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)

Valued Criticism

Fiction writing is an artform, without a doubt.  Like painting, sculpting, acting ... even needlepoint ... it takes a certain degree of imagination, a high level of skill, considerable amount of practice, and an ocean of perspiration.

Now, I haven't a clue what goes on in the world of a painter or an actor or a needlepointer.  Each is different in its practice.  I marvel at what a painter can do, as I struggle just drawing stick figures.  And I certainly don't see how I can act a part out of a play so convincingly that the audience would believe I am some character who is possibly a very different type of person than the real me.  But what I find is very similar amongst all the arts is the need for criticism.  The need for perspective.

Like I said, I haven't a clue how it is for painters and other artists, but I am fairly certain that a serious practitioner would want criticism on their finished product or performance.  An actor needs a coach or a director to show them that perhaps the emotion the actor thought they were projecting is just not quite there.  The painter may look at the canvas and say this is really cool looking, but an objective eye might see things differently.  And then there is the opposite conclusion.  Where a painter or a writer or an actor might feel that what they have created is terrible, a valued opinion might reveal that actually things came out great, lending confidence where perhaps little existed.

Additionally the criticism should be constructive.  I am a big fan of Simon Cowell.  He tells it like it is.  He is a bit gruff about it, and it certainly appears to be excrutiating when he gives a negative criticism.  But despite the lack of diplomacy in his remarks, he is constructive.  He does know of what he speaks.  And as painful as things might be, he is helping the artist to become better.  Then there are others that can be rather scathing but really do it out of perhaps jealousy or sometimes malice.  I recently saw a critique written by a "so-called" expert from Writer's Magazine that eviscerated a book already published and had one some awards.  I had read the book myself.  Actually, I had assisted the writer over the years in polishing manuscript to get to where it is now ... in the bookstores.  Albeit this was a friend and colleague, I found the criticism quite unfair and my friend was rather hurt by it.  Still, unfair or not, the criticism was helpful, if for anything other than at least building scar tissue on my friend's lacerated ego.

For writers, the value of criticism is critical.  Perhaps it is even more critical for a writer than for other art forms.  Perhaps.  And I am not really here to debate that topic.  Instead, in terms of writers, what I find to be true is that they find themselves immersed in their story and become emotionally connected to the piece at hand.  The story becomes like a baby to them that must be raised and nursed to adulthood.  And so, like a mother or a father, writers often have difficulty seeing the flaws in their "perfect little bundle of joy".  So, a critique of the work is often necessary.  No, it is mandatory if one thinks they can seriously get a story to the finished product (or at least finished enough) to where someone might consider publishing it.  This is even more so if the piece is self-published, as nothing would be more embarassing (at least to me, anyway) than putting something out there that really stinks and the writer doesn't see it until the readers start rejecting it outright without the piece first having had any professional criticism or editing whatsoever.

Over several years now, I have been a part of a small group of writers in my local community.  Each of us at one time or another has actually put out work that has managed to be published and read.  We did not start out that way, though.  It was actually because of the criticism we lended to one anothers' work that we improved to the point where we all managed to garnish bylines.  We saw what each one of us was doing with our individuals pieces.  We each received written and verbal evaluations of what had been written, and as we consistently have met together over the years, we have grown in our ability.  Although none of us are household names, because of the criticism we have given each other of our collective works over the years, we have managed to become better writers.  We have been shown where we went wrong, where the characterization was one dimensional, the plot was flawed, the description of the setting was lacking.  It has made us into what we have become.  Not just would-be writers, but published authors.

So, for those of you out there seeking to better your skills, even if you are already published, find like-minded souls.  Gather around you other writers and critique each others' work.  Take the time to give valued criticism to make the members of your group better, and they in turn will do the same for you.  In the end you will all benefit, as will the reader who opens the pages of your latest "bundle of joy".

Skeletal Remains

For those of you who sometimes delve into articles or books regarding the art and practice of creative writing, you find a myriad of different ways in which writers go about drafting a story. 

Some start with an idea -- a kernel shed from a dream or other inspiration and then jump headlong into it without a clue as to where they might end up.  I refer to this as base jumping without the parachute.  An exhilarating experience, I might add, and one that I have enjoyed on occasion, but is not what I typically do.  Further, this tends to end up becoming a dead end, more often than not.

