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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Full disclosure: I do not like vampire stories.

Puzzlement: I’m going to recommend one.

The past twenty years have seen an ever-increasing convolution of the vampire, twisting and shoving the original ’50s monster into the tightening straight-jacket of political correctness. I mean, sparkling? Seriously? That’s why they can’t see sunlight now? They sparkle? I haven’t done a study of it (nor will I) but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s a vegan vampire out there, sucking the life out of blood oranges and beetroot. (more…)

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Somewhere between the publication of FC:IV and the writing of FC:V, I got sidetracked. It was a lot of things, really, but one thing, primarily: I met my mortality.

When I was young, like many melodramatic youths, I expected to die young. At the age of 32, to be precise. Who knows why that age and not, say, 34, became locked in my mind like some sort of Logan’s Run sell-by date, but it did. When the age of 32 came and went without so much as a blip on the death-o-meter, it wasn’t a surprise; by that time, I’d realized how silly the conceit was.

Then Death came by for a little visit. (more…)

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Yesterday, I went to Paris.

Put bluntly, yesterday was a crappy, crappy day. It wasn’t a tragic day, thankfully, but it was a crappy day, and one that means major changes ahead. And last night I was in that dangerous “fret zone,” where everything in my mind was whirling around the troubles, playing If Then Else with my future, and getting uncomfortably close to the death-spiral that would pull me down into depression.

Consciously, I retreated. It’s a mechanism I’ve learned, and it’s kept me from tumbling down into the dark many times. I retreated from the problem, tucked myself into a safe trench, and filled my forebrain with a fond memory while my subconscious wrassled with the problem.

And thus, Paris.

(more…)

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Remember when I posted the sad story of a bestselling writer trashing his competition in bogus reviews? Well, it seems that Amazon is doing something about it.

Salon and other sources report that Amazon is deleting book reviews made by authors. That’s right. Deleting them. Poof. Gone. Nothing. And from now on authors will be banned/prohibited from posting reviews on books. That’s right! “The Evil Empire” is censoring my words and opinions! Egad! Zounds! Help! Help! I’m bein’ repressed!!

Actually, I’m fine with it. (more…)

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A lot went right with the release of Beneath a Wounded Sky and the completion of The Fallen Cloud Saga. Overall, I’m very pleased with the product, inside and out. Don’t kid yourself, people do judge a book by its cover…and by its font, and even by the quality of its title page. A good product, a quality product, will sell better than something that looks like it was put together by a grade-schooler.

But I did not do everything right; far from it. And there was one Big Item that I actually ignored purposefully, and it bears mentioning for any of you out there who are taking notes.

So, where can I improve for next time?

(more…)

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Since my most recent book is self-published, some doors are closed to it. Most newspapers won’t look at it; most reviewers won’t consider it. To an extent, I understand this. I mean, let’s be realistic…there’s a lot of crap out there in the self-published world and they don’t want to be neck-deep in it. Restricting the input to mainstream publishers is an easy, broad brush stroke way to keep the crap to a minimum. E-books have an even harder time.

Likewise, most awards are heavily weighted toward the mainstream publishing world. The exception to this, at least in genre fiction, are the smaller, “niche” awards. I’ve allowed myself to dare to dream, and have submitted Beneath a Wounded Sky to two such awards.

(more…)

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Kurt R.A. GiambastianiAeons ago, when I was young and was still a serious musician, there were performances—I can count them on one hand—when the Muse was with us. We all knew it, every musician on stage; we knew. This concert was special.

Once such concert was when I was studying in San Francisco. It was in an old stone church in off Van Ness Avenue, a grand old place with soaring, pieced-stone walls and a nine-second hang time. We were playing Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique and everything was perfect, everyone was “on.” (more…)

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