It seems that of late my only concern here has been the sorry state of my blog. It's much like the outskirts of Detroit, full of crumbling and dilapidated buildings and abandoned properties. It's true that all my energies have gone into my books, in a concerted effort to get as many out as I could for the holidays, when people might have time to read them. So I did, and I was right. My latest book is being picked up at lightning speed in comparison to the snail's pace of my earlier releases. They are still free as I continue to promote myself and my works. I try to worm myself into the affection of a readership.
Actually the response have been generally good. I'm getting lots of 5-stars, though an occasional 1-star crops up by an anonymous spoiler, who must be on a crusade to pull down ratings. The comments are positive and heartwarming for an author, and I certainly appreciate them. Though I'm fairly confident of my writer's voice, it is still very nice to have it affirmed by those who read my words. I thank them all.
There I go again - going on about my books when I wanted to talk about my blog, or "my garden of words" as I like to think of it. In reality it's a dumping ground for my thoughts I can find no place for in my books. For me personally, it is also a mirror to reflect how I feel at the moment of writing it. It's waypoint in my emotional roadmap, sometimes up, sometimes down. Hard to see how it would interest someone else. No wonder that I had no comments for quite a while. The harvest has been poor.
Still I imagine that silent visitors pass through in the quiet of night, often furtively, look about and wonder who the hell am I.
I'm just like you! Well, not entirely. I hide behind the crowd of characters I have spawned. They speak for me more eloquently than I ever could in real life. They have become my voice.
So there we are dear blog, you listen patiently, never rejecting, always accepting the words I spun.
Paul Telegdi still writing at www.seeWordFactory.com
Monday, December 31, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
The closet is full...
There are still too many characters in my closet and they want out. These are characters I have created with the sweat of my imagination, nurtured and pandered to, over a number of books that are still gathering dust on the back shelves. I can't blame them, I would want out too. Bravely or not so bravely, face the light of public opinion, take on the slings and arrows...
Hey--wait just one minute! It's the admiration and respect I'm fishing for. Had I not always said that I write only for those who like my books? Let the others find happiness elsewhere. So, I want to grow fat on praise, not ducking criticism and invectives. But how had I reached this point?
At first it was writing just for myself, to see if I could and had I the stamina to follow through. As this went on, more and more the writing displaced time from other activities, and attracted attention. I found people peering over my shoulder. "What're you writing?"
"Oh nothing. Just a few idle thoughts." But how many times can one get away with such a lame excuse? Eventually, there came a time for me to confess, "I'm a writer, I think." After three complete manuscripts, I had to allow that it was likely true: I was a writer.
Writing is addictive. Did anyone tell you that? At least my kind of writing is, giving free range to the imagination, crating my own little microcosm. Of course a part of me is in every character I created and I draw vicarious pleasure from their victories, suffer their setbacks and disappointments. Yes, writing can be a rush, the drug of my choice.
However, little by little, writing was not enough. The initial, quiet satisfaction grew into an ambition: having climbed one mountain, I found one even higher behind it. Now I wanted to become an AUTHOR.
Query letters followed, and I waited in the silence that ensued. It seemed like there were enough authors out there already and there was no room for more. I persisted a while, investing my frustration in yet another book. This blog followed, but my "garden of words" soon grew stale with neglect as my time was siphoned off by the writing, now out of control. I was a full fledged addict, I had to face that. Nothing gave me more pleasure than pounding out my characters on the keyboard. It was so easy and convenient. I didn't need a pusher to peddle me stuff to get high on, my mind was spinning off scenarios faster than my computer with its lightning speed could digest.
