All one has to do is troll through the samples offered at places like Smashwords, and you’ll find a revolting amount of pure garbage.  I read one novella, all the way to the end despite the cheesy plot etc. because I wanted to see if there was some kind of interesting twist to it.  I could just SEE it coming.  I had an idea of what it would be and it would have made the rest of the cheese less “processed cheese product” and more “Swiss” or “gouda.”    It never happened.  What did happen was a sweet (much too sweet and predictable) little Christian romance became baptized porn in the last chapter.  I was stunned and frustrated.  It really was a shock to the senses.

However, despite the very valid arguments regarding the glut of garbage out there under the heading of “self-published,” not all self-published authors are unpublishable in the traditional market.  Furthermore, not all traditionally published books are quality writing.  I’ve read too much garbage wrapped in a traditional publisher’s cover not to know otherwise.  There is a reason that people joke about “Harlequin” books.  If you really doubt that there are wildly successful books out there that are poorly written and not worth the paper printed on, I offer you series like “Goosebumps” and their ilk.

In fact, quite a few successful authors are busting out into the Indie market, leaving their traditional publishing houses behind.  Who?  How about Barry Eisler who refused a $500K “Traditional” deal with a “big house publisher” to go Indie?  Furthermore, authors like Amanda Hocking and John Locke have done very well for themselves by choosing to stay off the traditional route.  Why?  Well, I can’t tell you why they did it, but I can tell you why I did.

See, my first self-published book was really just an experiment.  I wanted to see what the publishing process was like.  I wanted to see if anyone would even read the dumb thing.  I chose a book with a very limited market–something no publisher would want–and I went with it.  I learned so much in that process.  I made every mistake in the book, but since it was just supposed to be an experiment, I wasn’t devastated by it.  My second book was basically an experiment in improvement.  And it was definitely an improvement.

Then I discovered a few problems.  First, most of my books are interconnected.  A publisher isn’t going to want even my more mainstream stuff because of the interconnectedness of them.  I have series– lots of series.  Publishers are not going to risk that kind of investment in a “newbie.”

Another problem I discovered is that traditional publishing isn’t what it once was and it isn’t what people think.  You don’t just send your book off to 500 agents, find one to take a chance on you, wait a few more years, get that book into the right editor’s hands, and then get a decent initial contract complete with advance and voila.  You’re done.  Oh, no.  There’s quite a bit more to it.  For example, did you know that traditional publishers leave most of your book’s promotion to you?  Oh, sure… if you’re J.K. Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, Stephen King, or James Patterson, they’re going to put a huge amount into promoting that book.  However, for the average mid-list or new author, you do most of your own promoting.  You set up blog tours, send out review copies, press releases, arrange for book signings, and all that good stuff.  You have to market yourself.

Additionally, the days of sending a mostly polished book to your editor and getting it edited for you are pretty much over.  Sure, they edit too, but if it isn’t pretty much print ready, they’re going to reject it.  So, you have to pay for someone else to edit and proofread.  TRUST ME, you want someone else to do it–preferably several someones.  You cannot find all your own errors.  Ok, some people can, but they’re rare.  Most of us see what we think we typed.  We can catch a LOT, but we can’t catch it all.

Look, I don’t like self-promotion.  I’m no good at it.  I’m not going to do it well.  I do not like it.  However, if I’m going to have to go to the trouble and expense of promoting my own books, getting them print ready myself, and all that goes with those things, why am I going to give up control of them?  Oh, sure… there’s that advance thing.  And yes, it would be nice to know that you’re going to actually make a profit before you start the publishing process.  But when your title can be changed to something you don’t want, when your cover can end up having a blonde or red-head on it when your heroine has light brown hair, when the back cover synopsis can not match the plot line at all (and don’t tell me you haven’t seen those things happen repeatedly!), why give it up to someone else’s control?

And that is probably the real reason I’m an Indie Author.  I’m a control freak.  I want things “my way.”

That said, I have one book that I think has huge widespread appeal.  I have no doubt that it could be an enormous success.  I can see it as the next Christmas blockbuster movie.  I know that sounds full of myself, but I’m serious.  I really do think it’s that good.  That book is going traditional.  Why?  Well, because I think they WILL promote it in a way that they won’t promote my “Mitford-meets-Kingsbury” type stories.  It isn’t  Christian women’s fiction.  It’s mainstream Christmas secular fun.  And, I’m not the right person to give it the proper release that it needs.

