Mind Bend, or, Trouble at the Halfway Mark

I'm not yet at 50 000 words, but I'm over the halfway mark.

My mind is having great difficulty wrapping around this idea. Perhaps it's really anal, and requires wonderful round numbers for halfway marks, and can't handle all the messy fractions of 75 000.

Yesterday, something happened in the story that was supposed to happen ( my apologies to the Elgin Street Police Headquarters. You're all dead. Sorry), but I kept thinking that this book was going to be crap because it wasn't the halfway mark yet. Except that it was.

I was confused. Even now I'm having difficulty dealing with this relatively simple concept. In short, I'm a twit.

Oh, a lovely note this morning - two rejections in my inbox. Oh goodie. Le sigh. Oh well. I guess.

UGH!

On a happier note, just ten more writing days and I'm done Ethan Cadfael: The Battle Prince. Yay!

Also on a happier note, I managed to fix up The Dying God & Other Stories (for the last time, I swear!). I only found two typos and had one change of mind. Thus, only three corrections. All the eBook versions have been changed AND, this time, Lebrary.com accepted the update! Yay! You can now buy it there again if you so wish. Hopefully I'll get the confirmation email from Createspace.com today that The Dying God & Other Stories is all good to go for the paperback edition. Then I can press that 'publish' button. It that happens today, I'd have met my self-imposed deadline. Just.

Damn, I'm good.

Right, I really have to get on with it now. Have a great Thursday all!

Algerining

The act of prowling about with intent to steal... Probably from Algerine, an inhabitant of Algiers. The greatest commerce of the Algerines consists in the merchandize which they obtain by the piratical plunder of Christians over the whole Mediterranean.

- Joseph Wright's English Dialect Dictionary, 1898-1905

The Dark Crystal

Babbs

The foul luce, or slimy matter a razor scrapes off the face in shaving.

- John Mactaggart's Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia, 1824

Due to yesterday's awesome guest post, I neglected to provide you with the Forgotten English of the day. So I decided to be nice and give it to you first thing this morning.

Now the post isn't really about The Dark Crystal. It's actually about my mood today. As I was walking to work this morning, I found that I am slowly making peace with what was, arguably, the most devastating rejection yet... for some reason.

No sooner did the words 'making peace' pop into my head, than did the image and sound of the Skekis Chamberlain from The Dark Crystal whining plaintively after the escaping Gelflings, "Please? Please make peace?"

Hence the title. Just so you know I really didn't pick it at random, and there was a thought process behind it.

If I was picking titles at random that had nothing to do with post content, I'd have titled today's post Peeps in Jeeps.

Ahem, anyway...

I am slowly recovering from my random breakdown on Monday. It's funny how long it takes me to really get back on my feet. Hm.

With my writing, I've managed to make my 3 000 words every day this week. I'm now approaching the last 20 000 or so words of the novel. If I stay on track, I out to be finished before the end of the month.

Then I'm going to be working on a much lighter project to take me away from all the dark and death and depression I'm dealing with writing Puppet Master. I genuinely think that the horrors of Medrim are affecting my mood - which would go a long way to explain why it's taking me so bloody long to get over the latest "no."

This project has, for the past two days, made me pause and giggle. It's a light (well, as light as I am capable of producing), just-for-fun book I'm going to write, so I think that I'll self-publish it.

I'm not going to say more on it, except to note that fellow Ottawans would probably enjoy it that much more than the rest.

Well, today's my day off, which means I get to goof off as much as I want and not feel guilty. So, here's your Forgotten English. I'm off to... not sure yet; but it'll be fun whatever it is.

Hot Spong

A sudden powerful heat.

- Rev. Robert Forby's Vocabulary of East Anglia, 1830

A sudden power of heat from the sun emerging from a cloud; East[ern England].

- James Halliwell's Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, 1855

When Things Went Awry

Well, last night was an exciting time. I read an email from a potential agent who had some concerns over the ending of The Third Prince and wanted me to re-write it.

