Words are (truly) Cheap

So true!

Why is it that everything, and I mean, everything in life, is so bloody expensive, mass-produced or not - well... that is, all, except e-books?

But back to this picture here; it absolutely blows my mind that people will pay this, even upwards of $5.00, for (oftentimes, a weak) coffee – and oftentimes more than just once a day too – something that took only seconds to make by anyone at all, and that can be dismissed almost as instantly as simply being a poor experience if it's distasteful, but an experience, no doubt, they'll repeat over and over again, yet, most don’t want to pay more than $2.99, for what can often be the result of years of slogging, to read a lovingly compiled book; many expecting to pay just 99c – which, if it also happens to be weak, they’ll feel completely hard done by and suspicious of every other book that dares to ask for such an outrageous price.  There’s something wrong with this picture, literally; people obviously willing to feed their stomach willy-nilly, but not the mind; insult to their intelligence or not, a book has more value, surely, than what will end up at the bottom of a toilet bowl when all's said and done? Even if some books are better deposited there too.  But don't the two normally go together; body and mind?

Why then, do we put up with being so undervalued as authors?  The answer to that is of course obvious, all authors know that; the indie world of publishing making it easy for anyone at all to publish a book. This results in millions of people all trying to undercut each other in the hopes that their cheapie will sell millions.  But only the lucky few achieve that kind of success, usually with supreme marketing skill - or the funds to pay someone to do it for them - providing of course they've produced a well-written book.  Marketing, a harder task even than actually writing a book, in my own considerable effort (which after six months of following advice and sacrificing much of my valuable writing time, to that end, religiously putting the work in, but no matter how I much I do, no matter how many places I advertise, I don't see a difference in sales, and am at the point of seriously considering going back to contacting agents (they shouldn't be as busy, these days, should they?)

Don't get me wrong; undoubtedly it's a wonderful opportunity for authors to publish books that mainstream publishers perhaps won't even glance at, but there has to be some kind of distinction other than price, to discern between those who've actually taken the time to study the art and put their life and soul into writing books.  They need to break free from the tsunami of mediocrity and amateurishness that can barely splash around a few words; people with no understanding of the formulaic aspects of writing because they haven't bothered to take it seriously at all.  Yes, the slush pile, as far as I can tell, anyway, is now on the reader's computer in these modern times, via Amazon and Smashwords and other distributors, and no longer just the traditional publishers' desk - which, for all we've ever said about them, we might now have a better understanding of.  But still... books are no different from anything else that's widely available; and so, I ask again, why is it, in an expensive world of everything else, that e-books, and the talent that's put into many of them, are ALL EXPECTED to be so underpriced?

Just like the thousands of coffee shops we have to choose from, and anything else for that matter, there's good and there's bad, cheap and expensive, Dollar stores and Harrods, and everything in-between.  Why then, when many people see a book priced at more than $2.99, do they balk at it?  Why, even, when they see it being offered for free, which I personally completely don't agree with outside of promotional giveaways, and which did absolutely nothing for me in Amazon's KDP programme, do they value it even less than that?  It just doesn't make sense.  It doesn't seem fair.  But then, the world never has been.

This kind of low pricing is completely outrageous; any hard working author's work should be rewarded; they have a great skill, and, if they're like me, give up many aspects of normal life to bring the world stories for the love of it - and by author, I mean, any who've actually taken the time to at least try and hone their craft, whether still early on in their writing journey or not, and not one who simply thinks they can sit and type out a story because everyone at the BBQ say they're hilarious when recounting what happened last Saturday night.

And so, I’m happy to start seeing that certain organizations are beginning to try and come up with ways to separate the English from the (double) Dutch.  But perhaps an entrance exam, or something, like the one I had to pass to be employed as a freelance writer, or maybe we should have to prove something of our credentials at least - I don't know; I'm not the one with the answer, just a lowly writer, working for a pittance.  But one needs to be arrived at, soon, for true talent deserves to emerge from under the tidal wave that is the sea of indie publishing.  Hopefully, these companies are doing this with a view towards upping the prices of well-written books, too, and that people will start to bear in mind the old cliché, 'that you gets what you pays for'.  With everyone and their dog crying for pay rises these days, I think its high time, authors had a commensurate level of compensation as well - writing simply for the love of it, or not; if it's professional, published and available to the public, then it deserves more than the paltry amounts we seem to have accepted that they go for in our otherwise over-priced with everything else world.  Four or five books that can be kept for an eternity = the price of one designer coffee, gone in minutes?  Hmmm....

Also, on the whole coffee analogy thing, it seems appropriate to mention that it's unfortunate that the most popular chains are where most people tend to flock to, of course this happens because everyone else goes there, the human race inclined to be automaton, mainstream an inevitability.  But hasn't individual, true, talent, supposed to have been liberated in the indie publishing world?  Were we not supposed to be sitting in independent coffee shops stirring Grande cups of libretto at our leisure by now, chewing on our grubby laptops while staring into the universe and sharing the ideas that came from the strange abyss of imagination we've always travelled because that's what the people said they wanted?

Why then, in a so-called indie world of publishing, should we have to, increasingly, feel the need to appeal to a mentality that has no problem shelling out a fortune for a cup of froth simply because it's the flavour of the month?  Why do many writers jump on the copycat bandwagon that will inevitably drown the rest of us in the way that wizards and vampires (and undoubtedly to come, fifty ways to drink a coffee) have done?  Indie or not, someone, somewhere, is still telling the world what they're going to like next... and that's a shame.  Fashions and trends are one thing; but everything, everyone, pretty much, is the same all over the world.  And the ironic thing... people actually do this for the money?  Wake up and smell the sea-salt, that boat sailed; you're supposed to be an inventor; YOU create the next big thing.

As Alanis once said, I hate the world today.  And by the world, I do of course mean many aspects of the Internet and it's anti-social media - which I pretend to slot into with only a slightly better shape than I ever did in the real one as an oft misunderstood artist type.  And sadly, for all I hated about the real world too, it seems to have stopped percolating different varieties of coffee altogether, blending them all now in a huge gigantic melting pot that has cheapened, but not in my book, the true art of what being a barista might once have been.

