Wholesale Math

Someone asked me why my books aren't on Amazon, et al.

Sigh, here we go again. Books are usually priced to the sky. Kathryn's Beach was once priced at $16.99 (not including shipping). I write a decent book, but for an unknown author, that is a bit steep, if you ask me. I've priced my trilogy books at $12.95 each (plus shipping).

I wanted my books affordable for people who love to read. Hey we're in an economic recession, if not depression. We all live on a shoestring right now.

By putting the consumer first, the readers, I have shut the door to most wholesale sales. Most of the time, they want up to 55% off the SRP, the cover price. Well darling, if I do that and pay to ship my books to Amazon (or anyone else), I'm actually losing a couple of dollars on each book sold. Does that make sense? Why should someone else make money on my books when I'm going in the hole? Seriously, I might as well just write and not publish the manuscripts at that rate.

So the choice is to buy my books from me through my website (secure with PayPal) or email me and we will make other arrangements. I've even been paid in Euros!

http://nadinelamanbooks.com/books.html

Casting Call

If you've been around the theatre even just a little, you know that actors act. During the process of blocking scenes, costume fittings, make-up trials, and rehearsals the actor and character become one for the run of the play.

On breaks or in coffee shops, the actors will lapse into their character in the wink of an eye. Even years later, upon meeting again, two actors may exchange a line or two from when they worked together.

When I write first person fiction, I get into the character in the same way an actor does. I begin to think like them, feel what they feel, and sometimes talk like them. Whether I am writing little Shasta's double negative dialogue or Mother Elizabeth's lines, for that moment, I'm in character. How else would the pinkie promise come up? I don't do pinkie promises in real life, never have. Besides, I'm the mom of three boys, we don't do that girly stuff. It all came from being in character.

When writing third person, the writer is an observer and tells the story as if Mr. Watson to the character's Homes.

The argument can be made either way as to which style battles telling over showing. The real key to whether the story is boring has less to do with the POV (point of view) than with the story and the writing. Most of the time, it is clear which POV to use for each book.

There ya go. That's my take on POV. I think first person present tense writing is like 3-D, surround sound, IMAX. If you want inside the mind and heart of the character, then read my books. Dare ya.

I can't get into it that much...

It is funny (odd) that I was thinking for several days about writing this post, then wondering if I should. But a very influential book reviewer sent a note that pushed me over to the "Go ahead and do it" side.

True, my writing isn't the industry standard third person voice - keep your distance - formula writing. I get lots of comments about my different style. Some people love it because it gets them out of their reading rut. Others comment about how it takes some getting used to (and I know some people just can't make the switch to it).

Someone once said my writing is an acquired taste. So is marmite. I'm not sure that is a compliment, but it is probably true because there just aren't that many novels written in first person present tense. Its tricky stuff, that's one reason it isn't done very much.

I know some people don't get past the letter reading scene in KB. Sure THEY KNEW what the letter meant. The point is all those best-of-the-best in the story missed it. OMG! My characters are human and even beat themselves up about it - just like us sometimes.

Those who do continue reading seem to get hooked. Ya know, like getting caught up reading and forgetting to put on their make-up, only to notice it when they get to work.

While EVERYONE gets the letter, no one (NO ONE) expected what happened Thanksgiving weekend, right? I dare you to tell me you expected THAT person to die. Actually, I double dare you.

Why do I write like that? One thing is, it got me "A" marks in school. My creative writing professors liked that I was, um...how do I say it, oh yeah, "creative."

I know storytelling is usually third person. But you have to admit that the post about the lizard up my pant leg would not have made you laugh, if I had told it in third person. (Oh! Remind me, when I write Raven's Song, set in a New Mexico Pueblo, I'm going to throw that lizard story in there some place.)

I'll tell you tomorrow how I write in first person.

