Never Judge?

The saying goes, never judge a book by its cover.

Really? Seriously? Who has ever listened to that bit of sage advice? Who has ever picked a book from the shelf or online, thinking the front jacket looks boring, but I'm sure the story is fantastic.

No one ever does that? In fact, I am wondering who ever coined this phrase because no one heeds the advice. More likely, it was phrased by someone who was lacking enough imagination to design a captivating book cover, hence quite possibly a captivating story.

If you are an aspiring author and you decide to go independent, meaning you self-publish (which is becoming more and more the trend these days with writers, thank you gods of technology!), then heed the antithesis of this advice. Be certain that first you write the most awesome story you can, and edit it with dispassionate brutality. Polish the chunk of rock you pulled out of your creative mind until it is a shining jewel. Then, spend a great deal of creative energy creating a book cover that not only exemplifies what the story is about, but also catches the reader's eye. After all, how is anyone going to know that you wrote a fantastic story when you the first thing the reader sees is your boring, plain book cover.

Oh, yes, it will be judged in this fashion no matter how excellent a story you have crafted.

Humans read with their eyes, therefore they "see" with their eyes. Being visual creatures, more so than any of our other senses, we are drawn to bright colors and shiny objects. We are drawn towards things that fascinate and titillate. So don't spend weeks, months or even years writing that great story and then banish it to obscurity by going easy on the book cover.

Anecdotal case in point: I read on Smashwords about an author who wrote a steamy romance. Then the author put a very plain book cover on it; practically just a drab, blank jacket with the title on it. The book sold on average one copy a day. Then the author designed another book cover and republished the novel. This book cover had a very sexy scene of lovers, partially nude (but not terribly scandalous in the context of romance novels), embracing passionately. The book started selling to the point that the online "etailers" (Barnesandnoble.com, Apple, Amazon) took notice of the sudden uptick in the numbers, and actually contacted the CEO of Smashwords (the publishing platform for that novel) wanting to know who this author was and where did this author come from? That particular novel went on to sell so many copies that it was listed as a New York Times ebook bestseller.

Huh, imagine that? All because of a book cover.

My next post I will discuss more of the details behind designing a good book cover. I'm not an expert at it, and sure wish I had someone at Random House to handle this sort of thing. But my business background has been most helpful in this area, and I will share my tips on making an excellent book cover that grabs the reader's attention without you having to spend an ungodly amount of time or money on the project.

If you want a glimpse of what I am talking about, check out the cover design for my latest novel, "One Second Before Awakening", available through Amazon and all the other online book etailers. http://www.amazon.com/One-Second-Before-Awakening-Hill-ebook/dp/B00L7XW3MC/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407246759&sr=1-2&keywords=one+second+before+awakening

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-second-before-awakening-robert-hill/1119645366?ean=9781500151485

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Publishing Is Not The End

As a writer who started out publishing stories and poetry via the traditional route, I had once thought that once the story was in print, that was the end of it. Time to move on to the next story. Time to start the process of creation, then editing, then seeking out a publisher.

That was a bit naïve on my part, I suppose.

Now, many years later as I decided to move over to the "indie" side of things, I have learned that there is considerable work after the story is written and published. Magazines and publishing houses carry out an incredible amount of tasks following the publication of a novel -- and I am not just talking about distribution/shipping. That's just logistics, and you can leave that up to UPS.

No, what I am referring to is the marketing. And this applies to whether a major house published the work or it was published independently (read: by the author). Writing a novel or a short story, and then having it published is not the end. Ha! Silly me for thinking so. No, it is just the beginning!

Now comes the book tour, the endless campaign, the promotional marketing. Those of you who are aspiring authors, better not think for one second that it makes a difference whether a major house or "yours truly" published your piece,either. You will still do the vast amount of the marketing. You will be doing most of the peddling of the product. In one respect, YOU are the product. And no one sells YOU better than YOU (not even Random House).

So if you think you're through with that story once it is published, guess again. Now the real work starts. Drink plenty of coffee, and buy a good pair of shoes because once your novel is released, it is not the end of the story ... it is only just the beginning.


My new novel "One Second Before Awakening" is available now through all the major book e-tailers, or you can click this link here:   https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Happy Indie-pendence Day!

There's much to be said about this day in America.  It was a moment in history that has not only shaped our nation, but the modern world.  And it is something that has shaped the culture and quite possibly modified the DNA of most Americans.  We are a sturdy, freedom-loving, independent, and entrepreneurial-minded stock and this had its genesis in part from what occurred on this day more than two centuries ago.  There are many great turning points in the history of the world.  The signing of America's Declaration of Independence would be one of those as it defined who we are.

As this day applies to writing, there are a great many things to consider.  From a civil liberties standpoint, writers in this country are free to write whatever they want, no matter how scandalous or sensitive it might be, without fear of reprisal from an oppressive government.  That alone is a powerful right, and I urge all of you that write, to stretch yourself and feel completely free to express yourself so that the best story you could possibly write lands on the page unfettered.  Dig deep, don't censor yourself, and don't let anyone else censor you, either.

