Month: June 2012 Page 1 of 3

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid now free on Smashwords.

I’m rotating “free” short stories.  So pick up “The Society of Secret Cats” ASAP, if you want a free copy (it’s $.99 Smashwords & B&N now, with the rest to follow).  And expect to see “The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” flip free at other sites soon.

Pick The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” up at Smashwords for free here.  If you can’t wait, you can find it for $.99 at Amazon.comBarnes & NobleKoboSonyApple, and more.

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid

by De Kenyon

Arnold had always wanted to know about a) pirates and b) death.  But his mother would never let him find out.  Now Arnold is grown up, old, and tired of being both…so he goes on an adventure to find out the things that he was always supposed to never find out about:  Murder, mermaids, and the deep, dark sea.

When Arnold was a boy, he wondered about two things: what would it be like to be dead, and what would it be like to be a pirate. Being the kind of boy who first asked his mother about things, he received a lecture saying that a) being dead was something that would happen in its own time, and he was forbidden to try to find out early and b) being a pirate was not at all as nice as it seemed in Peter Pan, there being no such things as mermaids, pixies, or alligators with clocks in their stomachs. Whether he should have listened to his mother or not remains to be seen.

And so Arnold grew up, got a job, got married, and had kids. For the longest time, as a boy, he wondered whether he would do these ordinary things, as he was convinced that girls would always have a terrible antipathy (which is the opposite of understanding) of him, and that he would have to adopt children if he wanted to have them. As it turned out, a number of girls fell in love with him, although there was only one he truly loved back. And although her name was something else entirely, he always thought of her as his Wendy.

He did not think of himself as Peter Pan.

Instead, he secretly thought of himself as Captain Hook.

 

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid now free on Smashwords.

I’m rotating “free” short stories.  So pick up “The Society of Secret Cats” ASAP, if you want a free copy (it’s $.99 SmashwordsB&N now, with the rest to follow).  And expect to see “The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” flip free at other sites soon.

Pick The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” up at Smashwords for free here.  If you can’t wait, you can find it for $.99 at Amazon.comBarnes & NobleKoboSonyApple, and more.

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid

by De Kenyon (aka me!)

Arnold had always wanted to know about a) pirates and b) death.  But his mother would never let him find out.  Now Arnold is grown up, old, and tired of being both…so he goes on an adventure to find out the things that he was always supposed to never find out about:  Murder, mermaids, and the deep, dark sea.

When Arnold was a boy, he wondered about two things: what would it be like to be dead, and what would it be like to be a pirate. Being the kind of boy who first asked his mother about things, he received a lecture saying that a) being dead was something that would happen in its own time, and he was forbidden to try to find out early and b) being a pirate was not at all as nice as it seemed in Peter Pan, there being no such things as mermaids, pixies, or alligators with clocks in their stomachs. Whether he should have listened to his mother or not remains to be seen.

And so Arnold grew up, got a job, got married, and had kids. For the longest time, as a boy, he wondered whether he would do these ordinary things, as he was convinced that girls would always have a terrible antipathy (which is the opposite of understanding) of him, and that he would have to adopt children if he wanted to have them. As it turned out, a number of girls fell in love with him, although there was only one he truly loved back. And although her name was something else entirely, he always thought of her as his Wendy.

He did not think of himself as Peter Pan.

Instead, he secretly thought of himself as Captain Hook.

 

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid now free on Smashwords.

I’m rotating “free” short stories.  So pick up “The Society of Secret Cats” ASAP, if you want a free copy (it’s $.99 Smashwords & B&N now, with the rest to follow).  And expect to see “The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” flip free at other sites soon.

Pick The Last Voyage of the Mermaid” up at Smashwords for free here.  If you can’t wait, you can find it for $.99 at Amazon.comBarnes & Noble, Kobo, Sony, Apple, and more.

The Last Voyage of the Mermaid

by De Kenyon

Arnold had always wanted to know about a) pirates and b) death.  But his mother would never let him find out.  Now Arnold is grown up, old, and tired of being both…so he goes on an adventure to find out the things that he was always supposed to never find out about:  Murder, mermaids, and the deep, dark sea.

When Arnold was a boy, he wondered about two things: what would it be like to be dead, and what would it be like to be a pirate. Being the kind of boy who first asked his mother about things, he received a lecture saying that a) being dead was something that would happen in its own time, and he was forbidden to try to find out early and b) being a pirate was not at all as nice as it seemed in Peter Pan, there being no such things as mermaids, pixies, or alligators with clocks in their stomachs. Whether he should have listened to his mother or not remains to be seen.

