Category: independent writer

From the Mailbag

I get quite a number of notes from individuals requesting my advice on matters relating to publishing, indie or otherwise.

Recently, two or three people queried me about how to better “monetize” their writing.

Deep breath.

Folks, anyone who has spent even a brief period on this site or has read a mere handful of my Tweets would know that I hold such attitudes in absolute contempt.

Trying to break into writing to make money, seeking fame, fortune and bestseller-dumb? Sorry, you’ve come to the wrong place.

To clarify:

If you’re a purveyor of fan fiction, you should have your hands burned off with an acetylene torch. You are the shit real writers scrape off the bottom of their shoes.

If you concoct shapeshifter/paranormal romance you are a literary pornographer. You exhibit Grade Six-level writing and, it’s clear, retain an absolute horror of penetrative intercourse. As Bill Hicks would say: case fucking closed.

If you “lease” your talent to some franchise, averring that your penny dreadful writing subsidizes your “good” stuff, you’re only fooling yourself…and the gods of Literature can be very, very cruel. Regardless of how you rationalize it, you are whoring your Muse, peddling her ass for a fistful of loot. Your self-righteousness, the ferocity of your denials, only reveals the depth of your insecurity, your secret shame. You disgust me.

A twenty-something twat knows fuck all about life and has no right to claim an authoritative view on anything. You are also far too young and insignificant for a memoir. No one gives a shit about the suffering and pain (largely self-inflicted) you’ve endured during your brief existence. Your life is not unique or particularly interesting. You are part of a growing demographic: an egotistic, narcissistic non-entity with delusions of self-importance. There’s a lot of that going around nowadays and no vaccine in sight. Pity…

Demanding correct spelling and competent syntax is not “old school” thinking.

Unless you approach your craft with devotion and seriousness, work tirelessly and daily at improving yourself, you are a dabbler. A wannabe. Your efforts the equivalent of macaroni art: the gold paint may be slightly more gaudy, the noodles more generous, but it amounts to the same, unsightly mess stuck to the front of your fridge.

This blog is dedicated to a higher purpose, a celebration of the power and majesty of the printed word.

There are plenty of sites for people who compose in crayon, scribble on walls or any available surface and congratulate themselves for their artistry.

If that last sentence describes where you’re at, I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.

There’s the door.

Don’t let it hit you on the ass on the way out.

100_1191

For those who suffer through sleepless nights…

ShadowyInsomniac

terror
abrupt/disorienting
like that dreaded midnight call
confirming what you already knew

nowhere
a harbor or sheltering cove
to deflect the tempest—
absorbing the hours like blows

© 2015  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
Photo: Sherron Burns

Neglected Authors, Part II

A gratifying response to my last post, a couple of the writers I cited reaching out and offering words of thanks.

No problem, folks.

But I also took some stick for neglecting to include some other neglected authors on my list and for that let me say merely mea culpa.

Nobody’s perfect.

Here are some more names to ponder and, hopefully, seek out. These wordsmiths are/were absolute masters and deserve to be discovered (or rediscovered):

Wilton Barnhardt
Lydia Davis
Christopher Fowler
Craig Grant
Eric McCormack
Ted Mooney
James Morrow
Christopher Priest
Ishmael Reed
Iain Sinclair
Colson Whitehead

Past (Honorary) Members:

Kathy Acker
Antonin Artaud
Elizabeth Bishop
Thomas Disch
Ivan Doig
Martha Gelhorn
William Goyenne
Knut Hamsun
M. John Harrison
Lucius Shepard
Freya Stark

Compared to the junk currently being excreted by traditional publishing, these fine scribes are like brilliant flowers growing out of dung. Help save great works from obscurity and superb writers from the bottomless trash can of history.

Iris1

“After the Robbery” (Poem)

Fence 1

After the Robbery *

My fence keeps me safe
Yours keeps me out

His fence is broken
Hers like a fortress

Some build a barrier of guns
Others leave a gate

Theirs is but a daisy chain
(God preserve such trusting souls)

Fence 2

* This past week, two individuals used a pretext to gain admission to our home and then stole from us. Initially, I was possessed by feelings of betrayal and rage…but, finally, a sense of equanimity and calm is returning. Although I think this bit of verse reveals some on-going (and longstanding) misgivings regarding my fellow human beings.

(C. Burns)

Plugging along

Tree:faceAnother lengthy interval between posts. Talk about inconstant. Talk about maddening. Talk about…busy.

You know that’s always the case. When I’m hard at work, the last thing I think about is composing another blog entry. Don’t get me wrong, you folks are great, love hanging out with you, but writing, the creative act…well, that’s my lifeblood. My raison d’être.

This time, yes, there’s been creativity, a new short story…but, in all honesty, I’ve been devoting most of my time and energy to promoting Disloyal Son. With the hundreds, thousands of books being released every month, how do I draw attention to a solid, literate novel that anybody with two neurons to rub together will love? How do I compete with shapeshifter erotica and zombie porn and glorified fan fiction? Well, first of all, I send out review copies. Lots of review copies. To the major newspapers, mystery magazines, selected bookstores. Along with promo material and fliers that we agonize over, striving to come up with the most enticing wording. Again, trying to separate this book from the herd. The dung pile.

