Word of the week: cognizance - \ˈkäg-nə-zən(t)s\ - noun - (hear it!) - : knowledge or awareness of something - Merriam-Webster Dictionary

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Hey, I have a few indie author shout-outs for this post:

First, on Tuesday, February 25th, indie author Lisa M. Green will release her long-anticipated novel, The First! Come, read some chapters at her website, or browse and get to know Lisa. Both hard copy and e-versions of her book will be available, and you can place your order here! (And I've already gotten my copy, (;D) as one of the privileged few who'd supported her kickstarter campaign!)

Second, on Saturday, March 1st, indie author Logan Keys will release her collection of four horror-based short stories, Unhinged, on Smashwords and Goodreads for FREE. I’ve had a sneak preview of these tales and, believe me, readers will not be disappointed.

Last, indie author Lucy Pireel has started up her own fundraising campaign for her book, "Origins Revealed - The Power of Three." Come, please consider supporting an indie author! Even small donations can go a very long way in helping an author achieve her dream. 

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Prologue to The Perfect Player

Many of you already know my dark fantasy novel has been out and about since last November, hopefully wreaking havoc of the most wonderful kind, stirring readers’ minds, winning over their hearts. Or at least making them think a little, if not cringe or emote somehow or another.

Originally my three-part, forty-nine chapter behemoth had a prologue, which I’d left off when I’d decided to publish it. Why? I dunno. Because I felt like it . . . and I heard many people skip over prologues anyway.

So, instead of taking the chance of readers snarling in frustration and throwing their e-readers out the window (which could be so hazardous, especially if it rebounds against a closed pane of glass), I’d saved out the short, two-part prologue to be randomly shared for free. It’s already connected to another short story of mine, Soulless Vessel, but I’ve decided to post it up anyway, here, now, right this very minute, kind of as a parting “Ahoy-hoy and farewell!” to my three-ton colossus as it lumbers and crashes through the world, attracting readers from every continent like an awkward, massive, hairy, statically-charged . . . er . . . gnome.

*Ahem* . . . right.

Enjoy! And if you like what you see, perhaps come take a gander at the rest of the novel. Believe me, your support truly makes a difference for indie authors.

(Note: Those of you who've read The Perfect Player will be familiar with the two characters presented, and maybe some things will come to light for you.) 

The Perfect Player - Prologue

Copyright - Kimberly Grenfell (writing as Devon Winterson), and yes, I do mean it's actually copyrighted, not just some faux label to scare off plagiarists. 

 

 TUYEN, WESTLANDS

230C SIXTH 20

The demon crouched at the forest's edge, a vague cluster of shapes within the narrow valley his sole focus.

The first sun's rays crested the horizon to usher away the dim light of the two moons, transforming the shapes into a shadowy dual ring of huts where inside, the demon knew, lay his prey. He sniffed at the breeze, craving teased by the promising scent that laced the unprotected territory. Wild blood. His kin had tasted it; never him. Too young, he was told. Too weak. He wouldn't hold his ground. Because of this, he'd always been left behind to suffer the flesh of those half-dead humans held captive. The others' accounts upon their return only served to frustrate him.

But not this time. No. This time, his father had demanded he join the hunt.

“You must learn, Locrian. You must feel the rush of a violent foray, and know what it truly means to kill.”

Locrian's black fur bristled. He would soon savor fresh spoils—smell the richness of warm blood, hear the snap of bones, experience his own feral lust at its height . . . at last.

The pack began to stir. With night blindness a hindrance for them, Locrian had sensed his kin's agitation at the delay: Horned heads shook. Cloven hooves stomped. Clawed hands clenched. Muscles tightened beneath crimson skin, and guttural growls obscured the burble of streams hidden within the silvery forest's slopes. Now, the master motioned them forward, and they lumbered into the clearing. Hulking shadows spread across the lavender grasses as they closed in around the village's outer rim. Again, the demons rested upon their haunches. Locrian settled in beside the master, who leaned close.

“Don't feel,” he growled in their tongue, “and don't reason. Just strike. These wild creatures sense nothing. Unlike us”—he narrowed his emerald eyes—“they don't have souls.”

Souls. Locrian shuddered. It would be like killing one of their own.

