The latest in my series of unique adventures put me in front of a room full of writers, to give a talk about science fiction and paranormal fiction as a part of a writer’s workshop series. I’ll admit, the vague and massive topic made me a touch nervous. I had a fear that somewhere there was a detailed note describing what I was actually supposed to talk about, and the class would sit and watch me with puzzlement as I talked about exactly the wrong thing.Continue reading “Learning From the Front of the Class”

The continuing quest for new readers is at times very tiring. It’s no easy feat to convince hordes of strangers to invest time (and a little bit of money) in your writing. But you have to do it,  because writers need audiences.

Oh sure, storytelling is a self-fulfilling pursuit to an extent. So is daybecauesdreaming. If internal satisfaction was enough, then most books would stay unwritten, floating in their author’s head in a nebulous cloud of possibility. Committing those ideas to concrete form on paper is driven by a need to share that story.

So, with a song in my heart and some promotional material in my hand, I set up a table at our local Comicon (Forest City Comicon) and gently hawked my wares to the attendees. Some people stopped to chat, many smiled nervously and walked on, and a bunch took a promotional bookmark that me and my tablemate foisted upon them. (Here’s what the fancy bookmark looked like)

But there was one interaction in particular that made the day worthwhile. I was sitting at the table munching away at a mediocre hot dog in a very stale bun when a young girl, probably around 9 years old, came up to the table with her little sister in tow. The older girl was in a Sailor Jupiter costume and had a very serious and earnest look on her face. She locked eyes with me in a feat of rare bravery for someone so small and said “your book sounds interesting and I think I might like it,. Can you tell me more about it please?”

My dad instincts wanted me to hug her and praise her for being so brave and well spoken, but I wisely chose not to hug the tiny stranger across the table. Instead I gave her a quick summary of the books. It was an interesting challenge to condense my normal rambling explanation into something a child could absorb on the spot, even a bright child like the girl in front of me. She listened closely with her attention unbroken throughout the whole exchange, and when I finished, she thanked me and walked off with her sister. Less than 5 minutes later, she returned with the rest of her family. Her dad asked her “are you sure that this is what you want?” and she nodded fiercely. Dad handed over the last of her allowance and she promptly handed it to me to buy her own copy of WitchKids.

And that was the best sale I have ever made. Thanks, Sailor Jupiter.

I sat around last night envisioning myself on death’s door. What? Oh, sure, like I’m the only one who plays out morbid scenarios in their mind occasionally. Every once in a while, my subconscious shouts “hey, we’re gonna die someday. Wonder how that’ll play out?” and, being the overly creative fellow that I am, I oblige my psyche by fleshing out the grisly details. Did you know that Anthony Burgess, the author of “A Clockwork Orange”, was once diagnosed with terminal cancer and wrote 5 books in ONE YEAR so that his wife would have some kind of money after he kicked off. (As an aside, he got better from the terminal cancer). With that story for source material, and my ongoing unhappiness with my own work ethic, my imagination took off.

Last night’s mortality scenario included a prolonged stay in a hospital room where I was feverishly churning out new writing in a race against the clock. The small sense of pride that came from the idea of working hard in the face of death was an awkward sensation. Have to find the upside to everything,

But then I paused my daydream to give myself a reality check. Maybe, I’d be a little bit happier in the here and now if I put a little more effort into working while I wasn’t on my deathbed. To use an automotive metaphor, I am a car in 1st gear trying to go up a hill. Other cars are passing me because they are working harder. I’m content to putter up the hill because the road isn’t collapsing behind me, and the light at the top of the hill is going to stay green forever. But it’s not.

I know, I know, “time is short” is not a revelatory statement. You have to make do with what you have and get your priorities straight. That’s where my troubles lie. I’m wired to prioritize pleasure and comfort instead of meaningful work. Something from a long time ago, probably during childhood, convinced me that happiness and nice things are going to disappear, so I gorge on them. I eat every meal like a fatter, hungrier man is on his way to eat my food. I hate to pause a video game and leave the room for fear of it vanishing before I return.

So that’s where the scarcity confusion is, and where I need to put in some work. No one is coming to take my happiness away. There will be plenty of time for fun, I promise, but there are books to write first.(and laundry and dishes and vacuuming and volunteering).