I have decided to write a novel. It will not be an amazing novel that moves heaven and earth. It will not be the literary work of my generation. It will not have long obfuscating passages of metaphor despite how much I use metaphors on this blog.
This book will be a book for the masses. It will be comfortable on grocery store shelves and it will be at home on Barnes and Noble bookcases. It will appeal to teens and women. It will have a heroine who is archetypal enough to appeal to the masses, and be easy for most to relate to, but unique enough that her quirks make her charming and endear her to the reader.
It will be much cheaper to buy as an ebook. Why? Because for gods sake no one getting the ebook will be paying for the paper or the ink! I will not rip off my readers because I love them and I want them to love me so they will buy the sequel.
I firmly believe that the grocery store novel is completely underestimated. Think about how many people 'Twilight' has reached. How many do you think have read 'Infinite Jest'? I want to write on par with the greats, but I want to pay off my student loans more. I want to pay off my student loans and live in a small and cozy white house in a rural area. Grocery store literature is my ticket there.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I miss my dog
The other night, I had a dream. Its was a good dream, probably because I was not all strung out on pain killers. In this dream, something glorious happened to me. I had a pet dog. I know, its not like I was flying around on a golden dragon strafing the land below me with its fiery breath. It was a more homely awesome, a more comfortable type of stupendous. As nice as dragons are, sometimes dreaming about a dog and a nice house is more awesome than flying a destructive menace.
I was also growing lavender.
This dog was a great dog. His name was Ben and he was probably the size of a large pony. I lived with Ben in a little white house, and we took part in many awesome activities, including reading by the fire and sitting on the porch. Ben also could often be seen standing in a photogenic pose.
Normally, this would not be something wroth mentioning. Unfortunately, due to the sheer irrationality of my subconscious, I am taking the loss of my imaginary dog harder than I expected. that’s right, I miss Ben. I miss him like the desert misses the rain. I am literally pining after the dog that I never really owned.
I can’t help it. Ben was a great dog, he had many fine dog qualities and he was really handsome. He had an expressive face. He would sit on my imaginary couch with me, which was tastefully arranged with my other imaginary furniture in my imaginary house. We watched the discovery channel together.
See how serious this has gotten? I feel like I lived years of my life out in my dream world doing activities and stuff with Ben. And now he’s gone. What if he is sitting next to an empty dog bowl in my subconscious looking around for me with big sad eyes? Who will water my lavender plants? I don’t remember anyone existing in this dream world except Ben, so I’m going to go with no one.
I can’t believe I’m lonely for my imaginary dog. This is ridiculous.
I was also growing lavender.
This dog was a great dog. His name was Ben and he was probably the size of a large pony. I lived with Ben in a little white house, and we took part in many awesome activities, including reading by the fire and sitting on the porch. Ben also could often be seen standing in a photogenic pose.
Normally, this would not be something wroth mentioning. Unfortunately, due to the sheer irrationality of my subconscious, I am taking the loss of my imaginary dog harder than I expected. that’s right, I miss Ben. I miss him like the desert misses the rain. I am literally pining after the dog that I never really owned.
I can’t help it. Ben was a great dog, he had many fine dog qualities and he was really handsome. He had an expressive face. He would sit on my imaginary couch with me, which was tastefully arranged with my other imaginary furniture in my imaginary house. We watched the discovery channel together.
See how serious this has gotten? I feel like I lived years of my life out in my dream world doing activities and stuff with Ben. And now he’s gone. What if he is sitting next to an empty dog bowl in my subconscious looking around for me with big sad eyes? Who will water my lavender plants? I don’t remember anyone existing in this dream world except Ben, so I’m going to go with no one.
I can’t believe I’m lonely for my imaginary dog. This is ridiculous.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Holy cheese and crackers I cant stop reading.
I did something embarrassing, again.
I went to the library and I got 4 TrueBlood books, and then I read them all in one sitting. I know, it was bad enough that I got addicted to the HBO series sensation, but now I have started to read the borderline-smut associated with it as well. I cant stop. I feel like Gollum, but with books instead of cursed jewelery. I literally stopped sleeping and communicating, I lived like a hobo on the living room floor and my mother had to coax me to the kitchen for food with a trail of breadcrumbs and cheese.