Drama Queen

Poets are fairies… kind of

spreading their mystical word

All with long hair… probably

and glasses… sensitive rhymester nerds

Yeah, can be seen in coffee shops… usually

staring blankly out the window

herbal tea in coffee mugs… maybe

stirring everything but inspired libretto

Most of them smoke weed… obviously

I mean come on; poems are serious shit man

Stoking up words of paranoia... typically

and calling it enlightened inspiration

Ye-ah... they’re all fucking weirdoes, poets

floating around with chewed pens and grubby laptops

smiling melancholy at nature and stars… fucking souls

Get a real job... ya freaked out crazy crackpots

- S P Mount -

Puppy: Pee, You, Pee-Pee. Why?

Most people say 'good morning, lovely weather' when you encounter them on a lonely street - well, that is, if they don't walk by you looking everywhere but in your direction.  But when you have a dog, it’s a definite factor that makes you have to talk to strangers, and okay, the weather is unseasonably inclement thereby averting that particular cliché this morning, but here's a conversation that's seen me giggling since I came in from my first walk of the day - talk about inspiration for a character in one of my books.  But be warned, it's pretty disgusting, so leave now if you're all about bluebells, fireflies and butterflies.

"Is he friendly?" a woman in a baseball cap shouted from half a mile away above the traffic noise on Broadway; people driving to work and the students on their way to UBC packed into any number of  hi-speed number 99 busses like refugees on a banana boat, a rush hour on a road that runs right through Vancouver that's akin to a black hole vortex.

And even though I knew what she'd said just by the very predictability of it, my piss elegant sensibilities showed their annoyance that someone as refined as me would be expected to scream back on the street to tell her that my miniature schnauzer, freshly groomed and on his lead, was in fact social.

"Excuse me?" I said, cocking my ear, getting closer and showing an obvious irritation, not really one for talking to strangers anyway, let alone first thing.

Getting closer, I saw she was part Native American and perhaps fully lesbanian, everything about her unabashed too, from body language to dress sense, a person who knew exactly who she was and no problem displaying herself to the world.  Admirable; despite being a very private person who loves to keep you guessing, I love people like that.  Some way behind her, a scruffy looking dog whom I was concerned might run out onto the main thoroughfare, as some dogs do when they see another regardless of how well trained they are, was busy sniffing in the tufts of weeds outside an apartment block that needs knocking down, if you ask me.

"Is he friendly?" She repeated in that what might be considered a red neck Canadian working class accent.

"Yes, but, yours isn't going to run out onto the road when he sees him, is he?" I said, me being a little bit of a dog whisperer; predicting how it might react, her little dog still sniffing something or other, yet to notice us.

"Acht, he's been hit once before, eh... he knows better," she said completely unconcerned, which made me laugh inside; already able to tell who this person might be; her sense of humour all too rare, one that could've even been Scottish - might've been, actually; many Natives in Vancouver, apparently, with some Scottish blood in them (usually from their grandfather, for whatever reason).

And sure enough, little scruffy came toddling along; his nose soon up the nether regions of my dog, sniffing him with an urgency as mine tried to turn around to do the same, resulting in that never-ending snaking, nose-to-tail thing.

"Is he a Schnauzer?"  She said, a gruff element to her voice, to which I replied politely that he was, "Half Pomeranian and Yorkie", she said pointing at hers, "fat little bastard, old, twelve, getting bald, doesn't know if he's comin' or goin' eh... how old's yours?"

"Three and a half," I said, completely amused, my morning grimace turning upside down now as I watched the dogs compete in their pissing competition against the newspaper deposit stand outside the convenience store, the old Korean lady inside straining her neck to try and disapprove through the bars on the window and a plethora of telephone card posters.

At that point Scruffy started licking up the amber/yellow pee-pee that'd formed a little puddle in a crevice on the ground, and the woman just looked at him as he did, completely unconcerned.  Now, I'm well aware that you shouldn't really touch someone else's dog, let alone push them in case they snap at you, despite the fact you might otherwise be Dr Doolittle, but I couldn't help myself; I would never allow my dog to lick a jaggy nettle (as we call stinging nettles in Scotland) in case it'd been peed on, never mind the sting, let alone drink from a fountain of it.

"Eew, don't do that puppy," I said, gently trying to push him away, but Scruffy's focus on the pee entirely, he refused to budge.  "God, dogs are so disgusting sometimes," I said, trying to walk away in an effort for the woman to do the same if only to stop her dog from drinking the pee-pee.  But she didn't; just standing there waiting until it'd finished, and then she laughed.

"Hah... I'm sure most men would want to do the same thing if they thought they could get away with it," she said, as I raised my eyes at her, not sure if I'd heard right, outside of the entire male species just being insulted, what kind of person says that to anyone, let alone a stranger they just met?

"Uh, I don't think so." I said, clearly wanting to leave now, finding myself actually contemplating what she'd said because I'm a deep thinker, already pretty sure I could probably find some truth to it, if I was so inclined, on the Internet.  (I'm not.)

"What's his name?" She said, insisting on keeping me engaged.

"MacGregor," I said.

"Ooh that's sophisticated," she said, and pointed at hers, again laughing heartily.  "Poochy."

I laughed all the way home, and still giggling at her complete candidness to the point I had to write it down here.

Don’t know if I could spend a whole day with someone like this, but I am sure I could create a wonderful character from her if I did.   And I'm pretty sure Poochy probably has a very good little life - a true 'dog's life', as it were - regardless of his disgusting habits.

Who say's I'm a snob?

The Groom Room

This blog is posted here purely for anyone living in Vancouver, BC, doing a search for The Groom Room - 3728 Oak Street, Vancouver, BC V6H 2M3 - a dog grooming salon.  Anyone else might be disinterested.  

DON'T GO THERE!

This is what the owner, a bitchy little man, says on his website: 

Jay Jay's goal is to see his clients leaving happy and satisfied.

PHHHT!

Could've fooled me buddy!  Read on to find out why; but at least it gave me good cause for a blog rant:

**

The Gloom Room

Are we really pampering our pets when we take them to a grooming salon, or are we putting them through a day of hairdressing hell?

There's a lady I know, whom, as a white man, I affectionately call my 'Chinese Mom'.  This lady lives in the past; thinks of computers as what the bible calls 666, yet is always asking me to look up things on my 'machine' for her; companies with good reputations for both maintenance work on her property and reputable businesses to service items like her 1960's answering machine or a cobbler for her thirty-yr-old boots.  Yes, refusing to update anything, or buy new, despite the fact she has more money than a small African country.