So, some people will think that means that my other books aren’t well-written or are not worth publishing.  Maybe that’s true.  Maybe it’s not.  I don’t know.  I have a feeling, based upon what I’ve read out there, I could get them published somewhere if they weren’t so interconnected.  However, it is one thing about my books that my readers say, over and over, that they love most.  They love “running into” a friend in another story.  So, it’s what I do.

I may get lumped in with “unpublishable garbage” in some minds, and I’m ok with that.  Opinion is just that.  If you don’t like it, that’s fine.  I won’t ask you to read it. 

“You’re talking about the American Dream. You find something that you love, then you twist it and torture it, trying to find a way to make money at it, spend a lifetime doing that, and in the end, you can’t find a trace of what you started out loving.” ~  Hope Floats (Justin)

How many people do you know who can verify the veracity of this quote?  There are so many good quotes in this movie, but this one haunts me.  I have a book that is dancing around in my mind, taunting me with what it can be.

Life is short; live it fully.

This is the essence of Thoreau’s words in Walden.

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die Discover that I had not lived.”

Gotta love old Henry David– Ever notice that if you spell his name like it sounds rather than correctly, it could be spelled “thorough?”  I love that.  Live life thoroughly or… Thoreau-ly.

Life is a gift and yet how much time do we spend existing rather than living.  So often I hear people say things like, “I’m just passing through” like the old hymn says.  Ok, I agree that the world isn’t our home.  I get that this is temporary–fleeting.  Contrary to a few opinions people assume I have, I am not dreading death or the end of this life.  I simply see it as something to embrace.  If someone sends you on a tour of Europe, you don’t just ignore what’s around you and say, “Oh, I’m just passing through.  This isn’t important.  I’ve got better things coming.”  Well, I should hope you don’t.  You enjoy it!  You savor the experience because most people don’t get to do it.

Why can’t that be the same in my little desert town?  Why must I “suffer” through a monotonous repetition of days passing because I don’t live in Italy or Switzerland?  Why is it ok for me to revel in the experience of visiting the Sahara Desert but I’m supposed to plod through life in the Mojave?  Hogwash.

I try to add this into my writing.  In most of my books, somewhere, I have someone exemplify this idea, state it, or do the opposite–never seem to care.  It’s my “thing.”

Look.  You get one life on this earth.  I know better is coming for those belonging to the Lord.  I am thrilled to know that.  But you just don’t ignore the gift He gives you today because you want better.  What would you say if your kid did that.  “Nah,” stuffs the gift in a box and shoves it in the back of the closet, “I’ll wait for the good one you promised.”

Embrace God’s gift of life HERE today.

Some people think I’m nuts, but my goal is to love living the life He has given me so much, that I ALMOST regret having to leave it for better.  I want to hover near that almost as close as I can.  I want to “suck out all the marrow of this life.”

Live–to the maximum.  I dare you.

Other things happened as well.  My Blogging: The Ugly Truth was made “featured blog” at Book Town and I joined a group of writers who are working through a rigorous revising course.  I know at least one of those gals hopped over here– my guess is maybe more.

It just amused me.  The day I blog about something 100% unconnected to me, people show up.  It’s a good thing I don’t take myself too seriously.  So, if I blog about Paris Hilton, do you think I’d become a blogger rock star?  I agree.  Not only would that not happen but I’d not be able to look myself in the mirror without shame.  (Who am I kidding?  It’s not my favorite pastime anyway!)

So… I’ll keep writing.  In other news, I’m working on a collection of short stories that’ll be a free e-book someday.  Oh, and revising Jack.  And editing Everard.  And ruthlessly stripping Adric of all extraneous baggage.  Eeek.  That sounds a bit risque.  Notice:  No characters were undressed in the writing of these novels.  Whew.  I can see the gossip now.  “Chautona Havig switches to erotica.”  Maybe it’s a good thing that people prefer to hear about other stuff instead.  *snicker*

Wanna know the truth?  I don’t see it either way.  It’s life, not a hollow piece of fragile glass with which we either have it good or bad.  Life is what we pour into the glass or what we pour out of it into others.  Life is alive.  A glass with water up to the half-way mark is just a vessel that is sitting there– stagnant.  What you do with that vessel is life.

