…Looky what the UPS man dragged in this afternoon.
I really should have tried to hock a couple of copies off on the guy. Have you seen how much those delivery dudes make? It’s far more than some lowly photojournalist at a tiny Mississippi newspaper, believe you me. I mean, he probably would have at least bought a few pity copies…I can look pretty pathetic.
I’m a terrible salesman.
Here’s an amazing thing about writing: No matter how many times you proof something you’ve written — read over it again and again and again checking for any small grammatical snafus or typos or plain ole misspellings — there are always mistakes hiding in there, lurking between words, waiting for your eyes to pass so they can hop back onto the page. It’s infuriating.
So, I recently received my proof copy of the paperback version of Strange Beasts in a Small Town, which gave me the “pleasure” of reading the darn thing for the sixth time. Guess what: TYPOS! So awesome it makes me want to vomit. I’ve fixed all the ones I could find, plus pulled a George Lucas and made some small cuts and changes to stuff I decided I didn’t like anymore (mostly cuts; the novel can be pretty long-winded.)
For those who have already purchased an ebook copy, I’ve updated the ebook copies at both Amazon and Barnes & Noble. If you haven’t had time to read it yet, be sure to redownload the book for the latest version (Version 8.0, by my count). Or, if you have read it but found the mistakes almost unbearable so you immediately deleted it from your reading device in total disgust, feel free to re-add it to your collection. It’s much more presentable now. It won’t embarrass you in front of your friends.
For those who haven’t purchased a copy, I don’t blame you. Still, this is the time to go for it…well, until I am forced to re-read it again for one reason or another and make more changes. Then, that’ll be the time to go for it.
Oh, and the paperback version’s coming very, very soon folks. Thanks to all the help from my family, it looks fantastic. The words inside may be shitty, but at least it’ll look good sitting on a shelf. And that’s what really matters, right? Appearances.
Seriously, thanks for all the support, everybody. You guys have made writing a novel about emotionally unstable giant monsters and emotionally unstable small town residents feel like the best thing I’ve ever done. You rock.
Good thing my thumb was last to fall into this pit of molten metal.
I may be the only one in the entire world excited about this, but to your right is the back cover illustration for the paperback copy of Strange Beasts in a Small Town. Clicky on the pic to see it all great big and legible and stuff.
The image, which shows the novel’s climactic battle between the kaiju King Vislor and Rubbish, was created by my father, Louis Armour, and is based on the U.S. poster for Godzilla vs. Mothra, retitled Godzilla vs. The Thing on this side of the Pacific. You can see that poster below and to the left. Wave hello when you get there.
Although my love for that particular Godzilla flick is as pure as the title character’s love of a freshly crushed Japanese man, I’ll be the first to admit the poster is a slight misrepresentation of the final product. Rather than 90 minutes of abject terror, most viewers are likely to experience 90 minutes of businessmen trying to swindle people intermittently peppered with Godzilla duking it out with a couple of silly string-spitting worms and, inevitably, a giant moth. You remember Mothra, right? The giant moth? The one that doesn’t have spiky Lovecraftian tentacles? The one that never “destroys the armies of the world?” The one that hangs out with a couple of naysaying do-gooder pixies who like to spontaneously burst into song? That Mothra?
Like I said, the poster exaggerates a bit. A big bit. Really, a huge fucking bit. You can’t see the top of the thing, it’s so huge. Tokyo-crushing huge. One might claim it’s an outright lie, in fact…a first in advertising.
While working on the back cover illustration, my father talked a bit about seeing the original poster as a child. He said he was actually afraid of seeing the movie, it was so terrifying. All that “CENSORED: WATCH THIS AND YOU WILL DIE” stuff really worked on him. I’m not sure if I can ever personally claim to have had any sort of similar experience with a movie advertisement. I’m kind of jealous.
Wait, scratch that. Back in my high school days, when I was working at a local movie theater, we received a really nice display for a little movie called Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows. The display was incredible — a huge tri-folding thing littered with bits of creepy information about Maryland’s fictional Blair Witch, complete with old-timey photographs and sound bites summoned by the press of a button. I remember reading all of that stuff and listening to those weird audio clips and becoming totally chilled, right there in the brightly-lit lobby of the theater. I couldn’t wait.
That movie was a total piece of shit, by the way. One of the worst things I’ve ever seen.