Additionally, consider how this day has generated a culture of independence that has quite literally been embraced by the writing community now that the technology is available to us.  Not only can the government not keep you from expressing yourself through your stories, but neither can the traditional publishing industry.  Writing a story is only half the battle for your indie-pendence.  Getting it published is the other.  After all, what good are your written words if no one reads them.  With the advent and continued maturation of digital publishing and print on demand technology, you are literally free to write and publish your work without anyone stopping you.  So, you have no excuses now not to express yourself.  Take advantage of it.  Don't let anyone tell you "no".  Don't let rejection stop you.  Write!  And then publish. 

It's a tremendous gift we have been given -- tremendous power, this freedom of expression, this independence.  But with tremendous power comes responsibility.  Use the power wisely by writing the best story you possibly can, edit it mercilessly so that it speaks to the reader, and then write yet another best story you possibly can.

Be well.  And God bless America.


For those interested my new novel "One Second Before Awakening" is due to be released on July 11, 2014, and is available in ebook format through all the major book etailers and in traditional paperback through Amazon and Barnesandnoble.com.

Shameless Self-Promotion

So, it may not seem like I am in the habit of shameless self-promotion, but lets face it ... we all do it, and I've been doing it for the longest time.  How else would our work get noticed, get read, appreciated, etc., if we did not self-promote.  The key is to do it, though. 

My last post suggested five things you could do to promote your stories and get them read, bought, downloaded ... whatever.  Here is another way to do it, and I will confess it also is shameless self-promotion.  But if I did not do it then how would a reader know to read my stories?  So, here's another suggestion for when marketing your stories.  Share a sample of it on your blog (You don't have a blog?  Sheesh, start one up!  What's the matter with you, you slacker?).

On July 2, 2014 my first full-length novel, ONE SECOND BEFORE AWAKENING, will be available for purchase through all the major book retailers.  Currently, it is available for pre-ordering on certain select sites, such as Smashwords.com and Barnesandnoble.com.  You can check out a sample using this link if you would like (shameless self-promotion):  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Of course you do this sort of thing because then readers can look at a sample of your story to determine if they like it and want to keep on reading, and also so that readers can see the quality of your writing without taking a risk.  Remember, I talked about risk with the reader last blog post when I mentioned making some of your stories available for free.  Well, a sample is free, too!

But also, you can run the sample on your blog or your website (www.roberthillauthor.com - more shameless self-promotion).  In fact, I did that last week.  I put up the first chapter for readers who might stumble across the website to get a sneak peak at what I've put together. 

And now, I will do it here on the blog as an example of what you should do with your stories (and also, did I mention, for the purposes of shameless self-promotion).

Here it goes -


One Second Before Awakening - Chapter One

Suddenly, he was in the painting; not just staring at it from the museum bench, but actually standing in it, looming over a naked woman just as two tigers came spewing from the mouth of a gigantic goldfish.

Drew turned, feeling dizzy, disoriented, and trying to locate the museum bench upon which he’d been sitting.  The bench was gone and so was the museum.  What had been a two dimensional canvas hanging on the wall was now a three dimensional world sweeping all around him as if he had stepped through a doorway leading out to the busy streets of Chicago.  But where he was now was not amongst the concrete and steel of the city, although it felt just as real.  No, Drew now stood at the jagged edge of a rocky islet surrounded by placid ocean water and illuminated by a blistering orange sun hovering low upon the horizon of a pastel sky.

How had this happened?  Bits of images were there in his head, like in that moment before waking when the last threads of a drifting-away dream were slashed by the blade of waking.  He had been sitting on the bench, thinking about the depressing state of his life, only half-staring at the Dali, when he had felt a breeze brush over him.  That breeze had swiftly grown into a gale so strong that it had buffeted him from the bench, pushing him toward the Dali, and then he found himself in a free fall, tumbling head over heels.  Then in an instant he stopped falling, stopped tumbling – and stood in the midst of the image upon which he had only just been gazing.

There was movement.  Drew stumbled about to see the woman from the painting – the painting he was now a part of – scooting away from him.  Her green eyes were startled awake, and her breast heaved like a blossoming lily.  In the glare of the sun with the dizzy sensation of disorientation blurring his vision, Drew still sensed, though, that there was something about her; familiar, intimate.

A ripe red pomegranate tumbled from the woman’s fingers and rolled against Drew’s tennis shoe as a bee buzzed past his ear.  He dodged it, grateful not to be stung as he was allergic to bees. 

What was happening?  How did he get here?

A million questions raced from the starting gate of his mind.  But he couldn’t speak, couldn’t grasp – couldn’t stop staring at the woman clothed only in her alabaster skin, who was in turn staring back at him.

A splash and the slap of cold water against Drew’s legs pulled his hazel eyes from the woman down to the water surrounding the islet.  The huge goldfish had just disappeared beneath the rippled, broken surface of the ocean, its massive body becoming shadowy as it slipped into the murky, azure depths.   But Drew had to redirect his attention away from the behemoth, drawn toward the pressing reality that two tigers, just yards away from him and the woman, had landed on the islet upon which he stood, their claws scraping against the igneous stone.

