Christmas blessings (An Author Gives Thanks)

“Here comes Santa Claus…”

Which always seemed like the perfect title for a porn film. But I digress…

Christmas approacheth and there is much to give thanks for.

First and foremost, my oldest son Liam returns from Brazil on Thursday; nearly four months away from home and hearth and, man, did we miss him. Having him back with us is the best Christmas present we could ask for. The tree is up and awaiting ornamentation, the Christmas CDs and (mainly) cassette tapes have been retrieved from the basement and dusted off. I know I have the reputation as being something of a curmudgeon but I love Christmas and there’s something about the holiday season that brings out the best in me. Even standing in a long lineup at the post office isn’t going to set me off (according to Canada Post, this is the busiest week of the year).

Other blessings of note doled out in 2012:

Three, count ‘em, three new releases.  Three books in one year? From me? That’s nothing less than miraculous. I’m delighted with all of them: The Last Hunt turned out far better than I’d hoped, a great story and a worthy addition to the western genre. I know I raised a lot of eyebrows when I announced I was working on a good ol’ fashioned horse opera, but I approached my task with seriousness and the respect of a true devotee. With the help of my father-in-law Ken Harman (a real, live cowboy) and folks like Lee Whittlesey, a superb historian and raconteur, I think I carried it off. Judging from the responses I’ve received, I’d say readers think so too.

The other two books are “Best of…” compilations of poetry and short prose. Stromata: Prose Works and New & Selected Poems. Both drawing from over two decades’ worth of material; slim, elegant volumes of surreal verse and prose poems. Beautiful, austere covers, powerful, intense material. I’m looking at them as I type these words and am still struck by what lovely tomes they are.

That’s the wonderful thing about being an indie author and publisher: I can supervise every aspect of my books’ creation, from their conception to their production and distribution. I even choose the margins and fonts, find the cover art. Etc. And I work with some great people, like my wife, Sherron, and my designer, Chris Kent, to ensure my books are as eye-grabbing, artful and evocative as they can possibly be. Check out my Bookstore page, see for yourself.

Shot, edited and scored three short films in 2012—have to admit, I’m most chuffed with “First Contact“, a surreal combo of music and images. Can you tell I’m a huge sci fi fan?

Also put together more of my ambient music, took lots of photographs, traveled more than I have in the past…

And the end of the year finds me plugging away on my next volume, a collection of short stories I hope to release in June or July, 2013. Already over 100 pages in and delighted by the diversity of voices, the unsettling and entrancing tales they tell.

Other then the expected sniffles and aches, we all stayed healthy in 2012—something else to give thanks for.

But I’m most grateful for my life, the freedom it affords me to follow my bliss, write in an atmosphere of peace and security, devote myself full-time to the task of creation. That’s what it’s all about. Birthing something that wouldn’t have existed, drawn breath, if it hadn’t been for your painful, protracted labor.

“Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.” (Robert Bresson)

For me, no other existence will suffice. Without the ability to create, immerse myself completely in my invented worlds, I would wither away, cease to exist in material form. A thing more sensed than perceived, shadow-dweller, incorporeal yet still cursed with sentience, formless but denied the release of death.

I’m honored and privileged to lead the life I do. That’s something I must never forget or take for granted. I’m blessed and renewed by the knowledge that I’m serving some higher purpose, contributing (in some tiny way) to the Grand Design. Sometimes, when I’m at my absolute wits end, that’s my sole motivation for continuing to put words down on paper. That and the unqualified support and faith of my family. Whatever successes I’ve had are the result of the love and encouragement I’ve received, the sacrifices those closest to me have made to allow me such a fortunate existence.

For that and much, much more, thank you, to my family and friends, my readers…and my Creator.

Couldn’t do it without you.

Wouldn’t even try.

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Author promo

* Click on image to enlarge

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Renovations and upgrades

Memo to one and all:

You might be noticing a few changes to Beautiful Desolation—I’m streamlining, consolidating for the purposes of simplicity. Eliminating some pages, expanding or creating others.

The end result will be that you’ll be able to navigate around my blog more easily, find what you’re looking for in less time. The new look will also highlight the growing importance of short films and music in my creative life. Technology has allowed me to explore disciplines other than writing and for that I’m immensely grateful.

You’ll find tons o’ free material to download—novel excerpts, stories, personal essays, films, ambient music, spoken word pieces…hours of fun and entertainment.

But the idea, of course, is that once you fall completely under my spell, want to read everything you can get your hands on by this whacked out Cliff Burns dude, you simply visit my bookstore, follow the link(s) and drop a few shekels my way.  Because I gotta tell you, without the occasional sale, some actual coin in pocket, this indie guy finds it hard to pay the bills. The “freeconomy” is fine and dandy for some, but as far as creative artists are concerned, it’s also getting harder and harder to make a buck. And, like everybody else on this side of Heaven, sometimes we find it a real squeeze.

‘Nuff said.

If you notice any glitches or broken links, drop me a line (blackdogpress@yahoo.ca) and I’ll effect a fix ASAP.  Might be a few bumps in the road along the way but, when all is said and done, this blog will be more navigable and user friendly and that’s worth a little short term pain and frustration.