I love it. I haven’t found a book series that kept me enthralled like this one in ages and ages. Okay, maybe not ages and ages, but at least like 2 months. It may not be Paradise Lost, but it think this is the perfect book series for my retirement/exile to Virginia. For one thing, my understanding of southern lingo is greatly improved, and I can hold it over Boyfriend's head that I know what happens next.
I like these books so much, I went to the library to get them. And I hate the library. I hate the library so much! I am of the firm opinion that since I shared the womb I should never be required to share anything again, ever. I should especially never have to share anything that I have read.
And I know its bad, this addiction, because not only am I going to the library now that I am unemployed and don’t have enough money to get my own digital Nook copies, I am now mad at the library for not being open on a Sunday. (By the way, if I am not consuming paper, why does my copy cost as much as a paperback? I am funding significantly less labor for my digital copy than I am for my paper one. The price difference should be far greater than it is. And for those of you who charge $12.99 for your digital book, you have obviously slipped down the slippery slope of Delusion into Fantasy-Land.)
My anger makes no sense, I know it makes no sense. I would be less mad at my doctor if I broke my leg for not being open on Sunday than I am at the library not being open so I can read more TrueBlood novels. If the library had a consciousness it would eject me like a snot wad because it would know how much disdain I have for it. Yet, like an addict, i am running back to the thing I hate just so I can have more of my drug.
I read so much yesterday, that when our company came over, I literally couldn’t talk. My brain was so overloaded from 20 hours of constant reading that I couldn’t form thoughts. Except for the thought that “I don’t want to eat dinner I want to read my book.” I told one of my friends that if my parents interrupted me again for something stupid, like eating or feeding the dogs or moving for the vacuum cleaner, that I would murder the whole world and read quietly in the rubble and no one could ever bother me again.
That my friends, in the definition of an over-reaction.
I went to the library and I got 4 TrueBlood books, and then I read them all in one sitting. I know, it was bad enough that I got addicted to the HBO series sensation, but now I have started to read the borderline-smut associated with it as well. I cant stop. I feel like Gollum, but with books instead of cursed jewelery. I literally stopped sleeping and communicating, I lived like a hobo on the living room floor and my mother had to coax me to the kitchen for food with a trail of breadcrumbs and cheese.
I love it. I haven’t found a book series that kept me enthralled like this one in ages and ages. Okay, maybe not ages and ages, but at least like 2 months. It may not be Paradise Lost, but it think this is the perfect book series for my retirement/exile to Virginia. For one thing, my understanding of southern lingo is greatly improved, and I can hold it over Boyfriend's head that I know what happens next.
I like these books so much, I went to the library to get them. And I hate the library. I hate the library so much! I am of the firm opinion that since I shared the womb I should never be required to share anything again, ever. I should especially never have to share anything that I have read.
And I know its bad, this addiction, because not only am I going to the library now that I am unemployed and don’t have enough money to get my own digital Nook copies, I am now mad at the library for not being open on a Sunday. (By the way, if I am not consuming paper, why does my copy cost as much as a paperback? I am funding significantly less labor for my digital copy than I am for my paper one. The price difference should be far greater than it is. And for those of you who charge $12.99 for your digital book, you have obviously slipped down the slippery slope of Delusion into Fantasy-Land.)
My anger makes no sense, I know it makes no sense. I would be less mad at my doctor if I broke my leg for not being open on Sunday than I am at the library not being open so I can read more TrueBlood novels. If the library had a consciousness it would eject me like a snot wad because it would know how much disdain I have for it. Yet, like an addict, i am running back to the thing I hate just so I can have more of my drug.
I read so much yesterday, that when our company came over, I literally couldn’t talk. My brain was so overloaded from 20 hours of constant reading that I couldn’t form thoughts. Except for the thought that “I don’t want to eat dinner I want to read my book.” I told one of my friends that if my parents interrupted me again for something stupid, like eating or feeding the dogs or moving for the vacuum cleaner, that I would murder the whole world and read quietly in the rubble and no one could ever bother me again.
That my friends, in the definition of an over-reaction.
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