I feel that way about a lot of things.  Sure, they were nice little object lessons or pithy sayings the first time I heard them.  Take the over-quoted and oft misused “You can’t tell me what you think until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”  Says who?  Really?  I have to murder someone like the guy on death row to tell him that it’s wrong to murder?  I have to beat my kid senseless, land him in the hospital– do all that to tell you that it’s wrong to abuse your child?  I have to move in with a man I am not married to before I can tell you that the Bible says it is wrong?  What? Really?  Don’t get me wrong, those who have been there often really can help you in practical ways that those who haven’t can’t.  I don’t discount that!  But come on.  We’ve taken a proverb (I was always told it was an Indian proverb but what do I know) and put it on par with scripture!

I like to examine these kinds of things from time to time.  In fact, I use my writing to explore the way these ideas pervade life. I did it a lot in Argosy Junction and next month it’s going to be a big part of the book I write for CampNaNoWriMo.  It’s an interesting way to see nuances of plots you otherwise might miss.

One author, Michael J Scott, is posting his dystopian fiction online as he writes it.  Michael Scott is an author with six books in print and a new contract for more.  You can find him at his WEBSITE.

If you like dystopian fiction (or even if you don’t), hop on over to his website and read the first few chapters of In the Widening Gyre.  What I’ve seen looks fascinating.

A bit more about Mr. Scott from Amazon:

Michael J. Scott is the author of both Christian and general audience fiction books. Specializing in action/adventure, thrillers and suspense, his first two novels have been released in 2011 and his third is in production, set to be released in 2012.

His first novel, Jefferson’s Road: The Spirit of Resistance is a general audience political suspense about an attempt to spark a second American Revolution by assassinating the President on Inauguration Day. This book was released from Ichabod Press on Amazon.com in 2010 as an e-book and in print in 2011.

His second novel, The Coppersmith, is a general audience psycho-thriller about a serial killer stalking pastors in Upstate New York. This book was released from Ichabod Press on Amazon.com as an e-book in 2011.

His third novel, The Lost Scrolls, is a Christian Adventure about finding the original, autograph manuscripts of the New Testament. The Lost Scrolls will be available from Ellechor Publishing House in March, 2012.

Michael lives outside of Rochester, NY with his wife and three children.

I’m calling for “real” books!  WHOO!  Let’s go for the real deal in writing, people!  Who cares about misplaced commas, non-parallel phrases, plot holes, and rambling nonsense?  Why should we clean up that sentence that makes absolutely no sense?  It’s real!  Let’s give people what they want–raw, unpolished, unsanitized for the masses.  Oh, yeah!  Of course, I’ll have to fire my editor, but hey, it’s for a good cause.  Real good cause.  (and look, I won’t have to have her harping on me not putting at least an “a” before real good up there.  WOOT!

Yeah.  I guess that’s not going to happen anytime soon.  I think people only want real when it’s convenient.  So, I’ll have to keep plugging away.

In further editing news: Last week I finished Everard.  Within 12 hours of that finish, I realized that I’d left out a major climax.  Seriously.  There were two for the book.  Sure, the reader got their sap fest (as much as I go there) but the bad guy?  Just a nice little chapter after sap fest telling us enough that we realize he got what he deserved.  Oh, yeah.  That’s satisfying.  Guess what I had to do the next night?  Yep.  Satisfying to write I might add.

I also renamed the kingdom half a dozen times.  I tried everything, but the original name just fits.  I did make a change to a minor locale though–one that gives more significance to the story.

And, I’m working on editing Thirty Days Hath… so far I’ve cut about 12% of what I need to.  I’m only halfway through the book and I haven’t even tried to be ruthless yet.  I’m also finding errors, plot holes, and all kinds of goodies that I’m not even trying to find yet.  Gotta love editing.

So, what do you think?  Is the world enamored enough with being “real” that it’s ready for a “real” book?  Hmmm I am almost considering a nice little spoof story for that one.

However, yesterday one of my new favorite blogs had a “Writing Prompt.”  So I did it.  I set my countdown timer for 15 minutes and wrote.  This is the result.  I noted where my timer went off in case you’re interested.  Obviously I didn’t get far, but that’s ok.  It was fun.  I might even do one again sometime.