The rifle!  In the painting there had been a rifle with a bayonet affixed to it floating in the air above the woman’s chest. 

Wait, he thought.  That wasn’t exactly what he had seen in the painting.

Actually, the rifle, in the painting, had not been floating at all, but rather had been in the forefront of a succession of objects portrayed by Dali as being flung forth from the backdrop of the painting into the forefront.  Yes, in the background of the painting there had been a gigantic, exploding pomegranate that had been floating just above the water’s surface right where the burnished sun was now, and from that exploding fruit had sprung forth the goldfish, as big as a car, and from the mouth of the goldfish, one of the tigers had leapt, who in turn had vomited the second tiger, and from the second tiger’s maw must have come the rifle.  But in the reality of standing there with everything in motion … where now was the rifle?

Both predators coiled back preparing to lunge, roaring in concert.

There, next to where the woman had lain!  Drew dashed forward, picking the rifle up barrel first.

The tigers jumped.

The woman screamed.

Drew twisted about, instinct and adrenaline swinging the butt of the rifle for him.

The hard wood of the rifle stock slammed into the jaw of one of the tigers, deflecting its lethal strike.  The beast growled and a flailing claw just missed Drew’s narrow face as he stumbled back and tripped over the woman behind him.

The stricken tiger tumbled against the other and both went flailing off the edge of the island.  Huge bodies of striped fur sprayed foaming welts of water as the tigers fell into the ocean. 

Drew pushed his lean frame upward with the rifle butt as a crutch.

The tiger he had struck was clamoring for a purchase on the edge of the rock, trying to draw itself up.  The other was shaking its soaked head of the ocean water while paddling back toward the islet, having drifted several feet out into the no longer placid waters.

Drew yanked the rifle up into the crook of his arm.  He’d never used a rifle like this.  It was old, like the ones used in World War II – the bolt-action type with a bayonet affixed.  In the army he’d shot an M-16 more than a few times, especially in Afghanistan, but this thing – this antique – he wondered if it even worked.

It’s a rifle in a painting for crying out loud, his mind yelled at him. 

The first tiger was still struggling to get its massive body out of the water.

Drew lifted the rifle and aimed it, figuring if the tigers were real then the rifle might be just as real.

“Don’t!”  It was the woman behind him.  “There is to be only one bullet.”

Drew glanced at her through stray locks of sandy-colored hair.

“It’s to be for me!” she said.

His forehead wrinkled, wondering at what she was saying – ‘it’s to be for me’.  The statement, and by the way she spoke, were both peculiar and puzzling at the same time.

“One bullet, one less tiger,” he muttered, raising the rifle back up to his cheek.

Then the trumpeting call of an elephant blasted his ears from somewhere close behind him.  Startled, Drew lowered the rifle, flinching from the cacophony as he looked way up into the sky behind him. 

How stranger could things get?  What more had been flung into the midst?

His eyes saw it, but as with everything else his mind was experiencing in the expanse of mere seconds, there was a dislocation between reality and whimsy.  Yet, there it was, forty feet above him, the full body of an African elephant walking upon stilt-like legs, skinny like spaghetti and long like endless beanpoles.  It was as if someone had used a medieval rack to stretch the poor pachyderm’s legs to inhumane proportions.

Atop the elephant’s back was a tremendous saddle laden with an obelisk of ice, and a midget dressed in a clown suit that appeared to be directing or driving the spindly beast.  The midget’s face was done up to look like a clown, too, but he wore a Nazi-style storm trooper helmet.

“Hey, you!  What do you think you’re doing?” said the midget-clown, a look of anger overriding the exaggerated clown grin plastered on his face.

The long-legged elephant had been in the painting, too!  When Drew was sitting in the museum looking at the painting, the elephant with its spidery legs had been trudging through the water like an innocent passerby as the two tigers were leaping from the mouth of the goldfish.

A tiger growled.  Drew cringed and looked forward again in the direction of the sound.  The tiger was still struggling to drag itself up onto the rocks.  The second one, the one that had been made to paddle its way back toward the islet, was now beside its companion, and was also trying to pull itself up.

Drew flashed his eyes up at the midget-clown.  “Help us!”

“Did you hear me?!” yelled the little man, his arms akimbo as he stood on the front of the saddle staring down at Drew.  “What are you doing?”

“Throw us a rope!” Drew yelled back.

“You’re not supposed to interfere.  Get out of there, you idiot!”

Drew’s jaw tightened, and he pivoted around, pointing the rifle up at the little man standing on his high saddle.  “Help us!”

“Bloody Hell!”   The midget-clown ducked away and Drew thought he would turn his elephant away and flee.

But then, instead, the towering pachyderm moved closer to the edge of the island and as it did so the little man hurled down a long rope ladder.  Drew jumped back a step to avoid being hit as the ladder clacked against the stone.

Then the midget-clown started cranking on a lever attached to the saddle.  Drew didn’t know why the little man was doing this or for what purpose, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.

“What are you to be doing?” yelled the woman still beneath him at his feet.  “Where have you been coming from?”

Drew turned toward her, his brow furrowing at the strange way she spoke.  He understood her, but the way she phrased things.  There was no time for this.  “Come on!”

