I have just announced that my children's story Lost Lullaby has been accepted for publication. The illustrations were done by Jen Davies and the cover art is apparently going to be by Aidana WillowRaven. It is exciting to know that you are on the publishing schedule; not exciting to see how many decades down the road before your book gets printed. I am hoping for a 2012 date but won't be surprised if it doesn't show up until a year or two after that.
Lost Lullaby includes a copy of the instrumental sheet music by the same name, "Lost Lullaby" composed by Daniel J Hay, (that would be me).
I also have recently had my There Be Dragon Eggs accepted for publication. This children's book is both illustrated by, and cover art by, Aidana WillowRaven. The current publication date is early 2011 -- which as we all know is not far from the date of this blog posting.
As the covers become available I will certainly get them posted. Soon there will be new webpages created and posted for each story. Now I have to move in to marketing gear because nobody can rely solely upon the publisher to get their book sales.
If you begin noticing postings, tweets, messages, email signatures, etc. showing up repeatedly or in strange locations -- well, chalk it up for excitement, high stress, and an attempt to make good on sales so other publishers will want to print my face on the back of a book. I'm hoping when they do they will include my stories between the covers.
02 October 2010
24 September 2010
Printing Truth...
I keep an eye on all the discussions on getting published, alternate means of publishing your own book, companies that offer various level of author services, etc.
There just isn't any feeling that compares with getting signed by a literary agent, signing a contract on your book with a major publisher, and seeing it come out. I can't vouch for that because I have yet to hit each of those plateaus. Yet, I often work in the publishing industry and recently was Chief Editor. (I've taken a medical and personal leave.)
In the various processes I continually see manuscripts that are not ready to be seen by an agent or publisher and I see books coming off a variety of presses that should not yet have been printed. It is really bad, in my view, to see mistakes in books published by the major publishers. I think an author apology for any errors is stupid. It is more understandable in a small publisher to see some mistakes slip by. But that should be the limit. Books should not have come out of the press, whether it is off-set or print-on-demand with all of the mistakes that we are seeing, and this holds true in epublishing as well.
The problem is that so many people are writing and expecting to be published that the mass is letting mistakes go through to press because they aren't being edited. Combine the non-edited manuscript with a vanity press or a subsidized press and the number of poor books increases astronomically.
Having friends, crit-partners, writing groups, beta readers, et al is worthwhile but that is not a finished edit for your manuscript. I have never, (and I will repeat that), NEVER, seen a manuscript edited by friends and family that was able to go straight to press. I have had to edit material that several editors have looked at, that beta readers have read, or that the family English expert has passed as okay. In all honesty I have to have my own writings edited. I know a retired grammar teacher who has her stories edited by 5-6 editors, and sometimes 3-4 times for each one.
Unless you are just dying to give copies of your book to friends there is no reason to give your book to a vanity press and pay them for publishing. You can do the same with a number of printing on demand services (the same services many major and small publishers use)and have the same results for less money. And also, the unedited manuscript will still be the same unedited manuscript.
If you are proud of your work then get it edited. There is nothing wrong with a subsidy press if what they offer is what you want. It will cost you in different ways, but as long as you determine their offering is acceptable to you then there is no valid stigma - unless your manuscript is not edited.
There are subsidy printers that operate more like a small publisher, providing full editing services to their authors if, IF, their submission is accepted. They can be very good but just need author assistance to afford the publishing costs, marketing included. And best yet, they edit with the authors. They won't accept an unfit work.
You can not complain about being unable to find an agent, or a major publisher, if you have not had your manuscript fully edited: not family, friends, volunteer aspiring authors. You can not adequately edit your own manuscript in today's market and expect to be sought by publishers and readers.
I took a 700 page book back for a refund because it was missing a page. I returned a 500 page book because there were four errors on the first page. I've seen enough ebooks filled with errors, and no way to return them, that I've not yet ventured into ebooks. If I wish to buy poorly edited books I can do that easily enough. But I don't want poor quality books.
Stop and think about your favorite books -- how many errors are in them? The odds are that you will find very few errors in such books -- why would you consider publishing your own books without having made sure your error level is on a par with the books you most enjoy?
Disclaimer: I am an editor. I am for hire. I own a co-op publishing company; a cross between a flat-rate subsidy publisher and the full services of a small publishing house. I'll edit anything. I will only publish what is well written and well edited.
There just isn't any feeling that compares with getting signed by a literary agent, signing a contract on your book with a major publisher, and seeing it come out. I can't vouch for that because I have yet to hit each of those plateaus. Yet, I often work in the publishing industry and recently was Chief Editor. (I've taken a medical and personal leave.)
In the various processes I continually see manuscripts that are not ready to be seen by an agent or publisher and I see books coming off a variety of presses that should not yet have been printed. It is really bad, in my view, to see mistakes in books published by the major publishers. I think an author apology for any errors is stupid. It is more understandable in a small publisher to see some mistakes slip by. But that should be the limit. Books should not have come out of the press, whether it is off-set or print-on-demand with all of the mistakes that we are seeing, and this holds true in epublishing as well.