The second sun rose. Light swelled and Locrian's vision sharpened—crisp, clear, perfect—while tension rippled through the pack. Several demons stepped forward with expectant glances at their master, whose raised hackles and bared fangs stayed them. They tucked their thin, tufted tails to their undersides and waited. Soon, footfalls whispered through the grass ahead. Locrian straightened with the others to peer into the village, head rising above the thatched roof line.

In the quiet of the dawn, a solitary human sauntered with arms stretched wide toward a stream-fed pool at the village's center. Its hum floated and a smile played upon its lips. The human knelt at the pool's stony edge, dipped in a cupped hand, and drew some of the thick, opaline liquid to its mouth. It sipped long and slow, lazy droplets seeping between its wet fingers. It sought several more draughts. Once sated, it sat upon folded legs, head tilted back and shoulders rounded, its face a reflection of contentment.

Locrian's slit-pupils widened. Prey. So near, so fresh, so unsuspecting. An eager rumble rose up from his chest.

The human stiffened, lifted its head . . . and spied the surrounding pack. With a terrified cry, it leapt up to flee, but the master's bellow had already shattered the valley's hush. The demons sprung into the village.

Locrian staggered back, stunned by the sudden chaos—roars echoed over the pounding of hooves while claws tore into huts; planks cracked, crunched, splintered, their shards clattering to the ground. Horns pierced. Heads flung writhing bodies. Blood sprayed and human shrieks soon ripped through the air. Locrian swiveled his head, gaze darting. Where did he start? How did he join in? What should he do? Everything had happened so fast, he'd not had time to—

Oof!

He lurched, knocked into the rampage. A frenzy of humans and kin crushed down. Screaming creatures scattered everywhere.

Scrabbling up, Locrian shook the tuft of fur from his eyes and crouched, clawed hands thrust out. He pivoted right and left, then whirled around. He lunged, missed and lunged again, mouth filling with sod as he struck the earth. Then he spat, spun about, and sprung toward a body lying several paces away. His jaws snapped into empty air—Snatched!—and he flinched back from the demon who'd stolen the kill.

“Move on, Callow-back,” the demon snarled. “Find your own flesh.” Locrian scrambled away. Fresh shrieks tore through the clamor and caught his attention.

At the far end of the village, panicked humans poured into the meadows and sprinted toward the cover of the woods, pursued. Locrian bounded forth to follow . . . but slid to a halt when both prey and kin disappeared. Hackles stiff in frustration, he growled, heaved and snorted, then whipped around to face the village in shambles—

And saw it.

Hidden within the recess of three adjoining huts huddled a human half-sized to its full-grown counterparts, knees tucked and forehead set upon folded arms; a small but sufficient kill. Locrian's chest swelled with another rumble. His focus shifted, and while the foray raged on, he stalked toward the slit between the dwellings.

Each step closer sharpened his senses to his prey—quickened breaths rasped in his ears, a rapid heartbeat pounded in his head, the scent of fear lingered thick and tangy in his nostrils. Wild blood. So near, so fresh, so unsuspecting. A shiver rippled down his spine. He entered the slit.

An arm's length away, Locrian paused to lick back his slaver. One swipe. That's all it would take. One swipe and it would be dead. Its flesh would taste sweet, its juices intense, the forthcoming sensation pure and euphoric—and savage. Yes. Locrian's lips drew tight against his fangs. I will strike and make you proud, Father. He raised a clawed hand . . . then froze.

The human had lifted its head—to stare him down!

Snorting, Locrian stiffened back, his urge to kill seized by the roil of eerie shapes and shadows within the creature's eyes as it watched him with a keen, terror-stricken awareness. Cognizance. Perception. Sense. It knew—and it understood! Locrian gave a horrified cry. Bane of darkness! The master was dead wrong—these humans had souls!

Quickly, he snatched it up, tucked it to his body, and scuttled backward through the opening. The stench of death wrenched his insides. He retched, then grimaced at the mournful human wails and the baleful howls of his kin. Shame surged through him, face contorted with torment and confusion.

He raced away.

Up the forest slopes he ran, crashing through thickets and bounding over fallen trees, faster and faster, farther and farther, until he crested the hill and sped toward the full light of the two suns. The noise grew distant, the fetor less.

When he could no longer hear the murderous rampage, Locrian slowed beside the banks of an iridescent stream and spied a trunk hollowed with age. He buried the human deep within its protection, then stumbled back, grasping his head. No. It can't be—it can't! They aren't supposed to be aware, they aren't supposed to have souls!

