UPS Fails Hard
I’ve been expecting a couple packages the last week or so and, to my surprise, today I received an interesting little postcard from UPS. Here’s what it says: We are unable to complete delivery because:CORRECT STREET # NEEDED. NOT DELIVERED. The curious part? The postcard came to my mailbox, the same address the package in question should have been delivered to. So, the question of the day is: how did they manage to deliver the postcard to me and not the package? Clearly they know where I live… And you thought USPS was bad.
Why Almost Everyone Is Pissed About Harlequin
It seems there’s some confusion about why just about everyone in the professional world of writing is up in arms about Harlequin’s decision to create a vanity press imprint (Harlequin Horizons). I thought the reasons were fairly clearly spelled out by the RWA (Romance Writers Association), the MWA (Mystery Writers Association), and the SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association). Seems I was wrong (a lot of really idiotic, ignorant stuff is being said in support of Harlequin right now, which will shock most people with a conscience). So, I’m going to spell it out for you to make it damned clear, with a few curse words for effect. The ScamFirst off, Harlequin is starting what is called vanity publishing, which is even worse than self-publishing because it gets the whole production model wrong: the author pays someone else to put together and print their work, then the printer keeps a part of the profits. There’s a reason why vanity publishers are so hated by almost everyone except the naive and the stupid. They are perpetual liars on a scale that most politicians would be astonished by, and they have to be, because they essentially are selling services to people that don’t need them, and fucking people out of their hard-earned money. Likewise, vanity presses often can’t meet the quality that professional third parties or traditional publishers put out. So they lie. A lot. They flower up everything they say about their services and wannabe-writers flock in and drop off their money to be handed a mediocre product that they can’t even sell enough of to make back what they put into it. This is what Harlequin is doing, right down to the lying and flowering bits. Does it seem logical why the RWA, MWA, SWFA, authors, et. al. are pissed off? Here we have a major publisher joining in on the author scamming, and thinking that somehow it’s right. The Lie and the Corporate MindfuckHarlequin has really sold themselves on the idea that they’re doing something wonderful. After all, publishing is changing, right? All them blasted writers organizations who are there to make sure authors don’t get fucked over by scam agents, etc. are just part of some out-of-date old people’s cling to the past, right? Wrong. They exist to protect writers on numerous levels. But Harlequin thinks otherwise. They think that vanity publishing is the wave of the future. That’s right. They think something that has been around longer than POD, that has been scamming and fucking people over for decades is the wave of the future. Something sound fishy? It should, because we’ve heard similar BS before. The difference between what Lulu does and what Harlequin is going to do is that Lulu doesn’t lie to you. It tells you right up front: you’re self-publishing, and you can do it for free, or buy some of our packages, and we keep a little cut (a real little cut, actually). Harlequin is saying this: you’ll pay us shitloads of money and we’ll print your book, and, oh, by the way, maybe we’ll pick it up for the regular imprints too (we won’t really), the ones that get in bookstores and sell lots of books, oh, and you’ll have the Harlequin brand on it (but it will be worth crap), so it’ll be worth moneys, and, oh, we won’t tell you that your book won’t be edited by our professional editors (because it probably won’t), so we’ll just let you pretend it does. To be fair, they changed one of those, now, since the new imprint won’t say Harlequin in the name, but that’s really irrelevant at this point. Harlequin is doing everything they can to paint this whole thing up like it’s the golden beacon of publishing wonders, when it isn’t. The closest you can get to that are POD services like Lulu or Createspace, who do a damned good job not pretending to be what they are: places that profit off selling a few copies of a lot of different books, while still giving you a cut and not charging you up the ass for services. Lulu and Createspace have latched onto a brilliant method of printing books that traditionally publishers (with exception to many small presses) have yet to see value in. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about… The SFWA and friends are pissed about this because it’s damn obvious what’s going on: Harlequin is trying to make a profit off of its slush pile at the expense of a whole lot of innocent authors who don’t know any better, all while doing very little to make clear what all of that entails. Which is this:–You’ll pay a lot to get it printed.–It won’t be in bookstores.–It won’t sell many copies.–Unless you’re the luckiest damned person alive, it won’t get picked up by a major publisher because most, if not all, publishers won’t touch it with a 200 mile pole.–You’ll be broke.–Nobody will actually edit your work, and if someone does, it won’t be edited very well. –You’ll be raped by the stigma associated with self-publishing in general, and more specifically the kind attached to vanity publishing (a much less lovable version of the anti-self-publishing vitriol). Harlequin is literally like healthcare companies who profit off of sick people, making the whole thing super shiny with a nice bow and a whole lot of B.S. to sell it to the masses. The SFWA and friends have rightly called them out for it. They’re pissed because they believe that authors should be paid, and not the other way around. And it’s a good thing to be pissed about. They don’t like seeing authors getting screwed any more than the rest of us. Harlequin’s attempts to do everything it can to screw authors is getting everything it deserves for it. These are the reasons why the SFWA, RWA, MWA, and most anyone with a conscience are pissed off. It’s not because Harlequin is cashing in
Funny Things About Grandfathers
