Yes, you heard right. Gods of Anthem is free today! ONLY today 😀
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********CLICK HERE TO GET IT!********
At first I was like, I don’t—I really don’t love Indie!
*yanks off Indie badge*
Hold the phone and listen. I’m saying not especially more than the other. For me. Each book has a journey.
The reasons I don’t fully bunnies and rainbows love it are many and easy to detect by the bags under my eyes. So much self-promotion and so much work. I’m not saying other traditional authors don’t work but this is my less-than-green grass side to complain about so there you have it.
However, for this post I’ve decided to count my blessings and water my Indie grass so to speak!
#1 The Visual Arts
Oh yes. This is spot NUMBER ONE! My covers are hugely-hugely-HUGELY important to me and (cough cough) (plug The Book-Design Guy) has made it incredibly enjoyable.
Let me break it down just a tad:
We do a color scheme that mentally meshes with my “world.”
We pull our hair out a bit at ideas that won’t work.
Usually ending up with a terrible and cluttered mock up (because of me).
He forces me to decide what is MOST important to convey while I basically cry a lot and eat cookies and hand it over to the expert like I should have all along.
And then I get to watch this baby be born.
*(And just an FYI Gods of Anthem has a cover I love so much I want to sleep with it at night. THIS is the type of inspiration that keeps me going. It’s gas in the tank.)
(cough cough) Join the party to see it released on January 3rd (PARTY HERE)
#2 The Blurbage
Oh yes. This is spot NUMBER TWO! My blurbs. They are the lifeblood of my story and I want them so unbelievable people ask me, “This is for YOUR BOOK? YOURS?????” They can’t believe it.
Logan’s blurb is…majestic…
I’ve seen my poor traditional’s stuck with some weirdly patched together blurbs. (shudder) I stay awake at night with a knife under my pillow just imagining this scenario.
I worked on my current blurb for about…a year. So yeah. It’s mine and I don’t want any suit touching it. (pulls knife)
#3 The Other Indies
What? “Don’t get soft on me, Logan.” SHhhhhhh. Indies have their own culture. A lot of time ( I won’t lie ) It’s annoying! The “buy my book” chants are a dull roar in indie town and yes, that can be somewhat irritating, BUT you also hear the call of the wild, independence, the Bravehearts of writing, the raw novelists who don’t have anything holding them, they won’t be PC or even Disney, the warriors that bear the scars of indebtedness, the starving artists with their own tale of woe. And who am I to discourage that type of muse? It makes for great things. As for me and my house, we know to have a dream realized you must first lose a few….so GO INDIE!
#4 You. Did. It.
You had lots and lots of help if you are smart. You rely on a village if you are wise. But the truth is, at the end of the day, YOU were in charge. YOU CONQUERED that mountain thrusting your pointy ended pen into it again and again, forcing it into submission and you were a mini-god for a day. You killed it and then rose it back from the grave just to kill it again. And BY all that IS HOLY YOU ARE KING!
#5 It’s Your Money (mostly)
This is important too. You have to support yourself in this game somehow. They don’t give away laptops at Best Buy in an effort to help with the flooding and saturation of Young Adult markets or offer you free kindles so you can read and stay sharp. No. You have to pay the bills like the rest of us poor shlubs writing their entry level novels. You really aren’t making bank right off bat. BUT going Indie you get a bigger piece of the pie when you DO sell. When you do “make it” the cash is in hand more quickly. So there. In your face big FIVE OR FOUR or whatever number they are at in this sad economy.
My slice is bigger with Indie. That’s good for me. Very good.
I like pie.
So there you have it! Part one of the #indiebooksbeseen Blog hop! Check out Ten Things that Suck (and Rock!) about being Indie (part one)
Part two drops on Monday Dec 15th!
My very first concert was the New Kids on the Block. I was totally into them. I had the shirts, cups, the dolls, and pretty much everything else.
I remember I went away for a week with friends and my grandparents were in Vegas. When they came back they said, “While we were in Vegas we got the NKB’s to sign an autograph for you!”