That said, the back cover of my book isn’t misleading in the least. All of the stuff either illustrated or mentioned there is 100 percent guaranteed to between the covers at some point. I promise. No, really.
I can’t really guarantee my book’s not a total piece of shit, though. The makers of Blair Witch 2 probably though they were making gold, too.
Strange Beasts just received its first ever rating on Goodreads: 3 Stars! That’s the kind of “I sort of like it” mediocrity to which I aspire.
In all honesty, it’s really awesome to see some simple feedback, even if it’s just a rating without comments. It gets me pumped up about writing stuff. And writing’s my job, which means I’m never…ever…pumped up about it. That’s just not the American way.
By the way, said Goodreads user rated Strange Beasts higher than Catcher in the Rye (which he gave 1 star) and The Grapes of Wrath (2 stars). So, based on that info, I feel fairly comfortable in making the following gross exaggeration:
Goodreads user(s) found Adam Armour’s Strange Beasts in a Small Town to be equal to the masterpiece works of JD Salinger and John Steinbeck combined! Pick up your copy today!
Too much hyperbole? Nah. Not enough hyperbole, I say.
Don’t be sad, John. I’m sure you’ll make it big someday.
I am a terrible salesman.
Mind you, I’m not just talking about being sort of bad at hocking stuff. No, I’m talking bad-bad. As in, talking folks already committed to buying a given thing out of their purchase. That kind of bad. I’m like the “John Carter” of salesmen — repulsing people in droves with my pathetic desperation.
Back before I dropped out of Boy Scouts, (I made it to Second Class. As the name implies, that’s not very far.) I would anticipate the annual popcorn sale with the kind of hopeless dread typically reserved for those awaiting certain death. While other kids were slinging mountains of caramel corn and cheesy kernels left and right, returning home with pockets packed with money and swimming in the proceeds like a bunch of Scrooge McDucks, I was timidly begging my parents to buy a bucket or two just so I wouldn’t look like a complete loser to all my fellow Scouts.
Truthfully, even if I did sell a bucket or two to my mother, the kids thought I was a loser anyway. Frown. Being cool is hard work.
Anyway, you can imagine how well marketing my self-published novel, Strange Beasts in a Small Town, is going.
Have I mentioned that I’ve already slapped my novel up for sale? No? I told you I’m bad at this.
I’ve read time and time again that writing is easy, selling is hard. I disagree with this statement. Writing is hard; selling is excruciating. Maybe it’s because I simply don’t enjoy having stuff marketed at me, but every time I try to push the book (Available here and here, by the way. Hint hint.), I feel like I’m begging for a sale. Please read this thing I wrote. Pretty please.
Yesterday, I decided to hit up a popular daikaiju blog for a review because, from my limited understanding of marketing, promotion is a good thing. I think. I emailed the site’s administrator with a detailed explanation of the novel’s story, a couple of free copies in different ebook formats and paragraph after paragraph devoted to equal amounts asking and excusing said administrator from reading the thing. I can’t help it, I feel weird asking somebody to give up their time for something that means a lot to me, but nothing to anyone else in the entire world. I know those who aren’t interested will simply say, “no,” but I feel like I’m inconveniencing them by even suggesting that they maybe please consider possibly giving it a look-see, please.
Ugh. Writing that just made me want to punch myself in the nards and shove my head into a toilet. What a wuss.
Maybe I’ll get better at this as I go along, but it’s not really that important if I don’t. Honestly, I didn’t write a giant monster/small southern town mashup novel to rake in the bucks. I’m proud of the novel and think the concept’s awesome, but also realize that I may just be the only idiot in the world with that point of view.
That said, I would love for people to read and, hopefully, enjoy it. That would be pretty nice.
If you’re interested at all in checking the book out, I commend your bravery and promise I’ll love you until the end of time…unless you’re creepy. I can’t be lovin’ on no creepsters, now. The novel is available on both Amazon and Barnes and Noble for $2.99, the meager proceeds from which will likely go to help build my board game collection or possibly going out to eat with my lovely wife.
Now, if you’re genuinely interested in giving the novel a read but don’t have $3 to spend, I understand. I’m a cheapo, too. Shoot me an email at adam2armour@gmail.com and I’ll send you a copy in your prefered format.
Shit. There I go talking myself out of a sale again. I told you I was bad at this.
Work on both the electronic and tree-corpse versions of Strange Beasts in a Small Town is going well and I’m still on track to release both at some indeterminate time in either the near or distant future. Yup.
