Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Arguing with Memes.

A Facebook friend posted a meme about how nice it would be for his friends to have secret tunnel to his house.

Shudder. This is an alien thought and emotion to me. I can't imagine anything worse.

I just went through a five day period with people in the house all the time. People I love very much. But yesterday, the first day to myself, was glorious.

Such a loner.

I picked up a book while they were here and read it in a day. Probably some form of escape. Then picked up another book last night after turning off the T.V. and to my great surprise, Panga jumped in my lap and went to sleep, the first time she's done that in ages.

But then, when was the last time I was reading a book on the couch?

So if I'm going to have a New Year's Resolution -- which I don't believe in -- it is to pick up the reading pace again.

Another meme I read recently was how writing was like prostitution. First you do it for love, then you do it for friends, and then you do it for money.

Well, exactly. At least, the progression is very pronounced that way. I'd sort of like to get back to phase one -- the writing for the love of it.

Up until recently, I'd only gotten a couple of negative reviews and they were so off base I could sort of ignore them. But over the last three months, I've gotten a few without explanation. Just a one or two star.


So...I always check, sometimes find out that they're giving Stephen King and George R.R. Martin one and two star reviews also. So that helps put it in perspective.

Thing is -- none of that is within my control. I don't know if I'm any good or not, I only know when I think a book is as good as I can make it.

I'm guessing I'm going to need to go to self-publishing soon -- if for no other reason than that I'm incredibly prolific.

I've checked out a couple of "open submissions" lately, and the terms were unappealing and they gave off the stench of a "cattle call" and why do I even want to go there?

I'm really working under two opposing impulses. One is the private world of writing, without any regard to anything outside. The other is the wish that people can find me and read me.

I've decided the first impulse is by far the more important. 

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