Now. We all know they simply went to a store and picked up an autographed cup. But as a kid I totally bought it. My grandmother lied, to my face, down to the clothes they were wearing. I then ran to school and told everyone, ignoring those with obvious knowledge of my “story”. They were just haters!
It was one of the most exciting things of that year. I remember being the coolest kid ever for a total of one day when the sorry kids that believed me began asking me questions about it, I’d roll my eyes and shrug like it was my secret to keep and the NKB’s might be at my party next week too but you know…they could get busy cause they’re famous.
You might think how awful it was for my grandparents to lie to me, but I totally think it rocks.
It’s the spice of life, kids. It’s Santa on a Mid-May Wednesday.
People make up stuff or color it in all the time. Sometimes stretching the truth is fun.
Don’t think so?
Well then stop watching TV, or reading books. What many entertainers do is take a real happenstance and stretch it. Yup. Go read some blogs, “Well that scene actually happened to me…only, it wasn’t with flying elephants.”
I recently got blogged into “Why I write” by the wonderful and talented Christina Rozelle
It’s been explained pretty accurately by others already. I’m a thinker, a ponderer, always have been.
But since most every “why I write” reason has been covered, instead, I thought I’d make mine about “Why I continue to write”.
This is important for me because I’ve given up a few times. Yup. Or had GIGANTIC gaps in between.
If you think I haven’t gotten nasty rejection letters, or reviews of my work, and then packed in my quill and said what’s done-is-done about a million times, then, put on a strait-jacket, my friend, because it’s getting a little loony in here.
Some things I’ve posted about writing:
“A writer has to mitigate the doubt dumped daily on their heads.”
“Of course failure is an option…I’m a writer!”
“Writing is a vanity that can only be afforded by being damned good.”
More times than not I’m not: “damned good”, even perhaps, I have been: “peculiarly bad”. There are only a few beats on that path to writerdom that make me smile and say, “Ah, yes. Now this part I liked.”
I have to keep a barf bag handy for occasions where I read my old works. “What was I thinking!” bursts from my lips like I have self-review turrets.
I’m my worst critic.
What bothers me is the highs and lows, and how I sometimes let my writing achievements or lack-there-of affect my everyday life. I want to slap myself when it happens because it’s completely useless to stress about things that are out of my control.
Like when Elsa had those magical ice-shooting powers. (I have a toddler) The more they tried to “control” it, the more she exploded with icicles from her fingies.
The “accolade” aspect is unhelpful to us, because the art is supposed to be where I’m at already and not the other way around. It shouldn’t be a destination, but part of my journey that I scribble down along the way. Like some road poet noting characters only because they were people he wanted to remember rather than, oh this is gonna be the best seller of the century!
*uses ice magic against said thoughts*
You may not feel like writing is anything more than craft, but I aim to set a mood with my words, and this causes a lot of problems for the “craft” part. When I see wood and a hammer in my head, my word-mood turns carpenter, which might make things a bit…wooden. (sorry bad joke)
I want my prose to drop the reader from their perch straight into the storm that is my brain cells. I want them to try to beat me up after reading, or shake my hand, or pat my back whilst beating me up, or something along those lines because great art does that to me.
I usually throw a book with a great ending across the room.
Or I write a ravenous review of how I loved it but but but but, please fix me and write another!
As far as my own work, I don’t want them to say, “Nice structure.”
Pfft. Structure…? STRUCTURE! BAH! “Mittens are nice!” (Friends reference there for those of you…never mind)
I don’t want to set art up on the podium for a gold medal and then try to achieve that.
I’m not the only one who follows this logic either. Even going for gold can be a bit deceptive.
Recently, I watched gold medalist Gabriel Douglas’ documentary/reenactment of her life on Netflix. If you get the chance, see it.
Gymnastics is the epitome of discipline. There’s no one sport that forces body parts so intricately and demandingly. Your core has to be solid. You have to be able to run and lift. You yoga to remain elastic, but also stay hard as a rock. Then you have to be mentally stable, ready to compete in that moment at your peak—no full hour long game of chance or team sports going on here.
