One way or another I’m determined for this blog to serve a useful purpose. If I’m gifted enough (I already know I’m determined enough) to actually find my way to being published, then my blog will hopefully be educational and serve as an inspiration for the aspiring writers who may find their way here. Much like the blogs I have embraced. And if I never reach that pinnacle, it can still serve as a roadmap for how to get there, just drawn by someone who couldn’t drive.
Today I want to discuss the topic of writer’s forums. What purpose do they serve? First and foremost, they offer a medium to have your writing critiqued. Whether you’ve written your first short story, or finalized the first draft of your 10th novel, everybody needs to use a sounding board to see where they stand at some point. For me, I sought out the forums so I could have someone other than a family member or friends give me opinions about my writing. A lot of writers don’t have enough people around them to offer the kind of no-nonsense, unemotional assessment of their work, so they turn to the on-line forums. But these forums offer much more than just critiquing. They are a great source of information about all kinds of topics in the publishing world, and a social community full of like-minded individuals.
There’s a multitude of forums on the internet, some good, some bad, and some exceptional. The thing is they are different for each person who visits and you really need to shop around until you find one that you feel comfortable in. The social dynamic you find in these forums are all the same. You’ll have the members who contribute frequently and always seem to be on-line. These are usually designated as moderators and ensure that all members follow the forums guidelines (no flaming). Then there are the veterans who have been a part of the forum a long time and really are its backbone. They are the ones that offer the most useful critiques (along with the moderators) and can seriously help shape your writing if you listen to their comments. Finally there are the newbies. Visitors in that group come and go often. Writers with thin skin who don’t respond well to honest opinions don’t stick around very long.
The manner in which the forums operate is also similar, but each forum has its own guidelines and rules for critiquing. One universal aspect is that in order to have your writing critiqued, you must offer criticism of other writers work first. Some sites have rules in-place like - for every five critiques you write, you’re allowed to submit one piece of your own work for review. Other sites are less strict. Regardless of the rules, the more useful input you give, the more you get. Reading a chapter and leaving a comment that simply says “I liked this” doesn’t cut it. And for me, there’s the rub. I’ll explain in a minute.
All of these writing forums are sub-divided by genre, and by far the most active boards are the ones in the Sci-fi/Fantasy category. Second most active is the Romance forums. The Mystery/Thriller groups (the genre I write in) see very little activity. Don’t ask me why, that’s just been my experience on these forums. There is a lot of crossover though, so while I was a member of these forums I received a lot of valuable input from Sci-Fi / Fantasy writers. The problem was that in the give & take world of these forums, I was reading and critiquing a lot of material that I was only moderately interested in. Pretty soon I realized I was devoting so much time to these forums, and reading stories I wouldn’t normally read, that it was distracting me from learning my craft. As a result I was posting material for review that was sub-standard and I knew I could do better. I decided to back away from the forums all-together and just concentrate on improving my own work.
For those of you who are looking for a forum to fill your needs, here are a few suggestions:
Writers Digest
http://forum.writersdigest.com/category-view.asp?catlock=1
Absolute Write
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php
Writers Beat
http://www.writersbeat.com/
Writing Forums
http://www.writingforums.org/index.php
The Writer Magazine
http://cs.writermag.com/forums/default.aspx?ForumGroupID=4
Be forewarned though, these can become addicting. In most of these forums I go by the tag of IMPOSTER, so if you see a post by me make sure you say hi. Someday soon I’ll return to them and pick up where I left off, but not quite yet.
Broken Wing
I was pulling my hair out (what’s left of it) trying to think of something to post today. I’ve already updated about my book this week, so I needed to find another subject. It’s important that I get more consistent with my posts and use them to improve my writing. I also don’t want to disappoint my loyal followers who are sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what I come up with (*cough*). I’m looking around, grasping for ideas, when I glanced at my Outlook calendar. On it I see where I’ve noted that Monday was the twelve year anniversary of breaking my left arm. That could make an interesting story . . . yeah yeah . . . that’s the ticket.
This wasn’t one of your run-of-the-mill breaks. It required surgery where they used two metal plates, seventeen screws, and oodles of staple sutures to repair the damage. I broke both bones in the lower portion of the arm, and one of those bones protruded out of my skin. They call those compound fractures, you know.
The incident instantly climbed to the top (where it has remained) of a list of serious illnesses and injuries I’ve put my body through over the years. It’s been my only exposure to surgery and I’m happy to report that I didn’t experience a problem with anesthesia like a lot of people seem to.