But, then the closet grew full, of tomes of complete manuscripts that still need to be massaged and polished into final form. I had a mountain of work to do. As every writer will tell you, it's not about writing, more about seemingly endless rewriting. with the first draft the creative instinct had been satisfied, the characters are fully drawn, the plot line nailed down tight, needing only to be tweaked. Now this was a beast of a different color. And as easy the first draft was, the subsequent reworks are the writer's burden. It seemed that the mountain sides were steeper that they first looked. Still one perseveres, sends another pigeon into the void, not to be seen again. I think I have been turned down by every available agent and publisher within arm's reach. Of course it was not my fault that they couldn't appreciate the genius of my work, some perversity of their character closed the doors to me.
Eventually, having grown tired of waiting for the world to discover me, I turned to self-publishing and got 10 books out of 18 online. Thank God for the option! But, with the ease of doing so, I found myself threading water in a big, big ocean, out of sight of land. Everybody it seemed had or has the same idea, and my offerings were swallowed in the swell of this tsunami of outpourings.
But the numbers for my books are climbing, not in any viral sense, but in a modest manner.
However, my original problems remain. My closet is full, and servicing them has become a chore. I'm itching to start something new, but I got to get a few more books out the door. So my creatures are clamoring, invading my dreams and waking me out of my sleep. What happened? I used to be a night person, but the earth has shifted on its axis, reversing polarity and now I get up around 5:00 am to make room for something new.
Then there is another thing that they never told you about when you started. Writing was only the rising dawn over the promised land, there was then the great quest to be published, and then... then the PROMOTING... But I'll write about that some other time, as this blog is already too long.
Dear Reader, I applaud your persistence for getting this far. But these words were not meant for you. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts that clutter up my mind. There I feel much better, thank you. Paul Telegdi, writing at www.seeWordFactory.com .
Hey--wait just one minute! It's the admiration and respect I'm fishing for. Had I not always said that I write only for those who like my books? Let the others find happiness elsewhere. So, I want to grow fat on praise, not ducking criticism and invectives. But how had I reached this point?
At first it was writing just for myself, to see if I could and had I the stamina to follow through. As this went on, more and more the writing displaced time from other activities, and attracted attention. I found people peering over my shoulder. "What're you writing?"
"Oh nothing. Just a few idle thoughts." But how many times can one get away with such a lame excuse? Eventually, there came a time for me to confess, "I'm a writer, I think." After three complete manuscripts, I had to allow that it was likely true: I was a writer.
Writing is addictive. Did anyone tell you that? At least my kind of writing is, giving free range to the imagination, crating my own little microcosm. Of course a part of me is in every character I created and I draw vicarious pleasure from their victories, suffer their setbacks and disappointments. Yes, writing can be a rush, the drug of my choice.
However, little by little, writing was not enough. The initial, quiet satisfaction grew into an ambition: having climbed one mountain, I found one even higher behind it. Now I wanted to become an AUTHOR.
Query letters followed, and I waited in the silence that ensued. It seemed like there were enough authors out there already and there was no room for more. I persisted a while, investing my frustration in yet another book. This blog followed, but my "garden of words" soon grew stale with neglect as my time was siphoned off by the writing, now out of control. I was a full fledged addict, I had to face that. Nothing gave me more pleasure than pounding out my characters on the keyboard. It was so easy and convenient. I didn't need a pusher to peddle me stuff to get high on, my mind was spinning off scenarios faster than my computer with its lightning speed could digest.
But, then the closet grew full, of tomes of complete manuscripts that still need to be massaged and polished into final form. I had a mountain of work to do. As every writer will tell you, it's not about writing, more about seemingly endless rewriting. with the first draft the creative instinct had been satisfied, the characters are fully drawn, the plot line nailed down tight, needing only to be tweaked. Now this was a beast of a different color. And as easy the first draft was, the subsequent reworks are the writer's burden. It seemed that the mountain sides were steeper that they first looked. Still one perseveres, sends another pigeon into the void, not to be seen again. I think I have been turned down by every available agent and publisher within arm's reach. Of course it was not my fault that they couldn't appreciate the genius of my work, some perversity of their character closed the doors to me.
