Trespasser (Part IV)

Posted on July 17, 2014 by R. Richardsson

“-nessa! Vanessa dear! It’s time to come inside!”

Several houses away from her home, Vanessa sat on the memorial bench that had been placed outside of the vacant home at the end of the block. It had been two years since the passing of the resident inside, two years that might as well have been lifetimes to the young girl. She had very little memory of the old man who had once lived inside, but she did remember that he had once crafted wonderful things for his friends.

She also remembered that she had been his friend as well, and while she no longer played with it, the unfinished ballerina continued to ever remind her of the kindness he had shown her and the other children in her community.

“Vaaaanesssa! Come on dear! Your dinner awaits!”

Of all the other children, she was the only one who remembered where her gift had come from. While they were playing the latest expansions of their favorite computer games, she began to follow in the footsteps of the veteran who had once kept a watchful eye over their community. Every free moment of sunlight, whether after school, during the weekends or over breaks, she walked the sidewalks just as he had done in her father’s stories. She stopped and talked to each of her neighbors with a much higher maturity than any of her peers, and often found herself in conversations about the more worldly things in life.

Sometimes she helped out when she could, picking up trash, sweeping the sidewalks or raking up leaves. Over the last two summers, Vanessa Rowen became a familiar and welcome sight among those who lived down Bryer Street way, and everybody loved the little girl whose heart was bigger than most of the other children her age.

“Coming mommy,” she finally hollered in response as she stood up and brushed off dress. Her mother smiled and waved before going back into their house and with one sad look over her shoulder, she pondered the meaning of the “For Sale” sign that now adorned the lawn of ole man Dryden’s house, and the “SOLD” sticker that was plastered over it.

Jibber-Jabber

Posted on May 27, 2014 by R. Richardsson

We all feel it from time to time. It hits us when we least expect it, when we think we’re at our best or most comfortable. Our will to continue slowly drains until all that is left is an empty pit of despair. We wonder why we are doing this. Why did we even begin at all? Is it worth it? Has it been worth it?

There are literally millions of us peddling our work into the digital world. As readers, we know that there are quite a few lemons out there. We’ve tried a new body of work, only to find out that the author writes as if English were a second, or (shudders) third language. Maybe that was the pivotal point in our blind purchasing? Angry, we return to the point of purchase, leave a scathing review and return to that which we know.

Sometimes we come back. (See what I did there?) If there is one thing that remains true across the board, is that readers are HUNGRY for something new. We want to be entertained. We want to be informed, but most of all, we want to FEEL. If we can not believe in the story, if the words are too broken to make sense of, we abandon it for greener pastures.

But what does this have to do with writing, you ask?

Everything, my dear reader. Everything.

Because as writers, we are investing everything not only into our stories, but into our readers as well. All of our work goes into the making of the these new worlds, where characters embark on glorious quests for either noble or nefarious reasons.

Whatever your pleasure, right?

We build not only the setting, but the individuals that populate it. Once this process completes, we, or should I say; “Most of us”, return to the beginning to give it the critical care it needs.

We labor… No, that isn’t right. We SLAVE over the words, again and again, until they are just right. We pass our work onto editors, beta readers, friends and family in order to discover if what we have put into it is perfect. Our scrutiny even goes so far as to the art that graces its cover. Some few are gifted enough to be able to write well AND create a beautiful cover image. Most of us, however, must put our trust into someone who is hopefully talented enough to realize the vision we pitch them.

(Fortunately, I’m lucky enough to have that going for me!)

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself just a little. You see, before the cover image; before we let our work leave our hands, there’s an impasse at which we must make a very critical decision.

Do we start sending our work off to established publishing companies in the hope of becoming a client?
Do we dig our heels in and take the necessary steps to publish our book ourselves?
Or, do we do a combination of both?

Because, that’s totally important. What’s more prestigious than having a publisher do the work for you? You’ve made it Buster. All you have to do now is write the books while they take care of the rest. Of course, your book may not be the same as it was when it left your hands. There may be changes made to meet THEIR vision of what it should be. They may want YOU to do the changes yourself before they accept it! You may have written a perfect body of work, only to find out that their editors corrected a line with…wait for it…an error! You may find that the cover doesn’t make sense with your vision, or maybe they want to rename it to something else.

Who the hell wants to dick around with all that? You’re living your dream, writing is your career, but you have very little control over what happens once it’s out of your hands. And let’s not even go into royalties, appearances, etc. You have to REALLY get someone’s attention if you want to break out of the crowd.