You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Was it a car wreck?’, ‘Did he have a horrible mishap doing yard work or some such endeavor around the house?’, or even maybe ‘Could it have been an industrial accident where he works?’ Nope. It was the right foot of a twenty-two year old intramural soccer player from a local college. Twelve years ago (Geez . . . it seems like a lifetime ago now) I was a member of an adult soccer team who played most of their games in an indoor arena in Little Rock. One bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, arrangements were made to scrimmage one of the intramural soccer teams at the university here in town. I know . . . I know . . . a bunch of 30-40 year olds up against a pack of college kids with enough hormones coursing through their bodies to fuel a race car . . . that’s a recipe for disaster if there ever was one. I went out there with my oldest son, who was ten at the time, and prepared to do battle anyway.
I was the team’s goalie, and for the first twenty minutes we old guys held our own against the studs. Then there was a foul right in front of our goal, which led to a penalty kick. For those of you not familiar with soccer, that means one of their players would face off one on one with me. The player they picked was six feet tall and four of those were just his legs. The two teams were tied at the time, so I was feeling the pressure to not allow a score and let the guys down. I sucked in some deep breaths and hopped up and down to get myself energized. I took my time getting into position, making the kid wait for me. I gulped down a swig of water, tossed the bottle to the side of the net, then moved to my spot.
The opposing player placed the ball on the penalty spot (13 paces from the goal), then backed away. I attempted to read his posture, his orientation to the goal, to anticipate which corner he was going to shoot for. I knew that 80% of the time right footed players shot for the opposite corner, which was my right, but I resisted the temptation to lean that way. I didn’t want to give away my strategy and cause him to kick in the opposite direction. He started approaching the ball, but I held my ground until the last possible moment. I leapt to my right just as his size 12 shoe struck the ball. The ball headed right for me. It struck me in the chest, but it was moving too quick and bounced off before I could wrap my arms around it.
The ball began rolling back out into the field of play and the opposing player, seeing the ball recoil off me, saw an opportunity to kick it again and score. I watched as he moved towards the rolling ball and without thinking knew I had only one hope to stop him from scoring. I dove once more, making a sweeping motion with my left arm to push the ball out of the path of the oncoming attacker. My arm and his foot reached the ball at the same time, except I was more accurate than he. I hit the ball . . . his foot collided with my arm.
I knew instantly the arm was broken, and it was bad. I clenched my arm tightly to my chest and laid there on my back. A lot of what happened following that moment is a blur. Making sure somebody found my son and got him home. Transportation to the emergency room laying in the rear of somebody’s Jeep Cherokee. Waiting to be seen. X-rays (the most painful part of the whole ordeal). More waiting. Friends showing up to see how I was doing. More waiting. Getting the news I would need an operation. Still more waiting. Finally being taken back and prepped for surgery. Laying on the operation table and being instructed to count backwards from fifty. 50 . .49 . . 48 . .47. Blackness.
I scared my wife that day. I didn’t mean to, but I did. She spent the hours during my surgery and waiting for me to wake up, fretting. I’m sorry for that, because that kind of worry stays with you for a while. I guess I scared myself a little as well. Up until then, apart from a stitch here or a burn there, all of my injuries were minor ones. Going through all of that, especially the rehab and recovery afterwards, knocked me off of my indestructible throne.
Anyway, that’s the story about my broken wing. The plates and screws are still there, as well as one of the incision scars. I can even tell when a change in the weather is coming from the dull ache deep within the arm. If you remember only one thing from my tale, I hope it’s just one thing.
That SOB didn’t score!
This wasn’t one of your run-of-the-mill breaks. It required surgery where they used two metal plates, seventeen screws, and oodles of staple sutures to repair the damage. I broke both bones in the lower portion of the arm, and one of those bones protruded out of my skin. They call those compound fractures, you know.
The incident instantly climbed to the top (where it has remained) of a list of serious illnesses and injuries I’ve put my body through over the years. It’s been my only exposure to surgery and I’m happy to report that I didn’t experience a problem with anesthesia like a lot of people seem to.
You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Was it a car wreck?’, ‘Did he have a horrible mishap doing yard work or some such endeavor around the house?’, or even maybe ‘Could it have been an industrial accident where he works?’ Nope. It was the right foot of a twenty-two year old intramural soccer player from a local college. Twelve years ago (Geez . . . it seems like a lifetime ago now) I was a member of an adult soccer team who played most of their games in an indoor arena in Little Rock. One bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, arrangements were made to scrimmage one of the intramural soccer teams at the university here in town. I know . . . I know . . . a bunch of 30-40 year olds up against a pack of college kids with enough hormones coursing through their bodies to fuel a race car . . . that’s a recipe for disaster if there ever was one. I went out there with my oldest son, who was ten at the time, and prepared to do battle anyway.