Not a problem, thought I. So long as the story remains relatively intact, I can do that. After all, I kinda get what she means.

I neglected to read the second email she sent me which stated that she just wasn't thrilled enough to take on the book.

I read that this morning.

And now I want to cry.

You know that sinking feeling you sometimes get when your life appears to be a big, empty void - a colossal chasm filled with dreams never fulfilled? I have visions of me sitting at this very desk, twenty years from now, still single, plumper than I should be, embittered and defeated.

Right now, I want to quit. Who needs to be published, anyway?

Trying was a stupid idea.

Of course, I'm not especially bright, so I'm going to keep trying. Like a hamster that never learns to stop touching the electric frikkin' wire.

Maybe I'll self-publish it.

I don't want to, but who knows? Maybe it's the only way this story will see the light of day. And this story deserves to see the light of day.

Let me stress, I'm not in any way, shape or form, angry with the agent. Actually, she was excellent at keeping me abreast of where she was at with my submission and I appreciate her candid explanation of why she wouldn't take on the manuscript.

Besides which, I would much rather have an agent who was thoroughly excited about my stuff.

There just seems to be no such beast.

Well, I'm going to go hide in a hole for the rest of the day, probably cry some and think a great deal. Here's today's Forgotten English to keep you occupied while I do:

Bowdlerize

To emasculate through squeamishness. From the name (Bowdler) of one of Shakespeare's "purifiers." [Occasionally still used.]

- John Hotten's Slang Dictionary, 1887.

Have You Ever Felt...

Warning: I'm in a bad mood, and it will likely be reflected in today's post.

Yesterday afternoon, I received a rejection from what was, essentially, my last chance for a particular manuscript. It's official. I'm retiring that particular novel until further notice. This isn't an easy decision. I'm not doing this spur of the moment. This was a decision I came to before I sent off that last query.

I'm not happy about it, and I'm considering my options, but I'm not in the best frame of mind right now and I should probably withhold any decision-making until I cheer up a bit.

Have you ever felt utterly worthless?

You see, I don't have a lot of skills to my advantage. I'm pretty average actually. Average height, slightly higher than average weight, average intelligence, average physical ability (though less than average upper-body strength), average looks - not ugly, but not especially pretty either... just so incredibly average.

The only thing that set me apart was my imagination, and the ability to express it (albeit with typos and spelling errors) in writing. It was the one pride I carried with me throughout my life thus far.

Turns out, I'm pretty average at that too. My writing isn't good enough to sell.

As most of you know, I have no beef with self-publishing. I have an anthology of stories out there right now that I've self-published. I think the stigma around self-publishing is ebbing away. Let's face it, there are some absolute gems out there that traditional publishers had passed by (there's a lot of rubbish as well, but luckily, most books can be previewed).

That said, I just don't have the clout to market my self-published stuff very well. Anyone who has tried will know exactly what I'm talking about. It's high school all over again out there - one giant popularity contest.

I was never popular. In fact, I was so unpopular that I missed out on my debutante celebration because not a single guy would be caught dead taking me to the dance. Trust me. I asked everyone. One guy even said that he wasn't going, only to announce the next week that he had just acquired a date for the dance.

(For those of you unfamiliar with the debutante tradition, at 16 years old or so, a girl "comes of age" wears white and goes to a dance (it's a bit weird actually. It looks like a mass wedding...). It's ladies choice, which means the girl must do everything normally handled by the guy, including asking someone out. It's not like a Formal (in North America, you call a Formal a Prom), where you can go with a bunch of friends and screw the date. You must be accompanied to a Debutante Ball).

That's how popular I was in high school.

Nothing's changed.

When it comes to marketing, I cannot, for the life of me, be disingenuous. I can't do it. On twitter, I won't follow someone in the hopes that they'll follow me back. I follow people I'm genuinely interested in. I would hope that the people following me are genuinely interested in what I have to say, rather than just there because they're trying to appear like they have more friends than they actually do.

