Category: creative writing

“The Boy Eternal” (Post #450)

boyIt’s my 450th blog post and, frankly, you deserve a bonus.

All the times you’ve dropped by my strange, little site and found yourself confronted with yet another rant, a venting of spleen directed toward my latest bugbear. Middle of the road, milquetoast, liberal democrats are my current obsession. I despise them, down to the last strand of DNA. Don’t get me started on that.

I reported previously that I was “de-commissioning” an old notebook. I salvaged some poems, ideas…and a few bits and pieces that coalesced into a spoken word piece I’ve recorded and titled “The Boy Eternal”.

It’s personal, to some extent, but I’m never one to let facts get in the way of a good tale.

I present it to you, with my compliments. The music adds a nice, dramatic element.

Have a listen and let me know what you think:

 

  • To listen to more of my spoken word or ambient recordings go to my Other Media page.

Black Dog Press: The Year Ahead

book-catalog

Over the holidays I devoted a considerable amount of thought to what should happen next with Black Dog Press.

So far, my imprint has released eleven books, a couple of limited edition chapbooks…but now what?

I’ve come to the determination that I won’t be publishing anything in 2017—and before the emails and complaints start flying, let me elaborate.

Despite my considerable efforts, Black Dog Press remains a very marginal enterprise. It is a constant struggle to draw attention to my writing when there are so many tomes being published and self-published, churned out like dumb, identical widgets. I want to pursue new methods for advertising my books, trying my best to overcome my aversion to self-promotion (a particularly ugly manifestation of narcissism). I’ve never been an author who haunts forums, always looking for an opportunity to reference my own work, and I’m not much a joiner, if you get my drift. More like your classic lone wolf.

In the past, I’ve sought out other, like-minded indie authors/publishers but, candidly, haven’t found many who take the printed word as seriously as I do. Very few scribes these days produce genuinely original, literary work; their prose is often derivative (fan fiction) or stuck in a genre of little interest to me (zombie, shapeshifter romance, etc.). Sadly, the proliferation of technology, the growing number of publishing platforms, means that the amateurs and wannabes out there can publish all the crap they excrete, with the minimum of editing or critical scrutiny. Pounding their chests and calling themselves writers, having a fit when anyone dares question their professional credentials. As petulant as they are untalented, vicious, rather than visionary.

Sending out review copies doesn’t work—that much has been made clear. Again, too many books, too few good publications (even fewer qualified critics)…and then there are the unnamed rags that want you to buy advertising space before they’ll even consider your book for review. There’s a special red-hot poker in Hell waiting for that scum.

I adamantly refuse to purchase a positive, five-star review from Kirkus or Publishers Weekly. Never, never, never.

What does that leave?

I’ve been looking into hiring a publicist, but that would mean leaving my comfort zone and putting my books, my personality, my face in the hands of a stranger. Granting them permission to do what’s necessary to “raise my profile” (I’m literally squirming as I type those words).

But something has to be done. I’m publishing terrific, intelligent, compelling novels and stories and they’re not getting the attention they deserve. After over 30 years as a professional author, my stature isn’t anywhere near what it should be…and the fault lies with me.

I have to do better at promoting my growing body of work, even if that means trying things I’ve never dared attempt before.

It’s an approach I’ve always shied away from, but there’s no other option.

If I want to continue growing my readership, keep Black Dog Press afloat, I have to cast aside my aversion to, gulp, selling myself to the public.

Sigh.

This isn’t going to be easy…

“Live! From Epidaurus…”

EpidaurusiOne of the high points of our time in Greece was visiting the ancient amphitheater of Epidaurus.

Alec Guinness called it the “greatest theater in the world” and ol’ Alec likely knew a thing or two about such matters.

I took along a handheld digital recorder to capture snippets of sound along the way and decided that a live reading at Epidaurus was just too fantastic an opportunity to miss.

I selected a few of my recent poems, ran through them a few times, then had Sherron hold the recorder while I did my thing. I was reluctant to place myself anywhere near stage centre, where the uncanny acoustics would carry every single syllable up to the cheap seats. Instead I stood at the very front, right against the first row of seats.