“I cannot!” she replied, her voice shrill.

One of the tigers finally got its hind legs up onto the surface of the islet.  The other was still struggling, but it, too, was almost out of the water.

Drew lunged toward the woman.  “Come on!”  He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“I cannot!”

“The Hell you say!”  Drew began dragging her toward the ladder.  “Up you go!  Get going!”

“Who are you to be doing this?” she asked, resisting.

“We can discuss it later,” Drew said, pushing her to go up the ladder.

Then the first tiger, the one he had struck with the rifle, prowled forward with its dripping belly hanging low against the stone.  A growl escaped its snarled jaws.

Drew raised the rifle to his cheek, pointing it at the tiger.

“Get up there!” he said to the woman as his finger curled about the trigger.

The other tiger then pulled itself up, stopping to shake the ocean from its thick fur as the first one continued stalking toward Drew. 

The creak of the rope behind Drew messaged that the woman was climbing the ladder.  Drew kept the rifle pointed at the closest tiger.

Then he switched the rifle into his left hand and grabbed hold of the ladder, putting his foot into the lowest rung while still pointing the rifle.

“Let’s go!” he yelled upwards.

“Just a moment, will you!” the midget-clown replied.  “Look out below!”

Drew looked up and then saw falling from the other side of the long-legged elephant the enormous obelisk of ice that had been atop the elephant’s saddle, but was now tumbling toward the water.  It crashed into the ocean, and a great wave of foaming water rushed over Drew’s legs, nearly tearing him from the ladder.  The deluge spilled over the islet, forcing the closer tiger to slide backwards while the other tiger slipped its feet under the force of the wave and plummeted back into the ocean.

Drew felt a jerking motion, and he almost lost his hold as the ladder swung away from the little island, swaying free into the air above the open water.  He gripped the ladder harder, pointing the end of the rifle away from the remaining tiger in order to grab hold with both hands.

The tiger rebounded to its feet and leapt toward Drew, roaring as it soared through the air.

“Come on!”  Drew said as he fumbled with the rifle, trying to bring it up against his hip, but as his finger grasped for the trigger, the tiger reached the apex of its jump and then plummeted toward the water, flailing claws just missing Drew’s shoes in the midst of its descent.

The long-legged elephant kept moving away as Drew stared down at the tiger.  It was paddling in the water, still coming toward him, but the stilted elephant’s stride was too enormous for the beast to keep up.

Drew lowered the rifle, remembering what the woman had said.  There was only one bullet and Drew figured he might need it if he didn’t wake up soon from this dream – this twisted nightmare – he found himself in.

He began climbing the ladder, stopping once halfway to look back at the tigers.  Both had turned about by then and were clawing their way up onto the islet again, breaking off their attack.

When Drew finally reached the top of the ladder, the midget-clown was standing over him, glaring like a reproachful mother.

Drew stared back at the comical-looking little man. 

The midget-clown offered his stunted arm to help Drew up, but he waved the point of the bayonet at the little man.  “Get back, Shorty!  Move it!”

“Suit yourself,” said the little man, grimacing as he turned.  Then he clawed forward onto the neck of the elephant and turned about facing opposite the direction it was traveling, perhaps so he could scrutinize his sudden passengers.

“So who are you?” he asked.  “And where did you come from?  Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Drew ignored the man’s questions as he managed his way on to the top of the huge saddle that was straddling the girth of the elephant.  The woman he had just saved was cringing near the rear of the large golden platform atop the saddle where the obelisk of ice had previously been.

“Are you okay?” Drew asked her, stepping toward her.

There was a feral look in her eyes as she skittered to the side of the platform away from Drew.  He thought she might jump off the side as her shoulders twisted away from him.

“Wait, I won’t hurt you!  Somebody, tell me what is going on?”  Drew reached his free hand toward the woman to grab at her delicate, thin bicep.

She edged even closer to the side, her mouth half-opened but with no words coming forth.  Only a rapid breath blew past her lips and her eyes were wide with terror.

“Who are you?” he asked her.

She refused to speak. 

Drew turned his head to face the midget who was still glaring at him, studying him as if he were some sort of freak oddity of nature.  “You, what’s going on?  How did I get here?  Who are you people?”

“I should be asking you that,” replied the midget, brusquely.  “I just lost my commission because of you.  It’ll cost you, you know?  The Corporation ain’t taking it out of my pay, that’s for sure.”

“Commission?  The Corporation?”  Drew shook his head.  “What are you talking about?  Who are you?”

“I’m talking about my ice, you idiot!” snapped the midget.  “It took me three weeks travel from the north to get this far.  I had to dump it for room up here, you know.  This ain’t a passenger ‘phant, you know?  Only ice.  That’s what I do for the Corporation.  Bring the ice from the north, take it to the Heart, and make a hefty profit.  All gone now, thanks to your meddling in the Sacrifice.”

“Slow down, slow down.  I don’t understand what it is you’re talking about.”