But this one did. And so he fled.

Locrian raced through the wilderness, league after league, impelled by disgrace and blinded by the vain hope he could somehow escape the sensation of change stirring within and distance himself from the prior events. But he couldn't, and he collapsed, breathless in defeat, wincing at the haunting image of the human's soul burned into his mind.

Beliefs shattered, and terror seized him.

Locrian no longer knew who he was.

MYNAE, NORTHLANDS

240C FIRST 1

The newborn's cry broke the still of the night. An excited murmur filled the township.

Those awake for the birth gathered on the grass before their leader's manor house, the Center, while others rushed to spread the word to the farthest reaches of the city walls. More arrived and the crowd grew. Through a lively babble, expectant gazes watched the Center's second-level window, whence the glorious sound had come. Assembled beneath the light of the two full moons, the people waited and wondered.

A soft wind heard the cries. It whispered toward the township, over its walls, and through the bedchamber window, where it dissipated near the new mother who rested on the bed, breaths labored and legs stretched.

“We've done it, Eden,” said her lifemate, Donovan. “We've done it.”

Eden rested one arm across her sweaty brow and grasped Donovan's hand. She closed her eyes, smiled, and nodded. The leader smoothed the covers over his lifemate's body to warm her, then gave a pleased glance at the midwife, Abigale.

“At last,” he said, “a successor to Mynae.”

Abigale dipped her hands into a nearby basin of elixir to rinse them and, in the liquid's arced glow, watched the infant severed from its mother squirm upon the foot of the mattress. Worry creased her brow.

“My child,” Eden said and propped herself onto one elbow. She beckoned with her fingers. “Swathe my child and give him to me.”

Abigale dried her hands and fetched a fresh wrap from the side table, swaddled the infant and placed it onto Eden's bosom. She stepped back with a frown.

“Donovan,” Eden whispered, drawing the newborn's cheek to her lips, “he's so beautiful.”

“Your face, my love. I see your face in his.”

A tap-tap-tap of wood against wood broke into the moment, and an old woman hobbled in. Walking stick in hand, she paused to tighten her cloak around her hunched shoulders, then regarded the child with a grin and a light wrinkle of her nose. She lifted her gaze to the leader and spoke, her voice as withered as she.

“With what name will you honor your special gift?” She shuffled closer. “After all, that name will be known forever.”

“Orenda!” Donovan smiled, reached out, and grasped her hand. “He's simply magnificent. I can't believe he's finally here.” Orenda studied him for a silent moment, then regarded the infant again. Her grin returned, graced by a subtle laugh that drifted across the room.

Eden scowled, clutching her newborn. “Why are you laughing at our child?” she said.

“Oh, Eden. No, no.” Orenda waved a dismissive hand. “I laugh not at the child,” she said and gestured toward the midwife. “Have you not told them yet, Abigale?”

“What?” Donovan's gaze flitted between them. “Told us what?”

Orenda crouched on her rigid knees, weight upon the walking stick, her muted iridescent eyes coming level with his. “What you've received will surpass all of your expectations,” she said.

“My expectations?” His brow furrowed. “Allowing my Eden to bear a child is enough. What more could we want?”

“A male heir,” Eden said firmly. “And that's what's been granted us, right?” But when no one answered, Eden dug into the wrap and parted the baby's thighs. With a snarl of disgust, she thrust the wailing newborn away. “You deceiving hag! You gave us your word!”

“Yes.” Orenda straightened. “I did give you my word, and an heir is what I've granted you.”

“But, Orenda!” Donovan caught her arm. “A female heir? By the Maker, you're a woman of time! You know only males take the seat of—”

“Change,” she said, “has been brought about by the wind.”

“Change?” Donovan shook his head. “What change? When did anything change?”

Eden spat. “Pah! Don't listen to her! She's full of lies. She's always been full of lies.”

“What don't you understand?” Orenda said over Eden's protests. “Your barren lifemate has given birth to your successor, Donovan. Just as you had beseeched and I had promised.”

“But . . . a female?” He stared, and Orenda lifted her crooked finger to him.

“Heed my word. Only by the Maker's grace was I able to pluck this child's soul from the noble star of Maris for you, and plant it into that”—she pointed to Eden—“scarred womb. You will raise her as you would a male, teach her the ways of your township and confide in her the secrets of leaders past. You will, because you have no other choice.”

“She won't be accepted.”

