B is for Bitch.

I don't know a whole lot about Sue Grafton. I have never read any of her work. My mom likes her books, but I don't know her, her chops, or how she sees her role as a writer. Because I am not familiar with her writing, I will not comment on it. Grafton would have been wise to take a similar approach instead of disparaging indie, self-published writers when she said:

"To me, it seems disrespectful…that a ‘wannabe’ assumes it’s all so easy s/he can put out a ‘published novel’ without bothering to read, study, or do the research. Learning to construct a narrative and create character, learning to balance pace, description, exposition, and dialogue takes a long time. This is not an quick do-it-yourself home project. Self-publishing is a short cut and I don’t believe in short cuts when it comes to the arts. I compare self-publishing to a student managing to conquer Five Easy Pieces on the piano and then wondering if s/he’s ready to be booked into Carnegie Hall.”

Well now...that sounds bitter and conceited. 

I am an independently published author. I have been writing professionally since I was 14. I have done the HARD work of writing and editing and publishing stories, novels, songs, and essays. I studied Creative Writing at SFSU, where they take writing VERY seriously. And all this time, I was disrespecting Sue Grafton without knowing it! I feel like such an asshole. Me, a wannabe...the nerve! Sue Grafton has every right to be outraged by something she knows nothing about. I mean, she is an 'official' writer type author person...hero to tepid mystery lovers everywhere. SHE EVEN KNOWS THE GODDAMN ALPHABET!

Self publishing a shortcut? Why did it take me so long then, Sue? Why? I mean, I spent like seven minutes doing research, wrote for a couple hours and uploaded my novel straight to Kindle, but it still took the better part of a day. Or is that not long enough for you?

Grafton's assumptions that indie writers don't do research or learn about their craft is offensive and small-minded. And the arrogant world of literature is one of the only places this shit happens. There are amazing indie bands...you don't see bigger artists calling them wannabes. Graffiti artists have become famous, but they get shown and praised. Art, produced by the artist, is a beautiful thing. But writers are insecure and elitist. Or are we? See, these generalizations are slippery things, Sue.

I bet I've written as many words as Sue. I've also worked with at-risk and learning challenged kids, introducing them to the written word. I wrote for years before I ever submitted a short story. I have studied the craft of writing for two decades. I have read the greats (sorry, I never got around to you, Sue). I was too busy reading Walt Whitman, Stephen King, James Joyce, Mark Twain and other self-published, wannabe hacks.

Writing is hard. One might even argue (listen carefully here, Sue) that writing, editing, promoting, and selling a book all by yourself is a more impressive feat than giving a draft to a team of editors and then letting the focus groups and editors/marketing gurus take your words and, let's say, 'improve them'.

I've been a writer for a while. I actively try to help other writers because I see this all as a team effort. But there is no 'I' in team. I is for individual. I is for ignorance. I is for idiocy.

Not only is Sue Grafton out of touch (some of the best writers working today are self-published), but she has the audacity to sit in her glass house and cast aspersions on 'wannabes' like me. One would think, even if she believes that all self-published, indie writers are hacks, that she would have the class to enjoy her success and not denigrate others - a whole group of people who are trying to achieve success in a field which has been good to her. She could have just written another groundbreaking novel. She could have kept her mouth shut. She should have kept her mouth shut.

I don't know anything about you, Sue. Maybe you're a nice lady. Maybe you're a bitch. Given the above arrogance and superiority complexing, I'm leaning towards the latter. For now. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say that your writing is not quite up to the level of the masters I listed above - those self-published assholes like Twain. That's right, I'm going to make a blanket statement generalizing your work based upon one answer to a question in an interview. I would look into this more, but that would require research, and I have a book to finish - I started it yesterday...I want to have it up on Kindle by this afternoon.

Anytime you want to see what an indie writer can do, I'm easy to find. Sue, you're a wealthy lady. I'm not (wealthy or a lady), but I'll bet you $50 that, in ten minutes, I could write a better story than you. So, bring it. Ten minutes, two pens, and as much paper as you need. I'm ready when you are. Put your money where your mouth is, Sue. I'll be waiting, looking for shortcuts that lead to the cathedral of hypocrisy where I can badmouth an entire movement because, well, E is for ego.