“What are you, some kind of idiot?”  Then the midget rolled his eyes.  “Oh, what am I saying, of course you are!  Only an idiot would do what you just did.  That woman was the sacrifice to the Leviathan and you botched the job, you did.  Someone’s not gonna be happy about it, either.  I hope you got a lot of money to pay for the mess you’ve caused.  And even that might not get you out of the fix you’re in – the fix you put us all in.”

Drew glanced back at the shaking woman.  She was curled tight, her knees drawn against her naked chest.  “Sacrifice?” Drew said.  “Why was she being sacrificed?”

“Why else?” replied the midget.  “Gee, you really are an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.  I’m just not from here.  I’m not even sure I am here.”  Drew shook his head and looked about at the slowly darkening sky announcing the onset of twilight.  “I have to be dreaming,” he said to himself.  “This has to be a dream.  An intense, vivid dream.  That or I’m cracking up.”

“You’re not dreaming, but if you think you’re crazy, I would agree,” remarked the midget.  “And as for not being from around here, I would agree with that, too.  If you don’t know about the Sacrifice and you’re running around wearing those strange clothes, then you must be from someplace so far away not even the Corporation’s been there.”

Drew almost laughed.  Whether the giddiness that suddenly rose up in him was because he was indeed losing it, or he felt like laughing from the remark the midget had made, he wasn’t sure.  After all, a tiny man dressed in a clown suit with a clown face painted on his face and sporting a shiny Nazi helmet on his head should be the last person to comment on Drew’s attire.  Tennis shoes, blue jeans and a pullover V-neck was hardly outlandish in comparison.

“So’s maybe you oughta tell me who you are, eh?” the midget then asked.  “And how it is that you came to be out here?”

“Drew.  Drew Anthony.”

The little man grimaced, his smiling clown face screwing up like a wrinkled raisin.  “Drew Anthony.  Strange name for a strange man.  You certainly aren’t from around here.”

“I’m not.  That’s what I keep saying.  None of this can be real.  And I certainly don’t belong here.”

“Hah!  Well, suppose you tell me where you think you belong?”

“Not in a painting, that’s for sure!”

“A painting?  What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew myself,” Drew replied.  “I was in the museum one minute, looking at the painting, then the next thing I know I’m standing back there on that rock, which was in the painting, and those two tigers were jumping at me and her.”

“Painting?  What painting?  Now you’re making even less sense.”

Drew sighed, frustrated.  “This place!  This painting!  I was staring at it!  I was in the museum.  Ana and I – “

“Who?” asked the midget.

“Ana, my wife.  She was off in another room of the museum when I sat down at the bench and was staring at this painting.”

The midget laughed.  “So you think you’ve fallen into a painting, do you?”

Drew gritted his teeth.  “I’m not crazy!”

“Okay, okay, suit yourself,” said the little man, his suddenly cautious eyes drifting toward the rifle held loosely in Drew’s right hand.

Drew looked down at the rifle, then back at the midget.  “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know,” he replied, but his tone and his gray eyes suggested otherwise.

“Look, I just need some answers.  None of this is making any sense.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing.  You’re not in a painting.  This is the real world, Mister.”

Drew laughed.  “Maybe to you, shorty – “

“Chunk,” he said, once again frowning at Drew.

“What?”

“My name is Chunk.”

Drew gave the midget named Chunk a weird look.  Then he continued.  “Sorry.  Anyway, maybe this is real to you, but from my perspective I feel like I’ve just been dropped right into the middle of one of Salvador Dali’s paintings.”

Chunk’s mouth fell open and Drew heard the woman behind him gasp.

“The name of the Creator!” Chunk said, his eyes darting from side to side.  “If you know His name, then you can’t be from too far away.”

Drew shook his head in confusion.  “Who, Dali?  You think Dali is your god?”

Chunk raised himself up, almost standing on the neck of his spindly-legged transport.  “Think?  Think!  Everyone knows he is the Creator.  He made this world, you know, or don’t you and the people from wherever you’re from believe in the Word.”

Drew laughed.  “Oh, we believe in the Word, as you put it, but Dali is hardly a god.”

Chunk leaned forward as if to conspire.  “You best watch yourself.  Don’t you blaspheme around here.  Saying such things is heresy.”

Drew laughed once more.  This twisted dream of his was getting nuttier by the moment.  If only he could wake up, he’d have quite a story to tell Ana.

Ana. 

Right about now she had to be going out of her mind wondering where he could have gone off to so suddenly.  He had only been just a few feet away from her in another room of the museum when he landed where he was now – wherever this place was that he had landed.  He had to get to her, find his way out of this delusion or nightmare he was in.  He had to wake up, snap out of it, or otherwise figure out how to get back to her if indeed he really and truly had disappeared from the museum.  None of these scenarios, of course, was he certain of at all.  Had he merely drifted into some vivid delusion and he was actually still sitting there in the museum or had he somehow through some fantastic twist in the fabric of the universe truly jumped through a portal connecting the real world with this other, seemingly real dimension.

Chunk sighed and started to turn about.  “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, or where you think you came from, but I can’t wait to get to the beach and be rid of you.”

Chunk then turned completely about, looking out toward the last glow from the already set sun.  Drew turned back around himself to look at the woman he had “rescued”.  She was still curled into a tight ball, her green eyes watching him like a timid squirrel, as she hid her chin behind arms that were wrapped about drawn knees.

