Why I’m proud to say I’m a self-publishing author, even though the group at large is known for certain “behavior”

Not a week goes by without news about a scandal involving the behaviour of a self-publishing author. You’ve read these posts, and they all unfold in a similar manner.

Phase 1: Ignition. Self-publishing author goes nuts on reviewer, on other author, or at entire universe. Posts lengthy diatribe on blog.

Phase 2: Oxygen. Tweets reverberate around the world.

Phase 3: Gasoline. Other authors, bloggers, readers, bystanders post rebuttal blog posts on their own blogs.

Phase 4: Volunteer Fire Department / Moral Committee arrives. Bloggers make vague comments and posts about bad behaviour in general, post their rules of conduct, suggest everyone should follow said rules.

Phase 5: Fire burns until different self-publishing author ignites a new fire.

So.

What do I think?

I think self-published authors have positive traits in common, along with the negative ones. Self-pubbers don’t wait for outside approval; they take charge of their careers; some hire editors to improve their work; they take huge risks; many are adding to literature in a positive way; they help each other with advice; they are getting picked up for movie deals; they are human beings.

As a self-publisher or “indie author,” I’m part of a group of people, some of whom behave admirably, and some of whom do things I wouldn’t do, but as long as people aren’t using hate speech or threatening others, I try to pass on by and “live and let live.”

Some days I’m even proud to be part of a group of people known for the giant chips on their shoulders and willingness to do battle, even if it’s on the internet, where nobody wins.

(The above cartoon was drawn last night, after I was inspired by warring on the internet!)

These self-pubbed authors! What a bunch of hotheads! What a passionate group of people! But … can you really fault someone for caring SO MUCH about their art that they’re willing to make a total donkey of themselves? They’re just ranting on the internet and embarrassing themselves, they’re not kicking puppies or mugging your grandmother.

Yes, I wish all self-pubbed authors would be exemplary citizens, but I wish that of all people, really—all Canadians, or all women, or all people who look like me, so that others won’t judge people who look like me by the actions of others.

Say what you will about the group at large, but most self-pubbed authors would make delightful dinner party guests; at least they’re entertaining.

We write stories. We care. Sometimes our energies are misplaced.

We are authors because we write books, and the manner in which the books are published doesn’t change the fact that we are authors and were drawn to writing for a myriad of reasons.

Now, don’t mind me, I’ll be calmly working on my next book and (mostly) behaving myself, because that’s what I do, as is my right, to behave in the manner of my choosing.

/end of rant

Any excuse to draw a cartoon!

Who knew drawing cartoons could be so much fun? Obviously cartoonists knew that, but I did not!

Now I’m drawing funny doodles all the time.

This one was made on the iPad, finger-painted using the “Brushes” app. I’ll use it to illustrate an upcoming blog post on yaindie.com.

If anyone knows what the secret Step #2 is (as in how to go viral), let me know. ;-)

5 ways to ruin your manuscript … and other writing-oriented posts on yaindie.com

My cartoon illustrations feature a variety of different imaginary people, aliens, and animals. All were created on the iPad, which is my new favorite art tool.

I tend to post here on dalyamoon.com about my books, as well as other stories–some personal and some fiction–and post about writing and publishing on my other blog, yaindie.com. I share the blogging responsibilities there with some other YA writers.

There’s a new post by me today, entitled 5 ways to ruin your manuscript.

I’ve also started doing my own silly cartoons/illustrations to go with the articles.

If you’re interested in writing, or publishing ebooks, come and check out the site: www.yaindie.com.

I usually tweet new articles once on the day they come out.

Have a great day!

I’ve gone and done it again … changed a cover

NEW cover!

My first book has been out for nearly a year, and in that time, I’ve learned a lot more about covers.

I would have loved to have had a custom illustration of Charlie, with a hammer, on the original version, but I didn’t know how to do that.

Since that time, I’ve figured out how.

I had my friend Jenny (thank you!!) pose on the porch with a hammer for a reference photo, and then I painted the illustration myself, on my iPad using a finger painting application called Brushes.