The problem is that so many people are writing and expecting to be published that the mass is letting mistakes go through to press because they aren't being edited. Combine the non-edited manuscript with a vanity press or a subsidized press and the number of poor books increases astronomically.
Having friends, crit-partners, writing groups, beta readers, et al is worthwhile but that is not a finished edit for your manuscript. I have never, (and I will repeat that), NEVER, seen a manuscript edited by friends and family that was able to go straight to press. I have had to edit material that several editors have looked at, that beta readers have read, or that the family English expert has passed as okay. In all honesty I have to have my own writings edited. I know a retired grammar teacher who has her stories edited by 5-6 editors, and sometimes 3-4 times for each one.
Unless you are just dying to give copies of your book to friends there is no reason to give your book to a vanity press and pay them for publishing. You can do the same with a number of printing on demand services (the same services many major and small publishers use)and have the same results for less money. And also, the unedited manuscript will still be the same unedited manuscript.
If you are proud of your work then get it edited. There is nothing wrong with a subsidy press if what they offer is what you want. It will cost you in different ways, but as long as you determine their offering is acceptable to you then there is no valid stigma - unless your manuscript is not edited.
There are subsidy printers that operate more like a small publisher, providing full editing services to their authors if, IF, their submission is accepted. They can be very good but just need author assistance to afford the publishing costs, marketing included. And best yet, they edit with the authors. They won't accept an unfit work.
You can not complain about being unable to find an agent, or a major publisher, if you have not had your manuscript fully edited: not family, friends, volunteer aspiring authors. You can not adequately edit your own manuscript in today's market and expect to be sought by publishers and readers.
I took a 700 page book back for a refund because it was missing a page. I returned a 500 page book because there were four errors on the first page. I've seen enough ebooks filled with errors, and no way to return them, that I've not yet ventured into ebooks. If I wish to buy poorly edited books I can do that easily enough. But I don't want poor quality books.
Stop and think about your favorite books -- how many errors are in them? The odds are that you will find very few errors in such books -- why would you consider publishing your own books without having made sure your error level is on a par with the books you most enjoy?
Disclaimer: I am an editor. I am for hire. I own a co-op publishing company; a cross between a flat-rate subsidy publisher and the full services of a small publishing house. I'll edit anything. I will only publish what is well written and well edited.
26 August 2010
Bootstrapping CD Recording...
At the suggestion of a Twitter Friend I am posting this page link: http://bit.ly/cGAF2M
It provides a way to donate to my recording project via PayPal Donate Button. Is there a reason you should want to help? I think so. Please take a moment to read, or just jump right to donating.
I compose music in the classical genre for chamber groupings and solo performance. Surprisingly some people think of my music as any of new age, meditational, spiritual, baroque, or renaissance. I also perform with my Flauto Dolce (sweet voice flute) which in the USA are called Recorders. (I assure you this is not the sound of fifth grader Recorders.) If you think of the instruments as wood flutes you will hear and even feel the beauty of their voices.
As a composer I had over 300 pieces of music stolen during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina while I was helping a family recover their belongings from a sinking car. The music and also my instruments, which were stolen, were the core of my life. Since then I have acquired some replacement instruments and have written an additional 200+ pieces of music. I am in the midst of a publishing project to get the sheet music in print and archived so I never risk such a loss again. I would like to record all the music to CD masters as well. At present that would take about twelve CDs and 1-4 hours per recording session. A local studio is willing to work with my unique mic'ing requirements for wood flutes. Cost is holding me back. I am looking at total costs of about $70 per hour. At an estimated 30 hrs I need to raise over $2,100.
Because I can record in sessions of one hour each, if needed, I can work with small amounts and spread it out over time. If you would be willing to help with ANY amount of donation towards this project I would be very appreciative. Every donator will be listed on the CD insert by name or @Twittername (by permission) and every donation will receive a thank you gift of select live recording tracks from recording sessions. Donations over $40 will receive a copy of any two CD titles I am able to create. If you donate $200 or more you will receive each CD produced of the music presently written (estimated at 10-12 CDs). {If there are any sales proceeds I will share prorated to donations received.}
It provides a way to donate to my recording project via PayPal Donate Button. Is there a reason you should want to help? I think so. Please take a moment to read, or just jump right to donating.
I compose music in the classical genre for chamber groupings and solo performance. Surprisingly some people think of my music as any of new age, meditational, spiritual, baroque, or renaissance. I also perform with my Flauto Dolce (sweet voice flute) which in the USA are called Recorders. (I assure you this is not the sound of fifth grader Recorders.) If you think of the instruments as wood flutes you will hear and even feel the beauty of their voices.