Eventually, having grown tired of waiting for the world to discover me, I turned to self-publishing and got 10 books out of 18 online. Thank God for the option! But, with the ease of doing so, I found myself threading water in a big, big ocean, out of sight of land. Everybody it seemed had or has the same idea, and my offerings were swallowed in the swell of this tsunami of outpourings.
But the numbers for my books are climbing, not in any viral sense, but in a modest manner.
However, my original problems remain. My closet is full, and servicing them has become a chore. I'm itching to start something new, but I got to get a few more books out the door. So my creatures are clamoring, invading my dreams and waking me out of my sleep. What happened? I used to be a night person, but the earth has shifted on its axis, reversing polarity and now I get up around 5:00 am to make room for something new.
Then there is another thing that they never told you about when you started. Writing was only the rising dawn over the promised land, there was then the great quest to be published, and then... then the PROMOTING... But I'll write about that some other time, as this blog is already too long.
Dear Reader, I applaud your persistence for getting this far. But these words were not meant for you. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts that clutter up my mind. There I feel much better, thank you. Paul Telegdi, writing at www.seeWordFactory.com .
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Working the stable...
17 years ago while attending a book fair I was bitten by a mosquito that must have just come from biting an award winning author. A drop of inspiration was transferred, resulting in a gene splice, a process that's still ongoing today. Science has no cogent explanation for it. All I know for sure is that ever since I have been writing and to date have put together a collection of 18 books that I keep safely stabled at www.seeWordFactory.com .
My family, on the other hand, claims that I haven't enough friends so I create them and surround myself with a host of characters. True enough, my books vastly enrich my life.
I like nothing better, than to disappear in one of my adventures.
In a way, my writing process devolved from a role playing game, a chose your own adventure phenomena, where I create a scenario and see how my characters deal with it as they encounter chance events. In effect, they end up writing the books. Believe me, resolution is often as much of a surprise to me as to my readers. In fact I suspect I write just to find out how things turn out in the end.
A finished book, however, is a wonderfully rewarding experience. Wrapped and packaged, out the door it goes to face the often critical world, to swim or sink on its merits. An anxious time for me, certainly. Meanwhile, back at the corral, the unpublished books mill about, demanding to be groomed to a higher level of quality. Keeps me fully busy as I cast an covetous glance towards a strand of inspiration that floats by, tempting me in a new direction. But often I have to let a promising filament go, because the corral is already full.
My family, on the other hand, claims that I haven't enough friends so I create them and surround myself with a host of characters. True enough, my books vastly enrich my life.
I like nothing better, than to disappear in one of my adventures.
In a way, my writing process devolved from a role playing game, a chose your own adventure phenomena, where I create a scenario and see how my characters deal with it as they encounter chance events. In effect, they end up writing the books. Believe me, resolution is often as much of a surprise to me as to my readers. In fact I suspect I write just to find out how things turn out in the end.
A finished book, however, is a wonderfully rewarding experience. Wrapped and packaged, out the door it goes to face the often critical world, to swim or sink on its merits. An anxious time for me, certainly. Meanwhile, back at the corral, the unpublished books mill about, demanding to be groomed to a higher level of quality. Keeps me fully busy as I cast an covetous glance towards a strand of inspiration that floats by, tempting me in a new direction. But often I have to let a promising filament go, because the corral is already full.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Partieee...!
We had a reunion... sort of.
It started with two too many glasses of a fine vintage and my mood became lugubrious. I was thinking wouldn’t it be nice to have a party right about now? But who would be available and willing at this late hour of the night?
You guessed it, just me and the bottle. We are, how shall I put it, infrequent companions. We say hello, click a glass, but rarely two. Tonight, we sort of drifted into this private moment after a long day of renovating my website (www.seeWordFactory.com).
Back to guests, however. I don’t know who thought of it first, me or the bottle, but I was telling stories about all the characters I have created, sweated over details, gave them each a persona. And the next thing you know there they were and we were having animated conversations. Before I knew it, there was music, dancing and another barrel being tapped for distribution. Marcus my Roman legionnaire was chatting up Amanda and Rufus was putting the move on Gitta (That’s not right... they promised eternal love to someone else...). Girard was ... well I better not tell you what he was doing...