I’ve never talked about some of my grandfather’s exploits on this blog, but one of the things you learn as a writer (or a wannabe writer, for that matter) is that your family, friends, and random acquaintances can act as fantastic inspiration. My grandfather has acted as quite the little inspiration bee in the last few years, and will continue to do so for many reasons. But there are some stories about my grandfather that I don’t think I can ever replicate in a fiction story. You know the saying, “Life is stranger than fiction”? That’s absolutely true of my grandfather at times. Here are just a few of those stories: Cub Scout CampingBack when I lived in Washington, my grandfather took my brother, sister, and I on a camping trip to all sorts of pretty places. The problem? Washington is wet almost year round. It’s either raining or the apocalypse has arrived and everything is burning to a crisp. Our trip happened to coincide with non-Biblical events, which makes for interesting camping. During a particularly wet trip we decided to stop and find a nice place to camp. Having set up all our tents, my grandfather set to making a fire. Matches, unfortunately, do little for turning soaked wood into toasty fire, so he decided to hunt down some kerosene. A little while later, he returned with a half-full container and poured all of it over the wood. The result was probably the first real-life mini-demonstration of a nuclear explosion my siblings and I will ever see. A big flame, a little mushroom cloud, and no standing fire. We gave up at that point and decided to settle in for the night. That’s when it started to pour. My grandfather, being the cub scout that he was, had put his tent, which he was sharing with my brother, at the bottom of an incline. Why? I don’t know. He just did. And at some point in the middle of the night we all heard the revving of our car’s engine. Apparently the rain had created a lovely puddle in the middle of the tent and my brother had secured all of the dry space, leaving my grandfather a freezing pond to sleep in. Eventually he had to get up and warm himself in the car. We didn’t camp outdoors after that. Stubborn DriverMany years ago my grandfather had some problems with his heart and had his driver’s license taken away for safety reasons. Anyone who knew my grandfather also knew that he was one of the most stubborn individuals ever. He gave up his license, alright, but he sure as heck didn’t give up his right to drive. He and I used to climb into this old hatchback (a Colt or something) and tear down the dirt road where he and my grandmother lived. We wouldn’t drive all the way into town, though. No. That would be too obvious. Instead, my grandfather would hide the car (very poorly, I might add) behind a small wall of blackberry bushes along the road, and then we’d walk the rest of the way. It was clear that he didn’t want to walk up and down the blasted hill. Some time later I learned that pretty much everyone knew what he was up to (Placerville is a small town). Looking back, it seems somewhat ridiculous that he was so secretive about the whole thing. Everyone knew, including my grandmother, and nobody did anything about it. Of course, I was a little young and didn’t know any better at the time. I kept the secret for a while, though, because I’m like that. Secretive and stuff. Hanging GrandsonsThere were other events following my grandfather’s early heart problems, but none put my life on the line like his desire to have me help re-paint the house. You see, my grandfather was kind of a “do it yourself” guy, but since he couldn’t reach certain parts of the house with his ladder he needed a way to finish the job. That’s where I come in. My grandfather’s brilliant post-stroke plan was to climb to the roof through a ceiling window and dangle me over the side of the house by a rope, without a mask for the paint sprayer and held only by a post-stroke grandpa. Yup. I’m not sure how I weaseled my way out of it, but he was quite adamant about putting me over the side of the house. Thankfully it didn’t happen. The MonkeyWhen my grandfather and grandmother got married, they went on the kind of honeymoon that most people only dream of these days, visiting places like Egypt and others. At some point in the trip they arrived in a place where the locals had a special delicacy that most Americans (and my grandfather was the old rancher-type) would find…let’s just say strange. But my grandfather, as I’ve said before, was a stubborn mule. Wanting, I presume, to respect local culture, he almost demanded to be served the delicacy, all while my grandmother tried to explain to him that it was not a good idea, at all. Eventually, however, my grandfather won out, as he usually did, and the locals brought before him a remarkable gift: a monkey head with monkey brain soup inside. I’m told that my grandfather turned a shade of white that doesn’t currently exist in the human makeup. And no, he didn’t learn his lesson, as the last story will illustrate. The CurseNever cross my grandmother. Ever. If you do, you’ll pay the consequences. Trust me. My grandfather never learned that, but he did help to make a funny story about the power of grandmother’s to use subtle magic. At some point in the past my grandfather had a little sailboat. It wasn’t anything special, but it brought him some joy, I assume. One day he discovered a jar of money my grandma had been saving to buy a dress or nice drapes or something (I
Why WISB is a Safe Place: I Won’t Call Your Employer
I have access to every IP that comes to this website. I also have some detailed information for all of those IPs. But guess what: I’m not going to report you to your employer if you post a vulgar or just downright stupid comment. Not like this guy (and there’s more here). And you want to know why? Because I’m not that much of an asshole. I’m also not a supporter of the kind of Gestapo-style policies that some people think is perfectly acceptable in a free society. What I will do is delete your comment or prevent it from appearing. But I sure as hell won’t be actively seeking to get people fired for using the Internet for childish purposes. No, I subscribe to a much more low-key style of asshole. So feel free to be as vulgar as you want here. I dare you. That is all.