Lizard stories:
http://nadinelaman.blogspot.com/2009/05/desert-ghost.html

http://nadinelaman.blogspot.com/2009/05/more-lizard-stuff_27.html

Peer Pressure

There is a lot of subtle (and not so subtle) pressure to conform. Someone told me recently, if I'm going to write Red Planet Revolt, I should use a pseudonym when I change genres.

I can't figure the logic of that. For one thing, all my books are going to be on one website and my name is plastered all over that site from the URL to the blog address. Not only that, my writing is fairly distinct, so who is going to believe that two people write the same and happen to have their books on the same website? Tell me this, what do I do for a photo of that other me?

I'm not hiding the fact that I have my own books printed by using an ambiguous name for my company. I am standing talk, count me. I don't care if anyone else stands with me. They should go with their comfort level. I'm not trying to be a trend setter. I am a trend setter. But don't follow me, follow your own ideas and ideals.

Here's the deal, I write fiction, but in real life I'm fairly grounded in reality. I work hard to make my fiction believable, but it is still fiction. So why the need for deception on the name issue? I don't know. I've decided not to do it. It has nothing to do with branding. It has everything to do with being honest with my readers.

I'm pretty much: What you see is what you get, except few people are allowed to see how frustrating dyslexia is at times. Just like anyone else, I have my moments. But as long as there are readers for my books, I'll keep writing. Here's to us. My books belong to all of you who have contributed to their existence.

Thank you to Joyce, my web designer, who watches my spelling and makes my official presence on the internet a good one. Thank you to my beta readers. Think back to the first ms you read, we've come a long way together. Thank you to my friend in England, Carrie, who makes time to be the first to read my blog every day that she can, and helps me fix the "oops!" Thank you to those who unexpectedly send notes about how you enjoy my books. I love you all.

First Draft

If you read last week's posts you had to notice right off that first drafts are no where near the end result. That's why I keep saying that a finished manuscript isn't finished until rewrites have been done, beta readers have gone through it, and an editor (not an English major from University) has put their ink stained fingers on it too.

Why not an English major as your editor? Simple, there is more to producing a good book than perfect grammar, though that is important. I like to have a couple of English geeks as beta readers because they do catch HUGE goofs. Also, I have a couple of very serious readers as beta readers because they will let NO bogus stuff pass in the story line or with the characters. Plus book editors add a dose of commercialism to the book by sending it back to the writer to add or subtract scenes and characters.

Frankly, some very prolific writers do just the first draft and hand the ms off to their team to polish, while they go off and write the next book. How else do you think they crank out so many books in a year?

So the posts last Thursday and Friday are the first time though drafts. They are flat. The characters, set, and secondary characters are just bare bones and need fleshing out on the rewrites. And it will happen. The book excerpts on my website are further along in the process, yet even those aren't the final edition. The lesson here is not to judge a writer by drafts or excerpts posted on the internet. They might be the finished product, or as in my case, only a representation of what is in the book. The published book IS the finished product.

Go look at the excerpts and compare the writing to last weeks blog posts. See the difference? http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/

And thank you for taking the time and interest to reading what I write.

So far the vote is: ACT = 6 and RPR = 4. I should have set up a poll for you, but didn't think of it in time. Oops!

RED PLANET REVOLT

This is the first draft of the beginning scene of Red Planet Revolt. It is longish for a blog entry, but not for people who read novels. Look back to the 3 June entry to see what is going on. I changed his name...

"Whew, that's enough for today," I say as I remove a small hand decorated leather-bound book that had belonged to my paternal grandfather. He was responsible for my love of antiquity. I smile fondly at the memory of sitting in the sunny meadow listening to "Papa" tell stories of Greek and Roman mythology when I was too young to go to school with my brothers and sisters.

Slowly over the past few weeks, I have been removing items from my office shelves, pondering their worth, and taking the chosen items home. It shouldn’t, but it amazes me how many possessions accumulate over twenty years in the same office.

