Worlds & Time

Thursday, December 14, 2006

What I've Been Doing

Aside from sitting here, I mean.

First, television and TotalFark, which are the two largest parts of my day. Obviously, for everyone other than me, this is the most boring part.

Next, making arrangements for the wedding, which is exciting to a few more people, but not many.

After that, I've been spending time on my message boards. I even went back to CF a little, even though I know a lot of truly evil people gather there. I know, I know, another boring one.

A subsection of that is the interviews. I've been emailing published authors asking them for interviews. So far, two have sent back actual interviews. If you want to read them, you can see them here:

Aside from Patricia C. Wrede and Steven Brust, I've sent requests to Michelle West, Dan Simmons, Mercedes Lackey, Sean Russell, T.A. Barron, and Salman Rushdie. I've had a few good responses expressing interest, a few people ignore me, and I've mortally offended at least one of them. Oh, and I should point out that list roughly corresponds to my favorite authors, with a few exceptions because not everyone has a listed email.

I've been trying to spend more time at too, which isn't going so hot, but if you know my user name there, you should look up some of my old posts. I used to be a vaguely interesting writer there. Good to know that spatula is the same. He, like Mason Wyler, is gorgeous but I'm not his type.

I've also been trying to get back into drawing. I finished one of the pieces that I was talking about a while ago, but it too me a lot longer than it should have, and I can't do it continuously because I can't look down at it. Stupid neck brace.

Finally, I've been writing. This morning I spent laughing (at what I don't remember, all I remember is laughing 'til I cried at something) but tonight I feel a little sick after seeing this and this. The first is a list of aspiring science fiction (SF) and fantasy (F) writers, and the second is Ms. Lackey's advice to aspiring writers.

I almost wish I believed in a God, so that I could pray to some higher power for the chance to be a writer. At this point, it seems impossible, and that pisses me off.

I'm not writing, expecting the money to be immediate, but I'm also not planning on being a slouch about it. I want to market my book. I want to do signings. I want create a brand name around my work. More than one, actually, and someday I might let those two brands collide and watch the fireworks and the sales rise.

And I have the ideas. I have the basic details, and I know that they're compelling enough to spawn a year of interest by typical Sci-Fi guys. I don't write fan fic. I have my own universes, and they don't require D&D archetypes.

But I also know that I'm not going anywhere.

I sometimes play the lotto. I never win anything, ever, at games of chance. Even dice roll against me a suspicious amount of the time. In today's world, finding an agent and a publisher is a lotto.

And good things don't just happen to me. Love life, professional life, or just ever.

That's hopelessness, darn it, and it's not going away anymore. It's clinging like wet dog fur, day after day, and I'm starting to get overwhelmed by the smell.

Update: Oops, I forgot one thing that I've done recently. I wrote a ten minute long children's play. Someone claiming to be raising money for an orphanage posted in one of the forums that I belong to and asked for help. I volenteered. They had very specific requirements (ages 3 to 5 and including a specifc cast of animated characters).

I couldn't think of a reason why they'd lie. I wrote it for 3 to 5 year olds, so I can't imagine that someone would want to plagerize it, and I don't really care about the orphan angle. I sent it in and they said they loved it and want to perform it.

Granted, this was all anonymous over the internet, so I don't know if that's actually happening or not but I guess if I wanted to I could claim to be a produced playwright. Still, writing a play about kidnapped puppies without using long words was a pretty bizarre job.

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