A Publishing Raw Deal

I was going to name this blog "Digital Rape of Publishing". Then I realized it would make me seem like an insensitive jerk.

I recently read a blog by author John Scalzi on the news that Random House has a new electronic subsidiary called Hydra. He wrote that this new company is offering contract terms that are not beneficial to new writers. It is important to note that these writers are probably not represented by agents.

Here is his blog post to which I am referencing.  http://whatever.scalzi.com/2013/03/06/note-to-sff-writers-random-houses-hydra-imprint-has-appallingly-bad-contract-terms/

 As he aptly stated, this model is borrowed from the music industry and these so called costs are often inflated, and in some cases, fabricated.  

Unfortunately, I think this kind of thing is going to continue. As an example, Amazon has it's own film studio, but what some people may not know is that they have both a WGA and a non-WGA signatories. This often exploits new screenwriters that have yet to receive their WGA card, for the deal they receive is not in their best interest.

If a reputable publisher wants a writer, and offers a writer those kind of terms, why would said writer consider it?

See You Later, Oscar.

I was supposed to post this yesterday, but ran into a few snags. (excuses, excuses).

A few weeks ago, I posted my predictions on the Academy Awards,  Hello Again, Oscar.  As was the case from the prior year, I didn't do too well.

Let's see how bad a prognosticator I ended up being by listing the winners and comparing them to who I picked.

My Scribbles Through Time

"You must read alot and write alot."  - Steven King in his book, On Writing.
 
It is as simple as that. A writer needs to read both good and bad examples of writing as his time allows. He also has to practice the craft of actual writing.
 
So the question most aspiring writers ask: How much is alot?
 
That question is mostly subjective. So I will answer it with an example on how I work.

The Stab of the Lance

This story has a long set-up that might bore some people who are not fans of pro cycling.. It is necessary to help stress my later points about cheating and the duality of a said individual.

When I was younger, I was a cycling enthusiast. I used to bike 20 miles a day. This was not due to any particular affinity for any pro cyclist, but for liking the challenge of beating childhood rivals who bested me in other pursuits.

I did follow pro cyclists of that time. 

Hello Again, Oscar.

It's Academy Award time again.  Last year, my predictions were way off base. 

Today I am going to make a fool out of myself again and attempt to predict the winners.

Resolutions

Happy New Year to all.  The Mayans were wrong.



As I sit here and write this, I am going over the resolutions that I made for 2012 that I actually met, and the ones that I did not attain. Overall, I met half my goals.



In how I perceive myself, it was not a good year.

Your Mother Taught You Better

Some people do things that are just annoying to the point of rudeness.

Early Saturday morning, I was at the supermarket. I make a list of things to buy to make it quicker for me to get out and to the many other things on my busy schedule.

I am almost done, in the last aisle. Someone was so gracious by leaving his carriage right in the middle of the aisle so not to let others by.

"Be patient" I told myself. I did just that. For a total of five minutes. So I took the liberty of moving it to one side to allow people to pass through.

The young man whose carriage I moved didn't appreciate that. he was downright rude to the point of high offense.

But I held my temper in check. It wasn't easy.

I get what I needed and get in line at the checkout. The lady in front of me puts all her stuff on the belt ,and of course, she forgot something. She held the line up for about ten minutes.

I thinking about how bad this day has started.

While I wait, there was lady behind me who had three young boys. One these boys was pushing the carriage back and forth, though told several times from his mom to stop.

He stopped alright. After he hit me in the back of the legs. And no apology was forthcoming.

After I finally get out of the store, taking several deep breaths to keep me calm, another young man is outside panhandling. He was polite when he made the request of me. and I told him politely no. That is when he said something under his breath. I said something in the attune of getting off his lazy ass and work. I didn't think he liked that.

I get home and bring the stuff inside. I then decide to go get some coffee. Arriving there, I see a elderly man with a walker struggle to get the door open.

"Let me get that for you sir" I said while I open the door. Several people actually when inside ahead of him, not allowing him to pass.

I mean, does anyone have manners anymore?

We live a fast world. It seems that people are either oblivious to how their behavior affects others, or they just don't care.

A simple "thank you" goes a long way, you know. And whatever happened to responding to that gratuitous saying with a simple "you're welcome" and not with "no problem"?

No one says "good morning". Or they respond to it with "is it'? Are you that grumpy?

Do you have to ripe your hands on your shirt? Or even worse: lick them.
Try using a napkin.

And for crying out loud, wash your hands when you use the rest room.

And please excuse yourself when you interrupt me while I am speaking. Better yet, wait until I am done. Is what your going to say that important?

Maybe I am just too sensitive, but why is it people don't think that have to practice reasonable good manners? Is it that they are not taught?