As a composer I had over 300 pieces of music stolen during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina while I was helping a family recover their belongings from a sinking car. The music and also my instruments, which were stolen, were the core of my life. Since then I have acquired some replacement instruments and have written an additional 200+ pieces of music. I am in the midst of a publishing project to get the sheet music in print and archived so I never risk such a loss again. I would like to record all the music to CD masters as well. At present that would take about twelve CDs and 1-4 hours per recording session. A local studio is willing to work with my unique mic'ing requirements for wood flutes. Cost is holding me back. I am looking at total costs of about $70 per hour. At an estimated 30 hrs I need to raise over $2,100.
Because I can record in sessions of one hour each, if needed, I can work with small amounts and spread it out over time. If you would be willing to help with ANY amount of donation towards this project I would be very appreciative. Every donator will be listed on the CD insert by name or @Twittername (by permission) and every donation will receive a thank you gift of select live recording tracks from recording sessions. Donations over $40 will receive a copy of any two CD titles I am able to create. If you donate $200 or more you will receive each CD produced of the music presently written (estimated at 10-12 CDs). {If there are any sales proceeds I will share prorated to donations received.}
11 August 2010
Double-luck Death...
I'm not sure that humans have ever been attributed with multiple lives such as our feline friends enjoy. So what do we call those near-terminal events in our lives that fate prods a fraction past us, or time twists to thrust us just beyond? To me it has to be circumstantial luck.
Some people will attribute such saving moments as being due to a deity looking over us. I'm not about to argue that point because I'd hate to spend time in an intellectual debate when I could be out watching the next event that tries to end my life. I really want to be there when luck fails and death wins. Sorry, I've got no iPod...
You see, many years ago, decades past, a span longer than the number of years I'm willing to count, my life was ended by a white Rambler skidding on ice trying to avoid the foolish paper-delivery boy riding his bike in blizzardy snow sliding down an iced drive-way; a direct course for collision. The car hit me, knocked me off my bike and then slid after me for another fifty feet as if trying to reach me for another attempt. I was 12. He was 21. It was the first time I'd ever flown or gone body-sledding and I lost all memory of the event. I've always felt bad for the driver because the accident was my fault and unavoidable on his part. I was lucky. He was lucky. I lived. A 12-hour concussion later, a bone chip in my knee, and my best friends sneaked into my hospital room even though under the minimum age.
I think death got near twice more that same year. The previous summer I climbed up a steep river-side embankment of cliffish nature. It was vertical broken crumbling dried clay with interspersed chalk on the bank of the North Platte River. I always claimed it was fifty-feet up although as an adult I found the spot again and measured it at twenty-eight feet - the river must have raised the river-bed in the intervening years.
I climbed up that wall with hand holds and foot ledges crumbling nearly as fast as I could find new ones. I was showing off to my sister, of course, who didn't think I'd climb up to the square shaped opening near the top that had a tree hanging over it. At that age I'm sure it had to have been an Indian cave. So up I went. And I made it only to discover that the floor of the cave-like opening was a sloped bed of sand that constantly shifted down and outward causing me to scrabble back on butt, hands, and feet trying to stay in the cave. I feared an uncontrolled descent was about to happen. And there were no mummified remains in there to make the challenge interesting. Finding one small solid spot I suddenly stood and leaped out for the river far, far below.
You've seen the famous leaps off cliffs in to deep rivers that all the movie main characters have to do to evade the avengers riding hard behind them. That was me...out stretched, screaming for more distance, riding the air currents, hoping I'd land in the water instead of the solid shoreline. I made it. Hard. I landed in about 18" of water feet first, striking the bottom very hard even as I tried to roll. It is probably there that I suffered the first major damage to my knees and lower back.
And the previous winter, almost a year before the Rambler, I was caught in a snow storm with my boy scout troop and suffered frostbite and loss of memory. Well, I remember the healing of the frostbite and I remember the telling of the rescue. The National Guard had to come get us; as I have been told. But I have no memory of getting back from the camp site, nor any memory of more than the first night.
There have been other instances which I believe have used up more than a cat's share of lives from being hit on my motorcycle and doing a side-over roll through the air to land in the median wheels down, to triple lighting strikes of light pole, ditch, and road where I had been leaning, falling, running. Excursions that included a face full of glass particles and falling backwards off of a 40' ladder, having a nail bounced off my eye, a knife dropped by my best friend onto my head, massive tree fall on my camp site where my tent had been removed by a dozen feet and only minutes before... Well, enough incidents to last a life time, or more probably a short life time.
However, today death took a double shot at me and almost won. Closer than every other attempt besides using the Rambler to crush me. As my readers my recall, one of my pursuits is photography and near my home is a swamp of murky water and cypress trees and a fabulous stump. At least I call it a swamp. It is, more rightly, a lake of smaller dimensions but from the road I didn't know it had the depth of a lake. I have been waiting for the flood waters, and spring rains to evaporate into the air so that the water level of the 'swamp' would go down enough to wade out in to it. I really, really wanted to photograph that stump. It looks like the head of an elder Ent raising from the murky depths.