She calls me every other night to discuss the state of the world today; her philosophy; 'nothing's as good quality as back in the old days' - which, trust me, she's still immersed within behind the mysterious wrought iron gates that fortify both front and back entrances to her building, heavily padlocked too, her house, a veritable and well-preserved museum depicting life exactly as it was in the last century; stuffed with pristine artefacts, good as the day they were bought.  Better, maybe.

Her most consistent observation is about how people aren't polite any more, that they're unprofessional, lack-lustre, self-serving, and, for the service industry, astonished that its staff just don't seem to care.

Now, of a different generation, I've always raised my eyes at that; thinking she just hasn't moved with the times; still expects everyone to smile and say 'good day', servicemen to wear peaked caps and give a cheery wave from the window of their trucks as if we were all living in a fifties utopia.  But she might just have a point; may have converted me, after all, made me wish that I'd been born in a different era.

The horrendous experience I had this morning at 'The Groom Room' (or as I found out, more gloom, than groom) - a dog grooming service on Oak Street, Vancouver  - left me stunned, and, as an otherwise quiet and calm person, saw me screaming like an Irish fishwife as I left the place, my blood not just proverbially boiling, my eyes popping like a futuristic gargoyle on crack, other customers needing to duck lest they got zapped by the laser cross-fire of my glare.

First, I should point out that The Groom Room's website goes to great lengths to say how professional they are, praises the owner as if he's the second coming; is comprised of self-praising comments and testimonials comprising of, in my opinion as a writer well used to deciphering such applaud, manufactured reviews, and, if not, at least purely selective; not open to receiving general comments from their customers.   Now I know why.  But we have social media to express ourselves, these days - platforms not just for Kamikaze Stanley Cup rioters to jump from.  Yes, word of mouth, not literal anymore as might've been in latter day, but a way to share our experiences, good and bad, to get to the truth of it.  And this one was so horrendous, I want to shout it from the satellite in space.

When I was told to come back five and a half hours later to pick up my dog, I expressed complete surprise at that length of time, questioned it, and was told, before the girl going into great detail as to what the procedures were for grooming a dog, that 'its not just your dog we have to groom'.

"Yes, "I said, "I do know what's involved, but I did make an appointment.  Are you telling me that my dog will be locked in a cage for most of the day, waiting around at every turn for the next stage, grooming, washing, drying, whatever?"

And I'm not sure she understood English exactly, as they do state that they have an 'open room policy', but quickly, she said 'yes' to this, and obviously shocked that I was unhappy with that answer; convinced, I suppose, by her blank expression, that that's what I'd wanted to hear.

"Well that's a bit much, " I said, again, still maintaining calm; knowing how to be civilised, "what happened to my appointment, I don't want to leave him in a cage for the entire day; he's just not used to that?"

"Well, you still want us to do?" she said, obviously wanting me to say 'no' now.

"Well I'm here now, and he is overdue, so I suppose so," I said against my better judgement, "but I will have to reconsider in the future."

Then, someone, apparently, the owner, comes through from the grooming station, the guy whose managed many stores before opening his own according to the website that also claims he might just be 'best in show' himself, but in actual fact, surlier than a pit-bull with a toothache, the kind of owner you might see flouncing pretentiously through a high end hair salon, and declares that they 'don't have time to do him today', dismissing my dog with his hand as he saw to the next customer, obviously deeming me an awkward one off the bat; a cheek to have even questioned their operation.

"Well, after that... no; I don't want him to stay here now, anyway," I retorted, still, relatively calmly.

"Whatever,' he said, as I walked out the door, again with a flick of his hand.

Yes, the top-dog owner of this apparently highly acclaimed business, shouted at me more bitchily than the actual bitches running around him behind the counter, more-so than two drag queens double-booked in a sleazy night-club might have each other.  And so that's when I lost it; coming back through the door to shout like the aforementioned fishwife; pointing out the actual meaning of the word 'appointment', closing with a statement that he can look forward to a 'nice testimonial' on his website - but then, of course, they don't invite honest general opinion.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he shouted, again with a flick of his wrist, regardless that he was checking in the other victim   a man in a business suit who might just have been happy to have his dog incarcerated for his working day.

And while as a business owner myself, I don't always agree that the customer is right, I damn well would never speak to, or dismiss anyone like the owner of this business did to me; a new customer, who simply, and reasonably, I feel, objected to a five and a hour so called 'appointment' to groom my mini-schnauzer, leaving him in what is tantamount to a production line, one where he wouldn't get to pee, eat, walk, nothing.

Dog business is big business, in this city and I thought it was too good to be true from such, an, apparently, highly acclaimed place; getting an appointment with only a few days notice, but if I'd known my puppy would be stuck in an assembly line for the entire day, I wouldn't have bothered booking.

So beware; find a groomer that actually works to a schedule, dedicates time to your pet - which generally should be about two and a hours to three for most small to mid-sized dogs, in my (other) experience - and not pushed and shoved around waiting for the next stage in the grooming process, oftentimes cooped up in a small kennel in a hot room and feeling abandoned.

If this is how the owner of The Groom Room treated me, I can only imagine how he'd treat my dog when I wasn't there to see.  And talking of which, I wouldn't even speak to my dog, with as much disrespect as he showed to me, a paying customer.

So yes, my Chinese mom might just have a point, common courtesy and professionalism far less than pedigree these days, it seems.  An extinct breed, right enough, no wonder she locks herself away from society and craves the good old days where people knew the meaning of customer service.  No wonder, that she'd rather resort to using '666' than go out into the world in person.

Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy

Writers, when was the last time you looked in your documents folder?  Cleaned it out, even?  I've spent the entire afternoon doing that, and not before time for I never have on this computer before, and I've had it for over two years now - and as someone who's constantly writing, that's a lotta lotta slush, and I still have my old computer to go through; many stories on there that I keep meaning to resurrect.  Another day.