I guess maybe I have an antiquated way I look at things. But I know I was taught better than that, and I know they were too.

Any thoughts?

A Writer's Bloc

Good morning.  It's Monday again.  Don't you love Monday mornings?  You know, a reminder how short you weekend seemed to be and how long your week is going to be?

Seriously, though.  I figured I just write a little blog about bloc.  As in writer's bloc. The disability of a writer to produce new work.  Which is, for me, usually lasts a few days.  Though on occasion, it has lasted several months.

Insomnia

Insomnia is a gross feeder. It will nourish itself on any kind of thinking, including thinking about not thinking.  - Clifton  "Kip"  Fadiman.


I can certainly relate .  As I write this,  I am in a state of a continuous fatigue, caused by my own anxiety, and expeditiously, by severe insomnia.

Insomnia is a strange creature because it has no discernible pattern.  One might suffer from it for days, even weeks,  sometimes with no feasible cause.  Then it just suddenly disappears, and it has no timetable when, and if, it will return.

For me, it has substantially to do with the fact that my mind is forever moving.  Each individual thought process is it's own highway.  Some are racing like a drive on the Autobahn, fast and free. Then there are the ones that end up like a traffic jam of the Santa Monica Freeway during rush hour.  There are more of the latter then of the former.

Hey, Coach! (Part 2 of 2)

Continued from an earlier blog.

I had blacked out after the collision at home plate. I woke up in my stepfather's car, sprawled across the back seat on my back. I was nauseous from the pain, and being unusual for me, the motion of the vehicle. It took all of my willpower not to vomit. I noticed my throbbing wrist was wrapped in gauze holding an ice pack in the back, splints on each side, A sling was tied at my shoulder holding my arm up so I couldn't bend my elbow.

My stepfather related the news about what happened after I lost consciousness.  The good news, the catcher dropped the ball, and apparently I somehow touched the plate with my injured hand. The bad news was the doctor who looked at my wrist the first time believed I tore some ligaments. This could be mean possible surgery for me.

I walked unaided into the ER of the hospital.  My stepfather and I sat at the registration desk. My mind was racing with thoughts that were for the most part were unpleasant. How bad was it? Will I play baseball again?  And if I could, how good will I be at it?  It is possible I may lose functionality in my hand where I can't grip anything properly?

My mom arrived. She was calm and collected as always. She sat next to me in the common area. She told me everything was going to be alright, and as always, I believed her. She brought me books to read instead of the magazines spewed everywhere, some so old they predated my birth.

Later, which seemed like eternity,  I was called into the ER. I had had an x-ray of the injured area. As I sat in my little cubicle, I saw a couple of doctors talking over the negative of my wrist through the opening of the curtain that was not completely closed. I was not feeling the pain as intensely as before. It was more of a dull ache, the wonderful medication the nurse gave me helped immensely.

Still I waited longer. My anxiety grew in intensity, despite the drugs in my system. I wanted to leave, and I was ready to run out the hospital to escape the incredible foreboding this place was instilling upon me. I got up from the bed I was sitting on, walked over to the curtain, and as I reached for it with my good hand, it suddenly burst open.

I jumped a bit, being startled from the ER doctor coming in with my parents.  Doc gently told me to sit back onto the bed. I did so, now knowing his professional judgement was now forthcoming.

The good news, nothing was broken. However, I had a third degree sprain.  The healing process and rehabilitation time for this type of injury could be up to three months.

My heart sank. My baseball season was over.

Over the next several days, a deep depression fell over me. I didn't really do much of anything. School, meals, and bed. That was it. I turned over the paper route I had over to my friend because I couldn't ride my bike, something I essentially needed to be able to do the route properly.

On the positive side, I wasn't the only person in my family that played baseball that spring. My little sister was playing with a Minor Little League which was only a 5 minute walk from our house.  Her and I would work on drills together in the back yard when neither of us had practice or a game.  Most of the time, we had conflicting schedules, so I was unable to get to see her play in an actual game.

My missing her games was about change, albeit, reluctantly.

It was 8 days after my injury.  It was on a Thursday,  I remember that because I was watching the sitcom "Cheers". (Ironically, I have a story about an experience from that show I will post another time.) My mom knocks on my bedroom door,  and after a moment enters.

We discussed how my wrist felt. We also talked about my mental well being. She spoke about baseball, which she knew little about except the fact I ate, slept, and breathed it. This segued into a problem she needed my help to solve.

The problem was my sister had a game Friday afternoon and my mom had to work later than her normal shift.  So, my stepdad, who would be home in time, could take her. That would leave me to watch my little brothers because they can't stay still during the game. (Most of  the parents of the players attended their kids game back then.).

So, I had this conundrum before me.  Do I take my sister to the her game and watch other kids play baseball, something I loved with a passion but I could no longer participate.  Or, do I stay home, babysit my brothers,  who like to annoy me, and risk doing something I would regret because of my present state of mind?

I decided on the former after much anguish.

Hey, Coach! (Part 1 of 2)

I would definitely be considered a geek from the activities and hobbies I had since childhood.

However, I also had a long time love affair with athletics, and I was a decent practitioner. I had played just about all of them, but one in particular became my main squeeze and remains so to this day, as both a former player and now coach.

Baseball, America's pastime.

A Year In Preview

Happy New Year to you all. 

2012 is going to a historical year. There will be some events that will happen that will surprise, even shock some people.


I figure, just for fun, that I play prognosticator. Here are few things I think will happen in the next 12 months or so.

A Boy's Best Friend (Part 2)

For of those who missed the first part, here is the link below

A Boy's Best Friend (Part 1) 

His orange-yellow eyes were glued to me, with an expression that my inexperience could not understand. If was though he knew I look out that window and see if he was still there.

He begins to bark and spin in circles. His tail was wagging and his tongue was hanging out in a manner that indicated he might be thirsty from chasing me. My ambiguity made me anxious. I wanted to bring him water, but yet, I was to afraid he might attack me.

It Takes A Village (Part 4)

He was the neighborhood bully by the name of  Paul Ellison.  He was twelve at that time and already he was as big as the average adult male. He used this size advantage quite effectively, picking on younger and smaller kids. He bordered on cruelty, but it seemed to me he particularly liked to make my life miserable.

I had no time to turn around and go back the way I came. If he saw me running, he would chase me down with sinister pleasure. So I tried my best not to look as scared as I felt. I was about 10 feet away from him when he started in on me. He was smiling, always a bad sign with him.

A Seed Of A Story

I have a writer friend of mine who is shopping his first speculative screenplay, or spec, to some movie studios for the past few months. It took him a couple of years to get it done, being very new at the genre, and he always asking me for tips on the writing process.

I think this process is different for every writer. How I do things may not work for another writer, and their approach may not work for me.

When I approach any writing project, the obvious first choice that I make is what I am going to write about.  This is called a premise. I take that premise and flesh it out in a written form,  I can do that in five words or less.

I Don't Feel Like Writing

I am a slacker. I have to admit that. I have posted diligently to my blog for about three weeks now, and going over it, I have noticed some things are not consistent. 

Like a few times I posted some continuing stories. As of now, I have three open ones. My original intent was to publish these kind of stories on a weekly basis, say every Monday, and continue each Monday thereafter. I was then to take each other day of the week and use them for a specific theme. I haven't really done what I have planned.

It Takes A Village (Part 3)

I explained to him everything that happened, though I left Johnny's and Shane's name out of the story. I might of been thoughtless and destructive at times, but I wasn't a snitch.

Officer Sullivan's sudden glare now unnerved me. I decided that maybe, this was not a good idea on my part.

As I turned to leave, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder and bring back around. Officer Sullivan crouched down so his face was even with mine.


"And where do you think your going?" He asked. And from his tone, I knew it was going to be an even worse day than it was already.

A Takes A Village (Part 2)

There I stood, stupefied.  I wanted to run, but I was too scared.  I knew Mrs. Cavellini could catch me like she caught the others, and that would only would make it that much worse for me.

She was in her early '40's then.  Dark hair and olive skin.  She was short, but with a lithe and athletic build. Her green eyes seem to go right through you when she was angry, which seemed to be always.

She walked towards me, stopping about 2 feet away.

"Why do you kids do this?!"  She said in her slightly accented English. "I tell you no play here but you play anyway!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cavellini. I didn't...." She cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

It Takes A Village (Part 1)

I was relating a funny story to my son about something that happened to me when I was a boy his age. After telling it, he said I should write about it, so here is it is.

Kids today are spoiled. You can't even yell at kid without someone butting in and telling you are abusive.  Some people raise eyebrows just to the fact you looked at your child at what is perceived as a menacing manner.

When I was a young boy, I was lucky if I even got to my mom intact if I did something boneheaded.

Here is one example on what I mean.

A View From Afar (Part 2)

Carrie paused a moment, trying very hard not to loose her composure. She wipes her eyes with a napkin, then straightens her form out, sitting back further in her chair.

"I'm sorry".  A glint of embarrassment showed in her face.

"It's okay."  That all I could say, a little anxious about on how this was going. I put my open left hand, facing palm up, on the table. She placed her small hand in mine. She squeezed with a strength that surprised me, with all the power her small lithe frame could muster.

"I wasn't always like this, you know."  She said.  Her face seemed to show the frustration I know had to be there.