The point is or was, the ones I thought were so entertaining, weren’t always, and the shy ones turned up to party, I mean really get it on. My heroes often weren’t so heroic, and to my surprise, the villains were well rounded, convivial guest who observed all the protocols. Yes Sir, my lofty, noble characters wanted to descend into chaos of the low side, and the curb side rose to meet them.
I had another glass, frankly I think by then it was straight out of the bottle (get rid of the middle man I say...) and I was thinking ... man alive, as I look around and see what I see, I would have written much different books.
I woke next morning, late, with a hangover, and a taste in my mouth that would have sank the Titanic if it had not been sunk already.
Later, as the pills mopped up some of the leftover detritus of the previous night, I thought, that how interesting it would be if I could write my own life, freely manipulate circumstances, conquer who or what I willed, rearrange my fortunes in some other way.
In the end I didn’t know how many actually turned up, but I caught a few glimpses of creatures that were part of some backstory who never even made it into one of the books. I also counted three bottles gone, one rolled way under the couch. And someone had pizza that smeared the finish of the cherry wood table...
It started with two too many glasses of a fine vintage and my mood became lugubrious. I was thinking wouldn’t it be nice to have a party right about now? But who would be available and willing at this late hour of the night?
You guessed it, just me and the bottle. We are, how shall I put it, infrequent companions. We say hello, click a glass, but rarely two. Tonight, we sort of drifted into this private moment after a long day of renovating my website (www.seeWordFactory.com).
Back to guests, however. I don’t know who thought of it first, me or the bottle, but I was telling stories about all the characters I have created, sweated over details, gave them each a persona. And the next thing you know there they were and we were having animated conversations. Before I knew it, there was music, dancing and another barrel being tapped for distribution. Marcus my Roman legionnaire was chatting up Amanda and Rufus was putting the move on Gitta (That’s not right... they promised eternal love to someone else...). Girard was ... well I better not tell you what he was doing...
The point is or was, the ones I thought were so entertaining, weren’t always, and the shy ones turned up to party, I mean really get it on. My heroes often weren’t so heroic, and to my surprise, the villains were well rounded, convivial guest who observed all the protocols. Yes Sir, my lofty, noble characters wanted to descend into chaos of the low side, and the curb side rose to meet them.
I had another glass, frankly I think by then it was straight out of the bottle (get rid of the middle man I say...) and I was thinking ... man alive, as I look around and see what I see, I would have written much different books.
I woke next morning, late, with a hangover, and a taste in my mouth that would have sank the Titanic if it had not been sunk already.
Later, as the pills mopped up some of the leftover detritus of the previous night, I thought, that how interesting it would be if I could write my own life, freely manipulate circumstances, conquer who or what I willed, rearrange my fortunes in some other way.
In the end I didn’t know how many actually turned up, but I caught a few glimpses of creatures that were part of some backstory who never even made it into one of the books. I also counted three bottles gone, one rolled way under the couch. And someone had pizza that smeared the finish of the cherry wood table...
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Downward Slide into Chaos
I had a bitch of a past week too, so I know about "moods."
First off a virus has been nibbling on the edges of my vocal cords, then to make things worse, much worse, a virus infected my computer. I fought it for five days, threw everything I had at it, downloaded stuff from the Internet but nothing quite worked. Four times I thought I had it licked, and four times it roared back. In a desperate race, I started to salvage critical files. Most I had in safekeeping already as I’m a real paranoid, and I have backup to my backup. Finally, a professional had to use 300% bleach to sanitize the machine and the thing is back, updated but with a new set of quirks I have to work around with. OK, that was one.
