Publication: Scary Unknown Planet!

 

pub·li·ca·tion  

/ˌpəbliˈkāSHən/

Noun The preparation and issuing of a book, journal, piece of music, or other work for public sale. A book, journal, etc. issued for public sale.

Synonyms issue - edition - publishing - promulgation - release

Yes, I've been 'Promulgated' in an anthology of romantic tales called Passion's Prisms: Tales of Love and Romance (Free Kindle Version, today only, by the way, at Amazon) and I'm slightly euphoric.  After all, publication is publication. 

Now, romantical stories aren't usually my thing, but I had one in me and I sent it off to Mandy White, caretaker of Passion's Prisms.  I expected an email from her saying 'Ack! This is terrible! We can't use it.'  but just the opposite happened, and she included it in the book.  For that I am grateful.

As I've mentioned before in a post at Bloggo David, I've successfully avoided publication for the longest time. Not for lack of wanting, but for lack of something truly finished and done.  I have lots of stories built up over the years, most in various states of disorder.  But my meeting with Sasha Jackson Author Jill Edmondson really put things in perspective.  She said, 'why aren't you published yet? Shit or get off the pot!'.

Okay. Ouch.

It's one thing when your mom tells you that, but an actual published author? That cuts you down some, and it's a great kick in the ass of perspective. 

Why write if no one will ever read you?  Good question.  What the hell are you doing!?

So I made it my mission to get into print as much as I can this year.  A late New Year's resolution.  I hope you all follow along and do the same.  

Passion's Prism: Tales of Love and Romance 

This anthology features me and many others, short stories and poems about the trials and tribs of life in love.  I'm told it's for a charity, and I have to look into that, but for now you can get it FREE at Amazon.  It's a Kindle Version, which is interesting because I don't own a Kindle!  Anyway, here's a list of the featured Authors: 

Table of Contents

Introduction ~ by Mandy White
Advice From a Hopeful Romantic ~ by A.K. Wallace
Dance With Desire ~ Poetry by Suzanne Parlee
Ode to a Greek God ~ by Marla Todd
Deep Wood Shade ~ Poetry by Diana Garcia
Letter to a Lost Love ~ by Diana Garcia
Memoria ~ Poetry by A.K. Wallace
In Dreams ~ by A.K. Wallace
Poetry by Daniel E. Tanzo
The First Moment of a Long Love ~ by David Hunter
Cicada Song ~ Poetry by Suzanne Parlee
Prairie Passion ~ by Mandy White
Musings on Love and Loss ~ by Juliette Kings
Poetry by Daniel E. Tanzo
Don’t Lose Your Head ~ by Michael Haberfelner
Sensual Healing ~ Poetry by Suzanne Parlee
The Gift ~ by Veronica Veil
Song of My Soul ~ by Rob Betz
Jenny and Frankie Take a Trip ~ by David W. Stone
The Travelers ~ by Marla Todd
Heart-Shaped Box ~ by Mandy White
Let Me Kiss You ~ Poetry by Anand Matthew
The Summer Soldier ~ by Marie Frankson
The Shadow Always Knows ~ Poetry by A.K. Wallace
Dark Politics ~ by Marla Todd
Love Storm Born ~ by David W. Stone
Poetry by Daniel E. Tanzo
Crystal Hearts ~ by Marla Todd
Love in a Mist ~ J. Harrison Kemp

 David, over and out.

Ray Bradbury Humanitas Award Speech

I thought I'd post the speech that Ray Bradbury gave when he received his Humanitas Award ... seems like a good day for it.

Dear Lord,

Help us to remember the gift of excellence that lies within us if we but call and bring it forth. Help us to recall that in excellence is surprising profit, for the soul, for the mind, and for life that we live, beside that soul and with that mind, help us to know that only in our loves can we create and out of that creation, change some stray, small part of the world we touch.


Remind us to know that the more we create out of love an idea, the better our work, our lives, our influence becomes. Tell us again, for we forget that work done without love is stillborn, mindless and lost in the very hour of its deliverance.

Help us to love ideas, and the creation, even as we love our neighbors and because we are proper creators ourselves. Tell us to lie down with that one inescapable person, our lovely selves, knowing that if the work of the previous day was a surprise of joy we stumbled upon through curiosity, true need and rare zest, and the energy that comes from wild discovery. We are good company for the night.

Teach us not to hesitate atop cliffs but to leap into our writing without wings. And teach us with passion and love, how to build wings on the way down, hoping for a soft landing.

We ask these things because poor creatures that we are, we do forget, and must remind ourselves, as you remind us that love is the final answer and excellence its hallmark and profit, which is peace of mind, its everlasting residue.

Please Lord hear this, amen.

Calmly marching off the Precipice

I was talking to a guy recently who claimed he was a writer – something a lot of people do, unfortunately.  He works security at my place of business.

I heard in passing that he was a writer, and when I asked him he told me it was true, but he hadn’t written anything in two years, saying that he was not in the right ‘environment’ for it.

Now, to those reading this it sounds like an excuse, but it’s not.  By ‘environment’ I knew exactly what he meant, and it’s not a padded cell, it’s not a secluded island near Fiji, nor is it a commune in northern California where you meditate and eat granola every day and write random thoughts down and study your Ka; it’s about having the right ‘people’ around you.