“She'll be accepted, then revered once she's completed her tasks.”

“But—”

“No, Donovan.” Orenda's expression hardened. “You have no other choice.”

Donovan faltered. He peered at Eden, saddened, who glared at their crying infant now tucked in the midwife's arms. The shuffle of feet and the tap-tap-tap of a walking stick sounded once more. Eden spat again.

“We'll promise nothing!” she yelled as Orenda hobbled through the bedchamber doorway and out into the corridor. “Nothing! You hear me? You broke your word to us; we'll keep no promise to you.” The door clicked shut and Donovan's shoulders sagged. Eden began to sob. Abigale stepped forth, hesitant, and held the infant out to her.

“But, Eden,” she said, “what's to be her name? The heir must have a name.”

“Name her what you want,” Eden scoffed. “That's no child of mine.” And she shifted her back to them.

Abigale's worried gaze drifted to Donovan, who lifted his daughter from her arms and gently pressed the infant's cheek to his chest, drew in a calming breath and leaned his head back. The baby's cries began to subside.

“Marisa,” he said at last and pointed to the bright star that hung beneath the larger of the two moons. “If her soul came from Maris, then she shall be known to all as Marisa.” He nestled the newborn beneath his chin, stroking flame-red hair as fine as down, and added in a whisper, “You, my little one, will be my Star of the Heavens.” Then he turned his back on Eden and, without a glance behind, carried his daughter—the intended future leader of Mynae—from the room.

*  *  *
The Perfect Player is available at Amazon and Amazon UK for Kindle!

Indie author shout out: Hey, hey everyone! Come take a walk on the cyberpunk side with Tyro Vogel's novelette, Extatica. Wild and strange and sexy, all wrapped into one. [please note: mature audiences only] Available at Smashwords, pay what you'd like!

Word of the week: cantankerous \kan-ˈtaŋ-k(ə-)rəs, kən-\ - adjective - (hear it!) - :  difficult or irritating to deal with 

Two Months, Too Little, Too Soon to Tell

Hark and hear ye, thus and so, lo and behold and other random old exclamations connected by conjunctions!

Two months since the release of The Perfect Player, two months since Marisa and Locrian, Donovan and Eden, Lamont and Daft, Throe, Abigale, Ariana, Kahlil and Tayib have snagged the hearts and minds of those I’ve lovingly coined as “my underground readership.”

Yes, a modest cluster of actual readers—many of whom I know, though some of whom are still strangers—truly like my novel. Even those who aren’t fantasy readers! And here I was worried about its reception. Well, you know . . . demons and death and destruction and all that, it’s hard not to worry . . .

So how fairest the book thus far, you ask? Well, it fairest fairly well, thank you. Absolutely by no means is it a lifestyle supporter; not even a decent paycheck, really. Modest returns, all told.

Honestly, if I were forced at popgun-point to sit down and figure the amount of time spent near-perfecting the book in relation to the amount of profit its taken in? Well . . . let’s just say minimum wage has never been that low.

Not even close.

In fact, no one in his right mind would ever work for such laughably pitiful wages.

Fortunately, authors aren’t usually in their right minds, and readers often benefit from our crazy love for writing until our fingers fall off and our minds turn to baby mush as we forgo sleep and sustenance . . . um, well, everything except coffee, that is.

But you know what? After much hemming and hawing and grumbling and fuming, and strong (albeit brief) disappointment in the work-to-monetary reward ratio, I’ve come to accept what I’ve always known in my heart: the story lives because of its readers.

Currently, it’s in the hands of 640 people (both sold and through giveaways) . . . and that’s 640 more readers it has now, than if I’d continued to crack my skull against the brick wall of trad-publishing rejections.

So, where to now? Best advice I’ve ever heard: Release your first book, start your second. Sounds simple, right?

Yes . . . well . . . um . . .

*ahem*

Hmph! Right. Go ahead, you try working with a cantankerous red-haired teen who flatly refuses to crawl out of bed until she feels so inclined, then demands her story be told in first person—period. [insert spitting action here]

*sigh*

At least I’d managed to talk her out of a retelling in present tense . . . for now.

Three-Part Perfect Player Post, Parsed and Pieced by a Persnickety Pest

PART THREE

IT ALL COMES FULL CIRCLE
(read the first and second parts here)

So, after months and months and months of in-depth studying, armed with my super-fancy, now-polished, brand-spanking new manuscript (having been numerous times thoroughly critiqued and beta-read) and a fine-tuned query letter I’d altered time and again to fit the individual needs of each agent and publisher, I submitted everything a second time, sat back to wait, and . . .