The sun shining through the window illuminates the dust floating in the air. I place the book in the box and top it with a second century Roman helmet. The helmet was a gift from the first department chairman that I worked under when I came to the university. Now, I realize that it was given to me, not so much as a gift, but out of uncertainty of what to do with it when he, too, was retiring.

Eventually, I have done the same thing as I prepare to move on in life. Many of the items that I treasured are now being passed on to my proteges for proud display on their shelves. It is the passing of the baton, as it were.

One last look around, and I pull the door shut. I touch the name plate, as I have every time I have closed this door. It is a little ritual of mine, perhaps steeped in my interest in mythology. I look back at the name plate one more time before I leave.

I will be back, but not before I have gone over the data cartridges that are stashed in the pouch slung over my shoulder. I already know who has mastered this class, and who has made only the slightest effort to conform to my request to provide me with a knowledgeable review of the information presented in class. But, I will read them as I am required to do, perhaps with the helmet looking over my shoulder from a new shelf at home.

This is the way I enjoy spending my time – quietly entertaining myself with a passive activity. Next week there will be the usual farewell party, but I am no longer obligated to attend other end-of-the-year faculty functions. In a few weeks, I will be free to enjoy living a more reclusive lifestyle. I have had dreams about this time for the last three years. That is when I decided to retire after twenty years of teaching Greco-Roman Antiquity.

As I leave the building, I step on the mobility tread and announce my destination to the voice activated control panel. Smoothly, it moves me along the concourse to my waiting shuttle. Most days, I walk on the surface pathway. I enjoy the walk, and quite frankly, it’s less congested. That suits my tendency to enjoy my own company over the company of the masses. But, today I am in a hurry to get home with my treasures.

Ternion is scheduled to transmit tonight and I don’t want to miss talking with him. It is rare that we can speak with each other. Now, that Ternion is on the planet, he can communicate to Earth only when all of the satellites in the system are aligned and available for personal messages. Because of the various orbit dimensions of the planets and moons between us, that occurs only once every eight months. It will be next year before I hear from him again.

Once the shuttle hatch closes, I request the time only to discover that I have worked later than I had planned. The ignition sequence activates and the shuttle eases toward home. Before he left, Ternion set the shuttle memory for the places I routinely go. It requires only for me to speak my destination to take me home.

Ternion gave me this new shuttle before he left and I haven’t mastered much more than what he programed into it. I get most places I want to go, and I can do a few simple manual maneuvers. I plan to spend time and learn enough to please him when he returns home in five years.

I lean back into my chair and gently touch the seat beside me, imagining Ternion is there. Everyone said we were a poor match, but that hasn’t been true. He is more precious than all of history and I miss him terribly.

It is a forty minute trip from the university in North America to my home on the hills above the Marathon Plains in Greece. I rarely fly above the atmosphere. I love the sight of the Mediterranean Sea from this lower altitude.

The instrument panel signals that my home beacon has activated. I acknowledge with the voice command to began descent, and lock the glide path onto the auto-park beam. The doors open, and my shuttle settles to rest in the pod bay. Nearly silently, the beam concludes upon landing the craft. It is good to get home. I breathe a sigh of relief the moment the hatch opens.

I skim through the data cartridges during the two hour wait for Ternion’s transmission to arrive. At least I have sorted the cartridges into stacks: interesting, enlightened writers, and my marginal students. That will balance the task of grading the exams when I finally have to face that task.

I ask the sentinel if there is a transmission from Ternion, and am disappointed that the response is, "No." I wander into the kitchen to consider dinner. Mindlessly, I request my favorite meal, hoping it will fill the void my anticipation created.

The weather is lovely, so I stroll through the columns to the outer gardens. I sigh as I activate the biosphere for the night. Ternion developed the biosphere technology when he was in graduate school. I remember how excited he was when he received the Nobel Prize for his creation.

