Crisis Revelations. Mining the Dregs of Resolve.

I am on the cusp of change. Not yet sure in which direction but I thought I would capture the essence before I lapse again into plodding without looking where I’m going.

‘If you want to be successful, you have to pretend you already are’

Ever been told to put on your dancing shoes and caper towards the camera? Metaphorically speaking?

I have been made brave by Viv’s blog (Zen and the art of tightrope walking) in which she questions the virtues of stoicism (the full-English in approved ‘attitude’) to venture onto my own high-wire, and examine the world that has another set of unspoken virtues- the approved conduct of the ‘indie author’.

All Indie Authors should consider the stoicism implied by a dreaded word ‘Authorpreneur.’

Before I get onto its entrenched edicts I shall have to define why, right now, I feel defeated and why this post sets out to invite contributions, commiserations and perhaps even solutions? (Hint I intend new coherent, focussed, valuable… something.)

So: Many things have contributed to my small crisis: (See, there is stoicism showing its petticoat- it feels pretty big actually)

Putting it Behind Me

After two years of close attention to the world of marketing, web design, IT mastery (well, moderate self sufficiency) blogging, guest posting, commenting, reading, reviewing… I have recently been told I have left no tracks in the web sand- in short I do not exist.

(The kind SEO searcher who discovered this offered a consolation. ‘At least you have not spoilt your first impression. You have not made one!) He disabused me of believing anything Google said, (because Google is a big stroker and would have me believe I have made veritable waves for fully three pages) and suggested I asked duckduckgo instead. Sure enough, his point was proved, I do not exist.

Branding

Like a wayward young steer I need ‘Branding’, or I will never be welcomed in the herd. It is not the books that matter but the branding of the author. ‘Think of things others would say if asked to describe you?’ Well aside from the obvious (and why should I offer insults gratis? Mine could be auctioned to Save the Children )

All suggestions here, or here, or here…

(Look ma, no genre?-The art of the unpopular?- Believing five impossible things before breakfast? Delusions of Hercules?)

Problem is, my daughters aside, how would they know without reading what I write? Or being able to find me when I don’t exist? Or even digging out (up?) the recluse who lives in darkest Somerset and could not embark upon a series if it bit her on the bum and chased her to the gate.

(Aside:I do have an idea for a fabulous TV series and I have cast Bill Nighy in the lead-he’d relish the role and yes do feel free to contact him.)

Wrestling with this for months I decided to turn aside and join NaNoWriMo for some creative distraction. Yes I finished the outline of a novella, (did not even limp to 50K, stopped and laid down its plot at 48K) and it offers a skeletal outline but one so world weary that it needs to live on spinach for a year. WHY? Because it now joins the list of the next books that will be unfound and unread.

Going Round in Circles

Looking at the Optimist- see it smiles and wears a hat in halcyon days

So no escape. Circumnavigation of the central problem. How to wave without seeming to, the mastery of the sleight of hand. Finding they who are already searching?

Caution: They would not imagine such a book so would not be searching. If they fell over it they would say …………………………(Feel free to improvise in the comments)

Hence back to the first subject-Stoicism.

It seems to me we Indie Authors are signed up to these ten commandments (plus one) Nobody showed me before I signed up. Bastards.

Thou shalt anticipate author hood by building a solid platform (before you have any hooks to climb it, spiked shoes, or a windcheater for the long winter’s blast. Intentions are two a penny, solidity speaks.)
Thou shalt acquire a tribe of ten thousand followers on Twitter and Facebook ( But without a book available? Stick to cakes and recipes-you can crib those.)
Thou shalt exceed the traditionally published authors by being better written, better dressed, more adventurous.(Safe here, nobody will find out one way or the other)
Thou shalt write works with a keen eye to the market you have already seduced. (Do cakes and recipes foster an interest in evolution? Baking is a busy business.)
Thou shalt master the Amazon category minefield.(It may not anticipate the category you have been adventurous with. Write nicely to Amazon with suggestions.)
Thou shalt produce at least a book a year, and preferably in series.(Latest sure fire-winner- of- 1000 signatories- a- month advice: ‘To accumulate an email list give away your first, follow with a gift of the second a day later, in order to hook a readership for the many to follow. Sorry forgot to mention you must start in your twenties, or write three at a time. (‘Note to Self: Remember to bar anyone over 65.)
Thou shalt find the money for editing, and cover design and they shall be exemplary examples of what is already in abundance and look good in a thumbnail. It’s all anyone will be likely to skim past.
Thou will understand the sprinkling of keywords and have an ear to the ground of SEO so that though wilt play harmoniously without banging anything- strictly strings.( How about scored for base trombone, viola and a snare…)
Thou shalt persist in offering something of value to acquire a mailing list that will be susceptible to thy next offer and thou may post many portraits of yourself behaving as though chased by papparazzi lest we forget your name. Tip: Be photogenic or at least ‘interesting’ Drag? Indecent? Rear view?
Thou shalt not deviate by questioning these precepts, nor challenge them but thou canst always give up and drop out.
(Thou wilt not be missed.)
‘Just a little further’ he said. Left or Right?
Sorry- didn’t quite catch.

A Troubadour’s Haunting Lament

Writing: Why Do We Write What We Do? – The Compulsion of A Story

by Philippa Rees on November 20, 2014 in Writing (Thurs) This was first posted last Thursday in the Alliance of Independent Authors Newsletter.

