Thoughts on the Publishing Industry

I'm newbie writer, but I've been thinking about this industry called publishing lately. It seems so antiquated after I've worked in technology for so long.

1. Most publishers require you to USPS mail them your work.
2. They also ask that you enclose an SASE.
3. They often state that response times are 3-6 months.
4. Many state to specifically AVOID sending them anything via email... even a query.

Snore. Most of the burden is placed on the writer. Perhaps, the process is intentionally cumbersome so that it wards off those that aren't very serious about it. On the other side of the coin, maybe there just aren't enough people to read articles and manuscripts on the publishers end, so they need to bottleneck to stay somewhat up to speed.

Where's the equivalent of the writer's market for the publisher? Why don't we simply log our work into the database, with the ability to push the piece to a handful of publishers or browse the requests that they have for pieces to be written? It's like we really need a Craigslist for writers and publishers... or an eBay... bringing buyers and sellers together... writers' circles to assist with editing... reputation ratings that work like digg, where the best articles in a genre bubble to the top where they can be auctioned off to the highest bidder?

Let's go people!

Two Questions About Reading

1. What are you currently reading or have recently read that you just couldn't put down because it was so good?

2. Why?

I'm on a 52 books (1 per week) pace for 2009 and would love some recommendations!

52 Things; They're Called Books

I've decided that I'm going to attempt a lofty goal: read one book per week this year. I watched an acquaintance attempt the task last year (I think he accomplished it). Since I've decided to take on this goal in the 4th week of the year, I'll have to find some way to catch up.

Book #1 = "The Zahir" by Paul Coelho, 3.5/5 Stars
Coelho fascinates me, always has. There are some quotable gems in this book, but the story feels drawn out and then the ending hits you and before you realize the story is over, it's done. Kinda closed it and then walked away instead of pondering the conclusion.

Book #2 = "My Ishmael" by Dan Quinn (in progress)
I LOVED "Ismael," but I'm struggling through the sequel right now because the main (human) character is a 12 year old girl that talks like a 50+ adult... just not suspending disbelief very well.

Wish me luck!

And, drop me some recommendations on good things that you're reading.

Are we ceasing to be a mobile culture?

Mobility is key to being an American.

Our ancestors, for most of us anyhow, traveled across the ocean to find a new home. And then, they took wagons and trains across the country at the heed of Greeley to “Go West.” Mobility is so ingrained in our genetics that we have to stay on the move or we feel dead.

We learn to drive before we learn to drink. We learn to drive at a young age because it allows us to more easily begin work. We Americans have a crazy, innovative, on-the-go feeling that we must always keep moving. When teenagers reach a certain age, parents kick them out into the world to fend for themselves.

We hate hospitals because they won’t let us get out of bed or even leave without begin constrained to a wheel chair. But, we love doctors and nurses because they mend us so that we can, once more, be mobile. When our elders lose the ability to drive, they often fade away into death. We need our mobility in order to live.

BUT, the Current Population Survey found that fewer than 12% of Americans have moved since 2007, a decline of nearly a full percentage point compared with the year before. In the 1950s and ’60s, the number of movers was close to 20%. It has been declining steadily: 12% is the lowest rate since the Census Bureau began counting people who move, in 1940.
[NYTIMES.COM | 12.20.08 via Iconowatch]

Are we ceasing to be so mobile?

State of Mind: Exhilaration!

Well kids, here goes nuttin!'

I've just sent off my essay, "Inauguration of an Apolitical," to several entities for their consideration:

• Washington Monthly
• The Washingtonian
• The Sun
• And many, many influential others that may be able to help me crack my publishing virginity.

I'm rather amazed at the 20th Century technophobia of the publishing world... SASEs? Really? This tech-marketing-gone-writer guy doesn't even own any stamps. Correct that, didn't even own any stamps.

Anyhow, fingers crossed! Though I started kinda big for this round, I'm balancing that by now focusing on some different ideas for smaller periodicals: quips, columns and whatnot.

I'll get back to my BOOK tomorrow, just as soon as I wrap up this task!

Can I get a "WOOT! WOOT!"

A Message To All Women

The message is simple...

STOP ACTING LIKE GIRLS!!!

I've recently watched all six seasons of "Sex and the City" at the behest of a woman I was dating. She said, "You could learn a lot by watching it." I wasn't one to disagree, for I'd never seen any of it and I believe that there are always things that one can learn. I must say, if the ladies spent less time talking to each other and more time talking their men that they'd be 1). Less psychotic, 2). More happy, 3). Focused on what matters in life.

The irony lies in one simple thing, she who asked me to watch, perhaps, needs to watch it again herself.