I’m still farting around with the little description that will be featured on the book’s “buy me” pages and will, in theory, brainwash people into tossing some money my way in exchange for whatever it is I’ve written. I’ve batted back and forth several relatively straightforward versions of the same thing before finally deciding to scrap what I’d written and try something that’s a bit more like the novel tonally. Here’s what I’ve got so far; try to envision it hovering between a photo of the book’s cover and a bunch of negative reviews.
This is a story about big monsters, small people, and vice versa.
There’s a giant monster living on the outskirts of the small town of Verbena Fields, Alabama, and the residents there are, naturally, a bit concerned. So, they turn to ex-monster hunter and professional curmudgeon Agnes Stegall for a bit of assistance in ridding them of the creature. But Agnes isn’t exactly a people-type person, so she says “no,” except with a bit of profanity attached.
But her refusal has some unintended consequences: Driven by fear, the townsfolk summon King Vislor — a powerful, albeit neurotic monster hound with an obsessive reverence for humankind — to watch over them. When the beast comes to town, he brings with him thousands of humanlike creatures carved from his own body — animate puppets whose thoughts mirror those of their infatuated master. Although Agnes knows good and well that calling upon one giant monster to get rid of another is a bit like cleaning up a mess by throwing more mess atop it, what she doesn’t realize are the dangerous lengths King Vislor and his creations are willing to undertake to keep the people of Verbena Fields safe. Soon, Agnes is caught up in a fight against a growing list of threats plaguing the small town — military occupation, unfettered rumors, a misanthropic rifle-wielding hermit with a grudge — while simultaneously trying to battle some terrifying monsters looming in the dark, unfrequented corners of her own mind.
Like any tale worth telling, Strange Beasts in a Small Town has a little bit of humor, a little bit of sorrow, some things worth pondering, a touch of cursing, an overbearing mother, fisticuffs between a redneck and a golem, several collapsing buildings and whole lot of giant monsters beating the stew out of each other.
What do you say? Would you drop $3 on this? (Or, $15 if you, like me, still enjoy the things you purchase to be tangible?) Please, drop me a line and tell my what you think.
Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls; people of indeterminate age and gender … After weeks…nay, YEARS…of collectively holding your breath, those of you who aren’t dead should happily cast your eyes upon the glorimagnimaniousness splendor that is the cover of my very first novel, Strange Beasts in a Small Town, which I’m planning to vanity…I mean, independently…publish in late October/early November on various online bookstores.
Huge thanks to my father, Louis Armour, for designing such a fantastic cover. The final results are better than I imagined they would be, which says a lot about both his skill and my faith in that skill.
I hope all of you will consider snagging a copy when it’s up for sale. It’ll make the best disappointing Christmas present ever. It doesn’t get better than that.
While working on the fifth…that’s right, FIFTH…revision of Strange Beasts, I suddenly had an epiphany.
I’ve always been pretty set on the structure of the book. In fact, I don’t think I’ve once revised the overall flow of the thing’s structural breakdown. The book is broken into large, named sections, which are then further divided into numbered chapters. The sections themselves vary in lengths, usually between 10 to 100 pages. Sections can jump back and forth in time, but each is self-contained. Numbered chapters focus on a single character, though the characters change with each of those chapters, jumping all over the place.
Here’s an example I just made up:
This is the section name
[PAGE BREAK]
One
Big monster goes smash smash on some buildings. People scream.
Two
Agnes cusses a lot and complains about some stuff.
Three
Another character does some things but then daydreams about some stuff that happened earlier.
And so on. Nothing fancy; I just wanted something functional that made it clear when the story was changing perspectives and/or periods of time.
I’ve already expressed my frustrations with the website Authonomy (here they are, if you care to read a bunch of disappointed bitching), but one of the common criticisms of the sections I posted there is that some of the numbered chapters seem to have nothing happening in them. Of course, I disagree; I think all of the numbered chapters further something, be it plot, characters’ motivations or the setting. Which, by the way, isn’t to say I think everything I’ve written is gold; Lord knows I’m dispensing of paragraphs like Joss Whedon dispenses of supporting characters. But, just because a numbered chapter doesn’t specifically push the plot forward doesn’t mean it belongs on the cutting room floor.
