Donation time.

Wednesday, 15 February 2017 07:53
partlyopenbook: a raccoon looks like it's clapping (yay)
A little while ago, I received payment from my books sold at Smashwords. It was $4.25, if you want to know. If you don't make enough money (I think it's $10) a quarter, they send you your earnings every couple of years, or something like that. 

But, as promised, I will make a donation to the local Animal Humane Society. Probably in the amount of $10, though the minimum is $5, I believe.

I got a new cat from them on December 27th, too, along with purchasing a few items (like kitty toys), so I've been a patron of theirs for a while. Even going back to when I got my other kitty in November of 2015.

The significant other and I also donated a stack of old bath towels, and they were happy to have those! 

Thank you to everyone who purchased my stories and made the donation possible!


I'm working on a new novel. It just passed 40,000 words yesterday! As of now, it's called The Buried Cellar, and it's a continuance of a previous manuscript originally finished in, I don't know, 2010 maybe. 

I'm still looking for submission calls that interest me, but mostly just want to work on The Buried Cellar... Someone asked me the other day how many books I'd written, and I honestly don't know at this point. Eleven? Twelve? Two of them I want to rewrite, at least one of them entirely, and the other one needs a new opening (at the very least). There's another one that I want to finish, that I put on hold when I encountered a plot-point issue that has been resolved. 

Over the course of the last two years, it's taken me a long time to feel like a writer again. While I wrote a bunch of short stories for submission calls in the summer of 2015, none was accepted (at least one came very close). Then I didn't write much of anything for over a year. I think I wrote two short stories for submission calls in the spring of 2016, but never sent them in. Both of them I would like to turn into short(!) novels that could probably be written pretty quickly. (Both are set in Canada: one in Ontario, one in Alberta. Again continuing the tradition that I can't write anything unless it's set in Canada or Ohio. The one that is set in Alberta I could easily move to another location.) Writing was always a part of my life, though (since I was seven), and eventually it'd squeeze it's way back into my everyday life. 

The importance of writing started its strong resurgence after I settled into my new place in November [2016]. I had my own office, and I thought that would be helpful, but it's actually really cold and uncomfortable down there so I started scouting for another location. It wound up being the back part of the kitchen, and an old aluminium camp table that belonged to my SO's grandparents. I'm next to a window, with a fine view of the side of the neighbor's house, and another window to the front of me that looks at the garage and the fence where the little sparrows conglomerate on cold Minnesota mornings... I'm also surrounded by plants. There's a jug plant, a giant peace lily, a variegated palm of some sort, donkey tails and other succulents, another peace lily, a spider plant, something that we're trying to root (it's doing very well actually), and, of course, the rhododendron that I brought from my former home. It's doing far better than I thought it would, with plenty of new growth after it sprouted three sets of flowers. I'm still typing on an old Dell (they're not even made anymore), because the keyboard is the best for pounding out thousands of words a day. I have a mug-warmer, a magazine rack that holds notebooks (full notes), my headphones, and a container with miscellaneous office-like items in it. I'm using a rectangular space roughly 4 ft by 3 ft, which includes the space for my chair. 

Ah, my chair. My chair goes with the old 1950's table, and while it is not the most comfortable of chairs (the back is low), it keeps me awake and keeps my legs comfortable. 

But with three cats and a dog, sometimes it's really hard to sit still for hours on end while writing: there's always something going on. 

At the moment, it's quiet. The dog is outside. The cats are sleeping. And, traditionally, plants don't make much noise. 

I've also taken up writing by hand, which I can do while I'm not at home. When I first started on the mission of "Okay, I can write by hand when it's slow at work," I really thought it'd be ridiculous and it wouldn't take at all. Quite the opposite. Writing by hand, with your favorite pen in a nice, old notebook already littered and wrinkly with notes, definitely has its appeals, and it's very calming. There's no stress when you write by hand. I can stop, do some work if necessary, and go back to it without feeling the jam of any creative flow, even without caring whether there is such a thing as "creative flow." I just pick up the pen and go. The only time I have trouble is when I'm tired, and, of course, when it's really busy. Even yesterday, on a day off from work, I thought about writing by hand rather than typing what I've written in the notebook. If you have trouble keeping on task when composing at a computer, writing by hand would be a really good option--at least give it a shot. 

Someday, I'd like to create a new dot-com, but not just yet. I'm still getting used to writing again, and I don't want to take on too much. I've thought of taking my stories off Smashwords entirely and just starting over. I don't receive very many downloads for my free books, about one a month, and no one's paid for my two .99-cent books in ages. Then again, it's hard to just discard all the work that went into creating those ebooks--and it is a lot of work. All you have to do is breeze through the Smashwords Style Guide to know it's a lot of work. So, for now, they're still available. I don't even know if anyone reads this journal. By this entry, you know that I was pretty sure, at that point, that I really wouldn't write commercially again, or have any kind of writing life on the internet. I'm not really interested in marketing myself at the moment, but I still have my goodreads account, and I've started looking at submission calls again. I've thought about throwing together another book of short stories (rejects or unsent stories through the years), but I think I'd like to release it through Amazon instead, probably under a different pseudonym. Using Amazon would be an interesting challenge for me. I've already done the Smashwords thing. Mostly, though, I'm all right with staying off the internet except for research, and just keep writing books even if no one ever reads them or they never get published. 

