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| Drawing, Richie Billing |
It’s not that I planned it this way, you know. But two things occurred.
One – A simple photo in a WWII documentary I’ve seen many times. But this time, disembodied male voices called out to me. “Get us out of here.”
Result: I was dumb enough to try. It took me 7 years to complete the literary quest.
Two – So-called experts told me to write a simple pulp fiction series, and I did so, I’d rake in the online dough.
Result: Turns out I don’t know how to write a simple story, or series of simple stories for that matter, that I could write fast enough to rake in said online dough. It took me 4 years to simply complete one not-so-simple story.
Moral of a Multi-Years Tale: Don’t listen to disembodied voices wherever they’re trapped, and never listen to online experts if you want to maintain any kind of online content writing schedule.
I should have known better.
But knowing better is advice I could have given myself since I was a toddler.
Stay Calm. Carry on. Nothing new to see here, folks. * Eschew a big, fat hairy sigh… *
Why would I suddenly assume I’d be better at climbing project mountains just because I’m older? I have never done anything easy or simple in my life. (Reminds me of that Tina Turner song)
Ergo, I’ve been in book-writing prison for over seven years.
At first, like the nincompoop I am, I tried to maintain my online content schedule while climbing these literary Mt. Everests. Yes, of course, I did. Must maintain a public sense of normality. Reader Hint: I’ve never been normal in my life. Way to go convincing the world of that, B.J. For me, acting normal is like an alcoholic holding down a full-time job. You can for a while, and then…
“Then” eventually arrived. Drip, drip, drip.
Little by little, I dropped out of online sight, heck, in real life sight. I hunkered down, researched ‘til my eyes bled and wrote ‘til my brain fried. I finished those almighty drafts, then hunkered down again to edit said draft drivel into something resembling glossy tales.
Flash forward (as if there wasn’t collateral damage along the way). And both books are finally done.
I did learn a couple handy lessons:
One – If another documentary photo speaks to me, I’m donning noise-cancelling earphones.
Two – If another so-called expert says merely to do this “simple” thing for mega loot, I am Xing the browser page so fast my finger will burst into flames.
Now, to be fair, as I opined above, I could have at least looked up the dictionary definition of “simple,” and bloody well obeyed. It’s not the disembodied voices or the experts who lined me up for catastrophic failure. I accomplished that wonderful trick all on my own.
Sure, I said to myself. I have YEARS to waste. Let’s write a couple literary tales that’ll keep me cuffed to the keyboard, having no online or real life for a coon’s age. It’s not like I had anything better to do, like breathe and wear street clothes. * Eschew another fat, hairy sigh… *
If I had rubbed together the two brain cells God gave me, I could have pounded out a couple simple tales, finished a cookie cutter series, WHAM-BAM, and been done with these novels in less than a year, raking in said dough. I believe that’s what the universe wanted.
I really need to develop the Art of Listening.
End Products:
One – That documentary photo story lure morphed into an epic length literary tome.
Two – The cozy murder mystery series melted into a single book, heavy on character and symbolism, i.e. It left the pulp fiction genre realm and entered the symbolic literary, with its many game layers, hand-crafted pictures, character motivations, and plot threads. (I get a headache thinking about it)
Hard Reality#1: There is no making mega bucks as a literary novelist unless you’re sleeping with the boss of one of the Big Five publishers. (Okay, that maybe going a wee bit far, but you my drift)
Hard Reality #2: I need to throttle back. Not everything in life has to be complex, B. J. I need to be able to produce works that don’t take a pint of blood every time. I only have so much blood to give. I need to become like the online pulp genre writing stars who do make mega bucks.
You know what I’m talking about...
Pulp Money Maker: Insert new character, new locale, keep same plot recipe, put it through a draft meat grinder, and out pops another book (definitely forgettable) that pulp fiction readers gobble in one sitting, then quickly demand the next, like they’re Pringles potato chips. One is never enough. Ka-ching!
Let’s be frank, B.J. “You’re jealous of pulp writers’ “success,” aren’t you?” Says some unknown voice in my head. (Note to Self: consider psychoanalysis in the new year)
I sit back, put a finger to my chin, cogitate, and finally say, “Now, could you define the word success?”
“Oh, for the love of Ritz Crackers, B.J.! You know you are!” retorts said voice. “They have a gazillion 5-star reviews and rake in a gazillion green backs per month. They spend most of their days on pool floaties sipping Mai Tai's while their evergreen profits roll in. All from pulp fiction pocketbooks. They aren’t trying to save the world with their works or win the Pulitzer. They are producing at an assembly line scale and raking it in. Simple Dimple.”
“Oh,” I say. (Note: very rarely am I without words)
It turns out, I am envious of their profit margin. And their floaties and Mai Tai's, too. “But do I want to write unforgettable stories just to placate the genre gobbling masses? Escapism, experts say, is what pulp fiction is all about. There’s a place in this world for escapism, especially now in these trying political times.”
My soul screams. (Just so you know, my soul is a loudmouth)
“Nope, you don’t, B. J. You want to write high brow, avant garde stuff ‘til the cows come home and die a popper, living in an abandoned refrigerator box on 3rd Avenue, being found one winter’s night frozen to death with your high morals intact!” (Just so you know, my soul thinks I’m a dumba$$)
“Not true!” (I’m lying) “I want to write fast books, rake in dough, and luxuriate on pool floaties. I do!”
My soul simply crosses its arms, huffs and walks away into another part of my vacuous brain.
I hate my soul. Thinks it knows everything.
Segue back to said content AWOLness...
Yes, the books are done. I will not opine on the soul-sucking effort or how I had to keep cutting my fingernails to type faster. I will not bore you with how tangled my hair got or how long it grew, or how I looked like a witch in the mirror, minus the pointy hat. I won’t admit I became a recluse, and only wore different pyjama outfits, rifling through the laundry basket for cleaner ones.
Who needs to read that about a hack, right? You don’t need me to burst your romanticized notion of smoking jacket, cravat, and well-appointed library in which to wax lyrical.
All I can say is I’m here. I’ve returned.
The proof: this post. It’s my way of announcing to the world my return.
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| Photo, Warner Bros |
Confession: I’ve started two more book projects.
One – A WWII pulp fiction series. (I would like a few bucks for a few Mai Tai's, thank you very much)
Two – An historical true crime novel. (A labor of literary love. Hey, I can’t quit high brow cold turkey)
I’ll be hitting the keys hard on both in 2025.
Neither is complex. Linear timelines. Few characters. Symbolism kept to a minimum.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking…
This time, will I manage to write simple, money-grabbing tales and maintain my social media presence with my left hand as I count the loot with my right?
You doubt me, huh? I doubt me, too.
But for now, I’m here. I’m back. (As if you ever noticed I’d left)
My hair is neat. I wear street clothes. And I talk to people. People like you.
What can possibly go wrong?
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