The Card

Rusted at the corner with the door warped by years of use, the mailbox sat atop a weathered post looking somewhat forlorn in the fading afternoon sun.  A screen door shut with a soft “whap.”  The spring on that door wasn’t what it once was either.  Footfalls, more of a shuffle than true steps crept down the stone pavers to the dirt road and stopped at the mailbox.  The hinges creaked as the door opened and a wrinkled, arthritic hand reached inside.

The shuffle-step of life-worn feet returned to the house and once more, the screen door snapped shut.  The mail dropped on the seat of a padded rocker that looked jerked from the screenshots of a bad sitcom as the woman went to retrieve a glass of sweet tea and a couple of cookies.  The movements were fluid enough, even in the jerking actions of age and feebleness, that their routine was clearly evident.

The hand reached for the assortment of envelopes, catalogs, and flyers and grasped them as she lowered herself into the chair with speed that would be called anything but that.  The first envelope contained the assurance that if her number was the winning number, she had already won millions of dollars in the Tri-County News Group’s Sweepstakes.  She read every word and then tossed it.

One envelope was a political plea for support on some measure regarding the roads and a request for financial support from a candidate she wouldn’t vote for.  No siree.  His granddaddy had appropriated class funds back in ’47 and you just couldn’t trust one of those Willis’.  Still, she devoured every word before relegating it to the waste bin.  (Timer stopped here)

She passed over one envelope, her thumb caressing the return address, and moved onto the next.  Inside, a missionary prayer card showed her the picture of a family who had come through their church several months back—four children beamed at the camera, flanked on each side by parents who looked happy but old for their ages.  Suriname.  She’d never heard of it before they came to speak.  After a quick prayer for their safety and the souls they tried to reach, she tucked the card inside her Bible and read the letter that accompanied it—twice.

A car dealership promised great savings, top dollar for her trade-in, and free maintenance for five years if she came in by noon that day.  “That’s the way to make sure you don’t have to make good.  Just mail ‘em too late for people to use.”  The voice sounded over-loud and out of place in the utter silence of the house.

Each page of both catalogs received complete scrutiny.  The woman read every description of every item, mentally correcting grammar and punctuation as she went.  She wouldn’t buy anything.  Who could afford 49.99 for a t-shirt?  She remembered when she could get a Sealy mattress for less than that.

Eventually, only one envelope remained—nearly square in comparison with the other business envelopes, and unlike those, the addresses were handwritten in familiar handwriting.  She relished these days.  In an age of computers, email, and “texting,” no one took the time to write anymore.  For old folks like her, that usually meant reading the inconsequential words on uninteresting sheets of “junk mail” in order to have any contact with people.  Did they know there were people out there who read every single word simply because they knew someone had written them?  Did they know that alone in a house that no one of this generation would look at twice, an old woman waited impatiently, six days a week, for the rumble of the mail truck and the dust cloud that followed for her one brief daily contact from the outside world?

Tiffany Dearborn—her granddaughter.  She never forgot a holiday or a birthday.  Not once.  With infinite care, her trembling hands worked to loosen the sealed flap, cautious to protect the envelope and the paper-thin skin that sliced much too easily these days.  The last paper cut had gotten infected. It was ridiculous.

Pale blue eyes, clouded with happy tears pulled out the card.  A verse on the cover was surrounded by embossed flowers and butterflies.  She ran a finger over them, feeling the raised edge as she read the words—and again.  Once more.  Tiffany always did pick the best cards.  It was beautiful.

It happened every time.  She tried to draw out the moment—savor the experience—but her eagerness to read what was happening in the family’s life overrode her feeble attempt to make every second last.  She flipped open the card, smiling at a little at the short admonition to have a blessed Thanksgiving.  She would now.  The handwriting below it—the thing she’d waited for most—read, “So sorry to hear you won’t make it to the family dinner.  You’ll be missed.  We love you, Tiffany.”

She flipped the card over, lifted the folded paper, but no breezy, cheerful note about T-ball and PTA meetings fell into her lap.  The request for a recipe that came with every card was absent.  There was nothing—nothing but the assurance that she’d be missed because she couldn’t make the long drive to Smithville that year—not after her surgery next week.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

I blogged that way for a long time.  I liked it.  It’s “me.”  Slowly, some of it morphed into a combination soapbox and personal journal.  That was fun too.  I liked having reminders to do things and of things I’ve already done.  That was cool as well.