It's a tough world out there, which is exactly why I started writing again in the first place. I've borrowed my life from Nietzsche:

We have art so that we shall not die of reality. 
partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (blink)

I just realized that this starred city I have in my WU favorites could change next week. Dumfries, Scotland it might end up saying.

Oh, Motherland... I don't know what to think of this yet. By the time my two minds have become one, the decision will have been made. And I hope it turns out to be the right decision.

And, in regards to the Saga of the Lavender Plant, the roots have not yet sprouted new growth, but the seeds did in fact spring up on Monday!
partlyopenbook: (hullo)
A look at the opening of The House that Cain Built, available in an anthology by the New Town Writers.


The House That Cain Built
by Lore Lippincott


Since her childhood years in the greenish haze of Ireland, Flair McLaglen had penned stories to relieve an inner conflict. The trick had been taught to young Flair by her grandmother. Though she'd forgotten whether Nanna's eyes were blue like the sky or blue like the sea, Flair remembered fat pencils against paper scraps, notebooks full of silly stories and mad characters. Years removed from idyllic days, and Irish haze replaced with American fog, the 1960s lost to the 1980s, Flair still relieved an inner conflict through stories.

In college, she'd finished a whole novel that had achieved acclaim. In her head remained a contradictory argument: "Write a sequel! No, don't write a sequel!" and "One book was good enough for Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell. Why not for you?" She had a crowded box of ideas, however, that would not be silenced. The more her personal frustrations deepened, stronger now and more realistic than a child's perspective of prosaic betrayals, the longer she sat before the vintage typewriter at nights. The more Josie gave her tea and fed her small, cold meals on a tray. The more Flair ripped out sheet after sheet, crumpled them, threw them into the fireplace.

Another ignominious ball of gibberish landed among soot and flames. A cool night in late September had warranted a fire. Rain dripped sonorously, unhurriedly, from leaves and whispered through gutters of that house paid for by hard work, by a novel without a sequel and a character Flair couldn't erase from her brain.

Flair huffed and slumped. Her office was a drey of sorts set upon the floor, between sofa and coffee table, partly in her real world but mostly in another. Josie looped behind her: the sofa springs rustled with the shift of weight. Warm hands nestled upon Flair's shoulders, left to massage away tension there.

"If Agent Bernadine calls," Josie kept a lace of acrimony in her voice strictly applied to Flair's literary business pro, "I'll say that you've gone out. I usually say you've gone out and it won't be a big deal to do it again."

A gurgle of dread escaped from the back of Flair's throat. Josie closed the noisy maw. The playfulness sent them into erratic laughter, hair-pulling, accidental caresses of forbidden zones. Flair pushed Josie, breaking their tender wrestling match.

"I'll always be out when Bernadine calls," said Flair, feeling hopeless against the onslaught of commercial success. She was a speech therapist, a linguist, a part-time philologist—she wrote only to trample into submission those sensations her mind was consciously too weak to handle. The writing had stopped when she ran into Josie, literally, on the college campus three years before. They'd studied and lived together. Their friendship roamed into the boundaries of psychic phenomenon. It forced them to talk about the relevance, power and likelihood of soul mates. For two years their peace was inexplicable. Every happiness obeyed them.

Then there came upon their paradisal scene a shadow: irregular, problematic, male-shaped. Its name was Josh. He wanted Josie. She became tinted by his penumbra. She wore a ring from him on an important finger and her rosiness darkened.

Josie's eyes danced. Their pixie-green hue and iridescent risibility contained the depth of her unusual love for Flair. She swung their united hands between them. "Josh will be here later. He wants to take me to dinner at that new restaurant close to where he works. Maybe if I explain—"

In an instant, Flair was riled and away. "Oh, no, I won't have your pity wrecking my nice quite Friday evening at home! Thanks," she threw another paper on the fire, "but I'll stay right here. You go and have fun with Josh."

At the sound of his approaching car, the linguist, like a frightened hare, turned and ran upstairs. From a window, Flair watched him stride the sidewalk's length. What did he want with Josie? Flair sunk back to her bed, heart in a vice at the voices downstairs, and imagined a more romantic tableau there than those she'd painted in her head for three years—that Josie had helped hew.


Continued in the book....

Purchase anthology at
(Supports the good works of the New Town Writers)

partlyopenbook: (wolf)
I did find a few okay articles about the world-wide protest of India's anti-gay law. Check Google News and type in "protests india." It'll give you a link to its "in depth" collection of articles coverage.

Supporters go gay-for-a-day...

I also like the journalist's use of the term "passive activism." Implied when it comes to protests held on social media and/or websites. That's how I feel sometimes, just writing stories and not doing much else.

Still, it's better than nothing.

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