And so Arnold grew up, got a job, got married, and had kids. For the longest time, as a boy, he wondered whether he would do these ordinary things, as he was convinced that girls would always have a terrible antipathy (which is the opposite of understanding) of him, and that he would have to adopt children if he wanted to have them. As it turned out, a number of girls fell in love with him, although there was only one he truly loved back. And although her name was something else entirely, he always thought of her as his Wendy.

He did not think of himself as Peter Pan.

Instead, he secretly thought of himself as Captain Hook.

Saying Goodbye to Older, More Serious Dreams

More changes have been happening from The Artist’s Way.

This is supposed to be the week where I feel more connected to higher powers, to my creativity, to my personal dreams.  I’m supposed to feel like…the work just passes through me, rather than I’m “working” on it.

I am not there yet.  I cut loose on a 2K passage the other day and easily hit top speed…but I didn’t have a sense of surprise.  It was a great deal of fun, but I was left with a sense that I hadn’t written anything worth keeping.  I don’t know whether it’s because I have no idea what’s worth keeping or whether I’m looking for an experience rather than a good story.  I kept going, “But I didn’t discover anything” and “I didn’t feel like something outside me was writing this.”  Which has been pretty much par for every other scene I’ve written so far: I go, “Huh.  So that’s why the characters are like that; I feel like someone else is doing this, not me.”  I really didn’t get any insight into the characters in that scene.  Disappointing.

So.  I’m going to head back into the story in a few minutes, and see whether things have changed.  I’ll probably slow down, rather than just letting the words blorp out of me, because it’s the slowing down and making sure I have the five senses in that’s led to so many insights previously in this story.  I may just be tripping myself up.  I’ll have to see how it goes.

Anyway, instead of going through what I’m supposed to according to this chapter in The Artist’s Way, I’ve been feeling more powered.  Not powerful, not empowered, just powered.  Like, I have more of a reservoir of juice with which to go, “And I give a shit because…?”  and just do what I want instead.    “Hm.  I believe I shall take the day off to pack for an emergency evacuation,” I said yesterday.  And then I had to follow that statement with, “which is probably totally useless and unnecessary,”  because I didn’t have enough stored up in my power reserves to just say, “I wanted to, nyaa.”  Apparently, not giving a damn about what other people think is something you have to build up reserves in.  At least, for an introvert like me.  So when people say, “You shouldn’t care about what other people think,” well, they’re full of shit.  It’s a skill, and you don’t develop it by having people gawp at you and act like you’re just supposed to be able to do it naturally, you retard.

I have used this power…to eat when I feel hungry, rather than trying to sqeeze out one more little bit of work.

I have used this power…to dick around and blog.

I have used this power…to stay updated on the fire instead of knuckling down.

It seems like this power is currently in service of things other than writing.  But.  I promised myself I’d give an honest go at the ideas in this book, and they haven’t done me wrong so far, even the don’t-read-stuff week, so I’m trying to trust a little bit.

However, I feel like I’m not functioning properly.  How will I stay motivated to write if I don’t PUSH, if I don’t FORCE, if I just do what I enjoy? If I don’t work under a blind Midwestern work ethic?  If I have no discipline, how will things happen?  –Maybe there will be a discipline, but if there is, I have no idea what it will look like.  I have previously operated under the idea that in order to have value as a writer, I have to challenge myself.  Which sounds great.  But.  Challenging yourself, setting goals–these aren’t a sense of connection to to higher powers, to my creativity, to my personal dreams.  Goals are the opposite of daydreams, and I keep having to let myself daydream this week: one shiny, flighty little image after another.  Is it that I’ve just gone too far into the GOAL side of things, and too far away from DAYDREAM?  How do people even function when…there are no rules, which is essentially what a goal is?  When I see people without goals, I see slackers.  I see people who don’t do anything, who settle for stupid shit instead of what they really want.  Who go, “Where did the time go?” and “I’ll never be able to X, so it doesn’t matter what else I do, anyway.”

And yet I get these little flashes of insight that say that maybe this week isn’t a waste after all.  I’ve been trying to come up with an epic fantasy idea for a while.  I love reading epic fantasies, yet I don’t actually write them, which seems stupid.  But nothing seems to click.