All I know is that every time I wanted to open my Prickly Scots manuscript in Word, that I had to plough through a whole plethora of stuff even using the 'finder' option on my iMac that's supposed to make it easy.   But still, when a hundred copies of it exist, all with similar titles, it can get a bit confusing.  So what do I do?  I take the time to determine which are no longer current, save them somewhere else, a new folder created purely for Prickly Scots books, and then I dropped the originals in the trash.  'Hah, ya bastards', I say maniacally, but still wise enough not to take the trash out yet; ye-es been so burnt before with that, that St Pauls admitted me for two weeks, treating me with cold baths three times a day.  And sure enough, when I tried to open those files, the computer told me in that sanctimonious arrogant voice that may or may not have been real, that I couldn't cos they were in the trash.  So, after rooting through that - a task that rather unpleasantly reminded me of my impoverished childhood - I reinstated them and then had the bright idea to start afresh; allocating simple names that denote each version of them, whether for Kindle or Smashwords, as well as numbering the parts I, II and I & II - so six in all.  "Hah ya bastards," I say again, still not trusting to empty the trash; trust issues having stuck to my shoe from the murky trail that led up to the path of my life obviously; long since relying only on my own direction.

But, as I was doing this, what I found was a metaphorical treasure chest, and being a little bit obsessive compulsive (but in a good way, apparently) I couldn't stop there.  No, I went through each and every document containing the most obscure titles, which of course weren't titles at all, but the first few words of the document that I had never named (although there was a piece I wrote entitled.  Scooby Doo, a Ménage et trois and the Coconut Organs - a travel story about the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean).  Ahem.  Won't be doing that from hereon in, and in fact I've already named this blog's document, so I can recognise it instantly in the future.  For that's what I found; tons of blog articles, enzines, short story entries, complaint letters (my, I am extremely good at those; I even scared myself) nasty letters to my neighbours (well, he was neglecting his dog) letters to the SPCA, smart comebacks to various online sites and forums, absolutely pathetic submission letters for my works (remember the days we all thought we needed agents?  'Hah, ya bastards.') Millions of poems, tons of reviews that I've saved from all my little pieces that I realise are flying free all through the Internet, my college writing notes (very methodically transcribed, I have to say - impressive - or anal retentive, one of the two, either way I was obviously a brown noser.)  Even other people's manuscripts, some of which I had to really concentrate hard on to make sure they weren't mine at all, and some from pseudonyms who are me, but for 'whom'  I use different voices (hence not immediately recognising them.)  Wow!  There were so, so many chapters from my books, the same ones, edited over and over and over all in separate documents from the one before, so many, many copies of my books and again individual chapters and excerpts from those same chapters.  Projects I've started, and keep meaning to come back to, countless documents with 'ideas' and things I've heard in passing, or that occurred to me at some point, and which I never seem to consult, and a lot more to boot (which I'm surprised my computer was able to, given how heavily laden it was).  But double that; I remember making the very unwise choice once upon a time, to have Word automatically create a back up copy of anything I create, and I still haven't found how to reverse, so I guess I have a back up of this blog too now.  But it's my mission now to find that bastard thing and get it switched off as well, before it all starts piling up again.

Now, what about the trash, I hear you scream, well as we say in Scotland (or, at least we did) about a man and his son jumping out of an aircraft, for whatever reason, with only one parachute - or maybe it was jumping from a block of flats -  but anyhoo... 'Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy) ooh, good title for this blog,  ye-es, that'll be sure to bring a few new people to my rambling... hmmm.... but now if I rename this, I'll have two copies with different titles.  See the problem?  So feeling sanctimonious myself now, already decided to blag on this blog about the fact that not only have I cleaned my house this week due to the outrageously long time my housekeeper has gone away on holiday for, I cleaned out my computer too. 

I also had the smarts to find some blank cd's to make copies of all my books, no cold baths for me this time, ya bastards, and so, not only doing that, but reinserting them to make sure the bastard computer isn't lying to me again, I sit back with a metaphorical glass of scotch and a cigar, and invite the metaphorical neighbours round to witness the delete button being pressed.  But the moment spoiled when I did; the turncoat saying there was something locked in there, and did I really want to delete that too?  'I mean, like really?' it said impersonating Regis on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, leaving me in doubt all of a sudden, of something I was so sure about.

'God no', I thought, bastard's probably an integral part of fucking everything and I know it weren't in there yesterday... as an old English friend of mine would 'of' said - cos I emptied a few less precarious things then.  So reinstating it, only perhaps, back to whenst it came, I tried again, and everything disappeared with that wonderful whooshy noise like someone's fag end being sucked out an aircraft toilet, and despite the new files in the new folder, I cringed a little as I went to open them.

'Hah, ya bastard, I win," I said.

Now, I don't do dishes, never have, will hide the dirty bastards anywhere, under the couch, under the sink, whatever, on the patio even, if the dishwasher needs emptying, but another old friend of mine always said, 'if you rinse, as you go', it won't be as bad.  Never! I spat into her face, but I think she might just have had a point.

When souls attack... fighting back

It goes without saying that most of us are sick to death of our frikkin' alternate selves gallivanting through all parallels of existence, damaging the reputation of our purer than pure souls.  Right?  I mean, when all is said and done, there can only be one soul.  So what happens when two corporeal selves actually physically touch (and I know, like me, you've spent many a sleepless night wondering just that)? 

And what would happen in the metaphorical 'sorting office' if your evil other kills you, will your soul go the right place... the appropriate afterlife?  Well this experience I had last night has the answers to that and more  - although I have no idea why my alternate self chose to suddenly materialise in my bed; I didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened.  This tiny stand-alone chapter of prose (isolated from the regular styling of Warped Mirrors, a paranormal comedy) is one of two, the second, near the end of the book, a spoiler).  So, come, come fly with me through the universe and find out what's there... or not.

