How Do People Buy Books?

Posted on December 15, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Love this article. Great advice for any writer or those aspiring to do so. 🙂

If you want people to buy your book, it makes sense to first try to understand how people shop for books. Such knowledge is power that you can use in your book design and marketing decisions.

How People Don’t Buy Books

Let’s begin with a very important double negative:

People don’t buy books that they can’t find easily.

Who Cares How People Buy Books?

So you wrote a book. (That’s awesome by the way. Jump up and give yourself a huge high-five.) You edited and formatted until you turned blue in the face. Then you added a cover. You finally hit that publish button. Ta-da! Now all you have to do is wait for those royalties to come pouring in.

And wait. And wait. And wait… and wait. a.n.d. w.a.i.t. a..n..d.. w…a.…i…..t.

You put so much energy into the writing process. That gets the book completed. Then you put so…

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She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXII)

Posted on December 8, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog. While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience. Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections. Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

It had happened as if in slow motion. His hand desperately reaching for her. He saw every ripple of flesh that spread from the point of impact. He screamed for an eternity as she fell from sight.

Scott fell to his knees, landing on the hardwood floor at the exact moment that she impacted with the first floor. He slowly crawled over to the banister, even as his mind replayed Tippy’s final moments, terrified of what he would see.

He could hear the dog’s high-pitched cries. It had shrieked as much in terror as it had in pain and had nipped at his hands when he tried to help. It knew that it was going to die and fought with its last dying breaths.

He couldn’t believe that it would be this easy with another person. He hadn’t even meant to do it! He was only imagining…

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“It was YOU,” he screamed. “YOU did it!”

The voice erupted in genuine laughter, It was an evil sound, true, but it was so full of amusement that had it been him, he would have been doubled over and holding his sides. It picked at his sanity, bouncing around the confines of his consciousness, and threatened to push him over the edge. Just when he could take no more, the entity began to taper off into silence.

“Not this time kiddo. That was all you right there.”

“…no,” he wailed softly.

“Oh yes indeed! YOU planted your foot in her ass and YOU pushed her over the banister. You killed her Scott and YOU are one murderous son of a…”

“…no-no-no…” he mourned soulfully as he clutched the sides of his head. “…you made me do it…”

“I did no such thing. I only showed you what you wanted to see. This was all you, bucko.”

From the first floor, a weak groan interrupted their internal debate.

“She’s…”

“…still alive?”

Scott grabbed onto the banister, pulling himself up so that he could look over and confirm their suspicion. As he peered over the rail, his mouth fell open as he watched her rise to her knees and begin crawling toward the door beneath him. As her feet disappeared beneath him, the other began to shout;

“The phone you idiot! She’s going to the phone!”

“…so?”

“The police! You have to stop her!”

He wasn’t totally committed to the idea, but he rose to his feet and ran to the stairs. As he was going down, he turned and looked in the direction she had crawled in time to see the kitchen door swing shut.

“Maybe she just wants something to eat,” he asked inappropriately, but the joke was lost on the other who had begun to gibber wildly in its frightened state. At first it annoyed him, but it didn’t take very long for the emotions to transfer to his own. Suddenly it mattered what was going to happen to him if that phone call were allowed to happen.

His heart thundered in his chest as he all but fled from the second floor, He jumped the last four stairs and landed on the carpet with a thump. For the second time, his mouth fell open when he saw that she had landed on one of the end tables.

The end table was a cheap piece that she had once explained having ordered from an LTD magazine. Four brass legs decoratively wrapped around a thin piece of glass, each connected by a shelf beneath the surface, giving it the illusion of being sturdy. When she landed upon it, all but one leg had buckled beneath her weight. The fourth and remaining must have impaled her before snapping off. A trail of blood, nearly a foot wide, led from the wreckage to the room where she now hid.

“Niiice. I bet that hurts like a motherfucker,”

From behind the door he could hear the sound of her voice as she sobbed.

“You’re crazy Scott! You’ve lost your mind,” she yelled.

“…I’m not crazy,” he muttered, hurt.

“YOU PUSHED ME OVER THE LEDGE!”

“YOU punched me in the face,” he said with more conviction. “You don’t hurt the ones you love. I…I HAD to do it. Don’t you see? I was afraid. I didn’t want you to hit me anymore!”

She continue to sob from behind the door.

“What else was I supposed to do,” he finished.

“That’s very convincing Mr. Vali, but would you please tell the court MORE about these voices you’ve been hearing?”

“…but,” she said with confusion, “I wasn’t trying to KILL you!”

“No,” he answered slowly, “but I would have never done that to you. You brought this on yourself, bitch.”

As he pushed the door open to enter the kitchen, she called out one final warning. It was only a single word, but if he had heeded to it, there might have been a different outcome on the other side.

“Stop!”

The Box (Part XIV)

Posted on December 8, 2013 by R. Richardsson

There was a deep burning sensation in the empty cavity where his eye had once been. It felt as if a thousand ants were feasting upon the newly exposed flesh, breaking it down piece by piece to return to their nest for later consumption. Added with the dull ocular throbbing of the broken nerve, he found himself struggling to remain conscious.

It had been several minutes since the sorcerer had passed through the cavern below but he didn’t yet feel strong enough to continue. He needed some time to think.

Oramiir had betrayed them! His magics had lured the Destrachan from the depths of the underdark for the sole purpose of getting them out of the way!

It had been pure chance that he was alive, but the poor elf hadn’t stood a chance. Even now, the creatures were gnawing at the bones of the once proud warrior. The sound of the teeth scraping against them sent shivers down his spine. One would occasionally lift its head as if scenting the air, but they seemed content to laze near their dinner.

Another blast of hot air passed through the junction, reminding him that even as he perched above the elf’s remains, the sorcerer was drawing ever closer to the lair of the dragon.

“Perhaps it’s time I use some magic of my own,” he spat venomously. Below him, each of the four creatures turned their heads in his direction, suddenly interested in the small bag of fresh meat dangling from the ceiling. One of them whistled softly, testing for a reaction from the small hobbit, but he seemed to be paying them very little notice.

As they continued to ‘watch’ him from below, he reached into one of his many hidden pouches and removed a small crossbow. Unlike the hand-crossbows of the Drow, this small folding instrument had very little use as weapon. He’d had it specially crafted some years ago as a tool to aid him in his more discrete activities.

A flick of his thumb and the tension bar snapped into place. With his other hand, he reached into another pocket and carefully removed a small cloth bundle. Careful as to not drop it or the contents inside, he opened it and loaded a small bolt into the small crossbow before replacing the bundle into the pocket from whence it came.

His stomach gurgled once again, a painful reminder that he was missing yet another meal, drawing the attention of the creatures back to his position. He needed to find a way out of this junction, soon, before his presence became enough of an annoyance to them that they decided to do something about it.

Moving slow and deliberately, he shimmied out from his perch and along the wall. It was over a half a dozen yards to the floor, but he was never one to be bothered by heights. Even as the creatures began to stir beneath him, his toes and fingers were expertly digging into even the smallest of cracks that only he could manipulate.

It was painfully slow going. There were a couple of moments where the hold he had gained crumbled, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground, but several minutes later he found himself resting outside of the junction. The Destrachan had either decided that he wasn’t big enough to be a threat, or were content to remain with their meal, and he was able to breath a sigh of relief.

He fished through his pouches before finding a suitable enough snack to placate the angry grumbles in his midsection, but his heart wasn’t in it. He slowly chewed on a bit of rabbit jerky as tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and he mourned the loss of his friend.

Every so often, he would look in the direction the sorcerer had traveled and absently touch the handle of the crossbow now hanging from his belt.