One of the exercises this week was to write down five films that I love, then try to find the patterns in them.  I wrote down The Princess Bride, Goonies, Kung Pow, Kung Fu Hustle, and RED.  –These aren’t supposed to be OMG THE DEFINITIVE LIST or anything, just five movies you love and can jot down quickly (presumably to show what’s on your mind).  The patterns I pulled out (and you could see others) were: humor, meta, adventure, fantasy, wonder.   Different forms of love.

I’ve been trying to brainstorm…serious, non-meta, adventure fantasies with strong philosophical elements (but no actual meta).  And no friendship, no romance…

It may be that I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing.  I may have to concede that…if it doesn’t have humor in it, I may not be able to finish it, as a longer work.  Maybe what I need to do is write the fantasy version of Every Which Way But Loose* or Cannonball Run.  I grew up on Scooby Doo and The Dukes of Hazzard and Eighties crap like that. Come on. My brain is @#$%^.

Put a sword in that fist and we’re good to go.

But…I think about being a writer, and I want to write Epic Fantasy That Is EPIC, not Smartass.  Not that this isn’t the first time I’ve had to abandon ideas about writing.  I mean, I started out as a poet (and got pretty good at it, nicely controlled dissonance being perhaps my specialty).  And I’ve always wanted to write Serious Fiction.  Because that’s what defines a Real Writer, right?  Buh.  Now I’m trying to fight the good fight against writing nothing but farces for the rest of my life and trying to assert that I Really Can Write Horror, and that I Really Can Write Serious Fantasy.  Instead of writing what’s really inside me, which…may be Smartass Shocking Pulp and Smartass FairyTalesque and Smartass High Epic Farce?

Getting to this point chokes me up today.  I mean…what if it was okay to write what I really wanted to write?  What if it was okay that I’ve been writing other stuff all along, because I had no idea what I really wanted?  What if it’s okay if what I really want changes? What if I can go, “It was all meant to be”?  And, “Learning how to write this farcical romance that you’re working on that makes no sense to you whatsoever and makes you horribly uncomfortable to think about when you’re not writing might be the best thing you’ve ever done for youself”?

It hurts, because…part of me is saying goodbye to something I thought was a dream, but was really just a goal slapped over top of someone else’s idea of success.  I have to mourn, because it hurts.  But I also feel hopeful.  What if…  What could I write if… Wouldn’t it just be a crackup if I wrote…

So.  It’ll probably turn out to be a useful week, even if I’m not yet at the point where I can get out of it what was intended.  Either that, or I’ve been reading too much Terry Pratchett this week month.**

*RIGHT TURN CLYDE!
**I watched Going Postal last night.  Loved it.

New Cover for “The Cliff House”

The new cover…I started with a version of The Hobbit and the old cover and…went from there.  It’s available at Amazon.comSmashwordsB&N, and more, but the new cover won’t be up on some sites right away.

The Cliff House

by DeAnna Knippling

Ardahl is a weaver of magic and demons—of the power that flows through the land. But he’s a prisoner of the land as much as its master, a prisoner of the Cliff House, where the ruler of the land always keeps a trapped magician to summon water for the people. Now the land has twisted near the breaking point to feed them…but the princessa won’t let Ardahl stop squeezing it. Squeezing it dry.

There is something wrong with the valley. The roads, once laid straight from the Hill into the valley, have become sinuous esses of dry, red gravel. The red cliffs, blades of rock standing free in the valley, have bent like ribbons in the wind. Trees spiral like corkscrews until their bark and heartwood shatter. Every breeze kicks up dust devils, the air itself bemused.

It’s dawn. The rose-colored ley puddles against the twists in the valley, no longer able to hold them straight. The cold morning air bites my nose, but it will be hot as an oven by midday.

My godsdaughter Mira walks the dirt road from the Hill toward my cliff. She has blond hair that shines pink under the ley overhead. She carries a heavy basket that towers over her; she grasps it by the straps on her shoulders and leans forward to balance the weight.

The lid of the basket flops free, and a half-dozen loaves of bread tumble forward past her face. She leans further forward to pick up the bread, and more tumble out.

I smile. I’ve grown so used to dirty bread that I would miss the taste if she didn’t drop it.

Mira puts down the basket, picks up the loaves of bread, brushes them off, and returns them to the basket. She snaps off a twig, jams it into the basket lid to hold it shut, and shoulders the basket again.

She takes a few steps and vanishes. I wait. After a few more steps, she emerges from a twist in the land, a hundred yards closer to the cliff.

I can hear her panting under the weight of the basket now, the crunch of her boots on the rock as she climbs the path to the cliff. Finally, she’s directly underneath me.