No—slam!

No—slam!

No—slam!

No—slam!

. . . it was the same damned thing all over again.

*sigh*

Well, at least no one called me a squeegee.

“Do it right, or do not do it at all,” my muse had said to me.

Of course. By all means. And we’re all familiar with that saying: “If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”

So this, patient readers, brings me completely full-circle, back to my first post made on November 11th, 2012.

Only it hasn’t begun. It’s finally finished.

Once 365 days left, now none. Short story collections are all out and available.

And that ice-cold water I’d plunged into? It’s woken me up to things I’d never before considered: all those whatchamacallits, doohickeys, and whoozywhatsits concerning the publishing business, things I once believed were reserved only for agents, editors, and publishers.

Pfft. Well, dammit, I’m a writer . . . and an editor and a proofreader, and now a cover designer, a formatter (hmm, is that even a word?), a marketer, a publisher (the last four, fairly non-professional, mind you) . . . still learning things, of course. But already I have learned so much, and will continue to do so over the next decade. Period. (Or full stop.)

Whereas ten years prior, I would never have envisioned sitting and planning (and learning!) all that went with publishing my own work, I have now done so, and again, will continue to do so over the next decade.

Yes, I’m still determined. Yes, I’m still sometimes frustrated. Yes, I’m still occasionally perplexed. Yes, I’m still jittery, having drunk so much coffee over the year my eyeballs are now floating. But am I scared yet?

Nope. Wasn’t scared 365 days ago, not scared now. Publishing a novel is a far cry from a natural disaster, and is unlikely to cause personal harm, and it’s definitely not politics (unless you write political thrillers) nor a bunch of angry circus clowns driving heavy machinery through the woods. Trust me, if it were, I’d abandon it—post haste!

It’s indie [author] publishing . . . that ever-hopeful sliver of light shining through the publishing back door, beckoning just the right type of stubborn writer to crash through with a pissed-off war cry on her lips. No more near-impossibly high hoops held aloft by subjective gatekeepers, no more smacking my head against the brick wall of endless rejections, and the contract fairy has long since died, rest her sorry little soul.

Yes. Indie [author] publishing. Cut the middle. Reach the readers. Period. (Or full stop!)

Well, my hell-spawn demons may never overrun the world. But hopefully they will be enjoyed by my ultimate bottom line and true reason I’d plunged face-first into the ice-cold, now partially charted waters of indie [author] publishing: Dark fantasy readers.

So come, follow me. Mayhem awaits. And please, do mind the shards of fragile brains that I’ve left behind on the floor—you know, those parts poisoned by insistent, repeated claims of, “No, you can’t!”—and enter beneath the stone archway to the dark fantasy world that’s been caged up in my mind for so, so, so long.

Yes, The Perfect Player: Book One of the Caendorian World, is now available.

Please, I implore you . . . Enjoy.

Download via Amazon (Kindle - free to Amazon Prime members!)

Read the thoughts of those unwitting minds I’ve snagged (reviews)

• Goodreads
• Wordweaver
• The Bearded Scribe

Read the prologue and chapter one – for free! Click here.

Quote from Dr. Seuss

Three-Part Perfect Player Post, Parsed and Pieced by a Persnickety Pest

PART TWO

DO IT RIGHT, OR DO NOT DO IT AT ALL
(read part one here)

Thus and so, alas and stuff, numerous years zipped by. . . .

Aw, hell, they didn’t zip. They evaporated quicker than cheese on Venus, and in those abundance of evaporative years I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and sneezed, and wrote, and ate, and wrote, and slept, and wrote, and built a house, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more. [← All practice writing, truth be told!] And hey, in that time, I even bore a son (with whom I share a forthcoming novel), and still I wrote, and wrote, and wrotewrotewrotewrotewrotewrotewrotewrote, [← novel focused] until . . .

KER-POW!

My computer blew up—I mean, I finished.

“Hurray!” I exclaimed in a happy voice to no one in particular. “I’m finished! Finished! Finiiiiished!”