Ch. II The Universe

Silence.  I find myself simply being in some natural state amid an endless environment, bottomless, no up, no down, simply direction all around.  Freezing, scorching, everything in-between, but yet I do not suffer; I am not burning, nor I am cold, for I am part of it.  Floating, soaring, sentient, everywhere at once, and yet nowhere at all, my spirit delivering me both to where I have, and haven’t been.  But not for much longer; time, of which there is none, is running out; Divine Intervention losing His tolerance; tranquil infinity bored with such humanly concept.  Omnipotent, yes, for in this present I am one with everything that exists and that does not, has once been, but yet to become.  Nothing, where I am, not even I, yet I am rich; own all that is not corporeal.  No one thing here that can contain any other, yet still they do.  And then I see them; magnificent colourful spheres, invisible, so beautifully patterned, remotely scattered within folds of seamless, infinite and intricately weaved fabrics of space, time and dimension, painted by hands of gods, hitherto unimagined vistas.  And I am in control, at least for now, master of sorts, a god myself of this divergent realm; the energy encompassing me, obeying the command of simple thought, traversing me through a vast container fashioned simply from all that I am, until it emerges me in some other galaxy, a place, that too, is part of me, or I it. And as I knew it would, it looked exactly as I had always known, even though I had never seen it before in any lifetime.  And the solitary planet shimmers luminously; red, amber, green, and above all others, implores me to become a part of it.  For I can be, I already am.  Entrancing, it is, but entrapping, pitiful, inviting.  I don’t want to go, and I won't, though I will arrive in less than an instant, or never in this eternity.  But as alluring as it might be, as ensnaring, I will leave if I do; for I can; yes, I am in control of the stellar chariot that draws me towards it - at least for now; stronger than the impostor, I know.  Soaring within it, motionless, yet speedily, leisurely, willingly, hesitantly, hurtling towards both a place of euphoria and, perchance, of eternal damnation, if I don’t.  A place impossible to comprehend in my waking state, conceived of, perhaps, but impeded by human limitation.  And it is as well, for we should not know.  I see that now.   Beings that lived, that died, burning, thriving, hostile, beguiling, insisting that I befall unto them to be less than all I can be or more than I am.  But still, this moment is not mine.  Yes, I have a choice, for this celestial crossroad is not my eternal walk home.  

Not yet.

Things I’ve come to realise since my cleaning lady went on a seven-week vacation

1.     That my life has changed irrevocably, the meaning of ‘line up’ now quantifying the fact that the dishwasher will indeed not empty itself.

2.     That there might just be something to being a bottle collector; I could most certainly supplement my income with the amount of empties that I’ve just had to deposit for those less fortunate - either that or I could learn a new musical skill.

3.     That my fridge might just be a portal to new worlds with intelligent life forms.

4.     That it’s not just politicians with dirty little secrets hidden within their cabinets.

5.     That unlike the dishwasher, my oven will clean itself even if its skill does seem to be restricted; missing the nooks and crannies of the hotplates as it does, but no matter how much I try to encourage it, the microwave just can’t match those obliterating kind of temperatures; what just might be inspiration for a wanna be Picasso evident on all three sides, top and bottom.

6.     Where the expression ‘breeding like rabbits’ was begat from when I looked under the furniture.

7.     That ‘Lysol Ultimate Bathroom Cleaner’ might ultimately rein from the bathroom throne; providing shining hope for the murky minions there, ‘tapping’ into its skills even in the kitchen, but for whatever reason it has a grudge against my beautiful wooden dining table; wiping it clean, sure, but beating it into a dull submission ‘to just think about that!’

8.     That it is not minor earthquakes in the region, after all, that make the pictures on my wall askew from time to time, for there have been a couple of shakes recently and still they’re as straight as the last time I adjusted them just after my cleaner left two weeks ago.

9.     That windows of opportunity ‘clothes’ themselves when doors doubling as laundry baskets no longer will.

10. That despite Nancy Sinatra’s claim; shoes do not take on a life of their own.

11. That, in contrast to number ten, toys really do come alive when no one’s around – either that or someone’s running a doggy day care here when I’m out.

12. That judging by the water’s absolute refusal to drain in the shower, it might just be time for a haircut.

13. That the outdoors has, under false pretences, taken credit far too long for the fresh aroma of nature that I always thought was particularly skilled in permeating, even in winter, the smallest cracks of my doors and windows.

14. That contrary to what their name suggests about their disposition, baseboards really don’t skirt any issues at all.

15. That the dog doesn’t mind taking a bath now, not after the last time I rinsed him down in there; the tub doing a highly impressive impression of the dank mucky puddle up the park.

16. That there’s no treasure in that old trunk in my study as I always fancied there might be.  No, now I have to put that retirement plan to bed! (See what I did there?)

17. That silver might just be an impostor; in fact it’s a cotton lining to be discovered behind every soft downy cloud.

18. That my bathroom windowsill might have a point; spreading gossip that I’m metrosexual as has been its tendency of late; perhaps its time to go back in the closet?

19. That if you don’t pick up the party favour from your Godson’s christening - a love heart shaped picture frame attached to a nicely tied blue ribbon containing iced chocolate almonds - that fell on the floor when you were cleaning the dresser, that the dog will accuse you of having held out on him all this time.  Yes...  a false labour saving method is the art of procrastination when one considers the mark on the carpet that the ingestion of his very first taste of sugar will undoubtedly deposit later.

20. That the canine species might just be more intuitive than we think, vacuums really are obnoxious sucky bastards.

21. But the biggest thing I’ve learned since my cleaning lady abandoned me?  That what highly manipulative parents say is true; anything can be turned into a game; stopping in-between chores to write these little notes and rather enjoying it, the place sparkling now to the point where I might have missed my vocation – but I rather suspect that’ll be a one time deal only - but at least I got to write as well.
  
22. That I might not be paying her enough - but... then again... anyone who can take a frikkin' seven week unpaid vacation, might just be doing better than me!

I think I’m good for two weeks now, only five to wade my way through.

Oh... comma-on now!

Oh geez!  Even though I swore blind I'd never personally ever look at one (in particular) of my earlier books again in terms of editing, somehow what I used to think was really great now makes me cringe with embarrassment pretty much no matter what excerpt I randomly choose from it - at least in terms of technical skill, not the storyline itself.  And yes, I had a few people proofread it too - and I trust that they advised to the best of their ability... at that time.   But it obviously didn’t cut it – unless my standards are, as I've been told, too high? (But can there even be a limit to quality?)

I really think I'm going to have to though, go through that book in its entirety in terms of the little things, that is. Comma over-usage for one - something I've long since known about myself and thus far have tried to dismiss as being unimportant enough to not have to go back in and fix in older works.  But now that I've looked, I feel that the overuse is just completely unacceptable.  Thankfully its something I'm not guilty of anymore but it does leave me wondering how I could've been so over-exuberant in the first place?

I dread the thought of doing this edit though.  Perhaps I have to approach it methodically; one chapter at a time and only when I really feel like it (which will be absolutely NEVER) and try not to completely rewrite every sentence as I always want to do when I go back over most of my old stuff; time consuming to the point where I could've written a couple of brand new novels at least and without the same kind of stress attached. 

I have numerous projects on the go at the moment, but somehow it's in my head now that this edit has to take priority.  Funny thing is though, that I wonder if the general reader even notices, or cares if they do; people do seem to love the book and no mention ever made of the stuff I, as the (erstwhile) proud daddy of, wanna change – such as a lack of contractions - something I still have to check myself for forgetting to use.  Anyone would think my name was Data.