PS - I know you apologized (of your own free will and with no encouragement from your publisher, I'm sure), so I'm sorry I called you a bitch. There. Friends again.

How to Promote...

How to promote 
a tome that you wrote
a novel, a story
or something quite gory

How to promote
that blog post you wrote
with facebook and twitter
and please don't be bitter

How to promote
the enemies smote
be they typos or formatting
no need for doormatting

Simply stand tall
and on top of it all
be a gentle soul, kind
and soon you will find

The things you promote
will not sink but float
on gossamer wings
and simpler things

Like friendships and laughter
that's what you're after
not blind plugs and spamming
it's really quite damning

It is best to be humble
and never to grumble
the cards may be stacked
but there's good news in fact

If we keep our heads high
as we go strolling by
we will find friends delightful
and what once was frightful
will soon be a lark
a walk in the park
a chuckle that snatches
at you in the dark

So how to promote
Whatever you wrote
Remember in school
when you felt the fool
when you had a project
but hadn't a tool
when your legs were tired
and nowhere a stool
then somebody taught you
the things that have brought you
here seeking a truth
so simple, forsooth
do not suffer fools
or bandy your jewels
just simply remember
that one golden rule.

The Case of the Missing Plot Bunnies...

My friend Stephen Hise graces us with his literary badassery today.  In this piece, he spars with the monolithic NANOWRIMO (national novel writing month)...which challenges writers to enrage their significant others every November.  Check out his blog: www.indiesunlimited.com to keep tabs on what is going on in the indie scene.

It was one of those days at the office – long as a Sunday sermon and half as fun. I hadn’t had a case in weeks and I was down to my last packet of Ramen noodles. The name’s Spade –Marlowe Spade. I’m a private dick. Well, private ever since that one unfortunate incident at the park.

I was just about to close up shop for the day when she walked in. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, the vacuous stare, the mismatched shoes, and the disheveled hair, she was just my type.

She plopped her pretty little bottom down in the chair across from my desk like a pile of old pastrami on the stale rye bread served at Gino’s Deli on Tuesdays. Why Tuesdays? Because the Health Inspector comes on Wednesdays.

“Mr. Spade? You’ve got to help me,” she said in a breathy voice.

“I know, sweet cheeks. How do you like NaNo?” I asked. Her eyes showed the first spark of life since she’d come in to the joint, but that spark disappeared like a sailor’s paycheck the next instant as she burst into tears.

I wasn’t sure whether she was crying because I’d seen right through her or she finally realized she was still wearing her bathrobe, but I’d seen it all before. Big NaNo picks these fresh-faced kids up right as they get off the bus. He promises them fame and fortune if they work for him. You wanna be a real writer, don’t ya baby? Well then you gotta put out for me – show me what you can do. Before they know what hit ‘em, they’re on the hook for fifteen, eighteen hundred words a day. A lot of those kids break, and even a lot of the ones who make it are never the same. Happens every year about this time.

“Show me what you’ve got,” I said. She fished a couple of pages out of her robe pocket. I pulled the wadded up chewing gum off it and took a look. I started reading it. It looked promising at first−her female character was taking a shower, but somehow little Miss Writesalot managed to write the shower scene without any steam. I tossed the crumpled manuscript on the desk.

“Baby, I’m gonna tell you straight. You don’t need NaNo to make it in this town. The big six mob is busted, they’re dead and don’t even know it yet. If you wanna write then do it, but on your own schedule. You don’t need Big NaNo to call the shots.”

“Do you think I can, Mr. Spade?” She looked hopeful as a cocker spaniel at a Thanksgiving table.

“I know you can do it doll face. Indie is the way to go these days. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise,” I said.

“Oh, Mr. Spade! How can I ever repay you?”

I looked at the calendar on my desk and saw it was Tuesday. “Why don’t we go grab a pastrami on rye? You can buy. Then, let’s you and me go re-write that shower scene.”

Another case closed and another satisfied client.