So forget about all that then. Do it on your own, that’s the way to go! Sure!

And now we’re back to where I was before I got ahead of myself. We’ve written our work, poured our heart and soul into the story, handed it off to privately chosen test subjects, designed or commissioned a cover and then…what? Why, we now have to find the right publishing platform! Amazon/Createspace, Nook Press, Smashwords, Lulu… The list goes on. As independent writers, we have our favorites. What matters is that we make it available to the readers!

We’ve finished editing our book, but now we have to format it for print! If you haven’t done this before, it’s something that varies with each platform. Smashwords, if I remember correctly, calls their formatting process ‘Through The Meat Grinder’, or something very similar and it’s a very fitting term. You can spend an entire afternoon just trying to make your work look perfect for e-devices, PDF and Print formatting!

There’s also pricing to consider, blurbs and book descriptions…it all has to be perfect for not only your work, but for the market you’re entering it in. You have to consider the competition you’re against. (Remember, I did say MILLIONS of writers?)

Or, why not do a combination of both? Write stories to publish on your own AND find a publisher for other original works as well? You have time for that, right? Geezus Pleezus, may I borrow your cape?

Not all of us are superheroes. We don’t all have the same mission in life; “Wake Up! Don Costume! Save The World, One Book at a Time!”

No, we’re people, just like you. Some of us have taken the martyr’s path to writing, committing our entire life to our passion. We work from coffee shops, diners, or from (insert other minimum wage job title here) just so we can focus on what’s important. We have one room apartments. Sometimes we have a pet to accompany us, but we have chosen our path. We are going to succeed and you can be damned if you say otherwise!

I often think about these people. Sometimes I wish I was one of them, with only the words as my companions. I would love to be able to stare into a blank page (or .docx) and watch as a never-ending parade of characters appeared before me, each coming to life as a living, breathing story! Not that I don’t do this already, mind you! I’m thinking of an alternate reality where I didn’t have to balance my passion against my responsibilities!

But it’s also a frightening venture and I wonder if I even have enough of ‘it’ to have been able to do that. If I had made different decisions with my life, would I now be living a meager to moderate lifestyle as an author? Or, would I have faded into the cracks of society/blogosphere/etc.?

We’re people just like you.

Some of us have families, and while writing may be our passion, it’s comes last to our responsibilities.

Take a brief look into my life, for example. I’m a father of four beauties, all of whom I’m proud of in some way or another. They love and support me in my ventures, and in return, I give them the love, attention and childhoods they deserve. Uh…did I just say; “…in return…”? What I actually meant was that they come first!

I have to write in whatever spare time I can scrape off of the clock, be it during nap-times, as they’re doing chores or on my days off. How does having a day off help, you may wonder? Oh. I guess I should have covered that part of it. You see, I’m employed part-time during the graveyard shift, working for a minimum of thirty-two hours per week.

Writers come in many flavors, much like our companion drink, coffee. Some of us are really gifted! Can you believe it?

Maybe, or maybe not, depending on your standing as a reader. If you’ve turned away from the indie writing crowd, you’ll never know that, will you?

On the other hand, there are the breed of readers who ONLY read indie work. There’s a real market out there for stories so delectable to the palate that a reader can get lost for weeks, consuming millions or words as they desperately continue to escape from whatever reality they live in!

Writers, such as myself, realize that we have to tap into that market. We STRIVE to be better at what we do, with everything we create. We join support groups, marketing groups, social networks, forums and more in an effort to get our brand known. Minutes turn into hours better used for creating new stories, as we cast our metaphorical line into the pool, hoping that we have chosen the right hook for the task at hand. Sometimes it pays off, others, well, let me just ask you this; “Have you ever gone mushroom hunting for Morels?”

Seriously. Try it sometime. It’s a lot like that. Sometimes you could spend days and find not a single one, but when it hits… Oh boy, when it rains, it pours!

Of course, I wouldn’t know. I have yet to find a Morel this year.

We’re people just like you.

We laugh, we cry. We eat, we sleep, (sometimes) and we long for companionship. Not in the physical sense, but in that Author/Reader bond that is generated from our efforts.

We have a tough hill to climb. We feel like Sisyphus, eternally pushing a boulder up a hill it will never crest. No, I won’t say our work is tougher that yours, because we all bear our Cross differently, but I what I hope I can safely impart is that we tend to FALL a lot farther when the boulder tumbles down.