I was the team’s goalie, and for the first twenty minutes we old guys held our own against the studs. Then there was a foul right in front of our goal, which led to a penalty kick. For those of you not familiar with soccer, that means one of their players would face off one on one with me. The player they picked was six feet tall and four of those were just his legs. The two teams were tied at the time, so I was feeling the pressure to not allow a score and let the guys down. I sucked in some deep breaths and hopped up and down to get myself energized. I took my time getting into position, making the kid wait for me. I gulped down a swig of water, tossed the bottle to the side of the net, then moved to my spot.
The opposing player placed the ball on the penalty spot (13 paces from the goal), then backed away. I attempted to read his posture, his orientation to the goal, to anticipate which corner he was going to shoot for. I knew that 80% of the time right footed players shot for the opposite corner, which was my right, but I resisted the temptation to lean that way. I didn’t want to give away my strategy and cause him to kick in the opposite direction. He started approaching the ball, but I held my ground until the last possible moment. I leapt to my right just as his size 12 shoe struck the ball. The ball headed right for me. It struck me in the chest, but it was moving too quick and bounced off before I could wrap my arms around it.
The ball began rolling back out into the field of play and the opposing player, seeing the ball recoil off me, saw an opportunity to kick it again and score. I watched as he moved towards the rolling ball and without thinking knew I had only one hope to stop him from scoring. I dove once more, making a sweeping motion with my left arm to push the ball out of the path of the oncoming attacker. My arm and his foot reached the ball at the same time, except I was more accurate than he. I hit the ball . . . his foot collided with my arm.
I knew instantly the arm was broken, and it was bad. I clenched my arm tightly to my chest and laid there on my back. A lot of what happened following that moment is a blur. Making sure somebody found my son and got him home. Transportation to the emergency room laying in the rear of somebody’s Jeep Cherokee. Waiting to be seen. X-rays (the most painful part of the whole ordeal). More waiting. Friends showing up to see how I was doing. More waiting. Getting the news I would need an operation. Still more waiting. Finally being taken back and prepped for surgery. Laying on the operation table and being instructed to count backwards from fifty. 50 . .49 . . 48 . .47. Blackness.
I scared my wife that day. I didn’t mean to, but I did. She spent the hours during my surgery and waiting for me to wake up, fretting. I’m sorry for that, because that kind of worry stays with you for a while. I guess I scared myself a little as well. Up until then, apart from a stitch here or a burn there, all of my injuries were minor ones. Going through all of that, especially the rehab and recovery afterwards, knocked me off of my indestructible throne.
Anyway, that’s the story about my broken wing. The plates and screws are still there, as well as one of the incision scars. I can even tell when a change in the weather is coming from the dull ache deep within the arm. If you remember only one thing from my tale, I hope it’s just one thing.
That SOB didn’t score!
What will the Harry Potter book burners do in the future?
With the introduction of Amazon's Kindle, Sony's e-Reader, and now Barnes & Nobles Nook, a lot of people are starting to ask if hardback books have become an endangered species. It's a valid question, and one I thought I'd add my 2 cents worth today.
My short answer . . . No. For me, and I imagine a lot of people like me, there's something ingrained about reading a hard cover book. In fact, given a choice between a paperback and hard cover, I'll take the hard cover every time. There's something about the weight and feel of it. The way it lays open in my lap when I'm reading it, not having to use my fingers to prop open the pages. I especially like how it looks on my book shelf when I'm finished with it, another well-earned trophy. Our home has several book shelfs scattered in various rooms, but both my wife and I really want to add a formal library someday and fill it with all of the books we've collected over the years. I can't see giving up that dream for a 5 x 7 inch electronic gadget.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm a guy, and you kow what they say about boys and their toys, so our family will probably purchase one of these readers in the near future. If for no other reason than portability for trips. But in doing so I don't feel like I'm condeming traditional book sales. The news media are reporting that even though book sales are down this year, people are reading more because of e-books. That sounds suspisious to me and I'm sure those figures are an anomoly steming from the introduction of a new technology. But regardless, doom and gloom was in the air for traditional newspaper sales when internet news sites became popular, but they're still around. I'm one of those people who makes the rounds of sites like Google News, Yahoo News, CNet and USA Today every morning absorbing the days story's, but every afternoon I still sit back and thumb through the afternoon paper.
As an aspiring writer, the form that my work assumes in reaching prospective readers is irrelevant. Being un-published I can be flippant and say that I'm not in it for the money, so I could care less if this hurts authors royalties. I would love to be concerned about that, because that would mean I had something to be concerned with. But I'm not. Just like I'm not worried about e-books replacing my hard covered ones.