AND you also have to do all of this by the Olympic clock. You outgrow it after that clock stops ticking. Tick tock tick tock, little gymnasts all over the country are watching the calender years in advance. In some countries there are toddlers being primed. (weird countries but…)
Are you starting to feel like writing is easy compared? Good. You should.
In the documentary her coach said something epic about one of her skills. It was on the bars where she was having trouble and he said, “You are not releasing the bar and grabbing another. You are the bar. You are the skill.”
And that is so true.
I know this is a Miyagi moment, wax on-wax off. But in sports, psychology is HUGELY important.
And guess what? Writing is the same, yo.
When I competed as an equestrian, and I plan on it again, I always knew that I brought everything from my life to that point with me into the ring. In that ride, that certain movement represented my state of mind, my training, my past, and dictated my future.
The test movement was me. It was not some outside thing because I’d done it enough times correctly to know I had it in here. (taps chest) Finding it was the secret.
The test asked me questions. That was its job. Was I calm? Was I fierce? Was I nervous? Was I second guessing? Was I ready?
Art is exactly like this. Your art is you. It is not simply a distant thing floating on a tether,
YOU ALREADY HAVE IT INSIDE.
That’s kind of important.
Say it with me.
MY ART IS ALREADY INSIDE OF ME.
Down side time.
When I shred the dialogue, and when I have a para missing in rhythm, the story, characterization, descriptive….. It’s painful. Because it’s me. Because it’s my past in there, my today on those certain days. And, it dictates my future. Not specifically, no, but it’s definitely a part of the fabric of my forward momentum in life.
So why continue to write?
Because there’s good news too!
Gabby’s coach also said “Gymnastics is music”.
I wrote this almost exactly into my entire novel Gods of Anthem. The idea that life is an orchestra. You will see it spread out through an entire story, but it’s there, hidden, and the idea is a good one, I think.
Gymnastics is rhythm and flow with a final crescendo.
This is what art is to me, and why I continue to do it. Because the melody is here inside of me, and, though I make mistakes, it keeps flowing and wanting to be given shape.
My words, the novel, it has rhythm, not always accurate, but I see it there, each one I do gets better, flows more, peaks in the right spots.
But I’ve still got so many more songs to give. So much more chemistry to create.
So much more art to find.
I’m just writing until I reach the crescendo, friends.
“You may ask me out to dinner. Nothing fancy or foreign. No bars. No patios. No vegetables. And no seafood.” Angela (The Office)
Since I’m on hold with my editor having “missed my opening” by a mile (I think our original date was August…of last year) (I wish I was kidding) I’ve been skimming some of the other time wasting— (cough) ummm that is, avenues for inspiration!
A little dandy caught my eye about going off into woods or some sort of nonsense and focusing on your writing with workshops and blah blah blah, pay here, yes right here, click it!
I picture this and not in a good way:
On this retreat…we have to run for our lives.
Is it sad that to me ‘writing retreat’ is an oxymoron?
Like saying “work retreat” where I am retreating, yes, but not from work, no, so what then do I retreat from…
I’m pretty much an outdoorsy-ish person, but with limited exposure. Imagine if you will a sort of out-door Cinderella flitting about in the woods, but at the stroke of midnight no freaky glass slipper wearer worth her salt is piling into the local tent Blair Witch style to pretend she’s sleeping well on the lumpy mis-shapen earth. Sleep number setting…? Hard as hell!
There’s just no excuse for brushing our teeth without batteries, just none.
I know what you’re thinking. She seems to forget the most commonly known writer-vacay is a cabin which has a bed.
Well Mr. Smarty pants what you seem to forget is that my OWN writer-vacay is a jet ski and a hotel room with air conditioning…away from other writers…or anyone who tries to speak at length beyond “I just had ANOTHER glass of that pink stuff and I can’t feel my face!”
Seriously, who can’t think up an awesome plot on a jetski?