Here we stand, holding the fruit of our labors. An entire world literally rests in the palms of our hands. Thousands of hours have gone into its creation and we face a wall of rejection so high that only the strongest will climb over. There are so many of us (WRITERS) that each one of us is as important as the sperm to your (READERS) egg. In order to create that symbiotic relationship, we have to be the strongest, the most impressive, the prettiest specimen you’ve come across in a while. (No pun intended.)

Those are simply the odds.

We may craft stories you’ll remember years from now, but none of it matters if we can’t draw your attention long enough to get you hooked.

The minutes become hours. Hours transform into days and days to months, but still we persist. We reinvent the way we present our work to you. We recreate OURSELVES, preening our presence in the vain hope that we’ll be able to create that bond we are so hungry for.

We want it for different reasons. Sadly, many are in it only for the money. They think to themselves; “Book plus internet equals $$$,” and go from there. The virtual bookshelves are polluted with those who dabble to this fancy.

We have a story to tell. We have an idea for a story so powerful that we can’t help but to share it. Many times you can find a good story from this pool, but there are just as many bad as there are good and the great ones are few and far between.

Fewer still are slaves to our passion. We desire nothing more than to write, and write we shall. We have our own office, or office space, where we can focus solely on the worlds that are clawing their way out of our psyche. Sometimes they come screaming into our consciousness with their asses on fire and we find ourselves begging our fingers to keep up with the words as they tumble from us, but most times we are just driven simply to continue. It has to be done, whether we want to or not and we often lose track of everything until it is.

So, when we’ve finally come to stop at the bottom of that hill, when we’ve careened down that great wall, what is there left for us? We’ve given it our all, only to be beat out by those who have a bigger following. Our work has been denied by the countless publishers, overlooked by the millions of readers and sits, covered in dust, whether virtual or physical, as we wallow in angst and despair.

What was it all for? Why was I compelled to do this? Oh my GOD, I have to start over because (…)!!!

A great majority never make it back from this, survival of the fittest and all that, but those who are meant to be great will and often do. It’s how we come back that matters. How have we learned from our mistakes? Can we continue from here, or do we take a different approach?

I think about a lot of things while at work, most of all, how tough this has been on my family. This is what I desire to do DURING my life, not at the end of it. I don’t want to work in a blue-collar job, on the graveyard shift, where I will miss out on most of my children’s lives. I don’t want my marriage to suffer for the next (…) year(s) as I try to maintain the sales that I DO have.

I’m in the process of finishing my third book, a title which will conclude a vampire hunter trilogy. I’m ALSO writing a collection of short stories I hope to release by mid-summer! Do you think that’s enough, on top of working nights and being Mr. Mom?

I’m also a contracted webpage designer.

I’m also Ghostwriting on the side.

And, I’m currently uploading free stuff to this website as a way for readers to get to know my work.

I’m a slave to my passion of storytelling, and sometimes it’s difficult to think about anything other than whatever story is currently trying to project vomit itself onto my screen. So when I fall, you better believe it’s with enough force to rumble a neighboring city!

Who’s there to catch us when we fall? Friends? Family? What if we have no friends? What do we do when our family doesn’t support us? How far do we fall before we are able to pick ourselves up?

As far as we need to. It’s no more difficult than that. Once we’ve come to a stop, it’s up to us as to whether we get run over by the boulder or roll out-of-the-way.

Wanna know a secret?

It’s always like this for the writer!

For us, the top is very much like that top of that hill in the Sisyphus analogy. We’re forever ‘just’ reaching the top, only to have the boulder come crashing back down. Some are able to hold that boulder there for longer than other, but once the work starts anew, it comes a-tumblin, tumbling.

Wanna know something else? Writing’s a LONELY job. It’s a TIME-CONSUMING job. We tend to disappear for months off the grid, and unless we have family there to coax us out into the open every now and again, you might find yourself wondering; “What ever happened to so-and-so?”

What indeed.

Trespasser (Part III)

Posted on May 8, 2014 by R. Richardsson

It has been several weeks since the passing of ole Sammy D and the entrance to Bryer street had never been busier. At first, it was the bankers who came to look through the now empty home. They walked through its vacant rooms with an appraiser, a small weaselly sort of man who hid behind his spectacles and mountains of paperwork, placing tags on everything of value.