At last! All of those images, memories, and sensations; those odd names and even odder people; those strange places and objects, bizarre situations and events, and anything else—all mysteriously ‘sent’ from this ‘otherworldly world’ supposedly beyond the reach of others’ ‘perceptions’—everything that had once converged to clash discordantly in my aching brain, had finally managed to melt into one mondo-mega-massive mind-mangling—

“Mess.”

“Mess?!”

I gaped at the matron with the muted iridescent eyes and silvery-black hair—Orenda, I’d learned her name was—who stood as calmly as a cucumber, though much less bumpy and green.

“The first tale,” she replied. “Marisa’s tale . . .” She folded her veined hands atop her crooked walking stick. “It’s a pure and utter mess.”

“But—” I gaped all the more. “The people,” I cried. “The places, the things!” Ach—dammit! I didn’t write in just nouns! I grumbled and fumbled and fumed, while Orenda gazed at me, annoying humanoid cuke that she was. “I did what you told me!” I blurted, and thrust a finger at my computer. “I wrote everything down!”

“And now you must shape it.”

“Shape it?!”

“Yes,” she replied, rather bluntly, “for your readers won’t quite understand it . . . yet.”

She wiggled her gnarled fingers above my keyboard, dusting it with that weird, mystical quick-vanishing silvery craft glitter stuff, before she leaned in to my monitor and sniffed, nose wrinkled.

“What,” I snapped. “Does it smell funny, too?”

“No.” Orenda eased back, face darkening. “The events”—she tsked—“they are all wrong.”

“Wrong?!”

“You must listen—”

“Listen?!”

“—observe—”

“Observe?!”

“—and learn.”

“Learn?!”

Thwack!

“Ow!” I flinched. “What the hell?!” I winced, glowering at her. What in the name of everything high and mighty did she just smack me upside the head with the top-crook of her walking stick for?!

“Tut!” she said sharply, pupil-less eyes ablaze. She seemed taller, straighter, more frightening somehow. “Do not repeat everything I say. And neither use double punctuation, nor split your infinitives.”

“Split my—?!”

The top-crook of the walking stick jerked up, and I cowered, fell silent, swallowed the double punctuation like a bitter pill.

Orenda lowered her walking stick—very, very slowly. “You must listen,” she insisted. “Observe and learn. Open your mind to all that you perceive from my world and yours—”

“But I did!”

“Not enough. You will find no solace, no acceptance, no peace in your current work. It is not your finest potential.”

I scowled more deeply, crestfallen.

“Do it right,” Orenda remarked, “or do not do it at all.” And with that, she shimmered out of my workspace and into the ethereal . . . wherever that was.

Alone again, I scoffed—Do it right, or do not do it at all—then flinched involuntarily at the all-too-recent memory of the hard top-crook, adding in sour afterthought, “I still think you sound like Yoda,” and though I had to admit their inner likenesses were very similar, Yoda physically resembled the cucumber Orenda pretended to be.

I dropped into my computer chair, hurt and anger simmering the hot the defiance in my gut and wounded pride in my heart. Not my best potential. Hmph! What did she know? My project was fabulous! Remarkable. Excellent. Superb, wonderful, supreme, marvelous, splendid, and every other superlative synonym for “good” ever invented.

Bar none, it was the best I had written—ever. [← Read: The only thing I’d written—ever . . . not counting those early-on, dead-end short stories.]

So I let out another snobbish ‘hmph!’ and groused into fat air. (Hey, no one ever mentions ‘fat air.’)

“I’ll show you.”

. . . and I ignorantly began to prepare my glorious manuscript for all of those big-name agents and highfalutin trade publishers the world over, knowing—yes!—without the shadow of any doubt they would love, love, love this story as much as I did. Pfft. Hell, I’d probably even have to beat them off with a stick!

A crooked walking stick. Hmph!

Thus, I submitted, and thus, I sat back to wait. . . .

MONTHS LATER . . .

No—slam!

No—slam!

No—slam!

No—slam!

. . . I swear I’d bloodied my nose on at least a thousand publishing doors . . .

No—slam!

You need an editor—slam!

Not for us—slam!

The writing didn’t grab me—slam!

Nix—slam!

Never—slam!

Send a manuscript with fewer than three grammatical errors, and we might consider it – Ha!—slam! (Yes, this happened.)

You’re a squeegee—slam! (This didn’t, but it might as well have, pointless rejections that they were.)

Time and time and time again, over and over and over and over: No, no, no, no. Slam, slam, slam, slam!

Ouch.