What can I say, I like to party.
It’s not my fault. This invite to pack me away with twelve other failures (cough), hey I said OTHER meaning I’m one too—to listen to a lady or gent with some sort of experience (vague in the flyer) come up with euphemisms for “Your book sucked and now you need other humans to tell you it didn’t, preferably ones who don’t know you very well or who charge a fee.” OR “You have never finished a book, and probably won’t ever finish a book. Ever. But here you are and your check didn’t bounce so Namaste.”
What? I’m sorry Cupcake if I’m ruining your inspirational blog hopping but let’s get real. If my book just sold for half a mil I’m pretty sure I don’t immediately sign up for a “writers retreat” in Idaho. I’m certain that I’ve just blown a tenth of it on the craps table since I’ve never played and another 5th on the hotel room in Vegas. Or let’s say I’m feeling cultural I’ve been traveling…the world, like the whole wide one.
If none of those things have happened yet and you can’t find me see my para about the Jetski.
When I first started writing I pictured myself pulling mind blowing prose from my lyrical cesspool , something cryptic and enticing, alive and gripping filling my readers with so much awe that even peanut butter couldn’t keep their mouths closed.
While I hold out hope that this may still happen before I die. Or after. Probably after. I’ve given up the idea that this happens when you most want it to, or train it to, or better yet attempt to whip it into submission via “writing retreat”. It just doesn’t allow you to force it.
Since we all know that a grammatical masterpiece is not going to be my end game, as for the life of me the English language in all it’s glory seemingly puts me into a stupor if held up to any reasonable standard… I do have some grammar books I’ve decided to again extend my education toward but truth be known it’s the voice that comes to me in a scheming ungrammatical sense that throws everything off.
It speaks to me like gutter-tripe that ate a thesaurus and burbs out fragmented sentences.
It’s almost impossible to keep up with the dialogue that argues and yells and screams through my brain like twelve angry men only there are women too and do you know how fast some of us talk?
Then he/she (my voice is multi-gender thank you very much) slaps my editor across the face with a pair of gloves and demands a duel.
My editor (very much a she and not to be trifled with) immediately screams, “On guard you scallywag!” or whatever genre I’ve currently started writing in my NEXT midlife growth spurt (we don’t say crisis round here y’all) and they fight while I, the wilting flower, maiden of perfect figure and character, all in white, covers my bosom, watching in horror, terror, feeling faint, to await my champion to kiss, or hug, or pay, depending on who wins which most usually means, “Get your check book out you dead beat and pay your wonderful editor.”
Fact is, that writing for me is perilously close to hard labor at times (whenever rewriting or edits which is about 90 percent of it for me) and a retreat to try and be “artsy” sounds as lovely as a dentist appointment.
“But Logan if you go with an open mind you might be inspired to write the next classic!”
Well arn’t you just as magestic as a unicorn?
I might also be inspired to buy stock in bug spray. Did you ever think of that?
When I take a break or a retreat I let it all hang out…bosom notwithstanding. You wanna see that? Didn’t think so.
I swear by the end of your vacation (yours not mine cause this is least likely to be a vacation for me) you’ll all sit around and vote me off the island but instead of a helicopter that waits to take me back to my blessed bath to soak I’ll have given you all a story all right, one for the front of the New York Times: “Girl lost in woods during writing retreat. She was never really that good anyway…”
Where even the journalist cant for the life of him understand why we’d need a retreat. Because HE writes for the freaking New York Times!
Writing is fun! For like FIVE minutes. But after some time on a novel, like real time and not a monthish period of excited word vomit where you splurge your every thought into 200 pages like you have the flu – you suddenly see the sinister black lining.
Sometimes it makes you so high you can write a million pages and then jog five miles in glee singing “Weeeee are the champions my freee – eeends!”. While other lower moments you wanna take that same five mile jog off a quarter mile cliff.