In a moving post about the inspiration behind novels, indie author Philippa Rees describes what triggered her remarkable literary novel A Shadow in Yucatan: an experience so profound that it ultimately made her question whether she could regard herself as the true author of the book.

Why do we write what we do?

A prolific Canadian writer friend accused me (in a kindly manner) of trying to ‘write for immortality’. ‘Nothing lasts, except you’ he said. I think he hoped to persuade me to make my life easier, and write forgettable vampire books that might have a hope of readers. So why did I republish a modern Under Milkwood after it had languished unread for eight years? Was life not difficult enough?

Let me take you back to its genesis so you might understand this resurrection of a favoured child.

The Story Behind the Story

In 1969 I was living is a windblown shack on a desolate beach in Yucatan with two children, both under four, sleeping in a hammock and keeping a bottle by my ‘bed’ that I could smash against a wall as a weapon in an emergency. There was no electricity, but a Stygian darkness after sundown. The bottle also held a single candle. My nearest and only neighbours were members of the Tonton Macoute, the Haitian henchmen of Papa Doc Duvalier, known for easy murders, gang rape (and voodoo). I was hanging out for a divorce and waiting for a summons when it had been achieved. The sharks that cruised past with scimitar fins were waiting too. For me. Every night black hand prints, dipped in pitch, were left on the shutters of the shack.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, a family arrived to set up tents nearby. It afforded great comfort. They looked like ordinary people, an American couple with a cluster of small children, minded by a ‘nanny’. She was neither family nor friend, and too mature to be a minion. Puzzling. Her hours ‘off’ were late at night when we got talking, with wine if we struck lucky.

Then she told me her story which made my own, comparatively, a walk in the park. It was a story so unlikely, so mythical and personally tragic that it lay untouched in the mind. My divorce came through. We kissed goodbye, and I never saw her again.

Ten years later I had remarried and had a child; a last ever child. In that post-delivery haze of delicate and transparent euphoria, floating above the ground, in the attic of a modest Victorian semi in Wiltshire, I remembered that blazing beach of light and terror in which a young woman told me of the loss of her baby. My own lay in a Moses basket at my side.

So I wrote it for her, a tribute to her tragedy, and it flowed mixed with milk and gall.It was the due paid, and yes, I wanted her mythical story as immortal as modest words could make it. I was blest, she bereft. Her suffering was mythical. I still hope one day she might find it.

It almost wrote itself over a compulsive three weeks of sleepless nights, and I hardly changed a word. I am still far from sure I was really the ‘author.’ If you read the book you can decide who might have been.

To follow that generous coverage can I add an equally generous dollop of cream in the form of a review by Chris Rose. One of those ‘pinch-me- don’t- quite- believe-it reviews that vindicated the madness of belief that a poetic novella written in the hope of a BBC still remembering Dylan Thomas might try again some long- form poetry.Still I’ll settle for ‘a masterpiece’ for now!

To read Chris Rose’s Review travel here

To read others (equally generous) go here.

The book is among those offered for free for one day December 9th (Read Tuesday) You can find the authors contributing their books here

Reason for Hope?

This Ted talk revives a little hope that all is not entirely lost! Eight minutes of inspiration by ‘democratising access to information’ about the vitally alive young group who devised a ‘space program’ in a garage. Wonderful. Do watch!

READ TUESDAY December 9th

‘Read Tuesday’ invites authors to gift or discount books for December 9th. An author give away, launched by generous people. Check out the author contributors here.

Oyez Oyez! Bring a book, Buy a book.

All links provided. Making it effortless to discover your preferred genre, check out a book, and get it for nothing or very little.

The Mystery of Water- Stan Kapuscinski

Since I have taken the plunge into the global obsession to turn out yet another novel in NaNoWriMo water seemed a good subject with which to distract my readers. This, as usual, original piece was blogged by Stan Kapuscinski a week or so back. I thought it small genius- perhaps big genius.

The Mystery of Water

Someone once said that divinity is like water, that it always finds its lowest level. So it is with us, fragments of the eternal, omnipresent Consciousness.

Imagine a drop in an ocean. An ocean that reaches beyond all horizons. An ocean that is limitless—that stretches to infinity. Once, you and I were drops of water in that ocean. We’ve never experienced anything other than water, caressing us on all sides. We floated happily without a single care. For countless aeons we could only experience other drops, hovering, suspended all around us. And then a strange thing happened. We have been lifted, almost weightless, from our home. We evaporated.

For a while we wandered the blue yonder above, experiencing the warmth of the sun, gusts of wind. We have become rarified elements, suspended in an environment quite strange to us. No matter, there have been many before us visiting these environs.

Soon we combined, again, into drops. We gained weight and fell down as rain. Now really strange things began to unfold.

We penetrated the soil. Soon, we were absorbed by strange tendrils. Some of us were drawn up, through inner channels of these strange beings. Some of us rose up and gave leaves their vitality.

We gave them Life!

Gradually, over eons of time, rivers carried some of us back to the endless ocean. Some of us lingered behind. We evaporated again. We liked giving Life. Again, we have been absorbed by many plants.

And then an even stranger thing happened.

To read more go to the source here