That said, I think that particular criticism does have some merit. No matter what I say, numbered chapters do seem to suggest that something is going to happen to move things forward. They need to stand on their own somewhat. Once that idea was planted in my head, I couldn’t shake it away. Suddenly, Mayor Vaudry Crawford’s reflective drive through the empty small town he calls home seems unnecessary because nothing actually happens to him. I think there’s good, important stuff in there; it’s just not driving action.
But, I came up with a fix. Instead of numbering the chapters, I’m utilizing an old novelist standby.
Asterisk, Asterisk, Asterisk (or, ***)
It’s a simple change, but I think it helps ease the transition from chapter to chapter and makes each section seem more cohesive. Now, it doesn’t matter if the paragraphs between asterisks specifically push the story forward. They are clearly a small part of a whole. The poor things no longer have to stand on their own looking awkward and stupid.
Sure, it’s just a perception thing, but one I think will make a big difference overall. I’m pretty excited about it…which is pretty lame now that I think about it.
Don't tell my wife, but I'm seriously considering eating them.
I’m a big fan of flash fiction — short short stories that are told in X number of words or less. Usually this X represents a thousand or so, although I’ve seen it represent a number much, much smaller. Some call this “micro fiction,” which I think means you have to use a microscope to read it. I’m not sure.
I’m a big fan of the smaller X and not just because I’m super lazy, although I definitely am. No, there’s something really neat and satisfying about a short story that’s all wrapped up in paragraph or two. It allows the author a chance to tell a story that doesn’t have a whole lot to it — maybe just a single scene or event that happens and is over in a snap. Character development has to happen with a handful of words; dialogue is often minimal or non-existent; and the action is usually immediate and, in theory, leaves a bright impression — like the flash of a bulb and the splotchy eyesight that follows. I love long, drawn out stories, but there is a lot of merit in these tiny tales.
However, I’ve found that a lot of writers seem to treat micro fiction less like succinct storytelling and more as a format to display a small collection of thoughts. This is drifting into opinion territory, so take the following with a grain of salt, but I think that a piece of micro fiction should still contain the basic elements of storytelling: plot, character, some kind of conflict, resolution…that kind of thing. It just has to happen very quickly.
But I’ve read a lot of micro fiction that blatantly omits many of these elements. Usually there is a character, maybe a description of emotions or some such, but very little in the way of action or plot. Often, these stories describe a scene, how a character feels about something, and then they just drift away without actually telling the reader about anything. It’s as if somebody began whispering some random stuff in your ear and then just slowly backed away as he was still talking. You don’t know why the fuck they were whispering or what they hell they were going on about; you’re just unsatisfied and kind of creeped out. That’s no good.
With all that said, I always try to write micro fiction that is — as much as is possible within the format — still a story. A really short story, but a story nonetheless. As with any of my writing, I fail more than I succeed; but that’s part of the fun and challenge. If it were easy, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Here’s a little piece of mic-fic I wrote a few weeks ago. Like everything I seem to write these days, it’s about a giant monster. Apparently, I’m creatively bankrupt. If you read it, I hope you enjoy it; if you enjoy it, I hope you take the time to comment; if you don’t enjoy it…well, I guess you can comment, too. I won’t be upset for long.
Faith in Something
Hank’s bulbous belly jiggled harder and harder with each of the approaching monster’s thunderous footsteps. But he swallowed what little spit he had and narrowed his eyes into slits so thin he could barely see, just to look mean.
Sure, he was scared — you’d have to be crazy if you weren’t at least a little bit terrified of 500 feet of towering, scaly, fire-breathing death; but he stood his ground there on Main Street of his little hometown, one arm pressed into the fleshy fat of his left love handle, the other pointed upward toward the beast with the index finger extended. It was this — a single touch — that would finally destroy the monster and end his worldwide tour of destruction.
Hank had no proof of this ability, of course. But knew it in his heart — had known it since he first saw the television broadcast of the giant monster tearing through Tokyo; known it despite his mother’s insistence that he was “dumb” and “worthless,” or his classmates’ relentless mocking of how fat and stupid he was, or the fact that his guidance counselor had laughed in his face outright. Even as the shadow of the creature’s ocean-liner of a foot fell over him, blocking out the sight of everything else, Hank just kept pointing that meaty finger up in the air like a rapier that would pierce through its sole and puncture its heart.
It might have seemed foolish — just the fantasy of a fat kid with too much imagination and not enough good sense. But a boy’s got to have to have faith in something.