I wonder if I'm just being obsessive, or if every writer goes through this?  Will there be something else I want to change in six months time about that same book?  Would it be better not to even look at my old stuff and just get on with what I'm doing now?

One thing's for sure though; I have long since adopted a 'say it as it is' policy when helping out other new writers - a polite honesty for which I've often been berated in amateur societies where most stroke each other's egos, and so these days I only employ any help I think I can offer where I think it might actually be wanted... nay... where deserved.  But I say, if there was more of it instead of treading on eggshells, perhaps later on in the writing journey people like me wouldn't be looking back thinking like I do now and wasting so much time correcting everything.  Yes, that's right, it wasn't my fault!  Lol.  

But I guess that's why it's called a journey; a nice place to arrive at when you do, somewhere to breathe out the view; things suddenly starting to make sense without you even realising it.  And when you really think about it, to have these kinds of moments where you just want to open up a time portal and go back and slap yourself silly - or in my case, grab myself by the crown of the hair and bash my head hard right through to the back of my computer repeatedly until it sinks in once and for all - can only be a good thing.

I’m doing the first chapter today – even though I think I might’ve done that one the last time I stressed out about comma usage; masking it in the first couple of chapters, sneakily leading the reader to believe these wouldn’t be overused in the rest of the story, but hopefully hooked by that point, they wouldn't care a hoot.  But then again, would they notice, really?  I mean, if someone well on their way on their writer's journey didn't when they actually employed them, would a reader know any better?  Hmmm - perhaps the answer to that is, only the more discerning ones would.

But I've promised myself to just try and concentrate on the obvious minor things and not do a complete rewrite this time - and maybe that'll be the next thing I'll discover that I've subliminally learned on this never-ending journey.  Huh - ye-ah... and I'll also discover I was the winner of the mega-millions even though I didn't actually have a ticket.

Online Branding

Twice in the last week I’ve vowed that I’ll never write again.  And I have urges to get out of bed at four in the morning to delete everything that I’ve ever made available on the Internet, including all my social media accounts ‘cos I think I’m no better at socialising digitally than I ever have been in person.  Lol at that ‘cos I know what it means - I simply need a break.  It boils down to my lone wolf tendency; I should know that by now.

It’s not that I don’t socialise well, it’s just that I prefer more intimate settings, relationships with meaning, the kind that I’ve always been particular about allowing into my life; somewhat of an introvert in the true sense; able to be the life and soul (and how) but needing adequate amount of time in my own company shortly thereafter to reenergise before I can do it all over again.  New people coming into my (real) life  often saying that I’m not the same person they met before, even looking different; confusing them, making them think I’m a bit weird.  But I’m used to that, embrace it actually, add it to my repertoire of self-acclaimed eccentricity, jokingly calling myself as I do on this blog bio, a bit of a Sybil. The people that know me wouldn't be without it.  Trust me I've tried.

Some people are great at branding themselves; constantly engaging others with seemingly light-hearted comments on Facebook and Twitter – even non-writers, I’ve noticed, who're unaware perhaps that this is what they’re actually doing in a sense.  But sure enough, an introspective, over-analytical mind like mine has soon built up an FBI profile of them and smiles at their natural ability all the while thinking why can’t I do that?

The reason though is that I think I'm ingratiating myself all over the place, that people get sick of seeing me, thinking God not him again.

Then there are those I can tell are trying to brand, coming across as a bit contrived really and nonetheless great at it.  But that’s what we have to do these days as writers.  Apparently.  Yes, gone, it seems to me anyway, is the luxury of the sensitive artist type to be able to slink off to their dens to view the world by their quiet contemplative introspective from where their greatest works arise.  An unspoken understanding by others that they're meant to be misunderstood.  I don't think that's the case anymore.

But I can’t pretend to be just one person - even though I know of course I really am before anyone thinks I need a psychiatrist - for when I try to choose an online persona, usually in the quiet of night, that persona makes all the others in my personal clique wanna puke the next day when they read back what it wrote; mid-morning persona promptly deleting it.  ‘No’, it insists, ‘that’s not representative of all of us at all at all (for it can be Irish) or, it feels, 'just a bit too revealing for a private person... so it is.'  

But I think what I've come to realise is this; the initial inclination that I had when describing myself online as a bit of a Sybil when I first started out, is the one I should stick with.  Yes, I should fine tune it, concentrate on a multifaceted me instead of having to choose just one perhaps.  Have fun with it, for I think that’s the only way I can be comfortable, can be truly represented, if I have to present myself, because for me that has to be paramount.  But I do think one persona might have to take control, not allow any of the others to press the delete button; showcase that unpredictability of the kind readers say is evident in my writing.  Market that.

Anyway, gotta go, have a lunch reservation for seven; wonder what the maître d'will think when only one person turns up – well okay then, the girl behind the counter at Subway.

Old fashioned pens... not!

Today I feel like griping a little.

I know a lady who’s always saying that they don’t make things like they used to, a lady whose house could probably match the bomb shelter in that movie... the one with Brendan Fraser in a time warp... for she's bought nothing new in years - despite being incredibly rich.  And she might be right.

In my business, I do have to jot things down with a pen quite frequently, electronics not entirely appropriate, and despite the fact I literally have hundreds of biros and gel pens – trays of which I buy at Costco - anytime I pick one up, it doesn’t work.  No amount of scratching around on the paper, ripping it to shreds in the process will make it write (or right) after its initial use of scratching a few words and its cap being removed; dried up like a Middle Eastern riverbed – the kind they use for wadi bashing (the practise of recklessly four-wheel driving in places like Dubai).  And pencils too, somehow every one of those never sharp enough to jot something down with despite being sharpened regularly. Now that I can get over, I'm heavy handed with certain things, but the pens, all of them, often not working as soon as they’re taken from the tray even? Outrageous. Indeed I have to agree, they don't make things like they used to... why, I remember a pen would last me a whole semester at school until it burst in my shirt pocket... now that's a writing implement.

No wonder everything seems to be mightier than the pen these days.  Oh... and I walked barefoot fifteen miles in the snow to get to school an' all....

Message from the Universe?

People say that things happen for a reason.  Sometimes we don’t know exactly what and sometimes they take a while to become obvious - or maybe sometimes its just coincidence. 