“Do you have a name?” Drew asked her.

Still she wouldn’t speak, nor would the terror in her eyes be snuffed out.

What was going on with her that she could be so stricken with fear, Drew wondered.  If anything, he would have thought she’d be relieved to still be alive.  Moments ago she was about to be torn to pieces, and he had saved her from that.  So why was she looking at him as if he had been the one that was about to rip her body open?

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Drew said, his tone frustrated.  “I saved you from those tigers.  Why would I choose to hurt you after saving you?”

Half-muttering, half-whispering, she said, “Ca -- Calliope.”

His eyes widened with the fact that he was making some progress with her.  “Calliope?  That’s your name?  Calliope?”

She nodded, and then glanced about for an instant before returning her gaze to him.

“Calliope, I’m Drew.”  He tried to reach out to her again, but she shrank back.  “It’s okay, you know.  It’s over with.  Nothing’s going to hurt you now.  Those tigers are way back there.”

“No, it will not be,” she replied, her voice barely audible over the breeze that buffeted her shoulder-length auburn hair.

“But of course it is.”

Calliope looked over her shoulder, back at the rocky island now far off in the distance.  When she turned, Drew couldn’t help but notice the exposure of her right breast.  Small, yet pleasingly round and full.  Not unlike the familiar beauty of his Ana when she would lie upon their bed …

He turned his head away, feeling the sudden heat in his cheeks.  He glanced at the back of Chunk’s helmet.  “Hey, you got something she could put on?”

Chunk turned his head around and laughed.  “No, and if I did it wouldn’t be anything that would fit her.”

Drew started to pull his shirt up over his shoulders.  “Calliope, here – “

“I don’t have to be wanting your clothes!” she said back, the words spraying forth as if she had spat them.

Drew pulled his shirt back down, surprised by the sudden anger in her tone.  “What’s the matter?  It’s all right now.  And you can’t go walking around like that.”

Calliope eyes sharpened and her nostrils flared.  “Don’t you understand?  You have been ruining everything!  It’s not all right!  Nothing has been all right!  You have not been saving me from anything.  You have been only making things worse!  It is my destiny.  I was to be the one chosen!”

“What are you talking about,” Drew asked, annoyed. 

“She was the Sacrifice, fool,” Chunk interjected.  “And she’s right, you’ve made a mess of things now, that you did.”

“Sacrifice?  Sacrifice for what?  What are you, a bunch of barbarians?”

“Tell it to Him.  It’s His command,” replied Chunk as he pointed a finger straight up into the darkening sky.

“What, Dali?  Your Creator?  That’s crazy!”

“Hah!  The spoken words of a lunatic,” Chunk muttered as he again faced forward.

“This is all crazy,” Drew said to himself as he looked to Calliope.

When he turned she glanced over her shoulder again back in the direction of the islet, and then she looked back at Drew.  “I was supposed to have been dying.  And he knows it.”

“He?  Who’s ‘he’?  Dali?”

Calliope turned her frightened gaze back toward the islet and pointed.  “No, not the Creator – him.”

Drew peered back at the islet.  Even from far off, and illuminated only by a rising gibbous moon he could see the figure of a slender man on a large horse.  The man was just sitting there on the horse on the islet, unmoving.  At the hooves of the horse were two lumps that could only have been the tigers, slouched upon the stone as if relaxing after a heavy feast of antelope.

Then the man on the horse pointed what looked like a long staff in Drew’s direction, not to signal them, but rather poised as if it were an accusing finger.

Chunk had turned about when he had overheard Calliope’s declaration, and he scuttled to the back of the saddle platform.  He stopped next to where Drew squatted and shook his head.  “I told you, you shouldn’t have interfered with the Sacrifice.”

Drew didn’t like the tone of Chunk’s voice, even less so than previously.  He swallowed despite his dry throat, wondering if this dream of his was turning as dreams sometimes did … toward nightmare.

“Who is he?” Drew asked, noticing the man on the horse now lowering the staff and then urging the horse down from the islet and into the ocean.

The horse slipped slowly into the water, moving in their direction.

“The sooner I can get to the shore and be rid of you, the better,” Chunk replied, glancing upward at Drew.

Drew turned and yanked the midget close to his face.  “Who is he?”

“Don’t tell me where you’re from, you’ve never heard of the Horseman.”

END OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION SAMPLE.

And if you actually read this far, then at this point you might actually be hooked on the story, leading to your possible purchase of the novel.  You should do this, too, with your stories, so don't be afraid to be ... well ... uh ... shameless.

 

 

 

5 Pointers to Help Publish & Profit From Your Stories

So here are just five really good tips that are best practices if you wish to self-publish and promote your stories.  They're the types of things I do, and they work very well, although there are certainly a great deal more than just these five things you could do to make things happen (which I can share if anyone is interested, just hit me up).


