In my last poll I asked you, do you prefer reading using an eReader or a real book. Thankfully I don't have to smack anybody because you all voted in favour of an actually book.
In my opinion there is nothing like holding a book in your hands. The feel of the pages as you flip them. The shape of the spine as it bends when you hold it open. The smell of the ink and the paper. That crisp, whist, sound you hear when you turn the page to devour more of the story.
In between those pages is enough blood, sweat and tears to drown a small army. You might meet someone you like, maybe even someone you'll fall in love with. You could meet someone you despise and will continue to loathe until they no longer show up on that page any more. The worlds you can open between those two covers are as endless as the size and breadth of the universe.
I'm all for saving paper, reducing our carbon footprint and being a little less harsh to the planet that sustains us, but no electronic gadget (for me) can replace a book.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Lost in Transition
Fearless Reader,
It's been a long time since we last sat down together.
Life as always seems to have an interesting agenda that we don't always see coming. I've started my first novel. Nearly 40,000 words and going strong, it's a mystery/thriller/suspense starring a character I created for a short story that I wrote for a contest in April. Anyway, let me tell you a little bit of my life as a novelist so far.
I always thought of novelists as sexy, uber-attractive people who sit down at their large desks in the morning, wearing formal clothing in a casual way, a glass of scotch in their right hand and a pack of cigarettes in their left. They start with some light stretching of the neck and shoulders and then begin to pump out 3,000 words an hour, stopping only to refill their empty glass or light a new cigarette. Sometimes they would even light the new cigarette with the old one, I mean how fuckin' cool is that? They butt out into an upside down skull that's filled with sand. When the day's words are completed (and no doubt to perfection on the first try), he peels out of his garage in his luxury car, down the interlocking cobblestone driveway for a day of playing golf and receiving free drinks at the bar from starstruck fans.
Of course this is the writer's life right?
With the exception of the ruggedly handsome part, this could not be farther from the truth. First of all I'm only a 'part-time' writer, I still have my day job. You know, the kind of writer that slaves away on weekends and weeknights after coming home from the office, wading through the unknown every step through that first manuscript draft. Which turns out terrible by the way and has to be completely rewritten upon completion but more on that later.
Writing seems to be a lot like any other job. After getting up and downing several small buckets of coffee to fuel my mind and body, I get to play the game of 'do I write like I said I would?' or 'do I sit around in my underpants and insult teenagers while getting my ass handed to me in the latest Call of Duty?'. Invariably this road surprisingly always leads to me sitting on my cheap ass office chair, which sits in front of a very modest desk to begin the days' work.
Actually writing of course if only 40% writing though. Oh you didn't know that? Well FR 30% of the time you stare at the wall, or the floor, or even the ceiling but that can really put a kink in your neck. The other 30% of the time you google random shit. All the while your story becomes something that you didn't realize it would be and you create something amazing.
It's why I do what I do. It's why I love writing.
Faithfully Yours,
Zulu Whiskey
It's been a long time since we last sat down together.
Life as always seems to have an interesting agenda that we don't always see coming. I've started my first novel. Nearly 40,000 words and going strong, it's a mystery/thriller/suspense starring a character I created for a short story that I wrote for a contest in April. Anyway, let me tell you a little bit of my life as a novelist so far.
I always thought of novelists as sexy, uber-attractive people who sit down at their large desks in the morning, wearing formal clothing in a casual way, a glass of scotch in their right hand and a pack of cigarettes in their left. They start with some light stretching of the neck and shoulders and then begin to pump out 3,000 words an hour, stopping only to refill their empty glass or light a new cigarette. Sometimes they would even light the new cigarette with the old one, I mean how fuckin' cool is that? They butt out into an upside down skull that's filled with sand. When the day's words are completed (and no doubt to perfection on the first try), he peels out of his garage in his luxury car, down the interlocking cobblestone driveway for a day of playing golf and receiving free drinks at the bar from starstruck fans.
Of course this is the writer's life right?
With the exception of the ruggedly handsome part, this could not be farther from the truth. First of all I'm only a 'part-time' writer, I still have my day job. You know, the kind of writer that slaves away on weekends and weeknights after coming home from the office, wading through the unknown every step through that first manuscript draft. Which turns out terrible by the way and has to be completely rewritten upon completion but more on that later.
Writing seems to be a lot like any other job. After getting up and downing several small buckets of coffee to fuel my mind and body, I get to play the game of 'do I write like I said I would?' or 'do I sit around in my underpants and insult teenagers while getting my ass handed to me in the latest Call of Duty?'. Invariably this road surprisingly always leads to me sitting on my cheap ass office chair, which sits in front of a very modest desk to begin the days' work.
Actually writing of course if only 40% writing though. Oh you didn't know that? Well FR 30% of the time you stare at the wall, or the floor, or even the ceiling but that can really put a kink in your neck. The other 30% of the time you google random shit. All the while your story becomes something that you didn't realize it would be and you create something amazing.
It's why I do what I do. It's why I love writing.
Faithfully Yours,
Zulu Whiskey
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