I sit down on a garden bench, as I watch the biosphere activate, enveloping the garden. Technology. We take it for granted when there are other worlds in desperate need of the things we dismiss without a thought. There are many nights that I don’t activate the biosphere, yet it is so simple to do. I am proud of Ternion, though I don’t really understand his work.

He is a bio-chemical engineer. We met shortly after I began my professorship. He is slightly older than I, in Earth years. He is from Ka’Bobk, a planet in the neighboring solar system. His people have a natural knack for science and are recruited by every university imaginable. I miss him terribly, though I should be used to his long assignments away from home.

I lean back against the back of the bench staring dimly at the plants across the sky. We had several years together in the beginning when we both taught. It was fun to have quiet lunches together on the days that our class schedules coincided. Those years together at the university proved that our decision to marry had been correct.

We knew when we married that our genetic makeup was not compatible for having mixed-race children. Before Ternion and I married, there were long discussions with my mother about whether it mattered that we couldn’t have a family. After a while, we adopted two children from Ka’Bobk.

My melancholy mood is interrupted by the sentinel announcing a transmission from Ternion Ka’Bobk.

"Yes, activate the transmission," I respond as I hurry toward the view station.

"Victoria, my darling," Ternion begins.

"Hello, Ternion. I love you. Are you well?" I ask quickly, knowing that transmissions to the distant galaxy are sometimes interrupted by any number of anomalies. I want to have a long and lingering conversation with him, but I know that isn’t possible. Since he left the university and began working with the development company, we have had only brief periods of what I would call a normal home-life.

When he would come home after being gone for several years, he would have to readjust to living with a family. The children were eager to have him return home, but it was always an awkward adjustment. Then, when we were accustomed to living like a normal family, he would have to leave to set-up a biosphere that kept him away for several more years.

"Victoria, the fighting here subsided months ago, and the biosphere is just about ready to activate – why don’t you join me when you finish at the university?"

He looked good considering the transmission quality. I think I detected a slight grin as he spoke. He knows that I fear intergalactic travel, but it was a sweet thing to say. His species were known for their considerate ways of interacting. I knew he was sincere.

The children are busy with their own lives. I really didn’t have any specific plans after I finish work. But, then there was that flying thing. That was my only reservation in leaving Earth. I was the only one in my family for three generations that had not been off of Earth – ever. Several times I made plans to take a trip, once even to meet Ternion on one of his work sites. But, I never quite made it out of Earth’s gravity. To be fair, it wasn’t always my fault that I didn’t go – but, I was felieved that the trips didn’t materialize.

I have to think about Ternion’s proposal. "Yes, that would be fun," I hear myself say back to the screen.

Ternion smiled. "Good, I'll have it all arranged. Check with the Company and they will give you the details," he said as the transmission faded out.

I didn’t mean to say that I would come. I missed him so much that I wanted to say what would please him since we spoke so sledom. I waited a little while to see if the transmission would come back on. It did not.

ACT LIKE YOU MEAN IT

This is the first draft of the frist scene in ACT. It is longish, but if you're reading my stuff, you read novels. Unedited, of course.

"Sorry – sorry, let’s try it again," Leigh said a little kinder than usual.

"Leigh, we have been at it for hours," Josh whined, as only he can. "You don't know your lines." He said more harshly than necessary.

"Listen, Josh, you will do as I say," Leigh said returning to her usual abrupt manner. "Now, run the lines, again."

Josh spun around and angrily took his mark down stage. If he was trying to hide his disgust, he was unconvincing. Leigh didn’t seem to notice, or she didn’t care.

It was too expensive to have the house lights on. From his dark vantage point in the balcony, the janitor sat for hours watching the two rehearsing on the dimly lit stage. He knew that in time the two would run the gamut of their many moods, so it didn’t matter which mood Leigh was in at the moment.