1.  Write a damn good story that is professionally presented and well-edited.

This should be a "no-brainer", right?  But you will be amazed at what is floating around out there that some writers are trying to sell.  The story is unoriginal, formulaic, and is nothing new under the sun (sorry for the cliché).  Then to add to it, the presentation is less than professional, meaning poor grammar and spelling, dropped words, missing punctuation, and incoherent paragraph structuring.  I could go on about this, but the bottom line is a reader will start in on such a poorly edited and presented story, and then drop it like yesterday's spoiled tuna salad sandwich right into the trash.  And that is just while they are viewing the free sample.  Heck, sometimes they will not even get that far because the poor presentation will show up in the "back of the book" description of the story, and then the reader won't even download or purchase the story at all.  So, take the time to put something down that has a good plot, is structured well (meaning a beginning, a middle, and an end, as well as a story arc, some character development, and tad bit of descriptive setting), and, also, perhaps one should add a bit of originality to it, too.  Take the time to edit the story to make sure the spelling is correct, and I don't mean use the spell check on the computer.  Actually use a dictionary; they're quite useful.  Check for dropped words.  Check for the proper use of punctuation, most especially commas (or the lack thereof). 

2.  Free

Nothing sells better than free.  If you are starting out, put those first few stories out there for free.  Build a fan base by giving the readers the opportunity to view your stories by making it risk "free" (meaning, they're not out any money on the deal).  Once you have a few readers that check you out, then they will come back later for the stories that are not free because you will have established trust with those readers of the "free stuff".  And I am not just saying make your short stories free, and then charge for the novels.  I have seen authors publish well-written, professional novels that may have taken them a couple of years to compose who release them for free.  If the story is excellent this draws in a large number of fans, and then when the writer puts out the sequel he can charge for that one.  Believe me, those readers of the first book are all in for paying for the sequel or what have you if the first novel was excellent.  Statistically, free downloads happen fifty times more often than the priced downloads, so exposure is the strategy here, with profitability being the long term goal.

3.  Social Media

Once you put something out there, let everyone know about it.  Set up a Facebook page, a Twitter account, a basic author website, and a blog about your writing.  Share the news about what you just published so that readers can find your story.  The more hooks in the water, the more fish you can catch.  And be creative with social media.  Release samples of the story.  Set up contests.  Announce cover releases prior to the release of the story itself.

4.  Book Covers

Speaking of book covers, it is very true; people do judge a book by its cover.  One time I put a short story out (yes, you can self-publish your short stories through Smashwords, Wattpad, Kindle, etc.), and the cover was "okay".  I monitored the downloads of the story for the first week or so, and noticed that the story was not really going anywhere.  I scratched my head about this for a moment, and then decided to re-work the cover.  I came up with something a little more appealing, and then uploaded that with the story.  Sure enough, the downloads for that story took off.  So, work on book cover design, and if you just can't figure it out (yes, I know book cover design is somewhat tedious), then find someone to do it for you.  There are plenty of outfits floating about that will design very affordable book covers that will "pop" and draw interest to your story like chum in the water.

5.  Write another damn good story

And so the circle of life continues.  The sale of your previous stories can be driven by the release of another "damn good story".  I have experienced this myself.  I put one story out, and it took off for a while, and then eventually interest in it faded.  About the time it was fading, I put out another story, and this drove interest in the previous story published.  You see, on the online retailer platforms, they do this thing called "Other books by the Author", and so if a reader liked your story, they will go looking for that and buy your other books.  Also, each time you put out a story, at the end of your story, you should have a section where you list your previous stories published with links that direct the reader where to go to download a copy of those stories.

These five pointers, as I have said, are just a few of the things you can do to promote your stories.  There are many, many other things you can do, and in future posts I will mention those to help everyone along.  If you have some ideas yourself, I would love to hear about them as I am also always striving to find new ways to promote and publish.


For those of you who might be interested, One Second Before Awakening, my first novel, is due to be released on July 2, 2014, and you can pre-order it now through Smashwords.com, as well as some of the other major online book retailers in the upcoming days and weeks.  Check out a sample of the novel at the following link https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792 , or you can view the first chapter for free on my website https://www.roberthillauthor.com .

The Communication Age as it Applies to Writers

I find it astounding the impact the communications age has had on the art and craft of writing.  Twenty years ago, I could not have done the things I am doing now with my writing.

Back in the day, I remember slogging it out, solitary (and desperate) in front of my computer, generating story after story.  And then having to edit and polish stories over and over, and then from there sending them off to a limited number of print magazines or publishing houses ... and then being rejected over and over again. 

I have a box full of perfectly good short stories and three manuscripts of perfectly good novels that have just sat in a corner collecting dust.  Those are the things I composed coming up as an aspiring author that helped me sharpen my skills because I had no choice in the matter.  It was good to go through that process as it made me a better writer, I believe.  And there were a few successes, but those successes only came after considerable effort and only after I passed beyond some "gatekeeper" (read: magazine editor or literary agent). 

But now ... can you hear the theme score from 2001: A Space Oddysey playing in your mind.  Yes!  Now we have entered the communication age.  It is an age that opens all the gates, takes the keys from the gatekeepers, and gives writers free access to go out there and really take a shot on the open market.  Keep in mind, there is some down side to this liberation, such as the really bad writing out there that is reflected in poorly done and unprofessionally presented stories.  But the capitalist pig in me has faith in the market (read: the readers).  The good stuff always rises above, especially when properly and vigorously marketed.