I recently discovered the website Authonomy, a writer-focused site owned by publishing giant Harper Collins and supported by a vast community of writers desperately hoping to be noticed among all the other writers desperately hoping to be noticed. It’s really something.
For those who don’t know — in other words, people like the Adam Armour of two weeks ago — Authonomy allows writers to upload large portions of their manuscripts to the site, after which members of the community will, in theory, read and comment on said manuscripts. If these readers like it enough, they can give it a star rating. If they really, really like it enough, they can give the manuscript one of their precious spaces on a small virtual bookshelf, which gives people who like that person’s writing a chance to see your work, too. Manuscripts are given ratings based on how many people have rated, shelved or added them to watchlists. My ranking is currently 5,322 … I ain’t doing so hot.
Eventually, if enough people check out and like a given manuscript, its rating will reflect its popularity and the thing will end up in the slush pile at Harper Collins, giving its author a chance at the elusive fortune and glory that all traditionally-published authors have obtained. It’s a neat and somewhat fascinating concept. I’m also not fully convinced it works the way it’s intended.
I signed up for the site last week. Please allow me to describe what I’ve learned.
First thing’s first: When you sign up for the site, in addition to all the usual crap like name and address and that little box you have to click on so that the evil masters of the Internet don’t send you a billion emails a day, you must upload a fairly large chuck of writing. I’m talking, at least 10,000 words. Now, supposedly, the more you upload, the better. People who read your manuscript — and people WILL read it, sort of — will have a better idea of your story and writing ability if there’s more to see. You also have to upload it in chapters, which kind of throws off any novels with unusual structures. Something like Small Gods by Terry Pratchett, for instance, which doesn’t have any chapters, would be royally screwed.
You also have to give your manuscript a cover image. If you don’t have one, Authonomy has a bunch of generic ones from which to choose. I took ten minutes to toss one together using a Godzilla toy, two tiny pieces from The Game of Life board game and a piece of blank paper for the background. Here it is:
After you’re done admiring the hot piece of awesome that is your cover art, you create what’s called a “short pitch” — a twenty-five word slug meant to draw readers your way like candy in the hand of a van-driving pervert. Here’s mine:
A mountainous pile of living trash, a neurotic monster hound, several hundred golem-like creatures and one misanthropic sniper all walk into a small town…
You then follow that up with a “full pitch,” which is essentially the kind of thing you send to a literary agent: two-hundred words that should make your novel sound like less than the trash it is. If you scroll down this page, you’ll find my query letter; that’s’ essentially what I used.
After you’ve posted all that to the site, you’ll categorize your book and add a few tags so people can find it and then you’re essentially done with all the technical crap. Now, it’s time to sit back and let people find, read and hate your work. Oh boy!
OK, that last part is sort of untrue. If you really want your manuscript to be read from all the billions of other manuscripts available on the site, you need to promote. Hop over to the site’s forums and start plugging the crap out of the thing. Comment on other people’s books, they’ll visit yours and return the favor. Really, getting people to look at your writing is relatively easy; getting them to do anything beyond the perfunctory glance is the difficult part.
Which brings me to what I dislike about Authonomy, at least initially. While I like the idea of a cool writers-only community — after all, all writers like to talk about writing, but no one wants to hear about writing but other writers — Authonomy is more of a food-chain kind of deal. I uploaded about a third of “Strange Beasts…” because I wanted to get some feedback from other writers. I, quite honestly, don’t care much about moving up the ranks and having my manuscript wind up in the hands of a slush reader at Harper Collins. Sure, it would be neat, but I’m fairly convinced what I’ve written isn’t really marketable in the normal sense.
Sorry, you’re probably imagining that I typed that last statement while wearing my haughtiest expression, but I’m not. It’s good to be easily marketable. I totally understand why agents and publishers only want things that are easily marketable. I just didn’t want to write that kind of thing. I’m not saying what I’ve written is better than anything by a aspiring children’s book author, or youth fiction writer, or chick-lit author or anyone like that. It’s not. I just didn’t write that kind of stuff.
My goal, more or less, was honest feedback about what I’d written. I thought it would be neat to have some opinions from complete strangers while my beta readers suffered through the full manuscript. Authonomy seemed like the place to get that.
Almost immediately after signing up and uploading a manuscript, the Authonomy user is bombarded by spam messages. Apparently, the site has its own little messaging system and also apparently this is used for nothing but comments like, “Hey man, saw your name. It looks cool. Your book looks cool. Monsters are cool. If you like monsters, be sure to check out my top 200 ranking book, ‘For the Love of a Centurion. ‘ Thanks.”