Two: In a spate of cold weather, my washer froze up, and trying to start, chewed through the gears. (I couldn’t remember how old it was, but I still expected it to outlast me.) A new one cost me $700. Just a basic machine, without the fancy colors and lights. I saw ones that looked like they were built by NASA and could be launched into outer space, fitted with life support, and survive reentry. They had dials, switches, push button controls, an entire console of flashing lights and zillions of programs, including single item wash cycle.
Three: On the other end of the spectrum, my son’s fridge went into a meltdown that thawed the freezer and things started going soft and soggy. That cost me another 700. Again I resisted the temptation to buy the delux versions, with French doors, ceramic colors, bottom drawer freezer compartment, and external receptacles that provided cold everything, like a vending machine. You heard me right, it could milk a cow.
Four: My other son needed a new laptop. Kiss another 700 dollars goodbye.
Five: Then the dentist called. The insurance was maxed out, and it appears I owed another 700. (Why is everything costing me 700?) This was for my middle son, luckily I have no more sons with outstanding claims on me.
Then my driveway froze. Parts of it turned into a solid sheet of ice. The ice shelf in the Arctic might be melting, but not my driveway. It had turned into a 350 yard obstacle course for the extreme sportlers.
I occurred to me that I was beset by things freezing and melting, but always in the wrong order. So I’m walking around the house, wondering what next. Savings been devastated, just when the deadline for annual contribution to a retirement fund is fast approaching. Again I’m on thin ice.
How much or how little? Come give me a figure.
So there it is. When I buy something I always turn down the extended warranty. The way I figure with the cumulative savings from all the plans, I could easily afford to replace a major item per year, but not three at one. Hence my mood swing.
One good thing, I got so hot and bothered over these happenings, that it burned out the flu that was working on me.
First off a virus has been nibbling on the edges of my vocal cords, then to make things worse, much worse, a virus infected my computer. I fought it for five days, threw everything I had at it, downloaded stuff from the Internet but nothing quite worked. Four times I thought I had it licked, and four times it roared back. In a desperate race, I started to salvage critical files. Most I had in safekeeping already as I’m a real paranoid, and I have backup to my backup. Finally, a professional had to use 300% bleach to sanitize the machine and the thing is back, updated but with a new set of quirks I have to work around with. OK, that was one.
Two: In a spate of cold weather, my washer froze up, and trying to start, chewed through the gears. (I couldn’t remember how old it was, but I still expected it to outlast me.) A new one cost me $700. Just a basic machine, without the fancy colors and lights. I saw ones that looked like they were built by NASA and could be launched into outer space, fitted with life support, and survive reentry. They had dials, switches, push button controls, an entire console of flashing lights and zillions of programs, including single item wash cycle.
Three: On the other end of the spectrum, my son’s fridge went into a meltdown that thawed the freezer and things started going soft and soggy. That cost me another 700. Again I resisted the temptation to buy the delux versions, with French doors, ceramic colors, bottom drawer freezer compartment, and external receptacles that provided cold everything, like a vending machine. You heard me right, it could milk a cow.
Four: My other son needed a new laptop. Kiss another 700 dollars goodbye.
Five: Then the dentist called. The insurance was maxed out, and it appears I owed another 700. (Why is everything costing me 700?) This was for my middle son, luckily I have no more sons with outstanding claims on me.
Then my driveway froze. Parts of it turned into a solid sheet of ice. The ice shelf in the Arctic might be melting, but not my driveway. It had turned into a 350 yard obstacle course for the extreme sportlers.
I occurred to me that I was beset by things freezing and melting, but always in the wrong order. So I’m walking around the house, wondering what next. Savings been devastated, just when the deadline for annual contribution to a retirement fund is fast approaching. Again I’m on thin ice.
How much or how little? Come give me a figure.
So there it is. When I buy something I always turn down the extended warranty. The way I figure with the cumulative savings from all the plans, I could easily afford to replace a major item per year, but not three at one. Hence my mood swing.
One good thing, I got so hot and bothered over these happenings, that it burned out the flu that was working on me.
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