This is never more true than in the age we live in now.  With the technology making it easy to upload and publish as an independent, combined with the ease, reach, and affordability of social media marketing, it is very possible for a talented, professional writer to not only see his work in print, but also have readers discover it, read it, and go viral with it.

I strongly encourage anyone who has a passion to create great stories that they join in on the benefits of the communication age.  Write well!  Publish (traditionally or independently)! And then avail yourself of Facebook fan pages, Twitter feeds, Goodreads, Wattpad, Blogger, Wordpress, Oyster, Inkbok, Stumble Upon It, Etsy, Pinterest, etc., etc., etc.  The time is now for all of you aspiring author's to step out of your comfort zone, think outside the box, and reach deep down (pardon all the sinful clichés), because your time has come right now, right here ... write away!

The Cost of Independence

For years I have written fiction (and some non-fiction) and enjoyed the creative process immensely.  As I have mentioned before, it is like base jumping from Mount Everest without a parachute.  But the traditional publishing industry was always the daunting gauntlet I had to fight through (just like every other writer, poet, screenwright) just to get my stories published. 

I equate the attempt at traditional publishing (even of very short pieces of literature) as trying out for the Olympic team (winter or summer) or auditioning for the leading role in a major Hollywood box office epic.  It is fiercely competitive!  Even when what you have written is well-written and page-turning, it can still be rejected by numerous and varied editors of several magazines and publishing houses.  Depressing?  Mmmm, somewhat, maybe ... not really, really. 

I get it!  I surely do!  Especially now that I have gone over to the "indie" side of things.  Actually, I got it way before I decided to go indie with my stories, but now that I am in the mode of publishing my own pieces, and working with the digital platforms out there, finessing the distribution angle, the marketing involved, and all the editing (that must be done completely "in-house"), oh, yes, now I really understand why the publishing industry is so daunting. 

It's a business.  Pure and simple.  The stories are a product, and the publishers and the editors are acting in the very smart role of being business managers first.  They have to do so, otherwise they lose money, become unprofitable, and go out of business.

Now that I am doing things completely on my own, I see the amount of time and effort and capital that goes into the process of delivering a product (a story) to the market.  I always knew this on the subconscious level, but nothing brings clarity to the situation when confronted with the reality. 

So, I have a great appreciation for the traditional publishing industry.  Still, I am glad I made the move to go independent.  It is not without its additional work, but I love it anyway.  As the owner of a small business, I am already used to producing a product, finding customers, marketing, packaging, distributing, etc.  Hence, the extra things I must do now, time-consuming as they may be, are actually good fun! 

And when it is all done (if it ever really and truly is), I see the fruits of that labor in the form of a quality story that reaches many readers.  It costs considerably, but independence is exhilarating ... almost as exhilarating as base jumping from Mount Everest without a parachute.

You've come a long way baby ...

So, yes, it has been a while, but what can I say, I have been busy.  Aren't we all?  But that always brings back the situation that many writers find themselves ... where do I find time to write?

It has been quite some time since I last posted, and I do have valid excuses.  Business has been good, I trained and received the coveted black belt in martial arts (Kung Jung Mu Sul to be more precise), went on a couple of exotic trips, finished a novel, etc.  And that does not even account for having the usual domestic chores and other adventures that consume one's daily life. 

Still, I find time to write.  But how do you do it? (you ask).  It's not easy, but I have discovered a way to warp time and change the laws of physics to accomplish this.  Well, not really, but it sounded good.  No, my ability to be productive with my writing boils down to one simple thing ... discipline. 

You see, our modern world is so complex and packed full of multiple distractions.  In fact, this is actually getting worse by the minute (or better if you prefer distraction).  But the key is to meditate and to simply remain focused on your passion.  So, if your passion is writing, then you must train the brain to cast aside all the distractions.  Turn off the television.  Set down the smart phone.  Toss the video games in the trash.  Set a specific time in the day, get an egg timer, wide it up, and start writing.  And when you start writing don't let anything stop the flow of words.  Shut off the world and turn on your creativity.  Before you know it, word by word, you will have something of a story ... sooner rather than later.

I heard it once said (I think it was Ray Bradbury who said it) that you should write something everyday, and surely after a year of doing this you would have several hundred stories.  Out of all of those stories, there is bound to be one gem (at least one).  And I believe that.  I crank out tons of stories and ideas.  And admittedly a good deal of it should be forgotten (and usually is).  But the cream always rises to the top.

Lately, here are the results to prove it.  Check out the following that I have worked on within the last couple of years that are just short stories (forget about the fact, that while I was not doing this blog, I was writing a 400 pages novel, too), and you will see that if you just set aside the distractions and get your mind laser focused, you can accomplish something (maybe a lot of somethings):

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/416977 - The Last Moment Loop

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/419409 - The Lie

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/413724 - Leonard & Molly

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/421789 - The Part To No Genesis

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/424032 - A Mirror Darkly (Part One of The Wonderland Series)