Others will spend a great deal of time taking an initial idea and then working through considerable research, character "studies", detailed outlines, etc.  This is often more the case in speculative fiction where the writer needs to develop an entire world along with its associated pecularities (world building, and creating extra-terrestrial beings and the like), but also occurs in historical fiction as well.  Also, not what I tend to do because more times than not that almost always stifles the creative genius part of it and the story never happens.

Then there's the "in-betweeners", those who start with an idea, stew on the notion, perhaps come up with the one-dimensional character background of the protagonist and the antagonist, develop a general storyline and then jump into it with at least a notion that they might end up somewhere good in the end.

There are variations on these three categories to one degree or another, but essentially that is the way of things.  You can guess into which category I fall.

As an "in-betweener", I start off with an idea, puzzle upon it for a brief instant, and then if the notion seems "page worthy", then I start developing in my mind, first, a possible storyline.  From there I will come forth with a protagonist with a problem or a desire and an antagonist who is only too willing to thwart the solution to the problem or the fulfillment of the desire.  Basic character conflict, stuff.  From there, I might do a little bit of outlining on paper, or perhaps merely within the confines of my hyper-active mind, and then start in with the first line.  And I find this works the best for me.  The creative part of me gets moving while the part of me that wants to make sure I am not wasting my time (I hate wasting time) gets a little comfort in knowing that the new story might actually have a fighting chance of surviving through a complete rough draft.

What I find occurring is a process of "body-building".  I'll sit down and start cranking the words out, and that feeling of jumping from the cliff hits me (but atleast I have a parachute -- I know where the story is generally going to lead because I put some thought into it).  Those primordial words and phrases, those crude sketches of character, of action, of dialogue splatter upon the page, then gel and harden as the story is constructed.  Eventually, I find myself with a completed story in the very roughest of terms.  It is merely a skeleton of a story, mostly action and dialogue.  Scant description of the setting is in place, very little deep characterization has come forth, and the purple prose is almost non-existent.  But at least I have a rough draft, something to go with, and even though it is just a skeleton, at least it is the structure of something vaguely resembling the remains of a human being (or maybe a walrus).  Somewhere in the middle of all this I will do some research on various things just to make sure what I am trying to portray in the story is plausible and reasonably fits within the bounds of physics or other tenets of reality (this is especially true if I happen to be writing a hard science fiction piece -- which does not happen, being that I am more of a fantasy writer with a decidedly absurdist bent to things). 

Then comes the second draft ... sometime much much later in the future.  I usually set the rough draft aside for some time (weeks, months ... perhaps years) just to get a little emotional detachment, but also mainly to begin looking at the story from a critical standpoint.  I want to determine at this point things like what settings, characters, and objects need to be described either thoroughly or more thoroughly than I had barely managed to do in the rough draft.  I will also begin formulating more dimensions (beyond the three) to the characters -- their personalities, their motivations, their associations and interactions with other characters in the story, etc.  This second draft will also have a bit more detailed research, if necessary, to make sure that things are correctly depicted as they should be.  I call the second draft the musculature where I am placing the meat on the bones of that skeletal first draft.

Once done there, I might then again, let the story sit, but probably not for quite as long as I would have after the first draft (after all, I don't want the meat to spoil on the bone).  In the third draft, I am at this point still refining such things as description of setting and characters, but with greater emphasis on drafting the purple prose -- placing metaphor and simile, and looking more towards using exact words to replace those initial rough draft, crude/general words.  And I will also look at things such as the overall theme and the milieu of the story just to make sure I am correctly (at least from my standpoint as the writer) evoking the emotional response I want to instill in the reader.  The third draft is the guts of the story -- more precisely the stomach, intestines, heart, and lungs, etc.

It is a fleshing out of the story until at this stage I have something that resembles a living breathing organism (human or walrus).  There will at this point still be further revisions beyond the third draft.  After all, the thing's going to need eyeballs and toe nails, and a little hair on its backside.  So further revisions are necessary.  And it truly is the detail work, the tedious going over and over again of the body that really makes the story something worth publishing.  True, the skeleton of the idea was the foundation, the framework, but that fine stitching of skin over the muscles and organs, that pinpoint accuracy of using just the right word in the right sentence in the exact scene is what takes the idea to the point of being worthy of seeing the light of day, of being taken out for a walk around the grounds.  And so with each little application of eyelashes and armpit hair I work it until the story is almost nearly perfect (at least as perfect as a human or a walrus can be), until eventually, one day what was once just a skeleton suddenly takes its first breath ... and I yell out (at least in my head) the immortal words of Dr. Frankenstein, "It's alive!"