So the bible thumpers can stoke the fires all they want. There will always be plenty of fuel to seek out.
My short answer . . . No. For me, and I imagine a lot of people like me, there's something ingrained about reading a hard cover book. In fact, given a choice between a paperback and hard cover, I'll take the hard cover every time. There's something about the weight and feel of it. The way it lays open in my lap when I'm reading it, not having to use my fingers to prop open the pages. I especially like how it looks on my book shelf when I'm finished with it, another well-earned trophy. Our home has several book shelfs scattered in various rooms, but both my wife and I really want to add a formal library someday and fill it with all of the books we've collected over the years. I can't see giving up that dream for a 5 x 7 inch electronic gadget.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm a guy, and you kow what they say about boys and their toys, so our family will probably purchase one of these readers in the near future. If for no other reason than portability for trips. But in doing so I don't feel like I'm condeming traditional book sales. The news media are reporting that even though book sales are down this year, people are reading more because of e-books. That sounds suspisious to me and I'm sure those figures are an anomoly steming from the introduction of a new technology. But regardless, doom and gloom was in the air for traditional newspaper sales when internet news sites became popular, but they're still around. I'm one of those people who makes the rounds of sites like Google News, Yahoo News, CNet and USA Today every morning absorbing the days story's, but every afternoon I still sit back and thumb through the afternoon paper.
As an aspiring writer, the form that my work assumes in reaching prospective readers is irrelevant. Being un-published I can be flippant and say that I'm not in it for the money, so I could care less if this hurts authors royalties. I would love to be concerned about that, because that would mean I had something to be concerned with. But I'm not. Just like I'm not worried about e-books replacing my hard covered ones.
So the bible thumpers can stoke the fires all they want. There will always be plenty of fuel to seek out.
So, whats up with the book?
Thanks for asking, I'd be happy to give you an update.
In one word: Semi-stalled.
I have sent off my first four chapters to be professionally edited. I have always openly professed that my achilles heel is grammar, and I am striving to improve in that area, but I didn't know how weak it was until I paid to have my short story edited. OMG! The corrections suggested were amazing. And this after it had been proof-read by at least a half-dozen people who know much more about grammar then me. So I decided to only have the first four chapters of my book done because the majority of agents will request that many chapters initially if there is an interest. If by some grand stroke of luck I find an agent who wants to see more, then I'll decide then whether or not to fork out more money to have the rest of it done.
In the mean time I know what I needs to happen next, I just can't force myself to take that step. A lot of people in the publishing industry refer to it as the final edit. It's where you go back through the book, line by line, making final corrections, fixing (obvious) grammar issues, expounding upon descriptions and other fine details. Its a tedious process, but one that cannot be skipped if you ever hope to see your work published.
So what's the hold up, you ask. Fear. I'm afraid that once I finish that last step, and I declare my novel finished and ready for submission, that will be the end of my writing stint. I'm afraid that after going through the process of actually putting it out there for critical review, that the truth will come out and I'll be revealed as a shallow version of what a real writer produces. And if that is the way this should play out, then so be it. I'll be content with the knowledge that I produced two novels that a few people found enjoyment in, but weren't meant for the mainstream. I'll be dissappointed for sure, but satisfied that I at least took a shot.
But I'm not ready for that bubble to burst just yet, so I procrastinate when instead I should be working on my novel. I know I'll return to it soon, because I do intend to have it judged. Just not today.
On a different note, I now have ten blog followers! I recently stumbled across the blog of a newly published author . . . who only had seven followers!
Maybe. Just maybe.
In one word: Semi-stalled.
I have sent off my first four chapters to be professionally edited. I have always openly professed that my achilles heel is grammar, and I am striving to improve in that area, but I didn't know how weak it was until I paid to have my short story edited. OMG! The corrections suggested were amazing. And this after it had been proof-read by at least a half-dozen people who know much more about grammar then me. So I decided to only have the first four chapters of my book done because the majority of agents will request that many chapters initially if there is an interest. If by some grand stroke of luck I find an agent who wants to see more, then I'll decide then whether or not to fork out more money to have the rest of it done.
In the mean time I know what I needs to happen next, I just can't force myself to take that step. A lot of people in the publishing industry refer to it as the final edit. It's where you go back through the book, line by line, making final corrections, fixing (obvious) grammar issues, expounding upon descriptions and other fine details. Its a tedious process, but one that cannot be skipped if you ever hope to see your work published.