In one of my writing classes a while back I found myself sitting next to an old roommate of mine that I hadn’t seen since I first moved to Vancouver twenty years ago, one of a set of twins (the other sister who’d changed her name from Shannon to Shaman, insisting she was a witch back then and now a single mom).  Back in those days she (the good twin) was fun and light-hearted, a bit new age, delightfully quirky, but in her relative maturity you could just tell that she was still in search of herself; not wanting to share anything with the class, having read every self-help book under the sun and saying things like, “I choose not to,” the only thing shared and emphasised was of her European heritage (as did the instructor incidentally, who didn’t have a clue about anything outside of the formulaic aspects of writing, but that’s another story) but of course her heritage was like five generations removed and I happen to know that she came from a small backwater back east, but never had she told me that she was Swiss before in all the time that I lived with her... oh yeah, and they were romany gypsies, apparently... very exotic.

At the end of that class I offered her a ride to her car, during which there was a very awkward monosyllabic response to everything I asked (I’ve had more out of complete strangers in the line up at Safeway actually, and I don’t talk to nobody).  Turns out she had parked near the skytrain station, but down a dark, desolate maze of streets that despite being in the centre of the city I didn’t even know existed, the kind of place you see in movies where there are old abandoned warehouses and suspicious freshly dug holes, the kind of bleak place encompassed by unpromising fences where even the water beyond, normally a delight, looks ominous, and with no way out ‘cept the way ya came in.  And, surprisingly, a place where she’d forfeited her safety to save a couple of bucks extra for parking costs in town to take her life in her hands by walking half a mile through to go get the skytrain to college (one stop away).

But serendipitous, I thought; here's someone that wants to be a writer, something we never knew about the other way back when, and that I could perhaps now enjoy the company of during my writing journey instead of just having online connections; enthusiastically telling her of the various writing sites I belong to, the café’s that accommodate strange folks like us writers that might be nice to go to.  But no, she never did come to another class, despite telling me that she would see me next time, never did call.

I’ve spent all this time wondering why we should have encountered each other after two decades only to go our separate ways yet again.  Now I think I know; like me back then, she was shy and awkward, but probably never changed.  It made me realise though that I have; becoming completely open; private as I was most of my life; quiet, shy, a thinker, unable to emote, something it took an elderly dog to elicit from me.  No, I’ve moved on, found a place for my strange introspective by putting it into the characters in my books, but I can only think that she regressed, still searching and perhaps realising that writing wasn’t her saviour after all, yet another waste of money... going through life with declarations of choosing not to? 

Of course it could just be that when I got a call the other day from someone I call my Chinese Mom, to say that she’d been towed (a deliciously eccentric and complete control freak that insists she knows everything, even to general contractors and the like) and could I come and get her?  And when I did, she had no idea, except a general indication, as to where the impound lot was, yet trying to direct me into a land of new expensive condos that a small country would swap their asses for.  And so I was driving blind in rush hour in the centre of the city, but the name of the street was Industrial Road, no way, thought I, would people spend millions on condos in this city and be next door to an impound lot let alone allow their street to be called something like that.

“No,” I said, for once insisting, “I think I know where it will be.”

And sure enough....

Incidentally, the street looked just as desolate in the daylight.  But funny how things turn out: coincidence or not, I know there’s a message from the universe in there somewhere.

Comma or not, pause for thought

Now, its been said about my work that it's highly polished, but I’m starting to realise that that might not actually be a good thing, perhaps it’s actually only a polite way of saying ‘too polished’. 

One of the things I’ve noticed with other new writers who perhaps can’t afford a professional editor, or just aren’t there yet, is that readers seem to have an issue with where they’ve placed their commas; commonly commenting on that in their reviews– and certainly that’s been true of my own work too.  In fact so much so that I’ve seen many writers get pissed off about the mention of them; saying things like ‘lets just agree to disagree’ when what they're really saying is 'just piss off will ya?'

It’s always a great idea to go over your manuscript after you’ve left it for a while, I feel; seeing it with fresh eyes; reading as anyone else would, for sometimes when you’re slogging away at it to make it the best it can be, you can’t actually see the wood for the trees as you can when you're pontificating about other people's usage of them.

Over the last few months I’ve been editing the final chapters of Prickly Scots Pt II (a massive task given that these particular chapters have never actually been edited due to the size of the book which was initially completely overwritten, unlike the many chapters that came before them over the years, and that were changed here and there as my writing skills evolved; always getting tired of it before I reached that point) however, now that I have no choice, what with people waiting on it, I have to say that this entire exercise has been excellent for my editing skills; seeing, among many other things, when you consider that I’m editing my amateur self from six years ago, commas misused all over the place.  

But yesterday, someone was reading my work in front of me, a bit mortifying really, me feeling like a wannabe auditioning for Simon Cowell.  They were discussing chapter one – a chapter that I especially have gone over many, many times, the last time earlier in this year, and the mention of commas was made; the person saying that despite the use of them, I, as the author, hadn’t seemed to pause for a breath myself, technically correct, but they interfered with the flow of words for their reading experience.  She did mention that other, newer works of mine seems to have dealt with this propensity though.  And so it made me want to rush home to look at chapter one of Prickly Scots.  I couldn’t believe it; I remember painstakingly considering those commas at the time, even trusting in Microsoft Word to tell me where to put them (don’t) and I saw exactly what she meant.  And whilst I only wanted to change a couple of little things on this latest read, which I was surprised at for I usually always want to change everything, I found myself removing about twenty commas in this long chapter.

The good thing is though, that I don’t think that’ll be an issue throughout the book, over exuberant perhaps in trying to make the best initial impression in this chapter one.  I believe though that it's no longer a problem for me, for like other things on this writing journey, the more I do it, more lights switch on with certain things, or at least, if not entirely floodlit, I won't be quite as over-exuberant in the future.

I could have written many, many new novels in the time that I’ve been editing Prickly Scots, and so I simply cannot wait to get it finished – I’m nearly there thank God - but I do now know when to recognise and pause for thought as to whether a comma is appropriate or not – and that usually means not.

Given that Prickly Scots was downloaded over the Christmas period hundreds of times (and my books well over 1000 in total) I just wish/hope that the latest edit, minus these commas in chapter one, will be updated on peoples' Kindles... if not, and you're reading this, let me just take pause to say... sowwy!

Publisher, friend or foe?

It's been a while since I dipped into my diatribe bag, and so today, having seem a number of comments on self publishing and agents, I decided it was high time.