“Good morning, Ardahl,” she calls up to me.

“Good morning, brightness.” I throw the rope down. She loops it under the basket’s shoulder straps and ties it.

I lift the basket up, hand over hand. I have a pulley attached to the ceiling, but I don’t use it. My arms have become strong over the years. I set the basket aside and toss down the rope. This time, Mira ties the rope under her arms and starts climbing the hand- and footholds up the side of the cliff. I no longer have to lift her; the rope is for my peace of mind only.

As she passes through the ley, she shakes her head a little but keeps climbing. She slides through the cave mouth and into my abode, curling her legs around and under her. The ceiling is low next to the mouth, and she’s finally learned to stop hitting herself in the head as she comes in.

“I’m so sorry, Godsfather. I dropped the bread again.”

“I saw that.”

“I brushed it off.”

“I saw that too.” I push myself backward into the wider part of the cave, pulling the basket along with me. The water skins gurgle.

I have never known a girl with a stronger back, from carrying water to me almost daily. I regret being a burden on her, but even more, I regret teaching her how to carry such heavy burdens.

 

New Cover for “The Cliff House”

The new cover…I started with a version of The Hobbit and the old cover and…went from there.  It’s available at Amazon.comSmashwordsB&N, and more, but the new cover won’t be up on some sites right away.

The Cliff House

by DeAnna Knippling

Ardahl is a weaver of magic and demons—of the power that flows through the land. But he’s a prisoner of the land as much as its master, a prisoner of the Cliff House, where the ruler of the land always keeps a trapped magician to summon water for the people. Now the land has twisted near the breaking point to feed them…but the princessa won’t let Ardahl stop squeezing it. Squeezing it dry.

There is something wrong with the valley. The roads, once laid straight from the Hill into the valley, have become sinuous esses of dry, red gravel. The red cliffs, blades of rock standing free in the valley, have bent like ribbons in the wind. Trees spiral like corkscrews until their bark and heartwood shatter. Every breeze kicks up dust devils, the air itself bemused.

It’s dawn. The rose-colored ley puddles against the twists in the valley, no longer able to hold them straight. The cold morning air bites my nose, but it will be hot as an oven by midday.

My godsdaughter Mira walks the dirt road from the Hill toward my cliff. She has blond hair that shines pink under the ley overhead. She carries a heavy basket that towers over her; she grasps it by the straps on her shoulders and leans forward to balance the weight.

The lid of the basket flops free, and a half-dozen loaves of bread tumble forward past her face. She leans further forward to pick up the bread, and more tumble out.

I smile. I’ve grown so used to dirty bread that I would miss the taste if she didn’t drop it.

Mira puts down the basket, picks up the loaves of bread, brushes them off, and returns them to the basket. She snaps off a twig, jams it into the basket lid to hold it shut, and shoulders the basket again.

She takes a few steps and vanishes. I wait. After a few more steps, she emerges from a twist in the land, a hundred yards closer to the cliff.

I can hear her panting under the weight of the basket now, the crunch of her boots on the rock as she climbs the path to the cliff. Finally, she’s directly underneath me.

“Good morning, Ardahl,” she calls up to me.

“Good morning, brightness.” I throw the rope down. She loops it under the basket’s shoulder straps and ties it.

I lift the basket up, hand over hand. I have a pulley attached to the ceiling, but I don’t use it. My arms have become strong over the years. I set the basket aside and toss down the rope. This time, Mira ties the rope under her arms and starts climbing the hand- and footholds up the side of the cliff. I no longer have to lift her; the rope is for my peace of mind only.

As she passes through the ley, she shakes her head a little but keeps climbing. She slides through the cave mouth and into my abode, curling her legs around and under her. The ceiling is low next to the mouth, and she’s finally learned to stop hitting herself in the head as she comes in.

“I’m so sorry, Godsfather. I dropped the bread again.”

“I saw that.”

“I brushed it off.”

“I saw that too.” I push myself backward into the wider part of the cave, pulling the basket along with me. The water skins gurgle.

I have never known a girl with a stronger back, from carrying water to me almost daily. I regret being a burden on her, but even more, I regret teaching her how to carry such heavy burdens.

Edge of the World Now Free

I am scooting this story through the “free” process.  For now, it’s only free at Smashwords (it will promulgate…eventually).  But if you’d like a copy now, you can also pick it up at Amazon.comB&NSonyAppleKobo, and other online ebook sites.