Thanks for coming by.

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Breaking protocol

The other day my wife told me that I still don’t understand how to properly use tools like Twitter and Facebook to network with like-minded folks, in the process publicizing my writing to an ever-widening circle of “friends”.

“How many people are you following? How many blogs?”

And I ruefully had to admit that the number was pretty paltry.

“You see?  How do you expect to promote yourself or make more people want to read your books?”

She’s right, of course.  On every single count.  And I know at first glance it seems like I’m breaking a cardinal rule and not showing proper consideration for men and women who, like me, are trying to communicate the joys and sorrows inherent in the human condition. The experience of being alive, from a variety of perspectives (language, culture and geography be damned).

My problem is time.

I’m a full-time writer.  That’s what I do, seven days a week.  Seven-thirty in the morning I pour my first cup of coffee, walk upstairs to my home office and check the e-mails that have accumulated overnight. Part of my routine. By then, both my sons are stirring, getting themselves dressed, ready for school. My wife usually leaves for her job around 8:00, my lads head out about 8:40 and I’m alone in the house until mid-afternoon.

Once I finish e-mails, glance at the news, post a couple of things on LibraryThing, I fire on some music and settle down to serious business. There’s always a project on the go, work “in the pipeline”. For the past decade it’s been longer efforts, novels and novellas, and they require enormous concentration, a complete immersion in the worlds they’re portraying.

I’m at it all day, breaking for a (very) quick lunch, maybe run some errands, toss in one or two loads of laundry, satisfy myself that the bathrooms aren’t too septic.  Can’t have the people from the Center for Disease Control inspecting us again, imposing another quarantine…

Sometimes Sherron’s job takes her far afield and I have to figure out something for supper (my shepherd’s pie is particularly well-regarded). I catch up with what’s happening with my sons, find out how they’re doing at school, make sure we’re all on the same page. They’re both teenagers and their lives are a whole lot more complicated these days.

After supper, it’s back to the office, finish up for the day, wind things down, answer pressing e-mails, maybe listen to some comedy on BBC4 to help decompress. By then, it might be 8:30 or 9:00 p.m.  Shut off the computer, go downstairs, spend some time with my family, watch a movie or TV show (we only have 1 1/2 channels so we usually have to rent boxed sets or borrow them from chums).

And then it’s bedtime.

With that kind of schedule, there isn’t much of a chance to devote even half an hour to keeping up with all the Tweets and updates and latest poop that my various friends acquaintances might have posted during the course of the day.  I’m a writer, but I’m also a full-time dad and husband and my workaholic nature combined with my family obligations just doesn’t leave much wiggle room.

So…cutting to the chase:  I’m very sorry if I’m not following your blog or making an effort to reach out more through various forums and social networks.  I hope you’ll understand the constraints I’m operating under and realize there are priorities…and only a finite number of hours in the day. If it’s any consolation, I recently cancelled my weekly “StumbleUpon” recommendations because I never had time to glance at them and usually just deleted the message.

Writers write.  That’s what I do.  That’s basically all I do.  No weekends off, no holidays.  The wages are lousy, the rewards few.  I’m my own boss but can’t conceive of a harsher taskmaster.  No relief, no respite.

It’s not much of a life, I’ll warrant you, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

Sigh.

I guess I’d better get used to it.

 

“Who am I? A stranger here and always…”

William S. Burroughs, Rub Out the Word (Collected Letters 1959-74)

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Short poem to start the day

This morning I was sitting at my desk and happened to glance out the window, at the ungainly maple tree in our backyard that is always in need of trimming back.

Last night we had a substantial amount of rain.  The air rich with a variety of living scents, pouring into my home office, filling the room.  All at once, I started scribbling…

18/08/2011

shining leaves
dripping morning light
brushed by the wind
stubbornly resisting
its relentless entreaties

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Fixed Links

Spent part of the morning going through some of the links on Beautiful Desolation.  Computers…feh!  Sometimes links come unglued for no particular reason I can fathom.  So when you should be pulling up a PDF document, a short story or book review, you get “File Not Found” or whatever.  I try to stay on top of these things but, y’know, nobody’s perfect

So if, by chance, you end up with a dead end when you click on a link, please drop me a line (blackdogpressATyahoo.ca) and I’ll close the loop ASAP.

Meanwhile…back to work.

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Poem for Sherron

A little ditty I wrote—almost like a gesture sketch—as I watched my wife catching the rays in Jasper National Park, one day after our 20th anniversary:

Pyramid Lake,

Jasper National Park

(July 29, 2010; 3:15 p.m.)

Cupped in a bowl

of rust-colored fingers

sun-glazed and cedar-breathed

becalmed by a lake

that can’t make up its mind

if it’s blue or green…

And there’s you, at the end of the dock,

slow-rocked by the intrauterine tide

skin pinkening

in the magnified light

despite my frequent reminders,

the way I fret over

your unchangeable ways.

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“Anchorite” (New short fiction!)

Anchorite

The first one is a kook.  Total whack job.