I’ve often been stultified by the persons that surround me – many just average citizens with no interest in creative thought. It’s not a knock, it’s just how it is.  And if you’re a writer or an artist or any kind of Imagination-based creature, you know the feeling.  You have all these ideas in your head, popping, crackling, waiting to burst forth, and so you look for a receptive ear.  When there are none around and you’re left with your crazy thoughts all to yourself, you start to feel dulled; like a knife being raked against concrete.

But this security guard, upon talking to me about writing, brightened a little.   I gave him one of my stories and he took it, said he’d read it a few times to get all the nuances out of it.

When I talked to him on his next patrol, we began a discussion about my story.  He began pacing the floor, eyes to the ceiling, talking about writing.  And I knew; this guy is a real writer.  I recognize the latent mania, the nervous movement, the insane desire to get thoughts down, to write stories.

I figure that’s why having a writing community is so important.  I mean, who wants to go it alone, anyway?    What fun is that?  I’ve always secretly longed for those Kerouac days, when the local writers and artists gathered in coffee shops and discussed stories, ideas, the nature of the universe and so on.  It makes you feel part of something, a movement; a movement of writers, actually.  Like a flight of birds soaring together.

And then I met another writer at work, Alberto.

The passion that this man displays when he talks writing and literature is astounding. He tells me he’s read over 1000 books, written 200 stories.

This time it was MY turn to pace the floor.  When hearing him discuss the craft and how he loves it I instantly wanted to bolt out the door and get home to my office and write.  The feeling is infectious.  A kind of electric charge hits your ass.

And so, I now have a small posse of creative writers with which I may cavort and share ideas.  Maybe it’ll come to nothing, maybe it’ll lead to something.  I know that since I met these two my production has increased – I’ve averaged about a story a week, although that could also be attributed to Ray Bradbury’s admonishment ‘Write 52 stories a year. You can’t write 52 bad stories, can you?’

And also, no one else is going to do this for me, so I have to kick my own ass, as physically impossible as it is.  If I waited for a lightening bolt to the temple I’ll be an old man before I get anything published.

So calmly I go marching off the precipice.   Would you like to come with me?

Unrelated Madness:

Check out Bloggo David || Recent posts: The Extraordinary Life of Inanimate Objects and The Old Man in waiting

Let's Write Some Creepy Stuff this October

 Brought to you by the Halloween Arts and Horror Association (HAHA)

  

I'm opening up the Campfire Pages in October to anyone who wants to share a scary story. Just DM me on twitter at @TheWritersDen, or leave a message in the comments section below. Don't send attachments in your email, just cut and paste the story into the message box. Oh, and keep it at 2000-4000 words or less; and make it scary... so scary it'll make Stephen King's toes curl with fear!

 If you have a funny or even campy Halloween story, that's great too ...

Hoping to hear from you soon. I'm off to write some scary stuff....

Note: If it's a really great lengthy story, I'll consider posting it in parts.   If you have a story posted on your own site and want to post a link instead, that's okay too. 

Get Scribbling!

David Rants about Books. Cover your Eyes.

It happens every Sunday; I take a lazy afternoon walk to the Goodwill store down the street to see what they have in their book department, and I spend an hour or so poking through them, mulling, considering, and finally deciding.

By deciding I mean I stand there with an arm full of books and wheedle them down to two or three. I flip through them again and again, trying to choose the ones to leave behind. This is never easy; today I left behind East of Eden, The Poisonwood Bible, and An Elmore Leonard novel called Stick. I even abandoned a Frank McCourt book called Teacher Man. Why, you may ask? Why not just get ‘em all? They're all discounted.

It’s my shelf at home; still full of books, some read, some not. Some half-read. They are jilted lovers. Yes, guilt assails even book readers.

Of course reading an Elmore Leonard novel sounds exciting, but what about that Karen Blixen novel still left unread? It was a Pulitzer winner for crying out loud! And Empire Falls? Richard Russo also won a Pulitzer for that. All wonderfully well-written books, waiting to love me and entertain me.

And you’d besmirch their good names by cheating on them, getting more books to read, new and sexy books, when you haven’t finished the ones you already have? For shame, my brain yammers.

But this is book love. Freakish book love. Dare I say, freakish book love/hoarding.

And don’t talk to me about ‘getting rid’ of books. I’ve tried that, and I end up parting with one, maybe two books, mostly Dan Brown novels or anything by John Grisham. The Steinbecks and the Fitzgeralds have been cemented in place. I tried moving them once and broke three fingers.

The truth is, I like books. Shelves full of them. Hell, I’d fill an entire ROOM with them if I could, but I only have an apartment with limited space and a minimalist roomie who shuns clutter (practiced in the art of Feng Shui) so I have to be conservative. And forget libraries; every time I take books out (Like ‘Catch 22’) I never bring them back. I get too attached. How could I take that book back after all we’ve been through? We went to bed together! Let someone else’s hands touch your pages? I’d rather die (Somewhere, a retired Librarian is still seething about that copy of Cannery Row that I never returned in 1993).

As for e-Readers, I understand thousands of books can be stored in one. That’s wonderful. Marvelous. But Curling up in bed with a hard piece of plastic ain’t my idea of comfortable. I love the soft squish of paper, the physical turning of a page, the smell of old ink and pulp. Even NEW ink and pulp.

I’m not a backwards Grinch, I do have an e-Reader. I am not anti-tech. I take it to work with me, on the bus, the doctor’s office. A lot of places. I even turn it on occasionally.

The funny thing is, I keep downloading new books without finishing the ones already on there, the jilted ones.

Guilt assails even an e-Reader reader.

Finally! The Truth About Writer's Block:

For Your Consideration: A Quicky Post