This private rehearsal between Leigh and Josh began at the unusual hour of seven A.M., it was now three o’clock in the afternoon. They were undoubtably tired, but with those two, tempers were always flaring. The best anyone could do is stay out of the way for as long as possible. No one really wanted to work with them, but the money was usually very good for those who did. How else could they get a cast?

Working with Leigh and Josh was a good way for someone new to the business to get noticed. The media was sure of interesting copy with those two squabbling. The public likes their work, too, well until recently. The constant fighting is beginning to show in the final production. Their fans are tiring of the bickering. But, the janitor enjoys the fighting more than the acting. From years in the Theatre, he has the two of them sized up.

Josh is beautiful, movie-magazine beautiful. Yes, beyond handsome. He is in late twenties or early thirties, it is hard to tell with his youthful face and dancing dark eyes. He is self absorbed and arrogant – even more than most actors.

Leigh, on the other hand looks every bit of forty-five, and more. She is beautiful, too, but the stress of the years of long hours, on and off the stage, is obvious. She is a talented actress, no one can deny her range of character or her dedication to the craft. The back-to-back movie contracts have run their course and she is currently acting in a small community Theatre in a play by an unknown author. It’s a sad commentary for someone with such talent. And it doesn’t help that she drinks too much.

The play they are working on isn’t a very good play. At the rate things are going, Leigh won’t manage to learn her lines before the play closes – without ever opening. Frankly, this may be the end of the little community Theatre, too. There is not enough money to keep it going.

'Community Theatre' doesn’t exactly convey the essence of this Theatre. The building is nearly a hundred years old. It is nestled in an old and dying neighborhood that once was the heart of a thriving community. It was built with the craftsmanship of the pre-electronic age. The acoustics are so lively that the slightest utterances on stage can be heard in the third balcony – clearly.

These days there are very few patrons. The Theatre is in serious financial difficulty and not likely to survive if this play fails. Part of the problem is that the Theatre is in disrepair. The years of neglect show in its interior. The plaster and lath walls are full of cracks, though not structurally serious, they are a distraction to the ambiance of the once elegant Theatre.

"All right, Josh, let’s call it a day," Leigh said in submission to fatigue and Josh’s whining. "We will resume in the morning, the same time." Leigh picked up her sweater from the stage floor where she had discarded it hours ago.

"No can do, Leigh-darling, I have an audition for a movie tomorrow." Josh said with a tone of arrogance. He was making it plain that he didn’t need her any longer.

"Go then, damn you," Leigh screamed.

Josh threw his script across the stage, nearly hitting Leigh. The janitor had seen this scene several times over the last few weeks, though it was not in the script. The old guy chuckled to himself and shuffled out of sight. The old girl deserves it, he thought. "Her career is about in the same shape as this Theatre," he muttered to himself. He picked up a trash can and went to empty it. There wasn’t any reason to hurry. He could go about his duties at his leisure. Nothing else was booked in the Theatre, nothing at all. This will undoubtably be the last play scheduled here.

The Theatre board of directors only met to pay the utility bills, which took about twenty minutes a month. They have tried fund-raising projects, grants, and a variety of bookings – nothing brought in the revenue they needed. When the last bit of money ran out, which was any day now, the utilities would be shut off and the doors locked. No doubt in the end, the building would be sold for taxes and someone would tear it down. It was about to see its final curtain call. His feet shuffled with a scuffing sound as he tended to his janitorial duties, muttering to himself.

Leigh was an intelligent and talented woman; but there was a sadness about her that she was unable to hide. She seemed lonely even when she was surrounded by the media or at the usual Hollywood parties. Though lately invitations to parties were few and far between. It may be due in part to her consistent, cranky mood and sudden outbursts of anger. She shook her head as she shrugged off her thoughts.

Leigh pulled a chair across the stage and sat there looking out at the dark house for the longest time. Maybe she was imagining a standing ovation of the past, or maybe she was seeing the empty house. It was hard to tell from her far-away expression. Finally, her shoulders slumped and her glance dropped to the tape marker on the floor in front of her. Leigh took a breath, stood up, threw her shoulders back, held her head high, and took a bow. In some ways, she had a strength about her, but it was a sad strength.