So what's the hold up, you ask. Fear. I'm afraid that once I finish that last step, and I declare my novel finished and ready for submission, that will be the end of my writing stint. I'm afraid that after going through the process of actually putting it out there for critical review, that the truth will come out and I'll be revealed as a shallow version of what a real writer produces. And if that is the way this should play out, then so be it. I'll be content with the knowledge that I produced two novels that a few people found enjoyment in, but weren't meant for the mainstream. I'll be dissappointed for sure, but satisfied that I at least took a shot.
But I'm not ready for that bubble to burst just yet, so I procrastinate when instead I should be working on my novel. I know I'll return to it soon, because I do intend to have it judged. Just not today.
On a different note, I now have ten blog followers! I recently stumbled across the blog of a newly published author . . . who only had seven followers!
Maybe. Just maybe.
ET. . . Phone Home
I liken grown children who have moved out from under their parents roof to Extra-Terresterials. They no longer inhabit our world, having matured to the point where they've set their sights on exploring a new universe. But we believe they visit from time to time because things have mysteriously been moved around in their room. We try to convince neighbors and relatives that we've seen them, but the only evidence we can offer are blurry photographs and half-eaten bagels. When the beings do decide to return to their homeworld and make themselves known, they regard their 'parental-units' like specimens underneath a microscope, trying to figure out what makes us tick. Poke this, prod that, see what jerks.
I can make fun of the situation, but its anything but comical for thousands and thousands of mothers out there. When a baby leaves the nest, its one of the more impactful events of a mothers life. A child stepping out on their own moves towards freedom, responsibility, choice, adventure, excitement, empowerment, and endless possibilities. The mother is left staring at an empty doorway.
I find it odd that in the best of cases a mother/child relationship is an equation that is never fully balanced. For eighteen or nineteen years she sacrifices herself totally for her child, only to endure heartache when the day comes for them to walk down their own path. A cursory hug and peck on the cheek later, they're off without a second thought. Children cannot understand the significance of their departure, or the depths of the void they leave behind. They're not equipped yet. They aren't a parent. And not until they become a parent themselves will they understand and the equation begin to balance. But in the end it is never re-paid in full.
As proud as a parent can be I've watched as two of my own have begun to find their own way, But I've also watched how it has affected their mother, who is even prouder if possible, but she aches from an emotional pain there is no cure for. Although there is no remedy, there is a medicine that can force her symptoms into extended periods of remission. It's called contact. Phone calls, text messages, or an occassional e-mail is all it takes. I imagine its universal amongst mothers.
I'll end this post with a message for anyone reading this who has recently moved out of your parents home (hint!). Think about your mother, because I can guarantee you she is thinking about you. Your wings may be spreading and the independence you so richly deserve is building before you. New aquaintences, new opportunities, new surroundings. But every day the woman who made it all possible for you is staring out the front window where you used to play for hours with your friends, or into your empty room imagining one of the many heart-to-heart talks the two of you had. She walks amongst those memories everyday, and the longer she has to endure not hearing from you is a torture no interrogator could ever duplicate.
ET . . . Phone Home.
Please.
I can make fun of the situation, but its anything but comical for thousands and thousands of mothers out there. When a baby leaves the nest, its one of the more impactful events of a mothers life. A child stepping out on their own moves towards freedom, responsibility, choice, adventure, excitement, empowerment, and endless possibilities. The mother is left staring at an empty doorway.
I find it odd that in the best of cases a mother/child relationship is an equation that is never fully balanced. For eighteen or nineteen years she sacrifices herself totally for her child, only to endure heartache when the day comes for them to walk down their own path. A cursory hug and peck on the cheek later, they're off without a second thought. Children cannot understand the significance of their departure, or the depths of the void they leave behind. They're not equipped yet. They aren't a parent. And not until they become a parent themselves will they understand and the equation begin to balance. But in the end it is never re-paid in full.
As proud as a parent can be I've watched as two of my own have begun to find their own way, But I've also watched how it has affected their mother, who is even prouder if possible, but she aches from an emotional pain there is no cure for. Although there is no remedy, there is a medicine that can force her symptoms into extended periods of remission. It's called contact. Phone calls, text messages, or an occassional e-mail is all it takes. I imagine its universal amongst mothers.
I'll end this post with a message for anyone reading this who has recently moved out of your parents home (hint!). Think about your mother, because I can guarantee you she is thinking about you. Your wings may be spreading and the independence you so richly deserve is building before you. New aquaintences, new opportunities, new surroundings. But every day the woman who made it all possible for you is staring out the front window where you used to play for hours with your friends, or into your empty room imagining one of the many heart-to-heart talks the two of you had. She walks amongst those memories everyday, and the longer she has to endure not hearing from you is a torture no interrogator could ever duplicate.
ET . . . Phone Home.
Please.