Should I remind you that today it was 97 degrees outside, humidity at near suffocating levels, and I'm wading into swamp water that feels like a hot bath; all this while wearing a neoprene wading suit, more commonly known as a boiling bag. The water turned out to be about three feet deep in most places but with a two foot deep mucky bottom. And it was sucky bottom material, trying to pull me in deeper, as if something didn't want me to leave. It took me nearly an hour of maneuvering around underwater logs, through muck and water, feeling out sudden deep holes, and perspiring like I was a leaky fire hose.
My waders kept taking on water every time the depth exceeded the top of the coverall bib. The suit billowed with extra warm water heated by my own body heat as it lay trapped between me and the neoprene suit. Finally, I got to where I wanted to take pictures and began working my way around the gigantic stump, hollowed by fire, openings peering like giant eyes. I tried to ignore the ballooned suit with water temperature surpassing my own, so it seemed, and things swirling around inside it with me.
In the process I forgot to test my footing. I don't have to tell you the result of my forgetfulness. Yes, you got it in one thought. I stepped into a deep hole. A very deep hole. Probably gouged out by the fallen trunk that lay across the bottom that now had me pincered between itself and the mucky bottom and sides of the hole. I'm 5'10" in height and there was no air caressing my thinning hair. My left elbow was locked straight up but it was submerged too. My camera strap, hanging down from where it wrapped my wrist was soaking wet, but my camera was skyward, surrounded only by air and humidity and not swirling in muddy water.
I'm not a smoker, and I play woodwinds. I have good breath control. Today I exceeded that control stuck in a mucky hole in the bottom of a swamp. Given a few more seconds and we could have changed the wording to, "There's a body in the hole with the log in the middle of the sea (swamp), there's a body, there's a body, there's a body in the hole with the log in the middle of swamp (sea)."
In what became somewhat frantic efforts I managed to twist my ankle, smash my knee against the submerged trunk, wrench my back and exacerbate the old broken neck injury. I finally managed to free myself with pain in my lungs, air all gone, head pounding and eyes blanking (or was that the mud). And, best of all, my camera remained rigidly aloft.
I managed to slosh to the stump and lean on it for support while I gasped for air and balance. I thought I was fine, breath under control, and managed to slosh some of the water out of my suit. My camera was safe. I again started taking pictures but carefully felt each step for depth. Yet, in only a few minutes I realized something was wrong with me; I was no longer sweating and my head and face felt feverish. My head started swirling with dizziness and my eyesight was fading.
At age 53 I've had three rounds of heat stroke, all since I moved here five months ago, and I vaguely knew I was in trouble. I clearly said out loud, "Damn'it, Daniel, you're going to die out here and nobody will every find your camera." And that statement was enough to urge me back to shore. Needless to say, I made it back and returned to my truck peeling the neoprene suit off while I stumbled down the side of the road still holding my camera up and away from my body. I yanked down the tailgate and heaved myself on to it setting the camera down in a dry spot and then spewing vile bile and gasping for breath trying to regain my mental equilibrium instead of completely passing out. No passing drivers felt a need to see if there was something wrong.
After twenty minutes, or so, with a slight breeze helping to revive me, I managed to get the camera and myself into the cab but could barely get the door open. Once in, I leaned on the steering wheel while trying to open the bottled water I'd left on the seat. I drank three bottles of overheated bottled water and eventually revived enough to drive the two miles home although with arms quivering and eyes trying to stay focused.
I could not find my set belt which is odd since it hangs from the sidewall but I made it home, or I wouldn't be here now. I sat in the front lawn and then later on my handmade Adirondack chair, with the garden hose pouring on me for nearly an hour before I felt strong enough to go inside. We don't have cold tap water here, which is probably a good thing, the shock of cold water on my overheated body and head may have been to much for me. Yet, it was cooler than my own body and the sun had gone down allowing the temperature to drop a few degrees.
The truth is that this really happened to me yesterday, not today, because I was unable to do more than dry off and collapse on my bed in a dazed, muddled condition when I returned. Why have I shared this with anonymous readers? Perhaps because I realized that I've probably used up more luck, more fate diversions, more twisted timelines, more confrontations with cessation of life than any one person has a right to expect. Maybe more so because I realized that an inanimate object was worth more to me than my human existence. I am the sole human companion to two canine pals. They curled next to me, upon the bed, and licked, licked, licked, arms and legs for hours. My arms and legs. They were showing their concern for me and those companions deserve my affection.
Life doesn't matter so much as how you choose to live it. Death doesn't matter either if you have chosen to live your life.
Hours later I still felt shaky, weak, drained, but managed to imbibe more water and ice-tea, and suck down some fresh tomatoes. I lumbered through a shower, dried, and collapsed back on the bed. My trusty companions no longer played nurse and went off to their own sleeping spots. And so, I knew I was returning to life ... once again lucky, but twice too close ...