You are told to write with your heart and so you do. Like an idiot. THEN someone comes along and says you need surgery cause your heart is really really lame, boring, it sucks, what a floppy heart. (Will somebody PLEASE get me a thesaurus)
So we come to lesson number one of my made up lessons that I made up and are also mine: People are full of crap.
Pure unadulterated crap. Cuuuurrraaaaap.
Your friends and their attempts to cheer you? Crap. Your family and their flip little comments “Gee hun, that’s nice.” having no clue how much time you spent on an idea they just brushed off to tell you about this one time at band camp when they thought about writing… Like I said… Crap. Bookfacers? Crap. That guy at the store who you accidentally told you were an author to who spent five minutes of your life explaining his book and how he is going to write it “someday”. TOTAL CRAP!
Don’t get me started on editors who make you suddenly act like the staff holding Gandolf “You shall not pass!”. They give you “rules” about how to start a book, cut it back, add to it, and is this a “dream sequence”???? So last year! You can’t use prose like that! You need to stop trying to be so colorful. Stop being so blunt, blah blah blah, are you listening to me, Logan? Why do you have that look on your face? Is that— Is THAT A GUN!
And what is WITH this “muse thing”? You see everyone running around showing “muse” pictures. Little sexy muse guys and gals all dolled up, some with little quotes, “Hey there sexy girl. Write me a story and I’ll strip.” Or maybe that was just Sidda?
Giving ideas to “jog” the muse as if he/she were Best in Show (Ha! John I stole that from ya.) When in reality YOUR situation is a bit closer to the Predator and YOUR muse slathers mud across their body Schwarzenegger style to stay away from you… With that same lovely stilted dialogue.
“But Logan, life is like a box of chocolates!”
No it ain’t you made up voice from one of my made up fans. It’s a box of dynamite. Add in some bits of cyanide for a slow death… but the poison tastes like chocolate. (nods)
Look. You wanna talk Tom Hanks? Fine.
Think less about Forest Gump and his magic shooo-oooeees and think more about Cast Away.
Yeah, uh huh. YOU are on an Island. No matter HOW much help you think you are getting YOU have to write, fix, make, create, be sick, feel good, cry, bleed, through this BY YOURself.
You WILL think you are losing your mind in the first few months. You WILL actually lose it by a year. And you will not even know you have lost a thing by three.
You WILL befriend inanimate objects like Tom. Talk to yourself, use prose in and out of dialogue, and become “Wordy” (thanks Sunniva;))
You WILL lose faith in your “friend” and throw Wilson into the ocean.
“Willllllllllllsooooooooooon! Willllllllllllsoooooooooooon!” I still tear up every time.
Then you will get him back and say you are sorry and never ever piss him off again. Ever. (Looks lovingly at her own beach ball. What? They were out of soccer stuff, it’s seasonal…)
Look. (Where is Alianne at? I mean I’ve used “look” like twice in a paragraph!) Look<<< (three!).
This marriage between you and your story is less Romeo and Juliet… Wait… No… It is EXACTLY that. Everyone dies at the end…
For you young ones needing a contemporary setting: Sexy young couple goes out, she shaves her legs, he gives her the good covered parking spots. Voila: Love.
Marriage ensues. But when the honeymoon is over, she is hairy with a dirty car, and he is paunchy because he parks in the closest spot he can find, “Shut up, Marge! It will fit!”. They argue over fish stick dinners and watch Jeopardy, “Hank! How do you ALWAYS guess these? I mean, really? Bengal Tigers with only the S on there? Come on!”
For all of the pamphlets on faceplanet that say “Writing is work” you’ll find exactly as many that say “Writing should be easy”. (Crap!)
Art is easy? Yeah, mmmm hmmm, and I’m a natural blond.
Get off your rocker writerdome. It’s a tough racket and you better stiff that lip and nose that grindstone or whatever other euphemisms I can mess up because this ain’t your grandmother’s book club!
And what IS the first rule of book club?
I can’t hear you!
What is the first rule of book club!!!!!!
We don’t talk about book club unless it is to say that we are foofy artists who don’t really do any work (wink wink).