We were lucky enough that most of the tourists had left by then, chased away by the scorching sun. But you can still hear a few morons, clapping to confirm that, yes, indeed, the acoustics are phenomenal, as the last person demonstrated…and the person before that. Everyone lining up to take their turn.

During this trip I learned to really loathe tourists. There’ll likely be a post on that later.

For now, join me at Epidaurus, right around noon, this past July, the temperature hovering in the mid-30s.

Get the picture?

Great…now click on the MP3, sit back, close your eyes and listen

“Cliff Burns, Live at Epidaurus”

Epidaurusii

 

Flash Fiction

lights

2020

Endless processions of driverless cars.

Delivering their contents to automated houses.

Under the constant scrutiny of cameras, overhead drones.

Smart appliances reporting preferences, behavior, patterns; mined for data, narcing to their corporate masters.

Election night: voting by remote control, hardly bothering to check the results.

Keeping your head down, mouth shut.

Addicted to livestreaming porn sites.

Disgusted by the state of affairs but powerless to effect any change.

Buying stupid trinkets to fill the void.

Drugs when nothing else works.

An epidemic of suicide in your age bracket.

Desperately lonely and neurotic, verging on anti-social.

In your solitary rooms, secured by triple locks.

Talking to yourself and the listening walls.

Waiting for the knock on your door.

satellite

 

© Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

Poem of the day: “Absent Father”

Absent Father

God the eternal scold
withdrawn judgmental
not the touchy-feely type

No wonder we’re so
lousy in relationships
denied parental approval

The times we needed
you offering stilted prayers
on sore bended knees

While you sulked in the
Aether using the ol’ guilt trip
to try and get your way

© 2016  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

sistine

Looking ahead (hopeful premonitions)

Welles:pictureOne of my resolutions in 2016 is to raise and enhance my creative profile by getting better at promoting my work.

I make that commitment with, I confess, some serious misgivings. My absolute nightmare is emulating my hero, Orson Welles, who spent the vast majority of his time trying to beg, borrow or steal the money he needed to finance his pictures. He frequently bemoaned wasting his energy on this soul-destroying scut work when he could have been, y’know, making great movies. When he died, he left a string of unfinished projects and his body of work was far, far smaller than it should have been. That represents a crime against cinema itself.

I measure myself by the latest project in front of me—and that’s a major drawback. Once I finish a book or short story or poem I quickly lose interest, already eying the next challenge. I admit it: I have been completely negligent when it comes to plugging the ten books this press has released thus far. I send out review copies, write up some accompanying background material…and then pretty much forget about it. Onward and upward!

But I’m a sentient creature, I can learn, adapt, change. So during the past week I’ve signed up for both Smashwords and Wattpad, making a substantial selection of my writings available for free downloading and sampling on those sites (see: the “Links” sidebar to the right of this post). I’ve also contributed comments to a couple of writing forums and reached out to a few fellow indies.

As well, in the coming weeks, I’ll be giving you a step-by-step (blow by blow?) account of my efforts to publish the next Black Dog Press offering, a reprint of Righteous Blood, a volume featuring two terrifying novellas originally released by PS Publishing back in 2002. You wanna know how to publish a book, experience the joy and (mainly) torments of that process firsthand, well, keep watching this space.

I spent part of last autumn getting the text of Righteous Blood into shape, making sure there were no formatting glitches, etc. I also wrote a foreword and some end story notes. That part is pretty much ready to go. But I still need to find cover art, select an interior layout person (Chris Kent will once again handle cover design) and start the production ball rolling. My tentative release date is April 1st—better get a move on.

So…busy times. But I can’t forget to leaven all that labor with a little bit of fun.

Which means…see you at the first home game of this province’s new professional lacrosse team, the Saskatchewan Rush. I’ll be driving in to Saskatoon on Friday, attending the match with four of my favourite lads (including my two sons). The forecast is for cold weather but that doesn’t deter the hardy sports fans in this part of the world. Watch for me, I’ll be the guy in the yellow/gold Bruins hat, imbibing good, Canadian ale and grinning from ear to ear.

I love lacrosse. Fantastic game. Canada’s real national sport.

Go Rush!

Bruins