Rings the doorbell and right away starts babbling about ley lines and planetary convergences, everything explained by this crude chart he holds up for perusal.  And all the while keeping his eyes cast down because he’s afraid of being “blinded by immanence” or something like that.  It’s hard to make out what he’s saying because he’s weeping, practically vibrating from a combination of fear and excitement.  The guy won’t be talked down or dissuaded.  Eventually, he just wanders off, pausing every once in awhile to shout and point at the house.  Weird.

But the word must be out because another one shows up the next day, an old man who won’t approach the door.  Content to stand at the end of the walk, bracing himself on a cane when the arthritis in his hip gets too bad.  He’s there until dark.  And then he’s gone.

More arrive daily, most content to be bystanders, others bolder.  There are all kinds of places on the internet.  Conspiracy theorists and cultists and people who believe the apocalypse is due a week from Thursday.

A particularly awkward moment when a woman thrusts out an infant, screaming:  “Heal him!  Don’t let him die!”  Closing the door but she won’t stop screaming.  Rushing out to calm her, reason with her.  And the whole time it’s “my baby, my baby”, the neighbors looking on with frank disapproval.

It gets worse.  A steady stream of people arriving, knocking at all hours.  The congestion creating a parking and traffic nightmare.  It’s a quiet neighborhood and residents start to complain.

The police and authorities are, predictably, completely unhelpful.  Initially dubious, suspecting some kind of publicity stunt.  They check around, find the sites in question.  Someone alerts the media, which means more unwanted attention, phone calls, requests for interviews.  The situation only exacerbated when the Pope becomes involved, issuing a statement denouncing superstition and idolatry.

Uniformed officers are stationed around the clock, an attempt to keep the growing throng under control.  Weapons have been seized, along with extremist literature and bizarre religious tracts.  The situation quickly deteriorating.

Late one night, someone breaks through the cordon.  Presses his face to the door, whimpering:  “Libera me, Domine” and, as he is being dragged away, howling:  “Miserere mei, Deus!”

Living like a prisoner now, never able to venture outside or peer from a window.  And  day and night, 24/7, serenaded by a continual soundtrack of prayers and hymns.  Someone even sets up a loudspeaker and plays amplified recordings of rabbits being slaughtered and children crying—o, pity the suffering children.

Unplug the telephone, turn off the lights, sit in the dark.  They’ll weary of this eventually, go back to their homes.  Give them nothing to encourage their simple credulity.

Alone and besieged.  Resigned and dangerously bored.  Reorganizing the cupboards and bookshelves, performing a thousand small chores.  Playing endless games of solitaire and, naturally, winning every single time.

© Copyright, 2010  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

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All apologies

I’ve been neglecting you.  But that’s a good thing.

Y’see, when I’m away from this blog for extended periods of time, that means I’m writing.  Deeply, intensively, happily immersed in some project that’s caught my fancy like a handful of shiny coins tossed into a monkey cage.  I live to work and while I enjoy posting on this blog, it’s not the kind of creative endeavor that fires my soul and gets the creative juices bubbling and steaming.

To catch you up on things:

My novel So Dark the Night moves ever closer to publication.  Yes, I mean an actual book.  I did a lot of research into the various print on demand outfits and decided to go with Lightning Source.  Their poor rep, Chris Thompson, put up with pages of questions and a couple of phone inquiries, often having to endure some crankiness from my end.  Usually it was because I’d misread some piece of info and assumed LS were over-charging for a service.  I’m naturally suspicious and sometimes equate print-on-demand with the bad old days of “vanity” publishers, who tried to bilk every last dime out of suckers.  But so far Lightning Source passes in the service and honesty departments with flying colours.  They offer a lower per book cost and at least the opportunity, a chance (however small) to break through into the retail marketplace.

The text is set (thank you, Sherron!) and the cover design is moving along.  We’re using the same Ado Ceric piece that we employed for the e-book.  The first time I saw the picture, I knew it was the one.  It’s going to look gorgeous reproduced on a fat 5.25″ X 8″  trade paperback.  Oh, yes…

We’re looking at a retail price of $17.95 which, I think, is reasonable and certainly in the range of other books similar in size and format.  Hoping for a release date in mid-late April and will post further on this point as publication nears.  Can’t tell you how thrilled I’ll be when the book arrives from Lightning Source, printed, bound and beautiful.  It’s the best thing I’ve ever written…and the hardest work I’ve ever done.  3+ years writing and editing.  And editing.  And editing…

But it was worth it.

We’re coming up on the third anniversary of this blog—March 18th is the semi-official date of its inception. I usually have one or two little treats I dole out around that day and this year is no exception.  If you’re in the neighborhood mid-month, drop in for a visit.  I think you’ll find a few goodies and tidbits, a heartfelt “thank you” for your support and patronage.

I’ll say no more.

There are exciting times in the days and weeks ahead.  I’ll be sharing the highs (and lows) with you, continuing to depict, as authentically and truthfully as possible, the life of an indie writer in the 21st century.  It’s a hard row to hoe and the rewards are few and far between.  But it’s a life that allows me to work and exist in absolute freedom, beholden to no one but my Creator.

So what, exactly, do I have to bitch about?

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