Some people will attribute such saving moments as being due to a deity looking over us. I'm not about to argue that point because I'd hate to spend time in an intellectual debate when I could be out watching the next event that tries to end my life. I really want to be there when luck fails and death wins. Sorry, I've got no iPod...
You see, many years ago, decades past, a span longer than the number of years I'm willing to count, my life was ended by a white Rambler skidding on ice trying to avoid the foolish paper-delivery boy riding his bike in blizzardy snow sliding down an iced drive-way; a direct course for collision. The car hit me, knocked me off my bike and then slid after me for another fifty feet as if trying to reach me for another attempt. I was 12. He was 21. It was the first time I'd ever flown or gone body-sledding and I lost all memory of the event. I've always felt bad for the driver because the accident was my fault and unavoidable on his part. I was lucky. He was lucky. I lived. A 12-hour concussion later, a bone chip in my knee, and my best friends sneaked into my hospital room even though under the minimum age.
I think death got near twice more that same year. The previous summer I climbed up a steep river-side embankment of cliffish nature. It was vertical broken crumbling dried clay with interspersed chalk on the bank of the North Platte River. I always claimed it was fifty-feet up although as an adult I found the spot again and measured it at twenty-eight feet - the river must have raised the river-bed in the intervening years.
I climbed up that wall with hand holds and foot ledges crumbling nearly as fast as I could find new ones. I was showing off to my sister, of course, who didn't think I'd climb up to the square shaped opening near the top that had a tree hanging over it. At that age I'm sure it had to have been an Indian cave. So up I went. And I made it only to discover that the floor of the cave-like opening was a sloped bed of sand that constantly shifted down and outward causing me to scrabble back on butt, hands, and feet trying to stay in the cave. I feared an uncontrolled descent was about to happen. And there were no mummified remains in there to make the challenge interesting. Finding one small solid spot I suddenly stood and leaped out for the river far, far below.
You've seen the famous leaps off cliffs in to deep rivers that all the movie main characters have to do to evade the avengers riding hard behind them. That was me...out stretched, screaming for more distance, riding the air currents, hoping I'd land in the water instead of the solid shoreline. I made it. Hard. I landed in about 18" of water feet first, striking the bottom very hard even as I tried to roll. It is probably there that I suffered the first major damage to my knees and lower back.
And the previous winter, almost a year before the Rambler, I was caught in a snow storm with my boy scout troop and suffered frostbite and loss of memory. Well, I remember the healing of the frostbite and I remember the telling of the rescue. The National Guard had to come get us; as I have been told. But I have no memory of getting back from the camp site, nor any memory of more than the first night.
There have been other instances which I believe have used up more than a cat's share of lives from being hit on my motorcycle and doing a side-over roll through the air to land in the median wheels down, to triple lighting strikes of light pole, ditch, and road where I had been leaning, falling, running. Excursions that included a face full of glass particles and falling backwards off of a 40' ladder, having a nail bounced off my eye, a knife dropped by my best friend onto my head, massive tree fall on my camp site where my tent had been removed by a dozen feet and only minutes before... Well, enough incidents to last a life time, or more probably a short life time.
However, today death took a double shot at me and almost won. Closer than every other attempt besides using the Rambler to crush me. As my readers my recall, one of my pursuits is photography and near my home is a swamp of murky water and cypress trees and a fabulous stump. At least I call it a swamp. It is, more rightly, a lake of smaller dimensions but from the road I didn't know it had the depth of a lake. I have been waiting for the flood waters, and spring rains to evaporate into the air so that the water level of the 'swamp' would go down enough to wade out in to it. I really, really wanted to photograph that stump. It looks like the head of an elder Ent raising from the murky depths.
Should I remind you that today it was 97 degrees outside, humidity at near suffocating levels, and I'm wading into swamp water that feels like a hot bath; all this while wearing a neoprene wading suit, more commonly known as a boiling bag. The water turned out to be about three feet deep in most places but with a two foot deep mucky bottom. And it was sucky bottom material, trying to pull me in deeper, as if something didn't want me to leave. It took me nearly an hour of maneuvering around underwater logs, through muck and water, feeling out sudden deep holes, and perspiring like I was a leaky fire hose.
My waders kept taking on water every time the depth exceeded the top of the coverall bib. The suit billowed with extra warm water heated by my own body heat as it lay trapped between me and the neoprene suit. Finally, I got to where I wanted to take pictures and began working my way around the gigantic stump, hollowed by fire, openings peering like giant eyes. I tried to ignore the ballooned suit with water temperature surpassing my own, so it seemed, and things swirling around inside it with me.
In the process I forgot to test my footing. I don't have to tell you the result of my forgetfulness. Yes, you got it in one thought. I stepped into a deep hole. A very deep hole. Probably gouged out by the fallen trunk that lay across the bottom that now had me pincered between itself and the mucky bottom and sides of the hole. I'm 5'10" in height and there was no air caressing my thinning hair. My left elbow was locked straight up but it was submerged too. My camera strap, hanging down from where it wrapped my wrist was soaking wet, but my camera was skyward, surrounded only by air and humidity and not swirling in muddy water.