The writer of today looks a lot less like the olden times, quill in hand and ruffled sleeves coming out of a felt jacket. He/she better be a Rambo freaking Picasso, wearing Shakespeare’s hat and quoting Stephen King characters like a bad case of terrets, and if you don’t write your heart out to the point that your family calls the priest for an exorcism (the old one not these lame copies) you ain’t got what it takes!
If you think it’s all bunnies and Zen bubbles… Hit the road jack… with one headlight.
Sum of me pals
It has come to my attention that my non-ab sharing, liking, and profile pic might need some splainin’. Nothing to be found on my pages that could be labeled as “chiseled”, not even a decent flashing of man boobs. I assure you it is nothing so specific as aversion.
I’ve decided to address this lack of dress that has littered our fair facebook, as well as other organized spamming erm, communal sites of the various kinds.
Rather than take it head on, (or is it stomach?) and give specific reasons, or personal feelings behind the “Why” in a list especially because most of us emotionally impaired people don’t really do that anyway, I will instead try and avoid any pejorative connotations or slip ups that might accidentally connect to a specific genre and offend delicate sense and sensibilities (gasp).
“So, a story then?” you ask. Well, why stray from my usual way of solving my inner-feeling riddles?
I may never be famous, my dearest B, but think of all of the money I save in Therapy!
Firstly, before I begin:
‘Logan, is there anything wrong with abs?’ Absolutely not!
‘Logan, do you have trouble with your own sexuality?’ Please.
No more questions, boys and girls. Come, let us travel back in time, to the year, well let’s skip the exact date shall we? No, no, put away your calculator. Ahem. I will wait.
Once upon a time…
A young Logan sits lonely on a mid-summer’s day, still donned with her original and more easily miss-said and misspelled moniker using a magnifying glass to burn what little there is of a Ken dolls bump for privates.
“Original name!” someone calls, and she looks up to see the other cheerleaders skipping by.
Was it time already? Yes, yes it was!
Gathering up her book bag, she sighs, kicks Ken into the gutter where that scum weasel belongs, tightens her pony tail at the root, and dusts off her cheer skirt, shirt wrinkled and un-tucked, to gallop along after the rest of the girls. All of them, of course, still neat and clean. No icky plastic pieces of Ken’s genitalia stuck under their shoes, no, sir.
Much time passed or at least when you are young it feels that way, and Original Name sat patiently during every football game, watching, waiting for the time when she too would be twitterpated by the boys in pads and helmets. When that didn’t happen she cheered loudly during half time, all the while scanning the crowd hopeful that someone would catch her eye, but, alas, still nothing. Every other girl was interested in boys by this age, and even some of them already proficient at flirting what with years of fake boyfriend girlfriend drama under their belt. Was something wrong with her? Well, she was a teenager… What do you think?
(everyone say awwww)
She had just given up when all of a sudden! Onto the screen slides this man-boy crooning sounds of total rebellion.
Here is Original Name, standing in the gym, with the tv blaring music videos a la MTV, and there in the tiny pre-hd screen are cheerleaders just like her, but they are jumping around differently than she does, with abandon you might even say. Pon her soul! They look wild, happy, free, and at the group’s middle— a band.
The lead singer looks up challengingly into the camera and sings.
Load up on guns —- and briiiing your friends
It’s fuuun to lose —– and tooooo pretend
She’s overboard —- and seeeeeelf- assured
Oh no, I know a diiiiirty worddddddddd
Hellooooo, hellooooo, hellooooo, heeeeeellllooooooo
Could this man-boy be singing to her?
And the rest is history.
You might have guessed it by now. That’s right, Nirvana. Kurt Cobain came onto the scene swiping my brain right out of my head and replacing it with a moody, thunderstruck wanna be rebel. He came in with his poetic lyrics and a zesty hate for life; suddenly it all made sense! A girl like me might have found her kindred fatalistic point of view, albeit with far too much optimism to follow him down the path of actual self-infliction, but totally of a mind to hear it on loop with a blossoming love of the wounded soul.
