Down thru the chimney with good Saint...

Okay, I don't know if he's a saint or not, but Nick Valentino is on a whirlwind tour this month to promote his novel, Thomas Riley. Before I met Nick, I had never heard of Steampunk, and now... well, I've heard of it. Seriously, it sounds like a wonderful new genre that I've barely scratched the surface learning and I'd love to jump into all the layers.

Here today, Nick is going to give you all a hint of what Steampunk is all about, along with some of his observations about what it's like to be a published writer in the 21st Century:

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The Extra Twenty Miles

The bane of every writer is the idea that they have to promote their own book. At writer’s conferences, when promoting your work is brought up a huge collective groan rumbles through the audience. We all want to just write… right?

Being a writer without a huge Little Brown contract leaves all of us in the dilemma of promoting your own work. So there’s, book signings, conferences, travel, bank accounts, shipping, print ads, online ads, out of the box promotion, air fare, wardrobe, taxis, banners, flyers, photo shoots, social networking, maintaining a blog (or three), postcards, book marks, stickers, buttons, packing materials, blog touring, contacting bookstores, expense breakdowns, planning meetings, Paypal, pre-orders, posters, websites, con registrations, hotel reservations, contests, wholesale orders, returned books, book reviews and sending review copies… Had enough? That doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

Here I am in the middle of my thirty day blog tour, day seventeen to be exact, and I can tell you this. I’m pretty darned overwhelmed. Keep in mind I like doing a lot of this stuff, so life could be worse. I could be digging ditches in the rain somewhere right? I enjoy making things happen and actually seeing a tangible product when you’re done with each little goal. The problem lies in the fact that there is often simply too much to handle. I have friends and family helping and it’s still not enough.

I promise, I’m not complaining. I’m just trying to say that writing is never just writing. In order to get noticed amongst the other hundred thousand books that were released this year, you the author have to go the extra twenty miles. Nope, one mile isn’t close to enough.

When I was finished writing my Steampunk (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steampunk) novel, Thomas Riley, the work had really just begun. I had all of these grand plans for promoting the book, and I’m making those happen now, but it’s so easy to get caught up in one aspect of promotion. For instance, I’ve been breaking my days up into individual goals. Friday I created new “@sirthomasriley.com” emails. I contacted about ten cons around the country and I lined up promotional models to appear at the cons. Monday I created a definitive list with prices and priorities of cons. Tuesday I made a back log of expenses and finalized my company bank account for book sales. It’s hardly the stereotype of a writer, right?

Obviously the most important part of being an author is the writing, but I have to say that your chances of really spreading the word about your book are pretty slim unless you make promoting said book a way of life. I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde… No more like Professor Nerdy and Mr. Hollywood PR Guy.

From all this hard work, comes my obsession, my passion and my first novel, Thomas Riley. I only gave you a Wiki website with the explaining what Steampunk is, but think of it this way: Chill 1 part Jules Verne, mix with two parts Indiana Jones, add a mixer of H.G. Wells and for flavor twist in a little Frankenstein.

Thomas Riley Blurb:

For more than twenty years West Canvia and Lemuria have been at war. From the safety of his laboratory, weapons designer Thomas Riley has cleverly and proudly empowered the West Canvian forces. But when a risky alchemy experiment goes horribly wrong, Thomas and his wily assistant Cynthia Bassett are thrust onto the front lines of battle and forced into shaky alliances with murderous sky pirates in a deadly race to kidnap the only man who can undo the damage: the mad genius behind Lemuria's cunning armaments.

Find out more at:
http://sirthomasriley.com/

You can purchase signed copies at:
http://thomasriley.bigcartel.com/

or
http://www.echelonpress.com/

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Thanks, Nick!

Bet you thought I forgot

The thousands of you who submitted flash fiction for the Freezer Burn contest probably thought I was never going to wade through all the entries and find a winner. Well, maybe the five of you.





For those of you who don't remember, I asked for a 100-word story about this picture. To see what I wrote about it, go here.



The winner will receive an autographed copy of Freezer Burn. Since there were only five entries, and they were all so good, I thought I'd share them with everyone.




From Jim Thomsen (aka Ninja of the Mundane):

We didn't dare breathe a word until Lizzie Borden was convicted. Then, Agnes and I went to the barren apple tree under bleak morning light, and dug up the silver and fine things we stole from the Borden House.

The ax, we buried deeper. And planted a fresh apple tree atop it.

Tonight, we take the midnight coach to Boston. And then the dawn sailing to Lisbon.

The Bordens should have been nicer to their housemaids. That is all I will say.



Chilling, yes? And Jim, I'd have loved to provide a link to your website, but I don't know what it is.



K. A. Laity wrote:

The picture was taking longer than Elizabeth thought strictly necessary. Why did it take her brothers and her father to make sure that her mother and she were properly framed by the lens.

It wasn't just the discomfort of standing side by side, pretending that her mother was proud, pretending that she was basking in a warm glow. While the afternoon sun threatened to turn the September afternoon to sultry heat, she knew it wasn't simply the sun that was making her head ache.