Friends and neighbors watched on as the entire life of three-time war veteran, and one time loving husband, was divided into categories and worth. Most watched in sadness as they remembered the life of one of the kindest men they had ever known. Some remembered him for his figurines, while those old enough remembered him as a man who had gone out of his way to help those in need.

Sammy Dryden had fought and killed a countless number of ‘the enemy’ for the country he loved, and when it came time to lay down his weapon, he continued to fight for his and his neighbor’s freedom in the only way he knew how.

Things weren’t as they were when he was a young man. Before he joined the service, children played outside. Crime was only an occasional report on the radio and when the reporters ran out of things to say, airtime was filled with live action skits or by music from the most current artists. Most people trusted the other and were willing to say ‘Hello!’ in the very least and there was very little fear about living the life you chose to live.

Times had certainly changed. He knew, because he had watched the metamorphosis with his own eyes!

As freedoms were extended to women, he couldn’t have been more overjoyed. And when, after a few years had passed, his wife suggested taking on a part-time job to help pay the bills, he had stood proudly behind her.

When tensions increased between the whites and the blacks, and when this tension reached even his small community, he chose to stand behind the few Negroes who lived near him. There were many nights when he had worried for his and his wife’s safety, but neither were willing to stand down from the injustice being inflicted upon their friends.

Time seemed to pass very slowly during this period of fear and hatred, but he and a few of his army buddies managed to spread a message of their own. When they came hidden beneath their white sheets, wielding their baseball bats and their misguided beliefs, they were met by a small platoon of men of mixed color, each wearing their own uniforms bearing the American flag, armed with a standard issue rifle.

There had been no words spoken during this encounter. Each stared at the other with defiance in their eyes, but ultimately is was the Hidden Haters who turned and left, never to return. The Dryden and the Robinson family had ever remained friends, and the latter would continue to live on Bryer Street even after the passing of their friend.

Soon, children began to vanish from the streets. Oh, they played outside from time to time, but never with the vigor of the generations before them. The Age of Electronics was coming in full and most prefered to stay inside with their eyes glued to their TV screens. Those who did come out were the ones who couldn’t afford their own video game devices. They ran together and most times, though not all, they were only doing so for nefarious reasons.

When his wife died, he began taking long walks that began through his neighborhood. It got so that this was a daily routine and he would often stop and talk with whomever would listen. As days stretched into weeks and weeks into years, talk turned into something more. He used his general knowledge of mechanics and carpentry to help his neighbors fix their cars or work on their projects. Once, while he was still healthy enough, he helped install a below-ground pool.

When his body began to fail him, he spent more and more of his days sitting on the front porch, peddling to his secret passion. His friendship with his neighbors remained strong as each made it a point to visit him daily. Soon, the daily visits, much like the wood he worked with, whittled down to maybe once per week, but this didn’t bother him in the slightest. He often carved things for his friends and neighbors that personally applied to the something he knew of them. For Davie Robinson, he had carved the likeness of a Klansman which appeared to be running in fear, only he was tripping because his pants had fallen around his ankles. For the Hammonds, who enjoyed their sports team way more than most, he’d created the likeness of the coach who had once led their team to the Super Bowl; Hank Stram.

Sergeant Sam Dryden was the last man standing of his platoon. He had survived his wife and children, three wars and countless presidents. He was respected and loved by those who knew him, treated as if he were an extended member of each of their families, and so it was hard on each and every one of them when he passed. Even the children had a special place in their hearts for the wrinkled old man who made their pretty wooden dolls.

The watched from the sidewalk as the bankers and their appraiser came and went. They attended the auctions that were held, and by no small miracle, every one of his possessions went back into his beloved community or to his own extended family.

When the hustle had finally died down, and the contractors had come and gone, the night of the storm was but a distant, if painful, memory to those who had known him. He would never be forgotten. Not by the Robinsons, who once been protected by he and his platoon. Not by the Hammonds, who would proudly display their wooden coach for decades to come and certainly not by the small girl standing at the base of the steps leading up to the house he had once lived in.

Vanessa Rowen stood with her head down and her feet slightly apart. She had a small object cupped in her tiny little hands, an object that was slowly growing damp from the tears that leaked from her eyes. Her dirty blonde hair hung about her face and shoulders, obscuring this from any who might happen to see, but the hitching of her back as she sobbed could easily have given them the message.

She stood, as she had many times since he had gone to be with his family, staring down at the unfinished ballerina he had intended to give her on her seventh birthday.