The Edge of the World

(A story of the Fairies of the Middle of Nowhere)

by DeAnna Knippling

When Jack was a kid, he was kidnapped by fairies.  Sounds great, right?  Except surviving the fairies was hell.  Jack only escaped with the help of his best friend, Felix.

Now his kidnapper’s dead, and Felix has come to take Jack back to the fairies…to take the place of the fairy who tortured him.  And to make Jack do the same thing to someone else.  To kidnap some other innocent little kid.  And if he doesn’t…they’ll find someone else to do it for him.

Someone not as nice.

There’s not much difference between the real world and the land of fairies. Just take the number of assholes times ten. Bang! You’re in fairyland.

When I said “no,” Felix bound and gagged me, tied me onto the back of a prairie dragon, and flew me back to the Edge of the World anyway.

I watched the Edge coming up to meet me, the cottonwoods rustled louder than the dragon’s feathers in the heavy wind. The dragon landed right on the Edge, about a thousand feet above the prairie below.

About a thousand fairies had come to see Roberto burnt to ashes. Some were dressed in feathers and quills, as if it were a powwow; others wore Air Force uniforms or business suits with bare feet. The only ways to tell that they weren’t human were their ice-blue eyes, and they didn’t scream in terror at the dragon. Only mortals scream in terror. It’s a selfless act, a way of warning people to stay away or get their guns or whatever. Fairies are too self-involved for that.

I was still wearing my football jersey from practice. Felix cut the rope, and I rolled down the dragon’s side and the ground knocked the wind out of me. Felix jumped down and cut my ropes; I had to tear the gag off myself. I couldn’t believe they’d sent Felix. Then again, he’d been able to trick me long enough to cast the knockout spell on me when nobody else could have.

They’d laid Roberto’s body on a platform made of rough, green pine branches they’d dragged in from Hermit Mountain, rising above the last hills of the Edge. Rick Chamberlain held a bough burning with blue fire, which he tossed onto the base of the platform. Yeah, they’d just been waiting for my feet to touch the ground before they torched him, to make it official.

As soon as I could stand up, I ran over to the man who had abducted me, eighteen human years ago, and spit on his face. I screamed obscenities at him, and, “Why did you do it? Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” The man who had abducted me as a baby and held me prisoner in a razor-grass cage when I disobeyed him was dead, and the rest of them wanted me to take over his job.

Stealing kids.

The fire spread quick and hot, until the whole bier was black with smoke and sent sparks over the Edge. My last sight of Roberto was my spit running down his face, like a tear. And turning to steam.

Fucker.

 

Edge of the World Now Free

I am scooting this story through the “free” process.  For now, it’s only free at Smashwords (it will promulgate…eventually).  But if you’d like a copy now, you can also pick it up at Amazon.comB&NSonyAppleKobo, and other online ebook sites.

The Edge of the World

(A story of the Fairies of the Middle of Nowhere)

by DeAnna Knippling

When Jack was a kid, he was kidnapped by fairies.  Sounds great, right?  Except surviving the fairies was hell.  Jack only escaped with the help of his best friend, Felix.

Now his kidnapper’s dead, and Felix has come to take Jack back to the fairies…to take the place of the fairy who tortured him.  And to make Jack do the same thing to someone else.  To kidnap some other innocent little kid.  And if he doesn’t…they’ll find someone else to do it for him.

Someone not as nice.

There’s not much difference between the real world and the land of fairies. Just take the number of assholes times ten. Bang! You’re in fairyland.

When I said “no,” Felix bound and gagged me, tied me onto the back of a prairie dragon, and flew me back to the Edge of the World anyway.

I watched the Edge coming up to meet me, the cottonwoods rustled louder than the dragon’s feathers in the heavy wind. The dragon landed right on the Edge, about a thousand feet above the prairie below.

About a thousand fairies had come to see Roberto burnt to ashes. Some were dressed in feathers and quills, as if it were a powwow; others wore Air Force uniforms or business suits with bare feet. The only ways to tell that they weren’t human were their ice-blue eyes, and they didn’t scream in terror at the dragon. Only mortals scream in terror. It’s a selfless act, a way of warning people to stay away or get their guns or whatever. Fairies are too self-involved for that.

I was still wearing my football jersey from practice. Felix cut the rope, and I rolled down the dragon’s side and the ground knocked the wind out of me. Felix jumped down and cut my ropes; I had to tear the gag off myself. I couldn’t believe they’d sent Felix. Then again, he’d been able to trick me long enough to cast the knockout spell on me when nobody else could have.