I'm not a smoker, and I play woodwinds. I have good breath control. Today I exceeded that control stuck in a mucky hole in the bottom of a swamp. Given a few more seconds and we could have changed the wording to, "There's a body in the hole with the log in the middle of the sea (swamp), there's a body, there's a body, there's a body in the hole with the log in the middle of swamp (sea)."
In what became somewhat frantic efforts I managed to twist my ankle, smash my knee against the submerged trunk, wrench my back and exacerbate the old broken neck injury. I finally managed to free myself with pain in my lungs, air all gone, head pounding and eyes blanking (or was that the mud). And, best of all, my camera remained rigidly aloft.
I managed to slosh to the stump and lean on it for support while I gasped for air and balance. I thought I was fine, breath under control, and managed to slosh some of the water out of my suit. My camera was safe. I again started taking pictures but carefully felt each step for depth. Yet, in only a few minutes I realized something was wrong with me; I was no longer sweating and my head and face felt feverish. My head started swirling with dizziness and my eyesight was fading.
At age 53 I've had three rounds of heat stroke, all since I moved here five months ago, and I vaguely knew I was in trouble. I clearly said out loud, "Damn'it, Daniel, you're going to die out here and nobody will every find your camera." And that statement was enough to urge me back to shore. Needless to say, I made it back and returned to my truck peeling the neoprene suit off while I stumbled down the side of the road still holding my camera up and away from my body. I yanked down the tailgate and heaved myself on to it setting the camera down in a dry spot and then spewing vile bile and gasping for breath trying to regain my mental equilibrium instead of completely passing out. No passing drivers felt a need to see if there was something wrong.
After twenty minutes, or so, with a slight breeze helping to revive me, I managed to get the camera and myself into the cab but could barely get the door open. Once in, I leaned on the steering wheel while trying to open the bottled water I'd left on the seat. I drank three bottles of overheated bottled water and eventually revived enough to drive the two miles home although with arms quivering and eyes trying to stay focused.
I could not find my set belt which is odd since it hangs from the sidewall but I made it home, or I wouldn't be here now. I sat in the front lawn and then later on my handmade Adirondack chair, with the garden hose pouring on me for nearly an hour before I felt strong enough to go inside. We don't have cold tap water here, which is probably a good thing, the shock of cold water on my overheated body and head may have been to much for me. Yet, it was cooler than my own body and the sun had gone down allowing the temperature to drop a few degrees.
The truth is that this really happened to me yesterday, not today, because I was unable to do more than dry off and collapse on my bed in a dazed, muddled condition when I returned. Why have I shared this with anonymous readers? Perhaps because I realized that I've probably used up more luck, more fate diversions, more twisted timelines, more confrontations with cessation of life than any one person has a right to expect. Maybe more so because I realized that an inanimate object was worth more to me than my human existence. I am the sole human companion to two canine pals. They curled next to me, upon the bed, and licked, licked, licked, arms and legs for hours. My arms and legs. They were showing their concern for me and those companions deserve my affection.
Life doesn't matter so much as how you choose to live it. Death doesn't matter either if you have chosen to live your life.
Hours later I still felt shaky, weak, drained, but managed to imbibe more water and ice-tea, and suck down some fresh tomatoes. I lumbered through a shower, dried, and collapsed back on the bed. My trusty companions no longer played nurse and went off to their own sleeping spots. And so, I knew I was returning to life ... once again lucky, but twice too close ...
25 July 2010
Being Chief Editor...
I was asked today, "What's it like. Being Chief Editor? Is it fun?"
Whoa... Slow down.
I was an editor before, in a time gone by. This is harder.
I was a publisher long, long ago. This is more difficult.
I was an author, edited, and published. This is more complicated.
I was a columnist, regularly. This is tough.
I've been there and done that, all of that. I am finding that being Chief Editor for 4RV Publishing makes me more aware of the lack of hours I have in a week and makes me pay more attention to what I type. Arrggghh!
I have many projects in the works from music I am composing, music I am arranging, music I am publishing, children stories I am writing, editing, and publishing, a photo studio to run, private chores around the house I share with my dogs, neighbors to help out, friends to learn about, Twitter to arouse, and of course assigning evaluations and editing for 4RV. Oh, and last, but not least, editing, final proofs, reproofs, re-edits, and more of both for 4RV.
Through the process I have learned a lot that I hope will be of benefit to me in the future. The odds are I am on the shorter side of my life line now. What I do and when I do it I hope has more meaning and value than most of what I have done in the past.
The tasks I do for the benefit of 4RV are not replacing my insomnia, nor improving my health, but then none of the other projects I take on have provided either benefit. It, nor them, have cured the loneliness that my dogs try to cure for me. Life goes on. I go along with it.