According to the site’s “newbie thread,” these kinds of messages are acceptable because they solicit readers, and that’s the goal of the site. To be read…by any means necessary. The thread also encourages the Authonomy user to “trade reads,” i.e. agree to read someone’s book if they’ll read yours. It’s kind of like “playing doctor,” only more boring and without the awkwardness a few years later.
The thread also suggests commenting on the forums because that will generate reads. This is true, actually. Taking this advice, I popped into a thread for a book I genuinely thought had a cool title and posted my thoughts. Three hours later, the author had read my 46,000 uploaded words, commented on my book and asked that I read hers. Kind of neat.
This also highlights one of the fundamental problems I have with Authonomy: People aren’t reading your book because they’re genuinely interested in the subject matter; they just want you to read what they’ve written. It’s like engaging in a conversation just so you can hear yourself talking when the other person shuts up. Although this commenter was nice enough to say she thought my writing was good — a compliment I always enjoy — she also seemed to have read through the uploaded chapters so quickly that she mixed several distinct characters into one and thought any chapter that was used to set a scene rather than specifically move one aspect of the plot forward were wasteful. She didn’t understand who the main character was because each chapter switched perspectives (there’s a few main characters) and that a novel should be paced like a movie. I’m really not sure why. I like novels that take a little time to get going. A slow burn, if you will. Not everything needs to be a 200-page, high-octane thriller.
I’m not saying she’s entirely wrong about any of this, of course. My book is, admittedly, kind of slow in parts. But if she’s going to remove entire chapters full of setting and character development, question my pacing and use of multiple protagonists, she should at least have the courtesy to figure out that two distinct characters with entirely different names — Madam Reyes and Lily Hume —and personalities who, as far as I can tell, have nothing in common other than location and sex aren’t the same person.
She also thought the entire novel should be set in Japan, like the opening scene. Suggestion noted.
Another “reader” commented that he enjoyed my writing style (thank you again) and really liked the first chapter but didn’t think the whole novel should be formatted like a textbook unless it’s funny, which it isn’t. Only the first three pages of the book are formatted this way, by the way. It’s the introduction.
He then told me he would eventually read more, but he had a lot to read right now and would I please visit his book and read it thank you.
I wanted to be a part of a cool writers-only community. These aren’t the droids I’m looking for.
See, I think I can relate to the problem with Authonomy. Years ago, I…ahem…acquired a bunch of Super Nintendo roms from the Internet. Yes, yes…save your speeches. I know. Having access to so many fantastic games was so awesome, but also completely overwhelming, in a way. You see, because I could pretty much play anything, I didn’t spend any time getting to know any one particular game very well. If a game didn’t strike my fancy in the first few seconds of booting it up, then I’d move on. After all, I have umpteen billion other games I could be playing. Why settle?
Here’s why: Sometimes, things take a while to get going. For instance, Buffy the Vampire Slayer season one kind of sucks. After that, kind of rules. When I look at a book in a bookstore and consider buying it, I’ll read the back and the first page or two, I’ll flip to the middle and maybe read a little more. If anything in there strikes my fancy in the least bit, there’s a good chance I’ll either buy it, make a note of buying it or pick it up from the library. I’m willing to give that thing a chance.
But, like a bunch of illegal roms sitting on the hard drive of my Fujitsu laptop in the early 2000s, Authonomy presents its users with more options than they know what to do with. Commenter #2 read one chapter, liked what he read except the novel’s format that isn’t even really the novel’s format and then moved on. After all, there are thousands of other free books out there. And the more books he reads, the more people will read his book, which ties back to the first problem I have with Authonomy.
Nobody gives a shit what you’ve written — only what they’ve written. To me, that makes the whole community thing collapse in on itself. The site is supposed to be about writers helping other writers. Instead, it’s a self-promotion machine.
No sir, I don’t like it. Or, at least those aspects of it.
Anyway, I’m done talking. Thanks for reading all that, if you did. If you’d like to check out some of the sample chapters, here’s the link to Strange Beasts in a Small Town.
You don’t have to sign up for the site to read, but please drop back by here and give me some feedback. I’d genuinely love to hear it, good or bad.
That is, as long as it’s earnest.
I'm Trying to Write. 