Defeat stank like a week-old fish, and I hated that the mystic had been right. But a stubborn nature doesn’t necessarily let one see where one’s gone wrong.

So, crushed with an ego now the size of a grain of sand, I tried one more publisher—a small publisher/editor from overseas—with the tiny hope that someone, somewhere had to like what I’d written . . . right?

Right?? (← Double punctuation!)

Right?? (← Super-emphasized double punctuation!)

Well, this particular small publisher/editor didn’t slam the door in my face. No. In fact, he booted me hard in the backside with the straight dope: My work was unpublishable because . . . and he promptly proceeded to list all the things wrong with my project.

So there I sat in the wake of his email: stunned, aghast, bewildered, flabbergasted, duly stabbed in the gut with my high hopes now ground into a bitter powder beneath his shiny cyber-shoe. My heart squeezed out its melancholy like a sodden sponge squoozen—

Then I threw my head back and wailed!

Oh, how I wailed! . . . and I beat the air with my fists, gnashed my teeth, twisted my face up in excruciating agony, all while hot tears streamed down my flushed cheeks in gushing salty waterfalls of ire, over-exaggerated by raging writer melodrama and a propensity for extra-flowery description.

Why, oh why was fate so cruel, so devious, so tasty? Where had it taken this awful downturn, when I knew I mustn’t fail in my mystic-given task? Who would write those stories needed to be told, and what would become of myself as an author? When in blue blazes had I donned an orange-and-black slicker with a pair of yellow-spotted gum boots? . . . the combination was horrible!

Then I wailed some more . . . oh, woe . . . oh, woe was I! . . . oh, woe, woe, woe was I! . . . until, well . . . I stopped.

What, you expected something more dramatic, more writerly, more exaggerative?

Pfft. No. I simply stopped—stopped wailing and moaning, bitching and complaining about life being oh-so-unfair and all that crap, buckled down, and began to learn.

And therein laid the key (which the mystic—my muse—had been correct about, of course): Listen, observe, and learn. So I sought all I could from those with the expertise to teach all the woven ins and out throughout the complexities of the writing craft. Reference book after reference book, novel after novel, critique after critique after long and sometimes gut-wrenching critique, I devoured everything I could get my brains around about the writing craft, ever-hungry, never-sated—yum, yum, yummy!—and I learned. Oh, how I learned. Learned, learned, learned. Learnity-learned-learned! . . .

. . . oh, bloody hell, this is boring.

*Devon presses the fast-forward button* [insert squiggly-whirring sounds of fast-forwarding tape recorder]

(Continued on November 11th, at yes, this time, the eleventh hour . . .)

Three-Part Perfect Player Post, Parsed and Pieced by a Persnickety Pest

PART ONE

WHO THE HECK??

Chinese philosopher, Lao-tzu, once said (originally in Chinese, of course): “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” or more correctly translated: “The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet.”

Excellent saying and very inspirational, to be sure, but . . . what happens after that single step?

One thousand freakin' miles! Have you any idea how long one thousand miles is? Approximately a third of the way across the United States—from Delaware to . . . oh, I dunno, somewhere out in Missouri.

One very long, very exhausting walk.

All right, yes, the saying is metaphorical; not many aim to hoof-it from the eastern coastline to Midwestern US, but some writers do strive to slog-it from a novel's point of inception to its final destination—published, and into the hands of a readership.

And that's how it feels: One obnoxiously long haul through several-hundred-thousand edited and re-edited words beneath ten frantically typing fingers, and holy smokes, are my fingers ever sore! So's my brain.

You see, carrying an entire fantasy world, complete with its own people and its myriad sets of circumstances and events—not to mention all of that stupid firmament junk that comes with it—squarely upon one's mind . . . it's a mighty task, I tell you!

But not one I plan to back out on. No, because I made a promise, one I will see to the very end. Death, or the completion of my collection (and other tales)—whichever comes first.

So, how did this obnoxiously long sloggish haul-of-a-journey begin? Come, let me explain . . . *author waves magical hands over readers' eyes . . . readers become woozy, entranced in a wavy, dreamlike state*

Wait! Hold on. Note: Obviously, some of this didn't actually happen. I'm a writer; I aim to entertain. Please take much of this recollection with several grains of salt, and call me in the morning.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes . . . *author waves magical hands again*

Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night. . . .

Actually, no. Nix that.