They’d laid Roberto’s body on a platform made of rough, green pine branches they’d dragged in from Hermit Mountain, rising above the last hills of the Edge. Rick Chamberlain held a bough burning with blue fire, which he tossed onto the base of the platform. Yeah, they’d just been waiting for my feet to touch the ground before they torched him, to make it official.

As soon as I could stand up, I ran over to the man who had abducted me, eighteen human years ago, and spit on his face. I screamed obscenities at him, and, “Why did you do it? Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” The man who had abducted me as a baby and held me prisoner in a razor-grass cage when I disobeyed him was dead, and the rest of them wanted me to take over his job.

Stealing kids.

The fire spread quick and hot, until the whole bier was black with smoke and sent sparks over the Edge. My last sight of Roberto was my spit running down his face, like a tear. And turning to steam.

Fucker.

Douglas County Colorado Indie Writers

From writer Robin Nolet:

I volunteered to participate in the group that is exploring the possibility of Douglas County libraries including indie pub books in their catalog-and perhaps even creating a publishing site for indie authors through the DougCo libraries-that would pay authors, and also put the books in the libraries. They would also like to be a resource for local writers who want to learn more about the craft and also about indie publishing. Plus, of course, offer indie authors opportunities to do signings, and other events to get them in front of the public and encourage sales. ALL good things!

As you can imagine this is a BIG project and our little group is charged with taking the first exploratory steps to educate the library board so that they can make a decision about funding this for 2013. While they are focusing on only DougCo for the moment, they are open to input from authors from the Springs through the Denver area. And ultimately they’d like it to be a chance to discover Colorado writers all over the state.

If this works out, this will be the first program of it’s kind in the nation!

My first little task…is to find 5 to 15 authors who would want to participate in a focus group to give the library feedback on how authors might feel about the idea, the different facets of the program, and anything they could contribute about their needs in the indie publishing world.

So…I’m looking for authors in the area who would like to participate in this focus group. We’ll be meeting sometime later this summer (we’ll coordinate with everyone once we HAVE someone to coordinate with!) and it should only be about a 2 hour meeting-it will most likely be at the library in Castle Rock and we’ll be meeting with Jamie LaRue, who is the director of DougCo libraries.

Obviously, we’d love to have anyone interested actually attend. But if you are far away in the Springs and wouldn’t be able to attend, I’d love for you to email me your thoughts to share with the group.

Thanks!
Robin
(Contact her at robinnolet {at} gmail {dot} com.)

Updating Ebook Covers: The Learning Has Curved.

Here’s my new The Edge of the World cover:

When Jack was a kid, he was kidnapped by fairies. Sounds great, right? Except surviving the fairies was hell. Jack only escaped with the help of his best friend, Felix.

Now his kidnapper’s dead, and Felix has come to take Jack back to the fairies…to take the place of the fairy who tortured him. And to make Jack do the same thing to someone else. To kidnap some other innocent little kid. And if he doesn’t…they’ll find someone else to do it for him.

Someone not as nice.

(Available at Smashwords, Amazon.com, B&N, Sony, Apple, Kobo, and probably more.  But they aren’t all updated yet.  If you want to check out the old cover and blurb…click at one of the links that’s not Smashwords, which is updated.)

Isn’t it pretty?

I’ve learned a lot about self-publishing books since I started. Which means…that some of my ebooks weren’t so high on the publishing learning curve, and I’m going to be working on the marketing materials for them. That means updating genres, keywords, descriptions, and covers.

Step 1: I found out which ebooks weren’t selling well. (I used Trackerbox, which OMFG is worth it for the pain in the ass it saves…I have 50 things to track at this point.)

Step 2: I tested out whether updating genre, keywords, and descriptions would be worth my time, by picking out the stories that had few sales, then updating their basic information. (I didn’t change covers.)

Step 3: Most of the stories that I tested improved in sales. Not immensely. But some. Success!

Step 4: I redid the numbers analysis and came up with which stories needed the most help, and in roughly which order.

Basically, about 1/3 of my stories are generating most of my sales, and the other 2/3 have been wallowing around with limited success over the last year. Are some stories fundamentally better than others? Sure! But none of them suck.

Take this story: it was the one that got an honorable mention in The Best Horror of the Year, Vol. 3. So it might not be great, but it certainly doesn’t suck.  But it has never sold for shit.  Why?  Because I had a lot to learn.

Expect to see a few of these new covers coming through.  I won’t post heads’ up for new text, but I am pretty proud of my covers now, so I’ll post those.

Page 1 of 3

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén