On Starting a Publishing Business

 

If you follow me on Facebook, this is old news to you, if not, then you won't be completely bored by the following information. I've done some thinking and deciding, and planning. After successfully publishing the first book all by my lonesome, editing, doing the cover art, getting the ISBN numbers, copyrights, etc., I thought it might be time to start my own press. If one is going to ride the self publishing train, it seems like the next logical step. Reading up on it, it makes sense. No one wants to look on the inside cover of a book and see that the publisher is in fact, the author. It does in fact, look hokey.

So, with that in mind, I've set the wheels in motion to officially start my own press. I've got the name picked out. Research is done to make sure said name is available. Next week I'll be putting the papers in to claim the name and business. This might sound like a bigger deal than it really is. Officially, I'm just doing this for myself so that my own books have an actual publisher, instead of just me. However, if it so happens that some other newbie Indie authors want an actual publisher without going through the hassle of starting their own press, well, hey, I'll be available, and maybe I'll pick up some proceeds from it. Yes friends, it really is "All About the Benjamins." Though in my case, it'll probably be "All About the Hamiltons."

In the end though, it's not about the money (obviously because I'm not making any). I mean, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to be Stephen King or James Patterson rich, but if I can get a story out there, and entertain even one person, then that's what it's really about in the long run. It's also about perseverance. Following a story through to fruition, editing it, editing it again, and then one more time. Choosing your cover art, setting your price, your publishing platforms, filing all the paperwork. Being stubborn enough to get shit done. I did it once, and it was awesome. Awesome when it was done, mind you. Knowing that I had it in me. The during is what really grates on you. Having these ideas swirling through your brain, but never really knowing quite how to put them down on paper, or screen.

Case in point, the short story book, the first story is out there, it's started off on a gritty note, but I fear it's treading into the contrite shit realm. I don't know what the main problem of the story is going to be. I don't know who the antagonist is going to be. Maybe the main character? How? This is shit I just don't know. I can't stop thinking about it though. I make little notes, I scribble those notes out, I make more notes, I throw the page away. It's like throwing away your feelings.

It will be done though. Someday. Probably not this year. Sure, I can shoot for November. That would give me 6 or 7 months of writing and a couple weeks of straight editing. For the typical writer, that should be more than enough time, but I'm a procrastinator, I make excuses. I choose sleep over writing most of the time. However, I may be back on the evening writing train some time soon. But, it will be done.

On A Month Deep Into 2015

Well... now that we've got that nasty bitch called January out of the way, why don't we breeze through February and March while we're at it too?

To quote Bill Murray in Groundhog's Day, winter in the Midwest and Northeast really will be cold, it's going be grey, and it's going to last you the rest of your life. At least... that's what it feels like when you're ass deep in it.

Then again, without the shitty Michigan winters, how can one truly enjoy the majestic pleasures of the summer and fall. You know, the nice four months, maybe five of warm weather you get to enjoy before you totally freeze your ass off for the rest of the year. Without one extreme, you really can't enjoy the other.

In any case, I've held true to my promise to myself. I sat my bony ass down in that chair and started my new project. It happened one day after work when I happened to have an hour or so to myself. No one was home, the house was quiet, I thought.. I... I might get to write right now. By golly, I'm taking advantage of this. I eagerly climbed the stairs and walked into my office that is still lined with boxes despite having moved in last May. I turned on my computer, opened the word processor, and looked at that blank white screen, that blinking cursor taunting me again. I felt a rush of fear, starting over again. Will it be any good? Will I see this one through to fruition? Will I write what I really want to write? Should I be worried if people will judge me? Piss on it, I thought, and started typing.

I'll be honest. I know this will be a book of short stories. Probably four good length ones in total. Aside from having a few quick ideas of how to start them, I really have no idea how any of the stories will turn out. I don't know the characters, I don't know the story lines, I'm really just swinging blindly in the dark. I know I want the stories to be real, to be visceral, gritty. I want to impose some sort of shock value, I want the reader to really imagine what it might feel like if the story on the page were real. Of course, don't all writers want that? Maybe... or maybe some of them just want to make boat loads of money and have their crummy stories being made into crummier movies. I won't lie, I'd love to make boat loads of money on my stories and have my best selling book made into a blockbuster movie, but I really don't think that's in the cards. I really just want to write to get people's imaginations churning.

While it will be slow going, I'm thrilled to be back at it again. It's somewhat invigorating to be at the beginning again. To go through the whole process. I'm looking forward to going through the finished project piece by piece, to edit, get the copyright information, register it, design the cover, put it out into the world. I think this one I'll work a little harder on advertising, I feel like this one might really be something. Or maybe it will be drivel, something only useful in starting your campfire. Time will tell.

On 2015 and Fake NYE Resolutions

Another year is almost over. I have no New Year's Eve plans. How about you? Oh, I could go to a party I suppose, but then I'd feel guilty about leaving G-Money with the in-laws, and I'd feel even more guilty if he spent the night which has been suggested. Why all the guilt? Can't a bitch go out and have some fun for New Year's? The answer my friends, is NO!

So, after the boy goes to sleep tomorrow night, I may imbibe in some wine, catch some Netflix, and call it a night, all before midnight, most likely. It sometimes makes me long for the days of partying half the night away while dodging shaving cream slaps in the face, and then being able to sleep in until noon the following day. Happy New Year!

On to my "resolution." With resolutions in the past, I always knew I was lying to myself, like oh, I'll stop swearing so damn much, or I'm going to give up caffeine...cold turkey. You know, something that seems so simple, but you know you're never going to do it anyway. Well, I think I've come up with a reasonable resolution, or maybe, a "promise to myself." I think by now, you all know I have a passion for writing. If she's so passionate, why hasn't the bitch written anything since that boy has been born? That's an excellent question that you muttered under your breath. Here's the answer: I use the excuse of, I'm so tired chasing after that little stink pot, that at the end of the day, I want to fall into bed with a book, which, honestly, most days I do, or I catch an episode of my stories, mon'.

I did start a second manuscript before G was born, and was half way through it actually, when I decided to shelve that shit. There might be some good meat in there somewhere, but I came to a giant blockade and couldn't go any further. I didn't like where the story was going and I just gave up.

I thought the solution was... start a new project, get new ideas flushed through, that might bring new ideas to the other project. Of course, I misjudged just how tired I would be all the time and decided sleep overruled writing. So... here we are, a year and a half without a word written. Some writer I am. 

What does all this mindless babble mean to you guys? Well, quite frankly, probably nothing, but, I'm making a personal vow to myself that in 2015, I will sit my ass in that chair, whether it's in the middle of the afternoon on a weekend while the boy naps, or after the boy goes to bed at night and get some words on the page. I will follow through with my book of short stories and get it published. Probably not in 2015... let's not get ahead of ourselves here, but it will be done. I did it once, and I certainly don't want to be some single publication sucka.

In closing, it's been a roller coaster year. We mourned the loss of my grandfather, we celebrated G-Money's first birthday, along with several other of his milestones, walking, talking, eating like a man, climbing, and so on and so forth. We sold our first home and bought another one. We've been sick, we've been healthy, we've been stressed, we've been cool as a cucumber. I always like to think the next year will be better than the last, but that's always a crock of shit isn't it? Has anyone ever had a stellar year, the whole year long? You get the same problems, but in a New Year. I'll just be hoping for no major shit going down, and I'll be happy.

On Inspiration

Should it surprise you that I've been running my mouth about getting back to work on my writing, and I haven't done shit about it? I know it doesn't surprise me. I come up with new excuses every day for not sitting down in the chair and starting the new project.

• I sit at a computer all day at work
• I have to wait until G-Money goes to bed to maybe get an hour of work in. By then, I'd rather watch Mad Men (which I'm addicted to and will probably be addressed in another post.)
• Gah! I just want to relax by reading a book (I'm gaining a small stack of "to read" books that I'm anxiously wanting to burn through)
• I want to go to sleep
• It's pointless to sit in the chair because I'll just watch the clock until I decide it's time to go to bed.

The thing is. I'm working everything out in my head. I know I'm doing a book of short stories. I know I want it to be dark. Like, twisted, haunt your dreams kind of dark. I suppose I'm apprehensive about how far I can really go without having people think I'm some sort of crazed lunatic writing about what I really think. Well, let's be honest, whenever someone writes something, there's always an element of truth in the writing, a little part of that person mixed in with the characters. In any case, I don't want people looking at me stranger than they already do. Ah, I kid. I'm at a point in my life where I shouldn't care about what people think. I mean, anyone who has given birth knows your dignity and caring what people think go right out the window since you've got a team of people all up in your business.

This is another excuse I tell myself. I'm withholding writing what I really want because I don't want to expose any sort of vulnerability. On the other hand, it might be fun to keep people wondering about me. There's two sides to every person. Their mask, which they wear for everyone around them, and what's underneath the mask, their true selves.

On the plus side, I can pacify myself by saying that I'm constantly pulling ideas from everyone and everywhere. Sometimes it's nice to be that quiet person lurking in the corner observing instead of being in the center of it. It really makes for great material.

On Writer Troubles

Now that I've decided to shelve my novel for a while and start a new project of short stories, I find that I'm "totally geeked, dude." I've got ideas swirling around my head, and I really, really want to get to work.

Trouble is, my window for writing is very small. Like, fleas on your dog small. I have to work a "real" job, five days a week. I have to come home and be a "mom" from the time I get home until I go back to work, and even at work, I'm still a mom. This leaves me with the time my kid takes a nap to get something done, which usually entails housework or the like. More often than not, I can be found napping when he is. Also, there's the time he goes to bed for the night which usually occurs anywhere from 8:00pm-9:30pm. Maybe I'm just not passionate enough, but I'm so tired at the end of the day, all I really want to do is curl up in bed with a book for a few minutes before I pass the hell out.

So, hypothetically, if I didn't have a "real" job, I'd still have to you know, raise a kid, which in and of itself is a 24/7 job, y'all know that. I'm making excuses. If I were really geeked as I claim to be (liar), my ass would be in that chair after the boy went to sleep, even if it's just for 30 minutes. To hell with my desire to plop down and read the big ass book I'm entrenched in right now. Work bitch, work!

Bottom line is, sooner or later (later), there will be another book of mine out in the world. At this point in time, I'm projecting two years. That seems like an inordinate amount of time to write, edit, design, and publish a book doesn't it? Well, what can I say? I'm busy. I guess I'll always just be a part-time writer.

On Having a License to Thrill

Well, I finally did it. I've become a "licensed real estate salesperson." What does this mean exactly? Not much. Except, if you want to find a pad to live in, or sell your current pile, I could possibly be your go-to home girl. You know, if you're in to that sort of thing. For those of you that don't know, my day job revolves around real estate. I work for a broker, and have been for the last (9) ::gasp:: years. I figured, it was high time to lay it down and get licensed myself, simply because, it seemed like a logical next step, right?

In any case, don't you worry my pretties, my true passion still revolves around writing, which let's be honest, I've done none of for the last year and a half or so. However, G-Money is growing like a weed, becoming his own man, I've got that dark licensing cloud out from over my head, I think I'm overdue to jump back into the writing pool.

Before cooking up my gorgeous little homeboy, I was deep into my second novel. I thought the plot was interesting, something refreshing. It's totally different from "Stress Test." However, the more I got to re-reading it, the less I liked it. It sounds trite, like it's been done. It's not daring enough. I'm looking for shock value, people. This isn't to say I could keep something of the same premise, but otherwise totally rewrite it, and I just may, but, I'm thinking of maybe starting fresh, something completely new. I'm thinking, maybe a book of short stories. I've got an idea for two different books, the first, would be horror, obviously, the other idea is sort of comedy/satire book. In any case, this will probably be my project as we dip into fall and the nights are longer, and maybe the boy sleeps a little longer.