It was a bright and sunny afternoon, and there I sat at my then-old, immensely slow computer in the living room of my dinky one-bedroom apartment, click-clacking away, writing, creating, eating, smiling, no cares in the world—mid-90's, newly married, low rent, two cats, no kids, and as much glorious spare time I could ever want, when out of the blue—

Ach! Pfft!

—something tickled my brain.

I cried out, flinching. “What in the *&^%$# was that?” And slapped at the back of my head.

Mind you, now, my frequent creative brain-tickles don't normally cause me to smack my head and exclaim: “ASTERISK, AMPERSAND, CARET, PERCENT, DOLLAR SIGN, HASH TAG!” but something about this particular brain-tickle not only made me shout out strings of stupidity, but also made me whip around in my chair.

And there she stood—as old as a tortoise, though not nearly as short. Or leathery. No. In fact, the woman who stood behind my chair was rather tall for an elderly matron, with long, dark, silver-streaked hair and soft, wrinkled skin the color of parchment. One gnarled hand clutched a crooked walking stick, and her eyes, oh! how bizarre—muted iridescence that swirled as though liquid, sans pupils.

She smiled, skin creasing, bunching around well-worn laugh lines. “I have chosen you,” she said, tone smooth, voice rich—like melted chocolate. “You will write for me.”

I stared—actually, no, I flat-out gaped. Then I glanced around my teeny-tiny living space, trying to puzzle out how this strange old woman had gotten in (I swear I locked my door!) when she leaned close and whispered: “That matters not.”

I goggled. Excuse me? That mattered n—I mean, that didn't matter? Of course it mattered! God only knew how many thieves could—

“No,” she asserted, “it matters not.”

But—

“No.”

How—?

“No.”

When—?

“Tut!”

Tut?

“Shush!”

What the—?

Crooked finger shot up. Wrinkly lips pursed. Pupil-less eyes drilled into my freshly tickled brain. I stared, suspiciously. What the heck . . . could she hear my—?

“Thoughts?” Smile returned—this time, a knowing one—and I narrowed my eyes. Who was this, anyway? Or did that matter not, too? At this, her smile broadened in seeming amusement. “In time, you will discover,” she replied. 

Then she straightened against her old bones. “Five stories you will write,” she explained. “Five from my world. Knowledge and understanding—all shall be revealed through images and sensations, memories forever etched. Absorb, never alter, and always trust what you see. You must write”—she gave a slow nod—“because they must know.”

She reached over my shoulder and waved a bony hand at my computer. The air crackled, rippled, sparkled as though she had just sprinkled some silvery craft glitter, though it vanished in a trice. I cocked an eyebrow. Um . . . right. And Yoda-like, you must speak. But no sooner had I twisted in my chair to say as much, than—

Gone?

Huh. I shrugged, shook my head, and returned to my computer instead. Weirdo, I thought, until a smooth, chocolaty voice echoed in my mind: I heard that. . . . trailed by laughter so blithesome and light, it tinkled like wind chimes—oh, no, wait, it was my wind chimes, only . . . there was no wind. Curious. . . .

Ah. Thus and so, I began to write, secure in the notion that I had been chosen by . . . um . . . some strange old woman whose mysticism had instructed me on a . . . vague bunch of stuff, and offered up some blind hope that somewhere along the line I'd be visited by some images or memories or sensations or—well, I don't know now . . . it all seemed like some odd dream. I yawned. Sleepy, so sleeeepy . . .

So I lay down, sighing, snuggling into some nice, warm blankets, content in knowing I was no less crazy than the kindhearted demon who had decided to rescue one lost, misguided human soul from the fiery pits of—

My eyes snapped open. Wait—what? Demons? Lost souls? Insanity? Fiery pits? Warm blankets?

Oh. Blankets. Right. I gripped them tightly as though clutching reality itself, while my excitement began to bubble and churn. Hmm . . . it seemed things were about to become mighty interesting, indeed. . . .

* * *

Ha! You know what really happened? I wrote, discarded more than half of what I'd written, wrote again, tried out dozens of plot lines, developed vague sketches of various characters in my head, and discarded more than half of what I'd written after that, until I happened upon the starring plot line.

See? *yawn* Booorrrrring. So much more fun and entertaining to fictionalize/sensationalize/imagine what could have (not!) happened.

Now, flash-forward numerous years . . .

(Continued on November 10th . . .)