A slice of the afternoon sun lit the stage briefly as Leigh went out the side stage door. It slammed shut with the sound of finality.

My horoscope lied

It said I'd be focused and productive on the 2nd. Nope. Far from it. That can mean only one thing. Time to start writing another novel. Not rewriting, writing. The choices are:

Act Like You Mean It (ACT): Contemporary fiction. Sandy, a marine biologist, and Leigh, a famous and difficult actress on the downside of her career, are forced together when Sandy discovers Leigh injured and is stuck with her until she recovers. They think (hope) the situation is temporary, but find they can't part company until they figure out who is trying to kill Leigh (considering her abrasive personality it could be any one she ever met). While Leigh recuperates is the perfect time for Sandy's family of step-children to fall apart at the urging of their live-in Russian speaking grandmother.

Red Planet Revolt (RPR): Set in 2953. Retiring chair of the Department of History, Victoria, is more at home in her world of Greco-Roman antiquity than in the world where she lives. Her alien husband, Tiananmen, is a bio-chemical engineer who is constructing a post-Civil War biosphere on the blighted planet. Ordinarily not one for off-world travel, bored with retirement Victoria visits her husband. The report that the Civil War is over was greatly exaggerated. The transport ship departs hastily while under hostile fire, leaving Victoria marooned on the distant planet. Not well suited for wilderness survival, Victoria heads for the city in search of Tiananmen - straight into the heart of the Civil War. (Note, she lives on Earth; the Red Planet is not Mars.)

Which story do you want next? Leave your vote in the comment section. Anyone can vote. If you are shy, you can email me. The story with the most votes will be the next book I write.

You get what you pay for

FREE can be an uncertain commodity. Sometimes you get what you pay for, sometimes you don't get anything near the value you paid. Sometimes customer services is a lost art. Very lost. Oh my gosh, you do NOT want to get me started on that one.

Recently, I found filedby.com. Of course, I don't know how it works, but my old book covers were harvested from somewhere, maybe mechanically. I can't imagine someone doing all of that by hand. I've tried correcting the info on similar sites, only to end up leaving the outdated material out of sheer frustration. Filedby was a wonderful surprise.

Anyone who has known me for half a millisecond knows I'm worthless at this web stuff. Most sites have at least one fill-in box that is vague enough to leave me questioning what to do. I'd be totally lost without Joyce, my web designer of the last four years.

However, on filedby.com I changed the cover art in a snap and uploaded my photo without it looking like a radioactive mutant when it appeared. The publisher and publishing date were somehow protected from change. I easily found tech support and explained the changes needed. A real live person, Renae, verified the information and promptly changed it for me. Not only that, she was very personable and helpful in her email contacts.

Anyway, if you are a writer, you should check to see if your books are on filedby and claim your page. It's free and logical (easy). I had NO TROUBLE. Trust me, I don't even go into the backrooms of my own website, that is why I have the email address that I do.

Filedby.com has something for readers. I have no idea what it is, but if it is like the part I've used, it is way cooool. So check that out and let me know how it works.

Go look. I'm impressed with their site and with their customer service. Renae was very pleasant and helpful; she went beyond what we have come to expect from customer service.

Here's the link: http://filedby.com/author/nadine_laman/2238025

Or scroll down the sidebar on this blog and try out the blue filedby button that I installed all by myself. Is that easy or what? So, here's to you guys over at filedby. I'm impressed.

Here is the big info: http://www.filedbyblog.com/2009/05/19/filedby-adds-more-than-1-million-new-sites-for-co-authors-illustrators-photographers-artists-editors-translators-and-others/

Whoopiee -- June newsletter

My June Newsletter is now posted on my website. http://nadinelamanbooks.com/newsletter.html