I'm still kicking and struggling with fate. I find being Chief Editor is lots of fun, lots of work. If somebody asks you about your job, your life, your task...you say "Whoa..." and think about it.
I'd take the train through the mountains before I took the speedy tunnel with nothing to look at. How about you?
Whoa... Slow down.
I was an editor before, in a time gone by. This is harder.
I was a publisher long, long ago. This is more difficult.
I was an author, edited, and published. This is more complicated.
I was a columnist, regularly. This is tough.
I've been there and done that, all of that. I am finding that being Chief Editor for 4RV Publishing makes me more aware of the lack of hours I have in a week and makes me pay more attention to what I type. Arrggghh!
I have many projects in the works from music I am composing, music I am arranging, music I am publishing, children stories I am writing, editing, and publishing, a photo studio to run, private chores around the house I share with my dogs, neighbors to help out, friends to learn about, Twitter to arouse, and of course assigning evaluations and editing for 4RV. Oh, and last, but not least, editing, final proofs, reproofs, re-edits, and more of both for 4RV.
Through the process I have learned a lot that I hope will be of benefit to me in the future. The odds are I am on the shorter side of my life line now. What I do and when I do it I hope has more meaning and value than most of what I have done in the past.
The tasks I do for the benefit of 4RV are not replacing my insomnia, nor improving my health, but then none of the other projects I take on have provided either benefit. It, nor them, have cured the loneliness that my dogs try to cure for me. Life goes on. I go along with it.
I'm still kicking and struggling with fate. I find being Chief Editor is lots of fun, lots of work. If somebody asks you about your job, your life, your task...you say "Whoa..." and think about it.
I'd take the train through the mountains before I took the speedy tunnel with nothing to look at. How about you?
13 July 2010
On Being Twitterpated...
The following was an email to a new Twitter friend. The reply back was "you should post this in your blog"... or something like that. And, so I did... (ignore all brand names, personal names, any suggestion of suggestions, and any thing that might make sense)...
Hey,
First, thanks for following my blog. You may be the fourth person to do so...gosh, now I'll have to update it again.
I see you are Tweeting from TweetDeck. This is a good choice. If you haven't already done so set your screen up with a column that shows "mentions" - that will be anything that uses your Twitter address either in sent to you or if mentioned in the text of the message. Then you may want to make a list or two of people you want to be sure to see because once the All Friends gets busy it is hard to see any messages from them. I consider All Friends to be the bane and often don't even have it showing. I have one list that is Fresh and contains the people I don't want to miss. Then I have DM column loaded generally so I can get it too.
In TweetDeck you can turn on an alert and alarms. I have the alerts deactivated but turned on alarms for anything that shows in Mentions or in DM -- then I can ignore the rest generally.
I also went to Conversationlist.org (I think its at .org). It sets up an automatic list of the people you conversed with the previous day - as if you might want to talk to them again today. This means that somebody I spot on another users page, or in my All Friends list that I acutally reply to will show up again tomorrow. Eventually I may move them to my Fresh list or my Rawr list so they are easy to find again.
Of course, with people in columns and on lists you are going to see repeats of messages as they get updated to the columns. Takes a bit of getting used too but is handy. You can also go in to settings and tell TweetDeck not to show any tweet with certain keywords. I use this to remove some profanity and also to remove the hashtags people are using when they are in a group chat mode about some subject I don't want to bother with. It lets me keep them on screen for general chat but doesn't display their chats when hashtagged (#) with a subject they are discussing if I didn't want to be included.
Now for helpful software: Go to www.twitcleaner.com and sign in. It is great and used to be fantastic. Twitter made them stop allowing an automatic unfollow of spam/trash posters. But it will still analyze who you are following and the categories are great. When you see your report the light colored, italics, text are peeps not following you back. If its been three days or so since you followed them it might be wise to trash them.
Generally when I have spare time and am watching All Friends column I just unfollow anybody with a message I don't like. Helps narrow it down - and certainly for spammers. But the TwitCleaner will help you identify them, although at present you have to manually go and unfollow them.
There are other programs, such as SocialOomph that will allow you to autofollow anybody who follows you (a good way to get tons of spammers though). Or, if you have a specific interest in people who use a certain hashtag, do a keyword search in TweetDeck and then start followoing the people who use the keyword. If you use Google Chrome, let me know, because there is a nice extension I use to track users of keywords.
Next, if you like following somebody go to their page and click on who they are following or who is following them and browse the list for possibles.
Unfortunately I haven't found anything that will display the users bio blurb and the last few messages - which to me would be a better way of deciding if I wanted to follow them.
I also set Twitter up to send me any DM I got. It comes as a text message to my phone. You can also have it text you for anybody you want to follow. I used to do that for a few but one I really liked usually starts texting in the 5-6am range when I'm finally trying to sleep - so now just my DMs come in - and they generally arrive before they show up on the computer for me.
If I forgot anything let me know...er, if I remember I forgot anything I'll let you know.