A Reiteration: Books and Music; Lovers, But Not Twins
I am consistently shocked by the persistence of the belief that books (and particularly the book industry) are somehow exactly the same as music (and the music industry). While there are certainly analogous relationships between the two, the idea that consumers view them as the same is absurd. Let’s break this down, because it needs to be made clear that no matter what parallels exist between the two, they are inherently different things. Point #1 — ConsumptionWhen you listen to music, you are engaging in a particular form of auditory consumption that requires very little in the way of thought processes. This is not to say that music cannot foster thought, just that the vast majority of people listen to music primarily for effect. The necessity for anything else does not typically exist. This is not true with books. When you read a book, you are engaging several different sections of your mind. You are using visual thought processes on top of a string of cognitive processes that take in the words and translate them so your brain can make the appropriate visual or non-visual stimuli that denotes understanding. You cannot read a book without also thinking. It’s impossible. To put it simply: we read books and listen to music. This is irrefutable. To say that this is not true is to essentially claim that anything we know about human culture and biology is 100% incorrect. Now, obviously audiobooks change the equation a bit, but only slightly. All an audiobook does is change the visual process to an auditory one; everything else, generally speaking, remains the same, with exception to poor audio quality or annoying voice acting that can ruin the listening process. This leads us into point #2. Point #2 — Determining QualityOne of the primary problems with the self-publishing argument for the book/music analogy is that it intentionally ignores the process through which consumers determine quality. As with the modes of consumption, determinations of quality for books and music differ greatly, and this is linked directly to how we consume these two things. With music, determining quality is typically immediate, with little time on the part of the consumer to create an opinion. Most people have particular listening tastes (such as only liking certain genres) and have different reactions to different forms of music. The result of this is that usually a consumer can tell if something will be enjoyable (of any degree) within the first few seconds (this also varies somewhat depending on the music. I hate country music, so when I hear two seconds of a country song, I tune out; but I don’t hate all rock music, and sometimes it can take ten to twenty seconds to decide if I want to listen to any more of a song). Books, however, require of consumers a considerable amount of time. One cannot, for example, multitask while reading a book (with minor exceptions), and so when a consumer reads a book, they have dedicated themselves to the process. Unlike music, determinations of quality in books are not immediate, and neither are they quick or smooth processes. Bad books are not always determined by the first sentence or even the first twenty pages. Sometimes a bad book doesn’t show itself until the end, and getting there understandably takes time. Even if it takes you until the end of a song, chances are it will have taken you only a few minutes, as opposed to several hours. The only way we currently have of determining quality in books is through editors or reviews; neither are perfect, and usually the latter is useless primarily because personal taste always enters into it–tastes are different from person to person. Point #3 — Indie ProblematicsSelf-published authors often try to claim that because independent music took off, so too must independent writers. The problem is that a lot of the times, these same authors have no idea what they are talking about. The indie music scene is not a new thing. It wasn’t even new when mp3.com and the various other indie music sites appeared. In fact, the independent music industry has been around since the early 1900s, and it has never been quite as non-traditional as people think. The creation of indie labels was not an attempt to allow artists to do whatever they wanted with their music, but simply a way of escaping a system of enormous record labels who wanted too much control; the big labels still exist, and so do many of the indie labels, who have since become rather large themselves. Additionally, true indie music is not nearly as glamorous as people think, and often the instances people cling to as great examples of how “self-publishing” can work are actually of bands/singers who already had enormous followings before going true indie. Some good examples of artists starting indie and being successful do exist, but they succeed primarily because of the first two points in this post. The book industry, by the way, already has its own indie industry. They’re called small presses, and these places publish all sorts of niche literature all across the world. They have editors and marketing teams too, but obviously are not as powerful as the big boys. But where everything falls apart in the self-publishing argument is when they make the assumption that if indie worked for music, it must work for them too. Well, that would be true if the first two points of this post were incorrect. Since they are not, the reality has to be acknowledged: all success in indie music is because of points #1 and #2. Consumers simply do not view music the same as books, and, thus, are much more willing to accept music as a self-published form. After all, a consumer can listen to samples of music and spend only a few minutes of their day doing so; they cannot do the same with books. What all of these points come to is this: books are
I Dream of Zombies
And I want to know if anyone else does. We all dream. I know this, and most everyone does. The only thing is that most of us don’t remember our dreams. I usually don’t…unless they’re about zombies. Now, not all of my zombie dreams are scary in the traditional sense. Zombies are always scary, to me, but my dreams tend to have me fighting off zombies and rescuing damsels in distress and other such nonsense. I almost always lead a resistance of some description, and then I wake up never finding out if I succeeded. I suspect that these dreams explain why I find zombie movies both thrilling and terrifying (with exception to a handful of zombie movies that are so terrible they’re not even funny). Still, it’s a tad disconcerting to find yourself afflicted with inmortusomnia (that’s my fancy made up medical term for dreaming about the undead). Maybe I’m not the only one. Anyone else dream of zombies?