***

I write with courage, passion and professionalism (Thank you Julie Gray) but having entered into the world of self-publishing, still, I find myself adrift; lost amid a sea of rising mediocrity and much of what I’m seeing from the opinion of the reader, slamming indie work because of it.

The writing world is changing indeed; publishers going the way of video stores.  And it’s not just technology, no, there’s a revolution; authors and readers alike increasingly demanding something completely different.  And why not, it’s happening in every other world? Publishers aren’t to be trusted, they say, failed in doing their jobs, that much increasingly evident.  No, not for much longer will they arrogantly scan a short paragraph that merely blends into their so-called talent scouting brains with the many other author’s paragraphs that came before it; not: seeing the woods for the trees; recognising individual worth; true talent, tossing it aside in all their professional conceitedness before they’ve even given it a fighting chance if so much as a comma is misplaced.

But it doesn’t matter; for is this publishing revolution not tantamount to the same deal?  Yes, we may sail a different ship in these digital times, on a deck from where at least we can send up a flare despite an ever-ending journey of blogging and slogging and flogging to create our perfect storms, to impede us, perhaps making complete twits of ourselves; inadequately trained to come through them in the hope that we can finally reach our destination by the stroke of our own oar or perhaps that search & rescue will swoop down and scoop us up long before we drown?

But that rock congested too now, barnacles clinging in their masses, a pea soup of digital weakness closed in fast to obscure stunning marine life of those that breathe through the fins of creativity.  Yes, ego-stroking oars paddled with a whip to the backs all set on a predictable synchronised course, most thinking that they can make a quick buck in Hollywood simply because they happened to put down 50,000 strokes during their entire lifetimes, and told along the way what a great job they’ve been doing by those who love them.  And why?  Because that’s all they ever see out there.  ‘I can do that’, they say, and who can blame them?  They probably can.  And so they set sail and poison the waters grey, thicken the soup, most without actually having studied the art of writing at all, I’ve noticed, ignorant to the fact that it has to be different from their otherwise everyday eloquence that just any-old-body can tell and not show and without actually possessing an imagination outside of the subliminal sub-consciousness of a pond life who can’t even be told, apparently, that there’s anything else other than boy meets girl, husband leaves wife for younger woman, and don’t even get me started on vampires and werewolves, for that horror show speaks for itself; that is what sucked the blood from true creativity - but therein, methinks, my own downfall, for I will not be assimilated.

And then there are those who have studied writing, but a choice, for some anyway, not a calling, like a slutty girl forced into the sisterhood, technically correct, getting the formula right, but reading a recipe that anyone with half a brain can follow.  What about those who experiment in the kitchen, mix up new worlds?  What about me?

I used to be much more modest, but I believe now that I might be one of those, innovative chefs I mean, for my readers, those I have managed to magnetise, consistently say so; they always have done, even when I first started this journey with no writing experience at all.  People who don’t know me, for I don’t know anyone; have no family to stroke my own ego, nobody owing me nuttin’ except perhaps a little admiration, appreciation even, for the effort I put in to the detriment of my real life business not to mention my health; lost in and preferring my imaginary worlds as I am and I do, the migraines I work through to bring something new to the table.  Yes, readers consistently saying that my novels should be movies, over and over again telling me how original I am, again even from when I was a complete amateur with starry eyes, strangers who’ve started forums about my work saying how it should be on the big screen.  And why?  Because they actually read it.  And readers, who all but harangue me, thank God, to get Pt II of one of my novels out.  ‘Where the hell is it?’ they’re shouting.  And so yes, I’m grateful for this digital sea for at least I can cling to a buoy where they can find me.  But still, it’s not enough; I am a writer, not a marketer; I suck at self-promotion, maybe even at pitching my books, even writing their synopses probably, but nonetheless, in 2012, I must try harder.

But how do you get noticed when you’re not the child of someone famous or when there is no panel of judges to give an unknown a chance, how can you convince the arrogant those who think they know what will sell, all demanding originality but failing their own rubric to actually embrace it when presented, positively shoved down the back of their effing throats?  How the hell can I get on with my writing when I’m trying to sell myself?  Happy enough to blog, tweet even, if ever I can get around to that too, but the effort of getting noticed, gaining followers, soaking up all my time in these unfriendly seas where everyone else is trying to do the same effing thing.  Kudos to those who can manage that, but perhaps they have more time than that which I can afford or even want to dedicate to this kind of self promotion in the hope that they would share my work on their Facebook page or something so someone more important might chance across it.  Isn’t this one of the reasons I wanted an agent for?

I invent cliché, I make up words, I utilise the natural resource I was given, have turned that burden of imagination that always boiled my blood more so than it stews even now when I think of the writing talent out there that may never come to shore.  Yes, that something that makes people view a strange fellow like me as being completely removed from normal society but are intrigued by nonetheless, people who love to compare me to countless authors living and dead, Joyce, Salinger, King, Dali to name but a few, all greats and all of whom I’ve never read for I am a writer, not a reader, despite the fact my professor said a writer needs to be one.  ‘Crap’, I say to that, for I am armed with my own voice, if only I could have it heard.  But how then, if I am a combination of these by my own volition am I not considered a superpower... a writing god?  Because I write with courage, passion and professionalism – and that, evidently is scary; too much to handle for an agent or a publisher. 

For any agent reading this though, hah!  I invite you to my book, “Prickly Scots’, not for a professional perspective, but to sit back and enjoy, for that’s only how this work can be appreciated, digested; rich, nuanced and intelligent as it is, not a book you can read in one or two sittings, but one that, by the time you read it in its entirety, the second part will be available so that you won’t have to beg me to publish it like the odd person is doing online currently; a few only, perhaps, given my lacklustre efforts at doing your job for you, but making it all worthwhile; appreciated by at least someone at last.  And don’t worry about not getting back to me; that’s a given from agents and publishers even when the old fashioned sase’s were sent, let alone an automated courtesy email that at least tells me you’re in receipt of my manuscript (and how hard is that to implement into your email programme?)  No, I don’t need you anymore, apparently, but a review to help me along my digital sea journey would be most appreciated if you do find an island a thousand miles from anywhere to actually sit and enjoy something genuinely different and dare to recognise new talent in its entirety for a change. 

What I need is someone who is going to tell the rest of us what we are going to like next.  But apparently, your boat has sailed, so what does it matter?

Anyhoo....