Hope you enjoy,
31 May 2010
Rejections: To Be Or Not To Be...
I consider myself a good story teller. I am not so sure that carries over to being a good story writer or a good editor. I can easily count up the number of rejections I have on my stories because every one is in a folder on my computer. Then there all the implied rejections that float in the dust of silence. I don't like the rejection part of being a writer.
A sudden shift in some warp drive left me open to accepting an internship as an acquisitions assistant editor. That is reading query letters, synopses, and manuscripts. The key is internship, I believe, and it is very hard work for no pay. On a professional basis it could lead to paying positions in the future if I wanted to stick with it. It is a line item that can slip into a resume and bear some weight. Yet, on a personal basis I am not sure I'd want to expend the time needed to fill a full time position where my words are dashed off in short notes that end up dashing the hopes of other writers.
On day one I received a synopsis and first chapter and thinking I was reporting to the editor and publisher wrote up my comments. Other than being completely oblivious to the active voice and passive voice, the former not used and the latter overused, to which the publisher roundly chastised me, my comments were used as the rejection letter to the editor. Yes, mine. I was the one who yanked the cord that released the guillotine. There was enough to the story that the offer to resubmit was extended but the rejection was still tangible. I know the feeling as I have felt that slap many times.
On day two the file sent to me was a manuscript for novel. The publisher wanted my thoughts on whether they should make an offer. So I read nearly 30 chapters of a romance novel. My initial feeling was that it is only the first full I've done for the publisher so surely I'm merely being tested and will receive instructions as a response to my comments. Now, I am not the typical male reader who has never even touched a romance novel. I have, in fact, read a great quantity of them. Unlike many romance novel readers I also read just about every other genre instead of burying my face in a never ending stream of romance novels.
So I am well read and think I can adapt to the task of reading whatever is submitted to the publisher. I may learn otherwise, but have started out with two rejections. Any mistakes in a manuscript should not show up in a simple spell check. In this case a quick spell check disclosed several incorrectly spelled words. This immediately indicates the work has not been polished. Did I like the story? Yes, but it didn't grab my interest enough to make me want to finish reading it. However, I did read it completely and I noted a number of ways the tension could be increased, methods to add more bite to the conflicts, perhaps even refined resolutions. The resulting response to the publisher passed on to the author: As it is we don't want to publish this story, but if you choose to work it over, and polish it, we would be pleased to take another look at a submission.
So what have I done? I have begun inflicting rejections upon authors who share the same shoes I wear, who wear the same hats I change rapidly. They receive those emailed rejections that I dread to see pop into my incoming folder - only now those notices contain my words.
Since the words are mine and come from a publisher does that mean I am now a published author?
A sudden shift in some warp drive left me open to accepting an internship as an acquisitions assistant editor. That is reading query letters, synopses, and manuscripts. The key is internship, I believe, and it is very hard work for no pay. On a professional basis it could lead to paying positions in the future if I wanted to stick with it. It is a line item that can slip into a resume and bear some weight. Yet, on a personal basis I am not sure I'd want to expend the time needed to fill a full time position where my words are dashed off in short notes that end up dashing the hopes of other writers.
On day one I received a synopsis and first chapter and thinking I was reporting to the editor and publisher wrote up my comments. Other than being completely oblivious to the active voice and passive voice, the former not used and the latter overused, to which the publisher roundly chastised me, my comments were used as the rejection letter to the editor. Yes, mine. I was the one who yanked the cord that released the guillotine. There was enough to the story that the offer to resubmit was extended but the rejection was still tangible. I know the feeling as I have felt that slap many times.
On day two the file sent to me was a manuscript for novel. The publisher wanted my thoughts on whether they should make an offer. So I read nearly 30 chapters of a romance novel. My initial feeling was that it is only the first full I've done for the publisher so surely I'm merely being tested and will receive instructions as a response to my comments. Now, I am not the typical male reader who has never even touched a romance novel. I have, in fact, read a great quantity of them. Unlike many romance novel readers I also read just about every other genre instead of burying my face in a never ending stream of romance novels.
So I am well read and think I can adapt to the task of reading whatever is submitted to the publisher. I may learn otherwise, but have started out with two rejections. Any mistakes in a manuscript should not show up in a simple spell check. In this case a quick spell check disclosed several incorrectly spelled words. This immediately indicates the work has not been polished. Did I like the story? Yes, but it didn't grab my interest enough to make me want to finish reading it. However, I did read it completely and I noted a number of ways the tension could be increased, methods to add more bite to the conflicts, perhaps even refined resolutions. The resulting response to the publisher passed on to the author: As it is we don't want to publish this story, but if you choose to work it over, and polish it, we would be pleased to take another look at a submission.
So what have I done? I have begun inflicting rejections upon authors who share the same shoes I wear, who wear the same hats I change rapidly. They receive those emailed rejections that I dread to see pop into my incoming folder - only now those notices contain my words.
Since the words are mine and come from a publisher does that mean I am now a published author?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