I’ve done some painting in the past, but with acrylics on canvas, and only fruit and flowers, not people. I was scared to tackle an illustrated person, but I found the principles were really not that different from the other things I’ve spent countless hours painting.

My result (at right) is not perfect by any means, and I may still tweak the drawing, but I’m uploading the new cover to Amazon now.

Also, in the spirit of “trying different things,” I’ve shortened the name of the book to simply Charlie, instead of Charlie Woodchuck is a Minor Niner. It looks better on the cover, though it’s not as search-engine friendly.

This has been a challenging book to publish because it falls between middle-grade and young adult. The main character is 14, and while the novel isn’t the length or the maturity level of a true YA novel, it’s on the mature side for middle-grade. However, just because a book doesn’t fit easily into a category or genre doesn’t mean giving up. :-)

I have another Snowy Cove novel coming out this summer. It’s set about 25 years after Charlie, in the same fictional town of Snowy Cove, and at the same high school. Some of the original characters make an appearance: two teachers from the first book. (No, the main characters are not the children of the characters from the first book; I considered it, but decided to go with completely different people.)

For reference, this is one of the previous covers for Charlie Woodchuck is a Minor Niner. The book is actually on its fourth cover. I always liked how this cover captures the high school feeling, though it’s not as playful as the book actually is. The book has so many different tones and emotions in it, that it’s hard to choose just one mood for the cover, ya know?

The title and cover reveal for the new Snowy Cove novel are coming soon … on June 28th, on Icey Books, a book blog. I’ve never done an official “cover reveal” before, so this should be fun! There’s also a giveaway. Details will be announced with the cover.

~

So, what else is new …

I was getting my Starbucks this morning and was walking outside during the first seconds it began to rain. There was a smell of rain and pavement for the first thirty seconds or so, and then it dissipated.

It was the kind of smell you read about in novels or poems, but don’t typically notice in real life.

So, there’s that.

Have a great day!

So gratifying to pick up a new skill, and to create something

I usually draw things like this formally-dressed octopus. However, I am working on something more elaborate.

After much campaigning (mostly by Husband), we are now part of the iPad-having club. At first I thought it was silly to have such a thing. I’m always on my computer, and I’m often watching TV, so shouldn’t I take a screen break? I own two e-readers for books, did I need another device?

Did I?

Does anyone really need an iPad?

Oh, but I love my iPad.

I’m even getting to bed at a more reasonable time, because I’m looking forward to iPad time. I play Tiny Wings or Tap Words while Husband is brushing his teeth. I downloaded Lost Winds 2, but I can’t play it too late at night, because it disrupts my sleep. (Too exciting!)

Now I’ve got a new addiction: finger painting.

I read this article and downloaded the drawing tool, Brushes. I’m hooked.

My next book cover, to be revealed soon (for a middle-grade novel), will be a real-ish, hand-drawn illustration.

I’m bursting to share it with you, but it’s not quite perfect yet. Soon.

p.s. HELLO to all the new blog traffic! Thanks for visiting.

Dish Washer (Short Story, Memoir)

My father drops me off for the first shift of my summer job at a truck-stop restaurant.

The owner, a woman with permed hair and big earrings, walks me to the dish washing station.

“Job’s easy as pie,” she says, ashing her cigarette in the large square sink molded into the stainless steel counter. “You scrape the food off, give ‘em a rinse and the machine does the rest. Your folks got a dishwasher at home?”

I nod.

“Good girl, you know what you’re doing.” She grabs the fixture hanging over the sink and squeezes the handle. Water blasts against the dirty plates, splashing us both with corn, peas, and gravy. I jump back.

“Grab one of those,” the owner says, pointing to a pile of fabric hanging from a nail on the wall. I don one of the aprons over my cutoff jean shorts and baggy black t-shirt, and I’m transformed into a skinny model in a white dress.

“So pretty,” I say, posing with one hand on my hip.