I was never the “popular girl” and I never really wanted that title.  Whether someone liked me frankly didn’t matter.  I can thank moving a lot as a kid and having parents who drilled into me that the only opinions that mattered were those of your closest family (parents/husband etc.) and God’s.

So, I don’t know what made me start reading about blogging.  I think maybe it was when I started searching for ways to market my books.  I’m not sure, but that’s my guess.  You see, when you write books and publish them, you really do want someone to read them.  People can’t find them unless they hear about them.  Blogging shows up in Google searches thanks to the lovely addition of tags, and voila.  People find you and love you and buy your books.  Simple, right?

You know what?  That’s not me.  I read all about how to make sure you have your SEO right (I never did it), how to have a consistent blogging schedule (and I pretty much did that but not totally), how to respond to your commenters (I already did that if I had anything to add), and how to encourage them to comment.

That one was easy.  “To get people to comment, ask a question.  They’ll know you want their input, and they’ll respond to that kind of interaction.”  For some idiotic reason, I fell for it.  I dutifully put questions at the end of many of my blog posts.

Guess what?  The same people who commented before kept commenting, but now I extorted answers that they probably didn’t want to bother with but were too polite to ignore.  I want to take a moment right now and thank all those who did that.  And now I want to apologize.  I am so sorry.  Note:  From here on out, if there’s a question anywhere in my blog post that isn’t obviously rhetorical, I really, really want to know the answer.  I also promise never to pull that kind of nonsense on you again.  Please forgive me.

So, for the record, I’m done blogging “the right way.”  I’m doing it my way (Ugh, I sound like Old Blue Eyes!).  I will blog when I have something to say, about whatever I want to say, and I won’t try to get people to interact with me.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love comments.  I’m not above being glad to know that people really do read what I post.  I want to know what you think of it.  I write books because I have a story to tell.  I write blog posts because I have something to say.

I just refuse to try to fit into a mold that wasn’t designed for me anymore.  I’m Chautona the writer. I write about what inspires, irritates, amuses, and intrigues me.  I don’t write because it’s Tuesday and I’m supposed to write about puppies and rainbows on Tuesdays.  I refuse to do Wordless Wednesdays unless I happen to have a picture on a Wednesday that happens to be something I am dying to share.  I won’t do it.

What I will do is go back to being me.  I hope that the “real” me is good enough.  If not, well, at least I’m not churning out worthless drivel because the stupid blog schedule says that I’m supposed to write about “Faith in Fiction” because it’s Sunday.

You know, I made one of those this week.  I kid you not.  I read some blog somewhere that really inspired me to be consistent and post about my passions.  So, I considered what kinds of things I like to talk about, broke it up into seven days, and I even wrote two weeks worth of blogs on that schedule.  They are all scheduled for posting on their neatly appropriate days.  When I’m done posting this, I’m going to go delete all but one or two of them.  Yes.  Yes I am.

Some folks will wonder if I don’t care about marketing my books anymore.  Well, I do care.  I care a lot.  I  will write if no one ever reads it.  I would do it because the stories are there–the platforms are there.  I have something to say, and I want to say it…even if no one is listening.  However, just because I write regardless of an audience doesn’t mean that I don’t want to get my material into the hands of those who will enjoy it.

So, I’m going to ask my readers to do me a favor.  If you see a blog post you like, please comment.  Let me know that it really did hit home somehow. Share it on Facebook or email it to a friend. If you read a book that you liked, please go over to Amazon and post a review. Share it on Facebook or review it on your blog. If you hated it, well, send me an email.  Tell me why.  I can take it.  I want to know.

And, as my thank you, I’ll send you a coupon code for a free book over at Smashwords.  Just send me an email at Chautona@chautona.com with which book you want, and I’ll send you the code asap. If your book of choice isn’t over there yet, I’ll take a day and get it up there.  For you.  Because I really do appreciate you guys. Share this with your friends.  Tell them to share it with theirs.  Oh, and let them know I’d love to hear from them as well.

This starts a new era for me in blogging.  I’m going back to the basics.  I will be true to me as a person and as a writer, and I hope as a Christian.

Now, time to do some blog-post-ectomies.