Good God, there are a lot of terrible books out there. Not just “self-published” either. The traditional publishers apparently believe the vast majority of contemporary readers (especially women) have the I.Q. of brain-damaged marsupials. If you’re looking for a quality book to read this summer, good luck. The trads no longer have any interest in cultivating authors, helping them find their voice and develop as artists. They’re staffed by corporate drones who merely seek “product”, mass market releases—swiftly excreted, endlessly repeated. Passionless, derivative, facile, inept.

And then something like Disloyal Son comes along. cover,jpeg

You want to know the difference between my approach to writing, as opposed to just about everyone else’s? I care. I respect language, the traditions and legacy of literature. I treasure a well-constructed sentence and expend enormous efforts honing and shaping my work. I’m a freak when it comes to editing—meticulous to the point of, well, insanity. While many of my colleagues seem content with one or two drafts, getting their slop out as soon as possible, I drag out the process of creation to the extent that completing a short story takes weeks and a novel like So Dark the Night required over three years before I was finally satisfied and released it. And that was working on it full time, every single day.

Writing is not a craft to me, it’s an art. There’s a difference. A big difference. Most scribblers can’t make that leap. I can. Every single one of my books is intelligent, challenging, innovative; none conform to expectations or fall back on formula. I try to get that across to readers, reviewers but it’s hard. They see that Black Dog Press is my imprint and right away start thinking “this is more self-published crap”. Dismissing me out of hand. Never giving me a fair shot.

I defy anyone to read the first 5-10 pages of one of my books, choose whichever you like, and then stop. By that point it will no longer be a question of the origins of the book, the circumstances of its publication—you’ll be too caught up in a great read. Of that, I am 100% certain.

Reviewers have written about the element of surprise in my books and stories and I think that’s key. When you’re reading one of my tales you have no idea how it’s going to end or what’s coming next. I love pulling the rug out from under you, leaving you in a whimpering heap. Never saw that coming, did you?

That quality is very much in evidence in Disloyal Son. It’s a mystery, within a mystery (and then some). The truth revealed in bleeding layers. If you give it a chance, it will be the best book you read this summer, maybe this year. And I don’t need to buy a four-star Kirkus review in order to know that.

Beginning again

100_0751Just to get everybody caught up:

Seven cartons, containing 160 copies of my novel Disloyal Son were deposited on my doorstep mere days ago. Not long afterward, my brand new 27″ iMac was delivered, unboxed and set up.

I was fortunate, ladies and gentlemen, because for the last couple of years I’ve been backing everything up on an external drive. When I had problems transferring files from the old Mac via ethernet cable to the new model, I called Apple Support and outlined the situation. When the Apple guy heard the age of the software in my source Mac, he whistled in dismay. Bad sign. He wasn’t too sure exactly what to do…until I mentioned that external memory. He sighed, relieved. No problem. Dump the ethernet cables, plug the external directly into the new Mac and voilà. Mission accomplished.

But let this be a lesson to anyone else out there running an obsolete operating system: that external memory was (at $125) one of the best investments I ever made. Saved me a huge headache. Think about it.

There have been a few minor glitches but so far I’m impressed by this new monster. Can’t wait to give it a real test drive. Unfortunately, the MIDI keyboard/synthesizer I ordered is still en route and I don’t have the nerve to tackle Final Cut Pro yet. So I’ll bide my time. Meanwhile, try to get acclimatized with the larger screen, slightly different configurations, the peculiarities of its machine brain.

codeSpent a couple of days tidying up this blog, updating some of the pages, slimming things down a little. I’m a bit taken aback by the sheer amount of fiction, music and even short films I’ve uploaded here over the years. It’s quite the hoard of strangeness. Sherron says it’s time for a new theme and I suppose she’s right. Still want to keep the picture, though. I find it…haunting.

I’ve been flashing copies of Disloyal Son around town, pleased by how taken folks are with the cover. People wanting to know how to pick it up, where to order. Answer: everywhere…but, preferably from your nearest independent book store (McNally-Robinson, Powell’s, etc.).

Weird how everyone responds to the book’s central theme of family secrets. Think I’ve hit on something here, purely by accident. I’m getting goosebumps and the hair on my arms is standing up. Maybe because of close proximity to the zeitgeist.

Now, whether that will translate into some decent book sales, who knows? Hard to tell in this era of shapeshifting-sado-masochistic-paranormal-romances.

Ay yi yi. What will they think of next? (No, please, don’t tell me, it’s probably better if I’m not privy to that information.)

But we forge on, boats against the current and all that.

I remain convinced that there are still smart readers out there, a small but devoted demographic desperate for a transformative experience when they open a book.

They want to believe in magic and too often are poorly treated by contemporary scribblers.

Here at Black Dog Press we offer something different, an intelligent alternative to corporate publishing.

Books for bibliophiles and devotees of the printed word.

Written and published with love.

Or maybe that should read: reverence.

DSC00146