The owner cracks a grin. “Let me show you the new frozen yogurt machine. Everyone gets one free frozen yogurt per shift, it’s the only thing that’s free, all right? If you wanna burger, you gotta pay for it.”

I do a quick calculation: if burgers are $6.00, I’d be working 1.5 hours just to pay for my lunch, leaving me with only 3.5 hours of pay for my 5 hour shift. Free yogurt sounds pretty good.

A blonde woman pops her head back and says the owner is needed at the office. The blonde waves at me. “Hi hon, I’m Danny, welcome to our little family. Are you a ballerina?”

We both look down at my feet, which are parked together at a 90 degree angle, my right heel connecting to the arch of my left foot.

“No,” I say. “Well yes, I took ballet once but it was a long time ago.”

“You shall be my little ballerina.” She grins, revealing stained teeth.

A bell rings. The short order cook, also a woman, stout and dark-haired, stares at us and bellows, “Order up!”

“Thanks hon!” Danny bumps the swinging door open with her hip and disappears to the dining room side.

The cook puts her hands on her hips and announces to the air, “I’m going on my smoke break. We’re nearly out of plates so you better get busy.”

I set to work, scraping, stacking, and rinsing. I love the sensation of squeezing the sprayer handle and blasting the hot water onto the plates. The dishes stack on plastic trays, which ride along grooves in the steel counter into the sterilizer. I lower the handle, push the big green button, and two minutes later, the machine’s wash cycle is complete. The steamy dishes air-dry quickly.

Over the next few weeks, I take pride in how quickly I clear the massive stacks of dirty dishes. I arrive for my shift, and the girls are screaming for coffee mugs, or forks, or plates, and I have a hot tray ready for them in five minutes flat.

Once my station is clean, I take a frozen yogurt into the break room. Every surface is covered in piles of old newspapers, TV Guide magazines, and ashtrays. My hands are dry from the constant damp and the chemicals in the soaking buckets, so I sit by the window and pick at the layers of peeling skin on my palms.

Some days, the cook and I are joined in the kitchen by the prep cook, an older woman with no teeth. I complain of boredom, so she invites me to help her peel carrots and potatoes. The enzymes in the vegetables stain the dried skin on my hands orange and purple and green.

One hectic Saturday afternoon, after I’ve been there for five weeks, bleached-blonde Danny takes a good long look at me. “Hey little ballerina, how’d you like to wait a few tables?”

I look around. The cook is moving fast, flipping burgers, and swearing to herself.

“Am I allowed?”

“Sure, just take off the apron. Your dishes can wait a bit while you help us out.”

Up front in the restaurant, every table is full of people talking, laughing and smoking.

Danny shows me how to make coffee, hands me a pad of paper, and points me to a table in the corner.

I approach the group of four, pad and pen ready. “Are you ready to place your order?”

The man closest to me stops his conversation. His eyes meet mine for a second, then his gaze drops down to my feet and slowly travels all the way up over my shins, my knobby knees, my straight hips, my waist, my flat chest, my neck, nearly to my eyes, then back down again. He licks his lips.

“That depends, little lady, what’s on the menu?”

I force out a laugh. “The usual stuff,” I say.

He reaches up and grabs my wrist. I let my arm go limp and scan the room for Danny, but she’s pouring coffee and talking to people.

“Let her be, you old pervert,” says the woman sitting across the table from the man. She cuffs him on the shoulder. My hand is released.

They begin to give me their orders. I step back, just out of grabbing range, and write on my notepad. My cheeks are burning. A little teasing must come with the territory, and I’ll have to carry myself with a little attitude, like Danny does.

My writing is too big for the tiny pad of paper, and I use three sheets of paper to write down the meals and drinks for four people.

“We’ll have your food out in a jiffy,” I announce with a cheery tone. I march back through the coffee station and all the way into the kitchen.

“I have an order,” I say to the cook. “Do I just put it on that thing?” I reach up to the rotating silver carousel. “Which side do the new ones go on?”

“Jesus Christ get out of my way! Get back on the other side, at the pass.” She rips the papers from my hand.

Back out on the floor, I make fresh coffee and bring the glass pot around for refills. I scarcely finish one loop before the table I started with has drained their brown mugs. The people smile as I make my way to them with coffee in hand.

By the end of my shift, my feet are sore, but I have something to show for it: ten dollars in tips. Dad picks me up after work and congratulates me on my windfall. “Five weeks and you already got your first promotion! Pretty soon you’ll be the breadwinner, and I can retire early.”

The next day, he drops me off twenty minutes early. I’m wearing a skirt and blouse, plus makeup.

“Hon, we need to talk,” Danny says, leading me back to the dishwashing station. “Don’t take it personally, but … you’re back to dishes only from now on.”

“But, why?” I try to stick my hands in my pockets, but my skirt doesn’t have any.

“I don’t think you’re cut out for bein’ a waitress, hon.” She cocks her head to the side.

“What did I do wrong? I’m still learning, I swear I can do better.”

Danny adjusts her watch and bangles. “You can’t leave the food at the pass. When the bell rings, you have to be on the ball and grab the food and bring it to the table, before it gets cold.”

I walk quietly to the yogurt machine, make myself an oversized cone, and hide in the break room. I stare out the window at the trees and scruffy bushes. Don’t you dare cry, not at work, I tell myself. The frozen yogurt is tasteless.

The next day, I phone the restaurant an hour before I’m supposed to start my shift. I ask for the owner and tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t come in.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks.

“School’s starting soon,” I say.

She groans and tells me I can pick up my last pay cheque from the office any time. Dad drives me down. My body feels heavy, and I don’t want to go into the restaurant, so Dad goes in to the office and gets the cheque for me.

His face looks pensive on his way back.

“Now you’ve had your first job,” he says, handing me the envelope. “I want to say it gets better, but mostly it’s like this.”

Park Bench Overnight (Short story)

He would sit on the park bench until the sun set and then through until the sun rose again, just like someone in a movie, contemplating a big decision. The hard surface of the bench slats were helping him feel dramatic, emphasizing the importantness of it all.

An old man sat down next to Rob and lit a cigarette. The man stared out over the sea, looking calm and thoughtful and super deep, deep like something really deep, like the sea. Plus the smoking looked really cool. The old man sucked them back like he didn’t care about bylaws or cancer.

Rob brought his hand to his chin and stroked it. He nodded and winced at the deep, unanswering sea. He casually rested his elbows on the back of the bench. His jacket gaped open at the front, inviting a breeze and then a shiver. Cold was good. It would help him think, and then the morning sun would be warm and congratulatory, and it would come like a confirmation from God, just as Rob had his epiphany.

The old man got up and left without even a nod to his fellow bench-thinker. Rob zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands in the pockets. He caressed his cell phone. No. He had to think, not phone or text or play games. The phone felt slightly warm, like it had a life of its own, though of course it did: silently sending radiation into his balls. Well, it wasn’t going to be doing that all night. Rob set the phone on the bench, inches to the right of his leg.

A wave splashed against the edge of the beach. The sea approved of his decision.

Soon the sun would be down, and then the contemplating would really begin. Rob zipped his jacket up even higher, right to the top of the collar. He sat up straight. Over the ozone and fish and rot, the air smelled faintly of wood smoke. He thought of marshmallows. Why did the bench have to be so hard? People in books and movies never got a sore ass.

You Were Born in a Taxi Cab (Short Story)

You were born in a taxi cab, and the driver wrapped you in his shirt—brown plaid with pearl snap buttons. You were the world’s tiniest cowboy, rough and tumble with your swirl of dark hair.

Aunt Jeannie was there, and she took a Polaroid of you swaddled in my arms. Your father would have been so proud of you and your strong grip, if he’d been the kind of guy who stuck around.

That first night, you slept in a laundry basket next to my bed. The next night, or so it seemed, Aunt Jeannie and I were assembling your big boy bed, and you were starting Kindergarten, and you were telling me all about the stars in the sky and why they only come out at night.

