perfectly. I have all the coffee I could want. Yet, it’s still killing me.
Normally I go out in the morning, either to the gym or too the park. I also walk dogs and do some obedience training at the local shelter, or just pick up trash along the road (I have a grabber, I don’t use my hands). But I can’t do that until I find out what is wrong with my heart. The doctor doesn’t want me doing anything strenuous, especially in the heat. Did I mention that something is killing me.
My heart has been acting all wonky. It starts out fine, but by early afternoon, my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it in my fingertips. My blood pressure shoots up (usually 140/90, with a rapid pulse). I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like having a panic attack without the panic.
I have a fear of death. I think most people do. My fear comes from worrying that I will die before I finish all of my stories, though I know that I inevitably will. With every story I write, a new one brews in my head. A day will come where I die without that story finished. It’s terrifying. Like all writers, I am an egomaniac. I feel that I have something important to say, even though I realize that my words are no more important than anyone else’s. Yet I keep typing away, and that fear of death before completion haunts me.
I like to think that my heart, my metaphorical heart, is good. But the real one isn’t. I was morbidly obese for many years. I’m on a ton of medicines, and more medicines to fight those side effects, leading to more side effects, etc. And I am not happy. I am not calm. I am nothing more than a morbid bit of flesh, and when I die, I will leave behind a few stories, a grave stone, and a pine box.
Being homebound isn’t just killing me, it’s making me think about death against my will. I want to be outside. I want to help at the shelter. I want to pick up trash. I want to do my service to the community, to repay all that they do for me. It seems that the universe has other plans.
There’s a Yiddish proverb: Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht. Man plans and God laughs. Maybe a better quote is from Robert Burns. The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, / Gang aft agley. That’s exactly how I feel. I am the man. I am the house. A house mouse.
I saw this on Facebook today and had to share it. There are a lot of people in pain that don’t get treatment because of the stigma. A very good friend that I love very much is one of them.
casandersdotnet 