I never went fan girl, it was much deeper than that… Shut up! It was! (sulky teen face)
No matter how much money he made, he still had greasy hair and a sweater on, but as long as he wrote me songs about fish with feet, I was smitten.
That’s how I roll.
And B, I know what you are thinking. No this is not to say one or the other is mutually exclusive, but the ab blast 500 for me is an afterthought indeed.
So no beefcake for this little zombie, she is quite sufficient to moan, “Brainnnssssszzzzzz” into the night.
Seems as though you and I need to have a little talk. This likely will be an uncomfortable conversation— well mostly for you, but listen to what I say very closely… And please don’t interrupt.
What’s that? I can’t hear you? You want me to remove the tape from your mouth?
All in good time, my sweet, all in good time.
You remember not too long ago when I was all about the finishing of my book? Oh how I toiled. And then one day! Start. Middle. Ending. It was finished! Done. Finito. Termine. Getan. Acabado. Fin. I typed the end…
I even sang Free Falling in the car, and rubbed my eyes whenever I looked at her sitting there within my laptop. It had amazed me that nothing had stopped her from completion, or from becoming a real living thing. Not the times I’d given up, not the busy-ness of my life, and not the ups and downs of being uninspired. Nope. She was my imagination that had somehow hacked herself loose from the inside of my head and ran freely onto the pages of a novel that would maybe cleave onto the minds of many readers someday. This was what I had hoped most.
You did not see me in that moment, rubbing my hands together in preparation. I figured that with a few edits, voila, B, you would see my work and applaud, maybe even sob at the sad parts, or send me messages about how the world was my oyster. I pictured myself and my reactions as you told me such wonderful things about my writing and encouraged me to mail it out RIGHT THEN to an agent. Why B, in this version, the one in my head, you even sent me the postage stamp!
But I was very, very, wrong.
As all things go, the marriage between you and I took a turn for the worst and unexpectedly careened from happy little notes of “Oh this looks good.” to “Hmm, I dunno that this will work.” You started to sound more and more like I might need to correct things and then more and more like I’d be working… And working… And working. But-but I was finished!
What about this part right here, huh? What are all these notes about me needing to make myself clear? I bet I’m making myself real clear now aren’t I! Don’t you shake your head at me. Stop that!
Okay, lets everybody calm down. There are quite a few pages that you said I’d nailed it, right? What’s to be so upset over anyway? It’s not real life. I should just take this as a learning experience and fix the mucked up lines. Yes, yes, everyone takes a step back before they go forward. Night is darkest before the morn. Only a fool does not want correction or some such saying…
I see, yes, you are nodding that I am right. Of course I am. We don’t have to stop being friends over this.
To be honest, I never thought those corrections were a problem, not really. It wasn’t them that really put me over the edge anyway. I had actually started to sort them all out in my head, but, you see, it was when I flipped the page then it became clear what deviousness you were about, when you started to dig away at my characters. Somewhere along the way I’d been overzealous in my making of them or this was how you so delicately put it, and you seemed to be saying that I was lumping them (the flaws) all too high, too much, and not enough of other things, too much here, too little there, here – there like a yo-yo of criticism.
These are my characters, B! They are who they are! OH THE IRONY of it all, that you would want them so clean when you sent back my book in tatters and dirty, so so dirty now with red marks and <<>>>> pointy things slicing away at my heart!
Can’t you see it? I will make you see it. Yes, yes I will!
What’s the matter? Am I scaring you?
No, no, it’s gone on too far my love, and I won’t stop now, can’t-won’t it’s all the same these days. Time to say goodbye … I’ve got to bury you, B, I’ve got to stop you from doing this to some other poor unsuspecting creature and… Shhh shhh shh… It won’t hurt— Much.
Until I can fix the supposed problems of my book you have to die a slow death as punishment. You see this will help me find the things I need, and I so desperately need them, to fix, remake, a little death never hurt a story.
What’s that? This is real life you say?
Well then… You should have thought of that before you decided to become my Beta.
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