Conversation is what we'll always have as we grow old together, so there's no time like the present to start talking to each other. Your skeletons or your neuroses will eventually come out of the closet if you end up together. SATC is about four women who try to hide who they really are... like that's ever going to work. They strive for something perfect, when perfection isn't something that Americans believe in... perfection means that it can't be improved.

Personally, I'm miffed when someone thinks that they can "hook" me and then start to reveal what's wrong with them. Woman, just lay it all out on the table: childhood abuse, confidence, NBI, half empty glass, anorexia, unhappiness, lack of job satisfaction, broken heart, closet smoker... just give it up; our imperfections are what make us unique. If it isn't going to work later because of these, then it might as well come out now.

But, I ramble, I really just wanted to make one point--and make it loud and clear. If you don't talk to me, then I'm never going to know what's on your mind. Err on the side of telling me too much than telling me too little. I'm not a fucking mind-reader.

So, this woman I mention, she...

• Broke up with me via email. Childish. (See Berger's Post-It)
• Always assumed the worst. (See Carrie's insanely psychotic neurosis)
• Made up her own mind instead of talking about things. (See Miranda)
• Was sarcastically hurtful. (I don't have a character for that)
  

It's no wonder she was unbearably unhappy; the combination of being sarcastically mean and pessimistic would drive anyone into irrational behavior.

I've been guilty of dating immature woman, which my friends have tagged as "girls," and I've honestly been trying to avoid that trap. It would sure help my cause if y'all immature girls would quit disguising yourselves as women.

Seriously.

Okay, I got all of that out of my system. Next?

PS: The Big A$$ purse theory is alive and well.

What Do I Want MY Life To Look Like?

We've been engaged in an amazing conversation about what others want their life to look like [READ IT]... and I'm ready to present what I want my life to look like... ready... set... go...

In my fictional den, there are two paintings that depict my life.

The first, which hangs on the wall to the left of the fireplace, is a Norman Rockwell-like painting of a man riding a unicycle down a cobblestone street. He looks sharp: top hat, tuxedo jacket, pressed white shirt, blue jeans and thick, white socks, but no shoes. He has one hand at his side and one on his chin in contemplation, an eyebrow raised. Above him, the sky remains in motion, shifting from day to night and through all four seasons. On the sidewalk of the street, from right to left, stand twin children, who look identical, a worn-out palooka and a gaggle of lookie-loo revelers crowding the window of a bar. The twins are a brother and sister holding hands and smiling at the passing man, while the revelers spill forth from the window while doing the same with their drinks. Between them, the tired prizefighter slumps with his head between his shoulders, laces of his gloves undone, shirtless, sweaty and tired of his trade.

On the right side of the fireplace hangs a Dali-esque oil painting of a pint of Guinness beer. Yet, the beer is not contained by glass, it is walled in by red brick. Spying eyes from the outside, trying to see the spectacle, live in dark spaces where the bricks have been chiseled away. In the liquid of the beer, there swims a harnessed fly, wings beating furiously in the dissipating foam, pulling a one-eyed brain. The fly has been captured by the intoxication of the liquid, but the brain is trapped by its broken wings and cannot leave the alcoholic prison. A brain-riding cowboy is saddled behind the eye, one hand on the saddle and the other holding a looking glass. Towed by the brain is a banner that reads, “VINO IST VERITAS.” The fly-brain-banner parade float endlessly circles the dark liquid forming the aforementioned cloverleaf pattern.

Between the two pictures is the masonry and heat of a fireplace. It‘s built from the local land with an oaken mantelpiece that supports trinkets from the past and a large mirror. The frame of the mirror is a rustic metal that has collected the wisdom from many years of overlooked dust. If you look into the mirror, you’ll find a woman basking in the warmth of the blaze, reading a book and sipping from a glass of red wine. Her resting place is that of a worn, brown leather love seat that has soaked up the caress of many conversations in its lifetime. Her own antique bicycle leans up against the bookcase behind her. She just so happened to finish her day before mine; some days the lighting of the fire falls on my shoulders and most days we're out on an adventure together. On her face, she wears the look of content, knowing that her man will soon ride home, collapse to the crunch of worn leather, latch onto her smile and begin an evening of conversation that will take them to unknowable destinations.

There are days when I have to entertain the masses by pleasing all of those that have expectations of me. If I had to commit myself entirely to their whims, the extroversion would ultimately wear me out. On other days, I must find the time to recharge, to let my mind loose so that it can push the limits of thought, strange and rational. Though my nomadic soul loves to wonder, it always wants to come home to the love found in the heat of a warm fire.

The look of my life.

This is how I feel today