Today you turn fifteen. I have so much fear for you, but I have so much faith. You think before you act, and I can only thank God for that, because it didn’t come from me.

I just pulled your shirt from my closet and I’m running the iron over it, wondering how to tell you. After I take your photo, I bring it up casually.

“So, you know that shirt,” I say.

You roll your eyes, thinking I’m about to tell the whole story again, but I’m not.

“The taxi driver, his name is Irving.”

Your eyes betray your curiosity. You’ve never heard his name.

“He’d like to meet you,” I say. “He wants to take us out for dinner.”

Your face holds steady as you cast your gaze down. That little muscle pulses in front of your ears as you clench and unclench your jaw.

“I can smell him,” you say. “I know you washed it, but there’s still something here.” You hold the collar of the brown plaid shirt to your nose.

I realize I’m even more nervous than when I started. “Dinner’s too intimate then. We should meet in a public park.”

You shake your head and beam your hundred-watt smile at me. “No, Mom. It’s good. I like how the shirt smells.”

Backwards Heart (Short Story)

You were born with your heart backwards. We marvelled at your thick, dark eyelashes even as your face turned blue.

We named you, though some thought we shouldn’t. You lasted through the night, your little backwards heart pumping oxygen-rich blood around your chest while your limbs starved.

You lived through the day, and the next. When they let us take you home, I had to pull the car to the side of the road. Your mother was calm, leaning back to coo at you in your enormous car seat, but I couldn’t see the road ahead.

We celebrated your first birthday one month early, because we didn’t want you to miss anything. Your great-grandparents travelled from Newfoundland to see your precious face and bring you gifts. You fell asleep in your high chair with chocolate cake all over your tiny hands.

At two, you were curious, and we wanted nothing more than to answer every question, to show you the world. You were so still, eyes wide, delighted by everything that flew or crawled or rolled on wheels. While the other kids your age screamed or ran or swung from the velvet ropes at the bank, you would kneel down quietly to examine the progress of a ladybug making her way across the tiles.

Because there was so much you couldn’t do—play tag or hang from the monkey bars—all your growing went into talking. You seemed as eager to get to know us as we were to know you.

You never left your mother’s side. I would come home from work and find you in the kitchen, four years old, sitting at the table while she made dinner, the two of you chattering away like the oldest of friends.

Your sister, so different from you, can’t sit still for a second. She’s big and strong and full of desire. I tried to learn the rules for tea parties, but she’s always changing them on me. She’s happy when I allow her to paint my fingernails, using a nail polish jar filled with water.

Your sister would have loved you. You both could have shared your imaginary friends and invented games too convoluted for me to win.

But you didn’t miss a thing, did you? In your few years with us, your soul learned and loved and grew until you were the wise one and I was the child, looking into your deep eyes, begging you not to leave us alone.

Your little heart, with its backwards valves, I cannot blame.

* the end *

Last year, I submitted this to a literary magazine and got a nice email back from them that they nearly included in an issue. Since that time, however, I’ve quit submitting to magazines. Too much time wasted that would be better spent writing.

My writing cave

At the risk of having y’all find out I’m messy, here’s a pic of my writing environment:

As you can see, I’m right-handed and I use a track-ball mouse.

Visible in the photo is my cheeseburger, which is a kitchen timer. I use it when writing to limit myself from the internet and other distractions.

On the left, on the interior windowsill is a stack of my “dogparcel” cards. These are where I jot down little ideas, like story titles or settings.

The hand-written paper in the center of the photo is a character chart from a recent WIP. Not fancy, but it works. I also have more detailed spreadsheets on my computer, but this is great for remembering with a glance what characters’ names are.

The desk itself is an Ikea countertop, with the corners to cut off so it fits in the bay-window space. The center support is a filing cabinet, and on the right is Husband’s computer, with an even larger monitor. We work side-by-side! (He’s not a writer.)

This is how my space usually looks, though I did clear away the takeout coffee containers, as I do have some pride.