"I'm so proud," her father had said when she received the letter. The first woman they were admitting to medical school in the whole of the state.

"Some young man is not going to medical school," her mother had said, staring out the window as if he were standing out there somewhere. All summer they had sidestepped one another in silence.

"I think we've got it now," her father laughed, Edwin tugging at his sleeve carelessly. Elizabeth tried to smile, looking down at the carpet bagged, packed for the train ride to the east.

"You'll probably meet a man and get married," her mother said quietly. "But you can always come home."

"Thanks, mama," Elizabeth said, her voice barely audible, but she knew she would not return.



Okay, technically, Kate's entry is not eligible because it is longer than 100 words, but - CHICKS RULE!



Nick Valentino entered this:

The airship rumbled through the sky. Victoria stared at the photo of her mother and grandmother vibrating in her gloved hands. Two days after the picture was taken, the town behind them was bombed, killing her entire family.

Since she was seventeen, Victoria joined up with sky pirates looking for every opportunity to quiet the anger inside her.

Victoria jumped up and slipped her goggles over her eyes. She could see the ship they were going to board through the porthole. She gripped her cutlass with one hand and her revolver with the other. Today she would have her revenge.



Argh, mateys!



Cynde Hammond plotted revenge in this piece:

Why does father insist we stand so close together when we have our photos taken? I am never going to accept her as his wife—not after I saw what she did to mother.

He never should have married beneath his station in life. How could he betray our mother by marrying the very maid that she had begged him to dismiss? Mother despised her. She must have sensed she was up to no good.

I will see to it that she pays for murdering mother, but her death will be much worse than merely being shoved down the stairs.



Yikes.



And Karen Brees should get an award for brevity:

She was the Chosen One.



As you can see, the choices were tough. Everyone had a great take on the two women in that stark landscape. Ultimately, the one story I kept coming back to was Nick's. What can I say? I love pirates.



Nick, get me your address offline and I'll ship your autographed copy of Freezer Burn.



And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got an idea for the next contest.

OOPS!

First, a brief word from our sponsor:

Before I forget (and I forgot yesterday), do visit my blog post here and enter the contest to win a copy of my book, Freezer Burn. Loser gets two copies – sorry, just couldn't stop that Marx Brother's moment. Seriously, write 100 words to accompany the picture of the two scary women and submit in the comments. I know you can do it. Look into their beady eyes, scan the barren scene around them, let your mind wander… Yes, Nick Valentino, I'm talking to you. Give us a quick beat-down in steampunk.

Now, on to today's topic:

Klutz is defined as either a clumsy, awkward person, or a blockhead. I'd rather think of it as clumsy, since I sometimes consider myself a klutz; unfortunately, I also read that klutz originates from the Yiddish word "klots" which means "wooden beam." Hmm. Like a block. Head.

I may be clumsy, but I'm no wooden beam.


I'm not the constant klutz. I have moments of great dexterity. I spent some time dancing, from ballet to Lindy Hop, I've got a good riding seat, and I can embroider, so I clearly have motor skills.


Sometimes not all the pistons are firing, though.


Like the day I tossed the Tide Detergent ball into the washer, where it careened off the sides of the tub and caused some kind of physical law to be enacted, whereby all of the oozing liquid in the ball shot straight up in the air, landing on my head. The lessons here were: 1) drop the ball in, don't throw it; and 2) Tide is not a good shampoo.

Today was another of those days. It began with my deodorant and without my glasses. I got my new deodorant out of the medicine cabinet and opened the lid. There was a seal on the new container.


Without my glasses, I am marginally sighted, but the arrows were clear enough, and they pointed toward an edge, so I spent five minutes and two fingernails trying to pry the plastic off the indicated end. After a bit, I looked at the seal and saw a big black line on the opposite end and something blurry in the middle. I reached toward the line; the seal was loose on this end and the whole thing pulled off like buttah.




Apparently, the arrows were directing me to pull in their direction. Who knew?

But wait, there's more. I started turning the knob to get the gel up out of the container. I turned and I turned and I turned, but nothing was happening. Have you ever gotten so involved with the process that you forgot to look at the results? I kept turning the knob and looking at the stick in the middle without watching the top. Eventually, I looked up to see a good quarter-inch of standing goo coming out, slowly bending to the side. It was clear. It was fragrant. It was way too much goo.

A smart chickie would wipe the top with a tissue and begin again. A cheap chickie would try to dab the goo at her armpits and try not to get too slimy. Guess what I tried? There is, by the way, no efficient way to apply a mound of goo to your armpit without getting slimy. The goo dried, so I'm just a little sticky now, in a residual kind of way, much the way I felt residually klutzy for the rest of the day.

It's not much of an incident, but it got me to thinking about the characters we create who are clumsy. The cliché is that they are clumsy but endearing – how many characters are clumsy and annoying? Lucy (of I Love Lucy) is the first person who pops into my head at the endearing end of the spectrum, and Inspector Clouseau is at the annoying end. In between are people like Chevy Chase in his SNL days, Laurel and Hardy, and Buster Keaton.

Who are your favorite klutzes, real or fictional? Do you like them because they're endearing, or annoying?