The same is true of blogs. I read the blogs of people I care enough to spend my precious time reading about. I follow friend's blogs, the blogs of members of my family, and the blogs of authors I very much admire (such as Neil Gaiman and George R.R. Marin). I don't have the time to read the blog posts of everyone in the whole world. I like to read and interact with the bloggers I follow. There are only so many hours in a day, and I can't do the same for everyone in the world. To even try would be a great injustice to everyone involved.

I would hope that the people who follow my blog do so because they enjoy reading it, not because they're begging for reciprocal attention.

Facebook and Goodreads are a little different. I'll friend just about anyone there (it's so easy to ignore people).

If I retweet/facebook/blog a link about a book, it's because I genuinely thought the book was worth something. I would hope that others would do the same for mine.

I'm also horribly shy around people I don't know. I close up and close off. I suppose people mistake this for snobbery, but it's not. I'm just terrible at being around new people. I can't speak in front of crowds without flushing furiously and desperately fighting back tears. The tears get stuck in my throat making it hard to speak. Just the thought makes me nauseous. Large crowds have me so tense I can barely breathe, even if I'm not speaking before them.

In short, marketing is not my forte. Being out and about, meeting and greeting... I can't do it; not well, in any case.

No one's going to read the books I self-publish because no one even knows I exist... well, other than friends and family, that is. And that's not going change any time soon. If I am to become a well-known author, I need help. When you self-publish, you do it all on your own.

And that is where I fall down.

In any case, why would I self-publish something that the industry has turned down? Clearly it's not good enough. I know that there are arguments about what will sell vs. what is actually good, but if an agent or a publisher gets really excited about a story, they'll take a chance. It's been done before, with much success.

In any case, I'll continue to self-publish my short-story collections, and anthologies of poetry, when I get around to consolidating them. My novels, however, I will write and save and perhaps one day, someone will think I do actually have a talent worth investing in.

Sorry to bring everyone down. I'm just feeling very disappointed right now, and more than a little upset. I'll get over it, of course, and press on as always. I just need some time to be upset, I think.

Well, now that I've thoroughly depressed everyone else, here's your Forgotten English word of the day:

Dunny

Hard of hearing. Dunch is deaf in Gloucestershire and Somersetshire dialects; whence is derived the word dunce.

- G. Lewis' Glossary of Provincial Words Used in Herefordshire, 1839

Dunt, to confuse with noise; to deafen. From 15th-century dunt, a dull blow.

- Edward Gepp's Essex Dialect Dictionary, 1923

Funny, 'dunny' in Australia means toilet. I wonder if it's a reference to the toilet's other nick-name 'thunder-box.'

Bubble's Burst

Well, after receiving a wonderful review for The Dying God & Other Stories, yesterday I received a rejection for the same work.

Sigh.

I am a little disappointed, though I do understand that short story anthologies are stupidly hard to sell, even if you're an established name. Chances were slimmer than most for trying to get an agent for this work.

There's nothing to do but move on. I have one and half more books to write, and I can't slow down or they'll never get written. Oh, and seeing as how I'm speaking of The Great Man series, I have some cheerful news.

My mother has very helpfully agreed to be a Beta Reader for this series (and that's a lot of work). She sent back the manuscript a couple of weeks ago (and I still haven't had the chance to look at it) with a lovely note:

She loved it. She's desperately in love with Julian and fears for his soul.

That's the reaction I was hoping for! That makes me happy. So very, very happy.

Also, speaking of The Great Man series, I had best get on with writing it. Before then, here's today's Forgotten English:

Pree:

To taste; as, "Pree my sneeshin," taste my snuff.

- John Jamieson's Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language, 1879.

To taste. The Scotch think this phrase, "I preed her mouth," a poetical way of saying, "I kissed her." Its literal translation into common English, "I tasted her mouth," doesn't sound like poetry, while its Cumbrian form, ""I teasit her feace," sounds like anything rather than poetry. The different versions of the phrase illustrate the difference of character on the two sides of the border.

- Alexander Gibson's Folk-Speech of Cumberland, 1880.